Hey there,

I have a mounting obsession with Botox. I think my collage speaks to that, don’t you?

It used to be that only aging heiresses and celebrities  “got work done.” But, since I’m neither, I figured I’d just slowly wither like everyone else and enjoy a face that scowled on command. But now, cosmetic surgery seems too mainstream. The cashier at my local supermarket has plumper lips and ridiculous cantaloupes under her uniform.  I studied my dentist’s forehead when he was scraping my teeth. His forehead never moved. Ever.

I’m from sturdy Irish/Scottish stock –meaning I’ll probably (hopefully) live for another 40 years, but my freckled skin will gather, shrivel and pleat. Maybe I could do a craft with it?  So, my resolve has been slipping and when that happens I need to do some  trawling on the internet (and make a collage).

I’ll still take my “elevens” (lines between my eyebrows), crows feet and sagging hoots over a constant expression of surprise.

Enjoy your weekend.

Adios,

Lisa

Here’s Patty Anne Miller:

Here’s DC Chapman (fast forward to 2:24 to avoid the staged drivel).

Hero McRae (fast forward to 1:30)

Hey there,

In grade 13 I took a super-boring economics class. One day I was goofing around with my friend Anne, when we detected the stench of sulphur in the air. “Ooh, gross, some pig’s farting in class.”

We scanned the class to to look for signs of the farter: nervous expression, leaning to one side and the classic “Popeye smile.”  Nothing.

The teacher gave me the stink eye so I covered my mouth with my hands so she couldn’t see us talking.  And while my hands are over my  mouth I realize…I’m the gross pig who’s been farting. Or rather, mouth farting.

I panic. Why are my farts being re-directed to my mouth? What is wrong with me??

I scan the class to see if someone has taken over the role of fart detective. I can not be discovered as the mouth farter.

A little back story. I went to a Catholic high school and we regularly went to church for confession.  In grade 10, while waiting in line to tell the priest, “I don’t try my hardest in school and sometimes I’m rude to my parents,” I let a little air biscuit go.  My entire class heard.  My yearbook was inscribed, “To the girl who farts in confession.”

As for my mouth farts, luckily, only Anne knew of my terrible indigestion. I still ended the year dateless and of course continued to drink until I vomited. But at least I maintained my dignity. Sort of.

I leave you with  the “poop scene” from Year One because Jack Black makes me laugh.

Adios,

Lisa

Hey there,

When I first moved to Toronto after University, I was still pretty green in the ways of the city.

One day, I was walking through the back park at College Park with my then steady, Marc. He noticed something in the corner of his eye and suggested I look straight ahead.

This suggestion actually forced me to look where I shouldn’t. Just 20 feet ahead was a man lying on the sidewalk, with lots and lots of layers of brownish clothes. And amongst all these earth tones was a little flash of pink and a fountain of pee. Wow. That’s drunk . And, super gross and depressing.

This is my second installment of “I’ve seen some terrible things.”  I welcome your entries, either in written or video form. Please tell us some of the terrible things you’ve seen.

I leave you with two things. The first, is a handmade, organic cotton, thong pad sold on Etsy. The second is a little pee-inspired cartoon.

Enjoy. It’s Friday. You deserve it.

Adios,

Lisa