Marvelling at the sheer fucked-up-ed-ness of it all

coffee is the answer to every questionFamous asshole beats the crap out of women, and in the quiet heat of the shower, women think, “Dodged that bullet. But I was never pretty/smart/interesting enough to be picked out of a crowd, anyway.”

Video showing a woman being harassed on the street goes viral, and sitting alone on the commuter train, women think, “This never happens to me. Did it ever? Have I let myself go? Was I ever desirable?”

Women huddle in the corner of the coffee shop, alternately confessing to the above and marvelling at the sheer fucked-up-ed-ness of it all.

Not all women, sure.  But more of us than you’d think.

Out, damned spot! Out, I say!

That time I accidentally parked in a porn set

I had the car this afternoon so decided to run some errands, hoping that Juno would do another turn as Carnap the Magnificent.  After a bit of driving around, we ended up at Toronto’s Cherry Beach.

It’s not the prettiest beach in the city.  It’s somewhat secluded, even a tidge creepy.  And today, home to some home-grown bow-chicka-wow-wow action.

As I tweeted in real time:

Noooo, I did not take any pics.  Yesssss, I sort of tried.

In truth, the girl was probably in her mid-20s, and the (all-male) camera crew not much older (but all of them “legal” for the seedy purposes I’m implying).  Or that they’re implying, because seconds after I tweeted that last item, their big white van pulled up right beside me, effectively blocking my “view” of the “scene.”

A quick survey of Toronto-based wedding photographer websites suggests that no permit is needed to shoot at Cherry Beach, which is kind of ironic given that the gentleman who joined the model atop the vehicle as we drove away seemed intent on doing that very thing.

So to speak.

[Exit, pursued by a bear]

People take a break from blogging for all kinds of reasons.

Honest to God, I thought I’d eventually quit because I got bored with it.

Not because I got told to shut up — or else.


“Are you aware that our son is suing us for copyright infringement?”

“Uh … what?”

“Okay, he’s not suing us.  It’s a cease-and-desist letter, sent to me, naming Seve as a client.”

“Our three-year-old has a lawyer?  Are you feeling okay?”

“For his drawings that I posted on my blog.

“Do you need me to come home?  I think I’m going to come home.”

“His lawyer’s name is Rebekah Lefebvre.”


The conversation I’d had with my son’s lawyer {Jaimie: WTF?} three minutes earlier did little to clear things up {Meg: Do you need Uncle Henry’s #?}.

“Rebekah speaking.”

“I just got a letter sent on your letterhead, apparently from my son.  A cease-and-desist notice.”

“Your name?”

“Jeni Armstrong.  I’m sorry to speak so bluntly, but what the hell is going on?  My son is three years old.”

“Mrs. Armstrong …”

“Ms.  Fuck!  That’s not the point.  Are you aware that you are representing a three-year-old child?”

“Our law firm does not discriminate on the basis of a client’s age, alleged or actual.”

And it went on like that for God knows how long {Jaimie: Did you record it?  That’s insane.} and the upshot of it, as I understood it, was that I was being told that I could no longer post any of my kid’s artwork to Facebook or Twitter or {Meg: Was it because of your blog?} my blog, or any other form of media, online, offline, social or otherwise, without his express written consent.

Which he cannot provide, as he still grips a marker with his whole fist and doesn’t yet know how to write his own name.

And which is how I ended up on {Jaimie: OMG, Armstrong! You’ve been SNOPED!} — after a seeming lifetime of policing my own Facebook friends feed for stories that stretched the bounds of credulity.


I used to think this blog would serve as a repository of funny stories, happy memories, honest moments.

Joke’s on me.

If you need to find me, sniff around in the usual places. Special thanks to my friend Jaimie and my sister Megan, whose texts have kept me sane and (mostly) sober these last few days.

If you think I’m talking about you here, yeah, you’re probably right.

If you think I’m talking about you here, yeah, you’re probably right.