Being Stunning Is Gruelling

I received the nicest compliment the other day: an acquaintance twelve years my junior thought we were the same age!  She’s very friendly, and so is her Seeing Eye Dog. To thank her for making me feel like living again good I bought her a car coffee, sent her a Facebook friend request, and helped her find her life’s purpose cane.  She wondered what I did to hide my age.  I responded, “Nothing really” and batted my false eyelashes. The truth is, being stunning is gruelling.  Trust me; trying to look younger requires time, effort and plastic surgery money:


  • Nothing says youth like a soft beardless face.  Go for waxing on a regular basis and don’t overlook nose jobs hair!
  • White teeth take years off your appearance.  Whitening strips work but in time the results fade.  For permanently white teeth, have your Merlot-stained chompers capped to resemble Jennifer Aniston’s smile (Veneer # 29, Page 15 in the Celeb Smiles catalogue found in any respectable oral surgeon’s waiting room. Just sayin’).
  • Dress like a skank woman in her forties by choosing fitted and classic pieces.  The idea is to accentuate your rack best attributes.
  • Every woman of a certain age deserves a good spanking pair of Spanx.  They squeeze everything into place, making your clothes unnecessary smooth and flawless.
  • Use an anti-ageing exfoliant.   A good exfoliant should leave your skin raw, bloody and infected refreshed and glowing.
  • Drink lots of water and vodka gimlets green tea for supple skin and good times circulation.
  • Watch your diet.  Avoid dairy, wheat and anything that tastes good contains sugar. Fill up on anti-depressants oxidants.
  • Use a rich, moisturising night cream.  It should contain Vitamin C, collagen, and caulking rose oil for youthful -looking results.
  • Go on a bender cleanse. It eliminates stress toxins and promotes denial glowing skin.
  • Cover your face grey hair with the help of a paper bag good hairdresser.


I like to think the face lift beauty regime is paying off.  I dunno. You be the judge:




Mommy’s On Her Way

Some people say I over- parent and that I have a hard time cutting the umbilical cord. To those people I say, “Shut your pie hole!” “I prefer to call it ‘nurturing’, thank you very much”.  Case in point:  Last week, our new first born texted me from university to say he was sick and coming home for a few days.  I responded as any normal mother would: Mommy’s on her way.  I’ll be there shortly.

When I called my husband to tell him our son was sick and coming home, he tried to contain his excitement concern and said, “I’m renting a helicopter.”  While he flew 32 km across the sky to airlift our flu-riddled boy, I raced to the pharmacy and stocked up on one million dollars worth of Sinutab, Neo-Citron, and wrinkle-softening serum Advil to discover we had them in spades at home. Next, I sold my body car to offset the helicopter and drug fees. It happens.


The minute our boy dragged himself through the front door, I grabbed a stepladder so I could reach his forehead to check for a fever.   Sure enough, he was burning up and that could only mean one thing: for the next few days I was going to be in my element!  I set to work fluffing pillows, administering narcotics, and warming up his ba-ba (bottle) room.  He seemed a little hungry so I made his favourite comfort food: strained peaches grilled cheese. While he dozed off I read Good Night, Moon to him about homeopathic decongestants on the Internet. There was no doubt I needed to seek professional help nurture.  Sue me.

I knew after a few days he’d be leaving when finally he slept all night, hacked up a mucous ball, and said, “See ya”.  I sent him off with a suitcase full of pharmaceuticals, clean clothes, and a framed photo of me some vitamins.  After he left without a backward glance, I disinfected the place, changed his sheets, and lay down in the driveway screaming “You need me!” texted him eight times.  Nothing unusual so far…

I’m sick of people setting up interventions for me judging me. They need to look at themselves for a change.  I mean, if their idea of over- parenting is nursing your teenager back to health; getting extra air bags installed in his car; and worrying he’ll trip on his laces about him then by all means sign me up for Over-Parenters Anonymous.  Honestly!! There. Rant over.  I have bibs to fold things to do.



Bleach is Yummy

Look, I know it’s been a tough winter but being homicidal and demented frustrated about another storm that is apparently approaching doesn’t help anyone.  There’s always a liquor cabinet silver lining so think of winter’s 529 488th last snowfall as an opportunity to enjoy it. It’s all in the attitude, folks:


  • Make naked snow angels while screaming, “F@$# you, winter!!”
  • Thank the snow plow driver for his insistence on blocking you in yet again hard work this season with a friendly pellet gun wound to the forehead ‘thumbs-up’ from your front window.
  • Drink bleach hot chocolate until you die get that warm glow in your stomach.
  • Watch raptly as the BBQ fluffy snow whips around your back yard.
  • Build a snowman and then smash it to #$%ing smithereens with a 2×4.
  • Go for a long walk off a short pier wearing cement boots in the snow.
  • Grab your snowshoes and set them on fire out for some trails.
  • Mull the benefits of a toxic pharmaceutical cocktail some cider.

 Yes sirree it’s been a doozy of a winter!  Staying unconscious young at heart seems to be the secret to enjoying it. Good luck!




Snow Day Awesomeness Guide

With Mother #$%ing Nature asserting herself yet again, I found myself making out with drooling on my pillow this morning, long after my usual wake-up time because schools were closed.  Snow days are the best surprise imaginable and the number one reason people go into the teaching profession I keep living. However, not everyone maximizes them to their full potential.  In case you’re wondering, this is what an optimum snow day looks like for me.  Feel free to copy:

  • Call the local newspaper office and go ballistic complain about your paper not arriving on time.  Be professional but assertive:

 “Mmm hmm. I certainly DO see the blizzard outside and I’m sure it can’t be easy navigating snow-filled streets with summer tires and zero visibility, but put yourself in my shoes for once in your life:  Right now I’m in my fluffy red robe, bloated from breakfast, and sipping a hot cup of coffee…without my newspaper you lazy piece of…!”


  • Eat every three hours minutes. Because I don’t have a pantry at work, I take advantage of having one within arm’s reach at home, and I make a concerted effort to open it every time I walk by it. Even raw rice with maple syrup tastes good when you aren’t used to eating it at 9:30 a.m. Note: wear nothing stretchy clothes on snow days. 


  • Spend four mind-numbing hours on Facebook rather than the usual two. Go even further and spread vile lies about unfriend anyone who went south or did anything that makes you hate your life. PS. I have no more FB friends. Their loss.


  • Drink coffee. Pee. (Roughly every third time this should be in a bathroom) Repeat.


  • Walk through each room in your house and imagine how much better they would look in cool, beachy tones instead of the crappy, depressing earth tones you chose a decade ago.  Consider starting a small fire paint project in one of the rooms.


  • Take a shower and get dressed. (Just kidding).


  • Flip the bird to the snow plow driver. Then try it with some clothes on.   


So as you can see, snow days can be a hoot if you put a little thought into them.  This is essentially all that stands between you and total snow day awesomeness:




 AND if you’re lucky enough to have a paper carrier with half a #$!ing clue winter tires, THIS:












Take That, Friggin’ Sochi Show-Offs

As a kid, I dreamt of being an Olympic medalist.  My passion for glory was unquenchable and for years I wondered what stood between me and the podium.  I tried every sport going but I must have lacked talent, focus, and training something because it just didn’t work out for me. After listening to interviews with the athletes in Sochi, I’ve concluded there are in fact, some tried and true steps necessary in becoming an Olympian. I may have skipped a couple:


  • Don’t smoke. I was a pack-a-day smoker. At 13 years of age,  how on Earth could I have known I’d graduate to crack eventually cigarettes  would have an adverse effect on my training?   


  • Consume nutrients . I ate Cheetos for lunch.  I thought they were baby carrots.  Totally delish  not my fault.


  • Put in the hours. Due to my schedule, I wasn’t able to devote the required hours to my Olympic training.  My days were already chock- a -block full with soap opera watching, sleeping  and smoking Export A Lites.  Athletes must  carve out more than 10-15 minutes/day to train.  (This one seems to be non-negotiable).


  • Develop a team mentality. I didn’t look good in burgundy and gold.  Unfortunately, these were our school colors so I didn’t bother trying out for any teams, even though the coach begged me to stay home. I was only thinking of myself and how washed out I look in those ugly colors. This is no way to win a medal.


  • Be professional. Apparently you have to look like a nun to be on a swim team; no one told me a G-string bikini was not an acceptable bathing suit option.  I never went back after the mutual groping incident poolside at the ‘Y’.  Bye bye hot swim coach Olympic swimmer dream.


  • Listen to your coach. My figure skating coach never let up on me; she wanted me to be dead the best: “Stand taller!”;  “Stop whining!” ; “Tie those #$%ing laces for the last time!!”  After the third concussion from tripping on them, I quit. Maybe she was right? I’ll never know for sure.


  • Be flexible. I couldn’t continue with figure skating lessons because they were offered at 8 a.m. on Saturday mornings and I was still asleep during that time (You try getting up at that hour after partying all night and see how you like it).  After the eighth missed lesson I was banned from the rink asked to reconsider figure skating.  


  • Have a mantra. Mental fitness is half the battle.  When you’re discouraged and weary, repeat a self-affirming mantra that fuels your soul.  Mine was, “I’m going to Dairy Queen the Olympics!”  


  • Eat, sleep and breathe your sport.  I stopped reading after ‘breathe’.  I guess that wasn’t enough.  Whatevs.
  • Remain gracious in tough times.  Depositing dead, festering rabbits on the front steps of coaches who cut you from teams or worse, demanded  you show up, never works.  It’s better to take air out of their tires the high road.


If I’d had this secret list of obscure tips when I was athletically inclined and could touch my toes without screaming in pain, things obviously would have turned out differently for me.  I’m still bitter but I’m trying to focus on the positive:  I’m down to half a pack a day and I can still rock  a G-string bikini in a dark cave with a neck to ankle robe over top of it .  Take that,  friggin’ Sochi show-offs.



FAME! I’m Gonna Live Foreva! Baby, Remember My Name…K?

Not that it’s any of your business, but I just turned 49. Being almost dead 50 has forced me to take pills stock and recount the year’s challenges, wrinkles, and empty pill bottles promises. Though my life is great, I thought by this point I’d be well on my way to meeting some big- time goals: learning how to program the PVR, backing into the garage, and fitting into the Sergio Valente jeans I wore in grade 7. Epic fail.  However, there was that one goal of becoming a talk- show host that I came ‘this close’ to realizing. Let’s just say Kelly Ripa doesn’t like change.

This may surprise you but Kelly and I are practically twins. Both of us enjoy talking, wearing designer clothes and staring into her husband’s eyes the camera. Call me crazy but with our eerie similarities, sharing a talk show called Colleen and Kelly was a no- brainer. I imagined us going for lattes at some hip cafe after each taping and joking about how I have a larger rack Twitter fan base than she does.  Oh, how we’d laugh!  It was going to be perfect…if it weren’t for her ‘boundary issues.’

My hunger for fame goes way back.  As a precocious and beautiful child, I was known to ham it up.  I penned little plays, performed skits in our kitchen for my parents’ drunken friends, and made several porn flicks trips to the principal’s office for being a ‘diva’ (Blah. Blah. Blah).  There were no talent agents in my small town though, so I gave it all up and like an idiot, became a teacher.  I buried my  dreams and tried to find fulfillment in the porn industry classroom. Even there I gravitated toward the spotlight:  I began each class with, “A funny thing happened on the way to work…”; I hired hair and makeup people for Picture Day; and I insisted on cash applause after each lesson.  Though I was an outstanding teacher, something was missing.

Until last spring, that is, when I felt a long-forgotten stirring in my loins soul.  I had snagged tickets to LIVE With Kelly and Michael for an upcoming trip to NYC; I kept hearing a little voice saying: “Take your medication show on the road.”  The tickets came in the mail with a personalized letter outlining taping procedures; explicit directions to the studio; and a photo of the glamorous set. Well, Kelly might as well have called me herself!  It was just a matter of time before I would be incarcerated the spotlight.

On taping day, they made me wait in line outside. When I presented my letter to the NBC doorman, he blew cigarette smoke in my face and said, “Look, lady. I don’t make enough money for this”.  Grouch.  Once seated inside the studio I knew I was home: lights, cameras and paranoid security guards were everywhere. I waved my lighter Canadian flag with gusto but it didn’t catch Kelly’s attention.  Then it happened.  She asked if anyone in the audience was celebrating anything special. I shimmied past my row, rushed  to the stage and announced, “I’m celebrating my new career!  Where should I sit?”  She sang out, “Security!” but I heard, “Certainly!” With that, I grabbed the mic, ordered the cameraman to get my best side, and began my demise act. As twelve over- the- top security guards wrestled me to the ground, I managed to blurt out my Twitter address but I think it was muffled. Can you say ‘power trip’?? OMG. (@LandryColleen)

It’s kinda awkward between Kel and I when we see each other in court. I hate it when she acts all nervous around me. Whatever.   Once I realized the camera put on ten pounds, I would have been outta there anyway. I’m over it.  I have bigger fish to fry.  Mark my words, in my 49th year thanks to the crappy jail food I’ll fit into those Sergio Valente jeans if it kills me.  So there.


Here she is trying to pretend she doesn’t notice my lighter: