I haven’t been taking too many pictures lately, mostly because I keep forgetting to charge my phone then I have to save every last bit of phone juice for pithy facebook comments-slash-googling pictures of hot boys.

Which means a lot of this post will require reading, but you can handle it. I have confidence in you.

Friday night Sarah got much-coveted tickets to the Bahamas concert, mostly due to her connections and all-around babeliness.  It is beneficial having a babely friend when you are significantly less babely because then she can get things with her babeliness and give them to you.  Which she did.  With a ticket to the show.

I don’t go to shows too often because I like to sit on my ass and listen to music while drinking wine in my house in my underwear, where I don’t have to deal with stupid people or washroom line-ups, but this was a good show.  You know when you’re at a show and the bass is like, so loud and well-timed that you’re all like “YES YES YES you are in beat with my heart, you attractive singer-songwriter, you.  We should probably get married.”.  Yeah, that totally happened.

The only bad thing was that I decided to run to the washroom 2 minutes before he went on and then when I got back Sarah and Julia had taken the initiative to move up to the front.  Being a total coward, I am physically and psychologically unable to push through crowds, so I stood by myself at the back of the bar for the whole time, swaying awkwardly with strangers…

… or as I like to call it “going to jam” by myself in the corner. 

Honestly, that wasn’t bad at all, it was just the four guys behind me who kept saying things like “This is boss.” and “This is the sickest track. I love this track.  Sickest track on the album”  SICK TRACK?  Who says that? WHAT IS THIS?  2004? 

The plan was to go to some art show thing at Brickworks, but then there was a line up of SIXTY BILLION PEOPLE so we decided to go to Pizza Pizza instead.

We probably sat in the Pizza Pizza for like 2 hours talking about stuff and business and eating pizza, and Sarah (maybe) almost got robbed, and then we went home and I ate an additional two hot dogs.  Really, they were called “frankfurters” on the packaging, which I thought was SO FUNNY in the middle of the night.  Like it said ”Put the frankfurter in boiling water” HA HA H AHAAAA.  I kept saying “frankfurter” in my mind for the next four days and giggled every time. 

Saturday I had lofty plans to walk around aimlessly and maybe buy a leather jacket (because 4 leather jackets is clearly not adequate), but instead it turned into this:

Which of course turned into this:

Little known fact: Ossington has turned into a fucking disgusting douchebag SHITHOLE.  We danced at Huey’s for a bit, which was fun, but while my two nice, relatively sober friends and I were standing outside, politely trying to get a cab, a tiny-nutsacked-loser THREW A FULL TALL CAN OF BEER AT US from a cab.  It smashed against the *Escalade* that was parked next to us and fucking exploded everywhere, narrowly missing Karen’s head.

Five minutes later a gross souped-up corvette thought that the car in front of him was going too slow, popped it into 3rd and gunned into oncoming traffic to pass him, narrowly missing groups of drunk people trying to get cabs.

You are all gross.

Anyways, I finally got a cab and the following conversation ensued:

Cab Driver: You seem like a nice lady – all of the people on that street were crazy.
Me: I KNOW – someone threw a beercar at us for no reason.
Cab Driver: You know where the best fares in the whole city are?
Me: No, where?
Cab Driver: That club Wicked.
Me: Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?  Really?
Cab Driver: Yes, they are all very excited to go home and get on with the rest of their night.
Me: *laughing* Yes, because their night is just beginning.
Cab Driver: Yes – you know you should go to Wicked.
Me: …
Cab Driver: It is only $10.00 for you to get in.
Me: You mean for ladies?
Cab Driver:  Yes.  Do you know how much it is for men?  $80.00.
Me: …
Cab Driver:  And even then sometimes they don’t get what they are paying for.
Me: …
Cab Driver: You should go to Wicked to see it, you know.
Me: …
Me: …
Me: WELL HERE IS MY HOUSE BYE GOTTA GO.

The actual conversation was about 30 times longer and involved many more encouraging statements about going to Wicked.

Anyways.  On Sunday I bought these mustard yellow witchy vintage Ferragamo shoes.  They might be a *little* too witchy, but you can suck my nut.

Please note my wrinkled up blue socks and how they make my feet look like blue pig hooves.

And now you are fully updated.

Have you been thinking to yourself : “If there is one thing I need, it’s a tee-pee, so that, instead of sitting in my living room, I could sit in my tee-pee in my living room, or instead of sitting on my deck, I could sit in a tee-pee on my deck, etc.”?

Well today is your lucky day, because all your teepee desires will be fulfilled.

Yes, I’m going to tell you how to build your own wicked-cool “3 person” tee-pee.  I put “3 person” in “quotations” because while getting blottzed last weekend we managed to fit 8 people in this tee-pee, but it was less than comfortable, and I’m pretty sure we almost destroyed the tee-pee.

But if you are looking for a semi-private location for three people to discuss politics and the socio-economic state of the world, say, while, doing shots of cinnamon whiskey, than this teepee is perfect.

I originally found my inspiration from Smile and Wave here, but made some modifications to make the tee-pee a big bigger and changed the design a little bittle.  Ok so go to the hardware store/craft store/dollarstore and buy these:

• 6 x 8 foot framing beams (1″ x 2″)
• Biggest canvas drop cloth you can find (I bought a 9′ x 12′ and it still wasn’t big enough… had to go back and buy another)
• A bunch of ribbons
• Twine or leather lace
• Paint and a paintbrush

Here is my fancy tee-pee pattern.  It’s pretty damn simple.  Figure it out.

Now that you’ve cut out all your shizz, time to sew.  Make sure that your sewing machine is not broken, because if it is broken, you’ll have to take it apart and put it back together after drinking two glasses of wine, and then the bobbin casing might get all fucked up due to your drunkenness, and the needle might get stuck and threaten breaking off into your skull or eyeball socket.

Remember that you are going to be sewing those ribbons to the INSIDE of the tee-pee (i.e. the seam-side) because you’ll want to tie them to the poles to keep them in place.  I basically folded by ribbon pieces in half, and stuck the folded end through the front about 1/2 an inch.  You can see it on the other side, but I think it looks all like cool and professional, like there are little tabs on the seams that I purposely put there.  I think about things like this way too much.

Now lay out the tee-pee on the floor and marvel at your ability to make unnecessary things.  Put your small dog on the tee-pee fabric shell to take a cute picture.

Then Instagram it.

Now it’s time to paint.  I was inspired by some tee-pee I saw on Pinterest with like, black and white Aztec stuff all up on it, and I put this triangle-sun thing on the top.  You know.  Just bein’ bad ass and all.

Ok, let that dry and make sure you don’t step on it while wearing socks and then put your shoe on then discover several hours later that you have “paint-glued” your sock to the inside of your shoe. 

Take your poles and drill a hole in the flat side about 6″ – 8″ inches from the end, then lace your leather or twine piece *loosely* through the holes and circle it around them to hold them in a triangle-ish type thing.  You’ll need to keep them loose because you’ll need to finagle them around while you put your fabric on.

Throw your fabric over and tie the inner ribbons to the poles to hold it in place.  I also tied twine between the poles at the very bottom of the structure to keep them equidistant and stable as drunken friends pile in.

NOW YOU SHOULD TOTALLY DECORATE IT MORE.  With, like, beads and feathers…

And maybe a suede blanket and a furry sheepskin…

Now take a picture of it and Instagram it.

FUCKING-BAD-ASS.

So my plane left at 6:00 pm on my last day (Sunday), and I wanted to get in as much of Buenos Aires as I could, so I was determined to get up early and spend the day out in the city.

PLUS, there is a HUGE antiques market down in San Telmo on Saturdays, so of course, I was plotzzing in my pants to get down there with enough time to leisurely peruse the stands. 

They close off one of the old streets and it basically becomes a huge pedestrian bazaar.  I was pretty happy… but before you get to the main square, the wares aren’t as exciting… lots of chackis and, like, tango dancers made out of bottle caps and shit like that.

THEN.  Then, you get to the main square, and it’s like antique heaven.  There were SO MANY STANDS.  I got lost at one point.

Anyways.  I happened to have a shopping chaperone who was annoying me because he is not an antiquer and doesn’t understand my orgasmic love of old shit.  It put a bit of a damper on things, so we grabbed lunch.

The concierge recommended this restaurant that is really hard to find – it’s basically up some secret stairway on the street.  But then, when you get up there, you realize it has the best location in the neighbourhood – basically DIRECTLY ABOVE the antique market.  We sat on this smallllll tinnny balcony that was just barely big enough to hold a table and two chairs.

STILL PALER THAN A PORK SAUSAGE.

Anyways, once lunch was over, it was time to check some more shit out.  I stumbled by this huge store that was clearly more professionally maintained and curated than any of the other antique places there.  So much awesome stuff.  I didn’t even look at the prices because I’m fucking poor.

OH WHAT?  No big deal:

Stuff and stuff and stuff.  Bought my gaucho belt and skeleton keys and native necklace amongst these stands.

Sigh.  And then my trip came to an end.  As I was leaving the market on my way to my LONG AND EXCRUCIATING fourteen hour overnight flight, Mr. Tango Man tango-ed me out of Argentina:

…all of these ink pieces by George Boorujy.

I often wonder where all my money goes.  

You would think it should go to adult things like dishwasher soap and GICs and shower curtain liners. 

Yeah.  It probably should.

Frye Braided Campus Boots

Rationale to Buy: They don’t make these fuckers any more.  Well, I mean, they make them, but not in this colour, and the braid is really rare.  Also, it’s hard to find my size in vintage Fryes.  Also, the heel is the perfect “adds height but in a super laid-back way” height, and the colour is the perfect “rusty cognac” colour that everyone wants in a brown leather boot.  Also, they’re already all dusty and broken-in.

Rationale to be a Responsible Adult: Do I already own two pairs of Fryes?  Maybe.  Do I already own four pairs of brown knee-high boots?  Maybe.  Should you shut up?  Probably.

Vintage Leather Jacket with Weird Native Mystical Patch

Rationale to Buy:  So, spring is coming, which is perfect “light leather jacket” weather, and you CLEARLY have to have a light-coloured jacket choice in the spring, in case you are wearing something, you know, lighter.  PLUS, I mean, COME ON.  The patch is worth the price of the jacket alone, because it’s so versatile!  I mean, I could theoretically take the patch off this jacket and put it on another jacket.  It’s like two jackets in one.

Rationale to be a Responsible Adult:  It’s possible that I have several leather jackets already.  It’s possible that the prices of those leather jackets have varied from “a steal” to “the price of a small used car”, so compounded, the jackets are probably worth more than I have in my retirement savings plan.  It’s possible that one human being only has so many occasions to wear a leather jacket with a bad-ass fucking weird patch on the back. 

Leather Flats with Embossed Fleur-de-Lys

Rationale to Buy:  Spring is coming and you NEED to have flats to wear when you are walking around the city, going to flower shops and meeting your friends for brunches on patios.  And although you have lots of flats, none of them are that dressy, so say, if you were wearing something a little fancier, you would look stupid with your existing shoe options.  PLUS they are so totally French-looking and when you wear them, you’ll look like Leslie Caron in An American in Paris.

Rationale to be a Responsible Adult: I have three pairs of brown leather oxfords which are essentially the same shoe but with laces.

5-Inch Leopard Print Platform Heels

Rationale to Buy:  They are 75% off.  And I look like an un-gross version of Kim Kardashian in them.  Additionally, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but leopard print is now a neutral that supposedly goes with everything, so I can wear them with SO MUCH STUFF.  Finally, They add five inches to my height, making my frame appear lankier, so my croissant-weight appears more evenly dispersed on my limbs.  IT’S SCIENCE.

Rationale to be a Responsible Adult:  Seeing how I’m not a prostitute or celebrity, WHERE THE FUCK WILL I WEAR THESE?

In case I haven’t communicated it clearly enough, I become laser-focused (read: obsessed) with things once they burrow their way into my piddly little brain.  It is really really really annoying. 

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with kilim rugs and pillows and boots and… well, anything kilim.

Also, on an unrelated-yet-totally-related note, I really feel that having a great rug makes a huge difference in a room, and I have been looking for one for a while.  So obviously, rug obsession + kilim obsession = kilim rug obsession.  This resulted in obsessive searches for “kilim rug” on craigslist and Kijiji.  And obsessive searches for kilim rug retailers in Toronto.  And obsessive searches for kilim rugs on eBay…

The problem with damn-ass-poo kilim rugs (especially the amazing vintage ones) is that they are like $1500.00, and I am not a Russian Zsar.

However, I am laser-focused (read: obsessed), which means that I can find anything I want for the price I want to pay if I look hard and long enough.  Really, the internet is a tool for laser-focused (read: obsessed) people to get whatever they want.

So after a couple of weeks, I found an amazing kilim rug retailer in Turkey.  And I bought a rug.  A fabulously graphic, loud, colourful, crazy-ass vintage killim rug from the 1950s.

And I got it for a frrraction of the price of anywhere in Toronto, shipping included.  And I got it quick.  And I got a certificate of authenticity.  AND I LOVE IT.  Molly loves it, too, because I think she can smell Turkish things. 

Get ready for my loft-space to GET-A-CAHRAZY and colourful.  Although I *think* I need to reposition my Pendleton blanket.  Just tooooo much graphic colourful craziness.  I’m not THAT laser-focused (read: crazy).

This is why my life is sad.  SAD SLASH AWESOME.

Honestly, the very best thing that happened to me on New Year’s Eve was when I bought these boots.  Yes.  Buying something made me happier than anything else.  I am a horrible, unethical, consumerist monster.

Back when I didn’t live in a Victorian Mansion, I lived next to White Squirrel in Trinity Bellwoods – I happened to move out like, days before Gaspard opened on that strip.

I didn’t have the chance to check it out, due to the incredibly high-profile socialite’s life I lead, but on New Year’s Eve-Day, I managed to swing by for a look.  Lots of cute stuff that makes me wish I was French.  French or Russian.  I always assume that French and Russian girls are perpetually stylish and minimalist and romantic and art deco and beautiful. 

Anyways, Gaspard’s jewelery is boner-tastic.  They have this AMAZING red fox-fur hat.  And…

these amazing…

cheetah print…

boots…

… that were 50% off.  In my size.  After suppressing excitement-induced vomit, I tried them on, and sent a ghetto selfie to P-Hops to confirm that they are, in fact, totally cute and amazing, and that I should buy them, regardless of price.

Now, 50% OFF at Gaspard, is like, 200% ON at any other store.  But still.  They are French.  And cheetah-print, and all wicked-cool and shit.  JEEESUS.

I don’t care that I’m still sick, or that I’m at work, or that it’s snowing and cold and I don’t have matching gloves so I had to wear a mismatched pair this morning, and one of the VPs saw me in my mismatched gloves, or that the project I’m working on is turning into a big fart cloud, or that I look horrible today and my outfit makes me look like I’m an elephant on safari with bad hair.

Because my J. Crew order arrived.

Friday started with some good old fashioned Hanukkah partying at Tami’s house, where she cooked up a smorgasbord of delicious Jewish cuisine.  Like seriously, as soon as I walked in the house, I was accosted with the smell of delicious food stuffs,  including yummy latkes…

…fantasiche vegan stuffed cabbages…

…and some of the best matzo ball soup I have ever consumed.  I didn’t take a picture of the soup because I ate it so fast that the picture would have just been an indiscernible blur of bowl and hands and mouth.

Mr. Holden also participated in his first Hanukkah – he particularly enjoyed the dreidels.

The dreidel apparently looked like a big piece of blue candy.

In Holden’s defense – who can honestly say they haven’t tried to eat a dreidel over the course of their life?  No one.  No one can honestly say that.

On Christmas Eve, Molly had a Christmas adventure where she played with a Schnoodle puppy for about 6 hours straight.  For some reason I didn’t take any pictures of that.  I did, however, take multiple pictures of her sleeping after her adventure, on my favourite teak chair:

I had purchased a couple of big, over-sized stuffed Boston Terriers to give to my niece and nephew for Christmas.

Molly fucking hated them so much.  As soon as she caught a look at them, she freaked out and tried to kill them.  I like to think that she was jealous of them because she wants to keep me all to herself.  Here she is trying to give them the death-stare:

The good news is that my niece and nephew loved them…

…and tried to ride them like horses on the hardwood floor.

I love how my niece does this huge grin-smile-freak-out-face when you ask her to smile:

It’s like she’s trying SO. HARD. to smile that her face is exploding.  Awesome.

Here she is with regular-face:

Whaaaa?  Giant Dora colouring book from Auntie Nat!

Doggie-Brookie standoff.

Anyhoo, the next day I got SO SICK that I threw up everywhere for hours and spent the whole day in bed, wishing I was dead.  The good news is that the light shining through my stained glass window was all sparkly:

And, Molly was still super tired and snuggled with me under the covers.  Best.

Thank Jebus the holidays are (almost) over.  I’m ready for summer now.

Couple-a new items for the house.  Since my housewarming and holiday parties, I’ve started to loose a little steam.  I mean I’m checking craigslist like, once a day instead of 58 times a day.  But I still had the opportunity to pick up some sweet pieces last week.

First, I became totally and completely obsessed with purchasing a cow skull to mount in my loft.  I mean, the decor it’s pretty western-y… I guess… but it lacked the full-on “crazy-person-accessory” to westernize it beyond all recognition.

Let me preamble this by mentioning that you can’t get a cow skull in a retail store in Toronto for less than like, $300.00.  That equals bullshit, so I set a goal to buy a cowskull using my super developed search and negotiating skills like a bad-ass mutherfucka.

So first, I look on craigslist, of course, and I find some guy out in Etobicoke who is selling his cow skull for like $150.00.  So I email him, fully planning to offer him around $100.00 or $120.00.  Then he comes back to me and says there is a bidding war on his damn cowskull and the new asking price is $350.00.  So I email him back and say “suck my choda” and decide to look elsewhere.

As mentioned on several previous occasions, I have been blessed the super-human ability to exploit the internet, and after days of scouring, I found a huge 3 foot cow skull for $50.00 from Texas.  Shipping was $30.00.  So that baby was $80.00 inclusive.  Plus it was expertly modeled by a midriff-baring woman wearing a steer-wranglin’ hat.  I mean, how could I say no to that??

You would think that a real cow skull with bones and DNA and possible bugs living in its eye-socket-holes and shit would have problems crossing the border, because when I order fucking pants from J Crew it takes the border officials 10 days to mull over whether or not I’m a terrorist.  You know – a terrorist ordering poo-green pants from J Crew.

But no.  The COW SKULL crossed the border in record time, and I had it in my paws within about 5 days of payment. 

I was concerned that it was a fake because I got such a good deal.  But hellz no.  This bad boy is a real skull from a real cow, all bleached in the sun for weeks and weeks. 

Only catch was that the horns were removed for shipping.  I had to re-screw them and wrap the rope around them myself.  But since I’m bad-ass hardcore, I screwed that shit in like an expert.

Yes.  Now I am a fully crazy person with multiple skulls adorning her living room.  SKULLS SKULLS EVERYWHERE!!!

In addition to the crazy-person skull, I also managed to score this fantastic mid-century space-man chrome ball-light at the Public Butter:

Now crazy-ball space lamps from the 60s/70s are in surprisingly high demand, and I have been looking for one on and off for a little while.  It’s hard to find one for less than a few hundred bones, so when I saw this down the street I got excited.

But not so excited when I saw the price tag:

I mean, fine.  I was originally $350.00… and now it’s $175.00… but:

1. $175.00 is still way too much for me to buy an un-needed lamp on a whim; and
2. I’m pretty sure that when Public Butter has their 50% off sale, they just mark everything up, so I don’t think I was getting a huge deal.

Now, I have my ways when negotiating.  (And no.  It does not involve sexual favours, you pervert.  Besides, any sexual favours I could provide would likely not amount to much value.  Due to my extreme awkwardness.  And now things are even more awkward because I said that… damn) 

So I decided to be my wiley self and try and see if I could negotiate that bad boy down a few bucks.  We tried out the lamp in a socket… and lo and behold, two of the sockets were defective and needed to be replaced.  I hemmed and hawwed and hemmed and hawwed and pushed. 

AND I GOT THE LAMP FOR $50.00.  So hardcore.

Look at her, all spacey and chromey.  She’s going to artify one of my rooms all up like crazy.  Now I just have to figure out how to re-wire light sockets and I’ll be golden.  Or chrome.  As it were.