The Urban Cowgirl has moved!

Check out the new digs at: http://urbancowgirlvancouver.wordpress.com/

This site will remain active...sort of an archive of the early days.

Much love possums,

UC xx

Strategize this

So it turns out I have a day job. I appreciate this may come as a shock for the 2% of you reading this that aren’t either my friend, colleague or family member. Yes, sadly I do not attract enough readers to sustain my lifestyle while I publish one single blog per week. Go figure. Good news is I have a gig that covers my cowgirl lifestyle whilst I blog it up.

Now, we all have those weeks where we feel like we’re faking an orgasm 8 hours a day, Monday through Friday. It doesn’t matter what industry you work in, the redundant corporate buzz words and coffee comparable to a mild form of jet fuel can really wear on a gal. How many times do we have to hear the phrase ‘moving forward’ or ‘let’s uncover the nuances’ before we pull an Office Space and smash the shit out of the fax machine? Not too many, I suspect.

I work in PR and aside from badgering the media, I strategize. That’s right possums, one of my many functions is to strategize the badgering of media. So, during a recent strategy session I was pleased to discover an unexpected, and unlikely, visitor. While my boss and I sit in our massive, freezing-like-the-artic, board room one of our counterparts joined us via video conference. We were about to wrap things up when my coworker’s projection turned puzzled, as he muttered a quiet ‘well I’ll be damned.’ There stood Pamela Anderson, in our parking lot, about to climb into an SUV and drive off. I quickly sprang to action and asked that my coworker remove the video cam from it’s perch and point the thing out the window so I could take a peek. Within seconds the Playmate turned Peta activist was part of my PR strategy session. This certainly perked up my work week. What’s next, the Hoff? Germans love him and frankly, so do I.

So next time you have the urge to staple things to your boss’ forehead, remember you never know when a center fold will find their way into your board room.

Be cool possums
x

Don’t call me baby

Last week while lunching with some lady friends, our conversation shifted towards the subject of dating – shocking, I know. We quickly realized that we all shared a similar opinion on the subject of pet names. You know, terms of endearment. Those sickening sweetie names we use when we’re smitten with the opposite sex.

I’m not poo-pooing pet names possums. In fact, I’m happy to engage in some love language with my bf, but there’s a reason why this is acceptable. So listen up all you single studs, because I have yet another piece of unsolicited advice for you.

One of my lunching ladies mentioned that she had met a pilot during a layover in Toronto. Following an impromptu 2 hour get-to-know-you-over-coffee first date, the pilot seemed promising. Let’s face it, the uniform gets you a second date regardless. Given our pilot is based back east, a budding exchange of text messages ensued. Talk of a second date on this side of the country seemed inevitable until our leading man made the mistake of typing something that we all agreed was a tad pervy. In the text he referred to our gal as ‘sexy’. Not, ‘wow you looked really sexy sitting at your gate that day’. No...no, no. Sexy as in ‘hope you had a good flight home, sexy’. Yuck.

We glanced at each other with a simultaneous look of disgust. Why was it so horrible that a guy referred to our friend as sexy? I’ll tell you why possums, because you just don’t go there until you’re in a relationship. I compare this to the first time you do a #2 at a guys place (which is another blog in itself). We don’t do this unless we’re committed, because for one reason or another, it’s considered offside. Same goes for ‘sexy’. Or shnookum bear, sugar tits, or any other bizarre-o pet name. It implies one of two things:

1. Your manner with women is comparable to that of an 80 year old.
2. You’re a sleazy chauvinist.

I’m certain I do not speak for the every one, but I’m confident I speak for most when I say - sexy is not okay unless, at the very least, you’ve had a roll in the hay.

Case in point:

Man Up

Lately I’ve noticed my fellow ladies laying down some pretty tough talk when it comes to their men. As such, this post is positioned more towards the gals, although there is some insightful bits – I think – for the boys as well. Consider it a public service announcement just for you, possums.

Aside from my own personal learnings over the years concerning the opposite sex, I’ve noticed some unnerving behavior while observing complete strangers and peers alike. So ladies...

Please, oh please, will you stop emasculating your men. If you’re puzzled as to what I’m talking about you may be an oblivious offender. Let me brake it down for you. When you openly and publicly express your distaste for something your guy has said, perhaps in front of close friends, family or colleagues, this does not fair well for a fellas masculinity. For example, “Boo boo bear, can you please eat your short ribs with utensils?” Or, “Lover bunny, don’t speak with your mouth full.” Especially when delivered in a condescending, ‘I’m trying to be nice but really I’m about to unleash the bitch’ tone. Humiliation tactics tend to back fire, so best wait until you’re alone to share your thoughts on the subject. There is nothing worse then watching a woman publicly shame her man for something completely trivial. How often do you hear a guy say, ‘Hey hun, you might like to rethink the way you’re holding your fork.’ It just doesn’t happen.

Doting. Don’t do it. Men aren’t helpless infants who require non-stop tending to. Don’t fiddle with their hair, correct their grammar, or ask if they need things incessantly. Here’s an example scenario that you should avoid...

Woman - “Hun, are you hungry?”
Man - “No, I’m good.”
Woman - “But you haven’t had a proper meal all day, you should eat something.”
Man - “I’m good, thanks.”
Woman - “Ok, I’ll just whip you up a snack, your electrolytes must need a little boost.”
Man - “No, really I’m fine.”
Woman - “Here you go honey, I fixed you a glass of soy milk and some lentil soup.”
Man - *Sigh accompanied by head shake*

Guys are pretty straight forward. The words ‘I’m fine’ is not guy talk for ‘I'm dying for a health shake baby, please make me one!’ It’s means their fine. Really.

Nagging. Now this is something I’ve struggled with, as let’s face it, we woman are in our own time zone. The ‘feminine time zone’ (FTZ). Meaning, we simply like things done promptly. Case in point, my bf and I have just returned from a weekend away and my things are already put away and in the wash while his are still in shambles. It’s ok, because I know he’ll get to it. Yet, it’s taking every piece of composure I have to not step away from the blog and begin cleaning up his shit. That’s just how we women roll, we like to getter done. There is no sense trying to reason this point with men, and that’s ok because they too have their own time zone. The ‘I’ll get to it when I get to it’ time zone (IGTIWIGTITZ).

In closing, I’d just like to say that men are perhaps equally at fault if they feel like less of a man as a result of the aforementioned. Don’t stand for this passive aggressive behavior boys! Instead, eat your food like an adult, don’t leave your shit lying around and eat regular healthy meals throughout the day. And you thought I’d sell my ladies out completely...

Peace and love possums. x

Ankle Biters Be Gone

You’re hosting a dinner party comprised of couples mostly, and have quite the spread prepared. Upon shopping for ingredients and selecting a couple smooth vintages, you’re set to entertain. Never does it dawn on you, however, that there may be some babies in attendance. That’s right, babies. Bambino's, offspring, the fruit of someone’s loins, lounging about your adults-only dinner party. With a smug little look on their baby face, no less. You know, that smug ‘I can drool all over your furnishings and stank up a room with my poopie pants’ look?

You might ask yourself, ‘how does this happen?’ Do people actually bring said babies to dinner parties when it has been clearly defined that the guest list is for grown ups? Apparently some parental types pull this kind of shit. What’s worse is these people don’t see it as a problem. I’ll be the first to say if someone brought over their postnatal paposse to my place during dinner - unannounced - I’d be in a state of shock.

Dining over diaper-clad guests simply doesn’t appeal to most non-parents, which is why baby is often dismissed. One of my gal pals was preparing to host a gathering recently, when one of her friends asked if it would be ok if she brought her toddler along. In this case, it absolutely was not ok, yet my friend was left to feel like a bitch for sticking to her guns. Not that this mattered because her friend brought the urchin along anyway, after she had been asked not to. Has she no shame? Does the part of our brain that determines our manners get wiped clean with motherhood?

When I was a wee whippersnapper, my mom had no problem booking a babysitter when she and dad decided to hit the town, and rightly so. What’s wrong with parents these days? It’s ok people, your baby will survive without you for a few hours. I’m not saying you should source your sitter on Craigslist or anything, but surely someone can look after the tike for one night.

A few weeks later I found myself lunching with a good friend who had a similar story. Dinner party, a small gathering of friends, good food, a typical adult affair. A few days prior, one of his friends rang to see if it was ok to bring her 13 year old daughter along. Come the fuck on people, bringing a baby was bad enough, but at least you don’t have to censor your conversation. No cursing, no profanity, no adult content at all really. It’s earmuffs for everyone!

On that note, I’ll leave you with an appropriate clip demonstrating this very point.

Night night possums. x

My Possum Pitch

- I interrupt this weekly blog for a moment of shameless promotion -

Dearest possums, faithful readers, people who have nothing better to do then spend 5 minutes per week reading my dribble. The time has come to kick things up a notch. I’ve been putting together a pitch in an endeavor to get my weekly wire picked up by a local publication, and thought who better to help in this crusade then my possums themselves. I have some ideas, some angles if you will, but ultimately I would love your feedback.

While perusing my posts over the past year and a half, it’s clear there are topics I tend to gravitate towards. According to my post tags, my favorite topics seem to be Vancouver-centric rants and random occurrences. Perhaps not relatable to the masses, but they certainly speak to anyone living in this city...anyone who has visited this city for that matter. Coming in a close second is what I call my ‘Nitty Gritty Celebrity’ posts, where I report on celebrity sightings, and profess my love or utter distaste towards certain famous folks. I also offer reviews in the form of ‘Urban Cowgirl lists’on a range of topics from food and travel to fashion and music. Politics tends to push my blogger buttons as well.

I’m targeting one publication in particular, who has already adopted the art of the blog. 24 Hours Vancouver online has 6 fabulous feature bloggers and I’d like to somehow squeeze the Urban Cowgirl into this space. So, when you have a spare moment, I’d like to ask that you do two small things for me in the coming weeks…

1) Email me and tell me which topics you can’t live without.

2) Shoot a short note to Dean Broughton dean.broughton@24hrs.ca, the Editor of 24 Hours Vancouver, and explain to him why you think the Urban Cowgirl needs her own column.

This is just the beginning of my campaign for a column so I’ll be sure to keep you posted on any progress. As mentioned in my very first post on February 20, 2008, “I’m not channeling Carrie

Bradshaw, but instead trying to become a writer. So here goes…”

Nothin’ but love possums.

UC xx

It’s gettin’ hot in herrre

Where am I, the western Sahara? It certainly feels that way with this crazy heat wave we’re enduring. Vancouverites are in shock. People are piling into the closest Canadian Tire to score the biggest fans they can find. We’re in an inferno people. The tropics. I swear I saw a gecko in my shower this morning.

Granted it’s July, and despite popular opinion there are no igloos in this part of our vast country. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t mind thronging myself up against a snowy structure right about now. Despite being a bit of a beach bunny - a tanorexic sun worshiper if you like - the humidity is a challenge. Besides the bronzer melting off my face, my hair has been quaffing into quite the retro-fro, reminiscent of Monica on Friends during the Maui episode. Good GAWD I'm a sexy beast. Sexy. Beast.

My only sanctum in all this swelter is the utterly ridiculous fashion trends my fellow citizens have been sporting to manage the rising mercery. This heat wave has equated to one, big hot mess for many, which is why I’ve prepared...

The Urban Cowgirl’s Summer Fashion Follies

1) Mesh tops on men. I don’t care if you live in the West End or not, these haven’t been acceptable since Wham released Wake Me Up. Shame on American Apparel for endorsing this look.

2) Socks with sandals. We all know it’s wrong so why do we do this? I use the term ‘we’ loosely as what I really mean is men with no fashion morals, and the tourist community-at-large. Senior citizens are exempt.

3) Men in v-necks. I’m sensing a trend here, but don’t worry ladies I’ll get to you next. V-necks are never a good idea on dudes. Ever. Don’t do that.

4) Visors. Remember when these were cool in the 90’s for a month or so? I believe they called it ‘bad ass country cluber chic’. I find visors rather agreeable on the golf course, but no where beyond the club house. We’re not teeing off at our neighborhood Starbucks, are we? I didn’t think so.

5) Blueblockers. I’d like to say senior citizens are exempt from this, but sadly they are not. These are fucking hideous. Surely there’s something more suitable that doesn’t make you look like an electrician.

6) OK ladies, here’s my beef – baring saggy boobs. Now, I’m the first to admit that sauntering about sans bra is a fabulous feeling. It’s the first thing I rip from my bod after a long day at the office. But must our bosom flap about in public? Wreck beach, yes. Hustling down Homer Street, no.

I’m signing off now to go stick my head in the freezer. So, my perspiring possums, let me leave you with a quote from one of my fave flicks, that sums up our weird, west coast weather.

"It's hot! Damn hot! Real hot! Hottest things is my shorts. I could cook things in it. A little crotch pot cooking." Well, tell me what it feels like. "Fool, it's hot! I told you again! Were you born on the sun? It's damn hot! It's so damn hot, I saw little guys, their orange robes burst into flames. It's that hot! Do you know what I'm talking about?" What do you think it's going to be like tonight? "It's gonna be hot and wet! That's nice if you're with a lady, but ain't no good if you're in the jungle!"

Thank god for Wednesday

Have you ever dreamt that you won the lottery? Perhaps you’ve already accounted for the cash, should you possess a winning ticket one day. I for one buy a lottery ticket every chance I get. I wasn’t always a lotto lover, but the recession inspired me to try my luck. Granted, I have never been in a better financial position since this so-called recession hit. I still like having an excuse to fantasize about my possible fortune. Why is it that spending $2 (no Extra because my Gram says that’s a sham) makes me feel like I have the right to dream of all these things? Somehow having this ticket makes it seem more reasonable to indulge in the fantasy. It singlehandedly shifts my energy into a warm and fuzzy frenzy! No, this is not a plug for The Secret people.

On the way home from work today, I mentioned to my bf that we - once again - did not win the lottery. To which he responded “thank god for Wednesday”. Thank god indeed. It’s the next chance to buy a lottery ticket and slip back into fantasyland. Perhaps what I need to do is train myself to dream these things, with or without said ticket?

Here’s the thing possums...I’ve had a number of mysterious cash windfalls myself. Luck you say? Maybe. For example, way back when I was a wee possum, I purchased a $1 scratch’n’win the night before flying to Europe. I won $500, which in those days, translated to paying for my flight. Fast forward a few years, when I won another chunk of change, this time $5000 on a popular Vancouver radio show. In all my cowgirl cavorting, the benjamins always seem to appear when least expected.

The best bit about winning a little cashola is dreaming up all the fabulous things you plan to do with it. For example, I’d rescue and adopt a couple of dogs, name them Horhay and Madonna and dress them in Ed Hardy. I would buy organic, locally produced foods exclusively and volunteer for a good cause. I’d be on a flight to the South of France so fast, ma tête se tourner. While in France I would determine how to spend and invest my millions, beginning with an initial investment in Cole Haan and Jimmy Choo. All while my personal assistant Franc (pronounced Fronk) fluffs my pillows, fixes me a bowl of bouillabaisse and fetches me a glass of rosé. Oui, sil vous plait.

What would you do??

In other news, I now have three - count ‘em - THREE tomatoes on my tomato plant. Maybe this represents my windfall for now.

Here’s an oldie but a goodie. Bon soir possums. x

Confessions of a Cowgirl

Hello my precious possums, how goes the battle? I say, this summer is slipping away faster than vino from my wine rack. I hope you’re all soaking up the sun and logging as many beach days as possible. Spoken like a true tanorexic. Amidst all of this summertime splendor, I’ve adopted a few guilty pleasures that I thought I’d share. Consider it my cowgirl confessional, minus the closet...or whatever that thing is.

Top 10 Confessions

1) Let’s talk Twilight. I know, I know, how very predictable, but what can I say? I’ve always thought of vampires as being these sensual beasts as it were, toss in a tumultuous human/immortal love affair and i’m hooked. However, I’m happy to report I’m not as diehard (or Twi-hard) as some. For example, like this weirdo who willingly had Robert Pattinson’s autograph tattooed right where he lift it — oh her wrist. WTF.

2) Chicken Club sandwiches from PHAT (Pretty Hot and Tasty), this fabulous New York style deli a few blocks from my pad. The menu doesn’t exactly support the bikini diet, however these babies take care of a Saturday morning hangover in a heartbeat.

3) The Bachelorette. I can’t help but indulge in this weekly cryfest as this gal participated in Whistler/Vancouver product placement for 3 whole episodes! Clever marketing and a bunch of man whores. A delightful combo.

4) Gladiator sandals. They’re back for another season, thank buddha, as my feet were about ready to fall off thanks to my high rise heel collection.

5) Local street busker SpandyAndy, bustin’ a move all over Vancity. If you haven’t seen him in action on the street, check him out here. I first discovered him in front of the art gallery the day after MJ died, performing to all his hits. Just a dude in spandex with solid dance moves and a message. Love him.

6) My tomato plant. I have two sprouts so far. This is exciting news.

7) Speaking of vino vanishing from my wine rack, give the Talus Chardonnay a go. It’s recession friendly, at $10 a pop, and it’s creamy, oaky deliciousness is divine with seafood...or a piece of provolone.

8) The new Lily Allen album, It’s Not Me, It’s You, especially this song. After a mind numbing day at the office, this song soothes the soul.

9) Bumpits hair volumizing inserts. I get fake boobs, fake finger nails and even false eye lashes. But why oh why would we want something that resembles that of a bone contusion sprouting from our noggin? The commercial is what earns Bumpits a spot on this list. Are they for real?

10) Craig Ferguson. I am and have always been a hardcore Letterman loyalist, however Ferguson is fucking hysterical. Is he dipping into a wee dram of scotch before each show? It’s tough to say what’s in his snake cup, but I do love those puppets.

Vancouverites indulge in local bites

I love food. I’ve become a dine-hard one might say, however lately I find myself assuming a pseudo food critic persona whilst dining around town and I’m not sure where this all originated? I could blame it on an overdose of Hells Kitchen, which by the by is making it’s way to Whistler. However, my secret obsession over Chef Ramsey and his volatile ways doesn’t seem to be what has sparked my undying desire to dine. I remember being in my early 20’s and eating raisin bran accompanied by cheap red wine for dinner (please, be kind possums, i was but a wee lass). Fast forward a few years and boom I’m so addicted to our local eateries I get anxious having not tried them all (although, I’m close).

Over the weekend this foodie parked her booty at a few local faves that I’m not only inspired to give a shout out to both, but feel I should share the goods...or the foods, rather.

Jules Bistro, which I have mentioned subtly in previous posts, is a jewel indeed. If you haven’t been, I urge you to go and experience authentic French fare in a delicately elegant atmosphere. There is no dress code, simply come as you are, however the clientele is eclectic allowing you to arrive in your finest frock or your Saturday strolling attire. The service is exceptional but relaxed, with our server boasting a beautiful accent and the owner popping by now and then with a witty comment while he multi-tasked between tables. Jules offered up the kind of meal that subconsciously leaves you appreciating every bite, while falling into a certain food coma...on the other hand, that may have been the bottle of Chablis, but I digress. Try the Moules Frites - steamed mussels in white wine with garlic and parsley served with French fries. My handsome date enjoyed the seafood linguini, fresh and full of flavor. The resident piano player helped top off our night before embarking on our hazy walk home. I’m usually not a sucker for romance, but I was certainly seduced.

The next day, as if we hadn’t been decadent enough, we trotted over to a nearby spot boasting some of the best brunch on Beatty. The Medina Cafe, same owners as Chambar (another Vancouver institution), has been a common discussion among dine-hards for quite some time. Having finally dragged my tookus a mere 5 blocks to this nearby noshery, I arrived with some hefty expectations. Not to sound cliche, in other words, like many bona-fide food critics in town, but I loved my Medina experience. From the street, the cafe looks cramped and just when you think you’re about to embark on an hour long wait...whoops, they walk you through a corridor to the ‘other side’ of the cafe. A spectacular room that opens up to massive windows, exposed beams a la industrial chic, brick walls and all the other Gastown staples. Now we’re talkin’. The menu matched the great room with a fresh Moroccan flare and my lavender latte was the perfect start to my Sunday.

Bon appetit possums!
xx

My Cusack Encounter

As luck would have it - or I simply have a celebrity magnet attached to my person - I had the pleasure of enjoying yet another splendid celebrity encounter. This time, with a certain Mr. John Cusack. In. The. Flesh. This is one celeb that not only impressed, but pleasantly surprised me with his genuine demeanor and understated attire. Cool as a cucumber.

One of my BFF’s and I were en route for some goss and grub at one of Gastown’s finest. A jewel one might say. When we arrived, there wasn’t a single seat free in the house, so we scooted up the block a few doors to another Gastown institution. A bottle of vino later, we rang up some friends to join us for some late night debauchery. While discussing my subtle obsession over celebs, in walks in Cusack....decked out in denim, kicks, a track suit jacket, and his black baseball cap turned backwards. Not an ideal look pour moi, but damn the boy is hot. Unlike other celebs I’ve happened upon, Cusack is tall....really tall. And fit! *Sigh*. I felt like a girl of 29 again.

Having little to no shame, I immediately approached our subject, introduced myself and inquired about his business in our fair city. He explained he was in town to shoot a new film and continued to introduce his director and several cast mates (who had accompanied him) in an endeavor to shift the attention away from himself. How very modest. It didn’t change the fact that I wanted to throw my arms around him and profess my love in manner of Kate Beckinsale a la Serendipity - one of my favorite Cusack flicks. But I digress...

I’ve been a fan for years. John Cusack is the quintessential leading man of romantic comedy, most notably in the hit film High Fidelity. And so possums, I’ll leave you with this....

Fancy a quickie or a courtship?

Bon soir possums! Following up from a previous post where I interviewed some local lads in an endeavor to uncover the vibe of Vancouver’s dating scene, I have new and interesting insight to share. Groundbreaking, maybe not. Fucking hysterical, absolutely.

After countless conversations with a substantial sample of my peer group, it appears that people most commonly gravitate towards 1 of 2 dating sites. Plenty of Fish and eHarmony. POF seems to attract people with a more flakey tendency towards dating whereas eHarmony seemingly sucks in the sincere folk who want to make a connection. Why? For the simple fact that these people have invested some dollas. If you pay, you’re ready to play. If you fish, you’re more likely to ditch. Makes sense. Money means commitment...right? It’s debatable.

Another dating tactic that has somehow survived the ages is the live chat 1-900 numbers. I’m sure you’ve all seen the one with Avangeline Lily where she sold her soul to Live Links, despite being a big star today. Haha...ha...ahem. So, in the spirit of continuing in my quest for the singleton, I decided to take one for Team Possum and do a little research on the subject.

I rang up one of these live chat lines and recorded a pseudo profile message (the bf was present for this, laughing his tookus off, in case you were questioning my morality). And we’re off to the races...

Caller #1 - Keith. He immediately left me a personal message after my profile had been on the line for all but 5 minutes. And I quote, “There’s alot of lying on this line. Maybe I'm too old for you? I dunno.....I’m a 36 year old white male from Vancouver. Looking for the same age...younger...or older, it doesn’t matter. Maybe we’ll end up getting a relationship out of it, or being friends? There’s alot of bullshit on these lines. I want to meet someone normal.”

This man sounds slightly tormented...and clearly has no standards. Never use the word ‘maybe’ on these things. Hey fellas - women like a man who knows what he wants. Next.

Caller #2 - Ryan. “I’m 30, from Surrey, 6’2, 220, slim build, green eyes. Let’s hang out tonight, I want to chat with you.”

Nicely done! This sounds promising. Good show Ryan from Surrey, I hope you’re chatting with an eligible gal as we speak.

Caller #3 - Name unknown. “I’m an energetic white male, 49 years old. I can’t believe it....cant believe time is passing me by so fast. I haven’t been hooked up yet. I’m attractive...I think I am...it’s in the eyes of the beholder. I’m looking to experience activities with someone, and maybe a bright future? I’m a good-hearted gentleman.”

OK - two things here. Girls love a guy with confidence. The delicate flower facade doesn’t go over well with women. Second, this fella reeks of midlife crisis.

Caller #4 - Name unknown. “Hi, what’s up, are you horny tonight?”

He’s forward and knows what he wants. It’s an honest question.

Caller #5 - Sounded suspiciously similar to caller #3. “Hi, I’m wondering how old you are? It’s embarrassing, its been too long. I’m longing to just hug and hold somebody. Well....do the other things too. I’m single and uh...i dunno, um...my last 2 girlfriends...kind of...well, I let them go. They wanted to cause me pain and anguish after they left. I never did them any wrong. Now I'm single.”

I’m certain caller #5 is also caller #3. It seems he wasn’t happy with his first message, so decided to give it another go. I commend his honesty but somehow sense those 2 girlfriends were on to something.

Caller #6 - Name unknown. “5’11, 170 pounds...nice big hard cock.”

Rule of thumb - try to avoid callers who sound like they’re watching the playboy channel.

Caller #7 - John. “Hey ladies, I’m 40, 6’3, very horny and kinky, looking for a live girl to talk soon.”

At least he’s looking for a ‘live’ girl. Good to know.

Please note that the above callers selected the option for ‘meaningful relationships’. I think we’ve heard enough evidence here folks. Perhaps we should let this one die with speed dating.



Taken until proven single

Penis straws, blow up dolls, and push up bras - oh my. Having just recovered from a weekend of bridal debauchery, it would seem that Whistler, BC has become the most sought after destination for stags and stagettes in this nook of the planet. A pre-marital mecca if you will. Never have I been in the company of so many brides-on-deck, determined to hit one last home run before barreling down the aisle. Fucking. Intense.

I’m happy to report that our bride was definitely the most refined of the bunch, refusing the ridiculous get up, and veil and such. However, I did witness a few theme stagettes worth noting, for example, the pirate stagette complete with wench dresses and eye patches. Very creative. Or, the more common ‘suck for a buck’ tank top where men (with little to no coaxing) will approach the blushing bride and suck a life saver from upon her bosom for one measly buck. Best deal in the bar. How about something more substantial like ‘boobies for doobies’, or ‘hooters for shooters’? Just sayin’.

Let’s not forget about the many stags terrorizing the town as well. As it turns out, a nice selection of boys belonging to a nearby stag joined forces with our foxy crew to party the night away. After several sweaty hours of interpretive dance and inappropriately touching the groom’s blow up doll, some of our ladies lingered back to their condo to keep the party going.

Given a majority of our harem is hooked up or engaged, there was little chance of anything occurring between party A and party B. This fact was made even more apparent when the gals arrived to discover all but one of the boys were married. Turns out they decided to take off their wedding rings before hitting the bar.

Now, I’m not one to judge...wait...wait wait, yes I am. I just wonder, is this the norm? Do all boys go on a stag with the intention of behaving badly behind some poor girls back? Or do married men just not get out much?

One of my fabulous coherts and I engaged in quite the rant while en route back to the city, and as she explained, most men are ‘taken until proven single’. In other words, we are to assume a guy is off the market until you have received confirmation otherwise because there are alot of pricks out there posing as nice, single guys. Scandalous!

This cowgirl would like to go on record stating that I do believe in good guys, love, happy endings, bah bah bah...but apparently there are some dirtbags on the lose. Therefore, we need to look out for each other ladies. It’s a jungle out there.

So let this be a lesson to boys attending stags everywhere - be careful who you hit on...your girlfriend could be getting fed the same lines at a stagette sometime soon.

Girl power possums.
xx

Bollywood, brides and butter chicken...

...a delicious combination.

Geetan possums! First you have your blushing bride, sparkly and sacred. Next you have dancing and a celebration not unlike something you’d see at the Raja. Then the food....oh GOD the food. In all it’s spicy splendor, a celebration in itself.

I experienced my first Sikh wedding over the weekend, which as I suspected, did not disappoint. Being an avid Bollywood fan and a member of my local Indo Jazz troupe, I was eager to channel my inner bhungra - full stop.

I have to admit, a commentator would have been helpful as I was a little unclear about some of the customary traditions. Case in point, the ‘man exchange’ before entering the temple. Picture a scene in Hawaii; the brides family in silver turbans on one side of the parking lot, the groom’s on the other in dark red, decorating each other with pseudo-flower lays while carrying a family representative over to the other side. Seemingly a combining of families...at least that was my interpretation. Next up, into the temple you go to a smorgasbord of Indo delights. After stuffing my face with a dozen pekoras, I was whisked away to wash up and position my pashmina accordingly, covering my head and shoulders for the ceremony.

Shoes off. Gals on one side, guys on the other, perched on a carpeted floor. Quite comfy really. The boys were given bandanas in coordination with our friends side of the family. Women in colorful suits surrounded our chick crew, head-to-toe in bling. I felt a tad ordinary and under dressed to be honest. The groom’s ensemble was reminiscent of an emperor while the bride was in red and gold. No idea what the Guru was saying, but he was singing each prayer and there was a backup band so it was entertaining nonetheless. Our friend walked his new bride around the Guru 4 times and bada-bing the ceremony was over. Afterwards, the various Gurus dispersed and distributed an oily piece of doe that tasted much like a squishy pancake. Not bad really. I guessed this could be compared to a Catholic communion?

Several hours later it was time to head to the reception. Picture the party of the year, 700 people deep. These people know how to party. Immediately I was made aware of some significant differences in comparison to your typical western wedding. For example, while lining up for a drinks one of our female friends was tapped on the shoulder and asked to sit down. Okie doke, so apparently it’s not appropriate for women to drink. It is, however, more than appropriate for our dates to bring us drinks all night long which suited us just fine.

The groom, in this case, is the star of the show. In the western culture, it’s all about the bride. Whatever she wants, whatever she says...we are trained to bow down and respect the bride-to-be; no questions asked. Not so in the Sikh culture. It’s all about the groom as he delivers the speeches, he is hoisted above the crowd several times as they chant his name, he’s the one who is honored and cheered on. Kind of refreshing really. Why not let the groom have his day in the sun?
The party was produced to P Diddy-like proportions, with big screens streaming live video coverage and a plethora of papparazzi photo documenting the entire event. Quite the spectacle. Many traditions were similar to what I’m used to, for example, the first dance, the ceremonial cutting of the cake, yada yada. A personal highlight was the bride and groom’s grand entrance to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing. Priceless.

The only difference was that dinner was served at midnight. Ouch. The sultry smell of butter chicken lingered from the kitchen for hours only to be held hostage until all the wedding rituals had taken place. Needless to say, by the time the food was served I attacked the closest buffet table in a not-so-lady-like manor. Charming.

After tearing up the dance floor with my very best bollywood moves, we called it a night. I’ve been dreaming in bhungra ever since.

Jai ho.
xx

Summer in the City

Summer is upon us in Vangroovy, leaving many a Vancouverite feeling just that.....groovy baby. After suffering through another wet, at times demoralizing, winter we say farewell to the gray, the dark and the ugly. We’ve put our parkas in storage, said ta-ta to our toques and downsized that ever-growing pashmina population in our closets. Winter is over! Thank Buddha.

With summer, comes along several warm weather traditions specific to our fair city. I happened upon one of my faves over the weekend, and though it’s changed shape over the years, it still has the same Vancouver vibe. The Chinatown Night Market, reminiscent of the night markets of Kuala Lumpur or crazy Khao San Road in Bangkok, bring an ethnic flavor that makes you feel like you’re traipsing about South East Asia.

En route to the market I strolled past my favorite piece of street graffiti that looks a little like Gord Downey of the Tragically Hip...with a toupee hanging off the back of his head. Hmmmm, how arty.

When I arrived, the place was packed with revelers looking for some cheap street meat or a fake Fendi. As you do. I couldn’t help but snap a few pics of my favorite offerings, such as the plush stuffed animal phone charms. How does one maneuver their mobile with one of those things? Not to be outdone by the ghosts of Olympics past, there was a selection of memorabilia from the 2008 Beijing Summer Games. I couldn’t help but notice the close resemblance to Vancouver’s Olympic Mascots. Funny that.

After a well deserved bubble tea I made my way home, only to be stopped by one of our many homeless folk who wanted to test out a few jokes on me. And I quote “What’s horny and hums?” Needless to say, after the man started humming I made my way outta there. Charming.

With all this talk of summer, I feel obliged to share with you...

The Urban Cowgirl’s Poolside Playlist

Candy, Paolo Nutini
Magic, Ladyhawke
Lovegame, Lady Gaga 
107 degrees, Citizen Cope
Use Somebody, Kings of Leon
Boom Boom Pow, Black Eyed Peas
New in Town, Little Boots
Edge of Seventeen, Stevie Nicks 
Fame, Scott Weiland
Move For Me, Kaskade
I’m in Miami Bitch, LMFAO 
Suavementa, Elvis Crespo
Flashing Lights, Kanye West
Summertime, DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince (classic)

Party on possums.
xx

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl

Woman are from Mars, men are from...Vancouver?

2:1 possums; the daunting statistic that has plagued our city to the point where many an eligible gal has resigned to life as a perpetual single. The number represents the estimated guy to girl ratio, which explains why most women are under the assumption that there just aren’t any available guys in Vancouver. Having lived within the city limits for 8 years now I’m starting to see some truth to these numbers. Once you minus the gay community, which has spoken for some of Vancouver’s most desirable dudes, there you have it. Girls, girls, girls.

Seemingly, the odds are definitely not in the favor of the female Vancouverite. This point was recently made even more apparent while celebrating a gal pals birthday over the weekend, only to be surrounded by a plethora of foxy female specimen. Not only were many of them single, they were beautiful, smart, funny, and successful. Any one of them a complete catch to an eligible bachelor. So what gives?

I decided to take to the street and survey some local boys to hear their take on the matter. When asked ‘why do you think there are so many single girls in Vancouver’, the responses went like this:

“They’re snobs. Vancouver is known for their snobby girls.” - Lee, Yaletown

“I think girls for the most part are always looking for a relationship when for the most part guys are not. I also think a lot of girls are looking for that perfect guy and won't give a lot of guys a chance.” - Brad, Pitt Meadows

“They have false expectations due to the false power men have given them mainly for the sake of sex. They never seem to be up front in the beginning.” - Marc, Burnaby

After much of the same response, I decided to pose this question for the ladies as well:

“People have ADD when it comes to dating. It seems like everyone is juggling, especially with online dating. It’s so easy to be casual about everything. I've met guys who I've really liked, had an awesome date with them, then I come home and check my plentyoffish. Only to see that they've logged on minutes before or after me! Everyone's doing the same thing.” - Kirsten, North Vancouver

Has online dating all but crippled the dating scene? Have we become incapable of committing by having the ability to click through a catalogue of potential suitors at any given time? Or, are Vancouver gals simply too picky? This might warrant a tad more research.

This post is to be continued...

Almost famous

Fame is a funny thing. How does a band or an actor or any performer for that matter attain fame and notoriety? What does it take and what series of events need to occur to secure ones spot in the world of celebrity? Perhaps it comes down to the stars aligning ever so perfectly. Maybe it’s a chance meeting with an important contact or tireless hours of unpaid and unrecognized work. Whatever the magical equation may be, it amazes me how many talented people are out there and why so many of them have yet to be discovered.

Having realized that some of these said talents are people i know or who have crossed my path, I was inspired to compile a short list of....

The Urban Cowgirl’s Ones to Watch

Sophie Bramley West

This British babe is not only easy on the eyes but has a sultry voice and mad songwriting skills to match. She compares herself to the likes of Ladyhawke and Little Boots but I say she has a sexy style all her own. Hailing from Sheffield, England, Bramley West is also a member of the group Orange 38.

I met Sophie years ago while working at a backpackers hostel in Australia. She’s come a long way since serving XXXX to intoxicated travelers. Give her a listen on MySpace.

Andrew Allen

I stumbled upon this singer songwriter while volunteering for the 2009 Junos. BC boy Andrew Allen really stood out for me during a Junos pre-party while performing among several other up and coming Canadian musicians. His poignant sometimes romantic lyrics paired with a serious set of pipes really caught me off guard! What can I say...I’m a sucker for a boy with a guitar. Check him out.

Darcy Michael

I may be a tad bias with respect to this next talent, but I don’t mind because this politically charged pot head (and I say so affectionately) is certainly someone to keep an eye on.

Darcy Michael, the self-proclaimed undercover fag, has been corrupting comedy club audiences for the past 4 years and I feel like this furry fella is on the brink. From his debut on a small stage on The Drive, to comedy festivals, headlining shows across the country and a spot on Leno, Michael is just a few tokes away from super stardom.

Michael also recently got a rise out of self-righteous bitchy blogger Perez Hilton himself, and for that I love him even more.



I hate to love you and leave you possums, but I’ve got to run...tickets to Scott Weiland at the Commodore tonight and I still need to select which under pants I plan on hoisting onto the stage.

Bon soir xx