According to University of Arizona psychologist Matthias Mehl, small talkers are happier than non-small talkers. But meaningful talkers are the happiest of them all.  

Mehl and a team of researchers eavesdropped on people to see if what they talked about could be linked in any way to happiness. Based on 23,000 conversations that were analyzed for “the interplay of personality, conversational style and happiness,” the findings were clear:

“Happy people spend significantly more time talking to others in general, but engage in much less small talk (than dissatisfied people) and have about twice as many meaty conversations.”

Meaty conversations? Yes, please!
We interact with strangers pretty often – at parties, at work, when travelling. People we have to connect with on some level surround us, and that level is often superficial (weather, traffic/travel routes, how busy/tired we are). Snore.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. Of every conversation you are part of, you own 50% right off the bat. Talk about what matters to you.

I get pretty deep with people right away (my grandmother always said I was nosy. I like to think I’m curious). At parties, I ask about politics, philosophy, human behaviour or whatever else comes to mind. At work, I ask about what people love about what they do. When travelling, I ask about where people have been and what they’ve learned.

Maybe it’s you?
I asked a small talk expert, my hairdresser, what she thought about it. She said that she actually quit at one point because she couldn’t take the small talk anymore. She just didn’t give a shit about what people were doing for Thanksgiving anymore. She was bored of the boring people. Fair enough. But then five months later, she realized she missed the interesting people and the social connection.

She might be on to something. Mehl’s study showed that “the happy life is social rather than solitary.” So, sure, there are boring people who will small talk you to death. But sift through. There are some interesting folks out there.

And if you haven’t found them yet, maybe try being more interesting yourself to make up for it. Become the happiest, most-meaningful talker in town. And then come visit me. : )

Monogamy is a form of relationship in which an individual has only one partner. This can work well if both partners honestly discuss and agree to the terms. But I think reality shows that this isn’t happening – neither monogamy nor the discussions around it.

Monogamy is just sort of assumed for the most part. And for those of you who have tried to bring up the idea of something other than monogamy, you know the reaction can be quite severe. Two reactions come to mind: accusatory and judgey.

I know because I’ve tried. And I’ve tried because I’m not sure how realistic monogamy is within the confines of our expectations, which include being together forever. And I’m not sure all of the reasons for monogamy have anything to do with two people loving each other.

I’m about to simplify the situation. I know. But I do believe these are the core tenets that have allowed monogamy to flourish unchecked in the Western world for many years:
  • Tradition. My parents’ parents’ parents (etc.) got married, stayed married and were faithful to each other. 
  • Ownership. I love you therefore no one else gets to have you and vice-versa. 
  • Insecurity. If you are allowed to be with other people, you will find someone better and leave me. 
  • Fairytale. The foolish belief that if you are in love, you will not want to fuck other people. 

Dan Savage talks a lot about monogamy being ridiculous, and one of his ideas really hits home for me:

We view monogamy like virginity. You can be monogamous, but once you fuck someone else, you’ve broken your monogamous hymen. We should view monogamy like sobriety. You can fall off the wagon a few times, but still be mostly sober/monogamous.

And that’s where monogamish comes in – it’s a form of relationship in which an individual makes one partner a priority, but may have, from time to time, dalliances outside of the relationship.

I participate in a monogamish relationship, the terms of which are this:
  • We cannot have affairs
  • We cannot have serial one-nighters
  • We can be human

It’s that last term that most confuses people. But for us, it’s simple. We have permission to be human. To be imperfect. We have permission to fuck up; not permission to fuck.

We aren’t comfortable with affairs or serial one-nighters, but we aren’t comfortable with how unrealistic all-out monogamy is either. So we have agreed to love and trust each other and to make our relationship a priority, and we’ve agreed that if we sleep with someone else and it means nothing, then it means nothing, and does not have to ruin a perfectly good relationship.  

Do we have it all figured out? Nope. And that’s okay. What we do have is an honest relationship where hopefully we can talk it all out. Today monogamish works for us as we’ve defined it together. The definition may change in the future, but as long as we keep talking about it, I think we stand a chance of nurturing a pretty fantastic partnership. And that doesn’t have anything to do with monogamy, ish or otherwise.

I've been railing against anti-feminism sentiment and action for a long time now. I know most of the hard work has already been done – to the suffrage and bra-burning women I say thank you. But there is still work to do.

  • We still don’t earn equal pay for equal work. On average, women make 20% less than men.
  • We still don’t have equal education or career opportunities. Women currently hold 5% of Fortune 500 CEO positions and 5.3% of Fortune 1000 CEO positions. (And 95% of Fortune 500 CEO positions are held by Caucasians.)
  • We still suffer from sexual harassment and sexual assault on the street, at the office and in our homes. We are still too often blamed for the abuse.
  • We still have Miss America for fuck sakes.

And I’m only talking about the western world. These are just some of the things happening in our own backyards. We still have a long way to go.

But I have an easy ask. I've been wondering what one specific change we could all take on that would help elevate respect for women in general. And it came to me: stop calling women girls. 

I think it’s something we can all do. It may seem small, maybe even pointless, but it’s not, because women are not girls and to call them girls is belittling.

When you call a man a boy do you mean it as a compliment? Not likely. 

So the next time you are about to call a woman a girl, stop and correct yourself. If you just called a woman a girl, take it back. Correct yourself.

That’s it. That’s all I ask. 


There are hundreds of stupid idioms – more than you can shake a stick at (see what I did there?). But these seven get on my nerves the most because they are wrong, long-winded or just downright confusing.

So, from least annoying to most annoying, here are my top seven irritating idioms:

7. When it rains, it pours
No. It doesn’t. Sometimes it’s just a sprinkle.

6. The blind leading the blind
That’s just mean to blind people.

5. Six of one; half dozen of the other
It’s such a cumbersome way to indicate your indifference. I have a much faster, less verbose response for you: “I don’t care.” Try it.

4. No room to swing a cat
What sort of cruel measurement system is this?

3. To make a long story short
This is always a lie. Always.        
2. ‘Til the cows come home
Cows don’t go anywhere. You never see a cow get dressed up to go to the theatre. They don’t go on vacation. They mostly stand around chewing some grass they started eating four hours ago. Cows are always home.

1. Small World
This idiom has been my least favourite for a long time. It's often used when two people discover they both know a third person they didn’t know they both knew. How this affects the size of the world, I’m not sure, but we’ve all heard the story:
  • Person 1: Blah blah blah at some fucking wedding or something.
  • Person 2: My cousin Steve was at the same fucking wedding or something.
  • Person 1: Steve? Oh my god – I went to basket weaving class with him in the 90s.
  • Person 2: Oh my god – I’ve known him since he was born. And you know him, too? Small world, eh? 
  • Person 1: Totally. I feel like this connection we’ve just made is really impactful, like, on a global scale, therefore I agree and also claim the world as officially small.
  • Person 2: I actually just felt the walls around me shrinking. 

I’m not a scientist or anything, but I’m pretty sure the network of people you know or don’t know has zero impact on the size of the fucking world. Idioms, as with most things related to humans, are a little narcissistic. 

So, in short, don’t be that guy. Just say what you mean and mean what you say. Mum’s the word on idioms – don’t use that mumbo-jumbo. 

And no swinging cats, okay? Use a measuring tape. 

Our stories make up who we are. They are about what and who inspired us, changed us, scared us, amused us, opened our eyes and our hearts and turned us into who we are today.

Sometimes we remember our stories; sometimes they are remembered for us.

For example, my brother remembers the story of when we were about six and four and a neighbor busted us for dancing on the roof of our four-story building completely naked at 5:30 a.m.

The way my brother tells the story, our logic was this:
  • Mum is sleeping and we don’t want to wake her to ask if we can go the roof.
  • Mum wouldn’t want us to get our pajamas dirty. 
  • Therefore, we should just go on the roof naked without waking her. 

The way Mum tells the story is with a sense of pride and wonderment for having such kids’ll-be-kids kids who managed to stay alive despite having no rational fears of heights or getting into trouble.

And the way the neighbor tells the story might be different, too. She obviously felt distressed enough to get dressed and come across the street at a god-awful hour to ring our bell and chastise my mother for sleeping while her kids were dangerously careening upon the roof and, she added, for raising hippy kids.

Why do the differing perspectives matter? Our stories influence who we become, because they are biased by each story that came before. Had my mother’s reaction been different, had we been micro-managed after dancing naked on the roof, our story would be different, and importantly, so too would every story have been different afterwards.

If this story happened in another family, the story might be told as a cautionary tale – never let your children out of your sight/lock all the doors and windows at night.

But in my family, it’s told with love and amusement, and it is that attitude that shaped us. Certainly we were told to never go on the roof again, but we were still allowed to explore and wander and come back with tales of adventure.

Mum often sums her story with a wave of her hand and this statement: “No harm done. After all, they were just dancing.” And I love this declaration because it kind of says as long you're dancing, you'll be all right.

Steve Martin in The Jerk is the only acceptable jerk.
1. Uber-mini, frayed jean short-wearing jerks. Stop accosting me with your bushy-beaver-styled shorts, ladies. You know that right? That the frayed bit looks like a bushy beaver? It does. And it’s terrible. Knock that shit off.  

2. Jerk hairdressers. You know the type – when you show them a picture of the haircut you want, they say: “You know you won’t look like her, though, right?”

Oh – you mean a new haircut won’t make me look like Michelle Williams? I won’t suddenly be 5’’3” with the perfect pout and a B cup? My eye colour and face shape won’t change? So you are saying this $60 haircut isn’t a total fucking makeover?

Oh. I had no idea. I guess I won’t bother then.

Or … you can cut my hair to look like Michelle Williams’ hair and let’s quietly assume we both know you aren’t a:
  1. Plastic surgeon or 
  2. Psychologist 

Just cut my fucking hair.

3. “I’m not a racist, but …” jerks. Yes – you are. Starting your sentence off with a denial does not make the rest of your racist comment less racist. Go on home and watch Fox News, your preferred corporate-purchased media creation with its news models sharing gorgeous stories about how minorities created the financial crisis and rah-rah white America. Yay racism, oops, I mean news!  

4. Jerks who say “first world problem” when you complain about stuff. I get it. My car breaking down is not as bad as the incarceration of Palestinians right now or the mass bigotry in Ferguson, but a broken-down car still sucks and I think I’m allowed to vent for five minutes.

Also, you’re an inconsiderate dink. Why don’t you go take another selfie and post it with the tagline: “I don’t actually know what’s happening in the world. LMAO!” Which actually is a first world problem.

And speaking of venting ...
I feel better. Do you feel better? Or do you feel like I missed important jerk categories?

Indeed, there are a billion kind of jerks, but in an effort to not spend my entire week writing about them, which would put me in a foul mood and turn me into more of a jerk than I normally am, I focused on four. Trust there are more coming, people. Trust. 
You know those lists you write when you are trying to figure out what it is you want from your next partner? They* say you’re supposed to be putting your desires out in the universe so the universe can give you what you want.

Now, I think the universe part is coo-coo for Coco-Nuts. The universe doesn’t give a shit if my next boyfriend likes modern art or not, but I think making a list helps you better understand what you are looking for, and so I’ve been writing those lists forever.

In the early days, the lists were weirdly vague and specific, and included things like: has good relationship with family; open-minded; like to talk; plays pool; laid-back; wears baseball caps. (I had a thing for baseball caps.)

My most recent list was a bit more concrete, but still had a few of the same desires, including: likes to talk. Talking is kind of my thing. I like to talk about everything. Nothing is taboo. Nothing is too silly.

And so I need to be with someone who also likes to talk, and in the same way that I do: rambling, philosophical, deep, bizarre.

This all brings me to conversations with my boyfriend. Because he’s the best at talking with me, taking me seriously and being involved when it matters, and totally letting me blather on about weird stuff without poking too much fun, unless necessary. 

Here’s an example:
  • Me: Is it super egotistical to want to hang out with myself, like as another person, hanging out with me?
  • Him: Yes.
  • Me: I think it would either be really awesome or really irritating.


  • Me: I wouldn’t know, though, that I was hanging out with me. I would just think I was a friend. But the me hanging out with me would know and then tell me the next day so that I would know what it’s like to spend time with me. It would be tricky. 
  • Him: That’s your assessment of this situation: tricky? 
  • Me: Yeah.
  • Him: So the logistics of you hanging out with you would be tricky. That’s all. No other issues?
  • Me: Well, what would you consider the situation to be?
  • Him: Impossible.
  • Me: I thought you would go with ridiculous.
  • Him: That, too. 

And then I hugged him because what else do you do to thank someone for listening to that kind of foolishness?

What does this have to do with the list? My last list kinda threw me when I found it. Why? It listed exactly the things I love about my boyfriend. Now don’t get all excited and think I’m going to change my mind about the universe business – I’m not – but I do think that as I’ve gotten older and gotten to know myself better, I’m getting better at figuring out what I want. 

So go write a list of what you want. Is it a partner, job, lifestyle, living space? Whatever it is you want, get to know your want better and then go make it happen. And don’t thank the fucking universe for making it happen. Thank yourself.

*No fucking clue who “they” are officially, but we all know who they are, right? Right. 

I am so tired of the sport player hero thing. Think of the rags to riches sport story: Guy grows up poor but plays football all the time and gets into the NFL even though his one parent neglected him. NFL recognizes the marketing potential and has this guy smile a lot and say a few sentences after games about teamwork. Bam – hero!

Officially bored to the point of being annoyed. And here’s why:

I’m a word nerd. 
Had you heard? It’s true. I am.

The word hero comes from ancient Greek and it refers to “characters who, in the face of danger and adversity, display courage and the will for self-sacrifice for some greater good of all humanity.” There is a morality to the hero that is strong enough to make them accept personal danger when it’s the right thing to do.

It doesn’t mean “wins games” or “hugs cancer kids” or “doesn’t beat his wife.”

Maybe the sport story has adversity and courage, but where’s the self-sacrifice? Where’s the greater good?

I’m also a finicky bitch. 
It’s true. Story checks out.

I’m not that impressed by someone being good at one thing. Especially if they have trained to be good at that one thing their whole fucking lives. Especially if, because they showed talent early on, they were wooed with money and fame and free education they didn’t even have to study for so they could focus 100% on being good at one thing.

He trained to play football really well and he does. Great? Sure. Hero? No.

You know who are heroes?
To name just a few, these guys are:
  • The “Unknown Protestor” who risked his life and freedom by standing in front of the army tanks at Tiananmen Square, barring their passage. 
  • Emile Zola who risked his career and life to help exonerate a falsely accused man by writing a newspaper article accusing the highest levels of the French Army of obstruction of justice and anti-Semitism. 
  • Edward Snowden who risked his career, freedom and life by sharing with the media confidential government documents detailing the existence of numerous, illegal global surveillance programs

I’m not sure what level of sport skill they have, but they changed the world, so that’s pretty cool, if you like that sort of thing.  No? You don’t? Then by all means worship a guy who throws a ball.

I asked my boyfriend what to blog about this week, and when he didn’t have any ideas, I probed further: 
  • Me: “What have I been yapping about lately?” 
  • Him: "Well, yesterday you were all about pooping, but I don’t think that’s a good blog topic.” 

Which leads me to this week’s blog topic: "I got 99 problems, but a poop ain’t one." Or "let's talk about poop, baby."

Let’s talk about poop, baby
Let’s talk about you and me
Let’s talk about all the good poops
And the bad poops that may be
Let’s talk about poop
Let’s talk about poop
Let’s talk about poop
Let’s talk about poop

Okay! Let's talk about it!

Pooping in public: Do it. Don’t hold it in. Just wait until the last minute, use the last stall, check for toilet paper and then poop. Also, courtesy flush to cover up noises.

Best public pooper in Vancouver: The Fairmont Hotel Vancouver. The bathrooms are on the main floor, which is open to the public, and the stalls are completely private. Also, they have good toilet paper.  

Worst public poopers in Vancouver: City Centre Mall. I have seen poop on the walls above the toilets there. Also, Parallel 49 Brewery. Oh. My. Just disgusting. Trucker's wouldn't poop there. 

Poo smell cover-ups:
  • Best – light a match.
  • Worst – perfume. Because now your perfume smells like shit. 

Poop excuse to get off the phone: This comes from Tommy A, circa 1988, who told me the very best way to get off the phone with someone was to tell them you had to take a shit because: “What can they say, Shan – you gotta go when you gotta go.” This is pre-cell phone days, obviously, because now we can poop-n-chat. 

Poop thing people never admit: That they read while pooping. Except for this one couple who keeps all their magazines in a basket in the bathroom which led me to admit that I love pooping at their place because I got to read their trashy People/US Weekly mags. 

Funniest poop story I know: When I was about 10 and my bother 12, he took a huge log of a poop, a huge lumber jack’s arm of a poop, and it wouldn’t flush down.
  • My brother: What should I do, Shan? 
  • Me: Flush again?
  • My brother: I tried. Didn’t work.
  • Me: I don’t know, then.
  • My brother: Come look at it. 
  • Me: No!
  • My brother: It’s huge.
  • Me: How big can it be?
  • My brother: Come see.
  • Me: Ok.

For some reason, we were both immensely worried about this giant poop. Like wild animals, it was imperative that we hide the evidence. So, after some thought, we decided to get the big kitchen knife and cut it in half. Genius! But it still didn’t flush. In for a penny in for a pound, we cut it into smaller pieces. And when that still didn’t work, even smaller pieces until it finally flushed.


But then we had the gross poopy knife to deal with. Less success. I wasn’t washing it. He wasn’t washing it. We agreed to throw it out and feign innocence when asked about it (sorry Mum!).

Best poop book: The Story of the Little Mole who knew it was none of his business. It’s a book filled with mystery and revenge and poop. : )

I asked my boyfriend to read this article and to let me know if I had forgotten any poop stories or ideas. He read it.
  • Him: That is so gross.
  • Me: What?
  • Him: The story about your brother’s poop.
  • Me: Ya. But it’s funny, right?
  • Him: Sort of. 

I hope everyone has a great poop today.


Walk a mile in my shoes
… and then shoot me in the back of the head.
… and bomb the city where I live with my family, friends, neighbours.
… and teach my child to hate.
… and steal my peace.
… and steal my future.

Walk a mile in my shoes
… and then tell me my feelings are irrelevant. 
… and tell me my belief is false because it is not your belief.
… and tell me how to raise my child.
… and tell me the way I suffer is trivial.
… and tell me my life doesn’t matter.

Walk a mile in my shoes and tell me you are more human than I am.