Talking About Sex at Work…and Other Concerns

Are you like me – the red-blooded, overflowing with ethnic passion purple banana – who thinks about sex every 10 minutes, as much as any man, maybe even more if WebMD is right? But hang on: do you also happen to work in a “respectable” office environment where you have to watch what you say around people in fear of offending someone? Where the slightest off the cuff remark along the lines of “that’s what she said” or “damn, I’d like to data entry him” can land you a date with Human Resources?


It’s a darn shame that we can’t openly talk about sex and sexy times at work. I blame our North American prudishness. I bet European offices talk about sex ALL THE TIME! (Totally guessing here; going by what I’ve picked up from BBC America and some really “what-the-hey” Danish movies). These are real problems people! At my last job, in Corporate Canada, I was lucky if I could say bossom louder than a hummingbird-pitch and not get judgemental looks. I have much more freedom at my new job, granted there are still office rules one must follow. Since the girl I share my office with is laid-back, funny, and completely crazy (so kind of like me), I don't feel that restraint any more, to constantly keep myself in check. But that doesn't mean I'm screaming "VAG" all the time either. You have to find a good balance. 


The administrative stuff that we do can become boring really fast, so to keep ourselves entertained at work my friend and I talk shit all day, mostly about guys and almost entirely about sex. The naughty stuff that makes us giggle like a pair of school girls, we keep to a whisper. Sometimes we resort to using codes in case we’re overheard. Yeah, we're stealth like that. 


My friend, who is leaving soon for a trip abroad, recently told me about a possible international booty call in the horizon, with her very hot friend that lives in another country. But she’s conflicted because the guy is close friends with her ex-boyfriend. Since the relationship with the ex ended badly, due in large part of him being an asshole, my friend is 80% okay with hooking up with Mr. International Hot Pants. I, ever eager to live vicariously through other people’s exploits, offer her some sage advice: “It’s vacation sex yo, it doesn’t count so go for it!” Realizing soon after that we can’t really talk about vacation sex at work, but desperate to keep the gutter chat going, we started using nearby pop cans to create a visual playbook of possible scenarios. I took pictures so you guys can partake in the story.


Cast of characters:
My friend - New white Coke
Mr. International Hot Pants - Coke Original (red can) because we established that he's robust and full of flavour
The Ex-boyfriend - Canada Dry because no one drinks ginger ale unless they're sick


Scenario 1 

New Coke and Coke Original are reunited, while the Canada Dry looks on, shocked and full of despair

Scenario 2

Foreplay - he's eager to please

Scenario 3

Night of passion, New Coke is eager to jump on it!

Scenario 4

Vague attempt at a 69, it's awkward so they go back to more foreplay

Scenario 5

No night of passion is complete without a little spooning afterwards

Scenario 6

Coke Original takes her out sightseeing. They hold hands. But unbeknownst to the couple, they have an observer

Thoughts on the Importance of Besties, not to be confused with Frenemies or SFAM (Sista From Anotha Mutha)

An actual photo of me and my bestie

To my carefully selected besties, plucked from obscurity and placed centre stage in the horrifyingly embarrassing vaudeville show that I call my life, I acknowledge the immense part you have played in softening me into a semi-respectable person who can be semi-normal in public. And for understanding when I sometimes turn a social situation into an awkward mess but say "Hey, it's just part of my charm.” 

I recently started a new job working for The Man up in Corporate Canada. It’s a very uptight, businessey atmosphere, full of very “important-looking” people, going to very “important” places, eating very “important” lunches, and shitting very “important” shit.

I work in a female-dominated department within a company that's basically a giant boy's club. At first I was really excited about the prospect of working under so many ladies (*giggle). I mean it’s a great opportunity to work with successful, hard-working women, as a woman who someday hopes to be successful and hard-working herself. But after spending two weeks in this starchy blazer factory, I am just about ready to throw in my Woman’s Pass! Never have I met a group of women that make a career out of being professional bitches, or walking around with cunty-faces all day and think this is how powerful women have to behave. I’ve quickly realized that there is absolutely no way I can be real with these women. I can never truly be myself around them because to be myself and say what I really think, freely and openly, may actually get me fired. 

So what does this little anecdote, although clearly humorous and informative, have to do with best friends? Well lots so be patient! First, that the experience has taught me a valuable lesson on the importance of having a true bestie. And B, that feminism died when releasing sex tapes became the fastest way into celebdom. You even get your own reality TV show– Kim, I’m looking your way girl – so it’s safe to say that whatever remnant of Women’s Lib is left in this generation of ours is perhaps best spent on women who are actually worth being friends with. Don’t exhaust your energy trying to please cunty-faced women who would love an excuse to yank the fallopian tubes right out of you, rather than be your friend. 

But how does one know when one has a true bestie? Well, you kinda just know don’t you? Here’s my list, feel free to check off as you read through it:

•  You fart in front of your bestie(s) but try to cover it up by pretending you don’t smell the pungent fumes emanating from your butthole. They know you’re embarrassed so they rip one too.
• You ask “Have I gotten fat?” They respond something like “Yes a bit, but it makes your ass and tits look bigger so win-win!” Then you both go get burger and fries.
• They know that you’re purposely picking a fight, throwing a tantrum, and/or calling them a horrible friend because you’re PMS-ing, but they’ll never say it.
• Will go on midnight candy runs with you.
• Will never sleep with your ex- or current boyfriend, even after given permission.
• From time to time will say that your dad’s hot just to see you gag.
• Tells you when your underwear is showing.
•  Despite not owning a car, will nevertheless endure an hour of gross public transportation with you just to see you off at the airport.
•  Brings over a bottle of wine because you had a bad day at work.
•  Always lets you have the booth seat while they take the chair, just because they know you like booths better than chairs.
• Calls you out on your shit.
• Says that you’re an acquired taste.
• Will love you no matter how much you embarrass yourself.

How to Deal With a Problematic Child in Public

Problem Scenario 1: what to do when the shiny little apple of your eye is opening packages of tampons and throwing them at you in the middle of a Shoppers Drugmart aisle.

Solution: Get even. Forget about trying to reason with the little bugger (affectionate term I promise) since he/she clearly doesn’t understand reason or else they wouldn’t be throwing tampons at you while a small crowd of horrified onlookers gather around. Grab the nearest package of sanitary napkins (or pads as they are called in the streets) and have a little impromptu feminine hygiene products fight. By turning the situation around into a fun game you will have avoided properly disciplining your child and at the same time cultivate an image of the Fun Mom (!). You will most likely be kicked out of Shoppers but who the fuck cares since there are like 20 of them in one city. If you live in the suburbs it’ll be worth it to go into the next town to run your drugstore errands.

Problem Scenario 2: your child refuses to go to music class because he/she would rather sit and enjoy eating the slice of lemon poppy seed loaf at Starbucks.

Solution: I once heard a mother attempting a rationale debate with her stroller-bound 4 year old, trying to persuade him into abandoning his foolish idea of skipping music class in favour of relaxing at Starbucks. If you get into a similar situation please for the love of all that is sane and normal do not start a debate with your kid in front of other adults. It’s not cute and looks completely ridiculous if you’re trying to challenge the whims of a 4 year old. Really, is it that important that your little Mozart goes to music class to learn how to play the oboe or viola? Chances are the kid will not turn out to be a fucking musical genius so instead of wasting his precious time just kick up your Ugg® boots, grab a latte, and enjoy some quality time with your baby before he grows older and loses his cuteness.

Problem Scenario 3: your little tot is an explorer, likes adventure, and thus always leaves your side to go discovering all the time. So much so that you’ve decided to put him in a baby leash to not only keep him safe but also partake in his random wanderings. But wait, you’re getting weird looks from judgey parents who believe that kids should not be treated like dogs.

Solution: Simple really, implant a GPS tracker chip into the child and voila you’ll never have to wonder where little Marco Polo has gone. The Baby GPS also connects to your smartphone for instant access. I don’t like baby leashes, I mean it looks really messed up, but I also don’t like the idea of losing the kid as well – no one likes losing track of their kids. However, even as an adult I find myself learning new things from wandering around so I wholeheartedly endorse the Baby GPS. Your kid benefits from exploring and you won’t be labelled a bad parent for putting them in the baby leash. Win-win.

*The solutions recommended above are written for humorous purposes only and should not be attempted unless you’re prepared to go to jail or worse, incur the wrath of “serious” parents.

An Ode to Unemployment

I’ve been pretty lucky after grad: found a well-paying job right away, live in a decent-sized dwelling in the city, able to pay for non-Value Village clothes, and so on. Things were looking up for me in 2011. I was even, dare I say it, ball-tastically cocky with a smidge of yuppie-arrogant at my good fortune. But alas, my life at the middle was destined to be short-lived and by the end 2011, I found myself joining other university grads in the unemployment pool. Man I wish I could tell you guys that I lost my job because of a street-cred worthy reason like I was fired for punching a racist co-worker in the face, or given a pink slip (like so many others) as part of a forced org-restructuring due to the “the current economy.” All other reasons sound infinitely better than my situation, which was self-induced and prompted by yuppie arrogance and boredom. 

Despite the encroaching fear of not able to pay rent and experiencing WTF moments at the grocery store related to the sudden surge in price of avocados, unemployment has been quite a refreshing venture, mostly because it’s allowed me to revert back to my slothful undergrad days. Am I much happier and relaxed waking up at 11 am on weekdays? Am I lazy for wearing pyjamas and slippers all day, for three days in a row? You bet your sweet buns I am!

It’s also forced me to think about how to fill the extra time with projects I previously had no time for, such as learning to play the guitar, write that great Canadian novel, or sit idly at Starbucks in the middle of the day watching youtube videos. Now, I know what you guys are thinking. You’re thinking oh my god the purple banana has become a house-bound crazy recluse, one step short of getting a whole bunch of rescue cats to keep her company. Well, calm the fuck down. Although that scenario sounds appealing, I think my financial limitation, the fact that I currently have $1.36 in my pocket, makes it impossible to build my army of unholy cat minions. Yes I can’t play the guitar for shit but every time you strum the strings it sounds like pretty music so that’s okay. Yes I haven’t progressed beyond the fifth page in my novel (double-spaced) but…shut up. 

Anyway, with all the free time and no money I’ve also taken up wandering through the Toronto streets most mornings, exploring neighbourhoods that I previously didn’t know existed, like Leslieville in the Queen and Broadview area. And hello there are so many free things to do in Toronto like free entrance at the AGO on Wednesdays at 5pm and free movie screenings at the National Film Board where I saw a documentary about monarch butterflies, and yes I now know the crap out of butterflies! 

So if you find yourself unexpectedly without a secure steady source of income, I say get creative stupid and start doing things. Trust me, it kills the boredom. And refuse the urge to adopt cats. 

“Uhhh…what do you mean there’s a troll in the hard drive?”

If you have trouble figuring out how to change your desktop background and you’re NOT 65 years old, you are a banana.

If you refuse to stop using Internet Explorer even though it keeps crashing and being super slow, you are a banana.

If you say things like “my computer has PMS” or “how do I make that thing do the thing” or “just hit it a couple of times,” you are a banana.

Bananas are ordinary folk who despite being raised by computers, iPods, and the internet are nevertheless retards around anything that resembles technology. We are often careless with our little devices, dropping them into buckets of water or using Windex to clean computer screens. We are usually slow getting the latest tech toy, choosing instead to wait long enough till it goes down in price and the iHysteria has sufficiently died down, then we buy it on the pretext that we are not zombie-consumers swayed by marketing hypes. But of course we buy it cuz it’s cool looking even though we have no idea how to work it.

We also become frazzled, discomposed, heated with the obtuse IT people at work who can’t understand our non-tech gibberish, such as “My computer is acting weird. It’s as if there’s some kind of creature in the bottom part thingy…like a troll living in the hard drive.” 

Copyright  Purple Banana

The Sin and Sinner: Musings on the Life of a Yuppie

My original aim in creating this blog was to express the humorous, and often tragically depressing, life of a yuppie. For those who are not familiar with this clearly awesome word, a yuppie is defined by the brilliant minds at urbandictionary.com as:

“(y)oung (U)rban (P)rofessional, or Yup.  Turned into yuppie in the 1980's. A term used to describe someone who is young, possibly just out of college, and who has a high-paying job and an affluent lifestyle. Can now be used to describe any rich person who is not modest about their financial status.”

I think this definition captures the term well but what’s a little disturbing is the example they use:

Christian Bale in American Psycho

Well obviously all us yuppies like to be compared to Christian Bale *sarcastic tone.* Who doesn’t love American Psycho? The part where he goes ape shit crazy on the homeless guy, and is all stabby stabby, is essentially what we in yuppiedom call “stress release” and is good for what ails ya!

If you are ever in town and would like to catch a glimpse of Torontonian yuppies, it's best to get a spot near King and Bay. They come out in herds at lunch time and you can spot them grazing near a trendy bistro where a small box of salad costs $17, not including the Perrier. 

But it’s not all about work for these majestic creatures. No sir, yuppies know how to party…HARD. Though trained at the best schools in the country, yuppies receive their “real” education from frat houses and sororities. At UofT it was Gate House, which sadly was shut down a few years ago and ending almost a century of “light” hazing and male commodore. Notorious party animals, UofT engineers can write a book about the subject. I was fortunate enough to attend an engineering secret society party once and all I can say about that experience is that those guys do not kid around!

If you want to see a yuppie snorting cocaine off a stripper’s stomach or throwing hundreds of dollars at a bartender, then head over to one of those hip King Street lounges and get yourself a good seat.

Confession time: though I call myself a yuppie, by definition I’m not really. For one thing, I am poor and still cling on to the penny-scrimping mentality that held me over as a student. You will never see me in designer digs, mostly because I would rather spend hundreds of dollars on food and booze and concert tickets, over time.

I’m a different breed of yuppie: a young urban professional who likes to look good but stays on a tight budget, who has a full-time job but does it half-assed, who would rather go to a poetry reading or hang out with a few close friends at one of the pubs near her old university than spend $10 on a glass of martini at some trendy lounge. 

I am what you would call a yuppie in transition. Fresh out of Uni, still temping or in a full-time entry level office job, living in a decent place and paying slightly higher rent for a slightly bigger place. There will be a time when that temp job becomes a full-time/permanent and I’m under 30 and making $60000 a year, then I’ll be a full-fledged yuppie. For now, I shall enjoy pretending to be important and rich, but in reality insignificant and poor, while waiting for life to come down hard, slap me in the face a couple of times, and say “your life as a yuppie poser is no more, it is time to embrace a life of financial security and responsibility.”

Dating was not meant for bananas, and here is why (Part 4)

Who will come out victorious?

The Purple Banana ripe too easily. If you squeeze me the wrong way, I will bruise. Take whatever double entendre from this you will.

One of the commonly held beliefs about banana-like people is that they are head-strong, sometimes foolish, creatures who act first and think later; who can dish out honesty and prefer a heapin’ helpin’ of the same; who don’t take crap from people; who suffer from chronic verbal diarrhea; and, who have impenetrable armours that hardly come down. Let me take this opportunity to set the record straight about bananas: we are like panda bears in that we appear very simply monochromatic on the outside, but inside is rich gooey vulnerability that once revealed leaves us very exposed. We love to fight yes, but that’s only because we are easily incensed. We feel too much. And we are worse when in a bunch.