Dating is hard, y’all. It’s a jungle out there. I fully commend anyone looking for love (or something like love) for going online and downloading dating apps and putting themselves out there.
The latest season of The Bachelorette premiered on Monday night, and although it was about two hours of carbon copy white dudes exiting a limo, it was worth watching just to see the previews for what looks like a crazy dramatic season!
I wont go into too much detail of what happened (this isn’t a recap, there are people being paid to write those elsewhere), but I will give you my thoughts, talk shit and swoon about yesterday’s fantastic premiere!
Let’s start with the belle of the ball:
I’m a big fan of Jojo. I think she’s beautiful and charming and was really excited when she was named the next Bachelorette. I think Jojo and former Bachelorette Andi Dorfman are similar in that they’re both successful Southern women who drop “y’all” left right and center, with great hair and fake and bake tans, but unlike Andi, Jojo reads much softer and sweeter on camera.
Ok, let’s talk about the men.
Jordan is already the front-runner of the season because he nabbed the first impression rose and is brother to NFL player Aaron Rodgers (who I refer to as Olivia Munn’s boyfriend). I’m not sold on Jordan, but he has thunder thighs and skinny jeans and in high school I would have eaten that shit up. Be careful, Jojo “Former Pro-Football” player is code word for “Unemployed Fame Seeker.”
Listen, I’m sure Chad’s mom thinks he’s great, but in actuality, Chad looks like he’s one injection of ‘roids away from committing a murder suicide (also his neck-beard looks like untamed bush) The temper on this one looks terrifying. The only thing that upsets me more than an angry, violent man, is a sales person who doesn’t know the importance of staying on brand. Seriously, Chad – you’re a real estate agent. Do you think this is good for your brand/sales/client base? Get it together. Read a book. No bueno, Chad. NO BUENO!
I legit burst out laughing when Luke stood against a barn looking like a Clint Eastwood impersonator at a roadhouse restaurant. Although he’s an army vet, he’s also an aspiring country singer. I’m already dreading the inevitable moment when he pulls out a six string and serenades Jojo with a song. It’s cringe worthy. I’ve dated some musicians in my time, and I would laugh whenever they tried to serenade me. Work on your craft…but in a sound proof room.
The hipster is so far my personal favourite of the season. Have you read his Bachelorette bio? Swoon. Have you seen his Ethan Hawke Reality Bytes hair? That’s the dream. Apparently Brandon is actually a model (which I could overlook) but judging by his beaded bracelet and the fact that Jojo seems uninterested in circle scarfs and slam poetry, his days seem numbered.
This season looks dramatic as f*ck, and I’m so excited for glittery gowns, balyage highlights and testosterone fueled bitch fights.
Are you watching this season? Who are your favourites so far?
I feel as though Mother’s Day is not only a time to give thanks to all the women in our lives who sacrifice for their progeny, but also a time for reflection.
As a single woman in her late twenties, my desire for children increases steadily with every new grey hair and heavy menstrual flow (seriously 9 months without a period sounds divine).
Even though I hope to become a mother someday, I have to say, with each passing Mother’s Day, I breathe a huge sigh of relief that I’ve managed to go another 365 days without giving birth.
I’d like to thank God, first and foremost for not bestowing me with any gifts this year.
To the makers of the morning after pill/Plan B
Shit gets a little out of hand sometimes. I’ll gladly endure three minutes of judgement from a pharmacist when purchasing your product if it means I can maintain a strong pelvic floor.
To the men who insist on practicing safe sex
You’re all gems and someday (presumably after marriage) I hope you get to enjoy the wonders of unprotected sex to make oodles and oodles of babies.
To the Canadian government
Thank you for protecting my right to a safe and legal abortion. It’s good to know you’re there for me in case I ever have to make those tough decisions. So far so good.
To Ryan Gosling movies and adult bedroom accessories
Thank you for making those lonely nights bearable. Without you, I would definitely be making some seriously big errors in judgement when times were tough.
Lastly, I’d like to thank my own Mother, for constantly reminding me that being a mother means I would have to give up my obscene online shopping habit and after-work naps. I can think of no greater motivation to not get pregnant. That and you constantly saying to me, “Thank god you’re not someone’s mother,” really does the trick in closing this womb to the public.
Happy Not a Mother’s Day, everyone!
Bring on the mimosas!
*This post is purely for entertainment. Babies are a blessing, and for women everywhere who are struggling with infertility, I empathize with you on your difficult journey into motherhood. Have faith xo
I was in the middle of celebrating Queen Elizabeth’s 90th birthday, when I received a flurry of text messages with the news that Prince, the 57 year old entertainment icon, has died.
Put on something purple, put on his Greatest Hits, dim the lights and pour yourself a glass of whatever it is you need to handle this loss.
We’ll miss you, you weird little enigma of a man. You were larger than life, and a true artist and original. Your music was part of the soundtrack to my childhood and for millions of other people your songs are tied to some of our fondest memories.
Nothing compares 2 you…
There are three things I fear:
- Unplanned pregnancies
- Working out in public
Geographically speaking, I don’t really have to worry about tornadoes because where I live they’re pretty rare, and there’s not a penis willing to have sex with me as far as the eye can see, but working out in public has been a legitimate fear of mine since puberty.
About two weeks ago, after realizing that both my ass and my heart look like they’ve been in a drive-by shooting, I decided that it was time to stop focusing on dating and get in shape.
My Bachelor viewing squad all belong to the same gym, so I thought, what better way to fight your phobia of sweating profusely in public than by standing next to skinny beautiful bitches who will act as camouflage to the fact that you look like you’ve peed your workout tights? #BoxSweat
I’ll admit, part of my fear of joining a gym was because I didn’t know what to wear. I don’t own anything Lululemon based on principle, and I’ve heard how my male friends talk about girls they meet at the gym, so I’m assuming I’ll be judged by both sexes on my attire/body/hyperhidrosis.
It took serious calming down from my friend Sarah to get me to actually attend Saturday morning bootcamp, but I have to admit (and I hate myself for admitting this), it was actually the best decision I’ve made in a long time.
Sure, I should be happy that I’m getting in shape, moving more, blah blah blah getting healthier, but my love of the gym has taken a turn from “focusing on me” to a very dark place.
During my registration, I had a consultation with a trainer about my diet and fitness goals. The first question she asked was relatively simple, “What made you join a gym?”
Do you know how satisfying it is to picture the face of the guy who ghosted you on a medicine ball as you slam it into the ground repeatedly?
I swear, if you didn’t know me, you would think I was Arya Stark, because I’m literally mumbling the names of everyone who I hate as I’m pushing 120lbs on a stupid sled across the floor… Jake, Alex, Geoffrey, The Hound.
You should know that I’ve YET to run into an ex after a break-up, but I’m hoping all of that changes once I develop Michelle Obama arms and a thigh gap.
Yes, friends, I’m building a revenge body because I internalize my feelings and have convinced myself that the reason I’m single is purely physical and not a all because of my personality, timing or circumstances outside of my control.
This is just the beginning of this journey of vengeance. I have 6 weddings to attend, and my trainer wrote them all down on a piece of paper to help motivate me into achieving my fitness goals.
What are those goals?
Regret (on their part)
Rue-ing the day they met me. RUE IT.
I’m not crazy.
(Ok, maybe just a bit).
The season finale of the Bachelor aired this week on ABC, with Bachelor Ben Higgins proposing to flight attendant, Lauren Bushnell.
Ok. I’ve had a few people ask me how I feel about the results and even though IDGAF, I think Ben made the right choice for his vanilla-christian lite lifestyle. Ben is a babe, don’t get me wrong, but we rarely got to see him make a joke, take off his shirt or do anything without crying. Lauren is beautiful, there’s no doubt about that- she has the Aryan teenage dream, size 2, zero cellulite thing going on. The two had an undeniable missionary position chemistry that Bachelor fans love. I find them boring. I already don’t care about their relationship.
Personally, I was a fan of Jojo, the 24-year old super tanned Isla Fisher doppelganger sporting ombre locks and a Cartier love bracelet (Oh yes, I noticed). Jojo is hot, and I’m going out on a limb here and saying her boobs are fake, but I’m not judging – I’m envying that she has enough money for the love bracelet and the tit job. The thing about Jojo is that she was TOO much for Ben; too sexy, too sweet. With Jojo as the new Bachelorette, I want to see her with a former-athlete type who, I don’t know, rescues dogs and thinks he writes good poetry. Something like that.
The season was, arguably, one of the best in Bachelor franchise history, with several stand out contestants. We had Lace, the Pinot Grigio enthusiast with entitlement issues, who many people thought was the front-runner as the season’s resident villain. In a moment of clarity and self-awareness, Lace excused herself from the Bachelor, saying she needed to work on herself before she could find love. Lil Lace proved to be the smartest one of the bunch when she realized competing with 25 women for the attention of one man is f*cked up and unhealthy.
Then there was Jubilee, the Haitian born sergeant in the US Army, who ruffled feathers with the other contestants by being “awkward” and the self proclaimed “full black” contestant. Jubilee’s presence reintroduced the topic of diversity on the show, and many were hoping Jubilee would become the first black Bachelorette. Jubes was also the victim of some serious girl shit, with several nameless, irrelevant contestants hounding Jubilee for not being a cookie-cutter fake-ass bitch.
Bullying was taken to the NEXT level with Olivia, the slightly delusional Cameron Diaz clone who made enemies right away by receiving the First Impression Rose. Olivia…liked to embellish her connection with Ben. Maybe romanticize the situation a little, and got carried away with her pop culture Teen Mom references. However entertaining her behaviour was for viewers at home, Olivia quickly became the target of internet trolls, and was cut up by all of her fellow cast mates on the Women Tell All for having bad breath and cankles.
I talk a lot of shit on this blog, mostly in jest, but I seriously dislike when people are ganged up on by their peers. I side with the under-dog at all times. Olivia and Jubes- I got chu.
My friends and I gathered every Monday to watch the Bachelor for some girl chat and junk food. For the finale, we went all out! Here are some pictures from our Bachelor Finale viewing party!
Did you watch the Bachelor finale?
Were you happy with Ben’s pick?
Are they going to make it? Let’s chat!
I could see the headlines now, “Canadian nobody lures London woman to her death in mistaken identity sex trap”
A little wordy, but fitting.
On Tuesday evening I received the following message via Instagram,
Hey! I hope you’re okay. So random- I came across your Twitter profile because of the bachelor and realised I noticed you from somewhere
I’ve been absent from life/work/blogging for the past month after a series of health issues knocked the wind out of my sails and infused my life with a shit storm of Victorian-era drama.
I had decided that in 2016 I would approach life with the level of fearlessness normally reserved for four year old’s learning gymnastics. I was determined to tackle life like it was a pummel horse and make it my bitch. Live with an open heart, an open mind, with absolutely no fear of getting hurt!
I got back into the dating game, stacked my schedule with invitations from friends and gave up bread and cheese. For three weeks, I was on top of the world. I had a renewed sense of what I hoped was an adorable enthusiasm for life. I spoke in cliches, I was Pinteresting positive affirmations, I ate salad without croutons… I was a completely different person!
After a few weeks I hit my first road bump in the dating world, and decided to grant myself the luxury of two weekends completely devoted to “healing” aka drinking my troubles away with my girlfriends.
My liver and I were in the middle of getting over someone when the father of one of my best friend’s passed away. To say we were devastated would be an understatement. My optimism, hopefulness and determination to find happiness was completely derailed by this loss, and I was just on the periphery; watching someone I love very much grieve was and is unbearable. It was sobering (literally) to have perspective on my troubles when someone dear to me had just lost so much.
I did my best to support my friend but on the morning of the celebration of life, I woke up to find my face covered in red welts. My forehead to my chest was peppered with red dots, and larger hives. I began to frantically scratch my skin, pressing my face against anything cold in hopes of a temporary relief from the heat my cheeks were radiating. With only hours before the service, I did the only thing I could think of: Free base Benedryl and paint on the foundation.
I looked in the mirror before leaving for the service and was horrified. I looked like I was the “after” photo in a “Just Say No to Drugs” campaign, clawing at my face, I was an apparition from the future warning young children not to try meth. I managed to make it through the celebration without drawing blood, distracted only by my need to keep my friend’s glass filled to the brim with wine.
The next day, the rash crept down my chest, onto my stomach, and onto each arm. I sat in bed icing my body, convinced I was either a) allergic to my late twenties or b) morphing into the Elephant Man. My throat began to tighten, and I broke out into a fever that had me hallucinating that Colors of the Wind was playing on a constant loop.
The next day, having absolutely no strength, I begged my mother to forego work and take me to the doctors. I sat down in the examining room and started to cry. “I normally have really good skin!” I wailed. “Nothing I do will make it go away!”
“You have strep throat,”said the doctor . “You’ll be off work for a few days.”
Like an insensitive Stevie Wonder fan, I implored him to reconsider his diagnosis. “Look at me! Look at my skin! Are you blind? This isn’t strep. This is much worse!”
“You have Scarlet Fever. A form of strep. The rash will go away in a few weeks. It’ll take a while, and peel. Take these for a week and you should be good to go.” He jotted down a prescription for antibiotics. “You don’t work with the public do you?
I left feeling like Beth March in Little Women after a visit to the Hummels. I felt so strange. Weak. Someone send for Marmie!
My boss was kind, but couldn’t veil the fact that he considered me a rat potentially carrying the plague to infect our office. “Maybe you just stay in bed. Yeah…just, don’t come to the office, OK?”
I spent an entire week in bed. A week after the rash outbreak, my skin was finally clearing up. I decided to shower and join my friends to see my sister perform with her burlesque troop. I was tired, but excited to be back among the living. I decided to reward myself with a glass of wine, for putting on pants and not scaring away humans with my appearance.
I woke up the next day with swollen eyes, and a new batch of hives all over my body.
It was official. I was allergic to fun.
It turns out, not only did I have Scarlet Fever, but I had a red wine allergy. Something I didn’t clue in on until later that week when I decided to reward myself AGAIN with another glass of wine, this time for making it to work like a healthy, normal, functioning member of society. Another bout of hives and my best performance as an extra on Breaking Bad and it was confirmed that I, Elizabeth Regina Di Filippo, am forsaken by God, or a god, probably Bacchus.
No more red wine.
No more clear skin.
No more wearing make-up without looking like I’m just getting a handle on my 12 steps.
Some co-workers have affectionately began calling me Miss Scarlet, and quite frankly, My Dear, I want to go home to Tara and hide under a duvet burrito for the next four weeks until my skin can return to normal.
I’m not quite 100%, but I’m doing much better. I’m dealing with my fear of all things red the only way I know how, by completely avoiding all clothing, food and most importantly, wine with so much as a pinkish tinge.
It’s going to be a long road to recovery, but I think I can manage.
After all, tomorrow is another day!
Last night, Chris Rock used all 3 hours and 37 minutes of the 88th Academy Awards to bitch slap Hollywood with some hard truths about the lack of diversity in this year’s nominees.
When he wasn’t making rich white people shift uncomfortably in their seats and demonstrate their limited range with nervous laughter and forced smiles, Rock subtly tackled body image in cinema by force feeding actors and actresses Girl Guide cookies. This feat, veiled as a fundraising attempt for his two young daughters, was presumably the first morsel of food containing gluten and glucose Hollywood elite have consumed since puberty.
The broadcast definitely broke from the tradition one usually associates with the Academy Awards. At times, I found myself missing the formality and prestige that celebrates cinema (think Billy Crystal monologues and goosebumps inducing montages). Somehow talk of Minion appendages and James Bond’s s lackluster performance in the bedroom, didn’t quite scream Oscar caliber material.
The show delivered some laugh out loud moments, especially the sketch where black actors insert themselves into this year’s nominated films . SNL alums Tracy Morgan as The Danish Girl and Leslie Jones as the bear from The Revenant were standouts, that had me laughing well into commercial break (and then again this morning).
Another giggle of the night came from Tina Fey and Steve Carell made the most of their roles as presenters to introduce Best Production Design, injecting the category with their notorious brand of deadpan humor.
My favourite part of the evening was Lady Gaga’s emotional performance of Till It Happens to You, a song written for The Hunting Ground, a documentary about sexual assault on college campuses. I recently watched the film and was blown away by the courage of the men and women who survived heinous crimes and were denied justice by their schools and local law enforcement. You MUST see this film, it will break your heart, make you insanely angry, and hopefully change the way victims of rape and sexual assault are treated.
Even though the show was unbearably, make-me-late-for-work-today long, I stayed up until midnight to see Leonardo Di Caprio receive his first, and long awaited Oscar for Best Actor in a Leading Role. I’m not ashamed to say that I let out a high pitched shriek of joy, as social media went into a frenzy, with women who used to make out with his Tiger Beat poster every day before bed, declaring their joy that our collective first love was finally recognized by the Academy for his work. Even though DiCaprio picked up the award for The Revenant, in our hearts (and our vaginas) he was winning for Romeo + Juliet, Titanic, The Aviator, Blood Diamond, The Departed and the Wolf of Wall Street.
Spotlight took home the award for Best Picture a film I feel SLIGHTLY/OBSESSIVELY connected to due to the fact that my friend Ashley and I got to visit the set while filming took place on our university campus in Hamilton. The crew was kind enough to let us watch filming on the monitors for a few hours so long as we stayed silent (not a problem because we were completely starstruck). We haven’t received our SAG award for best ensemble cast, but I’m sure it’s in the mail.
So, there you have it.
I’m sleep deprived, emotionally exhausted for Leonardo, and feel like I’ve had several shots at the Vanity Fair After Party .
What was your favourite moment of the night?
I would be lost without my Flipboard App.
Mostly because then I would have to actually talk to other people instead of looking busy on my phone.
I came across an article the other day that caught my eye, called 17 ways men can appear more attractive to women, published on the Business Insider website. The article suggests choosing, “someone in your league,” and “wearing a new cologne,” to help attract the ladies.
Since I consider myself to hold a P.H.D in Sociology, Anthropology, Psychology and Cosmetology, I thought I would help a brother out and provide my own list of suggestions to help those with danglers get a P in a V this Valentine’s Day.
You would think this would be common knowledge, but unfortunately, I have to put hygiene at the top of my list for ways to appear more attractive to women.
Please, for the love of God, shower at least once or twice a day. Preferably in the morning, before our dates, and after you leave the gym. This is what separates the boys from the men.
Attraction is about pheromones and don’t get me wrong, I love a little bit of man-musk but there’s a difference between “Hot guy with a hint of Irish Spring soap” and
“Hot Guy who I’ll never call again because he smells like aged cheddar.”
If you REALLY want to make us weak in the knees, how’s about a spritz of cologne for the fancy occasions? Just a spritz. I shouldn’t be able to taste you when you walk by me.
If I have to shave my legs, armpits, bikini area, tweeze my eyebrows, wax my upper lip, and unfortunately pluck a stray chin hair, you sure as shit have to at least match me in the level of grooming.
You think I do all this for fun? No. I do this so that you’ll have sex with me.
All bets are off if if I get close to you and realize you’ve got one eyebrow, a mustache starting from your nostrils and back hair coming out of your shirt to wave hello to me.
Quit focusing so much on shaving your man-brambles. Truth be told it’s kind of terrifying if you’re a complete Yeti and then from the waist down your penis has bangs and is looking at me. We don’t really care, because we don’t want to even SEE it. Seriously. A trim will suffice.
I don’t expect you to take off your shirt and all of a sudden be Channing Tatum, but gimme something. Show you care. That’s all I’m asking.
Change your sheets
Men who do laundry are attractive. Men who voluntarily wash their sheets are husband material. I like to know that if we’re having adult sleepovers, I’m not rolling around in a month’s worth of your dead skin cells, your ejaculated children, or any other bodily fluid that isn’t the direct result of our wrestling match that day.
Change your sheets once a week. Every week. Seriously.
Wear dark wash jeans
An independent study conducted by me noted that men who wear dark wash jeans are 100% more attractive than those wearing acid wash or classic light blue denim.
Leave your sneakers at home
Remember when you were in elementary school and you got a sick new pair of running shoes that you couldn’t wait to wear to school to show your friends? Yeah, well we aren’t in elementary school anymore. Unless we’re at the gym, going for a mild jog, or taking a hip-hop class, put the tennis shoes away. Be a big boy. Diversify your wardrobe.
When women meet a man (if they’re smart) they look for the following:
1. Wedding ring
Go home, rent Crazy, Stupid, Love and let Ryan Gosling educate you in the art of style.
Just like men are always saying that a woman with resting bitch face is intimidating, a guy wearing a perma-prick face is a red flag.Smiling is an easy way to say to women, “Hey, I might be a serial killer or I might not, but don’t you wanna find out?”
Hold a puppy
Works every time.
Talk to me
Ladies, how many times have you been out, locked eyes with a beautiful stranger, and then NOTHING happens? Story of my life.
I get that making the first move is scary, trust me, I get rejected ALL the time – but 9/10, people are actually, surprisingly nice!
Take a chance and say, “Hello.” We want you to!
Put your phone away
Not only does being on your phone in public give you a double chin, but it signals to women that you’re mentally somewhere else and presumably talking to someone else who has a vagina. Give your undivided attention to whomever you’re with.
Unless that person is really boring. Then go on Instagram and look at kittens.
Welp, I think I’ve said enough for today. Now I’d like to hear from you!
What do you think a man can do to be more attractive to women?
The Huffington Post recently published an article reminding women everywhere, that the grand romantic gestures that happen in movies, don’t always translate in real life.
The article spells it all out for you in the title, Romantic Comedies Teach Women That Stalking is a Compliment, with writer Chloe Angyal reminding us with ovaries, that unless it’s Ryan Gosling writing you a letter every day for a year, it’s just f*cking creepy.
This article assumed I have no concept of reality , which is sort of true, but made me surprisingly introspective of my own stalker-ish behaviors when it comes to dating. Don’t call the police (again), I’m not referring to Fatal Attraction level boil your bunny, “Why Don’t You Love Me,” type stuff. I’m talking about the little things we do online, to learn about and track the people we’re interested in.
When does it go from social media savvy, to stalking?
It’s fairly common to Facebook the object of your desire, or look them up on Instagram. When you meet someone new, and send the initial invitation to connect on social media, the friend request is the virtual acknowledgement of a burgeoning relationship of some kind; romantic, friendly, or other.
What you do next is what separates you from the rest of the pack.
Personally, I’ll admit that I’m an adorable creep.
When I connect with someone on social media, I unleash research skills that should have already peaked the Canadian government’s interest. I can find out where you went to school, where you work, what you like to do and I’ll begin piecing together an idea of your family, your previous relationships and your own level of social media comfort based on the effort you exhibit to cultivate your online image.
From there, I’ll search tagged photos to see who you socialize with the most versus who comments the most on your photos, rule out that frequent commenter as the friend you only talk to online, find out that your parents are divorced but you’re dad’s re-married to a nice woman named Sheila, Sheila has three kids from a previous relationship, you all seem to get along well and celebrate the holiday’s up North at your cottage, where you once broke your leg skiing . Of course I won’t admit to any of this and when we hang out casually ask whether or not you’ve ever broken a bone, if you like to ski, or if you have any brothers or sisters. I’ll feign surprise but correct you when you say you broke your leg in 2008.
It was 2007.
If I REALLY like you, I’ll see what events you’re attending and maybe, JUST MAYBE suggest to my friends that we attend, “Just because.”
If we’re chatting and you all of a sudden don’t respond, but two seconds later like a photo on Instagram, I’ll know you’re avoiding me. I’ll know, and do absolutely nothing about it because I refuse to double text, and instead will just sit here and watch what you’re liking online.
This is creepy, right?
Totally creepy, but slightly adorably because I’m just being extra cautious of stranger danger and vetting a potential match before I invest time and effort into getting to know them. Also, the fact that I have zero muscle tone and am inherently lazy automatically makes me a threat to nobody.
Ok. I exaggerated…slightly.
But what’s more likely to happen: Me doing all of this recon before a coffee date, or a man scaling a Ferris Wheel threatening to kill himself unless I go on a date with him?
Firstly, I’d commend his climbing abilities. It’s rare that people show any kind of initiative anymore. Secondly, the fair only comes to this neck of the woods once a year, so his window of opportunity is incredibly small, but I can online lurk 12 months a year, rain or shine, night or day.
I’m really not this weird.
Happy lurking, Y’all!
Today’s post is definitely a direct result of #PeriodProblems that I published on Monday. I’ve passed the threshold of walking with my body at a 45 degree angle to help with cramps and have moved into the, “bitchier and hungrier than usual” phase which will take me through to next week.
Ever see something in the news, on social media and just think, “NOPE!” ?
Me too. All the time.
Here’s what has me shaking my head this week…
People who’ve been married for over a year and are still posting their wedding photos…
The only person who cares to see more photos of your wedding are you and your mom. That’s it. Maybe your Mother-in-Law if she likes you.
Don’t get me wrong, I love weddings and I follow a shit ton of wedding vendors and photographers on Instagram, but if it’s been 3 years and you’re still putting up a profile pic or a TBT to your wedding like it was yesterday, you’re being judged.
By me, God, and probably everyone at Style Me Pretty.
If you want a nice picture, you’re going to to have to wait for someone else’s wedding and get dressed up and snap a photo like the rest of us. Let it go. Your time is up.
Rob Kardashian’s Snapchat handle @robphuckedme…
Really? Reaaaally. What’s happened to you. What are you doing to yourself. You went from the lovable little brother of the Kardashian fam, to the little brother of a friend who I would be afraid to run into in the kitchen at night during a sleepover.
Get it together, man. Stop being weird.
You literally have every opportunity to succeed in front of you and instead you’re being someone people report on Tinder.
Guys who complain that they’re, “Too nice to get a girlfriend…”
Instead of riding the pity train with you, I’m going to throw you under it, Anna Karenina.
I spend all day listening to my male coworkers complain that, “Girls only like assholes and nice guys like us finish last.” Wrong. You’re finishing last because you’re thinking you’re morally superior to your male brethren whilst simultaneously being a dick to the girls that are actually interested in you. There’s someone for everyone. You’re not immune to heartbreak just because your Mom said you were a “good boy.” Pull up your big boy pants, take a hard look at yourself in the mirror and go forth into the battlefield with a different mindset.
If you’re having a hard time figuring out what’s actually wrong with you, come to my cubicle and I’ll tell you.
People who say Grease: Live! was bad…
Grease: Live was fantastic.
Was it better than the movie? No.
Was it well done for being a television production 38 years after the movie was released? Yes.
We get it, you loved the movie. We all loved the movie. We all loved when John Travolta was hot and possibly straight. You know what I love more? A new generation of kids being introduced to Grease.
Sure, the kids didn’t get to learn that Grease Lightnin’ was a real pussywagon, but still. They’re going to learn the songs and want to watch the movie because they thought the live production was cool shit.
So you have two options: Either singalong or bite the weenie, Rizz!
There are some people who are grossed out when I talk about menstruation. Those people usually have penises. It’s not that I think the female reproductive system is a beautiful thing, I’m really just looking for any and every opportunity to commiserate with my fellow egg baskets over our monthly massacres.
This morning I woke up with a week early monthly guest and a horrible nosebleed. I just tilted my head back, looked to the heavens and let everything just flow south. The only plus side to this unexpected horror, was that my best friend and I have synched our cycles, which I’m hoping means we can FINALLY fight crime and make others shed blood instead of shedding our own.
The whole thing seems very Wiccan to me. I kind of dig it.
Until then, I’ll be sitting in pajama pants, clutching my pooch, waiting the week out so I can stop crying randomly at anything and everything.
What makes me cry during my period?
Day 1: Getting my period
*Tears of Joy*
Day 2: Catching a glimpse of my bloated self in the mirror and wondering, “Hmm, this is what I would look like at 4 months pregnant.” Then hyperventilating because you can’t imagine yourself ever being ready for motherhood
Day 2: Afternoon
Crying because you’re worried, that if you ultimately do want kids, what if you later discover you’re infertile, and then you’ve just got your period to waste tampons and good underpants on a monthly reminder of what you can’t have.
Day 2: Evening
Crying because you’ll get to adopt a kid and keep shit right down there.
*Tears of joy*
Day 3: Watching old Hollywood movies and crying because everyone in the movie is probably dead
Day 4: Checking online dating profiles and crying because you’re online dating
Day 4: 10 mins later
Crying because you’re worried nobody will love the guys you’re swiping left to. SOMEONE SHOULD LOVE THEM!
(Just not me. Never me)
Day 5: Seeing an old person take their dog on a walk. The dog’s wearing a coat and little booties.
Day 6: Adele.
Happily skipping out the door without a feminine product only to find that your body is a traitor and released a last wave of assault to remind you that you should never, ever, think you understand your body.
(Oh yes, Girls. Some of us are full week-ers)
Day 8: PTSD
You only have 21 days before you have to relive the carnage.
Brb. Gotta go eat some cookies.
I’m a little late to the party, but I took a much needed break from blogging. Blogmas was a son-of-a-bitch. Seriously. Blogging every single day?
I dislike doing anything for free. I literally look for incentives in everything I do. My friends know this and have Diet Pepsi chilling in their fridge whenever I come over, because they know how much I loathe pants and would much rather be sleeping than run a brush through my hair and interact with people.
Anyways, I overdid it with the blog posts and fell out of love with the WordPress world, but I’m refreshed, have some new stories and am ready to get back to embarrassing my mother with my posts.
I’ve been quite the little gypsy this month, spending most of my time in a train, plane or automobile travelling for work and pleasure. I’ve been going non-stop, have barely had time to cuddle my cat (which you know upsets me tremendously), but things are FINALLY slowing down, and I’ll be able to reconnect with you good people of the internet, and of course myself… and my cat.
Here’s what you should know right now…
I think I must have had a spiritual stroke, or been touched by the Holy Ghost because I’ve legit become like a walking Pinterest inspiration board. I’ve caught myself saying shit like, “It’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all” and “Everything happens for a reason,” and “I’m open to the possibilities of love.”
I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I was hoping that if I ever had some kind of medical issue it would be the fun strokes where you wake up with like, a Pakistani accent but you’re still a white girl from the suburbs. I never thought I would become this monster who can self soothe and rationalize with Christian Broadcast television-like values. It’s quite disturbing, and yet, healthy? I don’t know. I haven’t had a session with my therapist in almost two months, so this is either a huge breakthrough or the calm before a storm and I’m going to be shaving my head and attacking cars with umbrellas in a hot minute.
I’m still single. YAS, Queen. Single and accepting it, thank you very much!
It’s really not that bad. I’ve only cried twice this month, and both times were right before a cycle started so, I consider that progress.
I’m still living a carb-centric lifestyle, but I’ve been using the My Fitness Pal app to guilt me into healthier choices. I’m basic, but trying to get healthy because it’s a new year is just TOO basic. I’ll get healthy, in like, March – when my first wedding of the year is a month away and I need to shove myself into a dress. I’ve been receiving Save the Date cards in the mail and have already begun financially planning for wedding season. I’ve decided that this year, instead of being thrifty and recycling dresses, I’m just going to go balls to the wall and use every event as an excuse for a fashion show and a new profile pic.
Other than that, I’m essentially just living for Monday nights when I can watch the Bachelor with my girlfriends, have been on some serious Netflix binges because it’s too cold to do anything else, and I’ve been planning new adventures for 2016 because it’s cold as fuck and I need an Eat,
Pray , Love STAT.
That’s really it for me, kids.
What about you?
I’ve missed you terribly.
I’m coming back. After Blogmas nearly fried my brain with daily posts, I decided to treat myself to a nice little break this month.
I tried the whole, “Live your life! Disconnect with technology! Live like it’s 1993!”
It didn’t really work out.
Did you think I would miss an opportunity to talk shit about Valentines Day and the opposite sex?
Heck no. I’ve just been gathering new material.
I’ll be back February 1st with even more oversharing.
Shit’s going to get real.
We left off the Modern Retelling of the Christmas Story with Mary, a simple lass from Nazareth knocked up and unmarried. Instead of the village mistaking her as a harlot and stoning her in the middle of the street, God sent an angel to her betrothed, Joseph, and convinced him to raise the Son of God, as his own. A tough sell, considering cloth diapers ain’t cheap and God wasn’t volunteering child support (only spiritual support).
I invite you now to join me in the second part of the Christmas Story!
Back in those biblical days, it was required that every person in the Roman world register as part of a census issued by Caesar Augustus. Mary being the unmarried preggo accompanied Joseph on the long trek to Bethlehem to register in his hometown.
First of all, if anyone even asked me to get up from the couch when I was 9 months pregnant, I would lose my shit . Hell, I get angry when someone tells me to get up and I’m like -50 months pregnant, but Mary had to buck up, and take one for the team, spread ’em on a donkey and let the Son of God cook a little longer.
When they arrived in Bethlehem, Joseph being a typical male, forgot to make reservations at whatever the equivalent of a Best Western or Ramada would be in those times.
Mary, having dilated a considerable amount from sitting on a f*cking donkey for days, said to Joseph, “I’m going to use the Pregnant by God card, and tell you that you have two minutes to get me to a doctor or a hotel, or I will have this baby right here and when he’s born he will smote you and damn you to the burning fires of Hell.”
Joseph looked in the distance and saw an inn and loudly knocked on the door. When the innkeeper answered, Joseph said to him, “My wife…well, not my wife. It’s a long story, I guess you could say fiancé but we’re in a weird spot right now. I like her but, it’s just off to a rocky start, you know? Anyways, she’s about to have a baby – not my baby, God’s baby. At least I think it’s God’s baby…We don’t have anywhere to stay and I’m afraid of hell fire. ”
The innkeeper, who’s obviously seen some crazy shit in his time, interrupted Joseph’s ramblings. “Whatever man, there’s a barn out back you can crash in. Just don’t break anything and no wild parties.”
In the stable, Mary was spared by God and gave birth to a boy after only two minutes of pushing and minimal vaginal tearing. She swaddled the baby in newborn clothes and fed the placenta to the animals to keep them calm.
Meanwhile, in a field an angel appeared to some shepherds tending to their flock. “Hey girl hey!” The angel exclaimed. “A baby was born tonight and he is the Son of God! Go see for yourself, and rejoice! I put a star up in the sky, so you don’t get lost. I have to go, k bye!”
The shepherds went into Bethlehem and saw the baby asleep in the manger. They went around the town sharing the good news of the Messiah’s birth.
Three magi, or wise men as us peasants call them, were travelling from the east and saw the star in the sky. They followed the star, which was prophesied to be the signal that the King of the Jews was born. When they got to Bethlehem, they happened upon the stable and said to Mary and Joseph, “This is awkward, but did you by any chance birth the Son of God? The Messiah? The Saviour?”
Joseph, excited that someone finally got what was going on, welcomed the three men into the stable, where they fell to their knees and worshiped the baby.
“We brought hostess gifts!” Said one of the men and presented the new mother with gold, frankincense and myrrh.
Mary, exhausted, and hormonal, shouted, “What the f*ck am I going to do with myrrh?
And then 8 days later, the baby was circumcised and he was formally named Jesus (seriously, that’s in the Bible).
The rest as they say, is history!
Today I thought I would share photos of my nieces who are all ready for Christmas!
Also, I have a wedding to attend tonight and will be spending the next several hours preparing like I’m going to the Oscars.
My friends Marie and Nathan have a blog, called Lola Evie Love, that follows the adventures of their young family in our city. They’ve posted some photos of the girls trimming the Christmas tree that are too precious not to share.
Click here for more cuteness!
This weekend was fun-filled and unproductive, just the way I like it. With only three days until Christmas Eve, I would like to report that I have yet to buy a single Christmas present. Normally, I would be reaching for some Ativan and gift cards, but this year, I’m just being easy breezy. I had every intention of shopping but… holiday parties knocked me on my butt for most of Sunday.
On Friday night, we, the people, celebrated my dear friend Mattie Lou’s 28th birthday. We headed out to a restaurant in Burlington that features “Dueling Pianos” every Friday and Saturday night. All this means is that twice a week, people who look like our parents put on their best glitter tops and boot-cut jeans to get liquored up and dance to live music.
It just so happens, that watching middle aged people dance is one of my favourite things of all time. The ol’ tap n’ snap was alive and well that night. I sat, judged, and stuffed my face with naan and guacamole. It was heaven.
I went to lunch on Saturday and actually made it into a mall, but left with a present for myself. I then spent the rest of the day marathon-ing episodes of New Girl and getting ready for my night of pups and parties. There was a three hour window where I had to drop by my cousin’s house and let out her dog, go to the liquor store and buy hostess presents, visit my friend Sarah at her new house and then pick up my girlfriends for our friend’s annual Christmas bash.
I should have known the night was going to be a disaster as soon as the lady at the LCBO didn’t ask to see my ID. Devastated is an understatement.
By the time I made it to Sarah’s new house (and oh-em-gee, what a house!) I was already getting messages from my friends that they weren’t able to make it to the party. I’m not just talking 1 or 2 friends, I’m talking 5 people bailing at the last minute for various and valid reasons.
I had my extensions in.
I had false eye lashes on.
I contoured my damn nose.
I was sure as shit going to the party.
Kids (Over 19 in Canada and 21 in the United States) : When going to a social gathering where you don’t know many people besides the host and a few others, the best way to make friends is to drink and keep drinking, until those social boundaries just float away and you’re all of a sudden best friends with everyone.
The next day, I woke up to a gentle reminder that I am in fact, not 19 anymore and that She-Devil at the LCBO was correct not to card me. I’m old enough to get pregnant and have people congratulate me. That’s f*cking terrifying. I should know better.
The best remedy for a hangover is always laying in the shower in the fetal position, a cheese sandwich, and relaxing. I spent the rest of my Sunday with the only people who are willing to baby me: My grandparents.
I normally burst into tears when I visit my grandparents at their retirement home because I’m worried nobody else has a family, but this time, whether it was my newly damaged liver or my emotional maturity, I managed to enjoy myself and have dinner with my little Italians.
A word of warning: If you thought high school was bad, wait until you’re in a retirement home. There’s more shit talking, sass and cliques than Mean Girls and Heather’s combined. There needs to be a reality show called Real Widows of Hamilton, or something, because these broads know how to put on a show.
I need a weekend from my weekend and a 12 step program.
What did you get up to? Tell me I’m not the only one who got too turnt for Jesus.
When I’m feeling sad, I simply remember my favourite things and then I don’t feel… SOOOO baaaaad!
Ah… You’re going to have that song in your head all day now. You’re welcome.
The Sound of Music. I have no idea why I associate this movie with Christmas, but I do… it must be the mountains…or the nuns. Definitely the nuns. Anyways! I came across this Christmas tag and thought it would be a cute little way to kick off this weekend. I’m going to be running around like a maniac, but I’ll be sure to tell you all about it on Monday!
What are your Favourite Christmas colors?
Truth time. I’m a Red/Green/Gold kind of girl. Strictly the classics. Anyone who uses blue at Christmas can GTFO. I’m kind of convinced I have some form of synesthesia, because there are certain colours that make me physically sick or angry and blue is one of them.
Blue decorations? Blue and silver? Pukes.
PJ’s or fancy dress of Christmas day?
Answer: Fancy PJ’s. Ever since puberty I’ve had to wear the nice jammier-jams and a bra, because Christmas morning, you never know who could show up early and you don’t want to be national geographic with your nips frowning at your family while you’re opening presents.
Presents on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning?
Christmas morning. Now, it’s more like mid to late morning. If it were up to me it would be Christmas afternoon.
Stay home or go away? Stay home.
I’ve never been away for Christmas, but I wouldn’t rule it out! I like the routine of visiting family on the holidays. Unfortunately, aging relatives and family members not on speaking terms is complicating the issue, but my Christmas Eve and Christmas Day should be booked with nieces and my li’l oldies from morning to night!
Favourite part of the Christmas meal?
The part where I get to leave the dishes on the table and go lay like a blob in front of the TV.
Favourite Holiday treat?
Sugar cookies. Specifically, sugar cookie dough.
Dream Christmas Location?
I would love to spend Christmas in London and recite Love, Actually quotes to strangers and have them be all, “F*cking Americans.” Alternatively, I think Christmas in a tropical location would be delightful. Nothing says Merry Christmas like sand in your crevices!
Everyone gets bags.
Favourite Cracker Toy?
Any jewelry. It’s my version of getting engaged on Christmas.
Favourite Christmas Decoration?
I love my Peter Pan ornament. Gotta love Peter.
Can you name all of the Reindeer?
Dasher, Dancer, Donner, Prancer, Blitzen, Cupid, Comet …um.. Hank? Sally Anne?
Weirdest gift you ever got?
Nani, My Italian grandmother, used to gift us grand kids angel figurines every year, and one year her eye sight was so poor she bought me a figurine meant for a loved one who has died, and I thought she was telling me something and burst into tears. Christmas, RUINED.
Favourite Christmas Memory?
Baking sugar cookies with my Nani. I can’t cook or bake to save my life, but every year I put on my apron and baked with her. Love that old broad, even though she heckles my skills.
Favourite Christmas Carol?
Any version of Baby, It’s Cold Outside makes me immeasurably happy. Also, any version of O! Holy Night, will put the fear of God in me and take me from 0 to Catholic, real quick.
Favourite Christmas Movie?
Home Alone, forever. Never Home Alone 2. NEVER.
Special shout out to It’s A Wonderful Life and Little Women. Beth dying just gets me feeling festive.
Long time no talk. I hope you’re staying diabetes free, because it would be really hard to go down all those chimneys with prosthetic legs. Stay active, stay healthy, stay humble. That’s the motto.
2015 has been an off year.Nay, a year of personal development #perspective. I’m not interested in gifts this year, but I decided why not make a pretend wish list just for the sake of wishing?
Santa, as you know, I’m an olfactory driven female. Since I was a little sprout, I’ve been sensitive to smell, and it’s been a hindrance to many relationships. This Christmas, please send bottles and bottles of Modern Muse by Estée Lauder for me…
…and Bleu De Chanel for any and every male I ever come into contact with. I’ll leave a bottle at my desk and just spray my coworkers if they get within 3 feet of me. I’ll even spray it on my pillow or clothes so people think I’ve been getting some action. I don’t care. Just deliver this by the case load.
Bleu de Chanel – Woodsy, blended with citrus notes. I’ve literally recognized this scent on a stranger and smelled him in public. With my eyes closed.
Speaking of men, Santa… Please send me 1 Sand Pit ticket to see Sam Hunt in Pittsburgh on July 2nd, 2016. As you know, the fates royally f*cked me this summer when that PYT on the train drank herself into a stupor and caused me (and countless others) to miss his entire set.
I’m not angry, Santa. I’m bound and determined for vengeance.
I realize you aren’t God, but if you have any connections to God, or know someone who knows him in the realm of magic and make-believe, please tell him or her about my plight. I’m going to die someday, this might as well be my Make -A-Wish.
This next one might be a stretch, but if you could send me the ability to pull off dirty blonde or ‘bronde’ hair, I would be eternally grateful.
You see, Santa, I’m just a basic bitch looking for a good hair cape, a good man, and an unlimited supply of mascara. I really feel like this ethnically ambiguous Pocahontas look of mine is so 2015.
Please work your magic and help me pull off this new look. Do it for the kids, Santa.
I know I’m asking a lot Santa, but if you could also find a home for every stray animal on the planet, that would be great. I can house as many kittens as hygienically possible, just throw ’em on down my chimney and I’ll wake up to a pile of happiness.
I’ll be sure to leave you some low-fat, low calorie alternatives this Christmas Eve.
Merry Christmas, old fella!
MEANWHILE, In Nazareth….
I’ve been hit. Struck down in the prime of life. I spent much of yesterday in bed, after being hit with the sweats and the flu during a festive brunch with my girlfriends.
I managed to keep it together, and not hurl all over the table, but today I’m struggling to keep it together.
My noggin hurts.
My joints hurt.
Blogmas will return when I can stand the sound of typing and light doesn’t make me want to punch the sun.
Today’s post was written by my hilarious cousin, Laura. Enjoy!
Short on cash this Christmas? Me too, though my collection of dresses I wear once and never use again is growing nicely. If you’re like me and are looking for inexpensive homemade gifts to give this season that are above and beyond your usual knitted scarf, then here are some suggestions to help spark that crackling fireplace channel in your loved one’s heart.
Children are mastermind gift givers. They’re cute enough that you couldn’t possibly complain about the shoddiness of their homemade CD rack, and they create gifts so personalized and terribly made that you can’t even return or regift them (eg. almost a decade of terrible ties my father never once wore but kept in the back of his closet like a shameful secret. What do you MEAN you don’t want to wear that gaudy, shiny neck noose with the Three Stooge’s faces plastered all over it?). The number one thing everyone probably remembers making as a child is macaroni art. Get together a paper Plate, some white glue, elbow macaronis, and gold spray paint? BAM. You’ve got yourself the perfect….erm…thing to give your mom for Mother’s Day. Stick a picture of your dumb, toothless face in the middle and you’ve got what can loosely be described as a picture frame.
So my advice to you is bring back some of the nostalgia of their youth and start giving macaroni art again. But don’t just phone it in with a paper plate frame. No, get your shit together, Cheryl. You’re an adult now. Think of something they love, something they use every day and just…enhance it. Little reminders of your love all over their house via the power of macaroni. Boyfriend plays a lot of videogames? Macaroni the shit out of his X-Box controller. Sister has a favourite coffee mug? Everything is better with macaroni! And if you’re my OG Italian grandparents, prepare for a macaroni covered Virgin Mary statue, painted gold natch, to add to your collection.
2.A Prison Style Tattoo
Nothing says “eternal love” like a tattoo of some broad’s name across your doughy bicep. Tattoos are the epitome of ‘forever’, which is how long love lasts, right? While some people may balk at the permanence of such a gesture, I think it speaks to the person’s sense of spontaneity and commitment, as well as how easy it’ll be to swindle money from them in the future. So my suggestion to you, friends, is give the longest lasting gift of all: a prison style stick-and-poke tattoo.
NOT ON YOURSELF, you walnut. What are you crazy? Those things don’t rub off. I meant give one to your sweetheart! Preferably while they are sleeping or after they drank from that wine glass with all the Ambien in it that you ‘accidentally’ left sitting on the counter. That way, it’ll be a super-duper surprised when they wake up and see your name or “I’ll be watching you” across their chest (thank you Sting for the endless supply of romantic song lyrics to choose from). Remember: No one regrets a love tattoo. Not even Johnny Depp. Or at least, that’s what my 1990 copy of People Magazine says. I really should renew my subscription.
3.The Severed Heads of their Enemies
Anyone who has ever attended post-secondary school has heard the term “Turkey Dump”. For those not in the know, the Turkey Dump refers to the unusually high number of breakups that happen during the Thanksgiving weekend. Many young people experience their first taste of freedom while in college; living away from home, eating ramen with processed cheese slices and Red Bull for every meal (ie. my Freshman year), and meeting tons of new and exciting people. It can take the shine out of any prior hometown affections, including your highschool girlfriend. You realize she’s just not as interesting as that cool chick you met in your Women’s Studies class who has a nose ring and uses hemp tampons, and you use the visit home as the perfect opportunity to dump her townie ass.
So surprise your loved one with something that will stay with them forever. Break up with them, preferably under mistletoe or after a few subtle hints that may lead them to believe you’re about to propose. It’s got everything in a homemade gift you could ask for. It’s straight from the heart, it’ll surprise the shit out of them, and it’ll make their Christmas the most memorable one yet. The only money you’ll spend is replacing the tires they may eventually slash.
5.A Mixed CD
This is actually just a really sweet gift, more people should give mixed CDs. Just no Yanni unless you secretly dislike the person.
Merry Shitscram to you and yours. May your clothes not be soiled by the smells of Fishmas past.
I’m very 2015 when it comes to romance, meaning my standards are pretty low. Taking me someplace that offers unlimited refills on Diet Pepsi is essentially the real life equivalent of meeting me at the top of the Empire State Building at midnight on Valentine’s Day. In a world of late night booty calls and unwanted dick pics, I consider a guy to be a ‘gentleman’ if he uses proper grammar and remains fully clothed throughout our date.
However, at Christmas, my expectations take a sleigh ride to the next level.
The fact that there’s an entire holiday celebrating a virgin becoming pregnant without having sex makes me believe that at Christmas, anything is possible. This includes the possibility that your crush will magically appear at your doorstep on Christmas Eve to proclaim his or her undying love.
The year’s winding down, the romantic comedies are airing on Lifetime and the W Network, Mariah Carey is still singing at that pitch only the neighbourhood dogs can hear, and all of a sudden, you’re fantasizing about PG, first base, over the shirt stuff.
This is my first Christmas as a single lady in a few years, and I’m happy with my relationship status. It’s my choice to be solo right now, and do the ol’ personal inventory and figure out what I’m looking for.
That being said, I’ve still got this secret desire that I’ll be wearing my cowl neck cream coloured holiday sweater, I’ll have finally learned how to contour my nose, I’ll be just about to crack open a bottle of wine and break my sobriety-ish vow when there will be a knock at the front door. I answer the door to see snow gently falling and an out of breath Stud wearing a turtleneck, but I’ll let it go because it’s Christmas and I can’t be picky right now.
I’ll feign surprise, “What’re you doing here! My word!”
Then he’ll say, “My car broke down so I ran here.”
Aw, he has a car. But it’s broken. Regardless, I’ll be batting my eyelashes, “Studly, what’s going on?”
And then bam, he hits you with the good moves…and all of a sudden….
But he verbalizes it. Says it out loud, like an articulate, emotionally available winner.
Then he’ll tell me that he was in a dark place on a bridge, and an angel will appear and show him what life would have been like if he had never been born. I’ll say this all sounds terribly familiar, but I’ll encourage him to keep going, because this is disrupting my quiet evening at home with mother #GreyGardens.
He’ll say the angel said that if he was never born, I would be home alone on Christmas Eve with two men trying to rob my house and nobody would be there to save me.
That’s when he realized he would be heartbroken if I died, because he’s been in love with me from the moment we met and it’s OK that I cuss like a sailor, can’t cook to save my life, and am probably never going to make my target weight.
Then he’ll dip me dramatically and kiss me, and we’ll live happily ever after or for at least two years because that’s my track record.
Totally possible, right?
Am I the only one who feels this way, or do you find the holidays incredibly romantic as well?
This post was alternatively titled, “Gift ideas for kids so that they don’t grow up to be assholes.”
It can be tough to buy for the little’uns at Christmas. There are so many gadgets and thingamajigs and hot new toys, it’s very possible that you’ll be trampled to death inside of a Toys R’ US while hunting for the perfect gift of Madison and Madisyn.
Since I’m not a parent, I get to sleep in on Christmas morning, and don’t have to live with a disappointed child who didn’t get everything they wanted on Christmas.
I’ve picked up several tricks being an Aunt and I’m here to share my wisdom with you:
Never buy clothes for children that aren’t yours. It’s a complete waste of money ; they grow so damn fast. By the time the Madison’s open their present they’ve probably grown three inches and your gift needs to be returned or exchanged for something else.
While we’re at it, never buy toys for children that aren’t yours, either. You’re just going to enable them to be greedy little runts, and by December 28th your gift will be cast aside to a dark corner of the basement, and eventually donated to the Salvation Army. Cut out the middle man, and donate to a child in need.
What you SHOULD do, is buy children books. It’s important to nurture a love of reading at an early age, and to all those parents with their nightime routines, a good book can do wonders in lulling your child off to dreamland.
Let’s face it, if children are the future, I would rather the next generation not be complete assholes. It’s inevitable that someone out there is going to raise an asshole, but I’d rather that asshole be literate and quoting Goethe to me while being a complete dick.
Here’s a suggestion from Auntie Bib:
Gift a book you loved as a child, and write a message on the inside of the book cover explaining what you loved about the book, and what you hope the child learns from the story.
If you REALLY want to hit a homer and school these kids on life lessons, write a few questions at the end of the book for the child and their parent (or whomever is reading the book) to discuss.
These are some books I feel like all children should have in their library!
Note: This post was first published on my blog Little Bit(ch) in 2012. It’s an oldie, but a holiday goody. Enjoy!
I’m not one of those people who look forward to the holidays. I’m not a Grinch, but I definitely sense some Scrooge within me.
I delay in putting up decorations, I only give hugs as gifts (because I’m cheap) and I don’t necessarily enjoy Christmas carols.
The one thing I do delight in is the dysfunction of my family- and dysfunction + Christmas = treasured memories.
If you’re Italian, you celebrate Fish-mas.
Every year on Christmas Eve, my little Italian grandparents sacrifice an ocean’s worth of fish and fry it/bake it/try to hide it in spaghetti sauce.
For rookies attending their first fish-mas, there are several rules one must follow.
Leave your coat in the car: If you wear your winter coat into a house celebrating fish-mas, you will need to plastic bag that sucker and find a dry cleaner/ bottles of febreeze. You do not want to be the guy (or especially girl) who smells like fish for the rest of the holiday season. People will mock you, and refuse to sit near you.
Dress appropriately: By dressing appropriately, I don’t mean dressing up or wearing your favourite new sweater you bought for holiday parties. Wear clothes you can burn afterwards – because you will want to burn your clothes afterwards to get the smell of fish out of them.
Brace yourself: You are going to be overwhelmed by a mass quantity of food. The proper etiquette is to eat a little bit of everything, so as not to offend the little wops. They don’t care if you’re full – A nice trick I’ve learned is filling a plate of assorted foods, taking it into the living room so you can watch the channel that has the fireplace burning, and throwing it out the front door into the garden for some woodland creature to take home to its squirrel family.
Don’t laugh at the theology: Christmas is never a good time to talk about Catholicism to an elderly Italian man. I’m fairly certain that my Nonno is still angry that he didn’t become a priest. One Fish-mas I was so overwhelmed by the smell of fish that I asked my grandparents why we couldn’t eat turkey like ‘regular white people.’ My Nonno looked me in the eye, and deadpanned “Baby Jesus ate fish on Christmas Eve- so we eat fish on Christmas Eve.” I remember thinking that there was no way that could be true for a plethora of reasons so I left it alone. Then there comes the ceremonial blessing before dinner – again, little Tony, the patriarch of our famiglia said “Dear Jesus, we want to thank you for this food, thank you for coming, and we wish you all the best.”
Immediately my cousin and I burst out laughing then we decided, as a matter of fact, we DO wish Jesus all the best.
Bring Your Earplugs Putting my family in closed quarters with an assortment of alcohol is dangerous. It’s inevitable that there will be an argument, some time after the pasta course. It will get very loud, people will threaten to leave, suddenly take up smoking after years of having quit, some one will cry (usually the elderly) and I take this as my cue to go watch that log burning channel and throw out my food. Nothing will be off limits: Someone will insist that on Christmas 1953, baby Angie had pneumonia and there was 4 feet of snow. Then some one will say, in 1953, they had a Buick, and they remember driving on Christmas Day and the roads were fine. Then suddenly, you’re arguing about how in 1999, one brother loaned some one 100 dollars and NEVER got it back. This tension can only be broken by some one falling down after one too many glasses of vino– and suddenly everyone will be too frazzled to remember what they were arguing about.
Remember to take it all in: Remember that one day, you’ll miss these crazy, dysfunctional and clinically insane people – and all you’ll have left are memories of Fish-mas’ past.
This weekend was jam-packed with holiday festivities.
Friday night I went to the movies to see Creed, starring Michael B. Jordan and Sylvester Stallone. I have to say, it’s the most entertaining movie I’ve seen all year. It’s not life changing, by any means, but the fight scenes were really well done, and I’m sorry, but two hours of looking at Michael B. Jordan? *Fanning my undercarriage* It should be criminal to have a back that cut. Seriously. I could wash clothes like a pilgrim on his muscles. *Swoon*
This movie will get me through a long, lonely winter. Thanks, Hollywood.
On Saturday morning, we took my niece Abby to our company Christmas party for a brunch with Santa. My work goes all out for the kiddles, with a petting-zoo, a Frozen sing-a-long, face painting, a candy princess who looked like an Amish extra from the Katy Perry California Girls music video, and of course, brunch with Santa Claus.
After the brunch, and a power nap, it was on to the second party of the day. For those of you who don’t know, I’ve been sober living* since September 26th, when I went to my first Croatian wedding and everything was a pukey-blur thanks to shots of brandy. Anyways, my new found sobriety was a disappointment to party guests who urged me to sing, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Had I been drinking, I would have voluntarily climbed on a table and done a vaudeville rendition of the Christmas tune. It’s so hard to disappoint the fans…
Sunday! The day of A Very Cat Lady Christmas!
I woke up in a tizzy and made several trips to the grocery store for last minute refreshments and was sweating profusely because I was literally RUNNING across the parking lot and the aisles. Of course, when you’re sweating and gross that’s when you’re going to run into everyone you’ve ever met in your entire life. Next year, I’m not going to host a holiday party, I’m just going to go hang out at the grocery store, looking like a hot mess and I’ll eventually see all my friends, family and high school crushes.
Unfortunately, there were several people who cancelled last minute, but there were still lots of people who were able to attend and everyone went home with some yummy holiday treats.
Today, I’m exhausted. I’ve had about 18 hours of sleep over the past three days…usually weekends are my time to average 18 hours of sleep PER day.
I’m currently on break eating cookies alone in the corner, trying to muster up enough energy to y’know, actually do my job, but I’m failing miserably. I’d like to take today as a mulligan, and start fresh tomorrow.
How was your weekend?
What are your holiday party plans? Let’s wear our holiday weight gain like a badge of honour.
*By sober living I mean, I will nurse two glasses of wine throughout the night, and wake up without a tooth ache, drunk texts, and a hangover that lasts for two to three days. That’s as close to sober as I’m ever going to get. You hear that possible future pregnancies? YOU HEAR THAT?
This Sunday, December 6th is the beginning of Hanukkah.
The Kick-off to Hanukkah? The launch of Hanukkah?
Whatever. It’s night one.
Although I’m not one of God’s Chosen People, I’ve been declared the “Most-Jewish Non-Jew” by my friends because of my fascination with this ethno-religion, my love for the TV show, The Nanny and the brief period of my life between the ages of nine and eleven where I was a dead ringer for Anne Frank, no pun intended.
A few years ago, I was in an off-and-on relationship with a Jewish guy, and although I was his shiksa secret who was never invited to family dinners, I thought it would be a good idea to infuse his eight crazy nights with a little sex appeal.
Listen, despite my foul language and uncouth behaviour when intoxicated, I’m admittedly prudish. However, there have been times when I’ve had to conquer my fears and buy condoms or visit an adult shop and I’ve found the experiences to be mortifying but somehow key in my personal growth.
Anyways, back to the ‘Brews. So, I blame the Victoria’s Secret Fashion show for most things, but one year, I was like, “Hey, wouldn’t some holiday lingerie be a super cute?” (and super expensive, btw.) I went to La Senza, a Canadian lingerie brand, and awkwardly hovered around the bra and panty sets.
“Can I help you?” A bubbly salesgirl appeared out of nowhere, conjured by the prospect of commission. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
I began to sweat, upper lip sweat too. “I’m looking for something festive. I’ve never really bought anything…seasonal before.”
“We have so many cute things this year, what kind of look are you going for? Sexy, Sweet?”
Red and green? Too Santa’s Little Helper. Black and Gold? Too New Years Eve Escort. Red and White? Too Candy Striper/Stripper. I was getting overwhelmed and anxious. To me, bras should be black, nude, or white. Functional and not flashy. Get the job done, you know?
I picked up two lingerie sets and held them in front of me. “Which one says, ‘Happy Hanukkah’ to you?”
The girl looked back and forth at the two options in front of her. I tried to imagine her thought process, “Hmm, this one’s too Christian…”
“That one,” She said, pointing to a black and red lace set. Surprisingly, I too thought it looked the most Hanukkah-ish.
It turns out, Hanukkah bras can also be converted to a Christmas bra after your former Jewish squeeze tosses you aside for a lawyer named Rachel.
Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.
Although it didn’t work out for me and Moishe, I see a niche marketing opportunity for lingerie. Maybe a bra that you can light on fire and not burn yourself, or a bra that takes you eight nights to take off so your tits are as free as your people when they did their exodus from Egypt, and appreciative just like your ancestors.
They need to be a thing.
Happy Friday, everyone!
I’ve got some blog ideas in development, but my schedule today means I’ve got to boot n’ rally to get everything done before this weekend’s festivities.
I thought I’d do another Currently tag, and let y’all know what I’m up to this month!
This Currently list is inspired by Katy Upperman a blog I stumbled upon the other day.
A few weeks ago, I came across a blog and podcast called The Bitch Bible, created by Jackie Schimmel. I like to pretend Schimmel’s my long distance BFF and I’m her gentile Canadian friend that would mail her my extra Ativan and get in a bar fight against Kylie Jenner if their feud ever came to a boil.I laugh out loud listening to her podcast, you should definitely check her out!
I’ve been trying to muddle through Purity by Jonathan Franzen for almost two months. I’m bound and determined to finish, but it’s so f*cking boring, I want to cry. He’s definitely one of those authors I name drop when I want someone to realize that I don’t mess around with Chick Lit or YA novels, but damn. This guy missed the mark with his latest novel.
I just downloaded Jessie James Decker’s new Christmas album on Apple Music (which I finally figured out how to use) and I’m obsessed. The CD has some original Christmas songs which I’m really enjoying.
Be sure you check her out!
Lately, I’ve been going to bed at like, 6:30 pm like a seventy-five year old woman, so my TV time is really limited to while I’m eating dinner or getting ready for work. I’m always watching Wendy Williams’ YouTube channel, and have been streaming past episodes of Snooki and J-Woww.
The tackier, trashier a TV show is, the better.
Currently Thinking About
Everything I have to do before Sunday’s jewelry party. Tomorrow I’ll be driving all over the place to different Christmas parties, so I have a very small window of opportunity to finish my party shopping. I’m getting excited about having everyone over to mix n’ mingle and shop for some goodies, so my anxiety level hasn’t crossed into “eating her hair in the corner” territory, just yet.
My Cyber Monday packages haven’t arrived yet and I’m losing my shit.
GIVE ME MY CHUNKY KNIT CREAM COLOURED HOLIDAY SWEATERS, SO I CAN LOOK LIKE A GODDAMN CATALOGUE MODEL AT CHRISTMAS, DAMNIT.
Can’t tell you my real wish, because then it won’t come true. So, I’ll just say, “Peace on Earth.”
Currently Making Me Happy
My psychologist/mind Gandalf, Dr. Jones, has been pushing me to do physical activity for some time as a means to help out with my mood, so about three weeks ago, I began running 5km, three times a week. Thrice, weekly as they say. Last night I beat my best personal time by two minutes, and I haven’t had an emotional breakdown yet about Christmas. I say YET because it’s only December 4th and it’s really just a matter of time.
This shock therapy to my ass and my Christmas Spirit seems to be working (plus anti-depressants and kitten videos, can’t count those out).
What are you currently loving?
A few weeks ago, I decided to host a Stella & Dot jewelry party which I’m really excited about because I love their pieces, lust like crazy over pretty shiny things, and adore my stylist, Jennifer.
Since I’m trying to embrace the holiday spirit, I decided to make the party, “A Very Cat Lady Christmas,” sending out the following invite to my nearest and dearest…
Who doesn’t love shopping for pretty things while overdosing on sugar? The best part is since it’s at my house, you don’t need to hide your hip flask that you’ve been bringing with you to the mall to calm your nerves in the middle of the holiday crowds.
Since I’m a prime example of Peter Pan Syndrome, I still live at home with my Mom, so I had to run the idea of the party by her before I could make concrete plans. Thankfully she agreed with the caveat that I had to buy everything I’d need for the party and do all of the holiday decorating myself.
I’ve literally spent the last four and a half hours decorating one room in the house. ONE. I had to dig the tree and shit out from under the stairs, drag the shit up the stairs, sort through the shit, rearrange the living room, put up the tree… ugh. I’m exhausted. I know there are people who love decorating and find it soothing. You put on some Bing Crosby, drink some hot coco, take out your ornaments and think fondly of the memories each one holds… but I can’t do that. I get overwhelmed by the mess. Then I think about how in 4 weeks I’m going to have to make another mess putting everything away until next year.
My Mom, my supportive Mom, just walked in the room and said, “That’s it?”
The party is in three days, and I’ve got so much to do.
I’m planning on being completely wasted with my head under the Christmas tree, covered in cookie crumbs during the party.
Is your tree up?
Do you enjoy decorating the house for the holidays?
It’s Britney Jean Spears Day!
If you own an Advent Calendar, just eat the entire 24 days left in one sitting because today is REALLY the day that we were blessed with a deity.
Today our Lord and Saviour turns 34, and will no doubt be celebrating in style without a bra, velour track pants and some kind of cheese bi-product snack. I hope Starbucks treats the Queen to something frappy and free!
For the past 8 years, my adoptive sister and I have been celebrating the ups and downs of Brit-Brit’s life. Like most girls who were born in the mid to late 80’s, no one even comes CLOSE to the level of superstardom as Britney J. Spears (formerly Federline).
Beyoncé is close, but I dare say she’s not as likable as Brit.
Britney’s like your best friend from elementary school who kind of went crazy for a little bit after college but got her shit together and has that little glimmer of her former self in her eye. The dark side of Britney, and the fact that we still DON’T really know what happened or what that time of her life was like is what makes her so intriguing.
She essentially rose from the dead and is back to forgive you for abandoning her during her time of need.
By now Brit’s hair as grown back, she’s got her post baby bod on lock since the kids are practically preteens now; all that’s left to do is get her love life in order.
Brit needs a good man. One that’s not using her for fame, and doesn’t mind the days she goes make-up free to Target.
I have faith that this will happen, because I believe in Britney.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRITNEY JEAN!
The birth month of our Lord and Savior, Britney Jean Spears.
I’m currently sitting at my desk, listening to different versions of my favorite Christmas carol, Baby It’s Cold Outside on Spotify , swaying back and forth, not giving a f*ck who sees me.
I’m trying to force myself into becoming a Christmas person, and so far (1 day in) I’m feeling what could be the holiday spirit growing within me , or the beginnings of a yeast infection. Time will tell.
I’ve seen some Christmas Wish Lists circling the blogisphere today, but with it being Giving Tuesday, I decided to partake in this charitable holiday and donate something extra to my favorite organization, Ladybird Animal Sanctuary, which rescues animals from horrific situations and high-kill shelters and gives them a second chance at life.
Who are you helping out this #GivingTuesday?
Let me know!
Show some extra kindness today, Lord knows the world needs it!
“All guys want a virgin. If you can get a girl that’s untouched, you marry her.” I was sitting with my guy friends sipping a mediocre cup of tea, listening to Marcus explain the Holy Grail of the fairer sex. “You want to be the only guy your girl has ever been with.”
I smiled. “That’s absolute bullshit.”
“Not at all, that’s the truth.” Marcus replied with confidence. “Nobody wants a girl with high mileage.”
I mentally ran through the list of “Must Haves” Marcus and Roman had imparted to me. According to them, the ideal woman had to cook, clean, want children, produce children, stay in some sort of physical shape after birthing the aforementioned children, but now she had to have a fully intact hymen, too?
You would think by now my blood would be boiling, but after nearly a year of exposure to conversations like this, I’ve become incredibly immune to their stupidity. I almost take pleasure in it. Like I said, it’s like watching apes in their natural habitat.
“Riddle me this,” I asked the table. “When you’re out and about hooking up with girls, are you thinking, ‘I’ve got to keep my mileage low for my future wife?'”
I was met with a tither of laughter from Marcus. “It’s a double standard, I know, but it’s true. I’m just being honest.”
“I wouldn’t want my future wife to have had sex with like, 20 people, or have been in several long term relationships.” Roman, the devout Catholic of the group added to no one in particular.
Is 20 a lot of people?
In our group, I’m the youngest at 28. Everyone else is in their mid 30’s, and aside from Ken, still single. If the average person has been sexually active from the age of …say…17, and hadn’t been in any serious or long-term relationships, was it unreasonable to believe that by the age of 30, said person was having sex with at least 2 people per year?*
WHAT ARE WE? MONKS?
Marcus decided to turn the tables on the conversation, “Would you ever have sex with a guy who told you he was a virgin? No, you probably wouldn’t. The double standard is real.”
Always needing a backstory, I pushed for more details. “Maybe, I said. Why is he a virgin? Is he waiting until marriage? Is this for religious reasons? Because if it is, that’s a hands-down no.”
“Why not?” asked Roman, the Pope’s representative in Canada.
“Because that would mean we have different beliefs and values. Why would I waste someone’s time if they were upfront with how they live their life? ”
Unsatisfied (just like my imaginary religious suitor), the guys shook their heads at my unwillingness to prove their point.
This was obviously a prime example of patriarchal thinking. Using the word ‘mileage’ to compare women to cars, something that can be acquired as a possession.
What confused me even more, was the idea that these guys were actively engaging with women who weren’t “wife material” but still expected their untouched, virginal spouse to be existing somewhere in the universe going about her day sewing buttons on clothing. Were they not just “ruining” these women for their future husbands?
Were they aware that they were talking to a woman who can’t cook, is on the fence about procreation and who most likely broke her hymen in a bike riding accident when she was a kid?
Listen folks, what I do, who I do, or who I don’t do is none of your GD business. I’m not judging anyone. Do you. Do him. Do the whole football team, I really don’t care. You should never feel bad about your sexuality and sexual history or lack thereof.
What do you think we can do to help rid the world of this kind of sexist, antiquated thinking? Is it too late for these guys? Do all men think this way?
Tell me what you think!
* Note: I have not had 20 partners but fingers crossed!
I’m getting back into the blogging world with my new blog, Boys Don’t Like Funny Girls!
I would love it if you came along for the laughs.