Life & Times

Happy (Not a) Mother’s Day!

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).

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

 

 

 

 

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Revenge is mine: Why I (finally) joined a gym

There are three things I fear:

  1. Tornadoes
  2. Unplanned pregnancies
  3. 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.

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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?”

Revenge.

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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.

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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?

Revenge

Regret (on their part)

Rue-ing the day they met me. RUE IT.

 

I’m not crazy.

(Ok, maybe just a bit).

 

 

 

The Bachelor: Boring people stay boring, Jojo FTW

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.

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Joelle “Jojo” Fletcher – Source 

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.

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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.

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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.

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Not cool.

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!

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Our amazing t-shirts designed and made by my friend, Olivia!

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The Monday night squad!

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A party without cake is just a meeting

Did you watch the Bachelor finale?

Were you happy with Ben’s pick?

 

Are they going to make it? Let’s chat!

 

 

That time my photos were used by a Catfish: My experience with online deception

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 had just arrived home after a long day of travel and was aching for my bed. I brushed off the message as a scam, and thought some hacker was trying to get me to follow a link to a virus and carried about my plans to turn in early.  Then I received another message…
I think that someone’s using your pics with ur blonde friend on a threesome website here in London! (Don’t judge me for using it lol) But I saw you live in Canada…So yeah thought I should let you know!” 
My stomach dropped. Ever the wordsmith, I typed my reply, ” Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. Is this for real?!? Random yes. But…Really?!?”
I frantically paced back and forth while waiting for proof that I was being used in some kind of 50 shades of Grey meets Catfish type scenario. Within minutes, my online soothsaying  guardian angel provided a screen cap of an online profile with several of my personal photos under the username “AmyJo.”
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I couldn’t contain my laughter.
I say a lot of dumb shit. I’m constantly joking about diabetes being the ultimate diet, about my plans to start an online dating site called Daddy Issues for children of divorce, and most recently, while watching an episode of Catfish on MTV, I declared that the ultimate validation of my looks would be to have someone use my photos to Catfish another person.
I giggled to myself while musing on the way the universe works. Just my luck. The universe doesn’t listen to me when I say, “I want to marry Jake Gyllenhaal” or “I wish I won the lottery.”   No. That would be TOO good. This is the one thing the universe picks up and brings into fruition.
I was flattered for a good two minutes, before I burst into tears. I looked at the photos that were being used and realized they came from my blog. I immediately blamed myself for being foolish and sharing my personal life on the internet. My knee-jerk reaction was to delete everything and live off the grid, off the land, in a Podunk town in Iowa. I felt exposed, vulnerable, stupid, angry… the whole spectrum of emotions.
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Then, I stepped outside of myself and my feelings and thought about the people who thought they were talking to  “me” online. The fact that someone used my photos to make an online dating profile is one thing, but the sexual component to the site introduced an entirely new set of concerns. I’m all for people doing what they want to do sexually, but  hours of Dateline and Law and Order episodes immediately brought the worst case scenario into play. I would hope that anyone using ANY kind of online dating site would arrange to meet in public first, but I was worried someone would arrange to meet with “me” and be in danger when they discovered little ol’ AmyJo is not who she appeared to be. I couldn’t bear the thought that someone could get hurt physically or emotionally because of this fake profile.
I immediately contacted the site about their user, but 12 hours later I still hadn’t received a response. Taking matters into my own hands, I joined the site and sent AmyJo a message to stop using my photos because the jig was up!
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The next day I received a response from the site that the user had been deleted, and they gave their apologies.
Whatever.
I decided it was best to see if any of my photos were being used online, and ran several Google image searches uploading my images into the search engine as well as the image location. (For more information on how to run these searches, click here).  Nothing out of the ordinary turned up.
The problem with sites like LikeThree, is that they require you to sign up in order to access user profiles. This means, no Google search would detect that your images are being used. It would be up to the users of the site to save an image, and then complete a search to see if the user in question, is in fact, who they say they are.  Had it not been for Twitter and the #TheBachelor hashtag, I would never have known that my images were being used for a fake profile. The scary thing is, I don’t know if they’ll be used AGAIN or where else they’ll appear.
There are all kinds of crazies in the world – all kinds of people with ulterior motives looking online for images to steal. There are ways you can protect your images (watermarks for example) but how much of what we do, create and upload is at the mercy of the ethics and morals of other users?  With an open Instagram, Twitter and WordPress, should I really be surprised that my images were stolen?
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These questions have been swirling around in my mind for the past few days, and I still feel strangely vulnerable even after everything’s been taken care of (to my knowledge). Even though the real issue is with the people who are stealing these images,  I’m not sure there will ever be a way to ensure people stop creating fake accounts and profiles. Unfortunately, we can only practice safety and caution when meeting and talking to people online.
Click here for more details on safe online dating practices.
I can’t tell you how grateful I am to the person who came forward about this deception, and I’m glad they’re safe and caught AmyJo in these lies. My friends have been really great about the ordeal, sharing in my fears as well as doing their best to make me laugh. It’s been decided that if ever I do something out of the ordinary, a little risque or out of character, I will be affectionately dubbed “AmyJo.”
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No, it’s AmyJo

Has this ever happened to you? Have you or anyone you know been the victim of a Catfish?
Tell me!

 

Just call me Miss Scarlett: My life with Scarlet Fever

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!

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

Big mistake.

Huge.

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.

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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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

2016 So far: Where I was when I wasn’t here

Happy 2016!

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?

For free?

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.

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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!

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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, please love me!

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!”

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Yeah…

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.

xoxoxo

A Modern Retelling of the Christmas Story Part 2: It’s a Boy!

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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blogmas Day 22: The Littles are waiting for Santa!

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 Lovethat 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.

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Evie Winter’s First Christmas – Photo by Nathan Nash

Click here for more cuteness!

Blogmas Day 21: Mingle like Kringle

Happy Monday!

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.

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With the Birthday Girl & Beck! 

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.

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When your cousin messages you to say, “How’s everything?” You send her a photo of pure friendship. 

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.

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Little Tonino and Mary 

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.