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The Bachelorette: Episode 1- Good Mojo 4 Jojo

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:

Jojo

 

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

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.”

Chad

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!

Luke

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.

 

Brandon

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?

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know what girls like: 9 Ways to appear more attractive to women

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.

Shower. Seriously. 

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.”

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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.

Groom Thyself 

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.

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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.

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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

3. Jeans

4. Shoes

Go home, rent Crazy, Stupid, Love and let Ryan Gosling educate you in the art of style.

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Smile 

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?”

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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.

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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?

 

 

 

 

So you’ve realized you’re an online stalker: Welcome to the club

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.

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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.

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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.”

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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.

I swear.

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Happy lurking, Y’all!

Things that make you say, “Nope!” Pt. 2

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…

NOPE!

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.

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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…

NOPE!

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.

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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…”

NOPE!

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.

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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…

NOPE!

Grease: Live was fantastic.

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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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blogmas Day 15: A Modern Retelling of The Christmas Story – Pt. 1

To dismay of my mother, and the delight of my Italian grandfather, I have my Bachelor of Arts in Religious Studies. No, this isn’t a case of Dissociative Identity Disorder where I have an incredibly pious personality that kills it at academia, during university I wanted to be a teacher and thought religious studies was my golden ticket to a full time job.
Spoiler alert: I work in IT.
However, I relish any opportunity to flex my undergrad muscles and talk shop, and thought since my Modern Retelling of the Easter Story was warmly received, I would like to take this opportunity to teach ya’ll about Christmas, as it is told in the Good Book.
So gather ’round and quiet that little part of your brain that says, “This is scientifically impossible.”
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Let’s talk about the Christmas Story!
Ok. So. To understand Jesus’s birth story, we have to talk about his cousin, John the Baptist.
JB’s dad, Zechariah,  was a devout priest who was married to a woman named Elizabeth who happened to be cousins with Mary the soon to be Mother of God. Maybe they were first cousins, or second cousins, but whatever, they were related. Anyways,  the couple was getting up there in age, and didn’t have any children. So, Zechariah takes his personal problems to work, and decides to pray to God to give him a child.
One day, the angel Gabriel appears to Zechariah and is like, “Hey girl, good news. God sent me to tell you to calm your tits, because he’s going to give you and your wife a baby boy.”
Zechariah, an unfortunately patriarchal man, was like, “How is this possible? My father-in-law sold me a lemon, she’s too old to have kids.”
Gabriel was pissed, and was like, “Do you want this baby or not?”
Zechariah, facing professional embarrassment for turning away a gift from God, backpedaled and accepted the late in the game pregnancy.
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“Excellent,” Gabriel said, text messaging God the news.”But you have to name the baby John.”
“I kinda always thought I’d name my son Zechariah, too. Then I’d be called Big Z, and he’d be Little Z, it would be so cute.”
“You name him John, or I fucking walk. There’s a whole big plan set in motion, and you’re going to keep your GD mouth shut because you doubted God and his power, got it? Not a word to nobody.”
Zechariah left the temple and didn’t say a word to anyone.
A little while later, Elizabeth became pregnant but didn’t tell anyone, hiding her pregnancy like a teenager girl in Catholic school (maybe this was all foreshadowing?).

MEANWHILE, In Nazareth….

Mary was just a small town girl, living in a lonely world, engaged to a seemingly good guy named Joseph. One day, Mary was just kicking it at home when the angel Gabriel appeared to her.
“Hey girl, guess what? You’ve been chosen to carry the son of God. You’re going to conceive a son, name him Jesus, and we’ve got a whole marketing plan set up that’s going to make him the most important person in the world. Like, you have no idea. It’s going to be huge.”
Mary was confused, “But I’m a virgin.”
“Duh, that’s why I’m here. Don’t worry, we’re going to call you Virgin Mary FOREVER, just to make sure you remain virtuous, k?”
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“Forever? Gee, I dunno…” Mary was doubtful. “How is this whole thing supposed to work anyways? Pregnant without sex?”
“Don’t worry. The Holy Spirit’s going to gently wash over you, and you won’t feel a thing. Which, from what I hear is often the case for a lot of women…so…”
They sat in awkward silence.
“But hey! If you don’t believe me, ask your cousin Elizabeth. She’s old as shit but she’s knocked up and six months along! The word of God never fails.”
“This doesn’t seem possible ,but with me being a girl and all, what do I know? Guess I’m having a baby!”
And then they squealed like giddy school girls in a Clear Blue commercial.
However, there was one last person to get on board with this story, Joseph, Mary’s soon to be husband.
Upon hearing that Mary was pregnant, Joseph was right pissed. There was no way in hell he was going to marry someone pregnant with another dude’s baby. Then one night, he had a dream, and in the dream an angel appeared to him.
“Hey girl, guess what? You’ve got to lighten up on this whole baby thing. Mary’s carrying the son of God, Bible. Swears. It’s legit. We’ve got a full plan set in stone for him, and he’s going to be bigger than the Beatles. She can still wear white on her wedding day, you won’t even know the difference down there after that baby is born, OK? So, you’re just going to have to deal with this and marry her, or else you’ll go down in history as the asshole who didn’t want to raise the Son of God. Choice is yours.”
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When Joseph woke up he agreed to take Mary as his wife, but decided he wasn’t going to… you know… “know her as a woman”  until after she had the baby. Which is probably for the best.
Once everyone was copacetic about these babies, Mary trekked it to visit Elizabeth in Judea. Maybe it was doubt, or maybe it was the lack of support for being an unmarried pregnant woman, but Mary needed that family bonding.
Upon seeing that Elizabeth was in fact preggers, she exclaimed, “Holy shit!” And it was at that moment that the Holy Spirit went into Elizabeth’s womb and little John the Baptist did a rumbly in his Ma’s tumbly.
And there you have it! The first part of the Christmas Story!
Babies for everyone!

Blogmas Day 11: Homemade Christmas Gifts for the Cash-Flow Challenged

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.

1.Macaroni Everything

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.

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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.

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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

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4.Heartbreak

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.
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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.

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Merry Shitscram to you and yours. May your clothes not be soiled by the smells of Fishmas past.