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.
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
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?
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!
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?
This is kitchen table talk. It’s rainy and miserable for the second day in a row here in the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) and I’m sipping a hot tea. Which means…. we need to talk trash about celebrities as if they’re our friends.
Halle Berry files for divorce from Olivier Martinez…
This is Halle’s THIRD divorce and second baby-daddy. She’s 49 years old. Personally I find her a little boring, and I can tell she’s been hurting for work lately because really, what was the last GOOD Halle Berry movie? Monster’s Ball? Did anyone even see Monster’s Ball or do you just know about it because she won the Oscar for it. Personally, I think her best work was BAPS (Black American Princesses), everything else is just a paycheck.
Halle Berry is gorgeous, but I feel like a real bitch because everyone’s like “Oh, how does she keep in such good shape?”
Really? Do some research. She’s diabetic. She has no choice but to leave chocolate alone. That’s just being smart.
Do you ever have that friend who’s really pretty and successful but for whatever reason, sucks at love?
I do. Her name’s Jennifer Lopez.
These two are kind of on the same level here. Both have three divorces under their belt, both are successful in their own right, with two babies at home. I think there’s GOT to be something shady about Jennifer and Halle. They need therapy or Jesus, because whatever they’re doing relationship wise, just isn’t working.
I think Halle needs a break from men, and needs to focus on getting a job worth a Golden Globe or at LEAST an Emmy.
Another girl we go way back with, Gwen Stefani, is making the rounds with shitty music about her divorce. Yes, I called it shitty. Because you know what? It’s shitty. It’s NOWHERE as good as “What You Waiting For” or “Cool”.
Gwen finalized her divorce from Gavin Rossdale this week and has been doing promo for The Voice with her co-stars on any and every talk show in the Western world.
Have you seen the video for “Used To Love You”?
Painful. Cringe worthy.
She’s beautiful, offbeat and an icon for our times (No Doubt was everything to me back in the 90s), but she’s either got to hire better song writers or start hanging around Taylor Swift, because her new music is disappointing.
Gwen’s not… she’s just… she looks hungry. Maybe if the rumors of her and Blake Shelton hooking up are true he can get her to indulge in a rack of ribs or something. Let her roots grow in. Slam a few beers back.
She needs to mix it up because 2005 stuff isn’t working for 2015.
Girls. Take a break. Focus on work. Binge watch Gilmore Girls and have a wallow day.
Wow, I sound so mean these days. But I’m not, I swear I’m just so tired. Hence the tea, and smack talk.
Ok, what do you think?
Let’s discuss these newly single ladies. What should they do next? What shouldn’t they do? Who should they date?
It’s less than a week away!
On Halloween night, for one night only, the dead are free to walk among the living!
Oh, the excitement. I can feel it in the air. Candy is plentiful, unlike the North American supply of Nair as college girls everywhere prepare to strip down to their birthday suits all in the name of All Hallow’s Eve.
You go, slutty pumpkin! You do you, girl.
Slut shaming aside, it’s important to remember the children of the North this October 31st. I’m talking about the millions of kids who every year have their freedom of choice for Halloween costumes stolen from them because of Northern October temperatures.
Growing up in Ontario, I know first hand that Halloween can be ruined by Mother Nature and that son-of-a-bitch who gives you raisins instead of chocolate (Oh, I haven’t forgotten you Mr. Kowalski, I never forget my enemies).
When deciding what to be for Halloween, I had to factor a turtleneck and long johns into the decision making process. It wasn’t uncommon for my mother to buy me a costume two sizes too big to ensure my winter coat could fit underneath my witch’s dress.
To avoid having my costume ruined by weather appropriate clothing, I considered anything above 5 degrees Celsius to be “T-shirt weather” and have bravely come down with pneumonia all in the name of collecting what’s mine.
I gave a Meryl Streep worthy performance during the massive shit-fit I threw when my Mom insisted I wear gloves with my costume, or sweatpants under my princess dress. I had artistic integrity. I was a method actor on Oct. 31st. No princess would be caught dead in sweatpants!
We would compromise on three layers of pantyhose and I would confidently leave my house feeling like royalty, only to have the cold air hit me and immediately make me feel like I was going to pee my pants.
Ladies, back me up here. When you have to pee, pantyhose are like a tight hug from the devil himself. You can’t shimmy out of those things fast enough.
I’ve gone Trick-or-Treating in the snow, and I’ve seen many people dressed as Santa Claus knocking on doors for candy, or children wearing balaclava’s dressed as bank robbers. Those kids were the lucky ones; their faces weren’t frozen to the point of facial paralysis. You know how many times I had snot dripping down my face as I smiled at a stranger’s door while Trick or Treating? Too many to count, that’s how many.
We toughed it out. We tasted the salty snot and we kept motoring.We persevered. When I see a kid at my door wearing a cute animal onesie as a costume, my first reaction is, obviously, “Aw,” but my next reaction is to tell them to buck-up, look alive, eat some snot. That’s why my immune system is so strong. Halloween snot. Then I give their parents a disapproving look, and tell them to hit the bricks. Come back when you’re ready to play with the big boys (and girls).
It’s been a few years since her last album. I’ve had time to heal from “Someone Like You.” I can now successfully listen to that heart wrenching song and not be sent into rib crushing sobs.
Now, just in time for your latest break-up, she’s back and better than ever.
Whenever I see the winged eye-liner, the cheek contouring, the voluminous hair… It makes me nervous. I get all weird like an animal before a storm, because I’m 100% positive I’m not emotionally stable enough to handle an Adele ballad.
Take a listen to her new single and then let’s talk.
Did you cry? Did you want to cry, but you’re at work and not successful enough to have an office with four walls? Yeah. Me either. You gotta keep your shit together when you sit in a cubicle.
That girl is #blessed with a beautiful voice.
What do you think?
I’m in the first 24 hours of Red Wedding Week, which means everyone around me is treading lightly like they’re looking for landmines with Princess Diana. If I don’t constantly have a chocolate bar or cookie in my hand, I’m a miserable human being to be around.
Since I’m hormonal and volatile, I obviously thought, “Why not channel this ovarian rage into a blog post?”
Here’s a list of things I’m irrationally hating this week.
Zooey Deschanel reveals the name of her baby girl to be Elsie Otter.
Really? An Otter? Is that a family name? Unless it’s after a relative who fled Eastern Europe during the Holocaust, that’s a dumb name to give to your baby. In fact…
People who name their babies after animals – NOPE.
Bear. Birdie. Raven. Hawk. Phoenix. Fox.
I don’t even like the name Joey because it makes me think of Kangaroos. Sure, it’s cute to say, “This is our little baby Bear” but in 20 years when Bear’s applying for a job, I’m worried he’s going to wear his best Birkenstocks and shirt made of hemp to the interview.
People who Instagram pictures of themselves doing Yoga – NOPE.
There’s nothing zen and in the moment of you asking your friend to get out of warrior pose and snap your picture. You’re not searching for balance and inner peace, you’re thirsty for likes. Buddha’s judging you.
Drake’s Turtleneck – NOPE
Like all girls within a 100km radius of Toronto, I for sure have a lady hard-on for Drake. What I refuse to accept is that he’s trying to bring back the turtleneck for men in his video Hotline Bling. Not just a turtleneck, a chunky knit turtleneck of 98 Degrees proportions. I’m not against people keeping their necks warm, but I will not stand by and let the early 2000’s come back into fashion. If we let this happen we’re opening the door for bedazzled boot-cut jeans and studded belts.
I won’t stand for it.
#NormalizeBreastfeeding – NOPE
This hashtag drives me up the wall. Normalize breastfeeding? I can’t think of anything that’s MORE normal than breastfeeding a baby. Seriously. There was literally a point in history when there was a woman, in your village or town, whose job was to breastfeed babies that weren’t even her own. It’s called a Wet Nurse.
Just like I don’t enjoy when people Instagram food, I don’t enjoy people who post pictures of themselves breastfeeding their children. I get it, it’s natural. It’s good for your baby, and all those who don’t breastfeed will burn in the fiery depths of hell (yeah right), but please. I came on Instagram for two reasons :
- To stalk randoms and celebrities with beautiful hair and to feel like shit about my life
I want to have unrealistic ideas about other people’s lives, and I want to look at foster kittens. I don’t want to interrupt your child’s dinner. Frankly, it’s rude. No phones at the dinner table. Have some manners.
So, that’s me for the next 4-6 days. If anyone needs me I’ll be in bed by 5pm with a giant bag of Skinny Pop binge watching American Horror Story.
I bid you farewell.
To all the babies and future babies named after animals, I’ll still love you.