twenty something

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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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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

#PeriodProblems: Reasons I’m crying

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*

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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

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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.

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Day 2: Evening

Crying because you’ll get to adopt a kid and keep shit right down there.

*Tears of joy*

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Day 3: Watching old Hollywood movies and crying because everyone in the movie is probably dead

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Day 4: Checking online dating profiles and crying because you’re online dating

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Day 4: 10 mins later

Crying because you’re worried nobody will love the guys you’re swiping left to. SOMEONE SHOULD LOVE THEM!

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(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.

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Day 6: Adele.

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Day 7:

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)

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Day 8: PTSD

You only have 21 days before you have to relive the carnage.

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Brb. Gotta go eat some cookies.

 

 

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?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!