Living with the Insanity of your Twenties.
Mon, Jul 26 2010 05:45
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my Twenties. This is probably because my thirtieth birthday is approaching FAST. Like, in just under two months. Anyways, the other day I was telling a friend a story about the house I lived in when I was going to University (see previous entry re: bedroom ceiling collapsing) and I realized something about my 20's:I LIVED IN TOTAL UTTER CHAOS.
Is it really that surprising that I was a bit of a headcase?
For the first 3. 5 years that I lived in Toronto (minus the 6 months I spent living in "The Basement Apartment from Hell" -another blog post altogether) I lived in Student Housing. I could have moved into a sterile dorm room that probably would have had ceilings that DIDN'T COLLAPSE (although I'm sure if I lived there they would have found a way to collapse. Just like how "Basement Apartment from Hell" managed to flood in the middle of January). Instead, I let my Left-Leaning-West-Coast-Granola-Crunching upbringing & my love for Victorian homes get the best of me. I decided my new home would be my school's "Co-operative Alternative Residences". The name alone conjures up images of tie-dye, reusable coffee mugs strung off of M.E.C backpacks, Birkenstocks & lots of borderline communist activity. If you were thinking this too, you'd be right.
Back in the 60's and 70's during the height of flower power, the "Co-Op" purchased a dozen or so large Victorian homes in the neighborhood adjacent to the University. These houses were then converted into Student Residences. I lived in one of these Victorian homes on a beautiful tree lined street. We shared the neighborhood with other students, yuppies & a whole slew of Frat Houses (this how I learned that it is never a good idea to walk down Madison Ave looking remotely attractive on a warm day). My room was pretty. It had yellow walls, big bay windows & a fireplace. The rent was cheap.
The downside to all this? I lived in a house with 9 other people and some small livestock (I'll get to that later).
Living in the other 9 bedrooms were a rotating cast of "colorful characters" which included,
-a guy who subsisted on a hot-dog only diet
-someone with "Seinfeld-B.O" (as in the "B" was independent of the "O". When the "B" left the room, the "O" would linger)
-a certified hermit who only became less hermit-like when I started sleeping with him during my last 6 months of living there (I saw his reclusive nature as a challenge).
- "LoPants" my roomie who had a permanent plumbers crack and would say stuff like "So, I just masturbated" whenever she came into the kitchen (She was such an over-sharer. Someone should have told her about blogging.)
-a guy who would always answer his door alone, shirtless, sweaty, and out of breath like I had just interupted his "Gentleman Time" (I should have tried to set up him up with LoPants)
There were 3 bathrooms.
My friend C. who lived in the house next door had it worse. His cast of characters included but was not limited to:
-a 40 year old virgin who played the trombone (When I saw THIS years later, I almost peed myself laughing)
-a guy who in 3.5 years, I only ever saw wearing pijamas pants and a bathrobe.
-a proffessional pandhandler
-a German sheppard
There was only one bathroom....for 14 people.
I never slept with anyone from that house mostly because I feared that if I did I might actually have to use that bathroom.
(The house down the street was even worse. They had to evict someone because the dude went all Howard Hughes-ey, stopped paying his rent, barricaded himself in his room behind a fortress of canned soup and started saving his toe-nail clippings in jars. I only know this because I slept with one of his room-mates.)
I had a hard time convincing people that I didn't live in some weird Dharma-Initiative-style Communist state ...because well, I kind of did. There were lots of rules. There were job charts. Everything was bought in bulk. Our basement was full of massive bales of the cheapest and scratchiest no-name toilet paper known to man. We were forced to use inneffective cleaning products made from natural ingredients (kind of a problem when you have 14 people sharing a bathroom). There were commitees for everything (ie. I sat on the Vermin removal committee). It wasn't uncommon to see a "If its brown flush it down, if its yellow let it mellow" sign in a shared washroom. There was a frightening communal compost heap in our backyard that reminded me of the Garbage pile from Fraggle Rock. I'm sure when we were all sleeping (or passed out drunk) it mumbled Markist theory.
I'd lived there for 2 years when elections came up for "Co-op Manager". I was already the elected Manager of my own house (dishing out anti-recycling fines & cleaning infractions like a good little comrade) and it was my roomate who pushed me to climb the ranks so to speak. She said it would "improve my leadership skills" (It didn't. I was a terrible leader). I won the election by a landside...because no one else ran against me (this should have been a sign). My ancestors left Russia to escape all this shit and here I was embracing this hot commie mess with open arms.
At first I liked the power of being the only person with a master key to the supply closet (I was the sole controller of scratchy toilet paper! muahahahaha). But, then all this power just got annoying like when people actually wanted stuff. Drunk people who were locked out of their rooms who needed someone to let them in at 4am. People who needed more toilet paper. Cleaning violations. Farm animals (I'll get to that later). People calling me asking if they could trade 3 bottles of hippie brand Dutch Cleanser for more toilet paper. THERE WAS NEVER ENOUGH TOILET PAPER. EVER. I would usually spend my Saturday afternoons trying to bribe someone with a drivers liscense (usually with the promise of more toilet paper) to drive me to the wholesale toilet paper depot (it exists. It's on Dupont Street) in the decrepid Co-op supply van (I always felt like it was on the verge of self-destructing & bursting into flames) where I would load 65 packages of scratchy toilet paper into the back of the van, usually with tears in my eyes because I knew that it wouldn't be enough. We actually needed 80 packages.
Like all good communist states things started to unravel. The people want what the people want! I couldn't keep up with the demand. I lost control. People started to run out of toilet paper at the most inopertune moments. I became known as the worst Co-op Manager of all time (next to the guy who was caught stealing used matresses). Eventually, in one of the most embarassing moments of my life, a coup was organized and I was impeached.
This was all happening around the same time that I decided to STOP drinking. Which, now in hindsight almost seems like a bad idea.
Even with my shit-show stint as Co-Op Manager over, I still had to manage the affairs of the house in which I lived. Most of my time was spent handling the RABBIT problem.
Yes, I said RABBIT.
My housemate who lived below me kept rabbits in her bedroom. They were "free range" - meaning they weren't kept in cages. The floor of her bedroom was covered with wood chips and blankets, that the rabbits would use to "relieve themselves". She also used to wash the rabbit blankets (crap pads) in the communal washing machine. When I wasn't chairing a meeting about how the first floor of our house smelled like a filthy petting zoo, I was dealing with people who had complaints that their clean laundry smelled like "farm".
At the time I had a part time job at a make-up counter that required us to wear blazers. I'd usually get makeup all over my jacket so I'd wash it before every shift. One day while at work, I had this epiphany. I stuck my hands into the pockets of my freshly washed blazer and felt something weird. I pulled them out, held them out in front of my face and said,
"FUCKING WOOD CHIPS!!!!"
At that moment, I knew I had to move.
I answered an ad on the Tribe message board posted by someone looking for a roomate to share a luxury condo on Bay St.
On moving day, I went upstairs to my former hermit booty call & slipped a note under halfway under his door that said:
"I'm moving out. Call me sometime"
(not really meaning it)
I waited a moment. I heard shuffling noises. I stood back and I watched as the note slowly slid the rest of the way under the door.
It was the end of an era. I never looked back.
(today's photo was found here)
What's your best crazy living situation story?
I waited a moment. I heard shuffling noises. I stood back and I watched as the note slowly slid the rest of the way under the door.
It was the end of an era. I never looked back.
(today's photo was found here)
What's your best crazy living situation story?
|
Dating Myself
Mon, Jul 19 2010 06:21
| 1999, 2003, early twenties, 2001, 2002
I had this really good post planned for today about Threesomes but, I totally chickened out after I found out that apparently one of the kids I used to babysit for has been reading my blog (OH GOD). He's 20 -something but, still (OH GOD). Yup, that's me...corrupting the youth.
It makes me wonder, who else is reading this?!
So in lieu of another tawdry story about my shady dating history, I thought I'd share the story about how I learned to stop dating other people...and instead learned to date myself.
As the oldest of two children, I've always been pretty independent. When I was growing up I loved socializing. I was the kid who was so busy talking during the lunch-hour that I'd actually forget to eat my lunch. I was also a goody-two-shoes (work with me here). The only time I ever got in trouble was for talking too much (some things never change). With that said, I was also the kind of kid who could spend hours in her room, playing with her stuffed animals & barbies, working on art projects, making up dance routines, completely content to amuse myself for hours on end. As a teenager I also loved spending time alone: writing, listening to records, going for walks on the beach. My family is small and close knit and while I was growing up I always had a tight circle of close friends. Being alone wasn't lonely because I knew that whenever I didn't want to be alone, I was surrounded with all these wonderful people who had known me my own life.
I'd always dreamed of leaving my sleepy seaside town for some big, strange, exciting place. When I was 18, I did exactly that. Instead of going to University, I signed up for some college classes and bought a one-way ticket to Toronto, a city thousands of miles away where I knew virtually no one. Once I started "living my dream" I realized something: I was completely alone...and for the first time, alone felt lonely.
I was so desperate to meet people, that I would literally be friends with ANYONE. If you were a weirdo or mentally unstable in 1999, I would probably be your friend. During this time of my life I met a few really wonderful people (who later became good friends) however, the majority of people I met were less than wonderful. I just didn't see it at the time because I was young, naive, desperately lonely and hadn't quite figured out that a lot of people just didn't have good intentions. That's how I ended up hanging out with people like The Worm. However, getting Tequila'ed up & molested by The Worm in his Porsche, was just the tip of the ice-berg when it came to bad experiences. I was wracking up disturbing life experiences like it was going out of style. Maybe at some point I'll actually start to get into detail about what actually happened, but for now its just safe to say that by the end of my first year in Toronto I was kind of a mess emotionally.
It makes me wonder, who else is reading this?!
So in lieu of another tawdry story about my shady dating history, I thought I'd share the story about how I learned to stop dating other people...and instead learned to date myself.
As the oldest of two children, I've always been pretty independent. When I was growing up I loved socializing. I was the kid who was so busy talking during the lunch-hour that I'd actually forget to eat my lunch. I was also a goody-two-shoes (work with me here). The only time I ever got in trouble was for talking too much (some things never change). With that said, I was also the kind of kid who could spend hours in her room, playing with her stuffed animals & barbies, working on art projects, making up dance routines, completely content to amuse myself for hours on end. As a teenager I also loved spending time alone: writing, listening to records, going for walks on the beach. My family is small and close knit and while I was growing up I always had a tight circle of close friends. Being alone wasn't lonely because I knew that whenever I didn't want to be alone, I was surrounded with all these wonderful people who had known me my own life.
I'd always dreamed of leaving my sleepy seaside town for some big, strange, exciting place. When I was 18, I did exactly that. Instead of going to University, I signed up for some college classes and bought a one-way ticket to Toronto, a city thousands of miles away where I knew virtually no one. Once I started "living my dream" I realized something: I was completely alone...and for the first time, alone felt lonely.
I was so desperate to meet people, that I would literally be friends with ANYONE. If you were a weirdo or mentally unstable in 1999, I would probably be your friend. During this time of my life I met a few really wonderful people (who later became good friends) however, the majority of people I met were less than wonderful. I just didn't see it at the time because I was young, naive, desperately lonely and hadn't quite figured out that a lot of people just didn't have good intentions. That's how I ended up hanging out with people like The Worm. However, getting Tequila'ed up & molested by The Worm in his Porsche, was just the tip of the ice-berg when it came to bad experiences. I was wracking up disturbing life experiences like it was going out of style. Maybe at some point I'll actually start to get into detail about what actually happened, but for now its just safe to say that by the end of my first year in Toronto I was kind of a mess emotionally.
I realized early on that school year that a "good" way to deal with my problems was to party. As hard and as often as possible. I'm not really sure how much of this had to do with me wanting to run away from my problems or whether this is something that all people feel when they are young but, I had this strong desire to always be OUT. Staying at home, doing quiet things was absolutely unbearable. I felt like if I was home I was a missing out on something and obviously a total "loser" (something that now seems pretty ridiculous now that I am older). If I was at home alone, then it would mean that I would actually have to stop and reflect on what was going on with my life. I wanted to avoid that at all costs... so instead I went to great lengths to ensure that never happened. I went to University full time and worked 25-30 hours a week. I scheduled all my shifts so that I would never be home alone on the weekends. I'd work all weekend, party all night, and leave myself just enough time during the week to study & maintain a B average. Even if it meant that I went to my part time job hung-over beyond belief (or god forbid, still kind of drunk from the night before), working a 9 hour shift in this state was actually preferable to being home alone with my thoughts.
When it came to partying, I wouldn't just have a few. I'd drink to the point that bordered on oblivion, where I was comfortably numb. Where I didn't have to feel anything. I also loved to dance, so I would consume to the point where it would just be me, the music and whoever I was dancing with. My self-destructive behavior extended into other areas of my life, mainly boys. I dated a drug dealer. I dated a drug addict. I spent a year being some guy's mistress because on some level I didn't think I deserved any better. It's like I searched out these situations that were destined to end painfully. I like to call these my "train-wreck years". There were signs along the way that I should have stopped what I was doing but I chose to ignore them.
The real wake-up call happened in September of 2003, shortly after my 22nd birthday.
My paternal Grandma, who I had always been very close with, passed away.
I was heartbroken.
My grandma was one of the sweetest, kindest people I've ever known (of course, maybe this is the way most people feel about their grandma's). Losing her gave me this weird feeling that my childhood was now officially over.
September of 2002 was a bad month. To add insult to injury, right after my grandma passed my boyfriend at the time broke up with me. Looking back, this was a blessing in disguise however, at the time it sucked. It felt like someone was taking my already bruised, bleeding heart & was stabbing it repeatedly with a butter knife.
Shortly after the break-up, the leaking started. I noticed that water was squirting out of the light fixture in my bedroom ceiling (why this happened in the first place remains a mystery). I figured I didn't need to add "accidental electrocution" to my list of problems so, I packed an overnight bag & decided to stay on my friend's couch until building maintenance could come and fix the leak. The maintenance people never showed up. Three days later I returned to my apartment to find a 4ft x 4ft hole in my ceiling, and the "ceiling" (pieces of wood, insulation, plaster) on my BED.
I looked up at the hole & saw my upstairs neighbor looking down at me.
him: "So, like... your ceiling fell through while you were away"
me: "Yeah I noticed"
I actually laugh whenever I tell this story because, it is kind of funny. It felt like my world was imploding...and then it actually did.
Even though my heart hurt & I felt overwhelmed, for the first time in years I didn't feel like partying that feeling away. Have you ever had one of those moments where you wake up and say "What the fuck am I doing with my life?". I've had a few. This was one of them. I knew that if I was going to get through this I would need to STOP everything.
I stopped drinking. I stopped partying. I stopped dating. I stopped sleeping with my ex. I started to systemically to cut off all of my friends that reminded me of any of these things (even if they were good people). I didn't want to face them. I didn't want to talk about how I felt. I didn't want to fake being happy any more. When I am truly upset this what I do: I hibernate. I also decided I needed to learn how to do the one thing I used to fear so much: I needed to learn how to be alone. And, this was exactly what I did.
I forced myself to stay home on the weekends. It was hard at first. I'd feel shaky & jittery, like I couldn't sit still. Even though I knew I didn't want to be out partying, I felt like I was scratching at the walls. But, once I eventually got over the initial anxiety and I realized, THIS IS AWESOME.
I COULD DO ANYTHING I WANTED.
Since I wasn't spending my weekends wasted or in the emergency room sitting bedside as my boyfriend had his stomach pumped, I HAD SO MUCH SPARE TIME. I re-discovered what it felt like to wake up on a Sunday without a hangover (omg you have so much energy!). I started to fill my Friday & Saturday nights with things that I enjoyed. I'd borrow my neighbor's VCR (I was a broke student) and rent videos that only I wanted to see. I discovered Sex and the City, and was like "Whoa! I'm not the only one having all these bizarre dating experiences...and they are laughing about it!". I substituted food for booze. On Friday nights I'd go to the grocery store & I'd buy WHATEVER the hell I felt like eating. I'd get brie, avocados, Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, cookies, gummi bears, croissants, pepperoni sticks, popcorn & cheezies. I learned that eating all of these things in succession isn't that great an idea. I stopped being underweight. I put on a well-needed 5-8lbs. My body filled out in a good way. I spent a lot of time at the library because it made me feel less lonely. My B-average turned into an A-average. I started my first blog & met people who I are still my friends today. Did I still feel lonely through any of this? OH HELL YES. Sometimes I felt totally lonely. It was hard but, I worked through it. I decided to embrace the feeling of being a bit lonely because I knew what I was doing was healthier than what I was doing before (minus the new found gummi bear & pepperoni problem)
That winter, I found the perfect solution for what to do on my free Saturday nights: I got a job working at (what was at the time) a high end club/cigar lounge. I started making more money than I had ever made before. FYI. Want to wean yourself off of alcohol? Get a job somewhere where YOU'RE SOBER and everyone around you is WASTED. It's eye-opening. And hilarious.
Working at the club was a good thing because it broke me out of the shell I had been living in. I started to feel better. I started to make new friends & connect with old ones. I started to date again. I realized that I could still go out, have a few drinks & have fun with my friends without being self-destructive. I started to smile & laugh again...but this time, real smiles, not the fake-smiling-eventhough-I'm-sad-ones. Most importantly, on the nights when I wasn't working at the bar I loved going home to my apartment alone, kicking my feet up and saying "I'm OK with this" because I was. I learned to sit still. I learned to be alone again and love it.
So, what is the point of all this? Lately, I've been going through a hard time emotionally. The circumstances are completely different & don't worry - no one has died. Still, its been difficult. Looking back on this other era of my life I've realized this: sometimes shitty things happen. Very shitty things. But, sometimes its these really hard times that push us forward...push us to make changes...push us to get to know ourselves better...push us to face things that we fear. And, if history repeats itself (as I'm hoping it will), its these struggles that lead us to better things.
xox
(Photo found via Rebecca Thuss)
Can anyone else relate to this?
My paternal Grandma, who I had always been very close with, passed away.
I was heartbroken.
My grandma was one of the sweetest, kindest people I've ever known (of course, maybe this is the way most people feel about their grandma's). Losing her gave me this weird feeling that my childhood was now officially over.
September of 2002 was a bad month. To add insult to injury, right after my grandma passed my boyfriend at the time broke up with me. Looking back, this was a blessing in disguise however, at the time it sucked. It felt like someone was taking my already bruised, bleeding heart & was stabbing it repeatedly with a butter knife.
Shortly after the break-up, the leaking started. I noticed that water was squirting out of the light fixture in my bedroom ceiling (why this happened in the first place remains a mystery). I figured I didn't need to add "accidental electrocution" to my list of problems so, I packed an overnight bag & decided to stay on my friend's couch until building maintenance could come and fix the leak. The maintenance people never showed up. Three days later I returned to my apartment to find a 4ft x 4ft hole in my ceiling, and the "ceiling" (pieces of wood, insulation, plaster) on my BED.
I looked up at the hole & saw my upstairs neighbor looking down at me.
him: "So, like... your ceiling fell through while you were away"
me: "Yeah I noticed"
I actually laugh whenever I tell this story because, it is kind of funny. It felt like my world was imploding...and then it actually did.
Even though my heart hurt & I felt overwhelmed, for the first time in years I didn't feel like partying that feeling away. Have you ever had one of those moments where you wake up and say "What the fuck am I doing with my life?". I've had a few. This was one of them. I knew that if I was going to get through this I would need to STOP everything.
I stopped drinking. I stopped partying. I stopped dating. I stopped sleeping with my ex. I started to systemically to cut off all of my friends that reminded me of any of these things (even if they were good people). I didn't want to face them. I didn't want to talk about how I felt. I didn't want to fake being happy any more. When I am truly upset this what I do: I hibernate. I also decided I needed to learn how to do the one thing I used to fear so much: I needed to learn how to be alone. And, this was exactly what I did.
I forced myself to stay home on the weekends. It was hard at first. I'd feel shaky & jittery, like I couldn't sit still. Even though I knew I didn't want to be out partying, I felt like I was scratching at the walls. But, once I eventually got over the initial anxiety and I realized, THIS IS AWESOME.
I COULD DO ANYTHING I WANTED.
Since I wasn't spending my weekends wasted or in the emergency room sitting bedside as my boyfriend had his stomach pumped, I HAD SO MUCH SPARE TIME. I re-discovered what it felt like to wake up on a Sunday without a hangover (omg you have so much energy!). I started to fill my Friday & Saturday nights with things that I enjoyed. I'd borrow my neighbor's VCR (I was a broke student) and rent videos that only I wanted to see. I discovered Sex and the City, and was like "Whoa! I'm not the only one having all these bizarre dating experiences...and they are laughing about it!". I substituted food for booze. On Friday nights I'd go to the grocery store & I'd buy WHATEVER the hell I felt like eating. I'd get brie, avocados, Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, cookies, gummi bears, croissants, pepperoni sticks, popcorn & cheezies. I learned that eating all of these things in succession isn't that great an idea. I stopped being underweight. I put on a well-needed 5-8lbs. My body filled out in a good way. I spent a lot of time at the library because it made me feel less lonely. My B-average turned into an A-average. I started my first blog & met people who I are still my friends today. Did I still feel lonely through any of this? OH HELL YES. Sometimes I felt totally lonely. It was hard but, I worked through it. I decided to embrace the feeling of being a bit lonely because I knew what I was doing was healthier than what I was doing before (minus the new found gummi bear & pepperoni problem)
That winter, I found the perfect solution for what to do on my free Saturday nights: I got a job working at (what was at the time) a high end club/cigar lounge. I started making more money than I had ever made before. FYI. Want to wean yourself off of alcohol? Get a job somewhere where YOU'RE SOBER and everyone around you is WASTED. It's eye-opening. And hilarious.
Working at the club was a good thing because it broke me out of the shell I had been living in. I started to feel better. I started to make new friends & connect with old ones. I started to date again. I realized that I could still go out, have a few drinks & have fun with my friends without being self-destructive. I started to smile & laugh again...but this time, real smiles, not the fake-smiling-eventhough-I'm-sad-ones. Most importantly, on the nights when I wasn't working at the bar I loved going home to my apartment alone, kicking my feet up and saying "I'm OK with this" because I was. I learned to sit still. I learned to be alone again and love it.
So, what is the point of all this? Lately, I've been going through a hard time emotionally. The circumstances are completely different & don't worry - no one has died. Still, its been difficult. Looking back on this other era of my life I've realized this: sometimes shitty things happen. Very shitty things. But, sometimes its these really hard times that push us forward...push us to make changes...push us to get to know ourselves better...push us to face things that we fear. And, if history repeats itself (as I'm hoping it will), its these struggles that lead us to better things.
xox
(Photo found via Rebecca Thuss)
Can anyone else relate to this?
So, does this mean I'm a writer?!
Wed, Jul 14 2010 09:51
I've been a bad blogger lately. I'm still writing a lot...just not for my own blog. One of my goals when I started this blog a year ago was to eventually write for other sites as well. I'm happy that I am branching out however... I miss the blog! I miss you guys!
Here are a few things that I have done in the past 6 weeks:
1. Flown across the country and back, TWICE.
2. Witnessed my cousin get married.
3. Started a new job
4. Read all of Chelsea Handler's books (& kinda have fallen in love with Ms. Handler. Hi Chelsea, its me, Simone & I have a cupboard full of vodka. Wanna be friends?)
Somehow amidst all this chaos I have become a writer. I mean I think I'm a writer now.
Do you officially become a writer when someone pays you to write? Or have I always been a writer and now the only difference is that someone is actually paying me to do this? Or maybe the better question should be: why do I still feel awkward calling myself a writer when clearly that is what I do?
A few weeks ago I received my first cheque for some stories I had written. Even with the cheque in my hand, I still had this moment of disbelief where I said "Someone is actually paying me to do this?!" I guess I kind of feel the same way about writing as I do about being an adult. Even though I'm almost thirty, there are times where I still feel like a kid. Its like I am at the fair & I've managed to trick the Mullet-wearing-Carnie into letting me on the big kid's ride even though I clearly do not meet the height requirements. Does this feeling ever go away?
I've also realized that I don't give myself enough credit.
I look at the glass as half-empty instead of half-full. I let negative voices in my head discount things that I have obviously worked hard for ("Yes, I'm doing what I want to be doing but I'm still not making much money"...."The blog is going well...but its still not where I want it to be"....."Every time I'm filing a document I have to sing the ABCs in my head. What is wrong with me?!"....you get the idea). Its like I'm looking forward so much that I don't see what is happening in the now. For example -that I am actually doing what I wanted to do a year ago.
I look at the glass as half-empty instead of half-full. I let negative voices in my head discount things that I have obviously worked hard for ("Yes, I'm doing what I want to be doing but I'm still not making much money"...."The blog is going well...but its still not where I want it to be"....."Every time I'm filing a document I have to sing the ABCs in my head. What is wrong with me?!"....you get the idea). Its like I'm looking forward so much that I don't see what is happening in the now. For example -that I am actually doing what I wanted to do a year ago.
I don't want to ever get in the habit of having good things happen & not taking the time to really appreciate them. Achievements (however small) still need to be celebrated.
Celebrating means getting Ukelele Misfit to take a dorky photo of me posing with my first writing cheque (taken last week in Little Italy after we pigged out on Gelato)
Because this is me we're talking about- I've already squandered my earnings on shoes. Ralph Lauren patent leather platform sandals. (I don't think I've bought anything by Ralph Lauren since the 90's!) But, these shoes are simple & black & shiny & I fell in love as soon as I saw them.
And, they make me super tall. And, yes - I really am THAT white. And, because I am going to try and ride that "big kid ride" like I actually belong on it, I've decided to save the rest of my writing money for something really, really good.
Does anyone else have the same problem? How do you celebrate success?
Things that make Skinny Dip say WTF.
Sun, Jul 11 2010 09:15
| WTF
Dear Universe,
I'm confused about a lot of things lately. Like why they have to make diapers that look like jeans or why there is this weird bruise on my right shin that I don't remember getting.
I'm confused about a lot of things lately. Like why they have to make diapers that look like jeans or why there is this weird bruise on my right shin that I don't remember getting.
Here are a few other things that have made me say WTF recently:
1) THE 'BIEB:
I get why 13 year old girls like Justin Bieber. What I don't get is people in their mid-late 20's who like this kid....and I mean really, really like him, like they get a-funny- feeling-in -the- pants-kind-of-like. When I was in Edmonton last month visiting my best friend, we found this article about a 24 year old who had gone to great lengths just to get a glimpse of the 'Bieb. Does that not seem a little about off to you? As I know from personal experience, having teenagers attracted to you isn't exactly cool (it's actually kind of creepy and weird). You know what's even less cool?! BEING ATTRACTED TO TEENAGERS.
With that said, because my BFF and I are us, we spent the rest of the week making fun of THE 'BIEB.
One morning, I woke up and said to her:
"Amy, I don't feel well"
her: "Omg, are you OK?!"
Me: "I feel all sweaty, my head is pounding, I have the chills.....I think I have Bieber-Fever"
At which point, we both broke out into hysterics.
Last week, she sent me a link to an article about how a bunch of people have been doing all kinds of crazy stuff to the Bieb, like trying to send him to South Korea (sounds like a good idea to me), with a note attached that said,
"Really Simone. Did you have to go and do this? This time you've gone too far"
Why people love the Bieb will never fully make sense to me. Why my best friend is my best friend, always will.
2) BARK OFF.
Have you ever had one of those moments where you fall asleep watching late night TV, only to wake up, groggy, drooling, with one hand still in a box of crackers, to some commercial that you assume is part of whatever late night comedy sketch show you were watching before you went all narcoleptic? You say to yourself: This has to be a spoof. Something this retarded can't be real. Then, you realize "Oh god, this is a real commercial". That's exactly what happened when I saw THIS for the first time while I was visiting my grandparents last week:
The commercial played again the next day, while my Grandpa and I were watching TV. Every afternoon before dinner my Grandpa loves to take out his hearing aid, crank up the TV and provide "audio commentary" (yell at the TV). His reaction to the "Bark Off" commercial says it best: "Christ god damn. Hell, if you didn't want to hear god damn barking, don't buy a god damn fucking dog! Christ!" (of course with my grandpa's accent, "god damn" sounds more like COT-DAMN)
And now you've met my Grandpa.
2) BATHROOM WALL WRITING.
This has mystified me for YEARS. Whenever I'm out shopping, I almost always have to stop at the Lettieri coffee shop on Queen St. Scrawled on their hand-dryer in black marker is the following message:
"CRACK TEARS SOULMATES APART"
(its kind of blurry, so it could also say...)
"COCK TEARS SOULMATES APART"
Both make sense.
It's not the message of bathroom writing that confuses me ("Call Mike for a good time" - yeah, I get that) - what weirds me out is that there are obviously a lot of people who carry around permanent markers with them on a daily basis. WHY?! Who feels compelled to do this?!
I probably have 99 items in my purse...but a sharpie ain't one of them.
*Cymbal Crash*
4) BROS ICING BROS.
A bro icing occurs when one bro surprises another unsuspecting bro with a bottle of Smirnoff Ice (hey, remember that stuff?) and then forces said bro to chug it while on bended knee. The rules of bros icing bros are simple:
Still confused? Watch the video bro!
What is making YOU say WTF these days?
I get why 13 year old girls like Justin Bieber. What I don't get is people in their mid-late 20's who like this kid....and I mean really, really like him, like they get a-funny- feeling-in -the- pants-kind-of-like. When I was in Edmonton last month visiting my best friend, we found this article about a 24 year old who had gone to great lengths just to get a glimpse of the 'Bieb. Does that not seem a little about off to you? As I know from personal experience, having teenagers attracted to you isn't exactly cool (it's actually kind of creepy and weird). You know what's even less cool?! BEING ATTRACTED TO TEENAGERS.
With that said, because my BFF and I are us, we spent the rest of the week making fun of THE 'BIEB.
One morning, I woke up and said to her:
"Amy, I don't feel well"
her: "Omg, are you OK?!"
Me: "I feel all sweaty, my head is pounding, I have the chills.....I think I have Bieber-Fever"
At which point, we both broke out into hysterics.
Last week, she sent me a link to an article about how a bunch of people have been doing all kinds of crazy stuff to the Bieb, like trying to send him to South Korea (sounds like a good idea to me), with a note attached that said,
"Really Simone. Did you have to go and do this? This time you've gone too far"
Why people love the Bieb will never fully make sense to me. Why my best friend is my best friend, always will.
2) BARK OFF.
Have you ever had one of those moments where you fall asleep watching late night TV, only to wake up, groggy, drooling, with one hand still in a box of crackers, to some commercial that you assume is part of whatever late night comedy sketch show you were watching before you went all narcoleptic? You say to yourself: This has to be a spoof. Something this retarded can't be real. Then, you realize "Oh god, this is a real commercial". That's exactly what happened when I saw THIS for the first time while I was visiting my grandparents last week:
The commercial played again the next day, while my Grandpa and I were watching TV. Every afternoon before dinner my Grandpa loves to take out his hearing aid, crank up the TV and provide "audio commentary" (yell at the TV). His reaction to the "Bark Off" commercial says it best: "Christ god damn. Hell, if you didn't want to hear god damn barking, don't buy a god damn fucking dog! Christ!" (of course with my grandpa's accent, "god damn" sounds more like COT-DAMN)
And now you've met my Grandpa.
2) BATHROOM WALL WRITING.
This has mystified me for YEARS. Whenever I'm out shopping, I almost always have to stop at the Lettieri coffee shop on Queen St. Scrawled on their hand-dryer in black marker is the following message:
"CRACK TEARS SOULMATES APART"
(its kind of blurry, so it could also say...)
"COCK TEARS SOULMATES APART"
Both make sense.
It's not the message of bathroom writing that confuses me ("Call Mike for a good time" - yeah, I get that) - what weirds me out is that there are obviously a lot of people who carry around permanent markers with them on a daily basis. WHY?! Who feels compelled to do this?!
I probably have 99 items in my purse...but a sharpie ain't one of them.
*Cymbal Crash*
4) BROS ICING BROS.
A bro icing occurs when one bro surprises another unsuspecting bro with a bottle of Smirnoff Ice (hey, remember that stuff?) and then forces said bro to chug it while on bended knee. The rules of bros icing bros are simple:
Still confused? Watch the video bro!
Another rule to add to the playbook: in order to properly ICE or counter ICE, it helps to carry around a back pack full of this disgustingly sweet hang-over inducing beverage at all times...you know, like normal people do.
I feel like the video speaks for itself. I still don't get it but, at least the next time I see what looks like one Chode proposing to another Chode with a bottle of bitch pop, I'll know what the deal is....BRO.
5) THE RETURN OF THE SCRUNCHY:
This photo was pulled from the Urban Outfitters website. I know, I know- stuff from the 80's and 90's is trendy right now. All I have to say is this:
This photo was pulled from the Urban Outfitters website. I know, I know- stuff from the 80's and 90's is trendy right now. All I have to say is this:
IT'S JUST TOO SOON.
WAY TOO SOON.
WAY TOO SOON.
Universe, you are a strange. That's all I have to say.
Love,
Skinny Dip.
What is making YOU say WTF these days?
The 18 year old Republican
Mon, Jul 5 2010 08:16
| pick ups gone wrong, skinny dip abroad
“You have this problem where you can’t just leave well enough alone. You always have to tempt fate. That’s how you end up in these ridiculous situations”
-My Mom, 10 years ago.
My Mom knows me well. I DO have this problem, where it's like... I know the fire is hot (or a situation is fucked up) but I can't resist reaching in and touching the flame (ie. seeing how much more fucked up the situation can get).
Throw some alcohol into the mix and you get stories like this:
A few years ago I was working for a company that sold packaged tours to high school students. You know the ones I am talking about: “Go to Europe for Spring Break! See ten countries in ten days and barely remember anything!”. One of the few perks of this job was that every season we got to go on a free trip. The upside: free European travel. The catch: you had to travel with high school students. This meant that you were literally tagging along (as a twenty-something) on a bunch of random teen's Senior Class trip. Um, can you say awkward?
It was on one of these trips that I ended up late one night in a bar, in Italy with 45 drunk teenagers.
I was sitting at a table by myself, sampling the bar's Grappa selection when I saw the 18-year old approach. I don’t remember his name. I think it was something like Chet or Chase or Bud or Buddy or Skip or Skipper. What I do remember was that he was part of our tour group, he had a very thick Bill Compton-like Southern accent and said y’all a lot. He also didn’t seem to know much about Canadians (earlier that day he had approached me to ask me what it was like “living in a country without electricity” Jesus! What are they teaching these kids?!). Just as I was starting to get a bit of a buzz happening, the 18 year sauntered up to me and slurred,
“You’re PURRRDY”
“Um, are you aware that I’m 24?”
“That’s no problem. I’m 18”
“Actually, it is kind of a problem--”
“Do y’all have a boyfriend?”
“What? Um. Yes. Yes, I do”
(I didn’t)
“What’s his name?”
“Its uh….Raul”
“Y’all have Mexicans up there?”
“What?!”
“Y’all dating a Mexican?!”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean….Raul is Argentinean”
(Yes. Raul. My hot, proudly Argentinean boyfriend. Engineer by day, soccer player by night. All around stand-up guy who enjoys long walks & sex on the beach. Apparently, all that 60 proof Grappa had made Raul REAL. I figured defending Raul was a better option than bringing up the fact that I’d recently been sleeping with a Spanish guy, an Indian Guy and a Jamaican. Hey, when it comes to being a slut, I’m an equal opportunist). Then, as if he was reading my mind he asked:
“Are y’all a VIRGIN?”
(at this point I nearly spit out my drink)
“I’m 24. What do you think?”
“Well, I’m definitely not a virgin. I’ve banged tons of chicks! All kinds of hot chicks! And not just from my own town! I’ve had so much sex its INSANE y’all”
(The great thing about being 24 vs. 18: your radar for bullshit is acute. This guy’s sexual experience was about as likely as me actually being able to do advanced calculus. In other words: don't count on it.)
“That’s…nice. Umm, Good for you???”
“Are y’all a Republican?”
(This seemed even more ridiculous than the Virgin question. I started to laugh hysterically)
“Are you serious?”
“Do y’all love George Bush? He’s my idol. I hope to be like him when I grow up. I love how he’s all about not changing stuff”
“You need to stop talking”
Unfortunately, the 18 year old took this pause in the conversation as a cue to lay one on me. Before, I knew it this kid had grabbed me and was pressing his lips against mine. Luckily there was no tongue. (Oh god, what if there had been tongue?!). I pulled away, grabbed the remaining shot off of the table, poured it down my gullet and said,
“This never happened”
& walked away.
Italy is a magical place where everything is sexy. You’re sexy. The people around you are sexy. The food is sexy. The buildings are sexy. Even the people who normally wouldn’t be sexy, seem sexy. I love Italy. The only problem is sometimes all this sexy backfires. Like when teenagers start to find you attractive.
Goodbye Florence. Buon giorno Cougartown.
To counteract my R-Kelly moment, I decided to spend the rest of the night making eyes at our 40-year old tour guide who suddenly looked really, really good. Apparently I was also wearing a pair of Italy Goggles that night (and apparently I was in the one bar completely devoid of anyone age-appropriate)
The next day, our tour group was visiting a Florentine Leather factory -a required stop on the trip (because what high schooler DOESN'T want to visit a leather factory. I mean REALLY. I'm rolling my eyes right now just as I'm sure everyone else was that day). I was standing with my co-worker (& traveling companion) by a giant purse display, when the 18-year old came up to talk to us. He was holding a leather belt.
“Do y’all like this belt Simone?”
“Sure. Its nice”
“Cuz I want to make sure y’all like it. It’s important to me”
“Um, buy whatever you like”
When the kid was out of earshot, my co-worker (who had yet to be filled in about the events of the previous night) said to me:
“Why is he asking you about his belt? There is something really off about that kid. The other day he asked me if we had electricity in Canada”
At this point, we look across the room to see 18-year old winking at us.
me: “Yeah, I’m not really sure what his deal is”
her: “Americans are weird”
me: “Oh yeah…Totally....that's totally it”
*insert awkward shoe gazing here*
-My Mom, 10 years ago.
My Mom knows me well. I DO have this problem, where it's like... I know the fire is hot (or a situation is fucked up) but I can't resist reaching in and touching the flame (ie. seeing how much more fucked up the situation can get).
Throw some alcohol into the mix and you get stories like this:
A few years ago I was working for a company that sold packaged tours to high school students. You know the ones I am talking about: “Go to Europe for Spring Break! See ten countries in ten days and barely remember anything!”. One of the few perks of this job was that every season we got to go on a free trip. The upside: free European travel. The catch: you had to travel with high school students. This meant that you were literally tagging along (as a twenty-something) on a bunch of random teen's Senior Class trip. Um, can you say awkward?
It was on one of these trips that I ended up late one night in a bar, in Italy with 45 drunk teenagers.
I was sitting at a table by myself, sampling the bar's Grappa selection when I saw the 18-year old approach. I don’t remember his name. I think it was something like Chet or Chase or Bud or Buddy or Skip or Skipper. What I do remember was that he was part of our tour group, he had a very thick Bill Compton-like Southern accent and said y’all a lot. He also didn’t seem to know much about Canadians (earlier that day he had approached me to ask me what it was like “living in a country without electricity” Jesus! What are they teaching these kids?!). Just as I was starting to get a bit of a buzz happening, the 18 year sauntered up to me and slurred,
“You’re PURRRDY”
“Um, are you aware that I’m 24?”
“That’s no problem. I’m 18”
“Actually, it is kind of a problem--”
“Do y’all have a boyfriend?”
“What? Um. Yes. Yes, I do”
(I didn’t)
“What’s his name?”
“Its uh….Raul”
“Y’all have Mexicans up there?”
“What?!”
“Y’all dating a Mexican?!”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean….Raul is Argentinean”
(Yes. Raul. My hot, proudly Argentinean boyfriend. Engineer by day, soccer player by night. All around stand-up guy who enjoys long walks & sex on the beach. Apparently, all that 60 proof Grappa had made Raul REAL. I figured defending Raul was a better option than bringing up the fact that I’d recently been sleeping with a Spanish guy, an Indian Guy and a Jamaican. Hey, when it comes to being a slut, I’m an equal opportunist). Then, as if he was reading my mind he asked:
“Are y’all a VIRGIN?”
(at this point I nearly spit out my drink)
“I’m 24. What do you think?”
“Well, I’m definitely not a virgin. I’ve banged tons of chicks! All kinds of hot chicks! And not just from my own town! I’ve had so much sex its INSANE y’all”
(The great thing about being 24 vs. 18: your radar for bullshit is acute. This guy’s sexual experience was about as likely as me actually being able to do advanced calculus. In other words: don't count on it.)
“That’s…nice. Umm, Good for you???”
“Are y’all a Republican?”
(This seemed even more ridiculous than the Virgin question. I started to laugh hysterically)
“Are you serious?”
“Do y’all love George Bush? He’s my idol. I hope to be like him when I grow up. I love how he’s all about not changing stuff”
“You need to stop talking”
Unfortunately, the 18 year old took this pause in the conversation as a cue to lay one on me. Before, I knew it this kid had grabbed me and was pressing his lips against mine. Luckily there was no tongue. (Oh god, what if there had been tongue?!). I pulled away, grabbed the remaining shot off of the table, poured it down my gullet and said,
“This never happened”
& walked away.
Italy is a magical place where everything is sexy. You’re sexy. The people around you are sexy. The food is sexy. The buildings are sexy. Even the people who normally wouldn’t be sexy, seem sexy. I love Italy. The only problem is sometimes all this sexy backfires. Like when teenagers start to find you attractive.
Goodbye Florence. Buon giorno Cougartown.
To counteract my R-Kelly moment, I decided to spend the rest of the night making eyes at our 40-year old tour guide who suddenly looked really, really good. Apparently I was also wearing a pair of Italy Goggles that night (and apparently I was in the one bar completely devoid of anyone age-appropriate)
The next day, our tour group was visiting a Florentine Leather factory -a required stop on the trip (because what high schooler DOESN'T want to visit a leather factory. I mean REALLY. I'm rolling my eyes right now just as I'm sure everyone else was that day). I was standing with my co-worker (& traveling companion) by a giant purse display, when the 18-year old came up to talk to us. He was holding a leather belt.
“Do y’all like this belt Simone?”
“Sure. Its nice”
“Cuz I want to make sure y’all like it. It’s important to me”
“Um, buy whatever you like”
When the kid was out of earshot, my co-worker (who had yet to be filled in about the events of the previous night) said to me:
“Why is he asking you about his belt? There is something really off about that kid. The other day he asked me if we had electricity in Canada”
At this point, we look across the room to see 18-year old winking at us.
me: “Yeah, I’m not really sure what his deal is”
her: “Americans are weird”
me: “Oh yeah…Totally....that's totally it”
*insert awkward shoe gazing here*
Leaving on a Jetplane...Again.
Mon, Jun 28 2010 11:19
Something is is amiss. I'm having some serious issues blogging lately. I have about 3 different blog posts saved in my draft folder that I have yet to finish or publish. I have all sorts of ideas for things I want to write about, but then I'll sit down to actually write them up and...nada. I just end up slamming my lap top shut and walking away. It's like everything I want to say is all twisted up and no matter how hard I try to put it into words, it just doesn't come out right. It's like, whatever part of my brain I use for writing needs to get an enema. Yes, I need a BRAIN ENEMA (and THERE is some gross Monday morning imagery for you...). But, you know what I mean right?
It also doesn't help that most of the stuff that is going on in my life right now is stuff I want to leave off of the blog. This isn't a journal/diary and trust me, you don't want to hear my emo-wailing. I've been walking around all week just HOPING that something bizarre would happen to me just so that I would be able to write about it (which, is a bit messed up if you think about it) but nothing has happened! No disturbing spa stories (thankfully), no unusual tales of sexual harassment... annnnnd I don't really feel like talking about people I've dated (those guys have been dragged through the mud enough & deserve a break) or the new sex toys I've purchased (although maybe at some point I will. I've picked up some cool stuff recently- but, I am just not in the right head space at the moment to dish about that). So what is a blogger to do?
Leave town! Again!
Even though I've only been back from Edmonton for a few days, I've decided to swap THIS view for THIS view:
That's my Grandma's backyard. One of my favorite places in the world to just hang out.
Tomorrow, I'm taking off to Kelowna, BC to spend a few days with my Mom, Sis, Grandparents & cousins. My younger cousin is getting married next weekend. Originally, I didn't think I would be able to attend the wedding, so I didn't make any plans to go. But, things change and a few days ago I decided that I don't want to be there, I need to be there. I need to see my family. I miss them. So, I am hoping on a plane and flying 5 hours west for the second time this month.
I'm hoping that spending some time with people I love, eating some of my Mom's/Grandma's home cooking & soaking up some sun will do me good. I will wear my pink bikini. Maybe I'll even get inspired.
It also doesn't help that most of the stuff that is going on in my life right now is stuff I want to leave off of the blog. This isn't a journal/diary and trust me, you don't want to hear my emo-wailing. I've been walking around all week just HOPING that something bizarre would happen to me just so that I would be able to write about it (which, is a bit messed up if you think about it) but nothing has happened! No disturbing spa stories (thankfully), no unusual tales of sexual harassment... annnnnd I don't really feel like talking about people I've dated (those guys have been dragged through the mud enough & deserve a break) or the new sex toys I've purchased (although maybe at some point I will. I've picked up some cool stuff recently- but, I am just not in the right head space at the moment to dish about that). So what is a blogger to do?
Leave town! Again!
Even though I've only been back from Edmonton for a few days, I've decided to swap THIS view for THIS view:
That's my Grandma's backyard. One of my favorite places in the world to just hang out.
Tomorrow, I'm taking off to Kelowna, BC to spend a few days with my Mom, Sis, Grandparents & cousins. My younger cousin is getting married next weekend. Originally, I didn't think I would be able to attend the wedding, so I didn't make any plans to go. But, things change and a few days ago I decided that I don't want to be there, I need to be there. I need to see my family. I miss them. So, I am hoping on a plane and flying 5 hours west for the second time this month.
I'm hoping that spending some time with people I love, eating some of my Mom's/Grandma's home cooking & soaking up some sun will do me good. I will wear my pink bikini. Maybe I'll even get inspired.
What do you guys do when you're feeling uninspired or suffering from a mild case of bloggers burn out?
And second question, what the hell should I wear to my cousins wedding?! I'd love to wear something like THIS but in reality, I will probably end up wearing something I already own (due to time/budget constraints). Is it appropriate to wear a LBD to a summer wedding if the ceremony is in the evening?
And second question, what the hell should I wear to my cousins wedding?! I'd love to wear something like THIS but in reality, I will probably end up wearing something I already own (due to time/budget constraints). Is it appropriate to wear a LBD to a summer wedding if the ceremony is in the evening?
The One Where I take a Baby to Hooters
Sat, Jun 19 2010 11:10
| babies, best friend
I'm in Edmonton, Ab. I've been here a few days visiting my best friend and her angel-faced baby daughter. You know those times when you just desperately need to leave town?! This was one of them. So I am here in the land of big steaks & big malls & even bigger monster trucks...and it has been lovely.Things that have happened so far:
+ I went to a mall that has its very own Pirate ship, Waterpark, Rollercoaster, Gun Range (giving a whole new spin to the term "MALL SHOOTING") and ice-rink...because what fun would it be to go shooting stuff and not be able to go skating afterward...
+ I took a newborn into Hooters...for lunch. I feel like there should be some crazy train-wreck-blog-worthy story about this but sadly there isn't. We kind of went in there with the expectation that something interesting would happen but it didn't. The whole lunch seemed strangely "normal" (which in itself is weird). I even noticed a few other families in there (WTF? Oh right. Sorry, Hooters IS a "family restaurant" apparently. That's why they sell stuff like this).
+I've totally fallen in love with my BFF's baby. She is the cutest little human I've ever met. I've realized that there isn't anything better than baby smiles. I'm on a baby smile high. They are absolutely the best way to start your morning.
Here are a few other things I've learned about babies over the past few days. I'll call this "Baby 101"
+ They seem to frequently spew liquids from both ends, at the most inopertune moments. A day with a newborn involves more outfit changes than a Lady Gaga concert.
+ Baby emotions are a bit...bipolar. One minute they're laughing. The next they're crying. Then chewing on their clothing. Then puking. Then laughing again. It kind of reminds me of being at a highschool party and you're sitting at the kitchen table talking to "Crying Drunk Girl" (c'mon we've all been at a party with Crying Drunk Girl...or god forbid, been Crying Drunk Girl). One minute she's talking about how much she loves Tommy McIntyre (or some other dude on the football team) the next minute she's in tears, in the backyard threatening to jump off the roof while everyone is tries to stage an intervention. It's kind of like this except babies don't have mascara running down their faces & they're so cute and innocent that you have to cut them some slack.
+ Strollers aren't just strollers. They're like these crazy mobile storage units that you can take everywhere you go. If you've hung out with me in real life and have actually seen what I carry around with me in my purse you know that I'm a bit of a pack-rat. A friend of mine nicknamed me Mary Poppins, because I always carried a purse that magically contained all kinds of weird crap (Bandaids? Check! 5 different shades of lipgloss? Check! A mini-medicine cabinet of every cold/sinus/pain/allergy pill available? Check! Dog-eared back-issue of FAB magazine from 1999. Check!). Strollers aren't just great for carrying around babies, you can also use them to carry your overstuffed bag, your purchases, a change of clothing, SNACKS, they even have cup-holders. CUP-HOLDERS. This is all music to the ears for a neurotic person like me who always carries around too much stuff & is chronically hungry/thirsty whenever I'm shopping.
+They make lots of weird stuff for babies that just doesn' make any sense AT. ALL. Like these "Jean Diapers". I feel like this the scary equivalent of jeggings for the un-toilet-trained set.
Please tell me I'm not the only one who finds this a bit weird?!
+ Over the past few days I've been spit up on, puked on, and accidentally kicked in the boob a couple of times....and its been awesome. I've also been felt up by a woman. This had nothing to do with the baby (I had a very scary woman practically give me a breast exam while trying to get through airport security Thursday morning) and it was less than awesome. But, back to the baby...I've learned that I'm not scared of babies. I can hold a baby and make it smile. I can comfort a baby and make her stop crying. Someday I know I will be good at this. I will be a good Mom. In the meantime I am going to enjoy being an auntie.
How has everyone's week been?
+ Over the past few days I've been spit up on, puked on, and accidentally kicked in the boob a couple of times....and its been awesome. I've also been felt up by a woman. This had nothing to do with the baby (I had a very scary woman practically give me a breast exam while trying to get through airport security Thursday morning) and it was less than awesome. But, back to the baby...I've learned that I'm not scared of babies. I can hold a baby and make it smile. I can comfort a baby and make her stop crying. Someday I know I will be good at this. I will be a good Mom. In the meantime I am going to enjoy being an auntie.
How has everyone's week been?
In the Pink
A few weeks ago I was at the Hip and Urban Girl launch party. I was talking to someone I had just met. When I whipped out my iphone (which is encased in a bright pink TNA iphone condom) to swap Twitter information they commented:
"That's a very girly phone case! Its so...pink"
"Oh yeah, I guess it is"
"You just don't seem like a pink person"
And, this is kind of true. That night I was wearing a white top, a black fitted pencil skirt, black leather jacket & a pair of tough bondage inspired cage heels. This is a typical outfit for me. When I say the words "pink person" what comes to mind is images of Barbie, Paris Hilton, girls wearing short pleated skirts with Uggs (UGH!), the collective wardrobe of the cast of Mean Girls...you get my drift. This isn't exactly me. I wear a lot of black, grey and neutral colors. I love dark skinny jeans, white T-shirts, fitted pencil skirts, black leather jackets, big fluffy scarves, clothes that are simple, feminine and sexy & accented with tough touches (which is why I lust after shoes like this and why I had a total clothes-gasm when I saw all the Motorcycle jackets in Fred Segal). This is pretty much what I look like most of the time (for day I swap out the heels for a pair of chucks or flats)
This photo was taken in LA but doesn't exactly scream out Malibu Barbie.
However, after the party I went home and surveyed the contents of my apartment. For someone who claims they aren't a "pink person" I have a heck of a lot of pink things. Here is the photographic evidence:
The contents of my purse (pink purse, pink notebook, pink ipod, pink iphone, pink essie nail-polish - I don't actually carry around nail-polish. I just included it in the shot.)
As if this wasn't bad enough, two weekends ago I tracked down the bikini I had been lusting after in this entry. I tried it on and it looked too effing cute to leave in the store. Now it is mine. Allllll miiiiine. I don't care if just wear it at the neighborhood pool this summer. I love it. Oh and did I mention I got my toe-nails painted to match? Should I really be admitting this?!
The real WTF moment happened this weekend. I bought a bunch of new lingerie. After I took it home & washed it & got it ready to put away I noticed something: I own ALOT of pink panties. And I just bought more. But how could I resist? They're just so pretty. Once again, I had to bring them home with me.
And, I write a blog that is very...pink. Which, requires equally pink business cards. Yup.
So what does this mean?
Am I a pink person?
Badass Sex blogger on the outside....pink loving, girly-girl, puffy heart drawing softie on the inside?
Something in between?
What I can say is this: I go through phases with colors. I went through a turquoise phase. I went through a chocolate brown phase. I went through a slightly depressed all-black phase. Right now I'm just going through a pink phase. I'm just going to embrace it. The color pink makes me feel energized and happy. The last time I went through a pink phase was right after I graduated university (actually it was more like a general bright color, bright pattern phase. Hello, I wore a Pucci print dress to my graduation. I didn't say this was a "good" fashion phase). This was an exciting time for me because I felt like I was on the cusp of all kinds of new experiences. So, I'm kind of hoping the same is true right now. In the meantime, I'm just going to ride it out, pink purse in hand.
However you notice that I've decided to go blonde again, that I suddenly have a renewed interest in going to law school and I've started carrying around an abnormally small animal...
PLEASE STAGE AN INTERVENTION.
What's your favorite color? Have you ever gone through a "color phase" or am I alone in this madness?!
A Sticky Situation
This week, REAL LIFE kind of over-took BLOG LIFE. Life has been a bit of a roller-coaster. I'll spare you the details for the time being. Instead, today I have yet another inappropriate story about the adventures of me & my vagina.
Aka, Tales from the Waxing Table, part Deux.
Friday was Pay Day so, after work I decided to treat myself to a pedicure and a bikini wax at the salon I usually go to. In hindsight, the words "treat" (fun!) and "bikini wax" (pain!) probably should never appear in the same sentence. Because when you think about it, "treating" yourself to a bikini wax is kind of like "treating" yourself to a speeding ticket. I do a lot of stuff that doesn't make sense AT ALL.
After I had my toes painted in Essie's Lifesaver (bright, almost neon coral toes...YES!), a tiny Asian woman led me to one of the waxing rooms at the back of the salon.
The name on her lab coat said LILY. I don't think Lily spoke much English. After a few minutes of me trying to explain what I wanted ("Like a Brazilian, but you know....leave a bit on the top. You know what I mean right? Landing Strip?") Lily just stared at me blankly and said "YES. 20 DOLLAR". I laid down on the table and hoped for the best.
I started to sense that things weren't going to go well when I looked over and noticed that Lily's hands were shaking.
Lily seemed nervous but, the first few wax strips went off without a hitch. Then I heard Lily say the words that no one ever wants to hear while lying on cold hard table with their panties pulled down:
UH OH.
Things suddenly felt VERY warm down there (and not in a good way). I looked down and saw that Lily had spilled the hot wax and it was now EVERYWHERE. Lily started frantically saying,
OH NO. I FIX! I FIX!
Before I could stop her, she grabbed one of the paper serviettes/tissues and applied it to the hot wax. This was a very bad idea. If you've ever had waxing done you know that this stuff is STICKY. Like GLUE. Of course the paper serviette got stuck to the wax. When she tried to remove it, the majority of the serviette remained adhesed to my body. When I looked down, I saw that the whole area was a mess of neon yellow hot wax accented with bits of white paper. This was when I lost my cool and let out an audible,
WHAT THE FUCK.
Lily grabbed a tiny pair of scissors and started trying to CUT OUT the paper bits. This also turned out to be a bad idea. As if it wasn't awkward enough that Lily was digging around in what was left of my pubic hair with very tiny sharp scissors, at one point her gloved finger actually got STUCK in the wax, temporarily glueing her hand to my crotch. After some awkward hair pulling and maneuvering, Lily managed to cut her hand free. This is when I said to her:
NO TRIM. JUST WAX EVERYTHING OFF.
The waxing continued. Just when I thought that we were on the right track towards fixing this mess, Lily grabbed one of the paper serviettes and applied it to the area. Of course there was just too much wax everywhere and the paper got STUCK. AGAIN.
WHY LILY? WHY?! DIDN'T WE LEARN ANYTHING THE FIRST TIME?!
What proceeded was more cutting, more waxing and since the area hadn't been prepped with baby powder (to prevent the wax from sticking to the skin) more pain.
This whole scene kind of reminded me of being a kid and playing "hairdresser" with your Barbies. At first it seems like a good idea to give Barbie's long flowing locks a "trim" but then you realize it just isn't quite right. You cut more & more & more until eventually your Barbie looks like Billy Idol. This is exactly what was happening...between my legs.
(I would hate to see what Lily's childhood doll collection looks like)
The job was uneven, but eventually Lily managed to get the wax & paper situation under control. Fearing what might come next, I decided to stop her before she headed into the city limits of Brazillian-ville. However, before I could sit up and put my shorts back on, Lily says to me:
YOU UNHAPPY. I FIX! I FIX!
She brings out the tiny scissors again (PUT THEM AWAY) and a tiny comb (huh?) and begins to COMB the jagged edged landing strip & snip tiny strands (precision detailing? Really?! NOW?! Isn't it kind of too late for that?!). No longer wanting Lily & any sharp objects near my vagina I put a stop to the "hair-cut". To finish off, Lily produces a bottle of what I thought was Aloe Vera gel. At this point some cool Aloe Vera would have been perfect. However, it wasn't Aloe Vera gel. When she slapped it on IT BURNED. The room filled with the smell of alcohol. I screamed out. That's when I realized that she had put HAND SANITIZER on me.
I jumped off the table & put my clothes on as quickly as possible while Lily kept asking me,
YOU OK? YOU OK?
I walked out in a daze and immediately went to the salon owner and complained. I looked over at BF (who had been patiently sitting in the waiting area the whole time) and said,
I NEED A DRINK.
Later, on a patio (while I chugged down multiple glasses of Sangria) BF asks me,
"So...Umm, does it look OK?"
"It looks like a crooked sideways Hitler mustache"
"But, Hitler's mustache was never crooked"
"My point exactly"
CHUGS DRINK.
The icing on the cake arrived Sunday morning. While putting on my bra I noticed something was stuck to the side of my boob. It was tiny bit of wax & tissue paper. How it managed to migrate all the way up there is beyond me.
ALL I CAN SAY IS,
Spring Nails on Bloor St: OK for a pedicure, just don't let them anywhere near your genitals.
Now that the bruising has subsided (yes, I said BRUISING) I am now on a mission to find somewhere in this city to finish the job properly ASAP.
So, Torontonians if you know of any GOOD waxing salons that aren't obscenely expensive (under $60 if possible) please drop me a line.
Anyone else have any horror stories?
Ex-Boyfriend Letter #3
Mon, May 31 2010 10:02
| the ex-boyfriend letters
Dear________,
I wasn't planning on writing you a letter. You were never my boyfriend. You were never really anything to me, except a momentary lapse in judgment. However, I changed my mind about the letter when I heard through the grapevine that we had slept together. I find this very interesting considering,
IT NEVER HAPPENED.
Here is the deal: we went out twice in 2003. We made out & fooled around a bit but there was definitely no PENIS IN VAGINA ACTION. By telling people otherwise, I feel like you're just BEGGING to be blogged about. So, for the record, here are the facts about what went down between you and me.
Why I went out with you in the first place. (because I am partly to be blamed here)
1. It was the summer of 2003. I was feeling kind of bored, lonely and horny.
2. I was always more interested in your friend than you. I really wanted to hook up with him but at the time he was being elusive. I was feeling rejected. You were around. You showed interest. I thought you might be an OK distraction for the time being. BAD BAD BAD IDEA.
3. I was a hot child in the city...literally. Toronto was in the middle of a heat-wave. At the time I lived in an early 20th century walk-up with no air-conditioning. Do you know what that's like? It means you have Back Sweat (&Boob Sweat) 24/7. There is nothing sexy about that. When you called and asked me if I wanted to go to the movies, I said "Yes" because all I could think was MOVIE THEATRE = AIR CONDITIONING. There were beads of sweat pooling between my breasts. If Richard Simmons had called and asked me if I wanted to go watch a dog fight I probably would have said yes if I knew the invitation came with the promise of air conditioned facilities.
4. You were kind of charming. On paper you seemed like a decent guy. Intelligent, good career, tall, reasonably handsome. Also, I liked that you spoke French.
5. I'd heard that you had a really big dick. Frankly, I was curious.
(For the most part these are all terrible reasons to go out with anyone. Any sensible person would have said "no" at this point. But, I was thinking with my libido. In my experience, sensible and libido don't usually play well together.)
What really happened:
1. The first time we hung out we went to the movies. After the show we went back to your apartment to watch a DVD. We ended up making out on your couch. NOTE, we did not have sex.
2. The second time we hung out, I went over to your house (your apartment had air-conditioning). We ended up fooling around on your bed. Clothes were shed. I saw you naked. You saw me naked. I gave you a Hand-job*. I'm pretty sure that you went down on me. However, it couldn't have been that memorable. I don't remember having orgasm. I do remember that you really wanted to have sex. You kept on trying to initiate it but, I kept rejecting your advances. It was a bit like this: PENIS GETS CLOSE TO VAGINA, VAGINA MOVES AWAY, PENIS GETS CLOSE, VAGINA ROLLS OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BED. I just didn't feel comfortable actually having sex with you. Eventually we both got tired and we fell asleep in your bed.
*IT WAS A HAND-JOB. A HAND-JOB does not = SEX.
The reasons why I didn't want your penis inside me:
1. You were a bad kisser & had weird spit. Kissing for me is the biggest turn on. I love to kiss before sex. I love to kiss during sex. I love to kiss afterward. With that said, I realize that kissing is totally subjective. Your kisses may be irresistible to some other girl. They just didn't work for me. You had really thick, sticky spit. After you'd kiss me, I could feel your saliva stuck on my lips and face. We didn't have the right chemistry AT ALL. And, like they say...if the kissing ain't right, keep the legs tight (or in my case, not fully open)
2. I never liked you enough. I was always way more attracted to your friend. Your friend kept crossing my mind while we were fooling around. You'd have your hand on my ass or be kissing my neck and then, BAM his face would pop up. That was when I realized that I really wanted to be in bed with him, not you. Going out with you was a total mistake.
3. I'd heard rumors that you liked to sleep with strippers. Ok, I should know better than anyone that you shouldn't believe everything you hear. I asked you about the strippers and you said it wasn't true. Were you lying? It didn't really matter. When I wasn't thinking about your friend, I was imagining the entire staff of the Brass Rail, dancing around your bed.
4. The Book. I'd also heard from your friends that you kept a notebook where you recorded the name of each woman you'd slept with and then rated them on a scale of 1-10. I didn't ask you about this. I mean, this is so disgusting how could it possibly be true right? But, I'll admit I was kind of perversely fascinated with the idea of the book. Did it really exist? Where did you keep it? Was it in the room with us while we were fooling around? Did you keep it in the nightstand? What was your grading criteria? Did you rate purely based on skill or did you have a dual scoring system that included marks for creative flair like they do in figure skating? Between these thoughts, the strippers and imagining your friend naked, I was having a hard time getting turned on.
(Actually, given all the evidence so far its actually impressive that you got as far as you did)
5. The Scrapbook. The morning after I slept over, we were lying in bed. You said to me "I have something to show you" as you reached over to grab something from the nightstand. My first thoughts were OMG, THE BOOK. HE'S BRINGING OUT THE BOOK. It wasn't the book. It was worse. It was a collection of photos. You proceeded to show me pictures from your past vacations, pointing out the various girls you'd slept with. Was this really happening?! Was this meant to make me jealous?! Was I meant to say "Oh wow, look at what I'm missing out on! Fuck me now! I want to be in your girls-I've-banged-hall of fame-photo-album!". FYI. Showing the girl you're trying to have sex with photos of other girls you've slept with = not exactly a pantie dropper. The whole time you were showing me these photographs I had to suppress laughter. It was all just so bizarre. The next day at work, I told Ukulele Misfit all about your little "photography show" and we spent the next 20 minutes laughing hysterically.
I wasn't stupid. I knew you were kind of sleazy when I agreed to go out with you. I was fine with that to a point (obviously). Like I said, it was summer, I was horny and I wanted someone to make out with. Had the chemistry been better between us (and there hadn't been the issue of your friend) I might have actually slept with you. But, what it all came down to is this: the whole time we were together I could tell that you weren't honestly interested in me. I knew this was all just a game for you. If I had slept with you it would have been meaningless. As much as I enjoy sex, I have no desire to be another number in someone's book (literally).
Now, flash-forward to about 2 months after we DIDN'T HAVE SEX. I was talking to your friend (who I did eventually end up having sex with. Note, I had sex with him. Not you. Get your facts straight). That's when I heard that I apparently "gave you a blow-job" (Read the notes, it totally didn't happen! How many times am I going to have to say, "it was a HAND-JOB"?). I thought it was kind of sad and pathetic that you'd stretch the truth about what actually happened between us. You became known amongst my girlfriends as "The guy who lied about the blow-job".
Now, flash forward 6 years later. Someone I know tells me that apparently, you've been telling people that WE HAD SEX. Unless, you have some vastly different definition of what constitutes sexual intercourse (note, me touching your wiener does not equate us "sleeping together") WE NEVER HAD SEX. In 7 years a Hand Job got upgraded to a Blow-Job which then got upgraded to us actually Doin' the Do. I wonder what this rumor will look like in another 7 years? I'm sure it will involve a sex tape, me banging all of your friends while you watch, a quickie wedding in Vegas & possibly a few love children. Maybe you should stop talking while you're ahead.
What I also find completely laughable, is that apparently "I'm pretty bad in bed". Yeah, that's generally the case with sex that NEVER HAPPENS. And, if it was SO BAD, why are you still talking about it 7 years later?!
To claim I am the one LYING about this is ridiculous. I've slept with some pretty questionable people and have no problem owning up to it. Read the blog. I have no incentive to lie about it. You do. I think you're being a sore loser.
Talk goes both ways. I've heard things about you. I've heard about the threesomes, the endless string of girls, the video tapes. All of this just confirms my initial instincts about you. But, I'm not here to chastise you for your lifestyle choices. I'm not exactly an angel myself. In a strange way I actually admire you. You've managed to excel at being truly, and unapologetically sleazy. And I get it. Women are beautiful. They have pretty hair and boobs and soft skin and they smell good. If I was a guy, I probably would try and have sex with as many of them as possible. But, if I did do this I would be a gentleman, keep my stats straight & be discrete. Do you think Don Draper needs to lie about how many chicks he's nailed just so that he can get an extra high-five from his buddies? No. Of course not. So, I'll leave you with this:
IT NEVER HAPPENED. IT WAS 7 YEARS AGO. STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.
PS. And yes, it is big. Not the biggest I've seen but, big enough that I'd remember having it inside me.
xox
Skinny Dip
What would you say to an ex if you could say anything?
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