Sep 24, 2012

Panic Room

So OF COURSE I'm trapped in my apartment, yet again. My landlord slipped a lovely letter under my door on Friday night letting me know that the elevator (which was actually the first elevator ever invented and the elevator of which I was trapped in for 30 minutes one drunken night) will be shut down for a week.
I was pleasantly surprised that this letter was legible as there is a note she posted in the laundry room that's titled "Laundry Room Edicate."  Anyway, now this was just beautiful news to me since I am on the 6 floor and have 2 crutches, one leg and a bad attitude. So in a moments panic after I picked myself off the floor and asked God why he hates me so much, I messaged my boss to see if I could work from home this week and thankfully, because he rocks, he made it happen.
* Please note, I know I may seem a little dramatic, but I haven't eaten carbs in 9 days because I'm in a wedding in 5 weeks. Count em 5 weeks. This in turn, makes me one bun-less burger away from becoming a homicidal maniac. I'm telling you, on the night of the wedding, if I don't look like Heidi Klum and wake up with condoms scattered all over my hotel room from casual sex (because my new carb free body is so hot) I'll cut a bitch. I'm not even gonna tell you how many hot dogs I've ingested in the past 48 hours, but it's working. Let's just say my coroners report would read "Death by Juicy Ball Park Jumbos."

So for me, since I worked from home for 4 months, I developed some habits which I may or may not have picked up again...and it's only Monday...

1. Inspect my body for suspicious moles, bumps or hairs. We all do it. But I've kicked my body inspection up a notch since I started watching that new show on TLC called "Abby and Brittany". They are two headed twins with one body. Hey, if it could happen to them, it could happen to me. Maybe the reason why I have a FUPA (Fat Upper Pussy Area) is because I actually have my twin inside me. If you watch enough TLC, this isn't a stretch.

2. Google Neil Lane and Tiffany engagement rings- Well, secrets out. For all my male friends that read this, I have just made myself completely un-referable in the dating community. NO guy recommends a girl to his buddies who has a scrapbook of wedding rings and venues under her bed. Relax boys. All women have a little Sharon Stone in Fatal Attraction in us. We all do it. Even if it's just in our heads.

3No showering-I think I showered 4 times this summer when I was confined to this hell hole. No one is gonna see me all day so who gives a shit. Unless of course, my friends have secretly wrote the Ellen show about how tragic my life has been and Justin Bieber and Ellen show up to surprise me. THEN I'd be fucked.

4. Listen for noises that would implicate there is a killer in my apartment-I do this all day and I'm aware I talk about this a lot, but I'm still convinced my parents abducted me from really rich famous people when I was a baby. I can't possibly feel this entitled to the finer things in life and come from a middle class family. So if my own parents are abducters...who's to say a stranger isn't secretly lurking in my apartment waiting to chop me up?? Trust me, detectives Benson and Stabler would agree with me on this one.

5. Provided It's a re-run of Family Feud, I listen to 3 carefully selected songs on repeat.

  • Call me Maybe-Something about that song makes me want to dance in a field with my shirt off. 
  • Teach Me How to Dougie-Um, for the obvious reasons, because I'm gangsta, and I believe it's paramount that everyone knows how to Dougie. 
  • Turning Tables-A song in which I usually fantasize I have just broken up my with my uber famous celebrity boyfriend because he was tired of all the attention I was getting for being so beautiful. But in the end he comes back to me. I'm not saying who it is but it rhymes with Mustin Sheiber. 
6. Google STD's. Pfft. This is a given. I started only googling STD's during day light hours. Because let's face it,  trying to sleep when you think you have herpes and a rare form of chlamydia is challenging. 

Well, I've shared enough weirdness and vulgarity with you for one post. I'm off to search for some Percocet I may have dropped under my the radiator a few months ago. 

Peace out, 
Nanners 


Sep 16, 2012

Dripping in Rage...

Last night, I paid a much needed visit to Margaritaville...The town I enjoy blacking out in. After you read about my week last week, you'll understand why.

Tuesday got off to a roaring start when the below happened...all over my new white shirt. I got to sport the fresh, 'someone just took a shit on my chest' look all day at the office. I became quite enraged when I spilt the majority of my thousand dollar Starbucks coffee absolutely everywhere. It was dripping off my pants into my shoe and all over my desk. I experienced the kind of rage I get when I miss the first 2 minutes of Law and Order:SVU and I have no clue whose penis went where. The opening 2 minutes of that show are CRUCIAL for that show to make any sense.  It really messes me up and I get angry.

Since I'm still kinda Tiny Tim-ing it around the city on my crutches, and the general public is filled with assholes, I haven't been taking the subway to work. To get to work my cankles and I arrive in style by using the Wheel-Trans service. (If you're not familiar with the Wheel-Trans service, they help people with disabilities get around the city.) They enjoy picking people up 5 hours before you need to be anywhere and they LOVE dropping you off 2 hours late when all you want to do is go home and eat your feelings  Not to mention I'm the youngest passenger by about 1000 years. For sure most of these people I ride with knew Jesus personally.

*I do have to say my favourite part of taking Wheel-Trans is the driver has to put on each passenger's seatbelt, and it's actually the most action I've seen in a while. If I close my eyes and throw a little Marvin Gaye on the iPod, I pretend it's Channing Tatum grazing my hip and blowing his Dorito breath in my face. It helps. I also pretend other things but my mother reads this blog.

Wednesday, on the way home, we stopped to pick up an old Asian woman at the hospital. She was roughly about 103-105 years old. LIke I'm talking this bitch had one foot in the grave. I wonder how she felt when she realized this was probably her last night on earth and she was spending it with some chubby white girl with a sweaty upper lip and a chin strap. (I'm finding more hair on my chin every waking minute. I'm just waiting for the moment my Mom tells me my Dad isn't my real Father and she actually fucked a saskwatch in 1981...it's the only plausible option and it would explain a lot.

Anyway, I'm getting way off topic as per usual.

After the driver strapped this Asian woman in, she turns to me and out of no where starts screaming at me in Chinese. Like I'm talking screaming. I had no idea what she was saying obviously and I'm yet to pass level one Chinese on Rosetta Stone. What this bitch's problem was was beyond me. How was I supposed to diffuse this situation? The most obvious answer was to do what anyone does when they are trying to avoid someone in public, I played with my phone. I ended up messaging my girlfriend Katie to tell her what was going on and how this woman was launching a fierce verbal attack on me. Katie said "Just say Knee-How" (This is not how it's spelt but how it sounds) Not even thinking twice or worrying that I may actually be telling this woman to go fuck herself in Chinese, I turn to her and yell in best and loudest Asian accent. "KNEE HOWWWWWW". Right in her face. Silence. Amazing.

Thursday was another gem of a day. Since I'm a hardcore pee holder, and I can hold my pee for like 8 days, I thought I would be totally fine holding it for the 5th hour until I got home from work (I hate public washrooms). But, by the time I got home and crutched my fat ass into my apartment, I quickly realized I may actually have a warm fuzzy feeling streaming right down my pant leg any minute. (I usually do the pee dance if my urge to urinate is overwhelming. You know the one where your eyes roll back in your head, you bite your lip and cross your legs as you try to walk to hold your pee in and shuffle to the toilet? Ya, that one. Well I either do that or hike my pants up so hard and give myself mega camel toe, hoping this'll keep the pee on lockdown. Kinda like taking my vagina hostage.)
Anwyay, when I got to my washroom, I realized I had left all my towels on the floor from my shower that morning, and for a girl on crutches, this is a real fucking hazard. So naturally and in true Nanners fashion, I was not paying attention to the fact that I LEFT THE TOILET SEAT DOWN when I had to kneel on the toilet seat that morning to turn the shower off. So I threw myself on the toilet and just started power pissing....ON THE CLOSED LID....Absolutely everywhere.... All over the floor, my legs, and I swear some hit the wall too. It was like a monsoon of piss and I couldn't stop since I had already committed to relieving myself. Once hurricane Irene had finished. I sat there and sobbed on my toilet before I was able to pull my shit together and clean that mess up.

Keep in mind by Thursday, I had been waiting for my period that was already 10 days late. Lately when I'm PMS'ing, I feel like a one-woman circus. I'm like a hybrid between Rebecca De Mornay in The Hand That Rocks The Cradle and a clown. One minute I'm laughing and the next I'm googling how to make homemade bombs.

Well, here's to hoping this week is better than the last. I'm kinda thinking those people that snort bath salts are on to something.

Peace out.

*Oh and one last thing, I have a new found respect for anyone that has a permanent disability. It's incredible how inaccessible this world really is and the lack of people that are willing to help when they see someone struggling. I'm fortunate enough that my situation isn't permanent but there are so many people that have to deal with far more serious physical problems. If you see that someone needs help, help them. Even if it's just holding a door. You never know, one day that could be you or someone you care about. 







Sep 9, 2012

Melrose Place: My Life is the Exact Opposite


This has been a week from hell. Officially. Not only have I discovered that my thighs do in fact still rub together since I started quasi walking again, I'm exhausted from work, my Uncle passed away and I'm pretty sure I'm developing adult acne. Amazing. So needless to say, I'm having a hard time puling my shit together so I'm re-posting one of the very first blog posts I ever wrote back in 2008 when I was living with my good friend Sandra. This was originally an email that I had sent to my girlfriends who convinced me that posting it would be a good idea. So my apologies, if you have already read it, you'll get a new post next week, provided I can type in a straight jacket. (I do look fab in white).

Anyway, here you go.....


Evening ladies.... Let me paint you a picture: It was Monday night at 7 o'clock, I am strolling home from work with my thighs ever so gently rubbing together. I step into the elevator as the faint aroma of sausages, body odour and fabric softner ever so gently wafts up my nose. I walk into my apartment and immediately start to channel surf because yes, as we have established at many girls weekends....I am single and sexless in the city. With the passing of each channel, my fingers start to burn as I realize that I am at channel 885. Yes, you heard me correctly, 885 channels and sadly enough, I could tell you what is 884 of those channels at any given time. Anyway....I digress. All of a sudden, my heart stops. My eyes lock on the screen...I had just discovered re-runs of Melrose Place!!!!....I know....I am so lucky. After each episode that I religiously watched last week, I got to thinking....how my life is the EXACT opposite of the slutty renters of Melrose.

Lets compare shall we: (Sandra is my roomate)

Melrose Place: Allison, lonely and new to L.A needs a roomate so she puts out an add and Billy (who is built like a brick shit house) moves in....the sexual tension builds for months, they bang and then they fall apart.

My Apartment: Sandra and I move in together buy Kraft dinner every Friday accompanied by 2 litres of wine each and then we chain smoke on our balcony which is currently covered in bird shit. That is it.

Melrose Place: Amanda (a.k.a Heather Locklear...who by the way hasn't aged since 1981) the scandalous land lady hears a disturbing noise coming from outside her apartment. She calls Jake...the steamy and dreamy guy next door who ironically shows up at her door with his shirt off...Within seconds the buttons off her blouse are flying into the bookshelf and he's banging her like a Jamaican on a steel drum.

My Apartment: Amanda (the chubby renter a.k.a Nanners) hears a disturbing noise coming from outside her apartment so she runs into the living room and peers out her peep hole only to find the chinese midget that lives in the apartment across the hall has tipped her buggy full of newspapers over and then begins to organize her newspapers for her paper route the next day...

Melrose Place: Jake and the gang are bored on a Saturday night so they all decide since they are the same age weight and height...why not put on some bathing suits, have some beers and a bbq...it's all good until Sandy's Stalker shows up to tell her how much he's in love with her after only going on one date...Don't worry....Jake beats him up and he leaves her alone.

My Apartment: It's Saturday night, Amanda's phone has been charging for two days straight...she keeps checking to see if its broken because it hasn't rang in 48 hours. Amanda realizes at 11pm that no one is going to call so she goes into her room and watches soft porn on Showcase until she falls asleep...

Notice any similarities?...If any of you ladies have any life comparisons please feel free to write about it...

Smooches, Nanners

Sep 3, 2012

Worst. Case. Scenario.

While I'm laying in bed dusting the cobwebs of my cooter, I often play the "What If" game and the "Worst Case Scenario" game with myself, because let's face it... 9 out of 10 times, the worst case scenario does happen to me. Whomp. Whomp. 
If you have the misfortune of knowing me or follow my blog, you are very aware of this truth. However, for my new readers, a glowing example of my nightmare-ish luck would be the time I was hit by a line drive at the Blue Jays game and it cracked my skull (I know I haven't finished part 2 of that story). Or another oldie but goodie is when I was at my friend's keg party up north and there were 20 of us sitting around the campfire and I got up to do an impression of a woman having a fake orgasm (I've won contests at bars for this impression..don't be jealous of my classiness) and I accidentally backed into the bushes and fell off a small cliff which led me to being in a full leg brace for the entire summer of 2007. That was a pretty embarrassing moment when I tried to keep a poker face explaining to the specialist and my Mother how it happened. 
But... in the grand scheme of things, nothing was more embarrassing than last October when I accidentally sexted my brother after a few cocktails and NOT the guy I was going on a date with. I recently just started making eye contact with my brother again. 
Oh and in 2005, my cousin and I chose to sit separately from the rest of our family on our flight to Scotland so we could have booze for breakfast and not be judged. Intoxicated and sleep deprived, we landed in Heathrow Airport in London to make our connecting flight to Scotland where we became separated from everyone amongst the chaos in the terminal. We somehow drunkenly convinced ourselves we had 10 minutes to make our connecting flight to Glasgow, so we raced through the airport frantically as our vodka breath blew back in our face...We got to our "supposed" gate as our plane was about to leave and they quickly boarded us...Turns out they let us on the wrong flight and we landed in Scotland hungover, luggage-less, confused and without our family...3 hours early. Try explaining this story to the sober parents stuck in Heathrow Airport who were having security page us for 3 hours thinking we'd been kidnapped. If they only knew how bad my vodka/airplane peanut breath was, they would have known there was no chance of any kidnapper taking me...anywhere. Ever. They still don't find it funny. I do. 

Okay, I think that's enough evidence to back up my bad luck reference from earlier and I don't think you can blame me for letting my mind create some not-so-amazing scenarios for virtually any occasion. Like sometimes, when I do the dishes I stare into the sink and I think, "What would happen if a snake came up through the drain and wrapped around my neck and tried to strangle me?" It's these type of thoughts that make people who sleep with knives under their pillows or carry a pistol in their sock, fairly rational to me. 


Whoa, I'm way off topic. Let's try this again shall we? So Friday morning when I woke up, I was laying in bed dry humping my pillow spooning my body pillow, and playing with my phone. (Which is also code for stalking celebs on Twitter) and I got a request to add someone with the name 'EvanG' to my bbm. (Blackberry Messenger) 
Secretly hoping it was Biebs using the name 'EvanG' as an alias, I added him and sent a message which read, "Hey, who is this?" (It's clearly someone named Evan, but roll with me).
'EvanG' responds, "Look over your left shoulder." 
Well holy sweet Jesus above... If it's possible to shit your pants, barf, have a stroke and organ failure at the same time, I did. Those 10 seconds were quite dramatic as I stared at my phone and tried to side glance my attacker which OBVIOUSLY was not there. When a stranger sends you a creepy message when you're all alone, telling you to look over your left shoulder, you think murder...or at least I do. It's amazing the thoughts that can run through my head in a matter of seconds.
My main concern wasn't that I was about to die at the hands of 'EvanG', it was that the police would find me dead in my bed... laying in a pile of dirty clothes which I was too lazy to move the night before and I may or may not have had a half eaten container of Pizza Pizza Creamy Garlic dipping sauce on the pillow beside me....and no pizza. I didn't want to end up as the poor little dead spinster starring in her own episode of Hoarders. (*Side note-that dipping sauce is Jizz-tastic and you can't deny it.)
So long story long, (I don't have the brain capacity to cut a story short) there was obviously no sneaky killer hovering over my left shoulder and this guy Evan was at a work conference and accidentally added the wrong pin number and got me instead...lucky him...But Jesus, did I ever freak. 


THEN, as I'm watching Dateline later that evening my friend Chantelle was over washing my dishes, when I got a text from another number I didn't recognize simply saying "Hey". I just assumed it was 'EvanG' finding me simply irresistible as most men do. NOT. 
So I respond. "Hey, who is this?" 
He responds "Wayne. Are you single?" (Insert eye roll as I remembered meeting this guy on an online dating site. I believe he was from somewhere up in Douche-ville Ontario.)
Having drank a litre of Malibu Rum at this point, I respond, "No, but I just found out I have herpes and I'm pregnant. Rough weekend." 
Problem solved. Still haven't heard back from him and I'm perplexed as to why. It's very liberating being a complete ass via the written word. I have an arsenal of smart ass texts that I would love to share with the right person one day...until then, I'll just keep dreaming...or imagining the worst case scenario. 

Nanners Out.