Feb 18, 2013

Cocktails and Smashed Dreams

On Valentine's Day, I woke up and wrote a list of couples I'd like to see die in the world's most deadliest shark attack. Wrong? Some, may say yes. But I urge you to ask a single gal whose only hope of penetration is the Q-tip she puts in her ear, her answer may differ. 

OBVIOUSLY if I'm miserable, I'm bringing my friends down with me, so I invited some single bitches to hang in my crib on Valentine's Eve.


It ended up being just 3 of us, as most of my friends were super swamped with eating penis sandwiches with their boyfriends or husbands. Now, being the proper host that I am, I offered to cook dinner for my girlfriends. (Cooking for me, means boiling water and putting noodles in it). But when I do cook for people once every 478 days, I become secretly very overwhelmed. Every bite my guests take, I watch their faces to see if I can catch any "I'd rather be eating a shit popsicle" looks being exchanged. However, I quickly get over this quickly, since I typically ingest no less than a litre of wine during dinner. Feeling dead inside by 8pm just makes everything easier, no?

As you can only imagine, a copious amount of cocktails and dreams were consumed that evening, so waking up on Friday was a real fucking treat. I was suspiciously covered in garlic butter, had a fork in my bed which was dangerously located by my vagina, and had precisely 20 minutes before my paradise rocket was picking me up. We all know how much I loathe commuting to work, but that loathing is greatly intensified when my insides are rotting and I'm surrounded by dickheads.


In between loathing my commute and hoping my bus gets hijacked, I've also taken up a new passion for hating elevator small talk. (It's gotta be this permanent case of PMS which I've been experiencing for the past 18 years).
On Friday, I was convinced by the time I reached the elevator at my office, I would have travelled toward the white light and this whole elevator small talk thing could be avoided. Fat chance. 


Douchebag # 1. "Bob, did you see that RFP report? It should have been done on the BDW with HPR but Sharon didn't know the PTW code. We should rework it to the GVF and have the AVP look at it. 
Douchebag # 2. "Oh it looks like it's gonna rain today. Glad I brought my umbrella. Some crazy weather we're having." 
Douchebag # 3. (Obnoxiously laughing on cell phone) "HAHAHAHAHAAHAH. She deserved it. OMG. Did you see what she wrote on Facebook? I mean, come on. Her status goes from engaged to single in like 3 days. Like, seriously." 
Me (In my head) EVERYONE STAY CALM. THERE IS A BOMB ON THE ELEVATOR. IT IS ACTIVATED BY USELESS CHIT CHAT. PLEASE, SHUT THE FUCK UP. 

I miraculously survived Friday at work and had every intention of coming home and making my bed my bitch, but I was easily lured into going to a local bar, which is literally 2 seconds from my place. This bar is a magical bar where I get the urge to drink vodka coolers and go home with strangers. Vodka coolers not only burn the top layer of my tongue off, as it turns out, they also turn me into an olympic-ly skilled, badass dart player. BUT the best part of this story is my opponent was a Mexican little person who fell deeply in love with me. At one magical point in the evening, I leaned down (way down), and he whispered:

*Please read in latin accent. 

"I'm gunna gee chu my pone number and chu call me. Somtine, maybe chu could make lub to me." 
"Oh ya, like totally. Ya, I'm always up for making love. Totally." 






It was at that point the lights in the bar came on and I realized making a love pact with a man that could fit in my purse, wasn't one of my better ideas. So what's a gal to do? What any respectable gal would do: Go next door to Popeye's Chicken. OBVIOUSLY. Ugh. Can you hear my cellulite growing? I can. By the time I came out, my friend had left and the thought of walking the entire 40 seconds to my place was so devastating, that I hailed a cab. I knew if my cabbie asked me my address he'd tell me I'm a lazy fuck and kick me out, so in my drunken state I got in and just said, "Drive." 

Since I'm not Al Pacino, I can't pull off demands like this, so of course he didn't drive. He turned right around and asked, "Where are you going?" I gave him my address and he said, "No. Are you kidding me? You live RIGHT there." Then me and my fearless vodka loving mouth responded:
"Listen asshole, I've got hot chicken in my purse. HOT CHICKEN. On top of this I only have one good leg and see those men on the corner, they just tried to abduct me." 
While I'm saying all of this I'm in shock of what's coming out of my mouth, but secretly super impressed with my Oscar-worthy delivery of this not so life threatening situation I just created. I think I was still holding on to the anger of missing Dateline that night, so I thought my uber dramatic story would be like paying homage to my favourite show. 


Saturday morning, I woke up with a bad attitude and chicken in my hair. Shocking, I know. I sat up in bed, and convinced myself for 10 minutes that my apartment must have been ransacked by terrorists. There was no way, 2 girls could make that much of a mess. I thought about calling the police but I wasn't sure if they would have to go through my drawers, and the thought of a hot cop discovering my drawer full of dicks and granny panties was just too emotionally draining. 

I actually didn't move out of bed until 6pm when my girlfriend and I went to the movies. Only to be surrounded by a family of heavy nasal breathers. Awesome. I couldn't even enjoy my popcorn as I started obsessing over what could possibly cause an entire family to breath so God damn heavily. It was vile.  

I eventually shoved my 80 dollar bag of popcorn in my purse and headed home to soak my face in glycolic acid. It's a potent wrinkle reducer that I'm convinced will one day make me look like this:


But whatever. For now, it's working. 


While burning the first layer of my face off, I had the pleasure of watching the 11 o'clock news on the channel from Buffalo. Ever watched the Buffalo news? Basically, I think there may be 6 people that currently I've in Buffalo as everyone seems to have been murdered, died in a 5 alarm blaze or are at Lockport Gambino Ford buying a used car. Depressing. 


Speaking of depressing, I decided to join society on Sunday and went low carb grocery shopping. This is what happens when you buy low carb groceries on your period: 


Low carb shopping on your period is not recommended. By the time I got to the bread aisle, I convinced myself that I would only eat open faced sandwiches on 1 slice of bread once a week, and I'd keep it in the freezer. Ha. I paced in front of the bakery like Ryan Gosling was baking all the bread for Christ sakes. I was an animal. BUT I didn't feel like such an animal when I stopped to take a small break from carrying my grocery bags (18 loaves of bread are fucking heavy), and I watched a lady eat 6 giant unwashed carrots right out of her grocery bag. Who does that? I actually locked eyes with her and shamelessly stared right at her. So feeling a little less crazy, my bread and I decided to go pant shopping. IDIOT. I personally think that lighting in change rooms should be rendered illegal. Or at least have a disclaimer on the mirror which reads:

'YES, YES YOU CAN GROW CELLULITE THERE.' 


Actually, now that I think of it, I haven't been bathing suit shopping since the late 90's for that exact reason. If my memory serves me correctly, I think the last bathing suit I bought was during the summer of '97 when I was only ingesting 2 Crystal Lights a day and feeling fab. Since then, I've just been "accidentally" falling in bodies of water fully clothed in sweaters and pants. 


Well, I somehow convinced myself that writing about my very mundane weekend is material I should share with the world. I wish that I could report that my flight from Bora Bora with Ben Affleck was so super delayed and they ran out of my favourite champagne. But sadly, that's it. There you have it folks. Simple, simple me. Trying to make it in the world without a straight jacket. 

Feb 10, 2013

9021..0MG

Sharpening my broom handle into a shiv or setting fire to the Valentine's Day card section at the drugstore seemed like my only two viable options when I woke up this morning. Ugh.

My bad mood began on Saturday evening as I spent half of my evening stalking celeb's Instagram accounts, "I love my yacht." Fuck off. This is not so appealing to a girl with .46 cents in her bank account, but since I'm in the business of self torture, I couldn't stop. The other half of my evening was spent burning my chicken and laying on my floor incredibly buzzed.

Exhibit A: Non-stick frying pan my ass.

Truthfully, the only thing that got me through today, was watching 8 hours of the original Beverly Hills, 90210. My love/obsession for 90210 was reignited via my BFF Katie, a few weeks ago. One evening out of the blue I received a message which read "OMG. Brandon Walsh looks like SUCH a good kisser."  After reading her message, it was all down hill from there. Like the losers we are, we have been rushing home from work to watch 90210 on Netflix, just so we can feel alive again.
In high school, every Wednesday night, Katie and I would sit in her bedroom and shit our pants with excitement while we watched 90210. We talked to each other as if they were our real life friends. I'm pretty sure we still suffer from post traumatic stress disorder, due to the stress of the series finale night.

"OMG, If Kelly gets back with Dylan I will effing die. Just die." 
"OMG, I know Katie, she just needs to be with Brandon. He gets her." 
"For Shizzle." 
"Katie what's that smell?" 
"Oh my dog farted." 
"Katie, that totally wasn't your dog."

Now at 31, it is evident nothing has changed....



I think we loved the show so much because our lives as teenagers closely resembled those rich little fucks from Beverly Hills. Only, swap the Porche with my parents bright blue GMC Safari van, filled with wanna-be slutty 16 year olds, wearing backless shirts from Stitches Warehouse- not Rodeo drive. Oh, and of course we had a Peach Pit, just swap that with a diner called Melanie Pringles where we ate so much poutine and ice cream that we were all borderline diabetic at our high school graduation. And seriously, who didn't live at a beach house? I did. My beach house was located in my parents basement for quite sometime. Sometimes, when the water heater would break, our basement would flood and it was totally like I was living at the beach.

Aaron Spelling's best idea imaginable, was getting a bunch of 40 year olds to play high school kids. Shall we have a little throw back down memory lane? Okay!

Nat: Poor, poor Nat. Probably the only 50 year old man that would let 16 year olds push him around AND let them open a night club at the back of his restaurant. Remember the Peach Pit After Dark? That's funny, kids that just got pubic hair running a nightclub. Makes sense. They couldn't even drink when they first started this venture. I would rather eat raw chicken than go to a bar and watch everyone else drink. No thanks.

Brenda: The most hated twin...Ever. GOD HELP US ALL. You know the old saying, "You can take a girl out of Minnesota...and turn her INTO A GIANT C*NT IN BEVERLY HILLS?" I literally don't know what else to say. When she found out Dylan was sticking his P in Kelly's V, I thought for sure she was gonna take some hostages at West Beverly. Oh remember when she was 18 and went to Vegas to marry that guy Stewart after only knowing him for 3 weeks? But then he wanted her to sign a pre-nup and she was all like "oh hell no". How mature of her. Fortunately, the whole gang caught a flight to Vegas to try and stop her by using some crafty reverse psychology. If one of my friends was flying to Vegas to get married at 18, I would first ask them where they got that money and if I could have some. Secondly, you better bet your ass that I'm not following them to Vegas. But I sure as hell would have sent them an email with the subject line: "YOU'RE A FUCKING IDIOT. COME HOME."

Brandon:  The best twin...Ever. He may be pocket size but dang, that boy was delicious. Not only was he smart, but those lips and those eyes. Mmmmm. I do have to say he was a little too goody two shoes for me. But I'd totally do him.  He ALWAYS did the right thing...BLAH BLAH BLAH. Omg. Remember when he dated Emily Valentine and she tried to blow up their homecoming float? This is only after she went all Single White Female on his ass and stalked the shit out of him by sending him cakes and shit. HE FORGAVE HER. How nice.

Kelly: Jesus that girl went through a lot. Let's see: an eating disorder, an addiction to diet pills, nearly dying in a fire, cocaine addiction, a stalker, rape, sexual harassment, killing a man, 64 failed relationships with all her closest friends, AND a breakup with Brandon on their wedding day. And she did it all while talking in a baby voice. Impressive.

Donna: Obviously Aaron Spelling loathed the thought of his little girl being penetrated on T,V, so he certainly tightened that chastity belt good and tight for the first 400000 episodes. In reality, no one gets a boyfriend that actually sticks around unless you're giving up the poon tang. Ya feel me? Especially not in Beverly Hills, where everyone is just going around having sex on beds of money. (Or on the beach in a sleeping bag like Kelly and Dylan). I bet Donna was a closet masturbator. She'd have to be. I mean, seriously. Getting to second base and saying "stop," is like burning the shit out of your last bag of microwave popcorn-SUPER SHITTY. OMG. Wait, do you remember Ray, the abusive guitar playing contractor who threw Donna down the stairs?? He wanted her to talk to angels because he didn't know how. (Get it? His one hit wonder in real life was How Do You Talk To An Angel).
I do have to say though, Donna Martin did give me hope that women who have enough room to fit a refrigerator between their breasts, can still get boyfriends. She was so wealthy growing up, that I wonder if she paid someone to pull her breasts out from under her armpits, or did she just do it herself?

Dylan: Everything that came out of his mouth sounded like an angry whisper. I guess I would be angry too if my dad's Porche exploded in front of me...with him in it.  After his dad's demise, he was such a dick. Well, a dick with a drinking problem and a whole lotta cash. Speaking of dicks, he really loved to use his. What a playa! If I were him, I would have just banged hookers instead of swapping spit with frenemies, Brenda and Kelly. Not worth it. He was far too cool for them anyway. He should have just stayed in Baja Mexico and surfed until he got eaten by a shark. Pre the explosion, he was just another 40 year old high school student walking around West Beverly looking like a total bad ass.

Steve: He literally was 35 when he was desperately trying to nail chicks on campus. Brutal. There was something so sad about watching him fight his way to be cool in the KEG house. I think it was hard for him growing up with a celebrity mother and a privileged life. UGH. PA-LEASE.

Andrea: Don't you dare pronounce it as it's spelt. It's AUNDREA, jerks. God, that girl never stood a chance with Brandon and it was painful to watch. All she wanted to do was edit the school newspaper and have Brandon Walsh tickle her with his pickle. Can't a girl catch a break? Remember when she lost her virginity to her Resident Advisor, Dan Rubin? Ew. He had the worst hair ever. THEN, shortly after she got knocked up by the Mexican bartender/law student named Jesse. SCANDALOUS.

David: Remember when he first started the show and his best friend Scotty accidentally shot himself and died? Ugh. I thought he would never recover. But fortunately for us, he turned into a real babe. A real babe with a big bad case of blue balls after dating Donna Martin for 30 years. Total stud. I have to admit it was kinda hot when he became addicted to drugs at the radio station.

Jim and Cindy Walsh: EVERYONE pushes Jim and Cindy around, especially their bitch daughter Brenda.

Cindy: "Brenda, breakfast is ready."'
Brenda: "Just admit it, you love Brandon more than me."
Cindy: "Brenda, what are you talking about?"
Brenda: "Come on Mom. You lent him the car last night and you knew I wanted it to go to Dylan's. You know what, Dylan's dad's car exploded and he needs a financial advisor, and you two are just sitting here eating bacon! I hate you both!"
Jim: "Brenda that's enough!"
Brenda: "UGHHHH! I'm moving to Paris and you can't stop me!"
Jim: "Okay, sweetie."

This just got me so excited.

If there is a God, there will be a reunion and Katie and I will split a box of Depends.

I think I've done enough of a recap for one day. I'm also watching the movie A Walk To Remember as I write, and this is the scene where Mandy Moore tells Shane West she's dying. My heart cannot take this and I cannot see my screen. Oh fuck, just wait till he builds her the telescope. Heart. On. The. Floor.

Alright my friends, I'm out.
Nanners
















Feb 3, 2013

Panic Shmanic

"Hey! I'm in the neighbourhood! Mind if I stop by? I can be there in 5." Are probably the words I fear most in this life. First of all, it's a serious fucking scramble to delete the porn I've rented from my cable company and even worse than that, is waiting for my computer to load so I can delete my internet browsing history. What happens on google, stays on google. Or is immediately and shamelessly posted on my blog for all the world to see.  So next time you come over, know that I've been swamped with hiding/deleting search history like THIS: 





When I'm not googling really weird shit and melting cheese on all the contents of my fridge, I host Thirsty Thursdays at my house. By "house" I mean a hole in the wall bachelorette pad with plethora of dirty dishes in the oven and hair product on the ceiling. And by "Thirsty Thursday"  I mean I pick up a magnum of Pinot, go home, drink it, send very creepy text messages to 50% of my male contacts and get very dehydrated, hence the thirsty. Get it? Got it? Good. 

Last week's Thirsty Thursday event was a real rager, I was partially drinking to help calm me down from the panic attack I suffered in a food court after I bought a $100 anti-aging cream. Who am I kidding? I am not a Hilton and I am constantly trying to convince Visa I died in a fire, just to avoid paying my bill, so why I thought I could afford this is beyond me.
I mean seriously, I could put that money towards the cocaine habit I've been contemplating OR I could put it toward the support group I've been thinking of starting...I've named it "Vaginosity!" Essentially, it's a safe place for women with a chip on their shoulder and women who happen to being going through a serious cock drought. We can hang out, drink, dust bust our vaginas, go to Home Depot, you know, the fun stuff. 

I was inspired to make this million dollar anti-aging cream purchase as I caught a glimpse of myself on the subway. You know those double takes you do of yourself in a mirror? Those 'what the fuck' moments? Yeah, I had one of those. Have you seen the God damn lighting on the subway? It doesn't do anyone any favours and it has incredibly, incredibly bright lighting. I imagine it's that type of brightness only astronauts experience while traveling DIRECTLY TOWARD THE SUN. I'm betting it was some porcelain skinned pore-less, zit-less, hair-less whore who designed the lighting for public transit. I suspect she's on some beach sipping Mai Thai's, just giggling her tits off as we commute around the city looking sensationally fugly. 

Panic has to be my least favourite feeling on this planet. Unfortunately, it happens to me a lot. The sweating, the shaking, the gasping for air. So much fun! Thankfully the mustache I'm growing shields the sweat on my upper lip during a panic attack. (Seriously, I've been diagnosed with a panic disorder a few years ago and it fucking sucks. I think it was triggered when I found out the Pizza Hut by my parents place turned into a Sushi restaurant.) 
You name it, I get my panties in a twist. At work, I often panic that I accidentally forwarded a dick joke to a client. Not everyone enjoys a dick joke, but I'm pretty grateful for them. 
I'm also left breathless and panicky when I think about the thought of my cable going out while I'm watching The Bachelor. THAT'S A REAL FUCKING NIGHTMARE. 

Speaking of nightmares, the taste in my mouth from last night's drinking escapades is truly, sincerely, truthfully, honestly overwhelming me right now. No toothbrush or breath mint can rectify this. Thank you Ian, Mel and Marino for assisting in my self destruction, and Mel I do apologize for trying to open mouth kiss you. I heard guys like lesbians so I thought I'd give it a shot. 

I'm far too hungover to be writing right now. I must go, but before I do, I want to give a quick shout out to my physiotherapist Charlotte who listens to my ridiculous stories and constant complaining. AND also a friendly shout out/welcome to Charlotte's sister who follows my blog, thanks so much for reading!!!

Over'n out
Nanners