Nov 17, 2013

"Hi I'm Dave. LOL"


The man of my dreams is probably out there, but I'm sure he's tied up banging prostitutes and scoring smack behind a dumpster somewhere. That's okay, I'll wait. What's another 32 years? In the meantime, I'll just keep busy with eating microwaveable meatballs for breakfast, looking for missing socks in my apartment, and watching The Notebook on repeat. And if you think I'm kidding...

Actually, scratch that,, I'm not ALWAYS watching The Notebook.Yes I am. Ryan Gosling is in my heart and soul and makes my lady bits tingle.  Okay, maybe I don't watch it everyday, but I at least have it on in the background while I read the messages I've received from satan himself  men, in my online dating account.  (Oh and let's not forget to acknowledge the occasional woman who messages me, which I'm secretly beginning to entertain, but only if she looks and acts like Ellen Degeneres.) 
However, there is nothing on the planet that annoys me more then getting a shady, creepy, poorly written message from a potential one night stand suitor.
From my experience, NO ONE in the online dating world seems to use proper punctuation, or at least the shady shits that message me don't. Now I'm the first one to admit that a lot of my text messages look like this most days:
"Hey! f;adiang mall dfkladi like whatever adn I looks dkafdi. xo" 
BUT, I do know that you end a sentence with a period or some form of fucking punctuation. Like "!" or "?" or "."  One of my favourite members of the punctuation family is "!", which I've been using a lot lately. Oh and I've even began to pair it with the ever wonderful "?" To look something like this: "?!!!" That's a sweet combo if I've ever seen one. Join me for some real life samples below as I take you through my responses to messages in my online dating mailbox. 

"Where is your shirt in that pic and why are you naked in your bathroom mirror?!!!" 
"Wow!! I love your '95 Honda and your giant neck tattoo!!!"
"Whoa! Nice penis! What time are you picking me up?!!!"
"Are those 6 cats yours in the pic?!!! Sweet." 
"Oh I'm okay thanks! I don't need you to put that in any orfus of my body." 
"I love that you have a joint hanging out the side of your mouth in your profile pic!!!" 
"How much did that grill in your mouth cost?!!! 
Another thing that makes me want to light my couch on fire, is how often people over use "LOL" in the online dating community. It actually illicits a physical reaction in my body when someone writes "LOL" when nothing is funny. I need no more words. Michael Scott says it best. *For effect, please picture me sitting pantless on my couch eating a box of lettuce and scream crying while uttering these words.


Anyway back to more LOL'ing. Truthfully, what prompted me to write an angry paragraph on the improper use of laughing out louds, was last night's message from a jackass named Dave, whose username was "Areyoumysoulmate69." First, even reading my email alert that someone with the username "Areyoumysoulmate69", had sent me a message, made me impulsively try and detach the screen from my laptop, but being truly underwhelmed with life at the moment, I opened it. It read: 

"Hi I'm Dave. Lol" 
Hey Dave, what the fuck is so funny about that sentence?? Is your birth name Dave Lol? Are you Mr. Lol? Do you sign cheques as Dave Lol? Because if it is, it is pretty fucking hilarious that your last name is Lol. What are the chances? I really hope Dave's computer spontaneously fell into a sink hole and his index fingers shattered and turned into dust. If you're wondering whether or not I actually responded to Mr. Lol, my answer is "No. Lol." I have never and will never respond to an unwarranted LOL.Because I'm too busy crying and eating hot dogs.

In August, my cousin, in an attempt to find me a +1 for future Christmas dinners, baptisms and funerals, signed me up for yet another online dating account. Sweet. Double penetration! The joy of this site is, it actually gives you a % of how well you're matched with other members. Sweet! Within seconds of signing up, I was shocked to find out that I was 98% compatible with 23704237 users! WHAT?! DREAMS DO COME TRUE. THERE ARE THAT many soulmates out there for me?!!! So obvi, I picked myself off the floor, dropped my hotdog, and investigated my future ex-husbands....
Well, upon further investigation, it became evident that their so-called "matching" system is based on the most basic, simplest, commonalities, and they enjoy updating you 78 times a day to let you know that you're not alone, and that the meatball to your spaghetti is just a click away:

"Amanda! John likes breathing, you like breathing too!" 100% Match
"Amanda! Ryan has 2 arms, you have arms too!" 98% Match
"Amanda! Blake eats food, you eat food too!" 99% Match

OMG. I'm becoming so angry right now even thinking about this. I literally have chest pains and I'm about to pop a Life brand sleeping pill. (For my American friends, Life brand is a lower budget drugstore brand and in my case it signifies how little money I have. Do you feel bad for me?) If I'm lucky, I'll pop it now and I should start to feel relaxed/sleepy in about 7 hours when my alarm goes off for work. Sweet. Life's working out. 

Anyway, I actually have to go wash my Proactive mask off my face and finish up on the crying I started earlier. Love ya bitches. 

Nanners

PS. I hope my married friends and readers are happy and enjoying cuddling with their loved ones tonight. LOL.

Nov 10, 2013

Kitties and Creams

Do you ever have such a bad hair day that you want to pull a "Britney" circa 2007, and be done with life as you know it? I do all the time.

Typically I experience the urge to shave my head Monday-Saturday, and you better bet your ass on Sundays, when I don't go out, I look like Claudia Schiffer. Of course my hair is fab, my makeup is stellar, my skin is zit free, my wrinkles are less wrinkly and I'm sitting on my God damn couch watching a Say Yes to the Dress marathon, while doing the single girl sob into my 100 dollar designers pillows that I can't afford. Sometimes, on lonely spinster Sundays I take a walk to the convenience store (which is painfully located right next to my apartment, and I've proven there is nothing I wouldn't do for a Klondike bar), to see if I can get a compliment from the nice Asian couple behind the counter. But instead, they just watch me in case I shoplift a can of diet coke like I did ONCE BY ACCIDENT last October, and they haven't forgotten it. I didn't steal your baby so calm the fuck down. 

Here's what happened: I had about 12 packs of Reece's Pieces, a frozen pizza and some maxi pads in my hands, and I wanted a can of coke soooo badly to ensure that I got diabetes, but I couldn't carry it, so I put the can in my pocket and ended up walking out without paying for it.  BUT because my conscience will eventually be the cause of my death, I ran back to the store and told them what I had done and gave them money. They had zero idea as to what I was talking about, but when I took the can out of my pocket, they looked at me like I set their cat on fire. And yes, they have a cat. A dirty one that hangs out on the shelves and scares the piss out of you when you reach for something. I have some serious concerns about the health and a safety of letting that fur ball roam the shelves, but my love for chocolate trumps it. Every. Time. So I keep going back.  See....


When I'm feeling the shittiest of shit, I have one magical place that I go where all is right in the world: Shoppers Drugmart. Fuck yeah. Even saying the name gets me aroused. The Beauty Boutique in the mecca of cosmetics, is where I plan to marry my vibrator man of my dreams. And then after we can all swipe our Optimum Points cards and get makeovers.  (If you're American, Shoppers Drugmart is pharmacy with a pimped out makeup section and they have a points system which makes me tingle in my panties.)

You name it, I've bought it all. Although I work in sales, I'm the number one target to be swindled by sales people. And the word "no" seems to have disappeared from vocabulary. God, If I could just learn to say no I would have saved myself a shit load of money and would cut down on all the STD scares. Oh well. #YOLO.

I paid a visit to the Shoppers in the east end this weekend with my mother, mainly because the staff in there knows both my mother and I by first name and I feel like a PIMP when I'm in there. My mom doesn't have a makeup addiction, and she thinks I'm right off my rocker for paying $346329420 for concealer. But she does want me to get married in this lifetime, and to do so, you have to be somewhat attractive, and concealer always helps. Actually, you don't have to be attractive to get married, I see it all the time. It just so happens that I want an attractive husband who will divorce me in 5 years but at least I can look back on pictures and think "yeah, I tapped that." 

So as I get further and further off topic, my trip to Shoppers inspired me to think of all the useless items I've bought in the last few months. I thought we could take a look inside my shopping bag...sprinkled with a bit of my award winning attitude of course. 

Microdermabrasion Scrub: I recently spent $100 on an exfoliator that promised new skin. Fuckers. I was desperately hoping that after just a few scrubs, my wrinkles would decrease and if I scrubbed my epidermis (see mom, I use big words, university wasn't a complete waste) hard enough, it would reveal that my face is a carbon copy of Heidi Klum...and then I woke up. Apart from my skin looking like I had just been discharged from the burn unit, I spent hours in front of the mirror waiting for the big $100 change. No dice. Instead, I quickly realized that I'd have better luck burning a 100 dollar bill and roasting my face over a camp fire.

Pore Refiner: You know those mirrors that are double sided and one of those sides is SUPER magnified? Those are fun if you're int the business of self torture! I hope the person who thought of the magnified mirror is trapped in a well somewhere or is currently being eaten by a shark as I type. Who the fuck wants to see that their face is actually a replica of the surface of Mars, filled with crators and holes? Because that's sure as shit what mine looks like up close and magnified. Anyway, using a double sided mirror for 0.5 seconds was enough for me to type "how to tighten your fucking pores" into Google, and strap on my very favourite penny loafers and scurry to the the big SH to get myself yet another cream that made big promises AND BIG LET DOWNS. WHY CAN'T I LOOK LIKE EVA LONGORIA AND BE DONE WITH THIS SHIT. I've come to the conclusion that the only way my pores are going to stick together is if I individually glue them one by one. And never go in sunlight or office lighting so people can't see what my skin really looks like.

Lip Liners: I buy lip liners in hopes that my lips will look fuller and appear as soft billowy, luscious cushions, instead of the thin,heart shaped, cracked messes they are.  My obsession with lip liner started when I was 13 and my mom took me to the Body Shop (the store, not a garage) and let me pick out "neutral" makeup. I put neutral in quotations as it was far from neutral. In fact I would say I picked out all shit brown colours. That's neutral enough right? Essentially, I looked like a little Latina gangsta off the streets of Compton by purposely drawing my lip liner wayyyy outside my lips. I believe this look is also known as a Chola chic.
It was like this, but picture it on a pimply, pasty Scottish girl from the suburbs.

Join me on my next Shoppers adventure when I test out home blood pressure kits and wingless maxi pads.

Nov 3, 2013

Oh To The Gym I Go....

Many of you have been asking/sending me death threats/annoying the shit out of me, about where I've been the last few months, and when my next post will be. Well, here it is. I don't know how good it'll be since I'm a little rusty on the writing front and typing is a bitch since my arms are still shaking from the gym this morning. Yes, you read that correctly, the gym. Words I thought I would NEVER say, especially since the great fall of 2012. And that's where I have been living and breathing for the past 3 months. I'm sure you've heard the screams of terror from my neighbourhood when my alarm goes off at 4:50am, to get my now somewhat mid- size ass to the gym. And it's at this time at approximately 4:50am each morning, when I question the meaning of life, why I don't have heated floors, and then let out a loud "YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME."  But by 5:10am, after I fight the urge to dart into traffic on my walk to the gym, I get on that God damn stair climber.

In addition to working out, I've also made the insane choice to follow a low-carb lifestyle. Even typing that made me hungry. I've never looked at a piece of bread before and wanted to make sweet, sweet love to it, more than I do in this moment. Sometimes I just walk into the supermarket and sniff fresh bread and scurry over to the frozen food aisle to touch myself while looking at McCain pizzas. Then I walk home, do sit ups, eat chicken with a side of air for dessert, pop a sleeping pill and pray to God that my Nytol has the magic dual function of putting me in a light coma, while burning off all my cellulite. And facial hair. Then I wake up to the sad reality that nope, they don't, and I'm just really fucking tired and I hate my life more than I did when I went to bed. Whomp, Whomp.

I don't consider myself an observant person, and according to some, I've gone through my entire life with my head up my ass. But I have a given a lot of thought on the following things in the big, bad world of exercise.

Planking: Also known as "Really Shitty": This morning a woman who was about 328098 years old, pulled her mat up next to mine, took off her shirt and started planking. This in turn caused me to have a giant WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING moment, since she was actually old enough to remember what she was doing the day the Titanic sank, and no one that old she be planking. In fact NO ONE should plank. It's the worst exercise ever. Hey, why don't you hold yourself completely still on the tips of your toes and forearms. NO THANKS.  So, since I've developed a bit of a competitive edge since my weight loss, I dropped to the floor and did 30 push ups, (to show Mildred who's boss) which is 29 and 1/2 more than I've ever done in my life. I've dropped my phone about 14 times since my push up incident this morning, out of sheer lack of upper body strength coupled with an intense amount of shaking.

Doing classes at the gym: First, let me preface this by the fact that I attend classes at an all female gym. Have you ever looked at people's faces when they work out? Do they smile like this asshole? Um, yeah, probably not.

However, I attend a class every Wednesday night at my gym which is made for toning and sculpting muscles/dying a slow public death, and there are always the same 3 women that come to that class that like to let out a "Whooooo hooooo! Yeah! I feel it!!!" COUPLED WITH THE OCCASIONAL CLAP. Please God, Jesus, make it stop. I get it that the endorphins are pumping through your body, but you can't be THAT happy. I know this for certain as I watch everyone else's miserable my- body- doesn't bend- this- way- face, while we squat ourselves skinny.

(*Sidenote-I've decided to refrain from doing classes while I'm PMS'ing. On Wednesday, I nearly picked up my dumbbell and launched it at the skinny bitch in front of me, who had the giant gap in between in her inner thighs. You know, they didn't touch. I could tell that she's one of those bitches who has never experienced inner thigh chaffing, and in my eyes. if your inner thighs have not rubbed together and almost ignited your vagina on fire, I can't trust you.)

In this class we are also required to use poles, (not the kind of pole I used in university), free weights and mats, that other people have had their grimey hands on, and it seriously creeps the fuck out of me. Every time I touch gym equipment, I get a shiver up my spine and dream of cupcakes and penises. But I suck it up and do it in the name of being skinny. I mean let's be serious here, you never know who had the urge to scratch their vagina then lift weights. My friend Mel does it all the time.

The change room: Also known as "The Bush"  Now, I may not be one of those gals that walk around naked in the change room, and I never will be. I'm more of a slip into a snow suit and turn off the lights kind of gal, but if I was one of those gals that liked to air out her lady bits in public for shits and giggles, I sure as hell would keep that shit groomed. I know some of you are thinking "Well then don't look." How can you not??? 1. It's natural curiosity. 2. I fear for my safety.

BTW the fearing for my safety comment is completely legit. I was nearly killed in a walk-by nippling in 2010, while sitting innocently on the bench in the change room. It was a dark and stormy night, and I had leaned down to tie my left shoe before I dragged my fat ass to the treadmill. Then, suddenly a woman in her 50's appeared, naked and dripping from the shower. And "Oh Goody" I exclaimed in my head as her locker was RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. As she toweled off and I frantically raced to tie my shoelace, she leaned over, put her leg up on the bench and her nipple grazed my ear as she moisturized her legs. I've never been the same.

Those are just a few of the thoughts that run through my head while I climb, lift, lunge, sweat and walk my way to my makeshift Cindy Crawford body. Only mine has more cellulite and one of my boobs is bigger than the other. And please excuse my vulgarity, my sugar is low.

Peace Out,
Nanners