Dec 21, 2012

Happy Holidays!

Well, I'm officially off to attend the Spinster Classic, otherwise known as Christmas. If there is a cat in my stocking, that will be my apocolypse.

Happy Holidays to all of you and I will be back on January 3rd, provided I'm not in prison.

Much love to you and your families!


Dec 16, 2012

For the love of driving...

Last night before going to bed, I said a prayer requesting that my inner thighs wouldn't be touching when I woke up and walked to the bathroom in the morning. Obviously God saw what I was doing in closets on Saturday nights with the Stouffville Spirit hockey team when I was 17... and never came through. Instead, he's blessed me with nightmarish chaffing, saggy tits and the distinct ability to grow a chin strap. One day female goatees will be in...just wait you hairless bitches.

As I drove around the mall parking lot for 40 fucking minutes yesterday trying to find a parking spot, I wondered if I accidentally drove on to the set of The Hunger Games or if I just drove my car straight into the fiery pits of hell.  A woman ACTUALLY put on her 4 ways to try and claim both spots of cars exiting from the right and left of her. Once I caught on to what she was doing I yelled,
 "Oh I don't think so you dickface motherfucker." followed by 15 minutes of being lectured by my mother (who was in the passenger seat) of how not everyone appreciates that kind of language...blah blah blah and how she sometimes wonders if I have more testosterone than my brother because she's never heard a lady swear like me (And since I'm starting to look like Teen Wolf, I'd say she's on to something.) I was literally seconds away from Thelma and Louise-ing it right off the closest bridge.

Something comes over me when I get in the car with my mother. I feel it's the best vessel to say some of the most shocking untrue things her little Christian ears have ever heard. Reason being, the chances of her punching me while I'm driving are slim to none, but yesterday it was close. Yesterday at a stop light I turned to her and asked:

"What would you say if I told you I was in a gang bang?" 
"What's a gang bang?" 
"It's when you have sex with multiple men at the same time."


Last month I told her I lost my virginity in stairwell at school when I was 15 while wearing the pleather skirt she bought me for my birthday. Not true, I just wanted to see her face. I also told her I used to dry hump the little boy who lived next door to me about 15 times a day when we were kids.  I figured warming her up to the fact that I'm a reformed slut before she reads my blog, is one of my smarter ideas. The look of absolute shock and horror brings me an unnatural amount of joy. Every.Time.

Oh speaking of slutiness, the old lady that lives downstairs from me is a hoarder. Hoarders are notoriously slutty. I just made that up and that's not where I'm going with this. She often leaves books, toasters, tv's, small Mexican children, spatulas and random shit in the lobby for people to take. Below was one of her books up for grabs titled, 'The Best Love and the Best Sex' I bet the pages stick together. (Sorry that was gross). And since I'm a giant 13 year old trapped in a fat woman's body, I giggled when I saw it. *The picture is super blurry as I was trying to do a drive by photo so I don't look mega immature in front of the other tenants in my building. It's bad enough I'm known as the one legged spinster on the 6th floor.
I don't know how this author jammed her tips on the "best love" and the "best sex" into over 200 pages. Mine could be written on a sticky note.

The best love: Is found when you're dating a mute.

The best sex: Is when you're in a cab and realize you shaved your cha-cha before bringing a stranger home from the bar. High five.

It's really quite simple.

Anyway, I'm swamped with googling tips on how to launder money..I must go.

Over n' out

*I realize I complain about parking spots and nonsense weekly in this blog. Truth is, I have nothing to complain about. None of this shit matters. I get to wake up and celebrate Christmas with my family and friends this year. The children and teachers that lost their lives in the Newtown school shooting do not. This type of evil is incomprehensible. People born in 2006 should not be dead in 2012. This has to be the saddest most disturbing thing I've ever heard. Appreciate every moment you have with the people you care about because THAT is what matters.

Dec 9, 2012

Assholes and iPhones

I'm a giant asshole. And just to be clear I wrote, 'I'm a giant asshole' not 'I have a giant asshole.' Maybe I do, I don't know. I'm saving my asshole for marriage. Only someone legally bound to me by the province of Ontario has the honour of seeing that. Lucky him. 
Anyway, now that my mom won't be calling me until 2015, since I just publicly wrote about having anal sex, it leaves me with more time to explain why I'm an asshole. 

Exhibit A. This is Mel: (Well technically this is the tip of her nose and a side profile of her massive tits.) 

Mel has the biggest home-grown breasts I've ever seen. This week, Mel and her giant nipples went to the audiologist and she was told she would need hearing aids at the ripe age of 31. I guess Mel finally clued in that the sound of a buzz saw and constant ringing in her ears wasn't natural. Poor Mel.
I must say, I enjoyed snapping creepy photos of her today. (And the bonus part is, she didn't hear the click of the camera going off since she's waiting for her hearing aids to come in.) 
Today, Mr. Holland's Opus and I, um I mean Mel and I, went to a workshop on hair and makeup. We were tired of looking like just your average washed-up hooker, so new tips and tricks to lure some p's to our v's were appreciated. 
Also, I sent the above photo to all our friends with the caption, 'I bet she has no idea what our instructor is saying right now.' 
Before you get your panties in a twist, I'm not making fun of deaf people, I'm making fun of Mel because 1. She's the best target to ever grace my presence. 2. Her situation was/is/will be totally manageable and she is finding the humour in a difficult situation.(I admire that)  And frankly, that's what friends do... make each other feel like shit about serious life issues. 

I'd like to attribute Mel's hearing loss to karma. Maybe it was the time in University that she told an African exchange student named Sylvia that her parents called and left a message that they were flying her home to Africa for spring break since she hadn't seen them in so yeah...they never called and that never happened...I think Sylvia is still waiting in the cafeteria with her suitcases. 

Or perhaps it was the time that a bunch of us overheard our friend having sex with her boyfriend in her dorm room and Mel crank called them from across the hall saying she was a nurse from the London Health Clinic and her STD test came back positive for warts....this was also in a time of those old school answering machines that played out loud when you left a message...he heard everything. 

Moving along, I just re-thought about writing about all the things I do that make me an asshole. I'll let you think Mel is slightly more dickish than myself. Like my asshole, I'm gonna keep that shit private.

In other news, I sold my soul to Apple a couple weeks ago and got an iPhone so I'm currently swamped with waiting to lose it or smash it into a thousand pieces. It only cost me a month's rent and 5 credit card payments and now I'll probably never be able to afford my own home...but no big deal, at least my phone is pimp. As much as I love my new phone, it makes me feel completely fucking useless...right to my core. 
I've downloaded a bunch of useless apps that my friends have recommended and I just stare at them as they take up space. Oh and a quick shout out to my brother who downloaded an app which only has women in bikini's on it...THAT'S MY FAVE. My fat fingers graze it at least 300 times a day so hot women with perfect everythings, pop up on the screen and it's making me want to lunge into traffic. 
Oh and the creator of auto correct can go fuck himself. 99% of the time when I re-read my sent messages, it sounds like I'm either having a stroke or I've ingested a lethal amount of bath salts. 
SO, in the midst of waiting for my room to open up in the mental institution, I discovered Siri. You know that useless little slut that lives in your iPhone and rarely helps with life's major questions? Yeah, her. She was of zero fucking help to me this week. 

So let me get this straight, Siri can tell John Malkovich jokes and help Samuel L. Jackson make risotto in those ridiculous iPhone commericals, but she can't tell me if I'm gonna marry Jay-Z?? That's bullshit. Suck it Siri.  

Well, I just sneezed and peed a little so I must go figure out if it's worth changing my pants or my sheets. 

Nanners Out. 

Dec 2, 2012

If you're a may get this.

As I sit here in pre-menstrual bliss, sweating and hanging out in my adult diaper sized
maxi-pad, just waiting for the crime scene in my pants to begin, I've never felt more like buying a machete off e-bay blessed to be a woman. NOT. Yes, I realize the use of the word "NOT" went out with acid wash jeans but do you really want to fuck with a woman who is PMS'ing? Didn't think so. The hormones pumping through my body right now are enough to make me dead-lift a Toyota over my head in the middle of the street or instantaneously fall into a deep REM cycle sleep.

Men, if you haven't already opened a new browser and typed in "ESPN" or "Titties" then keep reading. I think nothing puts more hair on your chest than experiencing the wrath of a menstruating woman. I will be the first to pat your ass and most likely have sex with you to congratulate you on putting up with a woman who is shedding the lining of her uterus once a month.

Since I mentally feel like a hybrid of a terrorist and Marsha Brady right now, I thought I would make this post a little less intellectual than the rest of my posts by staying away from the heavy hitting topics I normally write about such as, religion and politics. (If you didn't catch my sarcasm, please leave).

Anyway, I thought I would commemorate my 19th year of bleeding from my vagina by exposing some of the not-so-proud/stranger moments I've experienced while PMS'ing.

  • Today, I went to the convenience store to pick up People's Magazine: Sexiest Man Alive issue, only to find out they were sold out. After yelling "You've got to be kidding me." to the clerk behind the counter, I came home and whipped my purse across my apartment and sat on my couch and  cried. And the Oscar goes to....
  • Once, for no reason whatsoever, (other than the fact that I was PMS'ing) I deleted all my male friends off of BBM (Blackberry Messenger) then pretended it was some random phone failure.
  • Earlier this year while watching a re-run of 'Say Yes to the Dress' on TLC, I burst into tears, ran into the washroom,cut my bangs and the tips of my hair, shaved my arms, took 3 Tylenol 3's, turned off all the lights in my apartment and got into my bed and did not get out of it for 9 hours straight...without peeing or sleeping.
  • I'd say every other month since Whitney Houston died, I light candles and scream sing "I Will Always Love You" at least 6 times in a row. 
  • No matter what my mother says, I respond "Um, why don't you just come out and say it, you think I'm fat." 
  • Last month, I wrote a really angry blog post about the treatment of homeless people and people who only post pictures of food on Twitter, only to be deleted...thankfully. 
  • When I worked at the Toronto Zoo, I would sometimes wander off alone to watch the Bears have sex first thing in the morning. Who am I kidding, this has nothing to do with me PMS'ing. I'd do this any day of the week. Bears love fucking. 
  • I once missed a friends birthday party to watch the movies Steel Magnolias, and My Life. After they were finished and my eyes were swollen shut, I signed up on a website to be ordained online. Makes sense.
  • A few years ago, I ate 12 Oreos and then touched myself after watching a Kardashian's marathon. 

That's all I got in me today folks. I gotta get back to googling pictures of flowers and do-it-yourself weaponry. 

Final thought: Aren't Fist  Chris Brown and Rhianna such a shining example of true love?

Nanners Out.

Nov 25, 2012

I have too much time on my hands...

Thought of the day: Pizza Hut has unleashed its new boxed heart attack, hot dog stuffed crusts. Ew. I'm so fucking ordering this then denying it until I'm on my death bed. I thank the God for hot dogs each morning. 

Since I drank booze for dinner 4 out of the 7 nights this week, I'm having a hard time getting the creative juices flowing. So I randomly googled "stuff to write about", right after I tried to find naked photos of Justin Bieber on Google images. No dice. If you're noticing a theme, I can't seem to catch a break in this pitiful little life I lead.

Anyway, this is what I came across tonight....writing for Grade 1 students. Seems fitting. I'm right on par with their maturity, so I thought I'd just give my own insight on these topics. 

What makes you scared? Aside from being found dead in my bachelor apartment wearing a cat sweater, covered in Moonshine and Smarties, there are many things that scare me: Sharks and bears (we've been over this) being pushed into the subway track by a train pusher, shitting my pants in public, that I'm legitimately growing a beard, that the world will run out of hotdogs and that i'll accidentally eat peas. Those are just a few front runners at the moment.  

What if toys could talk? I will willingly wait in a hotel lobby for my friends and family and the Intervention camera crew because if a fucking doll starts talking to me, that has gotta be my rock bottom. That's just messed up. 

How do plants grow? I have no fucking idea. Don't care. But I can tell you my brother grew "plants" in his bedroom when he was 17 and it got him kicked out of the house. And to think, he was en route to being the best botanist in town. God, my parents ruin everything. 

Tell me about a picnic. What is this...The Bachelor? My skin crawls when I see people sitting on the ground eating sandwiches out of a basket, and you can guarantee someone on that ant-infested blanket is talking about their feelings. Picnics do that to people. Maybe it's the fresh air? Or the nitrates in their ham sandwich that make them emotional? Awkward. I'm out. Oh and also, 10 out of 10 times if I'm found on the ground, I don't mean to be there. Call an ambulance. 

Friendly places: Truck stops, back seat of a car, women's washroom at a bar, my mouth. 

A funny thing my pet has done: Die on my 10th birthday. Since my mom never wanted her hardwood floors scratched, and she whole heartedly believes cats are furry demonic assholes, we were never allowed pets. That is until she gave the green light on getting gold fishes. Fun! The most boring, useless little fucks on the planet! Thanks Mom!  Needless to say 2 weeks after getting Flipper, I found him bloated and dead at the top of my my 10th birthday party when I went to feed him. Flipper ate every time I ate. Death by food. Flipper, we had more in common than you knew little buddy. 

Something I've done that no one else has done: Eaten 300 meatballs in one weekend then masturbated to The Notebook. Hmmm I couldn't think of anything. I'm not really that original. 

Tell me about the parade: Um, I haven't been to a parade in like 20 years. I never really did 'kid things'...I was more or less a 36 year old trapped in a 10 year olds body...I came out of my mother's cha cha with a glass of scotch and my hair did. Personally, I preferred watching All My Children and Dallas with my Mom, while wearing her fur coat and smoking fake cigarettes in front of the t.v. Remember the Popeye Cigarettes? Man, I loved those things. But I will say, as far as parades go, I can guarantee you that most of my family thinks I secretly march in the Gay Pride parade since I've arrived at every function sans lover for the past 80 years.

Can you do any magic tricks? Hells ya. I'm a master at making money in my bank account disappear 2 days after i get paid and I can also make bottles of wine disappear on a moments notice. Oh and whenever I have an adult sleepover, I'm also pretty amazing about disappearing the next morning. Some call it fleeing the scene, I call it smart and magical. No need to hang out and make shit awkward. We both know that we don't care if we have siblings, what our careers are and how we take our coffee. Once you've entered me, It's my cue to exit. Just how I roll. (Speaking of rolls I could really go for a fresh bun right now.) 

Tell me about a helpful person you've met: I would say the random stranger that pointed out that I was limping the other day was pretty helpful. I didn't realize I was dragging my nifty metal encrusted broken foot down the Goddamn street. "Oh you're limping there!" "Oh my goodness, I didn't notice. Thank Christ you pointed that out." I day dream about punching people square in the throat about as often as Kim Kardashian's vag has been penetrated by a d-list celeb. That's a lot. 

What's the first thing you do in the morning? I typically wake up in shock that my double chin didn't block my airway in my sleep, followed by sitting on the edge of my bed and letting a long "fuuucccckkkk" proceeded by power pissing and praying I don't go tits up in the shower. Then I hop on the subway, which is always a little slice of paradise since the general public is filled with assholes. 

Well, I'm inherently lazy and I'd rather be using my fingers for other things. Get your mind out of the gutter. 

Over 'n Out

Nov 18, 2012

Dear Santa...

Thought of the day: All of my friends have very calm, chill, beautiful children. This concerns me because everyone knows of someone who has a little asshole child that everyone complains about, and this just in... they also complain about your asshole parenting skills. Five bucks says I'm the one who gives birth to a sociopath. Ever seen the movie 'We Need to Talk About Kevin' with Tilda Swinton? Aside from the fact that her skin tone is that of a corpse, that was one disturbing movie. Jesus. I've spent the last 2 hours having flashes of me in 10 years with my future child in some abandoned barn,  just waiting for some priest to give him/her their first exorcism. Truthfully, this shit keeps me awake at night. *I was told this weekend, that my kid is gonna be the most anxious kid alive. Pfft. Just because I think I'm dying and I think everyone around me is dying and I'm gonna be attacked by a whale or shark while sitting in my apartment, won't make me a bad mother. 

Since Christmas is coming and I have this much money in my bank account: -$890900.03, and I will be handing out high fives and smiles for Christmas, I thought I'd turn the attention on me and see what I can get out of the big guy this Christmas. Here is what my letter looks like so far: 

Dear Santa, 

What's up babe? Why you gotta be so cold? I know I probably shouldn't have written you letters while on my period in 2009 begging for brass knuckles, a switchblade and a Playgirl subscription, but cut me some slack. You try bleeding out of your penis and randomly crying at a paper towel commercial every month. Anyway, don't fuck me over again. Here's my list, make it happen. 

Wine glasses: I've broken 9 wine glasses from frantically wheeling around my apartment in my wheelchair this summer trying to find my Percocet. And my ass has gotten so big, it literally knocks shit off tables.  

Magic Mike DVD: If I have to explain why I want this, then you're a fucking idiot. 

5 Litres of Pinot Grigio: This should get me through Christmas Day just fine. 

A lifetime supply of saran wrap: I watch enough Dexter to know that you can never have enough saran wrap and I plan on catching the killer that sleeps under my bed any day now so please hurry. 

A box of condoms: You'll be shocked to hear that my unused box of condoms has expired. I plan on making 2013 'The Year Of The Slut'. Nothing says "I've got a new lease on life" like having casual, reckless sex with strangers. 

Bacon: If I wake up and there is bacon in my stocking, I'll know that God exists and I can reach for my dreams everyday. I wish I could wrap everything in bacon and not die. 

A box of diet pills: (preferably ephedrine) *Please see my fat ass reference under 'Wine glasses'. 

A subscription to Cosmo: Pffft, who doesn't want to read "35 Of The Best Sex Tips EVER" and "How to Have Sex for 16 Hours Straight Without Peeing" Some of their tips are laughable, but they may come in handy when I go balls to the wall being all Heidi Fleiss-ish in 2013. 

Gold hoop earrings: I think the gold will complement the white in my straight jacket. 

String: I don't care what kind of string, even make it a ball of yarn but I'm wearing my tv's remote control around my neck from now on. When I'm not swamped with being trapped in an elevator, lying on the floor or complaining about my life, I'm looking for that motherfucking remote control. 

An eliptical machine: I'm running out of closet space and I need something else to hang my clothes on. 

Life-size Justin Bieber doll: You don't need to know that I'm gonna make sweet sweet love to the doll what I'm gonna do with this.  But I will say, a lady never kisses and tells. 

Anyway Santa, this year has kicked my ass and I believe material things do bring happiness to people, particularly me. Let's do this right. 

You are the meatball in my spaghetti, I love you. 

Nanners Out. 


Nov 11, 2012

Your Worst Nightmare....Nanners as Prime Minister

Thought of the day: I guess I'm slowly realizing the importance of having that special someone in my life. As I lay here hungover on this very miserable day, celebrating #spinstersundays in my own very special way of overloading on carbs, self loathing and Percocet, I find myself day dreaming about having a hot piece of ass to turn to and share, "Hey babe, remember that time I ate that family size box of meatballs all to myself and didn't get sick?" Yeah, those moments, the amazing ones. Reliving that by yourself somehow looses its coolness and may cause some anxiety.

Anyway, in case you're an idiot and you didn't know the presidential elections just happened, they did. I'm choosing to keep my political opinions to myself (mainly because my Twitter is down and I only believe what Beyonce believes and I can't access her account.) But talking politics can make things messy and I want to keep this light. But I will say, "Obama: I'd tap that." *Cue Marvin Gaye. 

It's a good thing you can't tell what I just did right now. Anyway, I'm back.

So this whole election has got me thinking, What would I do if I were elected Prime Minister? I propose the following: I get a whole bunch of male escorts and blow, move to a secluded Island with Jay Z, Beyonce and Justin Bieber to work on my hip hop and swagger, and survive solely on cookie dough until I die resting on the hairless chest of the king himself, the great Justin Bieber while he sings his entire Believe album... acoustically. 

Ban whistling: Ever watch Criminal Minds? Well, if you do, you'll know that any quality serial killer whistles right before he chops your head off and sticks it in a box to send to your family. So fuck that, Canadians are done with whistling, it creeps the shit out of me.

All elevators are made of windows: Since I spent 50% of 2012 trapped in an elevator, people need to see me giving the middle finger while I plunge to my death. Or at least to see me mouthing the words "FUCK THIS" on my way down....That's what she said.

"That's what she said" can be said anytime, anywhere and to whoever you want and it's always acceptable. I think this has to be one of the greatest phrases ever used and it never gets old. Slipping it into a conversation under my breathe actually gives me a rush of orgasmic-like endorphins.

Mandatory intense psychological testing for anyone who posts an online dating profile:
Like I'm talking C.I.A type questioning in a dark room tied to a chair type of shit. Ever see the show Homeland? Yup, like that. The fact that all you need is a computer and fetish to get an account, makes me shudder. Reading my online dating messages is forcing me into a state of clinical depression.

Implement Haiku Saturdays: Just kidding, Are you fucking nuts? Useless poetry is also banned.

Ban dick-ish behaviour:  If you're rude to a disabled person, are a racist, bully children or you don't give up your seat to the elderly on the subway, you're shipped to Australia, saran wrapped Dexter-styles and dropped in shark infested waters. Douchbagery is on the rise in this city and is becoming quite the epidemic. Join with me in the fight to #saveadouche.

Punch your neighbour: Tired of your neighbour Bob's dog shitting on your lawn? Does Linda and Bills little asshole children play music at all hours of the night?  No worries, Once a year every December, you're allowed to punch your neighbour square in the throat and not go to jail for it. I choose December since people seem to be obnoxiously happy around the holidays, and frankly, I'm not digging really happy people right now. Or ever.

Pantless Monday's. Nothing is more liberating than being pantless. So whether you're at the office, in your house or at church, get out of your pants and into your life. Feeling a breeze on your cooter is life changing.

Taxes shmaxes: Can't pay them? Let's hug it out. Taxes are gone, just like my dignity.

Dear Canada, you're welcome.

Over'N Out.

Nov 3, 2012


My use of the word "fuck" has grown exponentially since 1981. Gradually, the volume and tone which I say it in has also increased. For example, (or as my spanish friends say "Por ejemplo") at Starbucks this morning, the barista was handing me back my change and I dropped some down beside the register, only to let out a casual "Holy fuck, sorry" without even blinking. Better yet, this summer I was in the backseat of a cab having a pity party for one,(just thinking how I'm 10 cats and a shopping cat away from insanity) and out of nowhere I let out an exaggerated  "FUUUCCKKK." I didn't realize it until I startled the cab driver, which prompted him to ask me if I was okay.

Btw- I feel like I heavily overuse comma's but I was told when I was kid that, "You put a comma in any sentence when you think you'd take a breath." Well that's just useless since I think I'm 3 cigarettes away from a fatal lung problem. So please bear with the horrific use of punctuation in my blog. 

Despite having the mouth of a gang member straight off the streets of Compton, I'm a somewhat productive member of society and have surprisingly managed to maintain a good job. (Hmmm, is that sentence online dating profile material?) For the record, if I got to choose, I'd be a Blood, not a Crip since I look fab in red. Oh, or maybe a Latin King since gold goes well with my hair.

Anyway, as I was walking back to my office after my Starbucks episode, I got to thinking, "Why do I fucking swear SO much?" Then I remembered the following:

1981-Parents discover I have a life threatening allergy to penicillin after basically bathing me in it for having the sniffles. Nearly die. Fuck.
1982- Mother drops me off the change table while reaching for her beer (just kidding, it was meth. Totally joking, she doesn't like this joke of mine. But I did fall off the change table. Survived. Fuck.
1984- My little bro is born. FUCK THAT. I'm not sharing the attention. I was so angry that I told my kindergarten teacher that he died during birth...Then she called my house to give my Mom her condolences...Ooops. Hide in washroom for an exhausting 2 hours. Fuck.
1986- While staring in the mirror at the tender age of 5, I become enraged that my name is not Cynthia and I wanted it to be. So in the spirit of being a little asshole, I wrote my parents hate mail for 6 months petitioning for them to take me to court for a legal name change. That obviously never happened. Fuck.
1987- Gr.1 teacher brings to my parent's attention that I keep writing stories about murdering my brother. Fuck.
1988- Caught the tail end of the news one night and heard they found a body in the ravine by my parents house. Stay awake until summer of '97 thinking I'm going to get abducted and meet my demise in dumpster. Obsession with Dateline begins. Fuck.
1989- On a class trip to the Zoo discover there is a Gorilla named Amanda (my name). Endure ridiculing and disappear for 3 hours to scream cry. Found by the goats at dusk, eating ice cream. Lifetime of emotional eating ensues. Fuck.
1990- Break my arm roller skating for the first time, Whichever parent thought it was okay to stick me on wheels was obviously high. Fuck.
1991- Get pulled into the hallway by my teacher...again. Only this time it's not for writing short stories like I was asked. Apparently writing love letters to Donnie Whalberg from New Kids on the Block does not qualify as a short story. Fuck that, it's a love story. Begin identifying with Bridget Fonda in Single White Female. Told it must stop. Oh well, back to writing stories about killing my brother. Fuck.
1993- Day before my dance recital, dislocate my ankle while playing basketball, pretending I was in the WNBA. This was all hoop dreams. game over. Fuck.
1995- Night before first day of Gr.9, I break my arm...again... while looking for a hair brush in my parent's garage of all places. Fuck.
1996- Get hit in the head by a line drive while in the stands at the Toronto Blue Jays game and fracture my skull. Headline the 6 o'clock news. Fuck.
2000-2004- In University, convince myself I have every STD imaginable and think I am "with child" every Sunday night. The search for used condoms in bedroom becomes exhausting. Fuck.
2002Found scream crying outside on the lawn of a Frat house after being dumped by a smoking hot guy. Develop a love affair with pizza. Fuck.
2005-2009- Get first "real job" and move into the city, party like Paris Hilton for 4 years and rack up a considerable amount of debt. Only problem is, I'm the heiress to the "Nada, Zilch and Nothing" empire. Go into personal recession. Fuck.
2009- Develop severe redness of the face, start looking like a burn victim, self diagnosed rosacea sufferer, only to visit my dermatologist who tells me it's facial dandruff and prescribes me medication for a yeast infection. What? Fuck.
2010Move home to my parents place for 8 very long long months, slip into depression, eat my feelings and take up masturbating. Fuck.
2010- Finally get own place, drink lots of wine and get banned from Pizza Pizza for habitually drunk dialing them and falling asleep... and NOT waking up to collect my party size pizza. Fuck.
2011- Go on first date in a very long time, only to discover he has a TLC Network type obsession with shoes. I dig it for the first week and quickly end it once an absorbent amount of shoe photos are requested by him. (I should really get on Christian They'll love me. Fuck.
2012- Break my ankle and all my toes into 4 thousand pieces while leaving a singles event wearing high heels. In bed for 4 months. Get trapped in an elevator twice, convince myself I'm plunging to my death. Survived. Fuck.

Thursday, November 1st 2012- Get trapped in elevator while trying to deliver my 9 million dollar rent cheque to my landlord, forced to walk up six flights of stairs with 6 pins and plates in my foot. Discover I the mobility of a 90 year old. Results in extreme swelling and it ends up looking like this:

I guess in summation a few lessons I've learned over the years are; I have the bone density of a rotting corpse, I can endure mental and physical anguish, and I'm one incident away of turning into a true life Breaking Bad episode.

And yes, this is all true.


Oct 30, 2012

Once A Bridesmaid....

You know what they say, "Once a're fucked." 

And not in the literal sense. Well, it depends which weddings I'm counting. But it has been my experience that being a bridesmaid 7 times hasn't exactly launched me into the arms of the love of my life. Mind you, this is my own doing. I usually score 1st place in my all time favourite game of "Be The Drunkest One There." This game is not just exclusive to weddings...I do Bat Mitzvahs if you need to detract attention from drunk Uncle Moshe. *I charge extra if you want a Lindsay Lohan-esque distraction. 
And certainly my guy friends who are at the wedding/in the wedding that read this blog, aren't going to tickle me with their pickle or snatch me off the market to knowingly face the following challenges: 
  • 1. They have to get me out of 3 layers of Spanx which are holding in my FUPA (fat upper pussy area). I rise like dough outta those lycra miracle workers.
  • 2. Once they remove the Spanx, they know they are gonna be hitting up some serious 70's porn bush accompanied by leg hair as thick as a Sasquatch...they may as well fuck a brillo pad.
Ugh, when I think back to the shit I've done at weddings, I make myself uncomfortable. In one wedding, I ordered a bridesmaid dress 4 sizes too small thinking I couldn't possibly still look like Precious by the time the wedding rolled around...but of course I did. I had to get a new dress made for 250 bucks... only to spill an ENTIRE bottle of perfume oil from the Body Shop down the front of that 250 dollar hand made gown.... minutes before walking down the aisle. Silence fell over the room when it happened as I locked eyes with the photographer which looked at me like I just killed her puppy. 
All of a sudden there was a dramatic burst of panic from the bridesmaids and mother of the bride as they carted me off to the bathroom. Grandma was trying to frantically blow-dry the perfume right into my dress while the mother of the bride was on the phone with the dry cleaners. I sat on the toilet sobbing looking a little Tammy Faye Bakker-ish as the mascara rolled down my cheeks. 
(This is Tammy...RIP Tammy)  

Sadly, it was too late. Blackhawk down. There was nothing we could do. This dress was to be laid to rest in the bridesmaids graveyard, after the wedding of course. The bridesmaid's graveyard is a place I created for all things bridesmaid-y that I wish to never see again. This includes but is not limited to; 
  • fake eyelashes that spontaneously whip off during pictures or land in my meal, 
  • pictures I've been ripping out of magazines for months of what I wanted my hair and makeup to look like for the wedding, but it never happened, 
  • copies of a speech that I find HILARIOUS but is far too dirty to share amongst the bride's family...meaning Aunt Rose won't find your teenage pregnancy scare nearly as funny as I did.
  • anything with lace or bows on it, enough said 
  • fake acrylic nails which caused me to not be able to open doors, write my own name, start a car,  hold babies, open lids and masturbate effectively. 
BTW-no bride ever tells me I have to get lashes or all this nonsense, I choose to do it myself in the spirit of trying to not look like an unkept slut in photos. Wedding photos seem to rome this earth forever.

I remember when the church doors opened and I stood at the top of the aisle looking like a baguette soaked in olive oil, there was a slight gasp... I heard it and shit my Spanx. I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, only to open them and discover my Mother in the very back of the church. She took one look at me and mouthed "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU?" then keeled over silently scream laughing in the pew as any good Mother would. We're super religious. 

There is an obvious bitter tone to my post as per usual, but it truthfully is an honour to be a bridesmaid, I'm just putting my own spinster spin on the process. 

Well, I must go as I more stuffed up than my cha-cha in University. Nasty cold. 

But first I must leave you with some parting wisdom: Tomorrow is Halloween, don't handout raisins. Only assholes give children raisins. 


Oct 14, 2012

Dear Sundays, I Loathe You

Dear Universe, that was SO funny that time when you made me single for 31 years. You're a jokester! 

So I reluctantly logged into my online dating account to check my messages today and to my delight, men with the user names "Fat_homo50" and "Tacobellsushi" asked me out. Fun! 
Upon reading their messages, I promptly shut my laptop and headed toward my kitchen to stick my head in my oven, but I got distracted by a peanut butter M&M I found under my fridge. C'mon, I have priorities. 

I also, may or may not have taken a Percocet and messaged a very attractive man online and asked him only one question, "Would you rather be swallowed whole by a shark or attacked by a bear."  
(Ugh I'm cringing as I type this. I should probably have kept that to myself.) 
Let's slap that on my list of regrets and call it a day shall we? Don't judge, he said in his profile:
"You can ask me one question, and it doesn't matter how crazy or sinister it is, and I promise to answer honestly." 
Insert crickets...He hasn't responded and that was 10 hours ago. 
I really want to write him the following but I fear it will only make things worse:
"Hey, sorry about the message earlier, it was sponsored by Percocet."  Jesus. I think I've just answered the age old question of why I'm single. (If you listen closely, you can hear the sound of sad violin music playing in the background.) 
I also have a MAJOR problem with Sundays. And by the angry tone of this post right now, it seems like I really hate my life. Which is not the case, I just REALLY hate Sundays Mondays,Tuesdays Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays more than I hate peas and that's A LOT. (That vegetable should never have been invented in my opinion. You surprise me with peas in a meal, I'll surprise you with a swift punch to the throat.)

On Sunday's I get this fierce anxiety about the week ahead...I mean, I just don't know what's gonna happen. And please, can you blame me? Since the universe is sticking to the, "Holy shit, we should do that to her" project, it's not unreasonable for me to think that I could wake up in the morning and the bones in my leg could spontaneously turn to dust. Or maybe in my sleep, I'll spontaneously give birth to my twin that I didn't know I ate in the womb. Who knows. Thanks TLC! 
By the way, The Learning Channel is turning me into a major hypochondriac/weirdo. It used to be all about birth stories, wedding planning and nice pretty shit...and yes, they still have that, but on occasion TLC will have the odd documentary narrated by some monotone British man that goes something like this:
*Must read in a slow monotone British accent: "On Sharon's 34th birthday she awoke to find 18 extra fingers protruding from her stomach, each had nails, 4 of which looked like dinosaur claws."

That type of fuckery keeps me awake for days. 

Well, truth be told, the real reason why I'm a giant Debbie Downer today is because I did laundry...and yes, laundry sucks but it shouldn't launch you into a state of depression. It's just every time I take my underwear out of the dryer to fold it, I hold my panties up in absolute shock and astonishment that yes, those in fact are my underwear and NOT a circus tent... Whomp, whomp. 

Anyway, Dexter is on. He's one crafty son of a bitch. 

Until next time, 

Oct 9, 2012

Is That A Shoe in your Pocket? Or Are You Just Creepy?

No, it's not cows moaning in a pasture you're hearing, it's me scream crying from my couch while reading through my online dating messages. I'll be sure to scour the city tomorrow on my lunch hour to find that guy who sells guns out of his van. I'm positive most of his customers are single spinsters (much like myself) who are 10 cats and one shopping cart away from going off the deep end.

It's been 3 hours since I posted my profile and so far I have a toothless 63 year old man from Doucheville, Ontario trying to win me over with his intellectual messages such as "Hi" and "I love this time of year."  Oh and let's not forget about the other guy who claims to be 5"4 in his profile which is a blatant lie and he's probably 1 foot tall in real life. (Please don't get me wrong, nothing wrong with little people, I just can't imagine hooking up with one since my right thigh is the size of an average person.)  I'm 5"9 so being able to pack up my date and put him in my purse is just not an option for me. Mind you, maybe he could shave my legs while he's down there? Lord knows I don't do it. My hairy legs haven't felt my sheets since the summer of 2002 when I thought sleeping around and crushing 8 vodka coolers before the bar was a hip thing to do. It's funny, that's the summer my dignity went missing. Weird....

I typically don't end up going out with men from online dating sites. There is something very 48 Hours Mystery-esque about meeting a random person online. LOTS of my friends have done it and have met the love of their lives, but for me (and if you follow this blog) you'll quickly realize if there is a WORST CASE SCENARIO to happen...I'm your gal and it'll happen to me.

However, with enough wine...I can do anything. So I have given in and gone on a couple of dates. One was with a tall British guy who absolutely hated his life but loved feet...actually not feet...but shoes. It got to the point where he would ask me to snap photos of the shoes I was wearing to take pictures from under my desk and send them. The first day he asked, I had on a sick pair of penny loafers to match my Hilary Clinton pant suit so he was in luck that day. I thought this would for SURE get rid of him since I told him I wore stilettos and skirts to work...which was completely false.
Pfffft...PA-LEASE. First of all, I'd be dead in a ditch if I were to ever even think of stilettos and skirts are a big no-no with me. I cannot risk my leg hair poking through my panty hose. It just makes everything awkward for everyone involved. Plus the risk of chaffing greatly increases since my thighs have been touching since birth.
So what's a gal to do? So... I started sending him pics of my shoes...don't judge...I was lonely. Just wait until you have to take a Dust Buster to your vagina and then we'll talk.

So the next logical step was to start sexting since he wouldn't drive to come see me because he was too lazy. ( OH GOD, as I type this, there is a very dramatic single tear streaming down my cheek as I realize how desperate and lonely this situation really was...hold on...need to grab a Percocet.)

Okay, I'm back. So obviously this ended badly...blah blah blah... The shoe fetish went WAY beyond a level of creepiness I was comfortable with and I never saw him again. From time to time I do think how great of a blog post it would be if I actually licked a shoe, or did anything remotely sexual with a boot.  Then I slap myself back into reality and think about how unsanitary it would be.

THIS JUST IN. Here is a very blurry pic of a conversation I just had a minute ago, on an online dating site. You will see EXACTLY how this works and the type of men who are striking up a conversation with me. Please note we were having a very normal conversation prior to me asking,"Don't you have a job?" And his response is in green.

"You don't want sex?" and "Are you crazy?" Are two very common responses to "Don't you have a job?" RIght? Jesus, take the wheel will ya? I then go on to respond to his sex comment "Of course I do, but not right away, not my style" Which is probably the most hilarious part since I'd hump a lamp post right now. GAME OVER.

Anyway, I'm gonna peace out now...I see a pillow I'd like to scream into.


Oct 5, 2012

White, chubby, one-legged 30 something year old seeks man with pulse

There is an old saying that "nothing good happens after midnight." (Or am I just making that up?) Anyway, it's 430am in the morning as I type this and I can't sleep, so I got to thinking... Winter is coming so it's about time I create an online dating profile again. (I have nothing else to do...whomp whomp). 
Truth be told, I enjoy having cyber sex developing a deep online connection with a stranger and never meeting them.
This time around, I've decided I'm gonna be brutally honest with what I write in my profile but I wanted to share it here first. If you haven't done online dating, there is a whole bunch of bullshit like tag lines and blah blah blah. It's supposed to catch the attention of other singles. Well my last tag line/profile didn't exactly land me at the altar so I've revamped it a little.

Old tagline: "Laughter is contagious." 
New tagline: "If you believe hot dogs aren't just for ball games and campfires, but believe they are a way of life, then I'm your girl."

And here is how my profile will look:
Hi everyone, my name is Nanners, I don't do this often...only off and on since 2007 every 6 months when I want to receive offensive messages from strangers or if I'm looking for someone to sext with. 
I consider myself a fairly stable gal and only require an exorcism every 28 days when my period rolls around. 

I feel I'm a gifted communicator who is a firm believer in "if you've read my text message, then fucking respond." We probably shouldn't add each other to Blackberry Messenger because if I see that you've read my message and you don't respond within 20 seconds, I'll just assume you're with your wife and kids or banging hookers. Or perhaps you're a raging drug addict held up in a crack den in the city doing blow and are too swamped with drugs to respond.

I have a zest for travel but found myself in a shit load of debt due to impulsive spending and my theory of "I'll be famous one day, so pfffft." So for now, while I'm dodging calls from creditors, my idea of a vacation is slapping on sunscreen, chain smoking on my balcony and staring directly into the sun. 

One of my all time favourite things is jumping to conclusions! If you look at me for more than 5 seconds, I'll just assume you're wanting to be with someone who actually shaves their legs and is younger, hotter and doesn't have back acne and cankles.  
I like to keep active by walking to the fridge and frantically lunging across my tiny apartment to hide my vibrator from my guests.

Typically, you'll find me watching re-runs of Dawson's Creek on Saturday morning, followed by some light masturbation and panic attacks.
I love a solid weekend nap. Fuck, do I ever. But it's been years since I've been able to do that because my anxiety has kept me awake since 2010. Well that, and my double chin is making it increasingly harder to sleep with out Xanax or a litre of wine. 

I like to live my life by a few simple philosophies:  What drops on the floor, stays there.
If it ain't broke, I'll brake it and complain about it for at least 6-8 months. 
Just eat it- especially if there is flour and a high level of sodium or nitrates in it. 
Be someone else, not yourself. Being yourself has landed you on an internet dating siteNever answer a number you don't recognize, it's always bad news.
If you invest in a good new dry shampoo, you'll never have to shower another day in your life. 
If you're kissing, you may as well have sex while you're at it. 

Well, if any of this sound remotely enticing I haven't had a p in my v in years so chances are you're getting laid on the first date.  Good luck with your search! 

I'm gonna go post this on Plenty of Fish and I'll let you know what happens. 


Oct 1, 2012

Stay Tuned...

I typically post on Sunday nights, but for the past 24 hours I've been swamped with googling whether or not you can get an STD on your cheek. A male stripper kissed me on the cheek twice and put his penis near my face on Saturday night, so that'll give me enough anxiety to last until Christmas. (I've also been in the E.R for most the evening because I'm having a fierce amount of pain in my smashed up leg and I kinda want the earth to open up and swallow me right now.) So please stay tuned for a full blog post by the end of the week where I will be introducing a very special guest and travel companion.....
I'm looking forward to explaining this.

Also, I want to thank everyone who reads my silly little blog, (I just took a Percocet 30 minutes ago so I'm all of a sudden filled with love so bear with me) but I love that I have people to share my nuttiness with.

Hope your monday was better than mine.
I'm out,

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, 

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'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 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'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.

Aug 26, 2012

"Oh That Cast Looks Like It's Hot!"

Tuesday will be my first day back at the office since April, so I'm assuming that my tradition of 'touch myself Tuesdays' will end since I'll probably be exhausted from actually thinking, moving, and putting on pants everyday. ( I was fortunate enough to work from home since this all went down and let me tell you, if you've never worked pant-less, I urge you to try it, I think the breeze on my vagina helps me to focus.)

I'm kinda shitting my pants about going into the real world. It's been me, YouPorn, Percocets and these 4 walls for the past 4 months. The only time I really left my apartment was to go to the hospital and doctors appointments-as it turns out when you're addicted to Percocets, you require more medical attention. Who knew? Anyway, anytime I leave the house total strangers feel compelled to comment on my cast and crutches, which at first I didn't mind but after months and months of hearing the exact same comments over and over... I've become one edgy bitch. I think no sex 3 hours of sleep in 4 months will do that to you.

Since writing is my outlet and I could never dream of ever saying what I'm really thinking to a complete stranger, I wanted to share with you the most common comments I've gotten all summer and what I'm REALLY thinking and desperately want to say, but would never.

Stranger: "Oh, that cast looks like it's hot!" 
Nanners: "Actually, I have a fan in my vagina that shoots cool air right down my leg and into my cast, so I'm good. Of course it's fucking hot asshole. I think sleeping in a lit barbeque would be cooler."

Stranger: "Wow that looks painful!"
Nanners: "Nah! I'm actually doing this for attention, but what I'd really like to discuss is how painful my period is. Do you have a minute? It's like there are little tiny ninjas marching up my fallopian tubes into my uterus and beating me to a slow death. AND not to mention, you should see the giant maxi-pad I'm wearing. Did you know they make plus size pads? They are essentially pads for fat people. You know the ol' saying " the bigger the girl, the bigger her snatch." What the fuck is that about? Oh and I haven't even told you the worst part! The other day I had a pad on while I was at the doctors office and I sat down too quickly and it made a "pffffffffffft" sound so everyone was staring at me like a balloon just deflated in my pants. Isn't that just awesome?"

Stranger: "Oh man, I know how you feel, I sprained my ankle once and it was not fun." 
Nanners: "Really? That sucks, I bet the sprain hurt most when you were WALKING to the Dr's office. OH and it probably hurt more when you were dancing and doing shots at the bar with your friends a week later!  Jesus, I feel so bad for you! Hopefully you got a chance to practice your British accent when you were stuck in bed for one day! I was in bed for 4 months so mine is pretty fantastic. Hey wait, did your pee hole shift when you fell? Mine did. Does it cause you to pee straight out and not down? I could imagine it would be pretty hard cleaning your urine off the bathroom floor with the use of both your legs. OMG, wait, did you launch into the fiercest panic attacks getting into your shower all summer thinking that your landlord would find you and your saggy tits lifeless and sopping wet on your bathroom floor? Oh sorry, you could probably stand to shower. My bad. Holy shit, did you gain so much weight from not moving that you're starting to look like Precious? I did.

Stranger: "Ouch!" 
Nanners: "Fuck off." 

I seem so pleasant don't I? Just like the kinda girl a guy would want to bring home to mom. 

Well, wish me luck and please pray for any stranger that gets in my way this week. I have no problem taking someone out with a crutch. 

I'm out, 

Aug 19, 2012

Some Things I Know for Certain...

I know I owe you all part 2 of my scintillating tale about balls, but this week has been a pretty big week for me. Not only was it Shark Week on the Discovery channel, but I also tried walking for the first time in 4 months since my high heel accident.

I can't tell you how many people have told me "One day, you'll look back on this whole experience and laugh." Um, bitch pa-lease. Not walking for 4 months, spending the entire summer single and sexless in the city, developing a slight drug addiction to Percocets and pissing with one leg (it's harder than it looks)  is VERY unfunny to me. (Actually, the only quasi-funny thing that came from this, was the night I accidentally lit one of my crutches on fire by leaning it against a burning candle while I was in bed. See pic below. It was literally smoking and I smelt burnt rubber for days.)

Anyway, my point is, I certainly don't think I'll be laughing any time soon ....But I do have a small list of things I do know for certain:

My mother threw my vibrator in the garbage. While I was in the hospital, my mother stayed at  my not-so- luxurious bachelorette pad in the city and cleaned the shit out of it. Now I'm talking like a "Mom clean", which entails hardcore scrubbing and mopping. Not a "Nanners clean" which is me blowing the dust off the t.v every 6 months and kicking everything under my bed an hour before my company arrives (and sometimes I put dirty dishes in the oven...oh it feels so good to share my secrets sometimes.) Anyway, back to my story... A few months prior to my fall, I accidentally dropped my vibrator under my bed and never bothered to retrieve it. Not thinking I would become virtually incapacitated in a high heel accident, I didn't see a reason to move my bed (God I'm lazy) and get it. Nor did I think my mother would ever be under my bed for any reason...ever. And um, I think a killer sleeps under there so I am definitely NOT going down there.

So one night last month my mom came down to stay with me while I was having one of my one-legged melt downs, and she saw a bag sitting under my nightstand and asked, "Amanda, what's in that bag?" I respond, "I don't know actually, maybe some stuff from the office that my boss dropped off?" And as I looked at her she was just staring at me with a bright red face and says "Well, I won't go in it. I don't want to embarrass you...just in case. I've found a lot of interesting things in your apartment" and she walked into the kitchen. I was so confused by that comment and her awkwardness that immediately my mind started racing through what she could have possibly found in my apartment. I mean, I'm super boring, I don't have a secret drug stash, I'm not into bondage, she won't find a gun. Hmmmm... It took me a few minutes and then it dawned on me. "Holy Jesus. She found IT."  And as if I'm ever bringing that up to my mother. "Hey mom, you owe me 40 bucks for that vibrator you tossed." NEVER. I'm gonna vomit.

That I will be killed by a shark at some point in my life. Even if I'm sitting in my living room.
Some of you may remember from an earlier post me mentioning that one of my biggest fears is being swallowed whole by a shark. Well, watching Shark Week on the Discovery channel just confirmed this. Even if were to never go in an ocean again and never leave my couch, I'm positive a shark will somehow find me and eat me. Do you realize how many people are limbless or dead from shark attacks? Lots.
You're all probably thinking, "Ummm....change the channel idiot" but I can't look away. It's like channel surfing and stumbling across an episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, I OBVIOUSLY would rather get a buzz cut and tattoo my face than watch them, but I always end up watching for a minimum of 6 hours.

That no one will ever be in the room when I've successfully rapped Juicy by Biggie Smalls. It's just a fact. I will never be able to prove I'm the next Nicki Minaj in front of my friends. When I'm by myself it's like the B.E.T awards up in here and I don't miss a beat. You think at a party or in a car with a friend I can bust out a bad-ass freestyle? Hells no. I consistently fuck it up. There is something so truly gratifying about rapping and doing it well. Jay Z must feel amazing everyday.

The resident surgeon at the hospital on Friday fully farted during my appointment. He was squeezing more than just my foot...He was squeezing his ass cheeks together for sure. Mid sentence he got a look on his face like a little constipated baby and out it came. I knew it by his sudden awkwardness and quick departure from the room. And not to mention my singed nose hair from the potent stench. Silent but deadly. Gross.

My orthopedic surgeon is the only man who has been inside me in years. I don't think I need to elaborate on this one, but that was my first thought at 7am when I creeped him at the bagel stand in the hospital before my appointment last week.

I will never ever ever wear high heels again. Yup, I have come to terms with the fact that I will be that girl in the office that will rock penny loafers and Hilary Clinton pantsuits for life. We've all seen what happened the last time I got dressed up and slapped on some heels. My desire for all things fashionable and uncomfortable has virtually disappeared.

I do apologize if this is not the continuation of last weeks story you were hoping for. But this was the only thing that came out when I started typing tonight.

Until next time,