Dec 15, 2013

Dear New Yawk, I Love You

There. I said it. I love you New York. I even love the 67 cabbies that nearly struck and killed me as I was crossing the street. I love the tiny, gross Puerto Rican man who tried to dry hump my leg and asked me to be his girlfriend. I love the creepy business man who asked me to go for coffee in the airport (and by "coffee" I believe he meant special kind of coffee that sometimes you can get pregnant from and gives you diseases)...It felt very Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, only she's a slut...NO THANKS. And I even love the 739241234 stairs that I climbed all over the city, which proved that your heart can actually burst inside your chest cavity and you really can sweat from every pore in your body.

If you haven't guessed yet,(or you're just an idiot), I went to New York. 

Oh...but wait.....I haven't told you how I got there.

Because I'm an eager beaver my high school nickname and I have the patience of a toddler, I purposely booked the first flight out of Toronto to New York. I thought the early flight would also work to my advantage since I'm always awake and haven't slept since the summer of '86. However, Wednesday night before I left, I enjoyed some "holy fuck I'm on vacation cocktails" courtesy of my very favourite next door neighbour, who knows how to pour a REAL drink, not the kind where you whip out your shot glass and measure the shot...Fuck that. It's the kind of drink that makes you text "lfkjsofiew I love you" to unassuming contacts in your phone and wake up fully clothed with pizza in your hair...yeah, that kind of drink. And since I continually make poor life choices, I indulged, knowing I had to get up at 3am the next day. 

I know you're probably all thinking "OMG. I know where this is going, she missed her flight." Nope. My excitement to get the fuck out of dodge (despite my hangover) literally made me float out of bed. In fact, I'm pretty sure angels washed my hair that morning. Everything felt somehow perfect...car service to the airport was early and super friendly, my hair looked great, and my mega-zit had disappeared. Fuck yes. 

I rolled up to the airport and sailed right through security, they even let me bring my nunchucks and machete on board! It was perfect! I'm obviously kidding, I'm just trying to prove a point of how smooth things were going...in reality you can barely sneeze without being tackled to the ground by an airport security guard. 

Back to my story....I sat in peace at my gate and stared at my plane, just imagining the possibilities that the city that never sleeps would bring me....(Oh and by "sat in peace" I meant listening to hardcore gangsta rap, while daydreaming of what it would be like to eat a carbohydrate again.) 

Then...the time came...boarding time. To really capture the excitement of how I truly felt in that moment, just think of how it would feel to find out you were an audience member during Oprah's Favourite Things show. You know, when she surprises her audience members by giving everyone cars, houses, babies, samurai swords, diamonds, schools, meth, ponies, etc. Actually, come to think of it, the clip below of these audience members was similar to my reaction to the general boarding call to board my flight. Oh, and ONLY watch the reactions, try not to pay attention to the fact that they literally got bags of cash and free shit. It will make you want to go on a 5 state killing spree. 


Angry yet? 
If not, the rage I'm about to share will make you rage too...

Typically I get seated in the middle seat between people who haven't showered since Lincoln was president, or people who hold our shared arm rest hostage with their elbows for an entire flight. However, to my surprise I got a window seat AND no one sat in my row so I could stretch out. Fuck yes. 

Take off was seamless, no turbulence and I was able to stare directly into the sunlight when we got above the clouds, and I had no one to slap me to tell me to stop staring directly into the sunlight. (I used to do this as a little girl and then see spots for days. Perhaps this is why I can only see names of streets if I actually climb the pole and read it.) 

To add to my happiness, I discovered I could watch Modern Family for the entirety of this 90 minute flight. Which I did...well actually, I watched it it for 1 hr and 15 minutes to be exact. Why would I remember such a weird detail like that....oh thanks for asking! Here's why. 

At approximately 8:15am, I felt the wheels go down from under us to prepare for landing, which made me all tingly in my lady bits. It was at this point I reached down to grab my lip gloss from my bag, which was carefully stowed under the seat in front of me because I'm a rule abiding passenger, and as I slowly raised my head, I happened to look at the screen in the seat in front of me, and there was my plane on the map....looking like it's heading IN THE OPPOSITE GOD DAMN DIRECTION OF NEW YORK. MY PLANE WAS FLYING OVER NEW YORK ON MY SCREEN 30 FUCKING SECONDS AGO....WHERE WERE WE GOING??? 

"Good Morning ladies and gentlemen, our apologies, but we just received word from Laguardia that the airport has been shut down due to fog, so we're heading back to Toronto folks." 


Yup. 

It was happening. I sat with my mouth open, as tears welled in my eyes, staring at the screen in front of me as I watched this tiny little vessel of depression plane on the tv travel back to the great white north. 
Obviously, I wasn't the only passenger filled with rage, as there were tons of businessmen on my plane and other people who like to enjoy life and start their vacation on time. 

So back home we went, with no plan, no idea when we would fly out again because no one knew anything. NOT EVEN THE PEOPLE THAT FLEW US THERE. Wicked! However, the best thing to do when you don't have facts or any information whatsoever, is to make a bigger cluster-fuck of a situation by telling the passengers to literally run off the plane and grab a boarding pass that the agents were handing out at the gate and then RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN TO A GATE AT THE OPPOSITE END OF THE TERMINAL. I didn't question it, I just grabbed a boarding pass and ran...Have I ever told you about my upper lip sweating problem? Yeah, well I have one, and it became evident to all the passengers at my new gate when I got there and saw that there was actually NO plane at the gate. It was at this point I let out a giant "FUCK. FUCK FUCK" This minor meltdown was quickly interrupted by a crochity ticketing agent who was now telling us to go back to our original gate...AT THE OPPOSITE END OF THE TERMINAL. So back we went....Have you ever tried running with hangover and 30 minutes of sleep? It's so fun! 

At this point it was about 10am.....I had no idea that I was about to spend 7 blissful hours in the 7th circle of hell...Gate A15. Throughout the day, I came to find out that "A15" stands for "there are a minimum of 15 ASSHOLES at your gate." So how did I pass the time? Thanks for asking! 
Well, to make a long, sad, sad, sad story short, I listened to Linda from Windsor talk to her sister (who came in from New Brunswick for her 50th birthday weekend away, and yes I know these details as my iPod died and God hates me) talk about her cat who is dying. Well Linda, maybe your cat is dying because you suck. So shut up. Then, I was followed around by some strange man in track pants and greasy hair for an hour...about 45 minutes into my stalking, I had convinced myself that he was gonna kill me in the airport washroom, and I thought about the gruesome details in my head and then realized that I seriously need to give up watching Criminal Minds before bed. Did you ever see the episode where the serial killer practiced Santeria and beheaded people and then put fake teeth in their mouths? 
Next up on the annoyance scale, I sat beside a woman named Pat who was from Saskatoon and had a layover in Toronto and New York while on her way to see visit her friend in Florida, whose husband just left her. So that was a nice depressing conversation which opened my eyes to the painful world of love and life. Thanks Pat!  I think it was at this point I excused myself and pretended I had to go to the washroom. (Well I actually went to the washroom, but it was just to cry.) Yes, I cried like a little bitch and then sprayed myself with really expensive Narcisco Rodriguez perfume that I bought at my pity party in Duty Free. I also put on bright red Chanel lipstick for shits and giggles while I was in Duty Free, which made me look like a giant whore, but #YOLO. At this point, I didn't care if the bathroom floor opened up and swallowed me down to the fiery pits of hell.f Oh wait, I was in hell. 

Finally, what felt like 372043283476593 hours, they found us a plane, and flew us to the big city and I arrived at around 5pm, and NOT my original arrival time of 8:30am, when I was supposed to land. Me and my rage-filled/excited Canadian heart had finally made it on US soil....Oh, did I mention that two good friends of mine who recently moved to New Jersey were supposed to be meeting me at 1:30pm in New York to hang out...yeah. I missed an entire day with them, which propelled the tears/rage into a category 5 meltdown. And because they are good people and were waiting on the drugs I smuggled they decided to come to the city anyway, and wait for me until I got there. 


It was around 5:15pm at Satan's baggage carousel, that I finally started to feel less like Kathy Bates in Misery, and more like Nanners, who was about to begin her vacation. NOT SO FAST NANNERS....MOMMA TOLD YOU THIS LIFE WAS SHIT. 


Since 237429 different planes were all given clearance to land at the EXACT same time, we all ended up sharing the same baggage carousel, and as you can imagine that's a fuck load of luggage. And what typically happens when any machine is overloaded? They break!! Is that some sort of law of science? OVERLOADING=BREAKING=1 ANGRY CANADIAN=PADDED ROOM=STRAIGHT JACKET It was also at this point I burst into psychotic laughter for all the world to see. LIke, I actually keeled over and just started dying of laughter. I didn't care if people stared. There was no other physical reaction I could possibly have that wouldn't land me in the slammer so I chose laughter.  

1 hour later after maintenance showed up to fix it, I walked out the doors of the airport...right into a 2 hour wait for a taxi. Obviously, my natural reaction was to drop my bags and do this...


Then began to cry...like sob. Publicly. I didn't give a fuck who saw. As I approached the back of the line which was basically in Albany, (if you know geography, that's fucking far upstate). My Oscar-worthy performance proved to work to my advantage as I was consoled by a couple from South Carolina and Philly. Probably some of the nicest people I've ever met in my life. Can you blame me for crying though? I was hungover, tired, I was dreaming of a decent meal and another shower, I was going to miss my friends, I was alone, and I had no idea what to expect next....

Then....out of no where, a little Mexican tapped me on my shoulder.....

Stay tuned next week, when I continue my adventure...









Dec 1, 2013

Nanners Gets her Nails Did


In an effort to pull myself together, I decided to pay a visit to the  fiery pits of hell nail salon this weekend. Who doesn't love the fresh smell of toxins in the air and their manicurist beheading their index finger? Who needs their index finger anyway? Having 10 fingers is so 2013 and index fingers are more for pussies pansies anyway. *Oh and I'm now changing the name of my blog to "Nine Finga Nanners."
I consider myself ever so slightly seasoned with knowledge, and I do happen to know that we have a bunch of major arteries, that if we cut, we're fucked. Well Saturday, I discovered that I have major arteries in my finger. (Keep in mind, this is according to me, the girl who uses shady chat rooms on the internet late at night to get the highest quality medical advice. Web MD is way more credible than a real life doctor...Just check it out...at night... alone). NO GOD JESUS DONT DO IT. THANKS TO WEB MD I'M CURRENTLY FIGHTING THE WORST CASE IMAGINEABLE OF THE BUBONIC PLAGUE, AVIAN BIRD FLU AND ELEPHANTIASIS. I'm making this up, but there have got to be arteries in your finger since I'm pretty sure it was arterial spray that I experienced (thanks HBODexter), straight across the salon as the manicurist hacksawed my nails into perfection. That's okay, Mrs. Ted Bundy/manicurist lady, don't mind the paramedics, the crash cart or let the fact that I screamed "holy fuck that hurt", stop you. Carry on. 

There was however, the added bonus of a distraction, which was the owner's 6 year old son who would intermittently tell off customers for no reason and try to sell me used magazines for 2 bucks every 5 minutes. Then, because children and all other people with screws loose typically love me, the little boy asked me play to cards with him. It was a card game which required me to loose every hand and pretend that he's a little genius trickster who has outsmarted the ditsy blonde- you know, those kind of kid games. Are there any other kind? Actually, that sounds a lot like adult mind games and my dating life. 
Despite feeling like an extra in the movie Saw, I ended up sticking around the salon to breath in acrylic and play cards for 20 minutes longer than I should have. I just didn't have the heart to tell the little Einstein that I had to go and tend to the giant gaping wound his mother gave me during my nail appointment. Well, if this life has taught me anything, it's to follow your gut...The little card shark ended up freaking the fuck out when I tried to win one round (to teach him the hardships of life), so he took our deck of cards and whipped them up into the air and screamed, "NOOOOOO, I win." (Again, this story is really starting to mirror my love life.) 
Me, remaining calm, (since I heard it's taboo to punish other people's kids, especially in public), bent over to pick them off the floor as he then began to yell something at me in Chinese. I may not be Rosetta Stone, but I'm pretty sure he said,

"Stupid blonde. I eat bitches like you for breakfast. You try and pull a fast one on me and you pay the price. I think I just pissed myself." 
It was something along those lines, I'm just sure of it.  Anyway, as my eyes locked with his during his tirade, God decided it would be funny if I pulled 40 muscles in my back.... Instantaneously. Wicked! I've never hurt my back in my entire life, but I must say I'm really happy that I had my tiny Asian friend yelling at me when it happened...he did sweet fuck all. It's not like I expected him to strap me to his back and go all Band of Brothers on me, carrying me on his back through the salon, but he could have stopped to listen to me bitch for 3 hours 5 seconds.  After my trip to purgatory, I returned to my parents house to collect my dignity and take a tinkle before heading home to the big bad city. Now, please keep in mind when you live alone, pissing with the door open is as common as touching yourself after The Notebook. Very common. So sometimes when I'm in other dwellings, I forget to shut the door. Sue me. It's an honest mistake...well my parent's bathroom is located right across from the kitchen, where my poor father was just trying to make something to eat, instead he witnessed his 32 year old spinster daughter urinating...sober. Upon burning his retina's with the image of his grown daughter peeing in front of him, he yelled,  *Must read in Scottish accent "Close the fucking door!"  Obviously Shrek my dad startled me, and it prompted me to shut the door. I've recovered from the great vagina incident of 2010, so I can certainly recover from this. (If you don't know what I'm referencing, my robe came undone in front of my father once. I just recently logged about 1000 hours in therapy for this).  Finally, I headed back to my crib where I'm free to pee sans the door shut, and my night continued to get progressively worse (in my opinion). Most of my close friends, know that I have a serious aversion, like a serious aversion to cotton balls. Ugh I just shuddered thinking of cotton balls touching my skin. The same goes for Q tips which I actually strategically pick out of the box in the centre of the ear stick of death, without having to touch the cotton itself. Anyway, yesterday in the spirit of personal hygiene I bought more white sticks of death, as I realized I was out. Here's what happened. 

For about 40 minutes I sat on my couch and stared at the mess of death sticks and thought "THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT'S EVER HAPPENED TO ME. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DEAL WITH THIS?" I can imagine this is how Obama feels when thinking about nuclear wars and shit. Dang this was tough. So since procrastination and I are besties, and the S.W.A.T team was tied up, I thought "fuck this," I'll deal with this later. So off I went to grab my very specialist friend in the whole wide world...My new box of Nytol. AND HERES WHAT HAPPENED. 

See that little tiny ball of white???...Yeah, that's a cotton ball. THAT WASN'T IN MY LAST BOX OF NYTOL....So, I did the obvious and googled the factory address to pistol whip the person who shoved a cotton ball in my beloved happy time pill box. Eventually my PMS induced rage subsided, and I rethought the hassle of becoming violent with the Nytol people. However,  During the great cotton ball saga of 2013 which had just gone down in my apartment,  I forgot I had laundry virtually catching fire in the cheap communal dryer downstairs. As I ran down to collect my scolding hot laundry, (and momentarily paused in the hall and smiled when I realized our lobby no longer smelt like sausages and curry), I discovered that I accidentally shoved my neighbour's laundry card that she left behind, in the dryer, with my clothes. So there it was, melted like butter to the inside of the dryer....Sweet.

So, If you're wondering if my neighbour is doing her laundry today, that's a definite no. 
If you're wondering if if the q tips are still on the floor. Yes 

If you're wondering if I've slept. No.

If you're wondering if my heart still hurts after being yelled at by both an Asian and a Scotsman within minutes of eachother, yes. 

If you're wondering how I'm typing this while cloaked in a straight jacket...it's magic. 

Nanners

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





Jul 28, 2013

Dinner Party, Shminner Party


If you're not in your 30's then, go fuck yourself you're lucky. Not only is being in your 30's a time to discover unsightly hair growing on your chin and breasts, scream crying in your pillow because life is shit, it's also a time for a plethora of dinner parties. Fun...If you're married or dying. Just kidding. Not really.  Actually, I enjoy dinner parties. Especially the ones that are all couples! AND I really enjoy the couples that are into PDA and baby-talking to one another. (If you don't know what PDA is, it stands for: PUBLICLY DICK-ISH AFFECTION.) Even better. Pffft, who doesn't want to see a real life porn at the dinner table? SIGN ME UP. 

I always show up to dinner parties with a little meth in my pocket a fear that the host will cook a beautiful meal, and ruin it by putting peas in it. I hate, hate, hate, peas. The last time I ate peas, was when I was 10. My dad wouldn't let me leave the table until I finished my peas, even though I thought I had successfully spread them around my plate enough to make it look like I'd eaten most of them. I remember sitting at the table, glaring down at those evil tiny green balls, and hoping somehow my plate would catch fire or the roof would collapse, then I'd be done with the Prisoner of War exercise my dad was leading. 
Now every child knows that look you get from a parent, that does not need words to describe how much shit you're in-you just know it. It's in their eyes. And it's an eery fucking silence.  I'd say it's similar to the silence on most of my dates. Sorry, I'm getting off topic. Wait, is there a seminar or secret underground information session that soon-to-be parents take, on how to look demonically possessed when your child is being a little shit? Just curious.
Anyway, back to my refugee camp story. Eventually I broke down, as I couldn't stand the silence, and jammed a fork full of peas in my mouth with tears streaming down my face. I remember chewing as the goosebumps traveled throughout my body. And then,  being the little genius I am, I vomited right into the centre of my plate. Take that, Dad. I believe my Oscar worthy performance in my battle to end  peas, was followed by some curse words from the adults at the table, but because I'm a lady, I won't fucking share them with you. Since that night, and seeing the wonders that my vomiting trick produced,  I've been proudly vomiting around town for the past 25 years to get myself out of awkward conversations and parking tickets.

Whoa. I did not mean to write about peas, I personally don't think they are worth my brain power, or the written word, but this blog is about expressing myself and seizing my demons, so to speak. 

So back to dinner parties. I've decided that the next dinner party I go to, I'm bringing a lucky guest-my vibrator. Why not? People bring their boyfriends and spouses. Why can't I bring my dick? It's like we're married. We don't talk and we use each other for sex. And by vibrator doesn't act like a little bitch when I tell him I'm too hot to cuddle and to please get the hell away from me, so he deserves to be wined and dined now and again.  


Truthfully, I think my main problem at dinner parties is not so much the party itself, it's dealing with my hangover the next day. You're probably wondering why I would be so hungover, but if you have to ask, you probably don't know me as well as you thought. I ALWAYS drink the majority of wine at the table. Partly because I'm so super shy and need help coming out of my shell and the other half of me has been a hot mess since birth, so it's kind of expected. I will say, the best part about being single and flying solo at a dinner party, is that the host usually takes pity on me and sends me home with a bag full of leftovers. (Which I typically eat in the cab home or in my bed at 1am while I watch infomercials about obese people getting skinny from doing a months worth of Hip Hop Abs... AND NOT EATING. People in informercials have to be the saddest people on the planet. I imagine a lot of their lives are spent listening to Adele and eating powdered donuts in dimly lit rooms.) Anyway,  even if I get pity  leftovers, I'll take'em! Fuck married people. They can afford groceries and they stay in on Friday nights, drink expensive wine, cook together and talk about how much they love being in love and how much they love their groceries. 
So next time you want to invite me to your dinner party. Remember to stock up on wine (it can be the cheap kind...by bottle 3, everything tastes like heaven) and please cook sans peas and be sure to set the table for my battery operated boyfriend. 


Jul 15, 2013

A Commuters Paradise

I'm pretty sure I sat in semen on the subway during my ever-so-loathed commute to the office on Friday. It was the pivotal moment I had been waiting for all week. Not only had I been sweating like a whore everyday, which made me strongly consider a buzz cut, I was now potentially pregnant with some jerk-offs baby...literally. Fingers crossed!
When I got to my desk that morning, I started calculating my finances and it looks like that if I were to have a love child with a mystery subway masturbator, I would be able to squirrel away enough money so that in 9 months, I could comfortably afford a crib, and me and my baby could live in that luxury crib, in a ditch on a street where wealthy people live. DREAMS DO COME TRUE.

Last week I "slummed' it and rode the subway to and from work since I'm crazy po. (And yes, I just said "po." Po is actually a step down from poor. Like eating toilet paper and scream crying yourself to sleep kind of poor.) Anyway, I use the term "slum" not as an offense to those who take the subway, since most of my friends ride it, and I do from time to time. But I say that only because I've started taking the magical express bus to work, and last week I was stealing toilet paper from the office, so I obviously couldn't afford the bus. This bus is double the fare, but it's air conditioned, and for the most part, the citizens who ride this fine bus, shower at least 4 times a week and I'm fairly certain they dabble in breath mints and personal hygiene. SMALL SLICE OF HEAVEN, AMIRIGHT?!

I realize that I have written a few posts on my psychotic tendencies, which the subway illicits in me, but there is nothing I hate more than stupid subway patrons. Well, I actually hate peas and Hootie and the Blowfish more, but still. I once saw a man light a cigarette on the subway, then rub his penis with his free hand, all while he was trying to talk to me about the difference between American and Canadian iced tea. I know what you're thinking, how'd she get so lucky?  But now, I've discovered that I don't have to be on the subway to be inspired to have a mega melt-down, because weird/creepy people enjoy approaching me at the bus stop too. I ask that you bear with me this week as I unleash my rage about my commute. If I don't write it here, there is a good chance you'll find me on a park bench rocking back and forth in my tinfoil hat.

On Friday, I was standing at the bus stop waiting for pleasure rocket to arrive (my bus, not my vibrator) to take me to the subway station. As I stood there in the blistering heat, with my straight hair slowly evolving my look into a Slash-like state,

I spotted a woman walking down the street wearing some army fatigues, and a lumber jack jacket with high heels. Immediately I knew I was somehow going to have a situation on my hands, as odd people seldom walk by me without randomly asking me for life advice or swearing at me.

So I held my breath, cranked up the volume on my New Kids on the Block album, turned my back and waited as she sauntered down the street. Sure enough within 3 minutes I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Excuse me, where is your bathroom?"
"Um, I'm at the bus stop, but there is a restaurant on the corner that will allow you to use theirs."
"Okay."

Obviously this wasn't over since that was WAY too easy as she stood there smiling at me with a creepy head tilt. I continued to fidget with my phone pretending that Obama was on the other line wanting my opinion on how to resolve the crisis in the Middle East, but she didn't seem to give a shit.
Then, out of no where, this lady reaches into her pocket and whips out a Snoop Dogg size blunt. (I refuse to call him Snoop Lion as I like to save people from idiocy.) And she continued to smoke it while virtually leaning against me, telling me about how she prefers roast beef over chicken and what the weather is like in Newfoundland. Sweet.

As the day finally came to an end and my soul had left my body, I realized I could not take the subway as I couldn't be confident that I wasn't gonna Jason Bourne a complete stranger if they were to hit me with their backpack... so I splurged and waited for my express bus...

While waiting for my bus, a tall Australian gentlemen, who I believe stores heads in his freezer, struck up a scintillating conversation with me.

These were his first words to me:

"Oh god my stomache hurts." (He was now keeling over and I was rolling my eyes.) "I ate something bad for lunch and I just vomited before leaving work. I have diarrhea now too."

At that point I looked around to see if I could find Satan waiting to escort me to the fiery pits of hell. WHO SAYS THAT TO A STRANGER?!!! ALL I WANT TO DO IS LISTEN TO WHITNEY HOUSTON ON MY IPOD IN PEACE.

Then....

He realized that I seemed to be listening to his verbal diarrhea so he continued our one-sided conversation.

"The last time I was this sick was after a party I had with my ex-wife. I'm not married anymore. I'm not sure if you're married, but being married is hard. " 

"So is listening to this conversation." Then I pulled out my gun and pistol whipped him and drove off into the sunset in my air conditioned Range Rover with Marky Mark.  (*Obviously none of that happened but I certainly fantasized about it.)

He continued to show me a scar on his arm which he got from getting drunk and falling on a garbage bag full of glass, then somehow steered that conversation right into how it is living as an asshole Atheist.

Finally, after 20 minutes,  disproving his atheist theory, a bus appeared in the distance because God exists.

As I sat on the bus, I contemplated jerking the wheel of the bus into oncoming traffic, because of my pure mental exhaustion, but then I realized I had vodka in my purse and all was right with the world.









Jul 7, 2013

Summer: Ain't Nobody Got Time For Dat!

Oh Summer, how I loathe you. 
 
Most people get soooo excited about summer, but not this bitch. My theory is , people who love summer have never had their inner thighs rub together with the intensity of 10,000 burning suns. If anything, summer makes me want to Sinead O'Connor my head and move to Siberia. Yes, it can be deathly cold in Siberia, but I'd rather have hard nipples than be sweaty with a bad attitude for 2 months. 
 
Truth is, once July 1st hits, I feel totally fucked. Here's why. 
 
Fucking bathing suit shopping: First of all, the creator of electricity can go fuck himself. (And if you're wondering who created electricity, good luck. Because according to Google, there were approximately 5000 different people that invented it.) Anyway, I do have a point here, the creation of electricity led to the creation of VERY BRIGHT ANNOYING LIGHTING FOUND IN OFFICES AND CHANGE ROOMS, WHICH IS DESIGNED TO MAKE EVERYONE DIE ALONE. The inventor(s) clearly did not have cellulite and must have been the most beautiful perfect person to ever walk the earth, ever in the history of the planet. Ever. How nice for him. 
 
Oh and I promise you, if we could do everything in candlelight, I'd be married with 6 children by now. I look amazing in dark or dimly lit areas. 
 
Actually, I don't think I've tried on a bathing suit in a change room since the late 90's, when I had a minuscule amount of hope for my body. And even then, I was melting down over my disproportionate breasts and cellulite riddled thighs. FUN! (Seriously God, why did you give me both a B and a C cup???) 
I've actually taken it upon myself to fall into bodies of water, fully clothed for the past 15 years. I'm talking pants, shirts, sometimes sweaters. (Also, wearing more clothes will be of use if I were to die in a deadly shark attack, as they can find my XL Northern Reflections duck sweater circling the area where I met my demise. You haven't lived until you've worn a duck sweater. Trust me.) 
 
Fucking frizzy hair: If you're one of the bitches that has perfectly straight, non-frizzy hair, then please leave my blog now, 'cause you ain't no friend of mine. Thursday morning I happened to catch my reflection in the glass at the bus stop, and it looked like I licked a knife and stuck it right into an electrical socket. Perfect look for work! It's the uber professional "I've given up on life" look, that seems to be trending these days. Thanks global warming! I love waking up to the news "It's 27 degrees, but with the humid X, it feels like 287. Try and stay cool out there folks." Fuck you. 
 
Fucking tube tops: To my girlfriend's from high school reading this, you know I lived in tube tops in high school. Especially when we would dress like whores and go into the city with our fake I.D's. However, now that I've blossomed into plumpness, I've discovered my triceps have grown into a set of wings and I'm almost ready to die single for takeoff. Like, when I wave, my upper arm still moves long after my wrist has stopped moving.
  I pray that someone invents a dry fit long sleeved turtle neck that is somehow lined with ice cubes, so I can sport it all summer long and not die.
 
Fucking sun burns: I blame my parents: A Newfoundlander and a Scotsman.,..  the two whitest, white people on the planet, who gave me the most pastiest/permanently inflamed skin, a girl could dream of. Great. Essentially, my parents came together and made a see-through baby, me. On the other hand, my brother (we'll call him Mr. Phalanges), looks like he walked out of a god damn Hawaiian Tropics ad, all tanned and shit.  
It's funny, a few weeks ago we had our girls cottage weekend and I reapplied a 60 a few times a day and still managed to walk away as the most burnt one there. I'm convinced this is because I was a really evil person in a past life who must have killed puppies or something. 
 
Fucking bugs: I would rather play chicken with an oncoming bus, than deal with mosquitoes. Those tiny little bastards are slowly sucking my soul out of my chubby body. OF COURSE, last weekend, after 76 glasses of wine, I thought pissing in the woods had a nice ring to it, so I was pant-less in the woods approximately 20 times...peeing right beside a bathroom which was 20 feet away from me. Why? Because I make good life decisions. So as you can imagine, I had several "bites" around the cooter area. This made work exceptionally pleasant, when I rolled up Monday morning with my hand down my pants, just scratching away. (God, I hope those were mosquito bites.) 
 
Fucking shaving: I made the mistake last summer of getting high on Percocets and shaving my arms. Wicked. It's been a real fucking treat ever since, having little spikes of hair that stick up on my arms and graze people on the subway. In the sunlight, it looks absolutely ridiculous, and I often try and keep at least one arm inside my purse while I'm in any direct sunlight because my arms look like a pre-pubescent boy who is struggling to grow a mustache.  And of course, let's not forget shaving/waxing your legs. For about 8 months, I only shaved one leg because I was lazy. But now that summer has arrived in all its ferociousness, I must bend over and shave both legs. UGH. WHY IS LIFE SO HARD? And you know what? Even if I didn't shave, it's not like anyone is seeing my legs except for the guy from the bar a few weeks ago that said he'd call the next morning but never did. I've been sitting in my bedroom listening to End of the Road by Boyz to Men for 2 weeks straight. So I don't understand what the big deal is. I gave up on wearing shorts 5 years ago since they tend to disappear right into the crack of my ass, so I'm pretty much tricked out in Hilary Clinton pantsuits all summer. 
 
Oh and of course I could never forget the bikini line. I may not be diligent on shaving my legs, arms and face, (yes, face, don't forget I'm growing a chin strap) but I do have cooter etiquette.  Shave it up or all off, people. That shit sticks out the side of your bikini and people will never forget it. For instance, I was once at a family pool party, and a relative named Morgana Freemana, got out of the pool and began talking to my cousin and I (who were seated at vagina level)....with hair sticking right out the side of her suit. It almost looked like she was giving birth to a baby with a lot of hair. And since then, I've never, never forgotten it. Let that be a solid life lesson, folks. 
 
Well, thanks as always for reading. I love you peeps. Oh and if you find me moderately amusing,  I started a Facebook page, so you can keep up to date when I post! Stop by and "like" my page and my friend Mel will sleep with you. Check it: www.facebook.com/NannersRambles

Nanners 

Jul 1, 2013

RAGING

Well, it's Monday and I'm not Lindsay Lohan, so it's a good day.

Truthfully, I just finished writing a post which took me 2 hours to complete and it somehow didn't save and is nowhere to be found. The rage pumping through my body right now about the disappearance of my post, is something quite profound. I wrote about how I murdered my goldfish, my penny loafers and what I've been doing in heavily wooded areas lately. As per usual, I'm erring more on the side of train wreck than a highly functioning adult, so it's always a prime opportunity to share it with my readers here. However, please check back in later in the week and I will grace your retina's with some foul-mouthed Nanners words and wisdom. 

Jun 9, 2013

A Letter to the Editor...kinda

Since I woke up with a layer of my tongue missing from last night's vodka shots AND I got trapped in an underground parking garage alone for 40 minutes this morning, I've been feeling like darting into oncoming traffic inspired to write a letter to myself which includes reasons why booze is my arch nemesis, and share it with the world. You're welcome.

The plan (in my semi-sober current state) is that I'm hoping I remember to resort to this list, the next time that I think that bathing in champagne, peeing in my living room, and eating pizza off the floor at 3am IS THE BEST IDEA EVER. WHY AM I SINGLE?

Actually, since I'm on an honesty kick, it was my behaviour at my birthday party last weekend that inspired this masterpiece/week long shame spiral. I woke up last Sunday to my girlfriend playing a video of me from my party on her phone. THIS MADE MY NUMBER 4 SPOT OF MOST TRAUMATIZING LIFE EXPERIENCES. (Well that, and trying on skinny jeans.)
Why was the video so traumatizing Nanners?
Well, if you're anything like me, you loathe hearing your voice on voicemail, on a microphone or in a video.

First of all, why does my voice sound like Sara in this gem of a video below:

Secondly, during the video, I'm giving a seemingly lovely speech to my friends and thanking them for coming to my party... then all of a sudden I turn to my friend in front of everyone and tell her I'm going to "punch you in the vagina."  Nice. (Actually the word was a lot worse than that, but I still enjoy going to church on Christmas Eve and I could potentially burst into flames if I use it.)

I can only imagine Kim Kardashian felt the same way when she found out her cooter was gracing the screens of millions of people world wide. HORRIFIED. Only difference is, her cooter made her millions and my pirate hooker mouth still has my bank account in overdraft. I can't catch a break.

After I came to terms, that in real life, my voice sounds like a 13 year old girl on ecstasy, I continued to lay in bed and question the meaning of life (and silently wonder if I actually ate cigarettes last night), my friend Mel searched her phone, only to uncover more evidence of idiocy and debauchery....PHOTOS. I would post these, but I'm shirtless. Just kidding Mom. I may not be shirtless, but I can tell you there are a bunch of unknown Mexicans and guacamole in these pics. Problem with this is, both Mel and I assumed we came straight home from the bar....and I don't eat Mexican food, nor do I know where any such place is in the city...Sooooo... here's a professional shot of the counter we were apparently standing at, and if you're from the city and recognize these vats of salsa and guacamole, holla at me because I would love to know...and I seem to have left my self respect there.

Ugh I hate guacamole. (I bet you're sitting at your desk right now thinking "What? I love guacamole, what's wrong with this girl.") 

Whoa. I got way off topic with my useless backstory. Anyway, as mentioned earlier, I thought by writing a letter to myself, it will help in some self preservation/dignity restoration in the future. (Sorry, I'm trying to write and and I'm trying to watch Breaking Amish, I'm really thankful I don't wear a bonnet.)

Nanners gurl, 

You ain't P-Diddy, put down the Hennessy. Shit gurl.

1. Your bones are made of glass, sit down. 
2. You think that developing an emotional connection with your cab driver and buying Big Mac's for him and his entire family at 2am is doing your part for world peace. 
3. You text "dsfasihg fdasiag a dkksoa cake" and expect a reasonable response in the middle of the night.
4. You tell complete strangers on the street that you love them, especially if they offer to buy you a hot dog. 
5. You ask the hot dog vendor if you can help him grill the hot dogs for his customers, only to be followed by a very loud "get the fuck away from me." 
6. You come home and melt cheese on everything in your fridge, while you long for a hot dog.
7. You wake up with cheese in your hair 
8. You pee everywhere but the toilet.
9. You provide free therapy to hookers in the bathroom bar 
10. Sometimes you don't come home alone and you think you have 10 different STD's for at least 2 weeks.

Nanners, I know you love pizza and have a really messed up obsession with hot dogs, but I urge you to think of all the hot dog vendors on the streets of Toronto that don't want to see you ever again since you got all up in their grills at 2am...literally. 

I love you, go brush your teeth. 


Well that's it for me bitches. My brain hurts. Also, if you watch The Bachelorette, join me for my weekly recaps on Red Lips, Long Lashes. I don't hold back.  www.redlipslonglashes.com/entertainment/the-bachelorette-this-is-nothing-like-christian-mingle



May 26, 2013

50 Shades of Nanners

*Sorry, I kinda disappeared for a while, but I've been swamped with eating entire wheels of Brie and scream crying into my pillow. But I'm back, and couldn't be more ready to shame my entire family by writing inappropriate things on the world wide web.

Let's begin shall we?

If you know me, you know that I can often be found on the floor covered in wine and Tostitos, but another interesting and wildly shocking tidbit of information about me, is that I have little to zero game when it comes to the fine art of picking up men. WHAT?! THAT'S JUST SHOCKING. GUYS DON'T LIKE CREEPY WOMEN?! Shit.
Back in University, (where I left my dignity and my love for fitness), I discovered that I could land any guy in the bar that I wanted, by luring them in with my "bedroom eyes." Wait, let me  explain:

Bedroom Eyes:  When a white girl with little to no class, pounds back 8 Mike's Hard Lemonade and hits the bar scene with an abnormal sense of confidence, only to be found in the corner, doing a creepy head tilt and some weird shit with her eyes...AND somehow convinces a guy equally as drunk as her, that taking her to bed, is the best idea he's ever had. Ever. In the history of ideas.

Now, as I enter into spinsterhood, with one good leg, chin hair, and a bad attitude, I've discovered that my "bedroom eyes" no longer work in the fine art of seduction... At least not for me anyway. A few weeks ago at the bar, I had the unfortunate pleasure of catching my reflection during a "bedroom eyes stare down" and I immediately called myself a cab. I had to. Either I left, or the guy I was trying to seduce with my gaze, was gonna call an ambulance or quite possibly the police. To better describe my attempt at bedroom eyes, I'd like to refer you to the blockbuster hit, The Exorcism of Emily Rose. How my face could look like a demonic force was exiting my body AND I was having a seizure at the same time, was beyond me. Since words can't quite paint this picture, below is an eerily exact picture of what my bedroom eyes look like. Attractive.



Since this little episode in the bar, I've been trying to think of new ways to seduce men, and a colleague of mine recommended that I read 50 Shades of Grey, and I was all like, "50 Shades of fuck that." I can't bring myself to read erotic novels. I just can't. I have this irrational fear, that I will develop some creepy, closeted obsession with reading/watching porn and I'd like to salvage any purity I have left. HAHAHAHAAHA. Purity. That was funny.

But seriously though, my addictive personality has led me down many-a-dark road, and I fear that erotic literature is a gateway drug to even more messed up obsessions...such as having sex WITH your car, like this peach below: 



I just shuddered.


Well, you know what I always say, if you can't beat'em you're a horrible disgrace to your family, join'em. So instead of reading 50 shades of shit, I decided to write my very own erotic literature book. Now I can't share with you the entire book, but I can certainly share some excerpts to get your juices flowing. I should add, that it's loosely based on this whore I know named Conchita, and the other parts are what life is really like. I've titled this NY Times Best Seller: Conchita's Gettin Laid.

"Conchita takes off her turtleneck and stands in front of the mirror. Conchita notices that one breast is noticeably bigger than the other.  She stares at herself in astonishment. "When the fuck did this happen?" There is no way I'm knockin' boots with Pablo tonight, he can't see my lop sided tits."
Conchita then frantically slips back into her flanel pajamas and walks timidly into the bedroom where Pablo awaits her pantless. 
"Pablo I have my period."

"Pablo pulls conchita closer, Conchita shits her pants with nervousness that Pablo will taste the Cool Ranch Doritos, and Bacardi Breezer she just secretly crushed in her bathroom. He softly touches her face, gazes in her eyes. Her heart races, her cooter pulsates.
"Conchita, did you just eat Cool Ranch Doritos?"

"Shit bitch, you is fine."

"The cool breeze from the salty beach air, made Conchita's leg hair curl." 

"It was a dark and stormy night. The air was thick and so was Conchita's waistline"

"Pablo scrapes Conchita off the floor and flings her onto her bed to ravage her...The bed collapses, Conchita breaks her collar bone. He calls 911."

"Conchita found out that Pablo eats spiders for fun."

I know what you're thinking....'Can I pre-order this?' No. Not just yet. I have a few more chapters to finish on Conchita's trip to rehab and her obsession with the movie Seabiscuit...oh and I can't forget her third nipple scare. 

Well, I've spewed out enough nonsense for one day, I need to work on my jazzercise video for Youtube. 

Also don't forget to check out my latest post on Red Lips Long Lashes! I wrote what life was like for me after graduation...yikes. www.redlipslonglashes.com/perspective/so-youve-graduated-now-what Another thing, if you find me mildly amusing AND you like watching the Bachelor and Bachelorette, you can join me each week on Red Lips for my recaps. 

Peace out, 
Nanners