Jan 27, 2013

My Soul Sucking Mother F*%$ing Commute

Remember the movie Speed? I do. Almost word for word. When I was 13, I saw it 5 times in the theatre. My obsession began partly because I could go to the theatre and see any movie I wanted to, because I looked like a 30 year old woman when I was a kid. Don't be jealous. The other part of me discovered that Keanu Reeves made me tingle in my panties and I liked it. 
Look at that face. Now that's a man. Anyone that can stay that calm when a bus filled with innocent people is exploding behind him, is straight up gangsta. (*Please note that Keanu no longer gives me wet dreams, it's Sunday, and I'm nostalgic.) 

Now that I've blossomed into the semi-miserable grown woman my parents always dreamed I'd be,  the movie Speed has taken on a whole new meaning to me. Since I have -$898472.00 in my bank account and cannot afford the luxury of my own car, I have the privilege of taking a bus everywhere with Toronto's finest assholes. I often have daydreams/waking nightmares of standing up and reciting my favourite Speed movie quotes. This week, I had an urge to channel my inner Dennis Hopper and I desperately wanted to stand up and yell,

"Pop quiz, hotshot. There's a bomb on a bus. Once the bus goes 50 miles an hour, the bomb is armed. If it drops below 50, it blows up. What do you do? What do you do?"

I of course never act on these fantasies, mostly because I fear my Dennis Hopper impersonation is straight up shitty. The other part of me fears that the general public will not enjoy my artistic expression nor find the humour in saying there is a bomb on the bus. People are so uptight. Jesus. 

Friday morning at precisely 8:09am I felt my soul being sucked from my body as I saw my bus coming toward me. If you don't commute to work through this booming metropolis of ours, then fuck you you may have a hard time understanding why I felt very 'Silence of the Lamb-ish' on the commute to my office.

Perhaps I'm PMS'ing for the 365th day in a row, or perhaps it was the unusually strong smell of fabric softener and salami which wafted up my nose during my bus ride, but today's post is an angry post. It's inspired by the dickish behaviour of my fellow public transit commuters. I dedicate this post to you. Bitches.

To the douchebag with the crazy nose hair and Celine Dion obsession, I can hear your music from your headphones over my music. We all can. Please turn it down. I would rather set myself on fire or be locked in a room with Ted Bundy than listen to Celine Dion. This post is for you...

I may not be a member of MENSA but to the woman who brings a box of Tim Horton's muffins each Friday AND LEAVES THEM ON THE FLOOR OF THE BUS...YOUR MUFFINS WILL GET STEPPED ON. Thank you for keeping idiocy alive. This post is for you...

To Lydia, the only reason I know your name is because you scream answer your phone at 8:15am each morning "THIS IS LYDIA." Please STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR SHITTY LOVE LIFE IN PUBLIC. Me, and the other assholes you're surrounded by don't give a shit what Peter does or does not give you emotionally. For me, anyone that calls me at 8am to strike up a conversation, better be James Franco trapped like in the movie '127 Hours.' So unless you're cutting your arm off with a butter knife and pissing yourself, don't call me that early. This post is for you...

Oh and to the man who has gigantism, your backpack (which you never take off), skins my nose each morning as I try and squeeze by you at my stop...Do you ever notice an ENTIRE face of makeup on your backpack? Or are you preoccupied with trying to figure out how you're going to rearrange the heads in your freezer? Stop it with the backpack and stop it with your creepiness. This post is for you...

Oh and I don't want to forget Precious who opts to sit ON MY LAP each morning when she tries to squeeze herself in the middle seat...If you have a general idea of your girth, you know where you can and cannot fit. If you're not Channing Tatum, get the fuck off my lap. This post is for you...

Lastly, I could never forget the heavy breathing ginger who NEVER has a TISSUE and chooses to rapidly sniffle for 45 minutes. You must use your sleeve to wipe your snot or visit the doctor ASAP. According to Web MD, there is a good chance you're dying. This post is for you...

Whoa. That felt good. 

I believe there was some residual commuting anger left over from a couple weeks ago when I spilt the entire contents of my purse on the bus and no one helped me pick them up. I don't know about you, but my purse is essentially just an expensive, fancy garbage bag I sport around town. I blindly shove anything and everything there. (That sounds like a night I had at a frat house in 2002. Sorry Mom!) 

If you peak inside my purse, you will find a treat for the eyes; 

  • 647 pennies. All loose. 
  • 18 reciepts. Mainly from Dial-A-Bottle and the crate of maxi pads I buy each month.
  • 1 bottle of Dolce & Gabanna perfume in case I take a lover in the afternoon. (Hey, we've sent people to the moon, miracles happen.)
  • 1 bottle of light French salad dressing that will eventually soak my entire purse. However, it is very important I carry this in case I get tagged in any Facebook photos throughout the day which immediately inspire me to eat salad and only salad until the day I die. I must be lettuce ready at all times.
  • 8 business cards of people I have no intention of doing business with. Ever. 
  • A small lithuanian family which I'm convinced steals all the pens in my purse. 
  • Peices of paper with the words "Fuck." or "Shit" written on them. 
  • 47 gum wrappers 
  • 20 completely used Starbucks gift cards which I never throw out and cannot afford to refill. $76 dollars per coffee per day is reasonable, non? 
  • 5 expired condoms. I will not launch into further detail on this matter. 
Well I've officially worked myself into a state of anger/annoyance, so while I'm in the mood I should get back to writing my screenplay titled 'WHAT THE FUCK:  Coming to terms with dying single.'

Peace out Homies. 

Jan 13, 2013

Fear, Cheese and the Single Woman

Just like any other Friday night, I got home from work and picked goat cheese and toothpaste out of the ends of my hair.  No, I do not work on a farm or in a deli, I actually sit at a desk all day. (Well technically not all day, at least once a day you can find me in the women's washroom at work talking about the weather and avoiding eye contact with a colleague who happens to be the loudest power pisser in town.)  I digress...So as I was picking/eating the goat cheese from my hair, I got to thinking dang this is good cheese I really need to pull it together.

**Finding goat cheese in my hair is totally real, as for the toothpaste, I picked that out of my hair on the bus ride to work. The only reason why I discovered I had cheese in my hair was because as I was walking/limping out of my office, I saw the most beautiful man on earth coming towards me whom I had never seen before. Jesus sent him. Obvs. *Cue Sexual Healing bMarvin Gaye) So in true slut fashion, I did the ever-so casual hair flip and goat cheese fell out. He looked at me, flashed a smile and said "Hi there." At that moment angels sang and I felt an immediate heartbeat in my vagina...not to mention the instant beads of sweat forming on my moustache upper lip. I desperately tried to respond but nothing came out and I miraculously escaped a cardiac arrest. So... I did the next logical thing which was hiding in the women's washroom. They really need to put a couch in there for moments like this.

Whoa, I'm way off topic. 

For any of you that live alone, you can't tell me you haven't whipped the shower curtain open at least once fearing there may be a killer in there or maybe even a dead body. Personally, I pee with a knife. And frankly, if chainsaws were cheaper, I'd pee with one too. Looking back, convincing my parents to let me rent Scarface at 11 years old by telling them it was about a man with really bad cystic acne scars on his face, is probably what screwed me.

Anyway, as I'm getting older and single-er (not a word, but now it is) I have started to develop many fears/anxieties, so I thought I would share some with you here in an attempt to connect with another nutty spinster (and because I evidently have no shame.) If you follow my blog, I bet you were just shocked to find out I have anxiety.

Shall we.....

I'm convinced I have the Avian Bird Flu and Malaria at least 3 out of 7 days a week. As far as I'm concerned, Web MD can go fuck itself. I'm also convinced the writers who contribute to that site are not medical professionals, just some stoned college kids in their dorm room, sitting back and laughing,

"Dude, that'd be soooo funny if we wrote that sneezing was a sign of AIDS"
"Totally man." 
"Write that shit down."

I worry that the door to my apartment will spontaneously fling open and my neighbour will see me making out with my pillow while listening to Whitney Houston's greatest hits. I've secretly had a harder time dealing with Whitney Houston's death than I did my own Grandfather's. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I wasn't sad that he passed away, he just wasn't a black soul singer. Jesus is her bodyguard now.

I panic and get a liitle weepy when I think I may never meet the creator of Nutella to make sweet sweet love to him. Even if it's a woman, that crafty little bitch made it socially acceptable to put chocolate on bread. I'd do her. I bet she was on her period or in a fit of rage when she melted her chocolate bar on her toast. Jackpot.

I fear that one day my vagina will spontaneously ignite into flames from the amount of inner thigh chaffing I'm experiencing. I heard that napping and drinking magnums of blush wine while you're alone cures this...Um so...I should be cured by now. Someone should probably throw me a telethon, the kids in Africa will be just fine. Or maybe I should work out? Nahhhh.....

I'm terribly afraid that my phone will accidentally dial my parent's house while I'm watching 
'Gangbus 5: The MILF Addition.' I would rather lick a subway pole than to have that happen.

It keeps me awake at night to think that the smiley face emoticon will one day disappear from all phones and no one will know that I'm joking when I text them "Your mom's a whore:)"

I also lay awake at night fearing that I will one day be cast as Honey Boo Boo's mother in her Lifetime made for t.v movie because we just look so shockingly alike. (I actually feel guilty for writing that. I think that family really loves each other in between the belching, eating "sketti" and beauty pageants) 

I get nervous that one day Donnie Wahlberg from New Kids on the Block, will get a hold of the love letters I wrote him as a child. They went something like this....
'Dear Donnie, I licked your poster last night before I fell asleep..I swear I felt our tongues touch. Do you like unicorns? I feel warm.'
Its bad enough I'm chubby, don't put me in the slammer...I'd be shanked in my cell within the first 5 minutes. But I'm positive they would love the makeovers I'd give them if they'd just give me a chance. 

I realize it sounds like I'm just an intervention away from wrapping the contents of my apartment in tinfoil and trying to communicate with extra terrestrials, but I can't help it...these fears are legit right? 

Well, I'm off to price chainsaws at home depot. 

It's been real, 

Jan 6, 2013

Is this my life or a maxi pad commercial?

Since I'm in the business of self torture (and my PMS is making me want to walk out on the street and Jason Bourne a complete stranger), I spent my Sunday drinking my body weight in aspartame on the rocks and reading 'He's Just Not That Into You.' For the eight hundredth time. Big. Mistake.

Truthfully, today felt like I was starring in one very long maxi pad commercial. I laughed, I cried, I danced and I even leaked a blue liquid. Although I did skip out on wearing the white Lycra, camel toe pants they always make women wear in those ridiculous commercials. Do they have ANY women in the wardrobe department that style those commercials?  Who the fuck wears white pants when they know they are bleeding from their snatch? I don't know about you ladies, but once a month I wait for Gil Grissom and the gang to show up and start processing the crime scene in my pants. (For all the men that just cringed reading that, don't worry, I cringed writing it. I'm done.)

I'd like to ask you to take a moment and think of the biggest whore in high school and how much you hated her. (It makes me sad that 25% of my readers are thinking of me right now.) Anyway, take that hate and multiply it by 4 billion and you'll grasp the amount of negativity pumping through my ever so plump body. So, while I'm waiting for my exorcist to arrive, I thought I would write about things I HATE. You're welcome.

The tiny paper inserts that are in magazines...and they fall out 900% of the time when you pick it up.
'Get 12 months of Vogue for only $133.75 a year!' I can just picture the assholes over at Vogue.
"Oh Deborah, wouldn't it be funny if we made a small insignificant piece of paper that no one reads, fall out of the magazine when people pick it up in a store? Especially for fat people or the elderly, it's so hard for them to bend over." Go fuck yourself Deb.

Gangnam Style I vow to set fire to everything around me if I hear that song one more time. Test me.

People who scream talk on their cell phones on the bus or train. Guess what? No one gives a shit if Arnie is picking up Becky at 3:15 or 3:30. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

The sound of my alarm clock: I think this is pretty self explanatory. I could probably take a nap on the Gaza Strip and not even flinch, so I have to set my alarm on the most annoying, ear piercing, soul crushing settings.

Heavy Death Metal: Screaming "Eat your dog and rape your neighbour" pouring vodka into your eyeballs, then lunging shirtless into an audience full of people to crowd surf is not talent, nor is it entertaining. Just idiocy and just my opinion.

The Kardashians. Every morning before I pee, I sit on the edge of my bed and try and solve the international mystery of exactly what it is the Kardashians do and why they have millions of dollars and I'm searching my couch cushions for bus fare.

Peas: When I was 10 my father wouldn't let me leave the dinner table until I ate all my peas. I refused until he shot me that look which indicated to me that he really did have a shallow grave dug for me in the back yard. I took one spoonful and vomitted them right into my plate. Haven't touched them since.

People smacking their lips when they chew their gum: Don't be a dick, chew it with your mouth closed or at least silently if you really want to practice chomping your jaw down at a rapid rate. This seems to be an epidemic and it needs to stop. I think this is just as important an issue as feeding the children in Africa. Make it stop.

Watching the Sopranos on A&E and they take out the swearing: I may as well be watching The 700 Club or Polka Dot Door. Swearing is what made that show so bad ass. *Read in Jersey accent...
"Christopha! (slaps him across the face) I don't give a darn. I should knock ya flippin face in." 
This does NOT make Tony Soprano look like a gangster, just a straight up pussy. 

Anyway, I think I've filled you all with enough hate for one day, I'm off to shave my chest legs.

Over n' out, 

Jan 1, 2013

Kinda wishing there was an apocalypse...

Well those Mayans sure fucked up. Personally, I don't think we can blame the Mayans as a whole about the world not ending as predicted. What I think really happened was some chubby Mayan girl got so sick of Uncle Julio asking her where her boyfriend was every Christmas, that she finally snapped and published a calendar that killed us all off before the holidays. Smart woman. So cheers to the chubby Mayan girl for a solid effort on trying to put spinsters out of our collective misery 4 days before Christmas.

Since I didn't die on December 21st and I managed to avoid prison over the past 12 days, I thought I'd share with you my misery. some highlights of my holidays.

December 21st: I spent 5 hours in the fracture clinic sitting beside a man who ate his snot for lunch and a woman who freaked out at her husband that the cheese on her Tim Hortons breakfast sandwich had processed cheese on it and not real cheese. THEN DON'T EAT FAST FOOD YOU USELESS FUCK.

"Frank, I thought Tim Horton's served real cheese? What is this shit? I wouldn't have ordered it otherwise. Frank? Frank? Frank? Are you listening to me? Take the sandwich back. Maybe you can grab me a bagel. My coffee is cold anyway. Frank? Here. Take it."

Frank certainly hit the jackpot by marrying that whiny slut. Frank didn't look at his wife once, nor did he bother to respond. He just looked straight ahead looking dead inside. You could tell he had been living in marital hell for the past 25 years and there was a good chance he was picturing all the dumpsters in his neighbourhood that he could dump her body in.
Truthfully, I've never had more of an urge in my life to whip brass knuckles out of my purse. I thought for sure if this broad kept talking, I would be in prison by 2pm getting a buzz cut and changing my name to "Tiny." Frank, if you're out there, God speed.

December 22nd: Family parties are a great way to feel like shit. Just kidding. Not really. I have a gigantic vagina family (which I'm secretly really proud of and love being around but it's funnier to say that they are annoying when they really aren't...with the exception of a few relatives.)
I just sit at the kid table which is where I'm the most comfortable, they laugh at my jokes and the Mexican accent I enjoy speaking in, I can shove 8 meatballs in my mouth and be the coolest kid at the table and they think the hair on my upper lip is cool because it feels funny and fuzzy shit rocks when you're 5.
Truthfully, I hang out with the kids to avoid offside comments from my mother, mainly. For example, a couple of my good looking male relatives walked into the party that day and my mom turns to me and flashes her creepiest smile. (It's the smile she gets when she sees a very attractive black man.)

Mom: "God, they don't make them like that anymore do they?"
Me: "What? Jesus Mom, those are your nephews."
Mom: "It doesn't matter, but don't you go getting any ideas." 
Me: "Please stop talking."

*Nanners, exit stage left.

Later that evening, I went to a "Tight Pants Christmas Party" which of course was a blast. I didn't have to go out of my way to buy a pair of tight pants since ALL of mine are tight...whomp whomp. I find these parties to be a great opportunity to stare at the outline of my friend's cock's and hit on all of my friend's husbands. No party is complete without trying to steal an open mouth kiss from a married man. God, I love a challenge.

December 23rd: Wake up on friend's couch, overstay my welcome and go home to pick pieces of Doritos out of my hair.

December 24th: Christmas is full of traditions. A new tradition I started last year, was drinking 3 litres of wine and skipping dinner. It's a better buzz and makes the holidays much more manageable. It made it way more manageable when my mom told all of our company,

"Amanda's ovaries are rotting." 
"You've got to be fucking kidding me mom, I'm right here."

My mom works at the joke store in case you were wondering.

December 25th: Wake up sicker than sick, shaking, coughing and convinced myself I had SARS. Not to mention the heart palpitations I was having all morning because I was positive I had a conversation with someone at some point in the evening (either a relative or friend) that went something like this:
"I have saggy tits." 
I also have no way of confirming this since I will never ask a family member if I told them I had saggy tits. Ugh. I was really hoping for an all inclusive getaway to a rehab facility in the mountains for Christmas but no dice.
And obviously I opened gifts with my family. I'm very spoiled and I'll be the first to admit it. But I must say I was very disappointed that my mother didn't replace my vibrator that she tossed in the garbage this summer. Seriously, who throws a giant dick in the garbage without consenting with the owner first? I'm sure I'll get over it someday...what are therapists for, right?

December 26th: Nap. Think about the saggy tits comment.
December 27th: Nap. Think about the saggy tits comment.
December 28th: Nap. Think about the saggy tits comment.

December 29th: Have a couple friends over and have an accidental Lindsay Lohan-esque evening. Order Vodka via "Dial-A-Bottle" (If you're not familiar with this service, you can call them or order booze on line and they bring it to your door.) I may or may not have ordered a shit load of wine while I was alone a few months ago... I was praying it would be a different delivery guy because our last encounter was slightly awkward, but OF COURSE it was the same guy. As soon as I opened the door he flashes a giant smile and says;

"Oh I see you're not alone this time."

Go fuck yourself.

December 30th: Pray there really is an apocalypse.

December 31st: Have an amazing time ringing in the new year with my friends and saying very inappropriate things to people. Oh wait! I love midnight so I get to watch everyone make-out with their significant others! How could I forget!! That must be nice for them. 12:03am is actually my favourite time of the evening because by then people have stopped penetrating one another with their tongues and I feel a lot less homicidal-ish.

January 1st: Wake up early and try and reconcile with the fact that the taste in my mouth may actually never go away and briefly search my apartment for any damp areas where I may have peed. Followed by sitting on the couch with my friend who completely overstayed her welcome. (Mel, please take this hint)  That's okay, by 3pm she was really sick of hearing my impersonation of Theresa, Long Island Medium. Ever seen that show? She's from New Jersey and speaks to dead people, kind of my idol.

Well, I'm insanely hungover, I'm not proof reading this or editing. What you see is what you get.

I'm out.

*I hope you all were able to enjoy the holidays with your friends and family and I wish you all nothing but the best in 2013!! Thanks for reading!!