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."

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.


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


Jul 1, 2013


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.