Dec 14, 2014

Dear 2014, Suck It.



Well, despite Tinder's best efforts to give me an STD in 2014, I'm proud to report I escaped that, (just barely), so I thought I'd celebrate with a blog post. Hell, I've got nothing else to do on a Sunday night because Tinder, Match, OK Cupid, Plenty of Fish and E-Harmony and God provided me with a bunch of pencil dick weirdos. #YOLO.

Moving on...to my late night therapy appointment.

Anyway, the holidays are a superb time to reflect on your year, remember you're totally alone and to eat a shit ton of sausage rolls....oh and cookies...can't forget the cookies. Actually, a few Saturdays ago I ate an entire tray of cookies for breakfast then I immediately googled 'HOW FAST CAN YOU GET DIABETES??'. I actually thought I had rabies by the end of the day because I was literally foaming at the mouth and my eyes were rolling back in my head. That sounds like most of my dates this year.

Okay, back on track. Fuck, I love cookies. 

The other morning when I was in the shower 'reflecting' which is also code for 'masturbating', just kidding, mom! So I was in the shower thinking about how fast the holidays are approaching and how this is yet again another year that I'm flying solo at the Christmas dinner table....Fun! Actually, truth is, I couldn't imagine introducing any of my dates to my family anyway. 
"Hey Mom, meet Mike. He's the albino that cat-fished me and posted fake photos on his Plenty of Fish account, tried to get a discount on his beer at the restaurant and stuck me with the bill! We're in love!"

So obvi the tears started streaming down my face in the shower, (but more so because I cut myself shaving which caused me to look like an extra in Saving Private Ryan) but some of it was inspired by the thought of being one year closer to getting a crate of cats. 

Post shower meltdown and in an effort to make myself feel better, I told myself that despite all the bullshit ups and downs I had this year, I had learned a lot about myself and that experience is valuable...blah blah blah. So I created a list of what I learned and thought I'd share it here. 

Men can be real dickish- Men, don't get your panties in a twist, not all of you are shitbags- my friends have managed to scoop up some good ones. But I on the other hand have not had the pleasure. Speaking of pleasure, I could totally go for some sex right about now.  If you're stupid, and need an explanation as to what constitutes as 'dickish' behaviour, my favourite example is quite simple, but yet oh so very hard for some men: RETURNING A TEXT. It's astounding to me how someone can disappear into the abyss during a conversation via text and then resurface to answer your question 7 weeks later and then ask me to have sex. Sorry, that doesn't make me tingle in my panties. Did your fingers spontaneously turn into dust? Did you get hijacked? Seriously, where the fuck have you been?



I still hate olives-I'm learning that the world is filled with olives and I can't avoid them. The taste. The smell. Ugh. I dry heave in Loblaws when I walk by that bar that has the olives and shit out in the open. 

I'll probably always be poor- Even when I think I have money it disappears right out of my account. Magic!

I used the phrase 'Are you fucking kidding me?' approximately 468293 times this year. I said it when I got stood up, when most of my dates started and ended, when I accidentally threw my wallet in a dumpster, when my last date pulled down his pants and he had a micro penis, when I got stuck in the subway for an hour with a heavy nasal breather, when I got trapped in my elevator, when I discovered someone was charging $250 dollar cab rides on my Visa and when I face planted in a pile of snow only to discover there was a giant rock under it. You know, the very mundane, everyday kind of stuff. 

I can do 10 good pushups and my arms will still hurt for 3 weeks. 

My pizza delivery guy is probably about the only person really, truly gets me. 

I can sleep with my eyes open-I know this because an old guy in accounting used to enjoy telling me about his vegetable garden for at least 45 minutes each week. I don't know what kind of look I had on my face the first time he told me about his vegetable garden, it must have been my "carrots make me horny" look because he kept coming back. 

I can drink on Saturday night and be hungover until Wednesday- My seemingly rapidly aging body just can't handle it no more. I'm secretly hoping to magically Benjamin Button but that ain't happening.

I love cooking- Prior to 2014, my cooking involved me melting an assortment of cheeses on the contents of my fridge or eating a jar of Nutella. I'm happy to report, I'm like the next Gordon Ramsey, but with less forehead wrinkles. 

Public Transit will be listed as my cause of death on my future autopsy report- If you're unfamiliar with our public transit system, Jesus must be watching over you. Because those who take it day in and day out like me, are certainly being served some sort of karmic backlash. These motherfuckers that get on the subway eating egg salad sandwiches then belching in your face while wearing their backpack that keeps hitting you will certainly have a special spot in hell. I promise you. 

Everyone has babies- I know this because Facebook tells me this 4324 times a day. Thanks!!!

I still miss Whitney Houston- That's just an indescribable feeling. Jesus is her bodyguard now. 


I'm love coffee- Coffee is also the latin word for penis. I actually just started drinking coffee for the first time in my life 3 months ago and I gotta say, it's pretty effing tasty. I can't wait for coffee stained teeth. 

I have the best friends anyone could ever ask for- That's just a hard and fast fact. They've taught me everything I know about being a bitch. 

Well, there you have it. Those are some deep fucking thoughts. 

Until next time. 

Nanners













Oct 13, 2014

Nanners, is that you behind the squat rack?

As some of you may know, I've been hitting the gym somewhat religiously for over a year now... 
#selfie


Well, unless it's the day after a date and I'm either hungover and sobbing while laying face down in my hallway or I'm eating a large stuffed crust pizza with a side of self loathing and blue vag. Blue vag is like having blue balls, but for girls. Blue vag is an epidemic amongst the over 30 female, and single demographic, and it usually happens when a guy tells you he hates kids, sticks you with the bill, is 70lbs smaller/bigger than his profile pic, mentions his cat, says he'll call but he doesn't, talks about his ex, or turns out to be a little whiny bitch...you know, the kind of info that makes your vag so frigid that it could host the god damn winter games on it. 

For the most part, I've deleted my online dating accounts, with the exception of Match.com as it's proving to have only 1 or 2 potential suitors a month for me that speak english and are under 748 years old. I really wish I could post the picture of Ray from E-Harmony as Ray was the oldest looking 40 year old known to man who creepily held a baby, (without smiling), in each of his photos and loved shopping in Buffalo. He also listed "chemist" as his profession.
IS THIS THE KIND OF CHEMISTRY YOU DO RAY? HUH RAY??! 

Anyway, this was the fateful message that sent me over the online dating edge back in August that caused me to hit (more like SLAM) on my delete button. 
#yolo

Anyhoodle, I had a point with mentioning I've been pumping iron at the beginning of this post, but you know, most people with dating PTSD can get off topic...So please, forgive me. 

So yes, the gym. 

I'm 99% certain that my future husband goes to my gym only based on the fact that I can see his anaconda through his gym shorts, and momma likey only, he doesn't know I exist...yet. *Insert pic of restraining order. 

Well, that's not true, he does know I exist for a few reasons:

1. I accidentally stole his towel while I was using the stair mill/grasping on to the rails praying Jesus would take me to the light. He politely tapped me on my leg (as I was taking my last breath) and he asked "Excuse me, have you seen a towel around here? " I promptly blacked out and felt much like this when I realize it was my lover:
*Must read in best Oprah voice "Heee's talkiiiiing toooooo meeeeeeee"

 However, I struggled to spit out my answer mid step, "Bahhhhh, Ummmmmm, I.....(sharp breath in)....I think (gasps for air) I may haaaaave stolen (struggles to not go cross eyed) it." 

He looks at me and awkwardly laughs, not knowing if he should call 911 or make a donation to the Heart & Stroke foundation in my name. "That's okay, I'll go grab another one." Annnnnd that's why they call me the pick up artist, ladies. See how smooth that was? So smooth he just silently disappeared back into GQ heaven (where he came from), just like that. He totally went and touched himself in the men's locker room after conversing with such a poised, strong, athletic woman.

2. He saw me staring at him in the mirror by the squat rack. I, much like babies, forget that you're not the only one that can see your reflection in the mirror, other people can too. 

What I think I look like when I'm casually spying. You know, an innocent 70 year old woman with pearls.

But in reality....
Yikes.....
3. He saw me wiping sweat off my mustache. Yes, you read that correctly. If you're a regular reader, you just nodded in agreement and exclaimed "Ah, yes, her mustache." But if you're not familiar with my facial-hair growing capabilities, then saddle up partner, it's a long story. Actually, scratch that, I've got some particularly low self esteem today from eating 17lbs of leftover Thanksgiving stuffing on my turkey sandwiches soaked in gravy, so I'm not sharing too much detail on the fact that I sprung a goatee at midnight on my 30th birthday. 

4. He heard me yell "Holy fuck" when I accidentally on purpose upped my tricep weight to 75lbs and not the 30lbs these wings of love are used to. I know, that was very Serena Williams of me, but I wanted to impress him since he was close enough to my weight machine to see that I wasn't just your average sweaty transvestite, I was a strong one. (I say transvestite because I'm convinced I look like a cross between my dad and a man that's trying to look like a woman when I sweat. 

5. He hopped on the epiptical-thingy beside me one night and I cranked up my resistance to the highest level and nearly fainted. Well, it wasn't really fainting so to speak but my bad ankle (click here to read about the great high heel incident of 2012) totally gave out on me. But I refused to get off I only do that in private the machine because I was at the peak of my aerobic intensity/right in the fucking middle of Dr. Phil. BTW, I watch the last half of Dr. Phil every weeknight at the gym on the t.v because:

a) It's a great distraction from the fact that I'm single and sex-less in the city and I'm not struggling like his guests often are, with an emotionally inept husband who hasn't touched me since my wedding day 
b) I can work on my southern accent 
c) I can work on my Dr. Phil impersonation
d) I can learn intriguing psychological phrases such as, " So how's that been workin fer ya?" "Oh c'mon, this ain't my first rodeo." "No matter how flat you make a pancake, it still has two sides"
e) I can feel better knowing that my eyebrows haven't been sown into my scalp like his wife Robin's

Okay, so there is a good chance he knows I exist. And there's also a bigger chance that he thinks I'm as creepy as fuck, but my mom always told me it's what's inside that counts, and it's not about how insanely creepy you are in the outside. So I'm hopeful, he'll wise up and see me for the loving, sweaty stalker that I am. 

I should get to bed...putting Xanax in my PEZ dispenser, has proven to work. 

Night night,

Nanners






Sep 14, 2014

Welcome To My Meltdown....



When I was a little girl I got my ideas of love from T.V shows such as Dallas and Dynasty (which I blame for my unattainable life's mission to be a rich, slutty heiress to an oil empire and probably why I roll down my window and touch myself at gas stations).  However, in my sad, dismal reality, I'm an heiress to a VHS Clint Eastwood movie collection along with a tea kettle that's been around since they found Jesus in a manger.  But that's enough of my long, sad tale. *Cue sad violin music. 



Thanks to Dallas and Dynasty, not only did I believe everyone just wore high heels and diamonds when they were lounging at home, I just assumed my life would be filled with mad passionate sex with myself, an endless supply of fur coasts and the occasional horse ride through a pasture with my millionaire boyfriend. FALSE. In fact, my life is quite the opposite of the aforementioned bullshit. If I were to compare my real life to a T.V show, I would say I'm Kimmy Gibbler from Full House meets Amanda Woodward from Melrose Place. So essentially I'm kind of an underdog/slut hybrid.  (Actually the reason I'm comparing myself to Heather Locklear in this situation is because she had sex with Jake. WHO DOESN'T WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH JAKE?)  Although no one has ripped my blouse open in a fiery passion ever in a long time (well mainly because I wear Old Navy tank tops as a wardrobe staple and I'd bitch slap someone for ripping the buttons off my Joe Fresh blouse), I really do prefer the risky "do you mind if I have sex with my shirt on" position. But still, that bitch always got some ass so I'm going with that. 
THIS IS JUST WHAT LIFE IS LIKE. 

So now, 30 years later, I find myself verging on a meltdown while being permanently in overdraft, wearing only the finest cubic zirconia and really hating horses. 

Oh, and dating seriously shady fucks. How could I forget to mention that?! I just came from my most recent fitting for my straight jacket...and here's why: 


It was a dark and stormy night...

(No, it wasn't. It was actually quite beautiful out, but I was secretly hoping for a bolt of lightning to appear from the sky while I was holding my fork after commencing my 472304th date of the year). 

Okay, wait. Let me preface this story with a little message (sponsored by Xanax and a bottle of vodka). If at any point pre-date you are getting "red flags" or a "bad feeling", like the kind of bad feeling that makes you want to stick a knife in a toaster or spontaneously shave your head and buy 30 kitties, I say listen to those feelings and fake your own death before ever going on a date with someone who makes your skin crawl. 

Anyway, It was a beautiful evening and I had rushed home from work to shower for my date. I only showered since I wreaked of booze and I was quite possibly going into organ failure from the previous evening's debauchery at a dinner party, so a little water wouldn't hurt my rotting carcass. 
To break it down for you, going a date at that point was right up there on the excitement scale with getting a  hangnail and eating a plate of peas while watching an execution. But, because I'm desperate  a trooper, I got ready for my date. 

At around 7pm, (with my hair and makeup looking fierce), I get a knock at my door from my newest suitor. As I opened the door with hope in my eyes, my best fake smile, and my freshly shaved legs, I was immediately taken back as there was a tiny albino man with yellow teeth standing at my door...It was my date! It was my date who happened to look nothing like his online profile photos and was perhaps the most recent castaway from Survivor, as he looked like he hadn't eaten since his last peanut butter and jelly sandwich in grade 6.  Sweet. Immediately, in my head I thought "oh fuck no." 

Now, before you're all like "Awww poor guy! Maybe attraction can grow? Give the guy a chance!" I will tell you to politely fuck off.  Why? Well, because a few days prior to our date we got in a fight on the phone-and not over text,  like a verbal fight while we were actually talking on the phone like they did in the 1960's. 
(That's me as a brunette doodling gigantic penises).

Why did a fight transpire Nanners?? A fight transpired as he was openly planning our future without having met me, and during his disillusioned state of pre-date bliss I pipe up and say "Whoa. Easy killer. We haven't met yet." Well, as it turns out Mr. Human Q-Tip did not appreciate my dose of reality and told me he wanted to cancel our date....Oh did I mention our date was on his birthday? Yup. Red flag numero uno. Spending your birthday with a complete fucking stranger signals that you may not have a circle of friends (or a friend) or family member, that wants to be in your presence to make your day special.  

I actually didn't know that men could menstruate, but he certainly demonstrated this by then yelling " Well now I don't want to meet because this is GOING TO BE THE WORST BIRTHDAY EVER." 


After I regained consciousness and pet my unicorn, I responded "Okay. Up to you." 

Needless to say, I immediately pulled the "Well I'm tired, I should get to bed" card, and let him go. 

However, during the week after he munched on some Midol, and I was feeling lonely, I agreed to meet with him. 

Once we got to the bar, we grabbed a table on a packed patio BECAUSE IT WAS BEAUTIFUL OUT, where he proceeded to complain he was cold, ordered himself two drinks at once, got in a fight with the waitress when she accidentally brought the wrong beer, called her stupid and ranted about customer service, told me about his lack of appetite (um, yeah....because you look like you may be dying), talked about how he doesn't really talk to his friends anymore and his love of video games...followed by the longest most terrible impersonation of Gene Simmons I've ever heard.... AND making me pay $100 dollars for the bill, I  finally came to the decision that somewhere out there is a lonely convent, filled with lonely nuns that I am being called to. 

This was the date that put the nail in the dating coffin so to speak. For the past two weeks, I have now retired to a life where downloading the YouPorn's greatest hits is the most action I will be getting as I have now totally and completely sworn off dating. 

Whomp. Whomp.

Night bitches.

Nanners 



Aug 17, 2014

Sunday Funday...NOT

I'm currently laying on my couch staring at a plate of burnt sausages while wearing my "I love BJ's" t-shirt...alone...proving that dreams really do come true. And if it isn't glaringly obvious, I've been reading The Secret so I totally fucking manifested this moment.

Feeling like a busted up hooker for the last 30 years on Sundays seems to be a pattern for me this summer. On Saturday nights I go out. Like I'm talking balls to the wall kind of out. I drink, act creepy, dance, become best friends with strange women in the bathroom at the bar, send some vulgar sexts to men I haven't spoken to in years, eat 7 slices of pizza, respond to sexts, come home, regret sexts, order more pizza, pass out and get banned from Pizza Pizza for missing my order, wake up on my couch and wonder why my hair is curly when it was straight last night, do double take in mirror when I realize I have cheese in my hair eat it and simultaneously discover more chin hair, sigh, exclaim "what the fuck" in the mirror, frantically search for my phone, realize it's dead and curl up in fetal position for 10 minutes on my couch with my heart racing wondering who I could have possibly texted, turn on my phone to read last night's sent messages, vow to never drink again, send a few apology texts, send text to find my wallet, lip gloss and dignity, walk to my kitchen and wonder what it's like to be an over achiever, stare in my fridge and wish I bought hot dogs, think about the recent hike in the price of hot dogs, pour a glass of water only to notice my hands are shaking, google "disorders that make your hands shake", call my mom to tell her Web MD says I'm dying, call my mom back after she hangs up, take a Xanax, hate my life, turn on TLC and hope to fuck there is a 48 Hours Mystery marathon on, realize nothing is fair in this life when it's a Say Yes to the Dress marathon, call my friend *Trixi* for my afternoon meltdown and recap of last night's events, yell "you've got to be fucking kidding me" into the phone, whip my phone across apartment only to remember I don't have a case on it, pick up phone, sigh, realize I'm so dehydrated that I haven't peed all day, go sit on toilet, cry, wash hands, lay face down on my couch and scream into my pillow, realize I'm still wearing last night's makeup, observe makeup on my $100 pillows and freak the fuck out, throw pillow, still don't wash my face, get distracted by the little Asian kid screaming outside my window, hope I'm not pregnant, order chicken balls, lift up my shirt in the mirror and jiggle my tummy, sigh, google fat blasting tips on the Internet created by skinny bitches,receive message from a Plenty of Fish user named "Noheadgames69" who asks if I like peanut butter sandwiches and morning sex, smash my head off my coffee table in fit of rage, black out, wake up, eat a ham sandwich, question the meaning of life, scroll through Tinder, wonder why I'm not getting any matches, finally get a match, wonder when the hell I liked this guy's photo, remember that I was doing some late night  Tindering while drinking, receive creepy message, send mass text to all my girlfriends announcing I'm quitting dating, immediately upload new pics on Match.com, realize it's only 5pm and I should probably eat...again, make Kraft Dinner, eat entire pot, shame spiral on my couch, check my online dating account for this week's dick pics, get grossed out, take screen shot and send to my girlfriends, go out on my balcony just to say I've been outside today, say a little prayer to the heavens that one day Jay Z and I will be friends, notice a suspicious mole on my arm, come in and google "suspicious moles", call my mom and tell her Web MD says I'm dying, call mom back and ask her what she's eating for dinner, get jealous, order a pizza, watch TMZ, wish I could punch Justin Bieber in the face, remember Long Island Medium is on, practice Long Island accent during commercials, take a sleeping pill, cry because Theresa Caputo is the best, wonder how the hell she connects with dead people, wonder what I would do if I woke up and saw a ghost standing over me, turn on every light in my apartment, get in bed with the lights on, pull covers up over my face, worry I left the stove on, run to the kitchen, stare at dishes in sink, mutter "fuck it" under my breath, run back to bed, lay in bed and worry I didn't lock my door, run to the door-it's wide open, convince myself there is someone in my closet, get back in bed, think about signing up for a martial arts class, lay awake until 5am, get up at 5:03am for work and pretend Sunday never happened.

Whoever created the term "#Sunday Funday" was a total asshole.

Nanners




Aug 10, 2014

Nanners Gets Her Hair Did


I just ate an entire pot of Kraft Dinner and took a selfie. 
 
*Must now sing: "Fat guy in a little coat..."
(If you don't get that movie reference, please leave). 

So there is a good chance I'm going to vomit on my keyboard or launch myself from my balcony before completing this post. My hangover also inspired me to eat one of those giant muffins from Costco as an appetizer,but I haven't been to Costco in 2 years so don't ask where the hell I found this muffin. But what happens behind closed doors in my paradise is my business. 

Last week in the spirit of poverty and beauty, I spent the last 60 bucks in my wallet (Yup, I spend each pay cheque like I'm Charlie Sheen in a whore house...right down to the last penny), and made a trip to the Aveda Academy to get my hair did. It started to look far too Bon Jovi circa 1989, so I had to take matters into my own hands to correct this dilemma. And if I wanna get married within this lifetime, I'm certainly not going to attract my future coochie tickler lover, looking like a washed-up hybrid of Courtney Love and Bon Jovi I love you John Francis Bongiovi, Jr.,  with roots past my jaw line. (And for you fuckers thinking "Um that's ombre, Nanners"-shut up, it's my blog).  

Anyhoodle, if you've never been to the Aveda Academy, I encourage you to do so as it's always in the student's best interest to not fuck it up. Ya feel me? Basically, you're paying them in high fives and not the $24,293,42 it costs to get three bleach-filled tin foil strips on your noggin in downtown Toronto. The first time I got a consultation in Toronto to get my hair done, I needed to change my diaper as I shit my pants in the hairdresser's chair, when that bitch told me the price. 
Much like Nelson Mandela, something comes over me when a great injustice is done in the world, which includes but is not limited to: bullying, racism, receiving dick pics in my online dating inbox, and charging people a mortgage payment for some highlights. Why can't the entire world adopt the IKEA pricing model?? Meaning BASICALLY FREE. Did you know that at Ikea, it costs you a whopping $1.50 for a fountain pop AND a hot dog??!!!! The first time I discovered this I knew God existed and he really wanted me to have nitrates, badly. Sometimes (meaning always), I go in the exit and hangout at the hot dog counter. As you can see, I take the term 'YOLO' quite seriously. 

Okay, getting off topic here. But seriously, I would eat hot dogs for every meal if I didn't know that ingesting that many nitrates would put me 6 feet under by the time I was 40. UGH. Momma told me this life would be hard.   Where was I? Oh yeah, Aveda=WINNING. 
The first time I went into the salon, I noticed my neck twitch was acting up because I was super-mega-ultra nervous (like losing your virginity type of nervous..HAHAHA. Oh wait, I blacked out that night), to have fresh meat at the academy touching my luscious locks. And truth be told, despite my best efforts to look like Claudia Schiffer on a daily basis, I'm not a vein person. In fact, I ignore mirrors and reflective surfaces for 99% of my day, but I take pride in my hair so I really didn't want some virgin hairdresser messing with it. 

Prior to my appointment, I was told by the receptionist that it would be a student named "Bob" doing my hair. Call me useless, but I assumed from the name it would be a lucky gentleman tousling my locks and falling victim to my charm that day. However, to my surprise when I arrived at the salon, I was greeted by a very female "Bob" who happened to be a 23 year old girl, who admitted she only knew "some stuff" about doing highlights. Wicked! 

During my 17 hour appointment, I came to know and love Bob for her misery, honesty and the ability to not crack one smile when I made a joke. C'mon Bob, I brought out some of my best material and still nothing? Pfffft. However, despite Bob's clinical depression, she did an amazing job, which is part of the reason I keep going back. The other part of the reason is that to get to the salon, I have to walk by Prairie Girl cupcakes and I get a lady boner from the sweet smell of sugar and lard each time I go by.  (Again, I'm a hardcore YOLO'er). 

This is how I think I look when I leave the salon with the wind blowing in my hair and Roy Orbison's Pretty Woman playing in the background. 

But in reality....


... I'm just a really annoyed asian woman who's gonna have some serious fucking knots in her hair. 

As I sit here and write this, I literally have no idea where I'm going with this or why I started writing this in the first place. This could be due to the fact that I made love to a vodka bottle and some Jager shots at the bar last night. I'm also really distracted by the show 'My 600lb Life' which I'm watching on TLC right now. The doctor just lifted up one of her rolls and suddenly I'm feeling deathly skinny. Like Dallas Buyers Club kind of skinny. (*I whip off my shirt and do a headstand). I should probably grab a hot dog. 

I'm also distracted by some texts that I'm receiving right now from a few potential online suitors. Oh and don't take this as bragging. (I'm actually laughing and typing). I'm sure by Tuesday evening I will be calling Rogers asking if my phone service is down as it will be silence on the wireless waves (*imagine the sound of crickets)...my suitors will have disappeared. It used to make me sad when they would disappear, but now that I'm somewhat of a seasoned pro to the dating game, I know that I'm not the reason they've disappeared...they are just swamped with masturbating in their mother's basement so I don't take it personally. 
Oh and here's another tid bit of information for you...I've actually lowered my dating standards so much that when a guy responds to my text, I run out and buy the latest issue of Modern Bride. AND if it's been 10 days and he hasn't sent me a creepily cropped picture of his penis, (that I didn't ask for) and he hasn't told me that he's on unemployment, I hit up Tiffany's for some ring shopping. 

Well, Theresa Long Island Medium is on and this is the only time I have scheduled this week to work on my Long Island accent so I should probably get back to it. 

Aug 4, 2014

Fear and Loathing...In Toronto

Well, last time I posted I was quasi miserable about my dismal dating prospects/experiences. AND YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT'S HAPPENED....IT'S GOTTEN WORSE. As it turns out, dating shady fucks in your 30's is a serious epidemic. And no, I'm not addressing dating in your 20's (as I'm sure it's the same but with less cellulite), but I avoided dating like the plague in my 20's and as it turns out, it was for a very good reason.
Hmmm let's see....as of late, I've met the following...(I've changed the names of these motherfuckers because I'm a lady) and I've slept with most of them

There was Bojangles, he was a real dick that made the waitress repeat the specials about 9 times, then tried to barter a cheaper price for the BEER THAT WAS ON SPECIAL. There was Warren Buffet who conveniently forgot his wallet and his personality on his kitchen table. Then there was the Green Giant who loved fake laughing and staring at his watch like he had a bomb strapped to his body. Then..my favourite... Mr. WeShouldDefinitelyDoThisAgainSometime, who sits on the board of directors of the 'I'm A Giant Pussy' foundation. He asked to see me again but I'm assuming his phone exploded in a rare iPhone malfunction which effects every 100,000 men in 100,001 men...I'd say it's safe to assume that he lost all his contacts which is why I haven't heard from him. *Cue sad violin music.

I've actually decided to stop dating. (I'm being serious. I literally just finished googling "how to be okay with being alone." No joke). I've decided to stop this blissful experience solely because a straight jacket is far to confining for a gal who has self diagnosed herself with hyperhidrosis and a bad attitude. ( And yes, hyperhidrosis is a real condition for you fuckers that are all like,"brrr. I've got a chill!"). 



Well, you know what I've got? A sweaty upper lip and inexplicable breast sweat, so please, shut the fuck up.  It's basically a problem where you sweat profusely from almost every pore...even in the arctic. (Or as my luck would have it, my frigid panties).  Thanks to the Real Housewives of NYC, I  recently learned that Botox in the affected areas can fix this condition. But who has an extra 500 kicking around? 





Maybe Ramona does, but not this bitch. I've chosen to blow my last 500 dollars on furnishing my new apartment with Ikea products to make it look like a Swedish dollhouse. Mmmmm Ikea meatballs... Yup, that's right, a small slice of heaven. 

Speaking of my new apartment, I recently moved and I am currently living at the corner of Purgatory and Spinster Avenue. What a busy intersection!  I've got it all decked out in furniture that will help with my posture since most of it is made of wood. All I need is a slight aroma of cat piss and I'm set to die alone. AND...guess what? As it turns out, my neighbours across the hall are having enough sex for the entire apartment building, so I literally can just listen to that for an eternity and I never have to have another man touch me again! #YOLO. 

In all seriousness, I reallllly do love my new apartment. It's super spacious and has lots of windows for me to hone in on my inner voyeur. BUT the only complaint I have about having lots of windows, less masturbating, less eating chocolate in my underwear, more creepy neighbour watching, no dancing naked  is having too much natural lighting. If you're a woman in your 30's, I suspect I'm getting a few nods of agreement right now. Natural lighting is the WORST for discovering wrinkles, zits, unsightly moles, and worst of all CHIN HAIR.  
I'm getting so much facial hair in my 30's that I literally wasn't sure if I was looking at my reflection, or Zach Galifianakis made a guest appearance in my washroom this morning while I brushed my teeth.


#selfie




It was actually my pencil dick dermatologist that brought my freakish chin hair/sideburn growing capabilities to the forefront at my last appointment. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in denial, I knew it was there, but it's hard enough to keep up with shaving your legs, cooter, armpits, (and my arms since I got high percocet and shaved them a couple summers ago, I have to shave them all of the time now) and now...my face. C'MON. I swear I must have murdered puppies in a past life, because I've been getting a bad taste of some universal karmic backlash over the past 30 years or so. I'm hoping my recent surge of facial hair and shitty dates is the last of it. 

"Hmmmmmm (my doctor says as he puts hot rollers in my chin hair) we should really clean up these areas next time you're in." 

I love when people offer me unsolicited advice. He also told me that I should put a filler in my bottom lip to align it with my top lip because I'd look soooooo much better and far more symmetrical. Needless to say, upon hearing this advice, I came home and met up with my old friends Pinot and Dominos and stared in the mirror for 2 hours trying to pull my bottom lip up over my top one. 

So.... there you have it. That's what I've been up to. I'm not dead, despite recent speculation. In fact I'm so alive that I'm entering a bearded lady competition in September. 

Nanners






Apr 26, 2014

Dating: A Nanners Exclusive

Dating: An activity between two people wherein at least one person leaves thinking "what the fuck?" 
                                                                                                                           -Nanners

*Youtube videos used in the post sometimes can't be seen from your phone, so if you want the full effect, you'll need to go to your computer. 

I'm back. My apologies for the delay, but I've been at a spiritual retreat in the Himalayan mountains, discovering God and finding inner peace.

HAHAHAHAHAHA. Fuck that. Truth is, me and my new body have been mega swamped with dating and scream crying face down into my pillow...daily.

I know. Shocking, right?

In January, I made the decision to #yolo the shit out of life and hit the dating scene, and hit it hard. That's what she said. And just so we're clear on what I mean by 'hard', I'm talking about having 2 or 3 dates lined up a week (and no, silly, not with the same man, because I have a better chance of meeting Jesus himself than getting a second date). So before I continue, if you're married, please move your mouse to the top right hand corner and click the "X" and close this screen (and for you Mac users, don't be a dick, go to the left hand side), because imma 'bout to give you a virtual bitch slap for having a stable, loving relationship. However, if you're single, stick with me. You may learn a thing or two and at the end I promise to post directions to  the nearest mental health facility.

So where was I? Oh yeah, dating. So since January, I've been on approximately 473204409174237 dates which equals 23412343284092137 hours of my life that I'll never get back. Wicked. And to think I could have been crocheting doilies and reading those books on botany I've been meaning to get to. But no, I chose to purposely meet strangers and discover all the dickish behaviour this fine city has to offer.

Wait, here's a picture that actually sums up every emotion I could ever feel toward dating.



To kick off dating-palooza 2014, I met my very first date in a bar after work. That morning, I was suuuuppper nervous so I shoved a couple beers in my purse before heading to work this is no different than any other day so that I could crack them in the women's washroom and chug them before meeting my potential one night stand future husband. But me, having the conscience of a nun, I couldn't go through with guzzling beers at work or in a public washroom for that matter. Gross. So I nixed the beer and decided to show up on the date as sober Nanners...boooooring. Just kidding. I'm a fucking blast.

Anyhoodle, that date lasted 5 1/2 hours and it was frigan awesome. (Just wait). We held hands, we laughed, we kissed, I secretly named our children as he talked, we had some drinks. You know, normal date stuff. THEN....

It turned into months of sexting texting in between him bailing on all of our subsequent dates, just hours before they were supposed to happen. During the final fatal text that ended our not-so-romantic comedy, was a text from him telling me that he is old enough to be my father (he was 6 years older than me btw, so maybe in Utah on one of those polygamist compounds where they have child brides, sure, that excuse could be plausible, but not in this town, you fucker). THEN, he followed up that creepy father statement with telling me he wanted to give me a facial. Mom, this facial he's referring to is not done in a spa, more like in back alleys. Sooooooo needless to say, I threw a few of of my Modern Bride magazines in the fire that night. Not all of them, just a few. That shit's expensive. Ugh....

I think it's a pretty accurate statement to say that since then, it's like my dreams are coming true. So, instead of walking you through every date, I've broken down mentally and physically my experiences  into these 5 categories of men.

The Fucker: (*This is a category I have zero experience in, my friend told me about it). He's hot, you have sex on the first date and he says "I'll call you tomorrow." Tomorrow never comes but you know what does? Pizza. Pizza, always comes.

Oh and I should say that some pre-date wisdom from my mom totally could have helped my friend...


The Cheapskate: He spends the entire date talking about how much money he has and his $29,000 dollar watch, then when the $40 bill comes, he looks at you and says "Alright, so you owe...." Then your ulcer starts to burn and the rage becomes so intense you think you actually may Jason Bourne him right in the middle of the restaurant

The Douche: In between staring at your breasts, he stares at his watch and yawns occasionally, just to make you feel alive inside, and unless you're a mega-idiot, you know he's not listening to anything you're saying.


Then to spice shit up, he guzzles his first drink and asks "So, can we go have sex now?" You briefly black out and wonder if this is real life.
As you re-gain consciousness, and those words settle into the WTF receptors in your brain, you get flashes of yourself walking into an animal shelter and saying "See those cats? I'll take 'em all."

The Bad Boy: He's hot, he's nice, he's got an edge, you feel that instant connection, you spend 70% of your day thinking about him, when you know he's not thinking about you and the other 30% of your day is spent thinking about how much you hate public transit, but that's besides the point. Your friends hate him without having ever met him, he texts, you die, he comes over, he disappears, he texts, you die, he comes over, he disappears, he texts, you die, he comes over, he disappears, you get drunk and send a really creepy drunk text and instantly wish your roof would collapse on you the next day when you check your phone. BOOM. Done. And that's how you end it folks.


The Little Person: The guy that lies in his profile and says that he's 5'10 and when you meet in person, you discover that he's just past the height requirement to ride roller coasters, and possibly sits on phone books to see over his steering wheel. I'M GOING TO FIND OUT HOW TALL YOU ARE WHEN WE MEET, JACKASS.

If you can identify with any of this, please contact your mental health professional. Or if you are about to embark on your very own hellish dating journey, I will leave you with a few key pieces of advice, particularly geared toward online dating:

1. Don't download Tinder, I actually got an STD just from downloading the app.
2. Never respond to a message when the guy just says "hi", they are dead inside.
3. The first dick pic from a stranger will be hilarious, the 15th will be down right offensive.
4. Always make sure you bring your wallet, not just in case you're stuck with the bill, but so they can identify your body when you dart into traffic after meeting the 72nd asshole. We all have a breaking point.

Well, the rage that has come over me while writing this, has provoked me to want to search my fridge and just melt cheese on all of its contents.

Peace.
Nanners