What happens to your brain on crime shows?

Hi I'm Nanners and I'm addicted to porn crime shows.

Nothing makes me tingle in my panties more than coming home on a Friday night, curling up in a ball on my kitchen floor covered in Nutella and sobbing  on my couch in my pyjamas and watching Dateline. I've loved shows about murder and haunting tales of betrayal since I was a little girl and watched Angela Lansbury solve crime like a boss on Murder She Wrote. 'Memba that show? I used to love Sunday nights because after my bath my mother would give me a tiny bowl of chips (also known as the "please shut the fuck up for 5 minutes" game) and we'd sit and watch this old bat solve crime.

I mean c'mon, look at that face. If that doesn't scream "I love dead bodies and writing", I don't know what does.

 

 If you're unfamiliar with this show, Jessica Fletcher (Ang Lansbury) was a successful writer/amateur detective who lived in a town called Cabot Cove where everyone seemed to get murdered and the cops were totally fucking useless, so she was all like "I got this" and solved a ton of murders. Ummmm call me crazy, but if everyone in my neighbourhood ended up dead, that would be a leading indicator to get the hell outta dodge.

  This is me during my last STD test 

Since Murder She Wrote, I`ve developed an unhealthy obsession with a plethora of TV's hard hitting crime shows dramas such as;
Criminal Minds: (in which the creepy killer often reminds me of most of my dates)
Law & Order: SVU: (not gonna lie, when Stabler left Benson, I was a hot mess. I never understood how Olivia could ride around with him all day, and not tap that. Seriously)
Dexter: (so sad it's over, but I've never been more attracted to a serial killer...Only problem is the amount of saran wrap he used...In my opinion, saran wrap was created by the Satan himself, and I've never been successful in tearing the appropriate amount off that fits over anything and doesn't stick together and make me feel like a complete and utter asshole),
The First 48: (real people catching real killers. Whoa. Shit`s gettin`real.)...

And lastly but DEFINITELY not least, and the whole reason why I turn down all dates on Fridays and because no one asks me....Dateline.

Look at that face...nothing and I mean nothing gets by Keith Morrison. If you live under a rock, Keith Morrison is Dateline's best correspondent who has the eerily soothing voice of a creepy uncle. I actually become enraged when I see Josh Mankiewicz or Dennis Murphy are reporting...

Dateline typically reports on mega important stories like spouses who kill each other. Fun! And perhaps because I'm perpetually single, I get off on this.

BUT...although I am admittedly addicted to crime shows in all their glory....It does make me assume a lot of things I probably otherwise wouldn't if I were addicted to Home & Garden Television.

The thoughts that run through my head on any given day are probably a result of being hyper-aware of my surroundings and now believing through the miracle of television that everyone is just a shady fuck. I often find myself thinking:

• There is always someone behind my shower curtain, waiting to pounce on me... but not in the way I was pounced on during my prom night.
• When I'm alone, any noise that happens when I turn off all my lights and get in bed is automatically a killer that has been secretly living in my closet for the past couple days, just waiting for his perfect moment to smother me with my pillow
• Every time I get into my car at night, OBVIOUSLY a face is gonna appear in the rear view mirror and yell "drive bitch"
• If I'm walking anywhere alone at night, of course I'm being followed
• When I walk to the gym at 5am, clearly someone is waiting for me in the bushes
• Ever since I saw an episode of Criminal Minds when a killer was whistling, I now believe that any stranger that whistles has some fucked up hidden agenda and possibly heads in their freezer.

Well, now that I've shared my inner most thoughts on what I believe is really happening in this cold, morbid reality we live in, I'm going to sign off and check the locks on my door. And possibly touch myself.

Night Night
Nanners

See what prime time TV has done to me? 

Things I Wish I Could Go Back and Tell my 21 year-old Self

So do you want the good news or bad news first? Okay fine, good it is: I just got in the ultimate face-off with my purse in round 233428 of the game 'WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY KEYS?' I didn't find my keys but this is where the good news comes in...I did find an extra Ativan at the bottom of my purse, so I just popped that bad boy and I'm imagining that this is how Lindsay Lohan feels on a Sunday- really fucking calm.
*I'm totally popping an Ativan tomorrow morning during my commute to the office. It will feel like I rode a unicorn to work. Everyone wins.
**I feel like I may have one or two emotionally stable readers who don't know what Ativan is. Up yours.  Essentially, Ativan is a little tiny white pill of joy that you stick under your tongue when you're feeling very much like an anxious Joaquin Pheonix in the movie Signs.

But.... what you really want to feel is "alright, alright, alright"...like Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused.

 

Get it? Got it? Good.

I guess you're waiting patiently for the bad news I didn't get my period and I don't know who the father is. The bad news is that I'm having somewhat of a crisis over the thought that I'm no longer 21, and life as I know it is slipping through my fingers. I witnessed a large table of friends out to celebrate their friend's 21st birthday at the restaurant I was at last night and I instantly got chest pains. Well, technically those chest pains could be caused from my 4 diet cokes, fries and large quesadilla that was stuffed with 7lbs of cheese. It sounds like I'm complaining about my dinner but I promise you I made sweet love to every last bit of that quesadilla.

Anyway, it got me thinking... what would I be doing if I were 21 right now? What if I could go back and give myself advice, perhaps a good slap or two upside the head? I laid awake for quite a few hours last night fighting with my booty call just thinking of what I would say if I could go back in time and have my 33 year old self talk to my 21 year old self.  There would be a lot of swearing, I'm sure of that.

Here's the best advice I could come up with to myself at 3am this morning:

Don't put that in your mouth: This includes but is not limited to, poutine after the bar at 3am, that last shot of tequila at Jim Bob's which ultimately made you smash your face off the train tracks and get a black eye, stray penises (I shall not elaborate), that 'joint' that homeless guy gave you outside a formal you were attending, that bagel you were found eating in a closet during your university ski weekend. Yes, I was in a closet eating a bagel, but I blame my friends for hot-boxing the car I was in earlier-I have sensitive nostrils and lungs, okay? In a nutshell, whatever doesn't bring your taste buds and your dignity pleasure at 3am, don't put it in your mouth.

Put down the hotdog: Not only have I recently read a bunch of scientific data on what nitrates really do to your body, I also probably didn't need to be eating hotdogs all over the city at 2am just for the sake of my waistline. It also wasn't my fault that I was charming enough back then that these hotdog vendors would let me watch their stand after the bar and help them flip some dogs on the grill. If I never knew that pleasure, never looked in the eyes of a hotdog vendor and asked "can I eat the burnt ones?" then maybe today it wouldn't cause me so much pain?  At 21, I had no idea that my love for hotdogs would eventually lead me down a slippery slope.  At 33 I'm finding myself planning evenings out, around the nearest hotdog vendor (especially the one that plays Latin music all year round), because it's a lot fucking easier than cabbing to one. So let me be frank, if there ain't a hotdog vendor close to where I'm cocktailing, I ain't going. Ugh. If someone had only stopped me years ago.

Bank that coin, girl: From what little money I had in my 20's, I would go back and give myself a fresh one right across the face for not really ever saving a dime. Not realizing that everything in your life after university graduation was going to cost 99% more than you ever anticipated, and you'll be paying bills until you take your last breath, would have been a helpful tip to know. My parents kept saying "just wait until you get into the real world, little girl" but it wasn't really enough to scare the shit out of me and prepare me for the miserable world of personal finances. I watched a ton of The Real World on MTV, and it looked pretty fucking fun to me, so in my head  I was all geared up to YOLO in the real world.
Actually my parents told me I lived on another planet all the time, but I just assumed it was because they realized their daughter was a comedic genious when it comes to accents and the monologues that I would present to them during dinner as a child.
They also coupled their "you live on a different planet" statement with stories of them walking barefoot in the snow to school, blah, blah, blah. Ya, sure you did, but just in case, I went out and bought 4 pairs of boots so that wouldn't happen to me.

Honey, the stress is only gonna get worse. Admittedly, my biggest concern when I was 21 was that I wouldn't make it home in time from Stats class (if I went), to be able to go to the liquor store and squeeze in a shower to freshen up my luscious locks for the bar that night. Frizzy hair to me back then (and still absolutely is), was the one thing that sent me into dark place. Wow. I couldn't sound more superficial if I tried right now.

                                                                             #selfie

My point here is that when you take a good hard look at what you find stressful when you're 21 vs, real stress now, it's quite comical. I bet I would never guess that I'd be fighting with my cell phone carrier once a month, worrying about paying my rent, worrying about my parents aging health, worrying about my own health, worrying about work, worrying about these dicks that take you on dates and then disappear, worrying about carbs, worrying about restraining yourself from killing an annoying passenger on the subway, worrying if Olivia Pope and Fitz will ever really make jam in Vermont, worrying that you may be banned from Pizza Pizza over an incident with a cab driver and a drunk patron, worrying that the rash on your body is not fabric softener related, worrying each month that you're pregnant and single....THESE are legit worries.

That jock you were crying over, will be a fat, balding asshole who plays video games and is addicted to porn in his 30's so it ain't worth it sister. Is it just me or do you get a wild sense of delight when your former crush morphs into the loser that he always was, but you couldn't see it? But hey, let's face it, being blinded by charm and sexual attraction happens to everyone at some point. Add booze to that mix and that's a typical weekend for me. All you can do is arm yourself with CIA-like stalking skills and a Facebook account, and you can see for yourself that these former 'big man on campus' types have actually turned into closeted masturbators who play Halo until 4am in their parents basement. So THANK YOU for breaking my heart..you did me a serious favour.

Well, that's all I got for now. I'm sure once my Ativan wears off, I will have thought of 8495302 more pieces of advice, but for now this'll do.

Night, night,
Nanners

 

Karma is a Bitch

Well, here we are 7 weeks into 2015 and my adult acne is flaring up, I accidentally gave myself an episiotomy in the shower while shaving my cha-cha this morning, and I'm fairly certain my new birth control is making me 50-shades-of- bat-shit-cray. #YOLO.
(*For those of you who are about to google 'episiotomy', that's essentially when a woman's cooter is sliced and diced to get the tiny citizen she's birthing, out of her vag. You're welcome).

Speaking of cha-chas, I decided to hop on the birth control pill since munching on Plan B for dinner got pricey in 2014. And truthfully, I'd rather save up that extra money to visit my prison pen-pal in Alabama this summer...His name is Bubba and he's promised me steak.

Just kidding, but I will say that writing an inmate would probably give me greater satisfaction than dating this city's finest rejects and going into overdraft while funding my HD subscription to PornHub.

(I actually googled 'prison pen pals' and there are a shocking number of websites where you can get love right at your fingertips with some of America's finest incarcerated gentlemen. I would provide the links to these sites, but I've seen enough Criminal Minds to worry that somehow an inmate who is currently in 'the slammer' getting his free college degree in I.T,  will somehow find out I posted their link on my blog and get an early parole, only to come to Canada, find me, and put my head in their freezer. So you can fucking google it yourself).

Anyhoodle....

I'm not sure what I thought would happen when the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve, but somehow I had convinced myself that in 2015, (me being the experienced, veteran of the Great Dating War of 2014), I would magically only attract the greatest guys. Yup, you heard me: Great. Guys. I would not allow another bad date to happen. I would not be 'catfished' by albinos off the internet and I would not share my tampons with Billy, who is just a giant p*ssy and loves talking about his divorce.  Nope, not me. Not this year.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Good one. I just got a job at the joke store.

Well, you'll be shocked to learn this, but 2015's dating roster has been filled with assholes.

And I've figured out why: KARMA
(I read a quote today that said something about 'writing being therapeutic and like a confessional' blah blah blah, or some shit like that), and since I'd burst into flames in a church, I've decided to share a lie that I believe has lead me to a dating life of pure and utter misery...

This haunts me.

I once lied in a lovely hand written piece of fan mail to Donnie Wahlberg when he was Hangin' Tough and I was waiting for my breasts to come in.

Ummmm, if that doesn't make you tingle in your panties, I don't know what possibly could.  

After being in attendance (in row 1 million) of the 1989 Hangin' Tough tour, at Maple Leaf Gardens (we literally could touch the roof), I was convinced that Donnie Wahlberg locked eyes with me and this is where my inner Sharon Stone was born.
I may or may not have lied in every letter that I wrote to him, by stating my name was Summer and I was a 17 year old  professional dancer from California....who may or may not have gone on tour with Michael Jackson.
Truth is, I was a chubby 8 year old, who just started dance classes at her cousin's dance studio, who lived off of Kraft Dinner and had a My Little Pony collection I would die for.

So where does Karma come in you ask?

What if he spent the rest of his career, (even now on the set of Blue Bloods), thinking about me? That beautiful 17 year old gal from Cali that just got away? Stranger things have happened, amiright?
I mean c'mon people....

Look, Richard Gere fell in love with Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and she was a hooker for christsake. A HOOKER!

Patrick Swayze was literally INSIDE Whoopi Goldberg's body and danced with Demi Moore, in the movie Ghost. "Ditto. Sam??? Sam?" Ugh. That movie gets me every time. It also gives me a lot of false hope that one day a middle aged black woman will be able to channel me so I can speak to my loved ones.

Oh wait,  AND....Noah wrote Allie 365 letters for an entire year in the Notebook, and that bitch never responded. Yeah, I know it wasn't her fault she never got them, but he never gave up...despite having meaningless, casual sex with this widowed neighbour and becoming a hairy alcoholic carpenter while waiting for her.
He still spoke to her when he thought she had gotten his letters and blatantly ignored them for what must have felt like a god damn eternity.... I'm still waiting for a date to return a text I sent him in October....

So, really. Is it THAT far fetched that my dating misery is a result of my tom foolery and games of the heart when I was a little girl?

I think I'm on to something here....

That's enough misery for now...Night, night.

Nanners

Actually, come to think of it, not only did I lie in my fan mail to Donnie Wahlberg, I also was an outright bitch in a letter to Joey Lawrence after Blossom was cancelled.

WHOA. 

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

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

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 

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

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.