If you have a vagina, you’re probably no stranger to random men approaching you on the street or cat-calling you from behind the protection of their reflective construction vests. It’s non-discriminating, it’s often blatant, and 189 times out of 190, it’s someone you are in no way attracted to who is screaming, “nice ass and titties” at you from the window of their 2005 Dodge Caravan.
Let me give you a tip, friends; girls don’t like this! I mean some girls, maybe - you know, the sad ones who need that false self-esteem boost - but in general, I can only insist that acting like this towards girls won’t, in any way, get you laid. It isn’t flattering when a man yells at you and the 6 other women behind you on the street, that he likes the way you look. The fact that some random guy with over-inflated self confidence wants to “tap that” does not make that a compliment. And neither are any of the other derogatory and distasteful things guys spew out of their mouths at women they don’t know.
“I’d fuck you.”
“Work it.”
“Mmmmm.” [accompanied by lip licking and/or eye-molesting]
In the past 72 hours, I’ve had it worse than usual. I mean, I don’t normally cry when someone comments on his opinion of my rear end, but sometimes enough is enough. You know?
Have you ever been to Harbour 60 Steakhouse? You know, the tastier, more pretentious version of The Keg where douche bags run wild? Long story short, it’s nowhere I would ever just go for the sheer fact of how terribly out-of-place I feel even walking past it on the street in my peasant clothes.
I worked a VMWare dinner event at Harbour 60 a couple weeks ago and had to exercise every last bit of restraint I had not to stab one of their “elite” patrons in the face with my heel because of his lack of basic human decency.
I was being friendly. I didn’t work at the restaurant but I can imagine that people assumed I did because of how I was dressed, and in the interest of being professional, I made a point to be nice to everyone, not just attendees of the event I was working. If someone made a joke, I’d laugh. If they smiled, I smiled. If they engaged in conversation, I’d engage back. But my politeness has a limit. And that limit is making racist comments to people you don’t know.
I don’t know who this guy was or how many pints he’d had but he did not take well to my annoyed expression at his racial slur. And that’s when he told me I should be sucking his dick.
15 minutes later, he apologized. And 20 minutes after that, he called me a bitch.
#cuuuuuuuute. Money really doesn’t buy class.
But these last 72 hours is where I feel like all my crazy men experiences culminated and almost made my head explode.
I was walking home from work on Friday evening, talking to my mother on the phone about I don’t even know what, when a teenage boy on a bike came out of nowhere and yelled, “nice ass.”
Things like this don’t even make me turn my head anymore. I could have been wearing a parka in the dead of winter and have this still happen. A girl is a girl. A vagina is a vagina. The rest is just details to these types of guys. And because I wasn’t paying attention, for all I knew, he could have been talking to one of the other probably hundred women walking through Chinatown at that exact moment.
Until he biked past again [had he circled the block?] and yelled, “nice ass.”
[Can you not tell I am ignorez-vousing you?]
“Nice ass. Give me your number.”
“Go away. I’m on the phone.”
“Can I have your number please?”
“I’m ON the PHONE.”
“Come on, I said you had a nice ass. How come you won’t give me your number?”
Because somehow, this horny 15 year old boy was lead to believe that’s all it takes to get a girl’s phone number. In this case, a girl, who, had she been a teen mom, would probably be old enough to be his mother. It only took him about 8 blocks to get the hint before he moved on to some other poor girl with a backpack coming out of the liquor store.
The kicker of this story? On the streetcar later that night, I was retelling it to the boyfriend on the phone when a man sitting in front of me turned as he got up to get off and said, “the kid on the bike was right, you have a great ass.”
Oh good. So boys never grow up. Cool. Thank you for confirming that.
I supppppose you could argue that it’s my own fault for wearing tight, bum hugging dresses around during the daytime hours. But when you dump a full Iced Capp down your shirt and the only other outfit you have in your purse is said black, bum hugging dress, then you’re kinda out of options. And in that situation, I guess I’d rather people be staring at my bum than at a huge coffee-coloured stain down the front of my white t-shirt because it kind of made me look homeless.
But that’s just me.
On Saturday, while waiting quietly and unprovocatively on an eastbound subway platform, yet another strange man approached me. At first, he seemed like some normal guy but once he invaded my personal space, I knew that he was either crazy or at the very least a big, fat weirdo.
He asked me how to get to Finch station.
In my life, I have never been to Finch station and without the aid of one of those TTC map thingys, I am not good with TTC stops. Not even the ones I use regularly.
“I’m sorry, no, I’m not sure how to get to Finch station.”
“No, but say you lived at Finch station, how would you get there?”
“Haha I’m not sure, I’m sorry. I’ve never been to Finch station.”
“Okay but say you and your boyfriend decide to get serious, move out of the downtown area, get engaged, eventually married, and decide to buy a house at Finch station, how would you get home?”
By this time, I’m half nervously, half actually laughing, people around me are judging me, and the man is looking as confused as ever. I felt bad but I also kinda felt like he could shank me at any point so as soon as the subway arrived.. I hopped on and sat between 2 people just in case he tried to grab me and take me to Finch station with him.
In all fairness to the last guy, his mental health may have had something to do with him approaching unsuspecting women on subway platforms, but the others have absolutely no excuse.
It makes me sad to think that this is what courtship has come to; that this is what some men think is a legitimately acceptable way to interact with women. And being a girl, there’s no way to win.
Sometimes all I want to do is throw my hair in a pony tail and grab a coffee and I’d like to preserve the right to do that without worrying about whether some guy with paint splatter on his coveralls wants to break his dick off in my ass.
Because yeah, that’s exactly what every girl wants to hear at 9am on a Sunday.
Oh wait, no we don’t.
xxoo,
Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
When I was little, I thought the world of you. You snuck me spoonfuls of peanut butter and gave me coffee when my parents weren’t around. I looked forward to sleepovers at your house, even though you didn’t have cable [this was pre-internet] because I actually liked spending time with you. I liked how I felt when I came to your house, sitting at the kitchen table, watching you make me potato pancakes; like there was nothing I would ever need to worry about.
But I grew up. I learned a lesson both of my two older cousins had learned the hard way; each independently from other: You love your granddaughters more than you love your grandsons, but you only truly love them one at a time.
For a long time, I was the one to be; I was the favourite. I didn’t realize I had taken over the title and I didn’t realize that it came with an expiration date.
I sometimes wonder if my younger cousin hadn’t come along, if I would still be your favourite. But I guess you’ve got great granddaughters to love more now. I truly wonder what will happen when new baby girls stop coming into your life.
But then again, I don’t wonder that often. You don’t cross my mind that often, to be honest.
How long has it been since we’ve spoken now? 7 years? More? I sometimes feel like my memories of you are just images in my head that I made up from something I’d read. Although I do remember the last family Christmas I attended at your house like it was yesterday….
My dad had long disowned his sisters and because of the divorce, you no longer welcomed my mom into your family. I was thankful that one of my aunts remembered to invite me. But only one.
It was uncomfortable and people weren’t particularly friendly with me, even though I was a blood relative to almost everyone in the house and had been for my entire life. For being such a gifty family, I was a bit confused when every other child in the house got presents, except me. I’ll remind you, I wasn’t the oldest.
After dinner, Grandpa, you pulled me aside in the alcove between the kitchen and the living room, just off the hallway. You pulled a crisp $50 from your pocket and put it in my hand. I honestly don’t remember you saying anything, but remembering back, the look on your face said it all.
It was a payoff.
I was being paid to eliminate myself from future family events for the cost of $50. Had I realized it at the time, I would have asked for more.
I know my father was your son but if it weren’t for my mother, you wouldn’t have had much of a relationship with me at all. My mother truly valued you both and encouraged your participation in how I was raised. She knew all along that my time to be loved by you was limited, but she encouraged it anyway because, after all, you were my grandparents and every little girl deserves to have a relationship with her grandparents for as long as time allows.
I remember when I was in university, my mom called to tell me you, Grandma, had slipped in the parking lot of the mall and had hurt yourself in the fall. I remember a few weeks later, my mom calling me back to tell me that she’d read a letter in the local newspaper written by you to the people who had helped you when you fell. I still have the letter tucked away in a box in my apartment because that letter represents something to me. It reminds me, in times of weakness and of sorrow, in times of guilt and longing, that you, Grandma, are one of the most selfish people I have ever met. You took the time to write that letter. You made the effort to send it to the newspaper, to have it published. In the probably 30 minutes it took you to write that letter, you made more effort for those complete strangers than you did with me my entire life.
It grounds my hatred in reality.
Any news I hear about you both comes from someone who told someone else who eventually told my mother. I think, even after all you have put us both through, she still wants me to know how you’re doing because, like I said earlier, you are my grandparents.
But as many concerning things as I have heard about the state of your health, I just can’t make myself care anymore.
You, Grandma, were married before you married Grandpa but you pretend as if it didn’t happen. You, Grandpa, can’t admit that your daughter was dating a man who robbed a convenience store with a fake gun or that one of your grandson’s is gay. You are both bigots, racists, and are prejudice against so many people and things, and for all the years I looked up to you as a child, I am so thankful that I didn’t end up anything like either of you.
With all my heart and every inch of my soul, 
In the spirit of feeling like I’m in some kind of strange relationship with the Dufferin Mall [which apparently Facebook does not consider a valid relationship option], I decided to enter their outfit styling contest. And yes, as a matter of fact, I took 2 of those photos in the bathroom at work. The lighting is just better in bathrooms.
So in light of losing the Splenda contest where I totally thought I would win because the name alone was so cute, please vote for my “style” on the Dufferin Mall contest, pretty please with a cherry on top! I decided to call it Colour Block Rock because every other name I came up with sounded really stupid. And in light of that, I give you outfit numero uno of this post.
top: Sirens
tights: Sirens
shoes: Spring
clutch (cough - makeup bag - cough): Zara
All anyone has heard me talking about lately is Mexico.
“I had the best time!”
“It was so much better than I could have imagined.”
“The weather was gorrrrgeous.”
Having my weave sewn in was both a nightmare and a godsend. Washing fake hair every day apparently renders it completely unmanageable but on the other hand, not worrying that your clips are showing and not worrying about actually having to clip them in every day was a relief. And made me look like much less of a princess in the eyes of others [read: the boyfriend].
Overall, I’d say that was $90 well spent. Even if they only lasted me 2 weeks.
top: H&M (not that you can see it)
shorts: Forever21
shoes: Coppel
Not that you can probably tell by looking at them [or by watching me walk in them], these shoes are outrageously comfortable. While I flitted around the store in Mexico, a hip Mexican lady who clearly spoke no English tapped me on the shoulder, pointed to my feet, and gave me a thumbs up.
Clearly, I had to buy them. And when I got my credit card bill post-trip, I was amazed to see that even with the exchange rate, these shoes still only cost me $23.
The drunk phone call I made to my mother to let her know I safely arrived in Mexico? Yeah, that cost me $43. And no, I don’t want to talk about it.
top: Sirens
skirt: H&M
shoes: Sirens
watches: Canadian Watch Imports (large) + Esquire (small)
I often buy articles of clothing without fully thinking through the outfit possibilities. I see something on Pinterest or on someone else’s blog and I think, I could pull that off. Except most of the time, I can’t.
I really need to stop comparing myself to the people around me and on the internet. I need to start being more okay with me.
top: Forever21
jeans: Sirens
necklace: Brandy Melville
bracelets: Brandy Melville (bangles) + H&M (coloured stretchy bangles)
And right now, me is really into lime. [Whether or not you can tell by the filter on this photo, that shirt is actually lime.] The back has buttons that go all the way down and if I take the tag off, it can actually be worn either way. I loooooove stuff that can be worn in different ways; it makes me feel like I’m really getting a great ROI [return on investment - thank you for that, advertising career].
I also really like bright coloured bracelets and colour blocking that involves blues, greens, and Barbie pink accent lips. But I suspect this will be short lived as most of my tastes are. I like certain things and I like them a lot until I’m done with them and I start liking something else… a lot.
Right now, it’s cream of broccoli soup. I reeeeeally like cream of broccoli soup.
Know what I don’t like?
Short hair. [On me.]
tank: Ardene
jacket: Zara
pants: H&M
shoes: Urban Planet
bracelet: Brandy Melville
You’re probably thinking, “hmm.. she looks like a mom.” And I would 100% agree with you because when I walked into work on Monday - post hair extension removal, with a bob that sits roughly around my shoulders - I felt like a frigging soccer mom.
And I’ll tell you, I don’t much like it.
To be honest, I feel especially unfashiony lately. Post-Mexico, the weather has been pretty crappy and post-hair extensions, I feel like everything I wear looks makes me look like a pear because I no longer have a huge extensiony mane to even everything out.
Fuck it, I’m going to buy hair extensions tomorrow. Don’t judge me.
xxoo,
PS. Please vote for meeeeeeee.
It fascinates me how quickly and easily people sell each other out; how easy it is to open your mouth and tell everyone who will listen the things you’re not supposed to tell anyone.
Unfortunately, I’m no exception. I’ve had some moments I’m less than proud of but I’m the first one to admit when I’ve made a mistake. But I’m also quick to notice when someone else has too.
I’ve mentioned before that I don’t have too many close girlfriends. I guess you could say this is at least partially due to my own choosing because I would rather have a small group of people I trust than a large group of people who would gladly sell out their friends to tell a good story. But I feel like I’m too quick to assume that new girl friends are as trustworthy as the ones I’ve spent weeks, months, and years building strong relationships with. And in situations like this, I don’t really know where the expectation of trust comes in. I don’t know how long is long enough for some secrets to be implicitly kept secret.
I recently made the mistake of telling someone I’d only spent a brief amount of time with, something that I should have known to keep to myself. As soon as the words came out, I knew it was a mistake. Although it wasn’t just a hearsay rumour, I knew it wasn’t my story to tell. To be honest, it didn’t occur to me that the person I told would immediately rat me out.
But hey, lesson learned, right?
I don’t do truly stupid things very often. As far as girls my age go, I don’t have too many regrets, but telling something I knew wasn’t mine to tell weighs pretty heavily on my conscience. Taking full responsibility and apologizing for something I know I did wrong, with absolutely no excuse doesn’t feel very good. Actually, it feels incredibly shitty.
There’s usually crying involved. There’s always crying involved.
But at some point you have to become at least some semblance of an adult and as a very wise girl once wrote, people just need to “stop making excuses for [them]sel[ves] and [their] behaviour. Own it, good or bad.“
I think your true colours shine in moments where you have no choice but to admit you’re just flat-out in the wrong.
While I’m not always the picture perfect pillar of honesty, I think I’ve encountered more than my fair share of shrewdly untrustworthy people. My dating history is basically a who’s who of undesirable, totally full-of-shit guys and unfortunately my friendships’ past aren’t a whole lot different.
The girl I shared a bathroom with in my first year of university decided to become secret make-out buddies with a guy I was dating. A girl I practically hand-fed a really great starter career to stole a dress from me and never spoke to me again. A girl I didn’t even know [until she stalked me on Twitter and lied about her identity to befriend me] not only slept with my long-term university boyfriend while I was dating him, but actually stole a bunch of blog entries from me and proceeded to tell people that I was trying to steal her life.
I’ve terminated absolutely volatile friendships and acquaintanceships with people because the bad just outweighed the good, regardless of how or with what scale you measured it. I’ve reconnected with people I grew apart from only to find that the reasons were went separate ways no longer exist.
Of course, some people change and everyone make mistakes. It’s just, despite all of my screw ups and all of my down falls, if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that I’ve got integrity.
I just don’t always exercise it when I should. [I’m working on it.]
Love you like a love song,
Last night, I got home from Mexico. Even while sitting on the plane to come back, watching the boyfriend play Settlers of Catan on his iPhone and looking around at people changing from sandals to socks and shoes [something that obviously didn’t occur to me to pack], I was still so excited, still reeling from being immersed in 34 degree weather, bottomless strawberry daiquiris and shots of “something girly,” and guacamole as a side dish to every meal.
Until last week, I’d never really been on a real vacation. Trips, yes, but vacations? Never. Vegas was go-go-go, California was way too whirlwind, New York left me wanting more, and most of the rest of the trips I’ve ever been on involved one or more of my parental figures in a very adult/child dynamic. The playing fields were never level. I’ve never been able to sit on a beach, sipping a free and unlimited supply of sugary drinks and been able to just not think for a minute.
For me, Mexico was the best parts of all the stories I’d heard people tell me about their own vacations. It was perfect weather. The food was, for the most part, totally edible and satisfying. The drinks were bottomless and the hangovers were relatively manageable and mostly occurred in the early evenings from the excessive day drinking.
It was absolutely, stupidly amazing. And a week without responsibilities, technology, and the stress of everyday life… I’ve never felt more energized and high on life.
The mayo could have been better though…
I’m only slightly bummed that I didn’t get an authentic Mexican burrito or that I didn’t take a cheesy photo of writing “me + the boyfriend = love” in the sand. However, we did get a few candid “lovers frolicking on the beach” photos that completely made up for it.
Staged or not, I’m quite pleased at how they turned out. And apparently so is Instagram.
Highlights of the trip include:
- Swimming with the dolphins [!!!!!!]
- Being kissed by a sea lion
- Being able to order 4 drinks and 4 shots all at the same time without the bartender being wary or cutting me off due to intoxication
- A woman in her (probably) late 30s flashing her unattractive vagina at me/to the bar
- Throwing a strawberry daiquiri on someone
- Getting massaged on the beach
- Sex on the beach [take this how you want]
- Guacamole
- 1L of vodka for $19.00
- Not having to wear pants. Ever.
- Petting Mexican cats/dogs; staring at Mexican iguanas
- Taking selfies [photos of myself with beach hair, semi-flattering bikini shots, beach outfits]
- Being drunk at 2pm on a Tuesday and laughing to myself about the people that were back in Canada in the cold, at work
- Shopping in a Mexican department store where no one spoke English and having the sales girl try really hard to explain to me that the shorts I was grabbing for the boyfriend to try on were the exact same size as the ones he had just tried on and that didn’t fit
And to be honest, the homecoming didn’t suck as much as I’d expected it to. My apartment was spotless [THANKS A], my kittens were as adorable as ever, and when I got to work the next morning, my office was completely decorated with signs, balloons, streamers, and a miniature Justin Bieber statue riding an inflatable dolphin.
It felt really great to be missed. I just thank Buddha that I’ve got this rockin’ tan to keep me company through these less than summery temperatures.
I know I’m incredibly uptight and nuts sometimes but given the opportunity to relax and go with the flow, that’s exactly what I want to do. Preferably with a strawberry daiquiri in one hand and the boyfriend’s hand in the other.
I’m an incredibly fortunate little girl sometimes. I really should acknowledge that more often.
xxoo,
