.piNk♥cruSh.

It's a fact-of-life type thing

Mon, 28 May 2012 17:14:00 -0400

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 [you know who you are]

Wed, 09 May 2012 16:44:00 -0400

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...

Wed, 02 May 2012 17:39:00 -0400

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's called integrity, babe.

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 16:46:00 -0400

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,

Mexicated

Wed, 25 Apr 2012 16:31:00 -0400

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,

The dance we do.

Wed, 11 Apr 2012 01:52:00 -0400

I guess I’ll just dive right into it, then.

This past weekend, although absolutely meaningless to me in any kind of biblical sense, marked a milestone in my life. It was another one of those moments when I put aside my feelings, my hurt, even my beliefs kind of, and decided to, once again, take the high road and be the grown up that the situation so desperately called for.

I visited my father. For the first time in almost 3 years, I pulled into his parking lot, this time accompanied by the boyfriend – more than likely against his will, but I didn’t ask or care – and walked up the flight of stairs to his second-storey, 2 bedroom apartment.

It was awkward, as I more than expected it to be. He made casual small talk; asked if I still talked to some of my friends that he remembered. I don’t, really. Except the occasional obligatory Facebook Happy Birthday message, of course.

He looked sick. He was drinking a beer and wearing army print shorts, socks, and sandals. I didn’t hug him. We didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t know how long was too long or not long enough to stay so I sat on the couch, clutching the boyfriend’s arm for dear life; going through the motions of a father and daughter who hadn’t let any time pass between conversations or visits.

And then we left. I had put in my time. I had done the thing I had never really wanted to do but had been guilted into doing by both other people and my own mind. And now I feel a muted version of every emotion I’ve ever felt about him. Mostly silent anger, resentment and guilt. All this for a man who regularly sent me birthday cards begging for me to call and never answered the phone. Who dropped off money for me to my mom’s house when he knew I wouldn’t be home. Who stopped being a father to me for 3 years just because he could.

So that’s my sob story. But as the wise and incredibly Swiss psychiatrist, Carl Jung, once said, “I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.” And I chose to be bigger than where I came from. And I mean that in the least elitist, snobby way possible.

And now I have nothing left to say on the matter. I’m too busy packing for Mexico and doing sit-ups til I want to throw up so I can fit into my new Victoria’s Secret bikiniiiiii. I’m not actually throwing up so please spare me the lecture on healthy body image and let me get back to eating my lettuce sandwich, thank you.

Hahahaha. But seriously, I’m eating here.

On Monday, I found out that I had won a $50 gift card to the Dufferin Mall, which, if you have read any of my fashion posts, you would know is probably one of my most favourite places to shop ~~in Toronto~~ on earth. It couldn’t have come at a better time really, because the last thing I want to spend my no money on is a huge, cute coloured beach towel, sunscreen and a value pack of Pepto Bismol.

I want to spend it on getting my hair extensions SEWN IN because that’s how much I hate the real hair growing out of my head. Luckily for me, the ghetto sews in weave for cheap, yo, so I’ve made an appointment for Saturday. My fingers are crossed that it turns out okay.

I’ll let you know how it turns out. I may have even stupider looking hair for Mexico than I would have if I left it naturally, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. My fingers are seriously crossed. It wouldn’t hurt if yours were crossed too please.

That’s really all I’ve got on my mind right now.

Good bye.

HOLY SHIT, I MADE IT TO PART 3? My past with fashion has been somewhat sordid. When I was 13, I...

Thu, 05 Apr 2012 16:34:00 -0400

HOLY SHIT, I MADE IT TO PART 3?

My past with fashion has been somewhat sordid. When I was 13, I wore the same pair of burgundy and hunter plaid pants all the way to, from, and during my family trip to Alberta [we drove]. I was the little girl who had the Cat Street Boys and Mice Girls sweaters from Northern Getaway. I wore baby blue wind pants a couple times a week for most of my grade 11 year, including the afternoon I lost my virginity. Looking back, I probably could have made a better decision about both the guy and the outfit; but that’s something 17 year old me had to learn the hard way.

It took me 26 years but I finally decided to become an adult. In more ways than one. I opened a savings account, an investment account, and finally started budgeting so I could actually enjoy the quality of life instead of living my life paycheque to paycheque. After a while, it becomes exhausting to feel sick to my stomach about my bank account balance, despite how happy I am about all of the money I have hanging in my closet.

top: Zara
shorts: Zara
necklace: Brandy Melville
bracelet: Iron Plume

I just never ever want to tally and figure out just how much that money would be. I think my stomach might fall out.

Especially since I still occasionally feel like I’m dying when I buy anything that costs upwards of $50 [like both pieces in the photo above]. I basically had a mini-stroke when I bought my Hunter boots - regardless of how good it feels knowing that they’re waiting for me when it rains. It just sucks when you find almost the exact same item at Sirens in the Dufferin Mall for $20. Which happens a lot more than you would think. Lesson learned. Ish.

I have made a personal vow with myself to only shop at Sirens and H&M from here on in. And almost exclusively at the Dufferin Mall because I basically worship it’s existence and the crazies that almost always haunt my visits there.

And of course, accepting fabulous hand-me-downs from even more fabulous friends is always a good alternative to spending money.

top: Mendocino (I assume?) - thrifted from C
tights: American Apparel
necklace: Brandy Melville (as per almost every otherphoto)

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; when it comes to fashion mostly all I care about is comfort. When I’m actually trying to look good, that is, not when I’m laying around at home on a Sunday afternoon watching Storage Wars marathons with M.

I care about things that make my arms feel skinny and my cleavage look good. I like clothes that are loose fitting in the tummy area because I eat way too much and when I drink, I feel bloated. I hate crop tops and materials that cling to any and every imperfection I think I have. That’s just how I am.

And one of the best secrets [that is not at all a secret] I have to feeling great in any outfit is to use my hair length [read: weave] as an accessory. My real hair has extreme separation anxiety when I’m not wearing my extensions. Not to mention that things just don’t look as good when my hair just sits around my shoulders and is pissed off at me for not taking an extra 10 minutes to clip in their weavy pals.

dress: Sirens (Dufferin Mall)
bracelet: Iron Plume

I’m also kind of a fan of fake glasses. Look at me; fake, fake, fake. But for real. Sometimes a nice contrast to my everyday style isn’t a bad thing.

Every once in a while I like to do something outside my comfort zone. I often try new styles and feel okay about them - skinny jeans, collared shirts, etc. - but oh-so rarely will you catch me in pants. Jeans, sometimes but pants?! Never.

Until I found a pair of “slacks” that fit me in length, waist and derriere. I tried, verrrrrrrry unsuccessfully, to wear harem pants once and my bum was pretty much all over the map. Props to the girls on Google Images who wear harem pants like a BAWSE, but I am not one of them.

However, I may be a converted slack-wearer. So at least there’s something new.

top: Sirens
bottoms: H&M (the aforementioned “slacks”)
shoes: Ardene
necklace: Brandy Melville
glasses: Ardene

I also have a habit of buying something I like in 1000x different colours. Or in this case, 2, because that’s all they had, I think. Either way, it’s my favourite piece of clothing right now I think because it’s loose in the tummy, tight in the boobs, shows a teensy bit of cleavage, and is made of a nice enough material that it doesn’t look cheap and is also machine washable.

I’m so sick of buying things and realizing later that they’re dry clean only. Basically, I’m sick of everything at Urban Outfitters.

top: Sirens
bottoms: Forever21
necklace: Brandy Melville
bracelet: Iron Plume

I’m also not a fan of change. I like what I like and I have a hard time breaking old habits [although I did beat nail biting in 2012 so maybe there is hope for me yet]. I used to wear silver and only silver. I hated yellow gold like I hate people who say “apprish-iate.”

I used to think I would say “no” if my boyfriend proposed to me with a yellow gold ring. I always hated my mom’s wedding ring and couldn’t imagine having something YELLOW hanging off my hand. Now, I’m obsessed with gold. Yellow gold, rose gold; GOLD, GOLD, GOLD [fake, of course]! However, I can’t deny that some of my most awesome chunky/statement necklaces have silver chains or accents.

Meh. C’est la vie.

necklace: Forever21
top: Sirens

One fashion statement I’ve always admired was the ability to make a boy’s shirt look sexy on a girl. I’ve never been able to do it. I’ve seen it in fashion blogs and even real life and I just wonder how in the hell people make something so sloppy look so COOL. So I tried.

And even though I looked slightly inappropriate and a bit like a hooker, someone told me they wanted my legs, which is a win in my books any day. And it wasn’t in like in a “I want to purchase them” kind of way but in a nice, complimentary way. And it made me feel warm, fuzzy, and a bit bangable inside.

Which is nice coming from someone who is both not your boyfriend and who is the same sex as you.

top: H&M
shorts: Forever21 (not that you can see them, but they’re black, high-waisted shorts)
socks/tights: Ardene
necklace: Drama Queenwatch: Canadian Watch Importers
shoes: Call It Spring (is that what it’s called now?)

Until next time…. unless I run out of things to say,
xoxo

And now?

Tue, 27 Mar 2012 17:27:00 -0400

You never really adjust to being an only child. Sure, I’ve gotten used to it – after 26 years, you sort of adjust to that kind of thing – but it isn’t always fun and it isn’t always easy being the lone wolf in your family, as big as the extended part of it may be. It isn’t all Barbie Dream Houses, 101 Dalmatian birthday cakes, and not having to share your bunk bed with another human being except at sleepovers when that’s basically the entire point.

I don’t remember my parents ever really having much of a relationship. They were both always there but I don’t remember them ever being affectionate or happy with each other. In fact, I barely remember them interacting at all, besides the obvious obligatory “can you drop pinkcrush off at her friend’s house?” I barely remember family vacations that weren’t documented and even then, that documentation was simply proof that my parents weren’t really in love. The last time I went back to Stratford, my mom and I popped in an old VHS of our family at the cottage and in the 20 some odd minutes we watched, my parents pretty much carried on as though the other didn’t exist.

I remember sitting on separate couches eating KFC takeout while my dad watched the news and I remember going to the pool of our Disney World resort while my dad slept in our hotel room for most of the day. Looking back, I remember all of this in a cloud of unhappiness, but at the time, I didn’t once notice anything was off.

Since I don’t remember my parents as one unit, I can’t really tell you whether it was easier being an only child when they were together or not; not that you asked. I can only assume that one child being shuffled between a home and a sparsely decorated apartment would have been easier if that one child had been two children. It might have been easier had I known a single other person with a family dynamic like my own. But I didn’t. I had to venture it entirely alone.

Lone-wolfing it became the norm.

It’s hard to imagine what my life would have been life had my parents not separated and divorced. It’s hard to imagine the life I would be living now had my father not taken his financial contribution to my education when he and my mom split. It’s hard to imagine how I would feel about boys, friendships, and even family if I hadn’t been left so obviously emotionally damaged by the actions of both of my parents and my immediate family.

The what-ifs will kill you if you let them. Luckily, I haven’t let them yet.

I don’t know if it was the divorce of my parents or the only siblinglessness of my upbringing but my mom and I always had a fantastic relationship. In university, no matter what the problem, the story or where my life was headed, I always wanted my mom to know everything. Often too much. She was my best friend. She parented me appropriately and when necessary, but she gave me the freedom to be my own person, even when that meant being in an incredibly tacky and horrific beauty pageant. Hell, she even bought me a car so I could go to rehearsals.

I’m no stranger to ups and downs in friendships and relationships in general, I guess. I’ve always had a subconscious belief in the theory, “if you let it go and it doesn’t come back, it was never yours to begin with.” The only thing consistent about the way I relate with others is how inconsistent those relations are. I can only really think of two people I’ve maintained consistent friendships with throughout my life, despite what Facebook would have you believe.

What I am a stranger to, however, are the ups and downs in my relationship with my mother. When we fight, I get a knot in my tummy because the person I need to spill my guts to is the person I want to spill my guts about. I sometimes need a mother more than I need a friend and somewhere along the line, I think we got so mixed up in rejecting the confines of what it means to be a traditional family [this is the part I mention my grandma playing Flip Cup on her 50th wedding anniversary with straight Crown Royal and falling on her face, requiring stitches] that we forgot how to act out our roles when we need to.

As you may have guessed, I’m having one of those “down” periods right now and I’m not really sure how to handle it. I’m more than sure the boyfriend is sick to death of listening to my woes. But with friends, I often have a hard time just starting into a story about how my mother and I disagree on what are and are not considered familial obligations because everybody fights with their parents at some point or another, right? So why would they care about a little disagreement? Why would anyone ask, “so, how is your relationship with your mother today?” They wouldn’t.

And having a historically good relationship with someone would give them even less reason to do so.

I guess I’m just at a loss. I just wonder how I constantly end up feeling like I need to be the one to step into the grown-up shoes in so many of the relationships I have. And I guess I’m just wondering when it will be my turn to be truly be taken care of.

In a non-sugar daddy kind of a way.
xxoo,

Love me too?

Tue, 20 Mar 2012 17:10:31 -0400

Well, that was an interesting week.

People who have known me for a while know that my immune system is less than stellar. But that wasn’t always the case. In high school I was one of those kids who was “always sick” because I hated high school so much I always wanted something to be wrong with me more than it actually was. In university, “unwell” meant that I was hungover or didn’t want to have to participate in my 8am seminar after I’d been up all night watching Friends reruns and making out with whichever boy I’d happen to let wander into my bedroom that night.

It would seem that all those years of willing myself to be sick have caught up to me. It started with a Sinus Infection last fall, which progressed into Bronchitis, Whooping Cough, possibly Asthma [I find out on Fridayyyyy], and then last week, a flu so severe it knocked me on my ass so hard I ended up in the Emergency Room of Mount Sinai Hospital. I didn’t eat for almost 4 days straight (with the exception of about 6 gold fish crackers and 2 spoonful’s of Campbell’s Chunky Chicken Noodle Soup), I was dehydrated, I was lethargic, and I was an absolute #grumpsterinadumpster, to say the least.

You can tell I’m really sick when I lay there in bed, listening to the Friends’ theme song loop over and over on the main menu because I just can’t muster the energy to press play on the controller or put in the next disc. You can tell I’m really sick when I gag at someone even just mentioning extra mayo.

It was bad. It was really, really bad. It was miss 4 days of work in a row bad, which, in advertising, is basically like dying.

And to make matters worse, my toilet was broken all week. Like plunge-it-for-5-minutes-post-flush-to-get-anything-to-go-down kind of broken. And while I was sitting at the ER triage having my blood spilled all over the floor/my boots/the triage nurse’s hands as she tried to insert my IV, I look up and see my old boss staring at me.

Any and all respect he could ever have had for me went flying out the window as he stared at my greasy mop and unmakeuped face. I just thank God it wasn’t Bieber standing there.

On the plus side, I lost about 6 totally unnecessary pounds, gave my hair a week’s vacation from wearing extensions [see mom, I do listen sometimes] and have become a born again alcohol virgin. One cooler on St. Patrick’s Day gave me quite a little buzz, which is simultaneously horrifying and awesome. It was like high school all over again.

Except my boyfriend is a lotttt better looking. And.. who am I kidding, it was nothing like high school. Not by any stretch of my imagination.

My recent brush with death [I dramatically equate hospital visits with practically dying - that, or I’ve been watching far too much Law & Order: SVU] has given me a bit of a slap in the face, I will admit. There are plenty of things I need to do less of or more of or start doing or stop doing to become the best version of myself I can possibly be. My dark month has passed me by and despite all the hiccups that rippled from it, I survived.

My toilet is fixed-ish. I, by some strange force of nature, luckily didn’t have to participate in the grotesquely-overdone holiday that was St. Patrick’s Day. After ordering via phone, waiting patiently for days, calling back when my patience started wearing thin, and finally, actually having to walk to the Rogers store around the corner, I have my new iPhone 4S. And you can bet money I’ll be taking a ton of self-photos for Instagram by the end of the day.

Not that I look particularly fashionable or gorgeous right now. I just like the idea of being able to see what I’m taking a photo of for a change.

That’s why I love MacBook Photo Booth so much.

And of course, a bunch of ridiculous-looking but absolutely beautiful girl friends.

Pre-death bed, I hosted a girl’s night at my place. Most girls - actually, if we’re being honest, all of them - are currently engaged in or have engaged in prior sexual acts with the boyfriend’s friends. We can chalk that up to being a huuuuuge coincidence. Or we can just tell the truth and say that the boyfriend has pretty pimpy boy friends. Everybody wants to French kiss them. Everybody wants to have their illegitimate love babies. They’re good looking, kind-hearted, well-raised boys; why wouldn’t everyone love them?

And they just happen to get it on with some very high calibre ladies. Which I benefit from.

So everybody wins.

Over the past year, I’ve had my share of girl drama. I very much believe that every relationship happens for a reason; even if just to teach you tolerance or the types of people not to trust. But the girl drama has allowed me to learn two things.

1) I am awkward at hugging or feigning adoration for girls when I’m not super close with them/ultra drunk. I don’t want this to be the case; especially for a person who loooooves love as much as I do, but it’s an unfortunate fact of life.
2) The desire to feel included is pretty much always at the forefront of my thoughts, as embarrassing as that is to admit. I’m 26 and all I want is to feel like part of something. How pathetic.

But unfortunately with the removal of drama and ultimately of Facebook friendships, came the removal of a lot of the inclusion I felt in my life. My social life took a hit. Casual, barely-relationships that filled the emptiness shone a spotlight on the fact that, I’ve been living in Toronto for 5 years and I haven’t found that one, solid group of uncompromising girl friends I’ve been hoping, even expecting to find.

Instead I’ve found sprinklings of really, solid girl friendships in people who are incredibly difficult to round up into one specific social setting. Instead, I’ve gotten used to having dinner with someone one night who I’d never dream of inviting to a house party with a bunch of the boyfriend’s friends, not because I wouldn’t want them there, but because that’s just not where they fit.

I still cry on the days where no one text messages me first, even though I could very easily just text them, and I still feel weird when I find out I haven’t been invited out on a night where my plans consisted of Law & Order in bed with my kittens but I am only just a girl.

I might be technically considered an independent, adult, but at the end of the day, all this little, blonde, independent adult wants is to love someone and be loved back.

Love you. Love me too?

Murphy's Law.

Thu, 08 Mar 2012 16:54:00 -0500

My life has a very strange Murphy’s Law-ness to it. You know, anything that can go wrong, will. Call it Karma or the Power of Positive Thinking [wow, I sound like my mother] but things usually have a way of turning right side up again. I just have the odd day here and there where I have random bursts of crying fits. Like when Arms of an Angel comes on my iPod.

Or when I’m typing so erratically fast on my iPhone that auto-correct runs rampant throughout my text messages and everything comes out so absurdly.

Or when I’m in the change room at Sirens in the Dufferin Mall and I notice that a chunk of my weave has been sticking out for God knows how long and I realize that people have probably noticed and thought, “yeah, that’s the type of girl who belongs at the Dufferin Mall. I wonder why she’s not wearing Apple Bottom Jeans or sexting her baby-daddy.”

Like I said, Murphy’s Law, people.

According to Wikipedia [which we know is the end all, be all of truth, obviously], women cry between 30 and 64 times per year [which seems a little on the low side to me], each instance lasting about 6 minutes and in 65% of cases, the crying turns into full-out sobbing. So basically what I’m saying is that I think I’m going to start referring to February as my dark month. Because I probably used up about 1/2 of that 30 - 64 times per year in the month of February alone.

You know in Gilmore Girls where Luke has a ‘dark day’ [don’t lie, you watched it]? Well I’ve decided that mine will be kind of like that except I mourn the days I don’t feel like an emotional basket case, instead of mourning the death of my father, who is obviously not dead. That, and his is a ‘dark day’ and mine will be an entire month.

And a few days into March, apparently. Or maybe that’s just because it’s a leap year.

A couple days ago I saw someone from my past. He and I worked together at my first “grown up” job; a time I would have considered myself to be naive and excitable about the future of my career in advertising; frankly, a time when I considered myself to be a lot nicer person. Although he had decades of experience in an industry I had seconds in, he often treated me as a mentor would have. He looked out for me, he included me where no one else had, he asked my opinions and wanted my input.

It was kind of flattering. Or it would have been if he hadn’t been twice my age and a total creep.

The short-ish version of the story is he sent me some incredibly inappropriate emails [I’m still convinced I’ve got them somewhere but for the life of me, I can’t find them] - some of them, in which he cc’d other people, were incredibly complimentary, but he would turn around and reply back to only me and say less-than-appropriate things. One specific email that stands out in my mind was when he told me that an ad for Bali (a bra/underwear company) reminded him of me. He would constantly leave fashion magazines and catalogues on my desk, bought me a pretty expensive hard cover fashion illustration book [for God knows what reason] and had one of my favourite images from the book blown up, printed and framed.

Then came the requests for dinner, dates, drinks. I was 23. He was 45 or older, to my knowledge. He had a moustache and we had approximately the same body type. He’d ask me to have private chats with him in the back room of our office and once cornered me in a storage room.

After I declined enough times, he started to get the picture. He included me less in work-related matters and one time actually yelled at me for being insubordinate when I refused to talk privately with him about “our issues.”

I’d finally had enough. I was being sexually harassed in the workplace (!!!!). So I did what any girl in my situation should have done months before they got to the place I was in: Tattle!

And a couple hours later, my boss called me into his office, told me that he had confessed his sexual [was it really necessary to tell me that?] attraction to me and that he had been fired.

And 3 years and some odd time later, I run into him, he stares, says hi and I walk 3 blocks in circles just in case he somehow followed me home.

I guess that wasn’t a particularly short story. But it’s not like I had a whole lot else to talk to you about.

So yeah, February’s been a bit weird. It’s been a lot more glass-half-empty than January, but maybe that’s just life balancing out.

Good bye, dark month. It was nice knowing you. NOT.

I don’t know what it is about people that makes them act so awful to each other all the time....

Wed, 15 Feb 2012 19:09:00 -0500

I don’t know what it is about people that makes them act so awful to each other all the time. I don’t know what makes random people comment on my blog to tell me that I was a bitch in high school and no one liked me or what makes random girls drive up behind me and call me a whore from their car windows. And yet, both have happened. The second happened as recently as yesterday while I was bundled in winter outerwear, if that makes any sense to anyone. Things like that.. and guys talking about how much money they make to try to get a girl to go out with them/sleep with them, I’ll never understand.

I have never claimed to be a fashionable girl. As per my first Fashion Post, I actually think I’m quite the contrary. I’ll never be the girl who wore something first - except those sandals that wrap around your ankle and still have the thong part to them, those I 100% wore before anyone else did - or second, or really, all that well. I’m fine with being the girl who sees something looking good on someone else and who will want to do that herself.

I’m a fashion sheep. I’m one of the herd. But at least I try.

And trying, I have been. With colour for a change!

                       sweater: Forever21
                       skirt: (actually a onesie) Urban Outfitters
                       necklace: Brandy Melville

I’m really bad at doing colour without offsetting it with some sort of black, but old habits die hard.

This is the perfect example of me seeing an idea and not being able to sleep thinking about where I could possibly find a lime green sweater that I could cuff and wear with black shorts/skirt. Enter Forever 21, which offered me one, pre-cuffed. And by offered, I mean I had to dig through the entire store for a really long time to find the only one in Toronto in my size.

Good thing I found the exact same sweater at Urban Outfitters for $69 the day after I bought this one… for $27. I just saved myself $42 of buyer’s remorse.

No need to tell me that Sabo Skirt did it better. I do have eyes.

                  shirt: Forever21
                  shorts: Forever21

This is one of those things I bought without any further consideration of what I could possibly wear this with. And to be honest, I still don’t know. According to C, this shirt has a peplum [or IS a peplum?] or something and the point is, I bought it because it’s weird and something I would never have bought if it cost more than $18.

Which it didn’t, for the record.

I figured if I could pull this off - which I’m still not sure I did - then maybe I can start being one of those girls who’s wardrobes people envy. I’m sure you’ll see it on ShopMyClothes.com in a month because I hate it with literally every bottom I own. And it’s navy on the top so I feel weird wearing it with black.

I’m open to suggestions on this one because I love the royal blue and the open back concept. I’m also open to suggestions on how to accept my shoulder blades.

But if not, then this will just be one of those things I will have wished I would have left in Santa Monica on the rack where I found it.

dress: saboskirt.com

I’m sure everyone has items in their closet, tags still attached, that they occasionally see and get the pit in their stomach wondering why they didn’t save their $20 to buy 7 pirated DVDs from Chinatown instead. Or maybe that’s just me.

But sometimes, I hit the nail on the big, sparkly head.

For instance, this dress.

I’m in loooove with this dress. I dream about spinning around in this dress. I imagine having the best dates in this dress. And the sheer fact that I own this dress makes me even more okay with how some people just can’t help trying to make me feel like a piece of shit about the rest of my wardrobe.

I mean, hi; I don’t necessarily like that sometimes, every single Aritzia employee is dressed like an old man but I don’t feel the need to tell them about it. [Except I just did right now. And I apologize; that was rude of me.] But hey, it makes people feel good to make others feel bad. I just know it’ll be easier to deal with the negativity with the knowledge that the top half of my dress fucking sparkles.

And the bottom half of this one just looks fun.

sweater: H&M skirt: (actually a dress) Sirens
belt: (came with the dress) Sirens
bracelets: Forever21 (bangles) + H&M (pink thicker bangle)
leather jacket: H&M

As much as possible, I try not to have separate summer and winter wardrobes. In the summer, I’ll wear my sweaters at night. In the winter, I wear my shorts with tights and knee-high boots. I tend to do removable layers just in case I’m somewhere uncomfortably hot or uncomfortably cold and I just about always carry a back up article of clothing or accessory [hello belts] in my incredibly huge Lululemon bag… you know, just in case.

Just in case mid-day, the really cute coral and glitter sweater I bought that barely covers the waistline of my shorts, let alone my behind, makes me incredibly self-conscious that bits of my midsection are hanging out. And no, I’m not one of those girls who thinks she’s fat or says she thinks she’s fat. I just don’t think it’s appropriate to have my tummy hanging all over the place. Unless it’s bikini season, or I’m about to get it onnnnnn.

sweater: H&M
shorts: Forever21
necklace: Brandy Melville

I think a lot of the reason people are hurtful and nasty to other people is because there’s something about themselves they’re dissatisfied with. Myself included. I don’t think of myself as a malicious person by any means, but I’ve absolutely said hurtful things and made decisions that would be hurtful to others because of one of my own insecurities.

I may not think I’m fat or disgustingly ugly, but I’m far from what I would consider a secure girl. I’ve never had the most expensive wardrobe or been the friend people go to to borrow clothes from. I absolutely hate my hair which is why I wear extensions absolutely every day. I have “fat” days and bad makeup days and days where I feel so completely uncomfortable in my own skin it makes me want to crawl back in bed and start over with a new day. I check out girls more than I check out guys because sometimes I’m absolutely terrified the boyfriend is going to find some girl out there who’s prettier or sweeter or smarter than me and I need to find her first. And although there will always be some girl who has something I’ll never have, I decided that the best thing I can possibly do to combat my insecurity and be the bigger person in the battle against the negative people in the world is to love myself for all the things I do have to offer, and stop dwelling on the things that aren’t quite there yet.

Like my wardrobe.

Love you like a hooker loves crack,

Photo

Sun, 12 Feb 2012 15:59:48 -0500

Lucky Ducks.

Fri, 10 Feb 2012 16:42:00 -0500

I’m convinced I have the worst luck in the world. And if not the world, then definitely out of anyone I know; except maybe M who keeps getting followed around by random acts of bed bugs, despite being insanely cautious about it.

In a sense, I’m lucky to have experienced a lot of the wackness. It’s given me thicker skin, a better sense of what’s important [and in the same breath, what isn’t important], and has helped me overcome writer’s block on more than a few occasions. But sometimes it would be nice for my OCD and anxiety if things would just stay consistent for a while.

Anyone who knows me/stalks me on the internet probably already knows that I recently got back from my whirlwind trip to California. In 74 hours I got to see the breath-taking Santa Monica Pier, Laguna Beach, Newport Beach, Los Angeles, and Beverly Hills with a girl I was friends with long before I ever knew what a tampon was or how to kiss a boy. I had a fantastic time [save for the fact that I was gone only slightly longer than a brief coma or an extended nap], the weather was gorrrrrrgeous [helloooooo short-shorts and flip flops] and, if I hadn’t missed my ability to say no to an alcoholic beverage without feeling like a loser so much, I probably never would have left.

I was happy to gauge the West coast hospitality by the amount of Facebook check-ins, tagged photos and friend requests I got before I even met some of the people HSB is friends with and I wasn’t at all disappointed. Her roommates, neighbours, and friends were great, just as great as random strangers we met at brunch, people who held doors for me at the grocery store and basically anyone on the street. Must be all that natural Vitamin D they’re getting down there. And probably the alcohol as well.

But I guess whoever doles out luck to people must have thought my January was a little too kickass – it was, for the record – because on my second day in Califorinia, a piece of one of my many, horrendous, lead fillings fell out while biting into my morning bagel. The pain, although numbed with alcohol and excessive amounts of Advil [not at the same time, mostly], got to be pretty bad nearing my flight home so I made an expensive long distance call and a $300* emergency dentist appointment for the following day and TA DAAAA….. You’re look at the lucky winner of her very own ROOT CANAL!

See what I mean about my luck sucking? The only thing I’ve ever heard about root canals is “don’t get one.”

I guess this kind of goes back to my luck sucking when I was little and I had a dentist who not only hated people, but hated them having teeth. Over the course of a few months - possibly a year - he told me I had 10 or so cavities, which, let’s face it is a lot for a little girl who repeatedly chose grapes over candy. I had about 6 filled before he dug into my gum so deeply that I bled for hours after the appointment. Not surprisingly, I hate all dentists now.

Yep, one idiot spoiled it for the whole of their profession.

After finally finding a new dentist, I informed my him that there were still 4 or so cavities rotting in my skull, needing to be filled, but upon further examination, the new dentist found that I had approximately 0 cavities and questioned whether the “6” that had been previously filled actually needed to be filled or not. And if that wasn’t enough, one of those fillings had become so infected from the inside of the tooth, it requires a semi-urgent root canal.

Want to know when their first available appointment is?

Valentine’s Day.

But hey, I’m no stranger to shitty things happening on Valentine’s Day. As my bad luck would have it, I found out the dreaded ex was cheating on me 4 Valentine’s Days ago, I got broken up with ON Valentine’s Day because I was getting in the way of another boyfriend’s pot addiction, found out I was girl #4 on yet another guy’s list of Valentine’s visits, and even had one guy force me to wear see through white track pants and have dinner at McDonald’s.

That sh*t cray, right?

Yeah, that shit cray.

But as it turns out, an appointment opened up earlier and I got to get my root canal last night instead. BOY WAS IT FUN!

I thought my luck was looking up for a second when I won $130 in a Super Bowl pool on Sunday, but turns out, I think that was only to soften the blow of having to be re-Lidocane’d 3 times during my fucking proceedure. As if having my jaw propped open for 3 hours wasn’t enough torture for the day.

I guess being able to chew on both sides of your mouth is a slightly over-rated ability anyway. I much prefer having all of my appendages and all 5 senses in tact, so I guess I really shouldn’t be complaining too much. It’s just that in terms of the general population’s everyday luck, more often than not, I end up geting a bit shittier end of the stick.

Although I guess if we’re being fair, things usually end up evening themselves out. I found a TTC token on the street today. So that’s like gaining $133.10 in a week. Minus a $200 [my 20%] root canal and $60 I spent at the Dufferin Mall.

All in all, I’d say I’m more up than down right now.

So my luck can suck it.

*I’ve never been so thankful for dental insurance in my entire life.

It's not what you said.

Fri, 03 Feb 2012 12:24:37 -0500

Let me take a minute to talk about tone. As in, the manner in which you convey something to someone; be it via text message, face-to-face, phone call, whatever.

I think it’s safe to say you’ve heard the phrase “it’s not what you say, but how you say it” being used in situations where there has been some kind of colossal miscommunication that’s upset everyone involved. And lately I’ve wanted to rip my hair out [both extensions and real hair – so I’m talking like, a lottt of hair here, people] numerous times about the way people have been talking, texting, blogging, and otherwise.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I am absolutely a head-over-heels, overly emotional person. I’m incredibly sensitive to people’s tones. I get easily stressed out by the tones in which I envision people speaking to me in when I can’t decipher how I’m supposed to take what they’re saying. All of these things make me incredibly annoying - I’m aware that people hate when I ask if something’s wrong - but I think they’re also a huge part of what makes me a good person.

I hate going to bed angry. If there’s one thing my parents [as one parenting unit, oddly] taught me, it’s to never go to bed with negative feelings towards someone. If things can’t be rectified with a phone call, a hug or a truce, I’d write it out and let it go so the boogeyman didn’t gnaw away at my dreams. There’s nothing worse than waking up with puffy eyes, mascara all over my white pillow cases, and Kleenex lightly sprinkled around my bedroom floor and knowing that whatever it is that caused all of that in the first place is up and ready to duke it out in Round 2.

I haaaaaate text messages that start with “Umm” or “Well.” I go on automatic defensive mode because the second you start a sentence with something that sounds like you’re going to lay into me, I assume you’re being a bitch.

Just like I assume any text message from the boyfriend that doesn’t include the word “babe” means that he’s mad at me for something. Even when I’ve done nothing wrong and even when nothing else about the message sounds like something’s wrong.

Like I said, I’m sensitive to this stuff. [And a bit nuts.]

Oddly though, I’ve never really been the girl who’s always paranoid people are mad at me. Sure, I’ve asked before when I’ve been feeling particularly self-absorbed, fearing that mayyybe I was being dismissive or preoccupied or ________________ [insert other terrible quality about myself here], but I’ve never been that girl that felt she had to people-please her way through life. In fact, to the contrary, I often find myself at a crossroads in the decision to say something that may offend/hurt/annoy someone or keep my mouth shut like my mother always told me to if I didn’t have something nice to say. And I almost always pick the road that leads to pissing people off.

It’s not always or even often a deliberate act to upset someone - although in some cases, they would completely deserve it if it were - it’s moreso about my own integrity. Do I compromise something I feel and need to express to save someone else’s feelings? Do I keep my thoughts to myself because people are just not supposed to say certain things?

No. That’s not me. That’s never been me.

But tone is something I struggle with too. I’ve occasionally re-read things I’ve written and thought, “wow, I’m kind of a raging bitch” [although not always completely undeservingly] or accidentally one-word response’d people who probably wondered what the hell my problem was.

I find myself adding extra exclamation marks when I’m talking about something I know I’m supposed to be interested in and am not, to offset people questioning my mood - “she put an exclamation mark at the end so she must not be too mad about it” - and/or to lighten the mood when I worry other people might be being a #grumpsterinadumpster.

I realize that this is probably a female thing; the worrying, the wondering, the taking things completely wrong. But having been a girl my entire life, I can tell you that although boys might have less to deal with in the bullshit department, girls are almost always right about things that feel somewhat “off.”

Take, for example, the girl who stood there and grabbed the boyfriend’s ass while telling me I was really, really pretty. Even if I hadn’t seen her hands wandering south onto his derriere [which, for the record, I did], the tone of her “you’re so pretty” was pathetically unconvincing and malicious. And, shocker, I was right about her being an absolute cunt. Just ask around.

Or the girl who I reached out to shake hands with at our first introduction, who not only didn’t introduce herself, say hello, or shake my hand, but actually walked past me, shoulder checking me on her way by. Bitch. Tone, body language, whatever; it speaks for itself.

I’d argue that tone is one of those things that people are just plain not good at, generally. Half the time we’re being complete assholes to people and we only sometimes realize it. The other half of the time we’re purposely using tone to convey what we’re incapable of just coming out and saying to people - “you’re annoying me,” “stop talking to me,” “I’m not in the mood for this right now,” “you’re an idiot.”

A lot of the time it really isn’t what you’re saying, it’s how you’re saying it. And if I’m annoying you with “what’s wrongs,” it’s probably because how you’re saying it isn’t very nice.

Umm.. whatever,

Tell me lies, tell me sweet, little lies.

Wed, 25 Jan 2012 22:54:00 -0500

We are creatures of lies.

For whatever reason, more times than not, admitting the truth is far harder than concocting a lie and taking all necessary steps to keep it up. I’ve known my fair share of liars. I’ve lied a great deal, myself. To be honest, at any given time, resume/LinkedIn profile is approximately 38% lies. I can tell you the last time I told a decently significant lie, felt guilty about it, and confessed almost right away, but I can’t recall the amount of times (if any) I lie on a daily basis about things that are completely unimportant.

“Yeah, I just bought a box of Emergen-C packets to help me get over this cold.” [No, I am going to buy a box of Emergen-C packets but I haven’t yet]

“I really like that sweater.” [That is the ugliest effing sweater I have ever seen]

Liking a photo on Facebook or Instagram of something you could care less about but know you’re ‘supposed’ to like because of the people who will be offended if you don’t… yeah, to me, that’s considered lying too.

And I do it alllllllllllllllll the time.

Don’t tell me you didn’t like that photo of my lips + cleavage + necklace out of obligation, because I know you did.

It’s the people who lie maliciously that I really have the problem with. It’s the people who can’t even distinguish to themselves the difference between the truth and something they’ve completely fabricated that really piss me off. It’s the people who say the most absurd things to people to save their own ass or to bring others down that I really just don’t understand.

Like the girl who told my boss, when I was a Summer Camp Counselor, that I was behaving inappropriately with some of the children at camp. Or the girl who sat at a table next to me and told my friends a completely made-up story about how I did all these heroic and friend-worthy things for her when she was in between apartments and didn’t get along with her roommates. Sure, it was a nice lie and it made me look like kind of a kick-ass friend but it wasn’t true. And she knew I knew that.

And I said nothing. Until now. So I suppose in that instance, I lied about that too.

Just like I lie to myself every Sunday night when I say I will stop eating McDonalds to try to get in shape for California.

I guess it’s easier to lie when the truth is only mediocre at best. But the truth is, I shouldn’t be complaining about the things I can’t change and instead focusing on the things I’d never want to in a million years. My life right now, for example.

I was excited to start 2012. I know it’s sometimes hard for people to just be happy for others who seemingly have it together [and trust me, I’m a far, far cry from having it together] so I won’t dwell too much on the good, but less than a full month in, 2012 has far exceeded my expectations for the year, and I haven’t even gone to California yet.

I got to celebrate my birthday with my mom, my babe of a boyfriend, and a medium-sized group of truly fantastic girls. There was absolutely no drama. No one took my birthday excitement [or lack thereof] away from me. I didn’t have to pretend not to want to punch people in the face this year. And on Monday morning, after consuming an entire bottle of birthday wine post-dinner celebration, I have never wanted to take off my boot and throw up in it so much in my life.

In the best possible way.

My second January weekend was spent with one of my best friends from both university and life, celebrating her 25th birthday, catching up on the last year of our lives, and remembering what it was like to have girl friends who didn’t write blog posts behind each other’s backs.

Last weekend was my 12^th consecutive year as a volunteer face painter and Swan dresser-upper for Stratford Winterfest – a 3 day, outdoor family festival in the S. Dot. I normally dislike going back to Stratford due to having approximately 0 friends remaining there, but every 3^rd weekend in January makes an exception to that rule. It was a hectic and extremely stressful weekend but it was, as expected, very rewarding and fun. Even the whole being around children thing.

Oddly, Winterfest is an exception to my “I hate children” rule as well. As it happens, the parents of these kids are generally far worse than the kids themselves. Your child does not want their face painted if they are screaming bloody murder on the chair in front of me or if you need to hold all 4 of their appendages down so they “sit still for mommy.”

Some people shouldn’t have children.

I’ve spent the last week in and out of being sick, going tanning, trying desperately to think of any little thing I could possibly forget to pack, illegally downloading music, and counting down the days - now hours - until my flight to California, WHICH, BY THE WAY, IS IN 33 HOURS!

I’ve packed colours, I’ve upgraded my iPhone to include a US data package [helloooooo Instagram & Twitter], and I’ve probably annoyed the hell out of everyone I know talking about how incredibly excited I am to be going to a place that will be 24 degrees and sunny when I get there. To be honest, it still hasn’t set in that I’ll be traveling alone but I can’t help but be a little proud that I finally did something spontaneous and un-me.

And it’s never felt better, not a word of a lie.

I neverrrrrr reblog anything. I don’t believe in...

Thu, 19 Jan 2012 16:56:00 -0500

I neverrrrrr reblog anything. I don’t believe in reblogging - not because I don’t believe in posting other people’s awesome photos or for giving credit where credit is due; I don’t do it because I’d much rather write something witty, self-depracating, insightful, inspired, sad, upbeat, emotional or interesting about myself and the things that happen (or don’t happen) in my life.

It is my blog after all and I can do what I want. And the last thing I want is for anyone to take that away from me.

They can take my pirated Chinatown DVDs instead. I’m fine with paying $25 for the 4th installment of Twilight, just don’t take away my blog.

Seriously, go educate yourself on this. I did. Do it for the kittens. I mean it.

LOVE YOU,
pink♥crush

thedailywhat:

Animated GIF of the Day: An important reminder from blackout participant The Oatmeal of all the wonderful things at stake in sitting idly by while SOPA/PIPA are allowed to pass.

Look it up.

[oatmeal.]

I’ve never done a “What I’m Wearing” post before.. probably because...

Sun, 15 Jan 2012 15:49:00 -0500

I’ve never done a “What I’m Wearing” post before.. probably because before Instagram, I didn’t realize it was so hip to be vain. But since it is, I have absolutely no problem hopping on that bandwagon. Especially since I’d consider my sense of style to be “hopping on the whatever everyone else is wearing” bandwagon.

I absolutely do not claim to be a fashionable person. I say with a fair amount of certainty that when people think of me, their first instinct isn’t to acquaint me with style. If anything, I’m living proof that you can dress decently and borderline-fashionably on a budget. Because I can’t think of a single article of clothing I own that costs more than $80 [I’d argue most are under $25] and most of them are staple items you can mix and match with other things to create entirely new outfits.

Yes, I can put an outfit together and yes, I occasionally wow myself when I’m able to pull off something new and out of my comfort-zone but I would say that on the spectrum of fashionable, I tend to err on the side of caution. I wear a ton of neutrals [blacks and whites mostly] and I absolutely have to be comfortable. I’m a huge fan of over-eating so I rarely wear anything that showcases my figure, except for my legs and occasionally, when I have it [read: when I’ve got a double push-up bra on], my cleave.

Probably my most favourite and most frequently worn items in my closet are tops/dresses/sweaters that look like they belong to pregnant women. And I’m completely comfortable with that. I find ways around that. Just because you wear over-sized articles of clothing does not mean you have to look over-sized too.

shirt: Wilfred
tights: TNA
booties: Sirens
cardigan: Urban Outfitters
necklace: Tiffany & Co.
bracelet: Iron Plume
watches: Esquire + Canadian Watch Importers (ie. Chinatown)

For me, that’s where a lot of wrist-bling and big, statement necklaces come in. It’s easier for me to dress-up a non-dressy outfit than to feel comfortable in something extravagant and cutting edge. Partially because I think people are judging me when I try to dress differently and partially because I’m judging myself for doing it, just the same.

I was that girl that walked into Michael Kors, tried on the $500 watch and said “fuck it, I’m going to Chinatown to find an old-man watch that looks exactly the same” and you know what? I did.

For $30.

watches: Canadian Watch Importers (large) + Esquire (small)
bracelet: (bangles) Ardene

Lately, I’ve been really into lipstick and matching nail polish, despite my dear boyfriend’s hatred for both. I don’t even know if that’s what you’re “supposed” to do - match your lips to your nails - but I love how much more girly [and to be honest, pretty] I feel when I’m wearing one or the other, or both. I know, it sounds ridiculous but when people mistake you (via email, etc) as a boy that many times, it’s always nice to prove them wrong in person. And lipstick does that. Amongst other things like boobs, hair extensions, and you know, general being-a-girl-ness.

lips: M.A.C. Sheen Supreme (shade: Insanely It)
necklace: Forever21
top: (actually a onesie) Urban Outfitters

Because my name [and my enjoyment of watching hockey, going fishing, and assembling IKEA furniture] is unisex/borderline masculine, I like to indulge in my fair share of extremely girly outfits. I loooooooove sequins, tutus and anything pink, frilly or lace but often find it difficult to wear any of these things outside the confines of a camera lens or my birthday party.

Until I found these… These are the girly items I can incorporate into my everyday attire that don’t have people calling me a Carrie Bradshaw rip-off behind my back.

skirt: H&M
belt: H&M
top: H&M
necklace: Tiffany & Co.

top: H&M
skirt: (actually a onesie) Urban Outfitters
belt: H&M
necklace: Aldo Accessories
watch: Canadian Watch Importers

Not surprisingly, I’m a huge fan of black. It’s slimming, it goes with absolutely everything [including my kitten] and it’s a nice accent to my blonde hair. As hard as I try, about once a week I usually end up wearing an entirely black outfit and that is something I’ve just come to accept. The blonde hair usually acts as to offset any “goth” remarks that may come out of this happening, but even still, whenever possible [meaning, whenever stuff isn’t dirty], I’ll throw a little pattern into the mix.

top: H&M
skirt: (actually a onesie) Urban Outfitters
blazer: Dynamite
necklace: Tiffany & Co.

top: Aritzia
jeans: (jeggings) Sirens
scarf: Ardene
necklace: Tiffany & Co.
jacket: H&M
shoes: Ardene

As you can probably tell, I really don’t have a lot of variety to my wardrobe. I wear the same things a lot because I’m comfortable in them and because I’m a creature of habit. Every morning I’ll try on 8 different outfits and have half of my closet on the floor in hopes of trying something new before I settle on a similar variation of an outfit I wore last week. And I’m completely fine with that. I’ll do this for a while until one day I’ll decide that I’m sick of everything I own and will go out and buy [or in this case, receive as a birthday present] something that is so not me that I fall head-over-heels in love with it. Case in point…

dress: Vero Moda from ASOS.com
bracelet: Iron Plume

To be honest, I’m not that interested in fashion at all. Occasionally I’ll get on a kick where I absolutely haveeee to have a Michael Kors watch or a Marc Jacobs bag or a Stella McCartney sequined blazer [none of which I own, by the way] but for the most part, I’m comfortable desiring things that are well within my price range. I don’t need to shop extravagantly to feel good about myself and I certainly don’t need to prove to anyone that I know what good style is.

Lately, I’ve taken to thrift shopping - not that I’m very good at it yet - and trying to build outfits out of old items in the back of my closet. So far, moderately successful and really, really fun!

scarf: Aldo Accessories
coat: Goodwill [I didn’t buy it but totally should have]

Of course it feels great to have pretty things that other people are envious of but there are far more important things in life than owning extravagant things. But if you absolutely have to shop sometimes [which, let’s face it, we all do sometimes] all you need are a few solid items [they don’t have to be expensive] to act as the backbone to your wardrobe and you’ll survive juuuuust fine.

Happy shopping, babies!
XXOO

I do what I want.

Wed, 04 Jan 2012 17:16:00 -0500

Can you believe I FINALLY booked my trip to California? Because I effing can’t!

I feel like I’ve done a lot of growing up in recent weeks/months and in honour of my 26th birthday [4 days and counting, friends], I decided the best birthday present I could ever give myself was to force myself to get a little uncomfortable and fly across the continent to see my HSB (high school bestie).

I’ve lead a pretty “safe” life; I mean, obviously besides being hit by moving vehicles, stalked by a guy in high school, had someone offer to murder me, you know… those don’t really count because those weren’t technically my decisions. I mean, yes, I chose to cross the street one day when the cross walk displayed the “walk” symbol but I didn’t choose to end up getting hit, falling back to the curb and having the police accuse me of not seeing the driver’s skin colour correctly.

Totally lost sight of the point there for a sec.

I’ve spoken my mind when I knew I shouldn’t, I’ve lied, made stupid decisions and played it fast and loose with a mickey of vodka and a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol when I wasn’t getting enough attention from my parents. But most of the choices I’ve made are what I would consider safe.

No arrests, no broken bones, no tattoos on the front of my neck. I’m a bologna-and-ketchup-sandwiches-and-boxed fish-sticks baby. I don’t do dare devil. I just don’t know how to.

I’m not saying I haven’t lived. I’ve lived. I’ve really made the most of never having left this continent.

Plus, I’ve also got the whole love thing under my belt. So I really shouldn’t complain about being a Ms. Safety Pants. I could be worse things. Like completely psychotic. Or brunette.

I just get down on myself sometimes when I see people with their shit completely together. I’ve said it before [even though I totally stole it from this article], it really is easier to deal with when things are going to shit. It’s easier to feel good about your own life - about my life - when I see other people jumping from job to job, having relationship problems or just being generally miserable.

I didn’t say I was proud of myself.

I just fear that my shit may be as together as it’s ever going to be and frankly, that’s a bit concerning.

I remember to give the kittens their medicine, I mostly remember what groceries I went to the store for. I don’t forget people’s birthdays or important events. I pay my rent on time and have never lost or dropped my cell phone in the toilet or a glass of wine. I’m responsible. I’m a good friend. It just literally scares the hell out of me that every day is some new kind of unpredictable. I hate circumstances I can’t control.

I apologize for being the most boring human being alive. I feel like I should go bungee jumping or delete my Facebook account or something. Get a little spicy.

Although I occasionally go through phases where I remove a whack of friends from Facebook. So does that make me halfway to spicy?

For years now, I’ve had this rule where if, on someone’s birthday I don’t feel the urge to make the biggest deal about their birthday [read: “OMG HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABES! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE ___ YEARS OLD! GRANDMAAA! HAHA LOVE YOU”], I’ll just delete them altogether.

I mean, come on, Facebook is not real life. I’m days away from my 26th birthday; sometimes it’s time to grow up. Sometimes people just grow apart from each other, sometimes you don’t want to give someone who said dick-all to you in high school the option to creep photos of your new kittens and sometimes, you’d rather pretend some of the people you mistakenly let into your life just don’t exist anymore.

Annnnd other times you just can’t bear to see that yet another one of your ex-boyfriends found “the one” and got engaged to the girl he dated immediately after you broke up. Or in most of my cases, the girl he was sleeping with while he was still dating me.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I feel anything for these people. Trust me, I don’t. They call it a break-up for a reason and I’m more than happy to be rid of all of my ex-whatever-they-weres.. it’s just that feeling like a practice girlfriend for the rest of their lives is riiiiight up there with the worst feelings in the world.

It’s up there with feeling like no matter how hard you try, you’re just never going to figure “it” out. Whatever the hell IT is.

California, 23 days and you’re my bitch. I’m starting to get excited.

XXOO

Don't say it if you don't mean it.

Sun, 01 Jan 2012 20:02:00 -0500

Dear 2011,

Would you look at that; I survived you.

It’s funny how many people seem so happy you’re gone; how many people seem so eager to get on with 2012; how many people say you were the worst, as if they hadn’t said the exact same thing about 2010, 2009, 2008…

But negativity is the nature of people, it seems. It’s far easier to find something to be upset about than it is to be completely content and it’s funny how when it comes down to the end of the year, it’s easier to remember the bad than to embrace the good. I feel like the New Year brings out the “new start” mentality in people who already have it pretty good to begin with.

But I guess that just helps reiterate my point. Instead of being grateful for the people and experiences the last year has accumulated, the countdown brings on a series of resolutions and relief that the year has come to an end so a new beginning can start.

Those people make me sad. People in general make me sad because no matter how hard other people have it, we can always find a way to feel sorry for ourselves more deeply.

2011, you and I had a great year together. Sure, it wasn’t all sparkles and cupcakes but if there’s one thing I’ve learned is that the bad only makes you appreciate the good all that much more. Sure I may have been threatened with a fake lawsuit, had to confront the reality that you really don’t get to choose your family, had numerous, stupid fights with people I love, got hit by a Purolator truck and re-learned the hard way that sometimes you just don’t get what you want, but I left 2011 with incredibly fond memories and an eagerness to see if 2012 can top all of the things that made my 2011 amazing.

I turned 25, went on my first plane ride, learned how to play Roulette, met amazing people, walked the streets of New York City, did volunteer work, got an incredible job, settled into my own, grown-up apartment, adopted 2 unbelievable kittens, booked my very first trip to California, and best of all, I feel 100% okay with the person I’ve become over the last year.

Absolutely no regrets.

It’s been real, 2011, but now it’s 2012 and I against the world.

… and if we do, we’ve always got 2013 to get it right.

LOVE YOU.
xxoo

Just wanted to send out a big...

Sun, 11 Dec 2011 18:24:35 -0500

If you weren’t such an ugly human being, I would feel sorry for you.