pretty girls poop too

Today I said “obvs” to the Vice-President of Finance.

Today … this afternoon … I said “obvs” to the fucking Vice-President of Finance.

This was followed by some deep and dark self-reflection. Have I really sent that many texts? IM’ed with just a tad too much passion? Has my basic ability to form small, simple words in the context of a term so common even toddlers can understand and use it perfectly gone out the window, along with my ability to actually use my cell phone to call people?? I think it has. But what can I do? If I start talking in big words I would just be seen as loquacious albeit condescendingly sarcastic with a touch of good humour (aka a total douche). Yet if I continue on this path I’ll be saying LOL NM JK to my boss at my next review and before you know it I’m texting everybody from my imaginary cell phone because I can’t afford a real phone because I live in a refrigerator box BECAUSE I’M BROKE AND HOMELESS … unless you count that refrigerator box as my home, in which case I just live in a really shitty house and have no money … which still sucks anyhow.

Fuck it. I’m going to start being one of those people who correct grammar on Facebook. THEY HAVE FUCKING SPELL CHECK. I feel it is my duty to society, and also to my own integrity, to point out those opinionated assholes who can’t even distinguish between “they are” and “those people’s property (whether it be a name or whatever the fuck)” despite the fact we all learned it back when Pogs were selling like crack on the playground.

10 points for the most expletive-filled paragraph ever written on PGPT, and 10 points for trailing off and having no real conclusion to this post.

What started me thinking about this topic was the insane amount of media attention (social and traditional alike) that Ms. Samantha Brick has received and the conversations I had with my friends about this following the shitstorm.

If I get told one more time I’m beautiful just the way I am I’m going to lose it. Because as much as the Dove Foundation and every mother in the world wants us to believe it, it’s simply not true for all of us. Let’s just say it – there are some really ugly women out there. Am I being mean? I don’t think so. I think if all of you can honestly sit there and say you’ve never elbowed your friend in a food court so hard they spit out their CinnZeo just to point out the freakshow wearing the Tazmanian Devil t-shirt, fried blonde mullet and multiple chins (complete with zits in every stage) standing in line at Arby’s (of course) then you’re a dirty liar. Unless of course you’re taking me very literally, in which case you’re probably not a liar, but you’re also missing my point completely and kind of just being a jerk, because you know what I mean.

So now that you all think I’m a shallow asshole, hear me out. Yes, I can openly admit that there are uggos out there. I can also openly admit that there are women so beautiful it simply can’t be denied. They are perfect. I have no response.

Then, there’s the rest of us who fall somewhere in between that spectrum. And that’s okay! I am well aware of the fact that I’m not gracing any magazine covers. At the same time, I’m just as aware of the fact that I still get checked out by those men who haven’t yet seemed to learn that I can see them staring directly at my breasts. So my question is – why are we all so obsessed with categorizing women as either “beautiful” or “not?” There’s about a million points on the scale in between that that are being left out, and are thus making us all feel like shit when we don’t measure up to Kim Kardashian’s ridiculously perfect proportions.

Maybe I’m simplifying it, but seriously, I think we’d all be better off if we thought more like this guy:

Warning: This isn’t going to be ridiculous. It’s an article written by Ashley Judd about media criticizing women, and how sad and damaging it is that women not only participate, but initiate. Love, love, love it. I think it’s so important that we all at least give this point of view a listen.

Read the article here.

I’ve recently come to a startling realization: I’m boring. Call it what you want – dependable, predictable, reliable – I’m boring as shit. Gone are the days when I used to get a tattoo on a whim (a phase evidenced by my hesitation to ever go swimming with my boyfriend’s family lest they see the tokens of my wilder youth), when I would – nay, could – get wasted every night of the week and get into shenanigans of epic proportions and still make my 8 a.m. class the next day; an era when you never knew what I would do next. Now you know exactly what I’m going to do next. You probably know it before I even do. Originally I was hoping this post would somehow weave into all these reasons why I’m NOT actually boring, but in fact still super cool and awesome fun, but instead all I can think of are all the reasons why I just can’t party like I’m 15 anymore:

• I fall asleep before midnight every Friday
• I pay my bills the day they’re due
• I always signal
• My taxes were done the day I got my T4
• I know who I’m having sex with next
• I still play Mario, just like I did in 1994
• My hangovers take entire weekends to get over

Is this just a natural, late-twenties state of depression that is reached when your body finally can’t keep up with the absolute shit haul you’ve just pulled it through, lined with shots and pub crawls and trysts? I mean, don’t get me wrong, as I wouldn’t trade my bf for the world, but maybe when you’ve settled into a relationship with somebody that you’re still really into, even after arguing over name brand versus store brand Sidekicks (or “Compliments” for you poor folks like us) in the aisle of a local Sobey’s while a two-year-old kid with glasses gawks on at his inevitable future of domestic bliss, you just sort of stop caring about being new and exciting? Fuck that. I’m gonna go do something crazy. Soon. Like stay up past 10 on a weeknight. HIDE YO KIDS!

Welp, welcome to 2012. I heard that we’re all gonna die this year … that should be neat. If that’s the case, though, there are a few things left on my bucket list that I would like to take care of:

1. Quit my job, take what’s left of my “assets” aka my car, the contents of my one-bedroom apartment (although you may have to fight my boyfriend for the video games) and my amazing collection of tiny mugs from around the world (shut up), and travel. Because let’s be real – who has the time or money to actually do this in real life the way it was meant to be done besides that b*tch Elizabeth Gilbert and her stupid perfect life in that book we all read and/or forced guys that want to sleep with us to see in theatres.
2. Eat. Seriously though, if I have one year left to live you better BELIEVE I’m going to try everything under the sun before I go. Except beets. Those can stop existing any time now, thanks.
3. Write a book. Lame? I once wrote a book in Grade 2 about a girl … well, about in girl in grade 2. So it was more of a diary, WHATEVER. Seriously though, having some personal memoirs that nobody will be able to read after the end of the world would be cool, albeit completely useless I guess if everybody’s dead.
4.  Photobomb a celebrity. Heck, even a PSEUDO-celebrity would do.
5. Inappropriate list item that involves my man. I’m pretty sure his mom reads this blog so if you’re reading this, what I mean to say is we will be holding hands and going for long walks.

What would you guys do?

K.

We’ve all had them.

The dreaded drunken rants. The texts we can’t take back. The morning-after-reviews-of-messages that make us cringe with regret. Some are worse than others. Some of my own I regret … some I wouldn’t take back.

None of S.’s rants would I ever take back.

Because they are hilarious.

#1. The College Rant

Let me set the scene: it’s Halloween. We’re at a party at the college bar. It’s nearing the end of the evening and as the crowd gets wilder, it also begins to thin out as people couple off, get sick or just go home after an unsuccessful evening. S. and I had come together, as a couples costume (of course), Bonnie & Clyde. She was Clyde, and I was that tramp Bonnie. We were both only 19 (welcome to Canada, friends, where we love our beer so much teenagers are legal).

Anyways, I ran into a boy I was crushing on and flirting with real bad. Some guy who I’ve now been dating for two years and live with (or whatever), so you can see the level of my excitement at the thought of OMG kissing him upstairs in the food court where nobody could see us.

Or so we thought.

Whilst thinking that we had total privacy, who should walk – no – She-Ra Walk of Doom ­– towards us, but S., in all her drunken glory.

Fingers were WAVED.
SNAPS were given.
We got told, in NO uncertain terms, that we both sucked and to come back downstairs so that this one lesbian would stop hitting on her, already.

At the end of this glorious, surprisingly eloquent (if not partially slurred) rant, we were speechless. Her job was done. It was perfect. We had no reply.

So she spins around on her heels and positively sashays away from us, still basking in the warm glow of her smackdown. She reaches the top of a flight of stairs, to which we can only see the top, but which leads to the front door of the very busy party (see diagram A).

She casts one last glare in our direction, takes one step forward … and begins to tumble down the stairs like a Slinky back in 1989.

The crazy part? NOBODY SAW THIS HAPPEN.

Nobody.

S. topples, like a sack of potatoes, ass over hat and hat over ass, into a crowded bar lobby … and NOBODY SEES IT. Girl got away with it totally! She brushed off her dirty knees, back and elbows, straightens herself out and picks up that sashay right where she left off, like the champ she is. I only know about the fall because she told me about it. Which is why I love her, and also why this is one of my top three favorite drunken rants by S.

Stay tuned for #2 and #3!

K.

I’ve got writer’s block.

Bad.

To fix this I’ve been baking a lot and doing my nails. However, it just seems to be making my jeans tight but hot damn if my nails don’t look fresh every day. Still  no writing inspiration though.

So, they say to write what you know. Right now, I know that these nails look sick and are very easy to do. Try it out!

K.

So, I’ve just started a new job for the first time in four years. New assignments, new office, new city, new people … new bathrooms. Yup, this post is going to really take this blog back to its roots.

At my old office, I knew everybody. We had gotten drunk together, cried together, sent snarky emails followed by smiley-face emails to each other, eaten countless lunches together and hated all the same people together (the one thing I’m convinced can truly bond people). So, I knew their patterns, and I knew exactly when to use the bathroom and still get some semblance of privacy, despite the fact that my pants were around my ankles a mere 20 feet from the desk of the president of my company – a dude, no less. I had even gotten to the point where I just didn’t CARE if the girls in my office knew what was up. We had gotten there. We had broken the barrier and it was a beautiful thing.

But now. Oh God now I have to figure it all out again. I’ve just been doing what I’m sure is physical harm to myself by ignoring my body and its natural and totally normal needs – especially after chugging two litres of coffee a day – for the whole day, the whole ride home (note: I literally have to drive three different highways to get to and from work, not to mention all the city driving) and until I can convince my boyfriend, who I now live with full-time, to “just go in the other room and watch sports on a high volume for a period of time that you will not notice because God help you if you even GUESS what I’m doing or how long it may or may not take me.” This is quite a process, and I miss the freedom my old routine gave me. Do I dare try to re-break barriers with my new co-workers? They seem nice enough … do I just need to get drunk with them once? That seems to be the best “team building” I’ve ever been a part of.

Sigh. Well, until then, I’ll just continue to avoid fibre and try to stay dehydrated. That seems like the easiest and healthiest option as opposed to letting people know I’m a human being … right?

K.