When it comes to life, I’m a huge fan of honesty. I wouldn’t have a blog like this if I wasn’t. I believe that the truth is important, and that it is my duty in life to tell it to the world. That being said, there are still some things that I do not enjoy talking about. These are the things that happen behind closed doors.
Now, don’t get all giggly and weird on me yet, people. I’m talking about bodily functions, not the horizontal mambo, if you will.
I cannot for the life of me understand why people deem it appropriate to tell me a detailed story about what just happened to them in the bathroom. Or shall I say what they just did in the bathroom. I know what a bathroom is used for. Therefore, I am aware of why you were in there. I do not need to know the specifics; I have a pretty good idea.
If something extremely out of the ordinary happened in there, maybe you should consider telling your doctor instead of me. I’m sure they would be of more help anyways. Other than that, when it comes to bodily functions, what happens behind closed doors should stay behind closed doors.
I rarely take the time to go to the movies. These days, it’s expensive and honestly, I’d rather put the money towards a new pair of shoes, or the latest season of Grey’s Anatomy on DVD than spend it at the theater. However, every now and again I receive a gift card for the cinema and decide to treat myself to a chick flick.
Since I visit the theater only once in a blue moon, when I do decide to go I want to spend my time there in a relaxed and content manner. This means I like to put my feet up on the chair in front of me.
Yes, I know that its against the movie theater code of conduct. I should keep my feet on the ground in front of me. However, if the theater isn’t packed, I see no reason why I shouldn’t put my feet up to enjoy the movie. I did pay for it, after all. The thing that bothers me most about my little habit is when people decide to prove a point to me.
Considering I only do this when there are hardly any people in theater, I become greatly annoyed when one of the 6 people watching the movie decides to plant themselves right in front of me. Point taken - its wrong to put my feet up - now move so I can enjoy this luxury. There are plenty of seats and you’re being a diva. If it bothers you that much when people put their feet on the seats when the theater isn’t that busy, I suggest you do us all a favour and subscribe to Netflix or the movie channel on your television. Sure, you’ll have to wait until the movie is released on DVD to see it, but you’ll save yourself the aggravation and “accidental” kick to the head you’d get if you sat in front of someone like me. It’s win-win, really. So hop on that, or hop on over to another seat.
I’m thankful for a lot of things in life. For one, I am alive. That’s something to celebrate. For another, I have managed to escape having a peanut allergy. Bonus. Sometimes though, I think we forget to be thankful for the little things, like toilet paper. We have to admit, without it life would be pretty messy. In fact, it would be downright disgusting. So let’s take a minute to appreciate what toilet paper has too offer us.
This being said, I must proclaim my absolute hatred for modern day toilet paper advertisements. Yes, toilet paper is a gift. Yes, I appreciate it’s value. This does not mean that you get to sell it to me as if it was made of gold stolen from Neptune’s palace. I’m already going to buy it, people. Most toilet paper adds these days start out sounding like a commercial for nostalgic childhood memories. “It’s like a warm sweater on a cold day…” Oh, is it now? I didn’t know that. “It’s like a hug when you need it most.” Wow, you’re getting deep there Shakespeare. Someone get me a hankie.
IT IS TOILET PAPER. I use it to wipe my behind after unspeakable acts. I’m not going to wrap myself in it and have a good cry.
Stop the pretentious rambling. I want to live in a world where a toilet paper commercial simply says, “I work.” Honestly, that’s all it needs to say because that it all I need to know. There is no need to get emotional about it. After all, it’s toilet paper, not a tissue.
Can I be blunt for a second ? Not everyone in the population was meant to wear a bikini, and only a select few of those who are allowed that privilege are granted the golden honour of wearing a string bikini. The majority of us should settle for conservative (and sun smart) “tank-inis” or one pieces. This is just the way things should be when it comes to swim wear.
After spending a week in Cuba, however, I have discovered that very few people subscribe to the same bathing suit guidelines that I do. This, my friends, is tragic.
I’m not saying that everyone who isn’t a Victoria Secret model shouldn’t wear a bikini. What I am saying is that you need to make smart swim wear choices. Think about it for a second. Swim wear is another form of clothing, correct ? So, treat it like such. If you would never leave the house in a half shirt to flaunt your tummy, why would you wear a bathing suit that does that ? You shouldn’t, yet you do. Because of this, you spend your whole day at the pool with a sour look on your face glaring at all the teenage girls within 30 feet of you. Sounds like a party to me.
WEAR WHAT MAKES YOU FEEL GOOD AND LOOK GOOD. Trust me, it will pay off.
Yes, going pee in a one piece should be an Olympic event. I hear you, sister. But if it means you can lie around without wondering if your stomach pudge jiggles when you laugh, isn’t it worth it ? Just practice the Quick-Pee-Bathing-Suit-Pull-Aside. It’s tricky at first, but after the first few times the positive effects of a good bathing suit will outweigh the fear of piddling on your finger. I promise. The beach and the pool are places for fun. So, next time you go, ensure that you’ll participate in the joy by wearing a feel good suit. You, and everyone else, will reap the benefits. And isn’t that just beachy ?
I am not a beach person. This is mostly because I am a pale white girl from Canada, and partially because I am a ginger. I’m okay with it though. I have accepted that the sun is not my friend. Another thing that is not my friend is strangely related to the sun.
This “thing” is the Speedo. Can anyone tell me why they exist on this planet ? What exactly is their purpose in this world, besides making my retinas non-existent ?
Here’s my thing: no man should ever wear a Speedo. I don’t give a flying rubber duck if you have a body designed in the image of Poseidon and your abs were hand sculpted by the Lord himself. Do us all a favour and buy yourself a pair of baggy, ill-fitting swim trunks. I’m sure that you will be much more pleased with them in the long-haul. Sure, Speedos allow your thighs to tan just as beautifully as your face. And yes, they do come in a beautiful flowered pattern that matches your girlfriend’s pedicure. But the truth is that you’re subjecting everybody to a horrifically accurate view of your nether regions, and (even though you think otherwise) you’re the reason that all the children in the swimming pool are crying hysterically.
I don’t know who invented the Speedo, but I really would like to smack them across the face with an excessively large man wearing their creation. Speedos do not belong in this universe, or any other universe for that matter. Save my eyes, please. And if you refuse to don swim trunks on my account, do it for little Sally in the shallow end, so that she won’t spend the rest of her life with an aversion to men and disappoint her parents by living with 14 cats named after various teen romance novel characters. It sounds far-fetched, but it’s a definite possibility. I myself am contemplating it, as a matter of fact, even though I detest cats. Cats can’t wear Speedos though, so it’s a better life for me.
My sexy beach friend.
For your viewing pleasure.
My father is an exceptionally hairy man, and I don’t use the word “exceptionally” very lightly. His entire body is covered in black, curly hairs that blow in the summer breeze and stick out of the top of his shirt. Growing up with a man like that leaves an impact. Needless to say, hair that grows any place but your scalp makes me uncomfortable.
That being said, this past Movember was slightly traumatizing for me.
Now, before you start writing your hate mail, hear me out. I’m not against the idea of Movember. In fact, I think that a man who chooses to grow facial hair in support of prostate cancer is a fabulous human being. What I don’t agree with, however, is the amount of people who participate in Movember simple to prove that they can grow a beard.
We understand. It’s a testosterone thing. It’s a man thing. Beards = manliness. Thus being said, Movember is a great idea if and only if you are going to register and donate to the cause. Otherwise, you’re growing the hair because you’re too lazy to pick up your damn razor and for once have an excuse that will satisfy your mother. This must end.
The entire point of Movember is, firstly, to grow a mustache, not a beard. Secondly, it is to raise money and awareness about prostate cancer. It is not to run around looking like a homeless half-werewolf right before the full moon. Understand?
So, to all the 15 – 18 year old boys who spent the past month growing facial hair to prove they can: next year, either donate or shave it all off.
Basically, if you’re going to do it, do it right. None of this namby-pamby nonsense. I’d much rather see a bunch of registered, well-coiffed handlebar mustaches than scraggly unsightly beards. And knowing how much I detest facial hair, that’s saying something.
I like sandwiches. In fact, I would even go as far as to argue that they are the most perfect lunch food. When you think about it, the sandwich is a beautiful thing. It has two pieces of squishy, soft bread that act as beds for the many delicious materials you are about to put inside. It also has meat, whose beauty is self-explanatory. Finally, it has vegetables and condiments, which provide crunch to untoasted bread, and freshness that would otherwise leave the sandwich one dimension short of awesome. Altogether, they make up a thing of true beauty.
However, there is one thing that can completely shatter the integrity of even the most perfect sandwich. It doesn’t have a proper name, but I like to call it the filling hole.
The filling hole occurs when you take a nice sized bite out of your perfectly prepared sandwich, only to pull away with a chunk of filling hanging out of your mouth. This chunk of filling leaves you with a very difficult choice: do you bite through and separate the filling so you can shove it back where it belongs, or do you attempt to pull it into your mouth a la spaghetti? Either way, your sandwich is ruined.
If you choose to shove it back in between the bread, you have compromised the delicate balance of the sandwich. It now sits there, poorly attached, just begging for someone to casually knock your arm and cause it to come tumbling out again.
If you choose to rein it in and eat it, you are left with a gaping hole in your sandwich, and you get to look forward to a bite of only bread. This is extremely depressing in the land of sandwiches.
Despite the fact that the filling hole may seem like an insurmountable obstacle, I have come up with a solution. In order to avoid the filling hole, you must bite through your sandwich completely, using your wonderfully sharp teeth. Now, since biting in a regular fashion seems to be failing, you must exaggerate the action a little bit to make absolutely sure that your teeth go all the way through. Sure, you might look like someone’s pet dinosaur that they trained to eat with their hands, but you will never encounter the filling hole again. That in itself is worth it.
There are a lot of things in this world that annoy me. However, many things do not have the potential to annoy me 24/7. For instance, I can go to a mall and not encounter mall walkers. I can take money from a customer that is perfectly pressed from a respectable wallet. There is one thing in the world that annoys me to no end, and apparently baffles the general population beyond belief. This, my friends, is having cream cheese in the hole of my bagel.
A bagel is only different for one reason: it has a hole in the center. If not for this hole, it would simply be a very dense bun. The hole is essential to the bagel’s identity. Yet, everyone seems to ignore its importance.
There has not been one trip to a coffee shop where I have ordered a bagel and walked away happy. Not once. Every coffee shop that I’ve been to is full of lazy people who have not mastered the art of spinning a bagel while applying the cream cheese. Instead, they prefer to just slap it on willy-nilly, leaving me with 50 % of my cream cheese lost in the bagel hole.
In my opinion, this is beyond wrong. There is simply no excuse for cream cheese in the center of my bagel, especially one that I have paid money to eat. I, the customer, should not have to scramble around to find something knife-life to scoop the cream cheese out of the center of my bagel and attempt to evenly spread it on the bagel itself. Most of the time, I must resort to using my finger because I have nothing knife-like handy, and the alternative is eating a hunk of cold cream cheese. This leaves me feeling sticky and wrong on many levels.
What I am asking for is not complicated. In fact, it has quite a simple solution. Respect the bagel hole. It is there for a reason, and that reason is not to be smothered by cream cheese. Take the 10 extra seconds and spin the bagelfor me, so that I do not leave feeling angry at my favourite breakfast food. The bagel is a beautiful thing. Let’s try to appreciate that.
I am the proud owner of what is referred to in pop culture as a redonkadonk. In every day terms, this is a very large bottom. I am especially fond of my bottom, so much so that I highly enjoy having “good bum days.” The best way to achieve these days, I have discovered, is to wear freshly washed (or purchased) jeans.
On a regular basis, I would much rather wear a pair of perfectly worn in jeans that feel just right. Sadly, they just don’t have the same bum hugging quality that fresh jeans do. Even though they produce wondrous results, fresh jeans are a pain in my bum. The reason they annoy me so much is that they are often accompanied by what I affectionately refer to as the New Pants Dance.
You all know what I’m talking about. The New Pants Dance is the awkward struggle that you have to do to pull on your freshly washed jeans, and then wear them in slightly to make them more comfortable. It generally consists of hopping up and down, lying on your bed, praying to the Lord, and a lot of out-right pulling.
However, being as fond of good bum days as I am, I have concocted the perfect formula to have incredible bum hugging jeans that feel like sweat pants. I strongly recommend that you follow them diligently.
Once you’ve completed the New Pants Dance, you should have a very comfortable pair of jeans. Comfortable enough, in fact, that you can wear them to apply to university again for fashion innovation. That way, you can create jeans that don’t require the New Pants Dance, and save us all a little embarrassment and boob sweat.
There are a lot of things in this world that make me angry. In fact, there are probably more things that make me angry than there are things that make me happy. Of all the things that make me angry, though, there is one thing that will never be topped.
This is hearing about bullying related suicide on the radio, or the television.
This past week, while driving to school, I heard a story on the radio about a 14 year old boy named Jamey Rodemeyer, who took his own life because he was bullied. Every time I think about it, I want to cry. The only thing about this situation that gives me hope is the response it received from Lady Gaga, who is rallying her troops to make bullying illegal. Words cannot explain my love for this action.
The sad thing about bullying is that we are all exposed to a watered down version of it when we are taught how to deal with it. The old school methods they teach you in elementary school don’t work, and for us to insist to children that they do is ridiculous.
In the school version, a bully is another child who makes fun of you, or beats you up. We are taught, quite simply, to ignore this person. By ignoring them we “take away the bully’s power”. In real life, however, a bully can be anyone. A bully is not limited to a child. They could be your father, your mother, your teacher, your sports coach. Anyone who makes belittles your feelings and makes you feel bad about yourself is a bully.
Take a good look at yourself. Can you honestly say that you aren’t one? I know that I can’t. We live in an age where a clever or witty comment to put someone down is celebrated. It happens in every conversation. What we don’t seem to realize is that there is a person with feelings on the other end of that comment. More importantly, that little comment that you just made could be enough to force them over the edge, completely.
Everyone in this world is special. Everyone in this world has a purpose. Everyone in this world should have the chance to feel loved. I don’t know who told you that you have the right to take these feelings away from people but THEY LIED TO YOU. No one in this world is any more important than anyone else. We are all equal. We all have the power to put an end to this.
I’ve had enough of hearing about kids like Jamey, who will be forever frozen at 14. He will never be taught how to drive a car by his mother. He will never meet the love of his life. He will never be anything other than the 14 year old he was when he decided it was too much. All because someone else decided that they were more important.
How many more people have to take their lives before we realize that we have a serious problem on our hands? The answer should be none. Help us make that come true. Let’s make a law for Jamey, and everyone else who has ever (or will ever) be affected by bullying. It’s time to make bullying a crime, like it always should have been.
I’m so sorry Jamey.