10 Things That Deserve Some Fist-Bumps

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It's Like a Classified Ad, with More Sex and Whining

Missed Connections.

It’s my understanding that in the world of dating, the term ‘missed connection’ implies that there was an instant where things could have flourished, but you dropped the ball and you missed your chance to plant your seed (heh heh). It would appear, however, that a good portion of North Americans have a different understanding of this term.

I’m sure I’m not alone when I say that I get great joy out of perusing the Missed Connection (MC) section of Craigslist. While some might browse my internet history and think I’m desperately hoping that someone spotted me on the street and felt the need to write about me, I’ll be the first to tell you that that is true nonsense. I mostly read them because I like to bask in people’s idiocy.

If you’re unfamiliar with Missed Connections, you must live under a rock or up a mule's ass, but since you’re here, reading this today, I will enlighten you. In an ideal world, MC is an e-classified ad devoted to reaching out to strangers that the writer feels they could have had a real connection with.  In reality, MC is more like a drunk text. In other words, you probably shouldn’t write it because the person probably doesn’t want to hear what you have to say and/or it’s a booty call. 

Often times, when I’m reading through the posts, I find myself getting frustrated with the writer. I’d hate to tell you “Man in the yellow coat”, but “I saw you on the bus. You were wearing a red scarf and you were playing with your iphone.” doesn't count as a missed connection. The bitch probably didn't even know you existed. (And if she did happen to notice you, chances are she was texting her friend/boyfriend/grandmami, telling them about the creep that won’t stop staring at her.) Instead of being a little pussy and hiding behind your computer screen, grab yourself by the balls (not literally, please, you’re in public) and take a shot with the hot bitch on the bus. You have wasted my precious time, and I have better missed connections to scrutinize. Thankyouverymuch.

I know I’ve mentioned my wonderful and hilarious roommate before, but I don’t think I talk about her enough. (She might disagree with that…) I happen to know that she shares my love for Missed Connections. She may spend fewer hours per week reading these e-love stories, but she still supports my addiction. One night, she got home after polishing off some pints and admitted that sometimes she makes eye contact with people intentionally on the subway (read: stares them down), in hopes of having someone write about her on MC. In the same breath, she acknowledged that this probably comes across as crazy, but she does it, nonetheless. This, singlehandedly, is reason enough to be friends with her. Her actions are definitely missed connection worthy. I don’t know about you, but nothing makes me more eager to get to know someone than having them stare at me for 8 subway stops. That’s romance, folks.

What I’ve come to noticed in my hours of MC surfin’, is that there is a huge difference between the content of m4m (man for man), w4w (woman for woman) and m4w (man for woman). After years of perusing, I’ve decided that the categories should be renamed to this:

1)      Let’s get naked. (m4m)

2)      I’m pathetic and weeping over my ex. (w4w)

3)      I like your ass, let’s go for coffee. (m4w)

Let’s break this down a little further, shall we?

1)      Let’s get naked (m4m).

This category has the odd sentimental missed connection, but let’s be honest here folks, 85% of these ‘connections’ involve the word “naked” “gym” “shower” and “horny”.  Often times there will be pictures of penises involved, and I don’t love that, but you boys always give me a good laugh. Carry on.

2)      I’m pathetic and weeping over my ex. (w4w)

This category makes me feel a little ashamed. While there is the odd ‘real’ missed connection, these are jammed pack with tear-filled poems dedicated to lost loves. I’d hate to tell you, “S”, but it’s not a missed connection if you were at one point ‘connected.’  This is called a break up and I’m sure “J” doesn’t care if your ‘Ode to September’ haiku is packed full of your metaphorical, bleeding twat heart. Let it go. Take some pointers from the m4m and go get your fuck on. “J” is probably wrist-deep in a new emotional hoe as we speak.  (That was a little harsh. She’s probably not that emotional.)

3)      I like your ass, let’s go for coffee. (m4w)

Here is where you find the classic bus scenario that I mentioned earlier in this post. While this section is comprised with more ‘legitimate’ missed connections than the other 2 sections, it’s also filled to the brim with creepiness. Here’s the section my roommate would be mentioned in, if her subway staring contests ever materialize into an MC.  In my mind, it would read something like this: “I saw you on the subway. You had hazel eyes and straight-across bangs. You kept staring at me and I felt like I had something on my face. I think you might have tried to wink… or maybe you were just blinking slowly. You were cute, though, so holler at me if you see this.” And you know what, guys? She wouldn’t answer. Who meets people on Craigslist, anyway? That’s just creepy.

So, even though so many of the entries in Missed Connections are absurd, cheesy, skeezy or lame, (or all of the above), I just can’t help myself. I’m not going to suggest that you all start devoting time each week to bask in the absurdity of these Craigslist gems, but I will say this: Someone had better write about me ASAP, or I’ll start thinking all my hours of winking at strangers is a total waste of time. 

WINK.

It May be Offensive, but Goddamn Can I Gyrate.

I know I come across as extremely put together and mature, and what you’re about to read could blow your mind, but there are times when I’m pretty ridiculous. When I say ridiculous, I mostly mean silly/awkward/probably offensive to many cultures.

My parents raised me well and taught me how to act appropriately in public. I can usually get by, day to day without committing any sort of major social faux-pas, but when I’m alone, all bets are off. Let me enlighten you with what you might find me doing if my roommate has left me home alone, and I am left to my own devices to entertain myself.  

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that I love to sing. While some people might tell you that I have “talent”, I prefer to take pride in my ability to sing in a wide variety of styles and accents. This is more of a ‘private’ skill- sort of like a little secret I have with myself (and I guess now with all of you, too. Whaddup.) While I don’t have a preference for any particular type of song, I get a lot of joy out of singing songs that the American Idol judges would say “is too big for me.” In other words, songs sung by such divas as Whitney and Mariah.  Often, as I’m singing my throat out to I Will Always Love You, or Alicia’s Fallin’, I realize that singing it ‘normally’ is both boring and stupid. Don’t get me wrong, those bitches can sing, but it’s a bloody fucking yawnfest to sing that shit alone in my room. I only ever last half a verse or so before I get tired of it and decide it needs to be sung differently.

More often than not, my go-to style is a Hindi/Bollywood inspired voice. Coming from a white, Irish-Canadian girl’s mouth, I imagine this is pretty offensive to overhear, but when I’m alone with myself, it isn’t remotely offensive; it’s just plain awesome. Sometimes I’ll convince myself I should get into the Bollywood industry, if they could just overlook my nationality. I mix in some dance moves I’ve seen on late night Hindi TV stations, throw political correctness to the wind and fantasize about the glory days to come. Usually by the time I finish the song, I come to the conclusion that I’m not that good, and switch to a good ol’ country twang. T-Swift has got nothing on me, y’all. I’ve had tears on my guitar since she was sucking on a placenta. (I’ll be the first to admit I’m pretty clueless when it comes to pregnancy. Babies suck on placenta, right? Whatever. T-Swift totally would be the type to suck on one. She’s totally one of ‘those’ girls.)

I don’t mean to hate on Swifty. I think I may have gotten off topic.

You would also find me dancing- probably in my underwear, maybe in the mirror, and most definitely to Hiphop and/or Pop music.  Much like my un-blossomed Bollywood career, I’m also convinced that if I could just get into shape, I could totally be a badass backup dancer to such rockstars as Ke$ha, Beyonce or Britney. (Brit and I would tots be BFFs. We already have the name thing going for us, plus I could learn how to do a sick weave, and we could sit together on mounds of hair, giggling about how much she needs to get her shit together. Brit would confide in me. I just know she would. I’m not sure why she’d be giggling, but goddamnit the bitch will giggle if I tell her to.)  

When I was a kid/pre-teen, I took all sorts of dance lessons, with a focus in Jazz. I don’t know about you, but if someone said “She was jazz dancing”, even after all of the years of classes, I still probably wouldn’t know what that meant. I’d just assume she was throwing some mad Jazz Hands, and leave it at that. Needless to say, that dance style will not be coming in handy when I’m backing up Brit. My one year of Hiphop lessons, however, will definitely pay off. Not only did we learn how to gyrate like no one’s watching, we also learned some pretty sick stripper moves, including the classic “drop to your knees and slap your palms against the floor”, and a sexy “walk like an Egyptian” variation that would have made The Bangles blush.  These moves have become the stepping stone to my budding dance career. (If you can call dancing in the privacy of your room and/or when you’re wasted on the dance floor having a dance-off with a gay man a ‘budding career’.)

While dancing and singing alone can make for hours of entertainment, I’m also a big fan of making faces in the mirror to see how outrageous I can look. Turns out: I can look pretty fucking outrageous.  If I’m alone and I catch myself in the mirror, I’ll smile a little to see how my teeth are looking that day. Once I look at myself mid-smile, I’ll decide that it’s ridiculous that I’m smiling at myself and instead I’ll stretch my mouth as far as possible, throw my head back and make googley eyes at myself. I then think to myself Damn I’m sexy, choke on my saliva, and go about my business. While this mostly only occurs in the privacy of my own home, it has been known to happen in fitting rooms, as well. Sometimes, if I get an image of the sales person walking in on me mid-mouthstretch, all googley-eyed, I’ll start laughing hysterically and have to stop before I choke on my own tongue.

My outrageous faces aren’t limited to this one monstrosity, but it’s a personal fave.

In case you are wondering, I have yet to get caught.

While I do a lot of other ridiculous things when I’m alone, I’m pretty sure nothing can beat when these three things get thrown together in a clusterfuck of crazy.  No song is safe from my Bollywood-style serenades.

Akon? Oh fuck yes.

Neil Young? Duh.

The Beatles? The more the better.

Katy Perry? It’s really the only way to make her songs sound good. 

Like any blossoming rockstar knows, if you can dance while you sing, you’re pretty much set for life. The sexy faces are just an added bonus.

So, in the throes of a Hindi inspired Rolling in the Deep, I’ll get my booty shaking, throw my palms to the ground like I just don’t care, and watch myself in the mirror as my face is contorted and smushed into what can only be described as atrocious and hideous.  

I’m only moments away from stardom. I can feel it.

If I could only get Brit to answer my calls…

Crying in your Underwear is Overrated.

Yesterday kicked my ass.

I know you’ve all experienced those days. You wake up, sweaty and disoriented.  Your alarm is going off and you can’t seem to find it. You swing your arms like a lunatic, hoping your efforts will result in hitting snooze for at least another five minutes. (Everybody knows five more minutes of sleep will make all the difference to your day.)

I’ll admit it; I’m the snooze button’s bitch. It has me wrapped around its snoozey little finger, filled with promises of continued dreams and prolonged comfort.  We have a love-hate relationship, and I’m okay with that. I really just wish it would allow for longer than five minute intervals. That shit really cramps my dreamin’ style.

I should also mention that every day I wake up to a sassy Latin dance beat. And every day it makes me want to kill dance. I know you’re jealous.

As I was saying, it was one of those days. The subway was late, I missed my connecting train, everyone in the subway car smelled like feet, bad breath and stale coffee, and as soon as I walked into the office, I was swamped with work and had to deal with the French fuckers that always make my day super awesome*.

*By super awesome, I mean: I’d rather pull my own fingernails out, one by one, than deal with them…. Except I need to pay my bills and I wouldn’t make any money doing that… well, I guess I probably could, but I only have 10 fingernails, and I’m not sure how lucrative the fingernail market is…

I work in the financial industry. It’s in no way, shape or form the field I studied, and I still feel funny when I tell people what I do…largely because math gives me hives. Maybe not hives that you can see, but internally, when I have to do math, I’m covered in them. Yesterday, I had to do a lot of math. With the help of a patient coworker (who didn’t mind hearing me mutter Motherrrrrfuuuuckerrrrrr every few seconds) we effectively calculated something. Reaching the ‘correct answer’ was not even a little bit rewarding and being forced to solve math problems left me in a bit of a tizzy for the rest of the day. That’s possibly the biggest understatement ever. of life.

After work, I ventured to the gym.A good work out will alleviate the rage, right? 

Wrong.

My treadmill fucked up and refused to slow down or decline (Don’t make me work harder than I want to, you piece of shit!), and then I ran into my crazy bootcamp instructor, José, who told me to stop eating pasta.  I don’t eat a lot of pasta… but I understood what he was trying to say. I’ve cut bitches for less, little man.

I eventually made it home, and immediate hysteria ensued. I was in an emotional state that would have made Lindsay Lohan look away in shame. I stood in the kitchen, in my underwear, wildly crying, doing dishes, all the while praying my roommate didn’t walk in to witness my horrendously embarrassing state of frenzy. (Yo, Roomie, thanks for not coming home. It wasn’t pretty. I promise I did not break any dishes… even if I desperately wanted to.) 

The icing on the cake was when the light in the bathroom blew and I realized I didn’t have any replacement bulbs. If you think you want to see an adult weep at a blown out light bulb, I’ll tell you right now that you don’t. It’s a good thing I eventually got my shit together, because when the beets I was cooking semi-exploded, leaving something that resembled a bloody murder scene in my microwave, I was able to laugh it off. (I may have also had a brief conversation with the beets about how weird looking they are and how they look like little alien eggs.) I grabbed them by the root and twirled them around for fun. When I stabbed them with a fork, they made a high-pitched noise. For a brief moment, I felt remorse… And also disgust because ew, I don’t want to eat an alien egg.  To my delight, upon cutting into them, I could tell that they were most definitely beets.

redruM....redrummmmM

And then I ate 2/3 of a pizza and said a silent Fuck you to José.

I woke up this morning with pains in my lower abdomen and suddenly all of the whining, tears and frustration made sense. Typical. Am I right, girls!?

My Life is Sort of Like the Movie ‘Cocktail’, but More Homosexual.

 … and with fewer beaches, and waterfalls, and accidental pregnancies. Pretty much it’s nothing like Cocktail, except for the cocktails.

…

So, I’ve dropped the G-Bomb in earlier posts, but, I understand that y’all don’t necessarily give me your undivided attention, and I can’t expect my readers to catch every little detail that I throw down on this bitch. (But you should know that I’m really disappointed in you for ‘skimming’ my posts, and if you don’t get my obscure blog references when we have a conversation, I go home and cry myself to sleep. Okay, fine, I don’t. I can’t even remember when I purchase a calendar filled with pictures of puppies, how can I expect you to remember something trivial like all the reasons I drink in a movie theater?  I think I’ve strayed a little from my point…)

Gay. The G-Bomb means Gay. .

Good, I’m glad we got that out of the way.

Coming out is something that can happen effortlessly (ie: Oh, please, even my stapler knew you were gay), it can be awkward (ie: Oh, so, um, does this mean you want to have sex with me? Do you look at my tits when you talk to me?), or it can be painful (there’s really no funny joke to go here). Sometimes it’s any combination of the three.

Personally, I’m terrible at it. I got my initial “I like girls” talk with close family and friends out of the way at the young, tender age of 17. I lacked a lot of tact when I was coming out as a teenager. Like, for instance, the awkward MSN conversation with my sister where I wrote “I don’t like boys”, having assumed she had already put two and two together, and this would come as no surprise.

She hadn’t.

It was uncomfortable.

It was even more uncomfortable when her leading question was “How do you have sex?”

… yep.

In my older age, I’ve only gotten worse. On several occasions, I have resorted to drunk-dial outing. The conversation goes a little something like this:

Friend: “Hello?” 

Me: “Were you asleep!?!?”

Friend: “It’s 3 am.” 

Me: “And?” 

Friend: “Can I help you with something?” 

Me: “I have something to tell you.” 

Friend: “Yes?” 

Me: "It’ssss just thatttt… ummmmm… I… uhhhh.” 

Friend: “Yes?”

Me: “I happen to like the company of women. Like, A LOT.” 

Friend: “I know, Britt, I know.”

*(Or my most favourite response from a dear guy friend of mine: “Britt, I figured that out when I said I thought a girl was hot and you said  ‘I don’t know, I feel like I could snap her like a twig’.”)

I’ve also been known to drunk-text it from a club when I’m out of town.

Pretty much, when I’m drunk, I’m all about the gay.   

The problem comes when I’m sober. There’s no way for me to not be awkward when I come out because all I can think is I’m pretty much just telling you that I like the vag. This is what we are discussing right now. You’re picturing it right now, aren’t you? You totally are. Stop it.

Moving along…

I’m what you might classify as a “femme” lesbian. By this, I mean that I wear makeup and predominantly wear skirts and dresses. La-dee-fucking-da.  I’m not a big fan of these classifications, but for the sake of this post, let’s go with it.  Since I’m ‘girly’, it seems a large portion of our population thinks this means I’m straight.  On more than one occasion, I’ve actually had to argue to “convince” someone I’m gay- and I’m not just talking about the men trying to get at my nether regions.  (As I write this, I’m picturing of a hoard of men, running at my nether regions with torches, protesting my lesbianism as they prod me with pitchforks. As you can see, my experience with men has left a lot to the imagination.)  I never thought I’d ever have to defend my gayness to someone… it seems to me like the strangest thing to dispute. It’s not really a “mother knows best” kind of topic. If I say I like surfin’ the turf, then I like surfin’ the turf. Shut your stupid fucking face.

While I do have to defend my preferences from time to time, I have learned to take the “prove it” remark with a big ol’ grain of salt. In other words, when I hear “You guys are lesbians? Prove it!”, it’s not time to school the sonofabitch on gay rights. To the more naïve twatwaddlers out there, that’s likely someone’s attempt to get you to make-out with another girl in front of them. Don’t fall for it. Or maybe you should… if she’s hot and you’ve been looking for a window. But don’t make out in front of men for their benefit. that’s just stupid. Make out in front of me instead.

Regardless of your sexual preferences, you should never have to defend them (unless you’re into dead things or animals. Sorry bro, but the boat your on is a lonely one and has none of the colourful boas and glitter that I’ve grown accustomed to. You can defend it all you want, but I snap my fingers in your face and give you a “AW HELL NAH.”)  I lost my train of thought when I started thinking about bestiality.

,

Ah, the ol' ‘bestiality diversion technique’. What a classic.  

Got me again, old pal. 

Don't Dip Your Junk in Chocolate

Let me tell you a little story about what could have been.

 

I may have mentioned this before in passing, but in case you didn't know, I love to bake. More specifically, I bake the shit out of cupcakes/cake-related products. 

Bonjour, Cupcake

When I first started this blog, it was supposed to be a baking blog. (I use the term ‘started’ loosely. In other words, I wrote maybe 2 posts last spring, and then they just sat lonely and untouched for months… kind of like me. Just kidding. Maybe.)  I was all geared up and enthused to write about my adventures in baking, including pictures of my triumphs and fails. Woohoo! Everyone loves a good baking blog, right!?

… But then it dawned on me: baking is fucking expensive.

I have always baked here and there, for special occasions or just for fun, but never on a regular basis. To keep a blog afloat, one needs to post often enough to keep readers coming back. I wasn’t prepared to start spending half of my paychecks on butter, sugar and chocolate, and I certainly wasn’t going to opt for cheaper, less awesome ingredients. So there my blog sat, shivering in its cold, dark corner of the blogosphere, with abandoned pictures of cakes and cookies.  My baking blog dream had come to an end and it was time for a drink. Or six. Or twelve…

I'm sorry, cake, but you never stood a chance.

After months of neglect, it occurred on me that cursing and random story telling was much more my speed and this badboy was born.

But, despite my inability to blog about what I bake, I still like to throw around the flour from time to time. I spend an embarrassing amount of time perfecting what I’ve baked, and in my more ambitious moments, have even considered making my own sprinkles and confetti for cakes. 

Gluing confetti to cake pops with corn syrup isn't as fun as you'd think it would be.

I take that shit seriously, yo.

Anyone who’s been in the kitchen with me while I’m baking can tell you that I don’t play nice. (That’s MY spatula! I’ll whisk how I WANT to whisk! Back the fuck off, motherfucker. I will dip MY balls* into MY chocolate. *stomps feet* ) They would also tell you that I get myself worked up into a tizzy when I think the final product won’t be the masterpiece I had envisioned… and that when things finally start falling into place, I get this crazed look in my eye and resemble one of those fanatical mothers from Toddlers & Tiaras. 

*I’m talking about cake balls, you sick fuck. 

There's something twinkling in those eyes... might just be drag queen glitter.

The trouble with baking is that although it’s super delish, it’s also very fattening. While some people may try to cater their baked goods to the more health-conscious crowd (See:  Mrs. Dingleblat’s Debbie-Downer treats), I refuse to demolish the whole institution of baking with applesauce substitutes. That’s just disgraceful.

Once I have finished baking, the next step is finding people to eat it.   I’ve come to learn that when you work in an office, people will eat just about anything when it’s free (even if it probably should have been introduced to Mr. Garbagecan upon exiting the oven). Last night, my girlfriend and I attempted to make soft pretzels. With a slight mis-measurement of the flour content (I’m not pointing any fingers…*cough*) they turned out extremely doughy. As a result, they had to stay in the oven far longer than intended, and the outside got… slightly overcooked. Nevertheless, I cut them up, threw them in a cookie tin and low and behold, they were gone in under an hour. (I know what you’re thinking… but people came back for second and third helpings. The ‘pretzels’ weren’t just eaten out of sympathy for my efforts. And screw you for thinking such things! I’m never making pretzels for you. Not even if you beg. Asshole.)

So, even though my blog became an unexpected slur of grand fuckery (which, by the way, I adore, thanks to my wonderful followers/commenters/friends), from time to time I may throw some baking into the mix. Ohhhhh a baking pun!! You’re welcome!! (I probably won’t actually ever blog about baking… but now I don’t want to delete that pun... Eff my life is *so* complicated sometimes.)

All of this is to say: this is not a baking blog…but it was supposed to be… but it’s not.

Yep.

 

Your Face Isn't Stinky (Probably)

So… it’s 2012. Y’all ready for the world to end?

Sweet, me too.*

It seems like the popular thing to do when a new year starts is to dissect the previous year’s accomplishments and failures and decide how to rock the fuck out of the new year.

I’m not going to do that.

This past year was pretty awesome for me and I don’t feel like picking it apart.  Don’t get me wrong- it wasn’t without its hiccups and (mostly) metaphorical kicks to the box, but it was filled with a shit-ton of laughter and that’s what I’ll chose to remember. Regardless, 2010 kicked 2011’s ass… and I expect that 2012 will do just the same.

I’m not bursting with things to talk about today… largely because I killed an army of brain cells and ate enough to feed a family of 6 this weekend, causing simple tasks like breathing and blinking to be pretty effing challenging. 

I’m writing today because I really just wanted to gloat.

And brag.

And rub this in your stinky, little faces. (I’m just kidding. I love your faces regardless of their odour and size.)

My point is: I managed to spend less than $20 on New Year’s Eve. 

While I’m often terrible at following my own advice, (you are too, bitch, get off your high horse), I managed to have an incredibly stress-free NYE. And, like my official post-it promised, it was also filled with booze. Lots and lots of booze. 

While my drunk memory is becoming increasingly less reliable, I do have some pretty fond memories of rapping the shit out of that badass rap verse of TLC’s Waterfalls… and many, many memories of some serious ass slapping. Really I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near tequila… come to think of it, maybe that’s why people feed me tequila in the first place… it’s all making sense now. 

I’m onto you. *winkface*

Jose is the *best* hugger

I think it’s about time I shut my trap.

I’ll leave you today with one of my favourite Sharon quotes of 2011.

(To familiarize yourself with Sharon, click right hurr.)

“The black guy I used to fuck in university had me in his phone as ‘Puddles’ because I squirted so much. He only ever wanted to fuck me in the tub.”- Sharon

Happy New Year, from myself and Puddles. 

xox

*To clarify, my overall feeling towards the “end of the world” is indifference. I’m not going to start stocking up like the assholes of Y2K did. If the world ends, it ends. Try to have a lot of sex and booze before that happens. No excuses, buddy… the world is ending.

______

Did you do anything fun to ring in the new year?

______