The Sexual Werewolf
Thu, Sep 2 2010 07:01
I have this neighbor. We'll call her S.W. After a year and a half of listening to the sounds that come through the walls, I've concluded that her sex life is totally insane.Remember when I said that I wasn't a screamer? This girl is a screamer. I'm going to try my best to describe the sounds I've heard coming from her apartment. First of all, she is LOUD. Her sex noise repertoire includes lots of high pitched squealing, your typical standard issue moaning, CREEPY GIGGLING, something that sounds like this: AH!AH!AH! OH WEEEEEEE! OH WEEEEEEE! And the occasional high pitched, nasal "FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME! OHHH WEEEEE!" Sometimes things get really crazy and it sounds like furniture is being broken, things are getting smashed, bodies are being flung from one end of the apartment to the other or as BF once said "It sounds like rabid animals are attacking each other...but I think she's just having sex".
The weird thing is that it doesn't happen all the time. It goes in "cycles". You won't hear anything for a few months and then BAM. It sounds like that scene from True Blood, where everyone is possessed by demons & wasted & partying naked & fucking each other in the middle of a field...except its all happening on the other side of your wall. AH AH OH WEEEEE!
This will happen a few nights in a row. Then, everything will screach to a halt & you won't hear anything for a few months. This prompted BF to say to me one day:
"I think she follows the cycle of the moon....its like she's a Sexual Werewolf or something"
Theres definitely something supernatural going on here. This winter she went through a particularly "active" cycle. The noise got so bad one night that BF went into the living room, grabbed his hockey stick and started banging it against the ceiling, until eventually things subdued.
(We're Canadian. This is how we deal with things.)
Unfortunately her "transformations" happen at the most inopertune moments. For example, when my Mom is visiting. S.W's bedroom is adjacent to the guest room/office where my Mom spent several very sleepless nights. My mom who was taught by nuns, (and whom I like to consider a saint when it comes to all things sex) commented that "it all sounded really...gross".
Um yeah.
The worst is when it happens WHEN YOU'RE TRYING TO HAVE SEX. Not long after the Hockey Stick incident BF and I were in bed having sex. For a moment when I first heard the noises I thought that maybe the sex was so good that I was having some kind of weird sexual out of body experience where I had actually kind of blacked out a bit and was hearing MYSELF. But, then I realized that I could hear three people making noise: me, BF and S.W. Now, when it comes to making noise in bed, I'm about average: I'm not quiet but, I am no S.W. I'm not going to lie: at first the noises kind of turned me on. Then, I just started to feel jealous. I mean, she always sounds like she is having THE BEST SEX EVER OF HER LIFE ...ALL THE TIME (either that or she's a good actress). But, when she started to get so loud that I felt like she was actually drowning out my orgasm, I got annoyed. I was ready to get all ghetto, take off my rings, march up to her door and say "Look, Missy - there are other people trying to come in this building!". But, I didn't because that would have required me to stop having sex...and who wants to do that?
A few months ago, we were having a backyard BBQ with our downstairs neigbours (Sam's mom & aunt - the coolest 40-50+ year olds around), my friend Trevor and his husband. I guess S.W had neglected to shut her screen door because we were chowing down on some homemade bison burgers when IT started.
SW: AH AH OH WEEEEEEEEE! OH WEEEEEEE!
Trevor: Oh dear, what is that?
Me: That's our neighbor
S.W: OHHHHH WEEEE! AH AH AH AH YEAH!
Me: She does this all the time.
Trevor: Is she...alone? Omg, what if she's alone.
Random dude: UHHHHHH.
Me: No, I don't think she's alone.
S.W: AH AH AH AH OH WEEEEEEEEEE! OHHHH WEEEEEE! AH AH OHHHHH YEAH.
Neighbor: Oh wow. Oooh it sounds like she's having a good time.
Me: It always does.
S.W: UHHHH AHHHHH UHHHH OH WEEE!
Neighbor: Ohh Wow!
Trevor: I feel weird.
S.W: OHHHHH WEEEEEEE! AH AH AH AH AH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Trevor: I think she's done.
Me: No, just wait for it.
Trevor's hubby: Uncomfortable silence.
Me: She always has multiple orgasms. I know...good for her right?
Trevor: This bison burger is really good.
Me: I know. I got the meat at the free range butcher shop. They also sell organic lamb.
S.W: UHHH UHHH OH WEEEE! OH WEEEE! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
BF: Now she's done.
Trevor's hubby: sigh of relief.
Me: See, dinner at my house is never boring.
Trevor: Nope!
As a disclaimer: I do like my neighbor. She's a cool girl. I'm pretty sure if she read this she would consider it like a sexual badge of honor. She should. I would. And to the guys: if you want me to set you up with her, the answer is NO (someone already asked). If I set you up then I would probably have to hear YOU too. NO THANKS. As my mom would say, "That's just...gross".
Anyone else have any crazy neighbour stories they'd like to share?
|
Scream at the Top of your Lungs
Tue, Aug 24 2010 02:33
I've never been an adrenaline junkie either. I've never had the desire to fling myself off a cliff, bungee cord attached or go white water rafting. Whereas "sky-diving" seems to top everyone's "things I must do before 30 list", its never been something that's really interested me. It's not that I am scared of these things (ok, maybe I am) but its more that I just have never really had the desire to feel those kinds of sensations. I don't like watching horror movies because I hate how they make me feel - I have a really strong visual memory and the images tend to stick with me for years on end. I never tried acid as a teenager partly because I kept picturing that video of the egg in the frying pan ("This is your brain on drugs!") but mostly because I hate the idea of being on a "ride" that I can't get off (I even have commitment issues when it comes to recreational drugs). This is why I also avoid house-parties held in very obscure locations (what if I wanted to leave?) and why rollercoasters have never been my thing.
(Speeding down the Don Valley Parkway or the 401, doing 140 on a motorcycle however, is a sensation that I absolutely LOVE. I can't explain this.)
Maybe this all comes back to the fact that I'm not a screamer. Screaming at the top of my lungs has always felt slightly unnatural to me. Although I'm really talkative and friendly if you approach me, I'm generally a pretty quiet person. Growing up I was terrified of getting into trouble. I listened to authority: Be good. Do what you're told. Don't make a fuss. Don't get mad. "Use your words".
I feel like somewhere along the line, I got the false message that if I did all these things (be good. don't get mad) that I would be more like-able. The downside to all this is I think I carried a lot of this thinking into my adult life.
A therapist once told me, "You seem very in control of yourself.....you also seem very full... like you have a lot of feelings bottled up"
Which is true, I do keep things inside. I get angry like everyone else but, it takes a lot for me to actually express it. For example, this winter I was at a book launch with Melissa. I was telling her the story about this guy. I guess I was starting to get really worked up because she stopped me and said with a smile on her face, "OMG, you're actually getting angry! I mean, I think you are. I've never actually seen you mad" (we've been friends for almost 3 years)
I know that all this bottling up can't be healthy. I just haven't really figured out how to change this (which is part of the reason I ended up talking to the above mentioned therapist in the first place).
Which brings us to last weekend. I was in Sandusky, Ohio visiting Cedar Point (a massive amusement park located on the coast of Lake Erie). I'd already been on a few rides Sunday morning. I yelped, winced and I gasped a little (did I mention rollercoasters aren't my thing?!)....but I didn't really scream. Then, somehow I got talked into going on THIS. What you're looking at is the Millenium Force, the 5th highest rollercoaster in the world.
With very, very, sweaty palms I boarded this thing (and when I say sweaty palms, I mean sweaty. Like they were practically squirting out sweat. TMI?). The whole time we were climbing the first massive hill, I was saying out loud "fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck. what did I get myself into?!" (I said I don't get mad. I didn't say I don't swear). I knew that if I was going to survive this, I would have to SCREAM. So, as our car dropped 300 ft, I SCREAMED AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS. And then I screamed some more...and some more...and some more. IT FELT AMAZING. Eventually, the screams turned to laughter -the kind of laughter where you are having so much fun you are literally squealing with glee. I know its only a rollercoaster but, when I stepped off the ride, I felt this huge weight had been lifted and like I could conquer anything. IT WAS THE BEST FEELING EVER.
So, my new intention is this: SCREAM MORE. SCREAM OFTEN. LET GO MORE.
Are you an adrenaline junkie? How do you get mad...or "let go"?
I Will Not Sleep with You for Free Cable
Sat, Aug 14 2010 11:45
So, tomorrow is my bloggerversary which means that Skinny Dip will be one year old! So in honor of my blog's birthday I thought I'd share with you guys one of my favorite tales from the past ten years.
This is another story from the early 2000's when I used to go to Element bar a lot. If you're just tuning in now, Element Bar was a small club located on a grotty strip of Queen St. W. that has since been gentrified. My old watering hole is now an American Apparel store (I'm not joking) - if that isn't gentrification, I don't know what is. Before this happened, my friends and I liked going to this bar because it usually played good house music & they had a very lax security system, meaning you could usually sneak almost anything (ie. a 6-pack of vodka coolers in your purse or other um, "party favors") if you batted your eye-lashes at the bouncer. As my friend discovered, this technique was much less effective if you were male. The underlying sketchiness of the place teamed with lots of alcohol made for some interesting experiences.
When it came to meeting people of the opposite sex, Element Bar had this whole 'Tales of Two Cities'-vibe: It was the best of places...and the worst of places. On any given night you could meet someone like Guy #8 (and hit the multiple orgasm jack-pot) OR you could meet a guy like the one I am about to describe.
On the night in question, I was on the dance floor, the music was good, I was dancing, I had a drink in my hand... It was one of those moments where you say to yourself "at this moment, everything is right in the universe". Then, I saw a figure approach. I say "figure" because there was a giant bright club light shining directly in his face that made it impossible for me to see what he looked like. He kept leaning in, yelling into my ear, trying to talk to me over the music. I was not interested in interrupting my vodka-fueled-house-music-state-of-bliss for anyone that night so when he handed me a cocktail napkin, I scribbled down my email address just to get him out of my hair.
We emailed back and forth a few times before I decided that "he seemed normal" (my famous last words) and I agreed to give him my phone number. A few days later he called me. Thus began one of the more bizarre conversations of my dating career.
Him: "So, like what kind of stuff are you into?"
Me: "Dancing, shopping, hanging out with my friends, going to school...you know, normal stuff"
Him: "Are you into Art?"
Me: "Yes. My mom and sister are both artists. My mom used to teach art classes"
Him: "Yeah, I'm totally into art. I'm an artist myself"
Me: "Oh yeah? What kind of stuff do you do?"
Him: "I paint action figures"
Me: "I'm sorry, what?"
Because my mind works backwards sometimes, as soon as he said "painting action figures" -I had this image of him sitting in his basement, in front of an easel adding the final brushstrokes to one of his masterpieces: a nude Batman rising out of a clam shell, Impressionist Spiderman, G.I Joe frolicking in Monet's garden or on second thought, maybe something like this:
After further clarification I found out that he actually meant THIS, as in actually painting. action. figures. D'OH.
This made a lot more sense than the previous scenario (although I was kind of looking forward to the Impressionist Spiderman) but it also seemed so much worse.He used this point in the conversation as an opportunity to reveal that he was 30 and alluded to the fact that he lived in his mom's basement . At least this is what I think he was getting at. He kept referring to his mom as being "upstairs".
Him: "I'd love to show you my figures sometime. I just started working on a few new ones"
Me: "Ummm, err yeah. So, what else do you do?"
Him: "I work here__________ (insert name of Software company). I also have a side-business"
Me: "Oh yeah..?"
Him: "Have you ever tangled with a guy who's into all kinds of ILLEGAL SHIT?"
Me: "What?"
Him: "You know...shit that's illegal"
(To answer his question, YES I HAVE. But, I have learned that people who are actually into "illegal shit" don't tell people they are into "illegal shit". I only discovered my ex was into "illegal shit" when I found a giant brick of weed in his freezer and about 50 prescription bottles in his kitchen cabinet. I thought "Could Action Figure Guy be...a drug dealer?!" Then, he dropped the bomb:
Him: "I sell pirated cable and satellite dishes. YEAH, its some SHADY ASS SHIZ!"
(He was serious...and apparently now a thug)
Him: "I can totally hook you up with a satellite dish....if you know, you we get to know each other better"
Me (laughing) "Oh, so you're suggesting I pimp myself out for free cable"
Him: "No, the dish wouldn't be free. I'd give you a deal. I could probably install it for you for $89.99. Of course, I don't take personal cheques. Just cash"
(Wait, was he trying to date me or telemarket to me?!)
Him: "So, are you a FREAK? Like are you into freaky shit....sexually?"
My mind started to race. What would someone who was into Action Figures consider "freaky shit"?! Rolling around on a bearskin rug, while the action figures watched and illegal cable blared behind us on a big screen TV?!
Him: "I'd love to show you my figures sometime. I just started working on a few new ones"
Me: "Ummm, err yeah. So, what else do you do?"
Him: "I work here__________ (insert name of Software company). I also have a side-business"
Me: "Oh yeah..?"
Him: "Have you ever tangled with a guy who's into all kinds of ILLEGAL SHIT?"
Me: "What?"
Him: "You know...shit that's illegal"
(To answer his question, YES I HAVE. But, I have learned that people who are actually into "illegal shit" don't tell people they are into "illegal shit". I only discovered my ex was into "illegal shit" when I found a giant brick of weed in his freezer and about 50 prescription bottles in his kitchen cabinet. I thought "Could Action Figure Guy be...a drug dealer?!" Then, he dropped the bomb:
Him: "I sell pirated cable and satellite dishes. YEAH, its some SHADY ASS SHIZ!"
(He was serious...and apparently now a thug)
Him: "I can totally hook you up with a satellite dish....if you know, you we get to know each other better"
Me (laughing) "Oh, so you're suggesting I pimp myself out for free cable"
Him: "No, the dish wouldn't be free. I'd give you a deal. I could probably install it for you for $89.99. Of course, I don't take personal cheques. Just cash"
(Wait, was he trying to date me or telemarket to me?!)
Him: "So, are you a FREAK? Like are you into freaky shit....sexually?"
My mind started to race. What would someone who was into Action Figures consider "freaky shit"?! Rolling around on a bearskin rug, while the action figures watched and illegal cable blared behind us on a big screen TV?!
Me: "I'm not going to answer that"
The next time he called, I let it go straight to voice-mail.
****
8 years later, I received an email from him:
"I still have fond memories of meeting you at Element Bar and our conversation. I hope you are doing well. Feel free to get in touch at any time"
****
To this day, I still can't look at a G.I Joe with a straight face.
Ahoy Mateys, it's time for a Shoe Giveaway!
People always ask me whether dating a shoe designer has afforded me the opportunity to cash in on lots of free shoes...the answer is YES! I get a lot of shoes - more than anyone really needs. So, I thought since my blog is turning one year old very soon (Aug 19th is Skinny Dip's Birthday. Crazy!) I thought it would be fun to "spread the wealth" and do a little giveaway.
I'm giving away a pair of these cute nautical slip ons made by Degrees. These are brand new samples, never worn and yet to be released in stores (!!)
I'm giving away a pair of these cute nautical slip ons made by Degrees. These are brand new samples, never worn and yet to be released in stores (!!)
I think these would look super cute with some shorts or a pair of rolled up jeans (I own the same pair in blue and this is how I wear them. I mean, I HOPE I look cute)
The only drawback is that they are a size 6. (sample size! bah!). So, if you have small feet or know someone who does, then this contest is for you. If not, I promise that I'll do another giveaway very soon that everyone will enjoy. Stay Tuned.
How to Win:
2. Leave a comment letting me know once you've done either & describe to me your favorite pair of shoes.
3. Extra entries will be given any time you tweet: "FREE SHOES! Want to WIN a pair of cute nautical inspired shoes by Degrees?! Follow @by_simone & comment here: http://to.ly/5W5O "
(or you can get creative & make up your own tweet. I'm not picky!)
Good Luck! xox
The We-Vibe and Vagina Disses
This Spring I went a little sex toy crazy.
It wasn't long after I purchased my beloved Lelo Mona that I decided that I absolutely needed to try the We-Vibe. Like, RIGHT AWAY.
If you don't spend time online reading sex-toy reviews (like I obviously do) you're probably wondering "What's the big deal with this We-Vibe thing?!" Let me break it down: the We-Vibe is a vibrator that you can use solo OR while you're having sex with a real live person. Confused? Watch the explanation video! The toy has won all kinds of awards and has received glowing reviews (no pun intended). Also, it was designed by Canadians - which seems fitting, considering we are a culture that is trapped inside for most of the winter. What else are we going to do?!
I became a bit obsessed with procuring a We-Vibe of my own.
On a sunny Sunday afternoon I headed out into the city in search of this toy that had been described to me by a friend as "the guaranteed cum shot". The only problem....it seemed to be sold out in Toronto! NOOOOOOO! This only made me more determined. I spent the afternoon driving around the city from sex shop to sex shop, where I was politely told that the toy was on back order. I then spent a good hour or two at Remy's patio drowning my disappointment in some really bad overpriced sangria. I'm very determined. Once I get an idea in my head that I "NEED" something, I won't rest until I find it. (Currently, I am searching for the perfect maxi dress to wear to a pool party in two weeks. I will find it. However, sangria might once again be required.)
After extensive sangria-fueled googling on my iphone & some phone calls, I eventually found a place that had a few in stock. An hour later I was heading home (a very happy girl) with a shopping bag containing the We-Vibe, some porn and other goodies.
(I swear to god, most of my Sunday afternoons don't look like this....just some of them)
I wasn't planning on doing a product review of the We-Vibe but, I need to at least give you guys the Coles Notes version so that the rest of this story makes sense. So here it is:
BOTTOM LINE: I think I am probably the only person on earth to say this but, I was really underwhelmed by the We-Vibe.
The first time I tried it was with BF. When we first put it in and started to have sex, we were like "This feels pretty good!". But, the more we got into it, the more annoying the We-Vibe became. The We-Vibe just wouldn't stay in one place. It kept slipping and sliding around with every thrust. We would have to stop what we were doing to re-adjust it, which turned into a bit of a mood killer. Also, I really wanted to experiment with the different speeds settings, but I found it really difficult to switch settings without stopping everything completely. Eventually, the We-Vibe was more of a distraction than anything else. I had this moment where I was like, THERE IS WAY TOO MUCH GOING ON. GET THIS THING OUT OF ME (the We-Vibe, that is). We ended up yanking the toy and finishing things the good old fashioned way.
I've played with the toy a few times on my own which, I have enjoyed a lot more. Alone, I had more control over the toy. The We-Vibe is pretty flexible so I was able to bend the arms so that they hit the right spots without having to worry about slippage. Overall though, my main complaint about this product (something I noticed the first time I used it as well) is that even on the highest setting, the vibrations just aren't strong enough for me. I'm used to a toy with a bit more power which is why I love my Lelo. It's not that this toy was terrible (it will get you off), it just wasn't the giant-orgasm-holy-grail that I expected it to be. We-Vibe, I've had better.
Now, flash-forward to Thursday night.....
I was at a networking event with my friend. It was a very girly event: there were lots of pink martinis & a bunch of different vendors with tables set up throughout the club. One of the vendors was a company that sells sex toys. Naturally, I had to go and check it out. One of the toys they had sitting on their table was the We-Vibe. So, I decided to strike up conversation with the girl that was manning the booth. I told her that I had purchased it, that I found the toy slipped around a lot & asked her if she had received similar feedback from other customers. Her reply was,
"I've never heard that. Maybe you need to like...tighten up your vagina"
"Um, I'm pretty sure my vagina is FINE. The toy just didn't work for me"
"I know but maybe your vagina is kind of...loose"
"I don't think so"
"I mean it could be...."
"It's not.....I mean, it's received good feedback"
She gave me her card and I walked away thinking:
"Did that conversation really just happen?!"
So, words of wisdom:
If you want to be my friend, work with me, or have me promote your products on my blog:
DON'T DIS MY VAGINA.
(And now that I've managed to say the word vagina a 8,00000000 times, I'm off to enjoy the sun. I hope everyone else is having a fabulous weekend!)
Has anyone else tried the We-Vibe? (or maybe had an equally as awkward conversation recently?)
It wasn't long after I purchased my beloved Lelo Mona that I decided that I absolutely needed to try the We-Vibe. Like, RIGHT AWAY.
If you don't spend time online reading sex-toy reviews (like I obviously do) you're probably wondering "What's the big deal with this We-Vibe thing?!" Let me break it down: the We-Vibe is a vibrator that you can use solo OR while you're having sex with a real live person. Confused? Watch the explanation video! The toy has won all kinds of awards and has received glowing reviews (no pun intended). Also, it was designed by Canadians - which seems fitting, considering we are a culture that is trapped inside for most of the winter. What else are we going to do?!
I became a bit obsessed with procuring a We-Vibe of my own.
On a sunny Sunday afternoon I headed out into the city in search of this toy that had been described to me by a friend as "the guaranteed cum shot". The only problem....it seemed to be sold out in Toronto! NOOOOOOO! This only made me more determined. I spent the afternoon driving around the city from sex shop to sex shop, where I was politely told that the toy was on back order. I then spent a good hour or two at Remy's patio drowning my disappointment in some really bad overpriced sangria. I'm very determined. Once I get an idea in my head that I "NEED" something, I won't rest until I find it. (Currently, I am searching for the perfect maxi dress to wear to a pool party in two weeks. I will find it. However, sangria might once again be required.)
After extensive sangria-fueled googling on my iphone & some phone calls, I eventually found a place that had a few in stock. An hour later I was heading home (a very happy girl) with a shopping bag containing the We-Vibe, some porn and other goodies.
(I swear to god, most of my Sunday afternoons don't look like this....just some of them)
I wasn't planning on doing a product review of the We-Vibe but, I need to at least give you guys the Coles Notes version so that the rest of this story makes sense. So here it is:
BOTTOM LINE: I think I am probably the only person on earth to say this but, I was really underwhelmed by the We-Vibe.
The first time I tried it was with BF. When we first put it in and started to have sex, we were like "This feels pretty good!". But, the more we got into it, the more annoying the We-Vibe became. The We-Vibe just wouldn't stay in one place. It kept slipping and sliding around with every thrust. We would have to stop what we were doing to re-adjust it, which turned into a bit of a mood killer. Also, I really wanted to experiment with the different speeds settings, but I found it really difficult to switch settings without stopping everything completely. Eventually, the We-Vibe was more of a distraction than anything else. I had this moment where I was like, THERE IS WAY TOO MUCH GOING ON. GET THIS THING OUT OF ME (the We-Vibe, that is). We ended up yanking the toy and finishing things the good old fashioned way.
For me, the We-Vibe was the sexual equivalent of the Turducken. It takes something that is already good (Sex/Turkey) and then stuffs in a bunch of stuff that doesn't really need to be there.
I've played with the toy a few times on my own which, I have enjoyed a lot more. Alone, I had more control over the toy. The We-Vibe is pretty flexible so I was able to bend the arms so that they hit the right spots without having to worry about slippage. Overall though, my main complaint about this product (something I noticed the first time I used it as well) is that even on the highest setting, the vibrations just aren't strong enough for me. I'm used to a toy with a bit more power which is why I love my Lelo. It's not that this toy was terrible (it will get you off), it just wasn't the giant-orgasm-holy-grail that I expected it to be. We-Vibe, I've had better.
Now, flash-forward to Thursday night.....
I was at a networking event with my friend. It was a very girly event: there were lots of pink martinis & a bunch of different vendors with tables set up throughout the club. One of the vendors was a company that sells sex toys. Naturally, I had to go and check it out. One of the toys they had sitting on their table was the We-Vibe. So, I decided to strike up conversation with the girl that was manning the booth. I told her that I had purchased it, that I found the toy slipped around a lot & asked her if she had received similar feedback from other customers. Her reply was,
"I've never heard that. Maybe you need to like...tighten up your vagina"
"Um, I'm pretty sure my vagina is FINE. The toy just didn't work for me"
"I know but maybe your vagina is kind of...loose"
"I don't think so"
"I mean it could be...."
"It's not.....I mean, it's received good feedback"
She gave me her card and I walked away thinking:
"Did that conversation really just happen?!"
So, words of wisdom:
If you want to be my friend, work with me, or have me promote your products on my blog:
DON'T DIS MY VAGINA.
(And now that I've managed to say the word vagina a 8,00000000 times, I'm off to enjoy the sun. I hope everyone else is having a fabulous weekend!)
Has anyone else tried the We-Vibe? (or maybe had an equally as awkward conversation recently?)
Living with the Insanity of your Twenties.
Mon, Jul 26 2010 05:45
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about my Twenties. This is probably because my thirtieth birthday is approaching FAST. Like, in just under two months. Anyways, the other day I was telling a friend a story about the house I lived in when I was going to University (see previous entry re: bedroom ceiling collapsing) and I realized something about my 20's:I LIVED IN TOTAL UTTER CHAOS.
Is it really that surprising that I was a bit of a headcase?
For the first 3. 5 years that I lived in Toronto (minus the 6 months I spent living in "The Basement Apartment from Hell" -another blog post altogether) I lived in Student Housing. I could have moved into a sterile dorm room that probably would have had ceilings that DIDN'T COLLAPSE (although I'm sure if I lived there they would have found a way to collapse. Just like how "Basement Apartment from Hell" managed to flood in the middle of January). Instead, I let my Left-Leaning-West-Coast-Granola-Crunching upbringing & my love for Victorian homes get the best of me. I decided my new home would be my school's "Co-operative Alternative Residences". The name alone conjures up images of tie-dye, reusable coffee mugs strung off of M.E.C backpacks, Birkenstocks & lots of borderline communist activity. If you were thinking this too, you'd be right.
Back in the 60's and 70's during the height of flower power, the "Co-Op" purchased a dozen or so large Victorian homes in the neighborhood adjacent to the University. These houses were then converted into Student Residences. I lived in one of these Victorian homes on a beautiful tree lined street. We shared the neighborhood with other students, yuppies & a whole slew of Frat Houses (this how I learned that it is never a good idea to walk down Madison Ave looking remotely attractive on a warm day). My room was pretty. It had yellow walls, big bay windows & a fireplace. The rent was cheap.
The downside to all this? I lived in a house with 9 other people and some small livestock (I'll get to that later).
Living in the other 9 bedrooms were a rotating cast of "colorful characters" which included,
-a guy who subsisted on a hot-dog only diet
-someone with "Seinfeld-B.O" (as in the "B" was independent of the "O". When the "B" left the room, the "O" would linger)
-a certified hermit who only became less hermit-like when I started sleeping with him during my last 6 months of living there (I saw his reclusive nature as a challenge).
- "LoPants" my roomie who had a permanent plumbers crack and would say stuff like "So, I just masturbated" whenever she came into the kitchen (She was such an over-sharer. Someone should have told her about blogging.)
-a guy who would always answer his door alone, shirtless, sweaty, and out of breath like I had just interupted his "Gentleman Time" (I should have tried to set up him up with LoPants)
There were 3 bathrooms.
My friend C. who lived in the house next door had it worse. His cast of characters included but was not limited to:
-a 40 year old virgin who played the trombone (When I saw THIS years later, I almost peed myself laughing)
-a guy who in 3.5 years, I only ever saw wearing pijamas pants and a bathrobe.
-a proffessional pandhandler
-a German sheppard
There was only one bathroom....for 14 people.
I never slept with anyone from that house mostly because I feared that if I did I might actually have to use that bathroom.
(The house down the street was even worse. They had to evict someone because the dude went all Howard Hughes-ey, stopped paying his rent, barricaded himself in his room behind a fortress of canned soup and started saving his toe-nail clippings in jars. I only know this because I slept with one of his room-mates.)
I had a hard time convincing people that I didn't live in some weird Dharma-Initiative-style Communist state ...because well, I kind of did. There were lots of rules. There were job charts. Everything was bought in bulk. Our basement was full of massive bales of the cheapest and scratchiest no-name toilet paper known to man. We were forced to use inneffective cleaning products made from natural ingredients (kind of a problem when you have 14 people sharing a bathroom). There were commitees for everything (ie. I sat on the Vermin removal committee). It wasn't uncommon to see a "If its brown flush it down, if its yellow let it mellow" sign in a shared washroom. There was a frightening communal compost heap in our backyard that reminded me of the Garbage pile from Fraggle Rock. I'm sure when we were all sleeping (or passed out drunk) it mumbled Markist theory.
I'd lived there for 2 years when elections came up for "Co-op Manager". I was already the elected Manager of my own house (dishing out anti-recycling fines & cleaning infractions like a good little comrade) and it was my roomate who pushed me to climb the ranks so to speak. She said it would "improve my leadership skills" (It didn't. I was a terrible leader). I won the election by a landside...because no one else ran against me (this should have been a sign). My ancestors left Russia to escape all this shit and here I was embracing this hot commie mess with open arms.
At first I liked the power of being the only person with a master key to the supply closet (I was the sole controller of scratchy toilet paper! muahahahaha). But, then all this power just got annoying like when people actually wanted stuff. Drunk people who were locked out of their rooms who needed someone to let them in at 4am. People who needed more toilet paper. Cleaning violations. Farm animals (I'll get to that later). People calling me asking if they could trade 3 bottles of hippie brand Dutch Cleanser for more toilet paper. THERE WAS NEVER ENOUGH TOILET PAPER. EVER. I would usually spend my Saturday afternoons trying to bribe someone with a drivers liscense (usually with the promise of more toilet paper) to drive me to the wholesale toilet paper depot (it exists. It's on Dupont Street) in the decrepid Co-op supply van (I always felt like it was on the verge of self-destructing & bursting into flames) where I would load 65 packages of scratchy toilet paper into the back of the van, usually with tears in my eyes because I knew that it wouldn't be enough. We actually needed 80 packages.
Like all good communist states things started to unravel. The people want what the people want! I couldn't keep up with the demand. I lost control. People started to run out of toilet paper at the most inopertune moments. I became known as the worst Co-op Manager of all time (next to the guy who was caught stealing used matresses). Eventually, in one of the most embarassing moments of my life, a coup was organized and I was impeached.
This was all happening around the same time that I decided to STOP drinking. Which, now in hindsight almost seems like a bad idea.
Even with my shit-show stint as Co-Op Manager over, I still had to manage the affairs of the house in which I lived. Most of my time was spent handling the RABBIT problem.
Yes, I said RABBIT.
My housemate who lived below me kept rabbits in her bedroom. They were "free range" - meaning they weren't kept in cages. The floor of her bedroom was covered with wood chips and blankets, that the rabbits would use to "relieve themselves". She also used to wash the rabbit blankets (crap pads) in the communal washing machine. When I wasn't chairing a meeting about how the first floor of our house smelled like a filthy petting zoo, I was dealing with people who had complaints that their clean laundry smelled like "farm".
At the time I had a part time job at a make-up counter that required us to wear blazers. I'd usually get makeup all over my jacket so I'd wash it before every shift. One day while at work, I had this epiphany. I stuck my hands into the pockets of my freshly washed blazer and felt something weird. I pulled them out, held them out in front of my face and said,
"FUCKING WOOD CHIPS!!!!"
At that moment, I knew I had to move.
I answered an ad on the Tribe message board posted by someone looking for a roomate to share a luxury condo on Bay St.
On moving day, I went upstairs to my former hermit booty call & slipped a note under halfway under his door that said:
"I'm moving out. Call me sometime"
(not really meaning it)
I waited a moment. I heard shuffling noises. I stood back and I watched as the note slowly slid the rest of the way under the door.
It was the end of an era. I never looked back.
(today's photo was found here)
What's your best crazy living situation story?
I waited a moment. I heard shuffling noises. I stood back and I watched as the note slowly slid the rest of the way under the door.
It was the end of an era. I never looked back.
(today's photo was found here)
What's your best crazy living situation story?
Dating Myself
Mon, Jul 19 2010 06:21
| 1999, 2003, early twenties, 2001, 2002
I had this really good post planned for today about Threesomes but, I totally chickened out after I found out that apparently one of the kids I used to babysit for has been reading my blog (OH GOD). He's 20 -something but, still (OH GOD). Yup, that's me...corrupting the youth.
It makes me wonder, who else is reading this?!
So in lieu of another tawdry story about my shady dating history, I thought I'd share the story about how I learned to stop dating other people...and instead learned to date myself.
As the oldest of two children, I've always been pretty independent. When I was growing up I loved socializing. I was the kid who was so busy talking during the lunch-hour that I'd actually forget to eat my lunch. I was also a goody-two-shoes (work with me here). The only time I ever got in trouble was for talking too much (some things never change). With that said, I was also the kind of kid who could spend hours in her room, playing with her stuffed animals & barbies, working on art projects, making up dance routines, completely content to amuse myself for hours on end. As a teenager I also loved spending time alone: writing, listening to records, going for walks on the beach. My family is small and close knit and while I was growing up I always had a tight circle of close friends. Being alone wasn't lonely because I knew that whenever I didn't want to be alone, I was surrounded with all these wonderful people who had known me my own life.
I'd always dreamed of leaving my sleepy seaside town for some big, strange, exciting place. When I was 18, I did exactly that. Instead of going to University, I signed up for some college classes and bought a one-way ticket to Toronto, a city thousands of miles away where I knew virtually no one. Once I started "living my dream" I realized something: I was completely alone...and for the first time, alone felt lonely.
I was so desperate to meet people, that I would literally be friends with ANYONE. If you were a weirdo or mentally unstable in 1999, I would probably be your friend. During this time of my life I met a few really wonderful people (who later became good friends) however, the majority of people I met were less than wonderful. I just didn't see it at the time because I was young, naive, desperately lonely and hadn't quite figured out that a lot of people just didn't have good intentions. That's how I ended up hanging out with people like The Worm. However, getting Tequila'ed up & molested by The Worm in his Porsche, was just the tip of the ice-berg when it came to bad experiences. I was wracking up disturbing life experiences like it was going out of style. Maybe at some point I'll actually start to get into detail about what actually happened, but for now its just safe to say that by the end of my first year in Toronto I was kind of a mess emotionally.
It makes me wonder, who else is reading this?!
So in lieu of another tawdry story about my shady dating history, I thought I'd share the story about how I learned to stop dating other people...and instead learned to date myself.
As the oldest of two children, I've always been pretty independent. When I was growing up I loved socializing. I was the kid who was so busy talking during the lunch-hour that I'd actually forget to eat my lunch. I was also a goody-two-shoes (work with me here). The only time I ever got in trouble was for talking too much (some things never change). With that said, I was also the kind of kid who could spend hours in her room, playing with her stuffed animals & barbies, working on art projects, making up dance routines, completely content to amuse myself for hours on end. As a teenager I also loved spending time alone: writing, listening to records, going for walks on the beach. My family is small and close knit and while I was growing up I always had a tight circle of close friends. Being alone wasn't lonely because I knew that whenever I didn't want to be alone, I was surrounded with all these wonderful people who had known me my own life.
I'd always dreamed of leaving my sleepy seaside town for some big, strange, exciting place. When I was 18, I did exactly that. Instead of going to University, I signed up for some college classes and bought a one-way ticket to Toronto, a city thousands of miles away where I knew virtually no one. Once I started "living my dream" I realized something: I was completely alone...and for the first time, alone felt lonely.
I was so desperate to meet people, that I would literally be friends with ANYONE. If you were a weirdo or mentally unstable in 1999, I would probably be your friend. During this time of my life I met a few really wonderful people (who later became good friends) however, the majority of people I met were less than wonderful. I just didn't see it at the time because I was young, naive, desperately lonely and hadn't quite figured out that a lot of people just didn't have good intentions. That's how I ended up hanging out with people like The Worm. However, getting Tequila'ed up & molested by The Worm in his Porsche, was just the tip of the ice-berg when it came to bad experiences. I was wracking up disturbing life experiences like it was going out of style. Maybe at some point I'll actually start to get into detail about what actually happened, but for now its just safe to say that by the end of my first year in Toronto I was kind of a mess emotionally.
I realized early on that school year that a "good" way to deal with my problems was to party. As hard and as often as possible. I'm not really sure how much of this had to do with me wanting to run away from my problems or whether this is something that all people feel when they are young but, I had this strong desire to always be OUT. Staying at home, doing quiet things was absolutely unbearable. I felt like if I was home I was a missing out on something and obviously a total "loser" (something that now seems pretty ridiculous now that I am older). If I was at home alone, then it would mean that I would actually have to stop and reflect on what was going on with my life. I wanted to avoid that at all costs... so instead I went to great lengths to ensure that never happened. I went to University full time and worked 25-30 hours a week. I scheduled all my shifts so that I would never be home alone on the weekends. I'd work all weekend, party all night, and leave myself just enough time during the week to study & maintain a B average. Even if it meant that I went to my part time job hung-over beyond belief (or god forbid, still kind of drunk from the night before), working a 9 hour shift in this state was actually preferable to being home alone with my thoughts.
When it came to partying, I wouldn't just have a few. I'd drink to the point that bordered on oblivion, where I was comfortably numb. Where I didn't have to feel anything. I also loved to dance, so I would consume to the point where it would just be me, the music and whoever I was dancing with. My self-destructive behavior extended into other areas of my life, mainly boys. I dated a drug dealer. I dated a drug addict. I spent a year being some guy's mistress because on some level I didn't think I deserved any better. It's like I searched out these situations that were destined to end painfully. I like to call these my "train-wreck years". There were signs along the way that I should have stopped what I was doing but I chose to ignore them.
The real wake-up call happened in September of 2003, shortly after my 22nd birthday.
My paternal Grandma, who I had always been very close with, passed away.
I was heartbroken.
My grandma was one of the sweetest, kindest people I've ever known (of course, maybe this is the way most people feel about their grandma's). Losing her gave me this weird feeling that my childhood was now officially over.
September of 2002 was a bad month. To add insult to injury, right after my grandma passed my boyfriend at the time broke up with me. Looking back, this was a blessing in disguise however, at the time it sucked. It felt like someone was taking my already bruised, bleeding heart & was stabbing it repeatedly with a butter knife.
Shortly after the break-up, the leaking started. I noticed that water was squirting out of the light fixture in my bedroom ceiling (why this happened in the first place remains a mystery). I figured I didn't need to add "accidental electrocution" to my list of problems so, I packed an overnight bag & decided to stay on my friend's couch until building maintenance could come and fix the leak. The maintenance people never showed up. Three days later I returned to my apartment to find a 4ft x 4ft hole in my ceiling, and the "ceiling" (pieces of wood, insulation, plaster) on my BED.
I looked up at the hole & saw my upstairs neighbor looking down at me.
him: "So, like... your ceiling fell through while you were away"
me: "Yeah I noticed"
I actually laugh whenever I tell this story because, it is kind of funny. It felt like my world was imploding...and then it actually did.
Even though my heart hurt & I felt overwhelmed, for the first time in years I didn't feel like partying that feeling away. Have you ever had one of those moments where you wake up and say "What the fuck am I doing with my life?". I've had a few. This was one of them. I knew that if I was going to get through this I would need to STOP everything.
I stopped drinking. I stopped partying. I stopped dating. I stopped sleeping with my ex. I started to systemically to cut off all of my friends that reminded me of any of these things (even if they were good people). I didn't want to face them. I didn't want to talk about how I felt. I didn't want to fake being happy any more. When I am truly upset this what I do: I hibernate. I also decided I needed to learn how to do the one thing I used to fear so much: I needed to learn how to be alone. And, this was exactly what I did.
I forced myself to stay home on the weekends. It was hard at first. I'd feel shaky & jittery, like I couldn't sit still. Even though I knew I didn't want to be out partying, I felt like I was scratching at the walls. But, once I eventually got over the initial anxiety and I realized, THIS IS AWESOME.
I COULD DO ANYTHING I WANTED.
Since I wasn't spending my weekends wasted or in the emergency room sitting bedside as my boyfriend had his stomach pumped, I HAD SO MUCH SPARE TIME. I re-discovered what it felt like to wake up on a Sunday without a hangover (omg you have so much energy!). I started to fill my Friday & Saturday nights with things that I enjoyed. I'd borrow my neighbor's VCR (I was a broke student) and rent videos that only I wanted to see. I discovered Sex and the City, and was like "Whoa! I'm not the only one having all these bizarre dating experiences...and they are laughing about it!". I substituted food for booze. On Friday nights I'd go to the grocery store & I'd buy WHATEVER the hell I felt like eating. I'd get brie, avocados, Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, cookies, gummi bears, croissants, pepperoni sticks, popcorn & cheezies. I learned that eating all of these things in succession isn't that great an idea. I stopped being underweight. I put on a well-needed 5-8lbs. My body filled out in a good way. I spent a lot of time at the library because it made me feel less lonely. My B-average turned into an A-average. I started my first blog & met people who I are still my friends today. Did I still feel lonely through any of this? OH HELL YES. Sometimes I felt totally lonely. It was hard but, I worked through it. I decided to embrace the feeling of being a bit lonely because I knew what I was doing was healthier than what I was doing before (minus the new found gummi bear & pepperoni problem)
That winter, I found the perfect solution for what to do on my free Saturday nights: I got a job working at (what was at the time) a high end club/cigar lounge. I started making more money than I had ever made before. FYI. Want to wean yourself off of alcohol? Get a job somewhere where YOU'RE SOBER and everyone around you is WASTED. It's eye-opening. And hilarious.
Working at the club was a good thing because it broke me out of the shell I had been living in. I started to feel better. I started to make new friends & connect with old ones. I started to date again. I realized that I could still go out, have a few drinks & have fun with my friends without being self-destructive. I started to smile & laugh again...but this time, real smiles, not the fake-smiling-eventhough-I'm-sad-ones. Most importantly, on the nights when I wasn't working at the bar I loved going home to my apartment alone, kicking my feet up and saying "I'm OK with this" because I was. I learned to sit still. I learned to be alone again and love it.
So, what is the point of all this? Lately, I've been going through a hard time emotionally. The circumstances are completely different & don't worry - no one has died. Still, its been difficult. Looking back on this other era of my life I've realized this: sometimes shitty things happen. Very shitty things. But, sometimes its these really hard times that push us forward...push us to make changes...push us to get to know ourselves better...push us to face things that we fear. And, if history repeats itself (as I'm hoping it will), its these struggles that lead us to better things.
xox
(Photo found via Rebecca Thuss)
Can anyone else relate to this?
My paternal Grandma, who I had always been very close with, passed away.
I was heartbroken.
My grandma was one of the sweetest, kindest people I've ever known (of course, maybe this is the way most people feel about their grandma's). Losing her gave me this weird feeling that my childhood was now officially over.
September of 2002 was a bad month. To add insult to injury, right after my grandma passed my boyfriend at the time broke up with me. Looking back, this was a blessing in disguise however, at the time it sucked. It felt like someone was taking my already bruised, bleeding heart & was stabbing it repeatedly with a butter knife.
Shortly after the break-up, the leaking started. I noticed that water was squirting out of the light fixture in my bedroom ceiling (why this happened in the first place remains a mystery). I figured I didn't need to add "accidental electrocution" to my list of problems so, I packed an overnight bag & decided to stay on my friend's couch until building maintenance could come and fix the leak. The maintenance people never showed up. Three days later I returned to my apartment to find a 4ft x 4ft hole in my ceiling, and the "ceiling" (pieces of wood, insulation, plaster) on my BED.
I looked up at the hole & saw my upstairs neighbor looking down at me.
him: "So, like... your ceiling fell through while you were away"
me: "Yeah I noticed"
I actually laugh whenever I tell this story because, it is kind of funny. It felt like my world was imploding...and then it actually did.
Even though my heart hurt & I felt overwhelmed, for the first time in years I didn't feel like partying that feeling away. Have you ever had one of those moments where you wake up and say "What the fuck am I doing with my life?". I've had a few. This was one of them. I knew that if I was going to get through this I would need to STOP everything.
I stopped drinking. I stopped partying. I stopped dating. I stopped sleeping with my ex. I started to systemically to cut off all of my friends that reminded me of any of these things (even if they were good people). I didn't want to face them. I didn't want to talk about how I felt. I didn't want to fake being happy any more. When I am truly upset this what I do: I hibernate. I also decided I needed to learn how to do the one thing I used to fear so much: I needed to learn how to be alone. And, this was exactly what I did.
I forced myself to stay home on the weekends. It was hard at first. I'd feel shaky & jittery, like I couldn't sit still. Even though I knew I didn't want to be out partying, I felt like I was scratching at the walls. But, once I eventually got over the initial anxiety and I realized, THIS IS AWESOME.
I COULD DO ANYTHING I WANTED.
Since I wasn't spending my weekends wasted or in the emergency room sitting bedside as my boyfriend had his stomach pumped, I HAD SO MUCH SPARE TIME. I re-discovered what it felt like to wake up on a Sunday without a hangover (omg you have so much energy!). I started to fill my Friday & Saturday nights with things that I enjoyed. I'd borrow my neighbor's VCR (I was a broke student) and rent videos that only I wanted to see. I discovered Sex and the City, and was like "Whoa! I'm not the only one having all these bizarre dating experiences...and they are laughing about it!". I substituted food for booze. On Friday nights I'd go to the grocery store & I'd buy WHATEVER the hell I felt like eating. I'd get brie, avocados, Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, cookies, gummi bears, croissants, pepperoni sticks, popcorn & cheezies. I learned that eating all of these things in succession isn't that great an idea. I stopped being underweight. I put on a well-needed 5-8lbs. My body filled out in a good way. I spent a lot of time at the library because it made me feel less lonely. My B-average turned into an A-average. I started my first blog & met people who I are still my friends today. Did I still feel lonely through any of this? OH HELL YES. Sometimes I felt totally lonely. It was hard but, I worked through it. I decided to embrace the feeling of being a bit lonely because I knew what I was doing was healthier than what I was doing before (minus the new found gummi bear & pepperoni problem)
That winter, I found the perfect solution for what to do on my free Saturday nights: I got a job working at (what was at the time) a high end club/cigar lounge. I started making more money than I had ever made before. FYI. Want to wean yourself off of alcohol? Get a job somewhere where YOU'RE SOBER and everyone around you is WASTED. It's eye-opening. And hilarious.
Working at the club was a good thing because it broke me out of the shell I had been living in. I started to feel better. I started to make new friends & connect with old ones. I started to date again. I realized that I could still go out, have a few drinks & have fun with my friends without being self-destructive. I started to smile & laugh again...but this time, real smiles, not the fake-smiling-eventhough-I'm-sad-ones. Most importantly, on the nights when I wasn't working at the bar I loved going home to my apartment alone, kicking my feet up and saying "I'm OK with this" because I was. I learned to sit still. I learned to be alone again and love it.
So, what is the point of all this? Lately, I've been going through a hard time emotionally. The circumstances are completely different & don't worry - no one has died. Still, its been difficult. Looking back on this other era of my life I've realized this: sometimes shitty things happen. Very shitty things. But, sometimes its these really hard times that push us forward...push us to make changes...push us to get to know ourselves better...push us to face things that we fear. And, if history repeats itself (as I'm hoping it will), its these struggles that lead us to better things.
xox
(Photo found via Rebecca Thuss)
Can anyone else relate to this?
So, does this mean I'm a writer?!
Wed, Jul 14 2010 09:51
I've been a bad blogger lately. I'm still writing a lot...just not for my own blog. One of my goals when I started this blog a year ago was to eventually write for other sites as well. I'm happy that I am branching out however... I miss the blog! I miss you guys!
Here are a few things that I have done in the past 6 weeks:
1. Flown across the country and back, TWICE.
2. Witnessed my cousin get married.
3. Started a new job
4. Read all of Chelsea Handler's books (& kinda have fallen in love with Ms. Handler. Hi Chelsea, its me, Simone & I have a cupboard full of vodka. Wanna be friends?)
Somehow amidst all this chaos I have become a writer. I mean I think I'm a writer now.
Do you officially become a writer when someone pays you to write? Or have I always been a writer and now the only difference is that someone is actually paying me to do this? Or maybe the better question should be: why do I still feel awkward calling myself a writer when clearly that is what I do?
A few weeks ago I received my first cheque for some stories I had written. Even with the cheque in my hand, I still had this moment of disbelief where I said "Someone is actually paying me to do this?!" I guess I kind of feel the same way about writing as I do about being an adult. Even though I'm almost thirty, there are times where I still feel like a kid. Its like I am at the fair & I've managed to trick the Mullet-wearing-Carnie into letting me on the big kid's ride even though I clearly do not meet the height requirements. Does this feeling ever go away?
I've also realized that I don't give myself enough credit.
I look at the glass as half-empty instead of half-full. I let negative voices in my head discount things that I have obviously worked hard for ("Yes, I'm doing what I want to be doing but I'm still not making much money"...."The blog is going well...but its still not where I want it to be"....."Every time I'm filing a document I have to sing the ABCs in my head. What is wrong with me?!"....you get the idea). Its like I'm looking forward so much that I don't see what is happening in the now. For example -that I am actually doing what I wanted to do a year ago.
I look at the glass as half-empty instead of half-full. I let negative voices in my head discount things that I have obviously worked hard for ("Yes, I'm doing what I want to be doing but I'm still not making much money"...."The blog is going well...but its still not where I want it to be"....."Every time I'm filing a document I have to sing the ABCs in my head. What is wrong with me?!"....you get the idea). Its like I'm looking forward so much that I don't see what is happening in the now. For example -that I am actually doing what I wanted to do a year ago.
I don't want to ever get in the habit of having good things happen & not taking the time to really appreciate them. Achievements (however small) still need to be celebrated.
Celebrating means getting Ukelele Misfit to take a dorky photo of me posing with my first writing cheque (taken last week in Little Italy after we pigged out on Gelato)
Because this is me we're talking about- I've already squandered my earnings on shoes. Ralph Lauren patent leather platform sandals. (I don't think I've bought anything by Ralph Lauren since the 90's!) But, these shoes are simple & black & shiny & I fell in love as soon as I saw them.
And, they make me super tall. And, yes - I really am THAT white. And, because I am going to try and ride that "big kid ride" like I actually belong on it, I've decided to save the rest of my writing money for something really, really good.
Does anyone else have the same problem? How do you celebrate success?
Things that make Skinny Dip say WTF.
Sun, Jul 11 2010 09:15
| WTF
Dear Universe,
I'm confused about a lot of things lately. Like why they have to make diapers that look like jeans or why there is this weird bruise on my right shin that I don't remember getting.
I'm confused about a lot of things lately. Like why they have to make diapers that look like jeans or why there is this weird bruise on my right shin that I don't remember getting.
Here are a few other things that have made me say WTF recently:
1) THE 'BIEB:
I get why 13 year old girls like Justin Bieber. What I don't get is people in their mid-late 20's who like this kid....and I mean really, really like him, like they get a-funny- feeling-in -the- pants-kind-of-like. When I was in Edmonton last month visiting my best friend, we found this article about a 24 year old who had gone to great lengths just to get a glimpse of the 'Bieb. Does that not seem a little about off to you? As I know from personal experience, having teenagers attracted to you isn't exactly cool (it's actually kind of creepy and weird). You know what's even less cool?! BEING ATTRACTED TO TEENAGERS.
With that said, because my BFF and I are us, we spent the rest of the week making fun of THE 'BIEB.
One morning, I woke up and said to her:
"Amy, I don't feel well"
her: "Omg, are you OK?!"
Me: "I feel all sweaty, my head is pounding, I have the chills.....I think I have Bieber-Fever"
At which point, we both broke out into hysterics.
Last week, she sent me a link to an article about how a bunch of people have been doing all kinds of crazy stuff to the Bieb, like trying to send him to South Korea (sounds like a good idea to me), with a note attached that said,
"Really Simone. Did you have to go and do this? This time you've gone too far"
Why people love the Bieb will never fully make sense to me. Why my best friend is my best friend, always will.
2) BARK OFF.
Have you ever had one of those moments where you fall asleep watching late night TV, only to wake up, groggy, drooling, with one hand still in a box of crackers, to some commercial that you assume is part of whatever late night comedy sketch show you were watching before you went all narcoleptic? You say to yourself: This has to be a spoof. Something this retarded can't be real. Then, you realize "Oh god, this is a real commercial". That's exactly what happened when I saw THIS for the first time while I was visiting my grandparents last week:
The commercial played again the next day, while my Grandpa and I were watching TV. Every afternoon before dinner my Grandpa loves to take out his hearing aid, crank up the TV and provide "audio commentary" (yell at the TV). His reaction to the "Bark Off" commercial says it best: "Christ god damn. Hell, if you didn't want to hear god damn barking, don't buy a god damn fucking dog! Christ!" (of course with my grandpa's accent, "god damn" sounds more like COT-DAMN)
And now you've met my Grandpa.
2) BATHROOM WALL WRITING.
This has mystified me for YEARS. Whenever I'm out shopping, I almost always have to stop at the Lettieri coffee shop on Queen St. Scrawled on their hand-dryer in black marker is the following message:
"CRACK TEARS SOULMATES APART"
(its kind of blurry, so it could also say...)
"COCK TEARS SOULMATES APART"
Both make sense.
It's not the message of bathroom writing that confuses me ("Call Mike for a good time" - yeah, I get that) - what weirds me out is that there are obviously a lot of people who carry around permanent markers with them on a daily basis. WHY?! Who feels compelled to do this?!
I probably have 99 items in my purse...but a sharpie ain't one of them.
*Cymbal Crash*
4) BROS ICING BROS.
A bro icing occurs when one bro surprises another unsuspecting bro with a bottle of Smirnoff Ice (hey, remember that stuff?) and then forces said bro to chug it while on bended knee. The rules of bros icing bros are simple:
Still confused? Watch the video bro!
What is making YOU say WTF these days?
I get why 13 year old girls like Justin Bieber. What I don't get is people in their mid-late 20's who like this kid....and I mean really, really like him, like they get a-funny- feeling-in -the- pants-kind-of-like. When I was in Edmonton last month visiting my best friend, we found this article about a 24 year old who had gone to great lengths just to get a glimpse of the 'Bieb. Does that not seem a little about off to you? As I know from personal experience, having teenagers attracted to you isn't exactly cool (it's actually kind of creepy and weird). You know what's even less cool?! BEING ATTRACTED TO TEENAGERS.
With that said, because my BFF and I are us, we spent the rest of the week making fun of THE 'BIEB.
One morning, I woke up and said to her:
"Amy, I don't feel well"
her: "Omg, are you OK?!"
Me: "I feel all sweaty, my head is pounding, I have the chills.....I think I have Bieber-Fever"
At which point, we both broke out into hysterics.
Last week, she sent me a link to an article about how a bunch of people have been doing all kinds of crazy stuff to the Bieb, like trying to send him to South Korea (sounds like a good idea to me), with a note attached that said,
"Really Simone. Did you have to go and do this? This time you've gone too far"
Why people love the Bieb will never fully make sense to me. Why my best friend is my best friend, always will.
2) BARK OFF.
Have you ever had one of those moments where you fall asleep watching late night TV, only to wake up, groggy, drooling, with one hand still in a box of crackers, to some commercial that you assume is part of whatever late night comedy sketch show you were watching before you went all narcoleptic? You say to yourself: This has to be a spoof. Something this retarded can't be real. Then, you realize "Oh god, this is a real commercial". That's exactly what happened when I saw THIS for the first time while I was visiting my grandparents last week:
The commercial played again the next day, while my Grandpa and I were watching TV. Every afternoon before dinner my Grandpa loves to take out his hearing aid, crank up the TV and provide "audio commentary" (yell at the TV). His reaction to the "Bark Off" commercial says it best: "Christ god damn. Hell, if you didn't want to hear god damn barking, don't buy a god damn fucking dog! Christ!" (of course with my grandpa's accent, "god damn" sounds more like COT-DAMN)
And now you've met my Grandpa.
2) BATHROOM WALL WRITING.
This has mystified me for YEARS. Whenever I'm out shopping, I almost always have to stop at the Lettieri coffee shop on Queen St. Scrawled on their hand-dryer in black marker is the following message:
"CRACK TEARS SOULMATES APART"
(its kind of blurry, so it could also say...)
"COCK TEARS SOULMATES APART"
Both make sense.
It's not the message of bathroom writing that confuses me ("Call Mike for a good time" - yeah, I get that) - what weirds me out is that there are obviously a lot of people who carry around permanent markers with them on a daily basis. WHY?! Who feels compelled to do this?!
I probably have 99 items in my purse...but a sharpie ain't one of them.
*Cymbal Crash*
4) BROS ICING BROS.
A bro icing occurs when one bro surprises another unsuspecting bro with a bottle of Smirnoff Ice (hey, remember that stuff?) and then forces said bro to chug it while on bended knee. The rules of bros icing bros are simple:
Still confused? Watch the video bro!
Another rule to add to the playbook: in order to properly ICE or counter ICE, it helps to carry around a back pack full of this disgustingly sweet hang-over inducing beverage at all times...you know, like normal people do.
I feel like the video speaks for itself. I still don't get it but, at least the next time I see what looks like one Chode proposing to another Chode with a bottle of bitch pop, I'll know what the deal is....BRO.
5) THE RETURN OF THE SCRUNCHY:
This photo was pulled from the Urban Outfitters website. I know, I know- stuff from the 80's and 90's is trendy right now. All I have to say is this:
This photo was pulled from the Urban Outfitters website. I know, I know- stuff from the 80's and 90's is trendy right now. All I have to say is this:
IT'S JUST TOO SOON.
WAY TOO SOON.
WAY TOO SOON.
Universe, you are a strange. That's all I have to say.
Love,
Skinny Dip.
What is making YOU say WTF these days?
The 18 year old Republican
Mon, Jul 5 2010 08:16
| pick ups gone wrong, skinny dip abroad
“You have this problem where you can’t just leave well enough alone. You always have to tempt fate. That’s how you end up in these ridiculous situations”
-My Mom, 10 years ago.
My Mom knows me well. I DO have this problem, where it's like... I know the fire is hot (or a situation is fucked up) but I can't resist reaching in and touching the flame (ie. seeing how much more fucked up the situation can get).
Throw some alcohol into the mix and you get stories like this:
A few years ago I was working for a company that sold packaged tours to high school students. You know the ones I am talking about: “Go to Europe for Spring Break! See ten countries in ten days and barely remember anything!”. One of the few perks of this job was that every season we got to go on a free trip. The upside: free European travel. The catch: you had to travel with high school students. This meant that you were literally tagging along (as a twenty-something) on a bunch of random teen's Senior Class trip. Um, can you say awkward?
It was on one of these trips that I ended up late one night in a bar, in Italy with 45 drunk teenagers.
I was sitting at a table by myself, sampling the bar's Grappa selection when I saw the 18-year old approach. I don’t remember his name. I think it was something like Chet or Chase or Bud or Buddy or Skip or Skipper. What I do remember was that he was part of our tour group, he had a very thick Bill Compton-like Southern accent and said y’all a lot. He also didn’t seem to know much about Canadians (earlier that day he had approached me to ask me what it was like “living in a country without electricity” Jesus! What are they teaching these kids?!). Just as I was starting to get a bit of a buzz happening, the 18 year sauntered up to me and slurred,
“You’re PURRRDY”
“Um, are you aware that I’m 24?”
“That’s no problem. I’m 18”
“Actually, it is kind of a problem--”
“Do y’all have a boyfriend?”
“What? Um. Yes. Yes, I do”
(I didn’t)
“What’s his name?”
“Its uh….Raul”
“Y’all have Mexicans up there?”
“What?!”
“Y’all dating a Mexican?!”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean….Raul is Argentinean”
(Yes. Raul. My hot, proudly Argentinean boyfriend. Engineer by day, soccer player by night. All around stand-up guy who enjoys long walks & sex on the beach. Apparently, all that 60 proof Grappa had made Raul REAL. I figured defending Raul was a better option than bringing up the fact that I’d recently been sleeping with a Spanish guy, an Indian Guy and a Jamaican. Hey, when it comes to being a slut, I’m an equal opportunist). Then, as if he was reading my mind he asked:
“Are y’all a VIRGIN?”
(at this point I nearly spit out my drink)
“I’m 24. What do you think?”
“Well, I’m definitely not a virgin. I’ve banged tons of chicks! All kinds of hot chicks! And not just from my own town! I’ve had so much sex its INSANE y’all”
(The great thing about being 24 vs. 18: your radar for bullshit is acute. This guy’s sexual experience was about as likely as me actually being able to do advanced calculus. In other words: don't count on it.)
“That’s…nice. Umm, Good for you???”
“Are y’all a Republican?”
(This seemed even more ridiculous than the Virgin question. I started to laugh hysterically)
“Are you serious?”
“Do y’all love George Bush? He’s my idol. I hope to be like him when I grow up. I love how he’s all about not changing stuff”
“You need to stop talking”
Unfortunately, the 18 year old took this pause in the conversation as a cue to lay one on me. Before, I knew it this kid had grabbed me and was pressing his lips against mine. Luckily there was no tongue. (Oh god, what if there had been tongue?!). I pulled away, grabbed the remaining shot off of the table, poured it down my gullet and said,
“This never happened”
& walked away.
Italy is a magical place where everything is sexy. You’re sexy. The people around you are sexy. The food is sexy. The buildings are sexy. Even the people who normally wouldn’t be sexy, seem sexy. I love Italy. The only problem is sometimes all this sexy backfires. Like when teenagers start to find you attractive.
Goodbye Florence. Buon giorno Cougartown.
To counteract my R-Kelly moment, I decided to spend the rest of the night making eyes at our 40-year old tour guide who suddenly looked really, really good. Apparently I was also wearing a pair of Italy Goggles that night (and apparently I was in the one bar completely devoid of anyone age-appropriate)
The next day, our tour group was visiting a Florentine Leather factory -a required stop on the trip (because what high schooler DOESN'T want to visit a leather factory. I mean REALLY. I'm rolling my eyes right now just as I'm sure everyone else was that day). I was standing with my co-worker (& traveling companion) by a giant purse display, when the 18-year old came up to talk to us. He was holding a leather belt.
“Do y’all like this belt Simone?”
“Sure. Its nice”
“Cuz I want to make sure y’all like it. It’s important to me”
“Um, buy whatever you like”
When the kid was out of earshot, my co-worker (who had yet to be filled in about the events of the previous night) said to me:
“Why is he asking you about his belt? There is something really off about that kid. The other day he asked me if we had electricity in Canada”
At this point, we look across the room to see 18-year old winking at us.
me: “Yeah, I’m not really sure what his deal is”
her: “Americans are weird”
me: “Oh yeah…Totally....that's totally it”
*insert awkward shoe gazing here*
-My Mom, 10 years ago.
My Mom knows me well. I DO have this problem, where it's like... I know the fire is hot (or a situation is fucked up) but I can't resist reaching in and touching the flame (ie. seeing how much more fucked up the situation can get).
Throw some alcohol into the mix and you get stories like this:
A few years ago I was working for a company that sold packaged tours to high school students. You know the ones I am talking about: “Go to Europe for Spring Break! See ten countries in ten days and barely remember anything!”. One of the few perks of this job was that every season we got to go on a free trip. The upside: free European travel. The catch: you had to travel with high school students. This meant that you were literally tagging along (as a twenty-something) on a bunch of random teen's Senior Class trip. Um, can you say awkward?
It was on one of these trips that I ended up late one night in a bar, in Italy with 45 drunk teenagers.
I was sitting at a table by myself, sampling the bar's Grappa selection when I saw the 18-year old approach. I don’t remember his name. I think it was something like Chet or Chase or Bud or Buddy or Skip or Skipper. What I do remember was that he was part of our tour group, he had a very thick Bill Compton-like Southern accent and said y’all a lot. He also didn’t seem to know much about Canadians (earlier that day he had approached me to ask me what it was like “living in a country without electricity” Jesus! What are they teaching these kids?!). Just as I was starting to get a bit of a buzz happening, the 18 year sauntered up to me and slurred,
“You’re PURRRDY”
“Um, are you aware that I’m 24?”
“That’s no problem. I’m 18”
“Actually, it is kind of a problem--”
“Do y’all have a boyfriend?”
“What? Um. Yes. Yes, I do”
(I didn’t)
“What’s his name?”
“Its uh….Raul”
“Y’all have Mexicans up there?”
“What?!”
“Y’all dating a Mexican?!”
“Yes. I mean no. I mean….Raul is Argentinean”
(Yes. Raul. My hot, proudly Argentinean boyfriend. Engineer by day, soccer player by night. All around stand-up guy who enjoys long walks & sex on the beach. Apparently, all that 60 proof Grappa had made Raul REAL. I figured defending Raul was a better option than bringing up the fact that I’d recently been sleeping with a Spanish guy, an Indian Guy and a Jamaican. Hey, when it comes to being a slut, I’m an equal opportunist). Then, as if he was reading my mind he asked:
“Are y’all a VIRGIN?”
(at this point I nearly spit out my drink)
“I’m 24. What do you think?”
“Well, I’m definitely not a virgin. I’ve banged tons of chicks! All kinds of hot chicks! And not just from my own town! I’ve had so much sex its INSANE y’all”
(The great thing about being 24 vs. 18: your radar for bullshit is acute. This guy’s sexual experience was about as likely as me actually being able to do advanced calculus. In other words: don't count on it.)
“That’s…nice. Umm, Good for you???”
“Are y’all a Republican?”
(This seemed even more ridiculous than the Virgin question. I started to laugh hysterically)
“Are you serious?”
“Do y’all love George Bush? He’s my idol. I hope to be like him when I grow up. I love how he’s all about not changing stuff”
“You need to stop talking”
Unfortunately, the 18 year old took this pause in the conversation as a cue to lay one on me. Before, I knew it this kid had grabbed me and was pressing his lips against mine. Luckily there was no tongue. (Oh god, what if there had been tongue?!). I pulled away, grabbed the remaining shot off of the table, poured it down my gullet and said,
“This never happened”
& walked away.
Italy is a magical place where everything is sexy. You’re sexy. The people around you are sexy. The food is sexy. The buildings are sexy. Even the people who normally wouldn’t be sexy, seem sexy. I love Italy. The only problem is sometimes all this sexy backfires. Like when teenagers start to find you attractive.
Goodbye Florence. Buon giorno Cougartown.
To counteract my R-Kelly moment, I decided to spend the rest of the night making eyes at our 40-year old tour guide who suddenly looked really, really good. Apparently I was also wearing a pair of Italy Goggles that night (and apparently I was in the one bar completely devoid of anyone age-appropriate)
The next day, our tour group was visiting a Florentine Leather factory -a required stop on the trip (because what high schooler DOESN'T want to visit a leather factory. I mean REALLY. I'm rolling my eyes right now just as I'm sure everyone else was that day). I was standing with my co-worker (& traveling companion) by a giant purse display, when the 18-year old came up to talk to us. He was holding a leather belt.
“Do y’all like this belt Simone?”
“Sure. Its nice”
“Cuz I want to make sure y’all like it. It’s important to me”
“Um, buy whatever you like”
When the kid was out of earshot, my co-worker (who had yet to be filled in about the events of the previous night) said to me:
“Why is he asking you about his belt? There is something really off about that kid. The other day he asked me if we had electricity in Canada”
At this point, we look across the room to see 18-year old winking at us.
me: “Yeah, I’m not really sure what his deal is”
her: “Americans are weird”
me: “Oh yeah…Totally....that's totally it”
*insert awkward shoe gazing here*
