Transitioning: Train Wreck to Upstanding Citizen

As of late, I've felt ancient - the kind of aged where you find grey hairs and wrinkles and proceed to pay exorbitant amounts of money to continue looking like a co-ed on Spring Break.

To be fair, I am only 20 years old. So maybe this is only true in the malevolent, pessimistic corners of my mind.

But there is a feeling of maturity slowly creeping upon me. It may only be a tingling feeling now, but I sense it's going to burst out of the ground at any moment. My youth is a volcanic eruption, if you will. And my metabolism and alcohol tolerance may as well be Pompeii.

Not that I haven't felt the burden of adulthood for a long time now: I was brutally rebuffed for being 'too old' for trick-or-treating at age 12 (thanks, bitchy neighbour) and it was laughable to get a youth discount on anything without a severe glare of disbelief. It's a #tallgirlproblem.

(The world seemingly wanted to kick me into real life almost immediately following puberty. How cruel.)

Adulthood is, of course, a very real thing. It is missing the feature of solidified tangibility, however. So how and when do we signify its beginning? When do the 6.99 kid's meals come to a withering end?

(The answer is never. Bring your younger niece.)

We have various means of marking this passage of time, so here are some of my favourite commemorations in no particular order. Because organisation is reserved for responsible, grown ups:

Bat Mitzvah: it may do, but at 12 years old (in my figuratively Jewish life) I had no idea what income taxes were, let alone actually paying them.

(However, I wonder how much my Hit Clips collection would have sold for..)

So that's a solid no, as far as I'm concerned.

Driver's License: Road trip! In my parent's car! Mom, can I grab some gas money?

(God forbid I ever have to parallel park.)

Thanks family for funding my various voyages, but I hardly quantify that as independence.

University: Moving out of your parent's house into residence initially sounds like a 24/7 party, with a vast gourmet selection right at your fingertips. There's also this incredible opportunity to learn from a selection of the brightest minds in the world. FAN-TASTIC: food for thought, and your appetite.

HAHAHA!

This is obviously a fleeting dream. You discover that people in general are anti-social, crazy or just intolerable. Dining hall quality control hasn't been implemented since 1972. Most tenured professors assign essays ergonomically designed to stroke their academic egos. Oh, and you call mom within a week's time to deposit more money into your account for "books."

I'll call that a resounding no for the maturity development scale.

Domesticity: people tell me (I've yet to reach this point, thank god) that when you willingly decide to stay in on a Friday night instead of a night on the town, that is when you've fully blossomed into a world of mortgage payments and babies.

I really cannot, nor do I wish to process the image of white picket fencing and toddlers. I still consider my shoe closet my best investment portfolio, so this is inapplicable to me. Kudos to you if you've landed on solid leased/mortgaged ground.

So there are clearly multitudes of ways to mark the entrance into adulthood, but for some of us perhaps there really isn't a defined line to cross. It's entirely possible that one day you just wake up at 7am and realize kegs stands can no longer be considered an extracurricular activity.

That will be a sad, sad day.

So I propose to enjoy the dwindling days left of freedom from responsibility, no matter how many or few you have. Do something ridiculous while you still can - don't be the grandparent who doesn't have fun stories to tell about 'the good old days.' That's pretty much social suicide as the Golden Girls are concerned.

avoiding orthopaedic shoes as long as possible,

Nicole xo


** I understand not everyone experiences these milestones, or treats them so dramatically juvenile. That really is the point here. The largest congratulations to you if you actually have supported yourself since age 14.**

About Love

I am no expert on inter-relations with males.

I can be charming and witty, but these girl rules that are so swiftly applied by the fairer sex have never clicked with me. 

(I must have been sunning in the Mediterranean when that lesson was scheduled- tuition well spent, regardless!)

Something I do know about is the intimate moment when you lay eyes on the perfect prey, the winning shot that will change your life forever.

Or so I think every Saturday...afternoon.

What I am hinting at is that the lusty fun we have with our men, we encounter with the keepers of our feet.

The thing men will never understand is love at first sight with your solemate. Rivalled only by the first time you lay eyes on your wedding dress, the perfect pair of stilettos can raise a girl up, figuratively and literally, to the high heavens by just slipping into them. It's magic, and I will thank the inventor of the high heel for many a shoegasms.

It all begins with one look. I don't know of a single woman whose first thought is the price, size, comfort, or what will it go with in her closet. No. It is a very simple declaration that, "I want those." 

Shoes are just naturally inclined to be superior because they come in a pair. Ask that of a man and his reaction will take one of two forms:

1. he is such a scumbag that he immediately suggests finding a third partner for after hour cocktails at his leather-laden bachelor pad                                                         
2. he turns away in disgust, repulsed by your suggestion to drop his trousers and expose the family jewels

My point being that all comments end up being directed to that specific area. What a self obsessed gender.

Some women may find purses more seductive (and that's okay, love is love and I support all unions conducted by MasterCard) but my personal obsession is the most down to (literal) earth as possible. I like being a low maintenance girl sometimes.

Another beautiful thing: there is also no stigma in collecting dozens upon dozens of shoes. With men, numerous complications arise if you try to maintain a full roster. It has also never really been socially acceptable to lend a pair (of 'those') to a friend for the evening. Perhaps swinging will come back in vogue on the cusp of a revitalized sexual liberation - I wouldn't hold my breath, but I think I'll be sticking to blisters instead of polygamous scandals.

As a general conclusion to this long winded love letter.. shoes make me extremely happy. Until a gorgeous, tall investment banker with a big portfolio, impeccable table manners and a big 'portfolio' comes into my life, I will remain faithful to my other half. Coming perfectly packaged in a box and not having to deal with snoring is only the cherry on top of this heavenly relationship. I truly believe I'm in it for the long haul, because we all know only the weak and feeble minded take off their shoes halfway through the evening.

And I certainly am no quitter.

May your day be blessed with the sound of stilettos on hardwood and Sunday brunch gossip, my personal version of a holy day of rest and relaxation,

Nicole xo

Perfection: defined by what we imagine a Ralph Lauren catalog model's life to be.

"It's perfect." - women worldwide watching Leonardo DiCaprio for the first time in Titanic.

I think I can speak for the majority of people when I say we are all looking for 'it'. Perfection, in this sense is the idealized scenario we as humans dream up in our heads, stemming from multiple influences - for instance, I draw heavily from the late Princess Diana, Gwyneth Paltrow, Martha Stewart and every girl who can 'eat whatever she wants'.

(They're all bitches, and I don't believe that you don't at least glimpse at nutrition labels, thank you very much.)

This pursuit of perfection is hardwired in most people, and it goes beyond the perfect body, skin tone or job. Our surroundings must also be immaculately kept, giving credibility to the phrase, 'the company you keep' and most certainly powering the entirety of the home décor industry. You'd be lying if you said you didn't care to have Ryan Gosling, Oprah Winfrey or Hillary Clinton as a casual post-work drinking buddy. Or an Ethan Allen fully furnished apartment.

(Ryan is probably a gin and tonic kind of guy, and I bet he just LOVES classic leather couches..)

So basically, what I've concluded from my non-researched, totally biased opinion is that perfection, the search of it, and our desire for its capture (with the perfect Instagram filter) is the driving force behind basically every commercial industry we as humans have ever fabricated. And that basically means unless you still use tree bark for the majority of your 'sanitary' needs, you've been sucked in at least a little bit. For instance, the late night infomercial market would stop indefinitely if not for us poor souls looking for a revolutionary, life changing product to organize our tupperware, or control air flow throughout a room. Vital things for a happy existence, people.

So this brings me to the ultimate enabler of sorts, Pinterest. I love it so deeply it borderlines on sickness, but I can't stop. The reason could stem from my addictive personality and attention to organization and detail, but I've come to believe it goes beyond that. It is the ultimate visualized daydream. Alongside idealized dining room lighting and amassed imaginary closets which are a given, there is also the personal aesthetics we may not immediately think about when crafting a well rounded perfect image. We imagine ourselves maintaining the perfect butt (only 346 squats to go!), while simultaneously having the world's best chocolate chip cookie recipe memorized. Nobody with an ass that shapely is going near anything cookie shaped, I'll tell you that right now.

Contradictions abound, it is the perfect space to imagine the possibilities of life, neatly stacked into collections of blog links, images and handy motivational quotes. And that's why I love it. Minimal effort, with the best possible reflection on what encompasses your goals, aspirations and desires. It's easy to see how a concept like pinterest would be so popular. It plays seamlessly to human nature - we are known for both our ambition and laziness, and it isn't exactly strenuous to sit and click for several hours. It's almost hilarious that is so non-laborious yet promotes such massive lifestyle changes when in reality, nearly all successful people (in any field) with 'perfect' lives have had to do some serious heavy lifting to get where they are. Which of course makes it unrealistic in helping accomplish exactly what it deems to do - help perfect, fine tune or enhance their lives.

Wow, did I just write* a thesis for some pseudo-degree?

(I think I'll just sit here and order Chinese food at 4am, because that is what my skill sets have properly trained me for and god forbid I waste my potential on something as trivial as an advanced degree.)

Pinterest's ideas translate into our real world, as well as other social media experiences as well. What it really comes down to is outward appearances after all, whether it be through obnoxious Facebook gloating (I acknowledge that you love your boyfriend/husband/cat, now please stop infiltrating my life with your beaming smiles) or walking down the street flaunting an expensive handbag - it all figures into a crafted persona, one which I know I myself have worked on for many years now.

Now that I've admitted it (as if it was ever attempted to be hidden in the first place..) I'd like to make a request. As the majority of us are guilty of this projected boasting of perfection, let us not deny it - or risk looking like a complete ass hat.

And a flat one, at that.

So therefore, I fully accept myself to be a flawed person with major perceived lifestyle issues. As much as I strive for perfection in an all around lifestyle manner, it will probably never happen - but it's a whatever thing. After all, my ancestors invented fire, the wheel, froyo, and Twitter, so I have some leeway here with my worldly accomplishments.**

*My very attentive friend mentioned to me that I had typed 'right' instead of 'write', proving once again that my work embodies imperfection.

**This post may have been a wee bit more scattered than usual. I felt I had the authority to do this because, a) this is my own personal space for creative writing purposes, b) I know for a fact my pinterest board is an accumulation of many years of radical idealism scattered throughout the interwebs and c) it speaks to my environment right now: I really, really need to do a load or seven of laundry.

all the perfect, smudge proof lipstick kisses,

Nicole xo

Some Girls Do It Better

I normally wouldn't verge so far from my repertoire of shoes, sex, and sass, but right now I just feel differently. It's like the smell of Windex is in the air, and the hills are alive with the sound of sweeping.

(You are perfectly allowed to be confused at this point.)

I have a qualm with society - particularly women.

What ever happened to the spunky little girls who were just dying to clean up house?

When did cleaning (in most cases, only after yourself!) become such a burden upon all of female existence? I've found that some expect it to be handled for them, whether it be janitorial workers, personal maids or perhaps an evaporation program the government's been hiding from us.

I would not classify myself as a feminist, not with the warped idea that surrounds the word today. I absolutely support a woman's right to earn the same wage, have the choice to have a child (or not) and generally do what she wishes, up to the point in which it would endanger others. It's a fairly basic concept, but I see no need to entangle the life of others into my personal business - leave it all be, I say.

The problem appears when women far so fall off a traditional view of themselves, whether it be in blatant rebellion of the social norms or whatever other reason have you. Do you really think you are so entitled to live a life untarnished by menial labour work? I walk into some places and it is simply embarrassing how unkempt it all is. And to little surprise, this girl is almost guaranteed to have spent an exorbitant amount of money on her nails/hair/mascara. It's the most bizarre of inverse relationships.

Nobody dusts anymore, nobody finds joy in sanitizing and re-organizing. I must be the only one left who thinks tupperware should have a home to call its own.

Of course this does not apply to every woman I know, but my god. When I visit male friends (as well as other "friends") in their home, I tend to see a strange shift that I don't know how to interpret. They now own crockery? Is that spice rack really sorted through alphabetically? You use your coffee table, not as an over glorified ash tray but as a coffee table?!

It would boggle the mind of anyone smarter, I promise you.

If men can 'bring home the bacon' as it were, and now clean up after cooking it ? It is a sad state if we can't even pick up a dust pan without cringing or complaining about excessively strained wrist pain. It may seem I am exaggerating, and I wish I were. Come the fuck on.

Of course there is bias here. I personally enjoy cleaning. As with most things in life I verge on the excessive side. Massive organizational sweeps, the urge to seek and destroy all expired products within a 5km radius... lord help us all if I find a magic eraser, because your walls will find a way to be removed of every scuff you never even noticed was there.

(My mother would be so, so proud.)

But even if it doesn't soothe your anxiety and tension like it does mine, it is a fact of life that some day you will have to pick up your own slack. I could care less if you can afford the help, it shows an ugly side to a person if they cannot take care of their surroundings. The correlation between environment, relationships, health, etc isn't nonsense after all. Careless is careless, no matter what the circumstance.

I do not find it demeaning or unnecessary to clean for myself. If you can't wipe down a countertop after using it, I probably wouldn't want to talk to you anyways - how can I expect you to return my shoes back to me in mint condition? You will never understand the joy I find in hand washing delicates and I pity you.

I'm not suggesting you invest massive stock in Clorox, but there is something to be said for those who take pride in their homes, cars, purses, computer desktop screens.. It all adds up to spell S-L-O-B.

Don't make me doubt that you couldn't hold your own in a casual purse/bathroom/car rummage in search of a tampon, mints, or anywhere else. I want to believe so, so much that you don't have gum wrapped in a parking ticket from 2007 hanging around the bottom of your bowler bag from 2013.

remember, cleanliness is next to godliness (as well as betchiness),

Nicole xo

Breathing Different Air

Lovely readers, I am so sorry.
I should be infracted, except this isn't a real job, or a court room.

I've just realized there may be a character defining fact about me that has fallen by the wayside - something I've failed to turn over to the opposing council, if you will.

I am tall. 180cm, 5'11ft, and sometimes much, much more depending on what my feet wish to live in for the day.

I know in all rational situations, it isn't fair to judge a book by its cover. It's Social Graces 101, circa your first foray into a school setting (probably taught alongside the lesson not to eat glue).

However, here's the thing: when you see a 5'11ft blonde wearing 4 inch heels on a Wednesday afternoon while shopping for groceries, you really do have to take what you see at face value. We can all safely assume footwear extravagancies on her part are of no help in the demure department. This bitch (being me, in this case) knows exactly what she is doing, is perfectly aware of the attention this seemingly simple wardrobe decision offers her, and she probably loves it. I know I do.

In a way, the inevitability of being noticed has personally pushed me to be the way I am, and I could not be happier to be in this position. It's near impossible to hide at this height, and why would I want to? Self confidence can be misconstrued as arrogance, pretentiousness, conceit - maybe I do have some (a lot) of those qualities, but as someone who grew up petrified of speaking out loud and had a terrible time meeting new people, I'll say that is a step up. Way, way up in my case.

I am boisterous, opinionated, sometimes vulgar and always willing to push buttons because I know what I am doing at this point. Dancing around a subject that could easily be aimed and shot at makes no sense to me. Stand up and speak out, no apologies and certainly no hesitation. Call me Warden Nicole if you wish, but stepping on people's toes is just an easier task from up high in stilettos. So I choose to verge on the aggressive side of nature. As I will say over and over again, bitch has gotta have her shoes, so why not walk in them?

Height as a physical aspect of mine boils down to a few definitive presumptions from multiple angles. The regular comments usually circle around:

• Wow, do you model? (No, but thank you for thinking I could!)
• How do you find men? (I go out in heels and hope for 6'4ft men to fall into my lap - on good days, they do.)
• How do you find jeans/dresses/tops (with my aDDitional problems..) that fit?

And my personal favourite...

• Can you reach the top shelf for me?

In all honesty, this last point doesn't annoy me until it does - sometimes just snaps in me. Do I ask you to pick things up for me off the floor because you're closer to the ground? No? So in that case please go buy yourself a step stool.

And god forbid there is an occasion that requires role play in a couple scenario - not once in elementary school did I play the sweet, docile wife. This must explain my indifference to killing bugs and working on construction projects (yes, I also look fantastic in neon vests, if that's what piques your interest, gents.) Appropriately gruff and self sufficient is where I like to toe the line between being a complete barbie and a burping, video game playing tomboy.

Perhaps I'm reading too much into this, but I feel the tall ones in society see more. A fresh (aerial) perspective changes the way you look at things. Bless the hearts of anyone under 5'5ft attempting to act intimidating, because one swift stare downwards will put you in your place. God forbid you catch me in the right outfit (sleek black blazer, chignon bun and red lips) and the look you'll receive will quite literally paralyze you for 15-23 seconds. Proven fact.

I also feel significantly safer on the streets. Of course at night, everyone and anyone can be a target, but tackling me versus some of my more pocket-sized friends must seem like a giant hassle. I'm not worth the trouble to sedate into a windowless white van, thank you attackers. Leave me on my ill timed Starbucks run in peace. Needing caffeine at 10:30pm is punishment enough for my sleep cycle.

With this, it really is all about the little assurances in life. Some people find comfort in having 911 on their speed dial or a savings account, I have my lengthy limbs to fall back on.

So if you yourself are uncomfortable about your extended vertical spacial issues (ha, haha, ha), I beg you to reconsider. Being tall is a special gift bestowed upon a very small percentage of the population. Use that power wisely.

And if you happen to be a man of significant stature(s) (HA, against all odds I find a way to input innuendos) please do us tall girls a favour. Pick a mate within your height range. There is no need to strain your back, and it certainly makes no sense to waste a perfectly good set of long legs.

Kisses from high, high above,

Nicole xo

thrill of the chill

This is going to sound like an obnoxious love letter, but I've come to terms with that quite easily. I have so much self love, it is easily spared on behalf of my other passions.

I love fall.

Absolutely, I shed invisible tears (not going to ruin my makeup now, am I?) every time I pack away my bright sundresses and shorts which have little to no hope transitioning in the bitter Toronto September weather. You can ask my roommates for proof of the tales of late night whelps and whimpers from the walk in closet - it's never easy to say goodbye. Summer air just feels like light, airy freedom. But seasons must change, Starbucks orders cannot be iced forever, and I must return to wearing real pants (gasps all around).

Until next year, I presume - unless someone would like to fund a trip to warmer climates for me. Even so, it's laughable to think I wouldn't justify a 'resort' season shopping trip for the occasion, so I guess not.

As much as I enjoy summer (and believe me, warm weather and a hint of a tan agrees with me), there is nothing better than the turn of season for the chillier. Fall is the ultimate fashionista challenge and it gives me pangs of happiness the same way some people stay up all night for a midnight release of a book/movie/video game for a rush of exhilaration of having the best, shiniest and brightest first. Being a cut above the rest sounds exclusive and covetable for a reason.

Anyone can look cute in the bright, punchy colours and the many fail proof combinations afforded by ideal weather. Now, throw in the complications of wind, rain and (if you're latitude-ally challenged) snow, and the entire process becomes tricky. However, if you're not up to the challenge feel free to hibernate in sweatpants all season. Just don't be surprised (or feel uncomfortable as you 'look comfortable') when I show up for a casual coffee in heeled boots and a full red lip.

Girl's gotta caffeinate, fashion slaves' gotta pound the pavement in stilettos. Nature's law.

I warned you all that this would sound like a proclamation of deep, emotionally raw feelings..it would sound better if it wasn't directed towards inanimate objects that live on hangers, but what can you do? Love is love.

The season offers endless inspiration and enough possibility that it makes me dizzy when I truly contemplate the gravity of the opportunities that lay before every outfit change. The perfectly fitting outerwear, the ultimate statement making scarf. All in the season's newest it shades. And let us not overlook the practically holy real-life look book known as fashion week. They may be showcasing next year's spring trends, but almost as valuable is the spectacle of style outside the tents. Overall, fall fashion is the beacon of which style is cultivated, so I obviously take that as a personal challenge to be as daring as humanly and financially possible.

For instance, do I really believe that red leather pants, a cape and some multiple dozen pairs of 'edgy' flats are really necessary to call myself presentable on a day to day basis? No, but my god is it fun creating a look and putting on that one bracelet, perfect not too chunky tights or the ideal blood red lip and having the last piece to my fashion puzzle. Like a closet-gasm for the best of us, there is no better feeling walking the streets and being stopped (by women!) and having the enthusiastic "I LOVE YOUR ____" comment. A day made, and all the credit goes to my ever expanding closet.

So I invite you all to revel with me in the joys of crisp air and bundling up, slowly adding layers to keep the cold away. Depression may spike in colder months, but if you start feeling blue, just go cuddle in your closet with some cashmere, and you'll remember why life is worth living.

Fervently passionate and overly dramatic as always,

Nicole xo

"Can You Hold My Bags?"

I have a bit of a shopping addiction. It is harmless in the grand scheme of things, but lately I have been feeling the need to correct my behaviour - a boot camp for my credit cards, if you will. I'd call it the first signs of growing up and taking responsibility for myself, but I haven't washed my hair in three consecutive days, so I feel that would be a lie. And I would never lie on the Internet. 

The first place you would assume to look for evidence of this quirk is in my closet (I refuse to use the word 'flaw' in this case. Suede ankle booties could never be a flaw). I try to never deny myself the items I adore and feel I must have, because that moment is rare. I am an extremely selective shopper. Normally I would much rather play real-life Pinterest and create wearable combinations from what I already have. I like to play the dress up game of life on level 12 (12 seems like it'd have a lot of complications and an attack of the Flatform Sandal Monster. Just no, people). 

Seasonal shopping lists contain 4-6 new additions or upgrades, because nobody really, really needs sneaker wedges, a cape and/or fringe anything. There is no challenge in just buying everything coined 'trendy' and neglecting the rest of your closet - you can tell if someone lives only in neutrals or copy and pastes their looks from store mannequins. But I digress, this annoyance is just my 'holier than thou' attitude coming out in full force.

Where the problem really becomes apparent is in the beauty spectrum of things. Coming back to my childhood bedroom I found no less that six eyeshadow palettes. Do you know how many I had used? One, with visible dents in only three of the eyeshadow colours. No matter how many 'pinspirations' or ripped out pages of Cosmopolitan I gather, my lids stay the same shimmery, champagney, beigey shade. I'm trying for a rainbow effect and ending up with 50 Shades of Tame. That isn't fun for anyone.

Bath, body and beauty products are my Achilles heel. I've amassed pots and pots of body butter, litres worth of lotion, every calming/exfoliating/clarifying cleanser/scrub/toner I could get my hands on (that had pretty packaging - presentation is KEY!) and even though I've reached a point of storing extras under my bed, I. Can't. Stop. 

Justifications usually include but by no means are limited to:

I will use this eventually.

Worse comes to worse, I have last minute birthday/thank you presents on hand.

IT WAS ON SALE. Thus invoking a need for 7 bottles of dry shampoo (I have no room for you?!).

I heard really great things about this product (from my curly haired, dry skinned 45 year old hair stylist - completely relevant to 19 year old, oil prone with limp, lifeless haired me.) 

"If you spend another 7$, you get 10% off AND a free sample of (insert something I'll never use)!" 

So you see fair internet readers, there are a million and one reasons I should cut up my store points' card, but I just can't do it. One day when I am living comfortably (knock on wood) I will look back on my preliminary attempts to be on Hoarders and laugh as I'm surrounded by chic minimalism and a foot masseuse who makes house calls on speed dial. Martini in hand, naturally. 

Practicality has never been my strong suit, but isn't it fun to live outlandishly?

All my love and devotion Sephora gift wrapped (free samples included), 

Nicole xo

On the Bacchanalia Lifestyle

Lately I've been on a bit of a rampage. Every single time I scrape up the will to write, something has dragged me away from finishing the post (that something usually involves a pitcher of sangria and a pair of show stopping heels). You guys have missed out on glimmering posts of literary genius, including my near death run-in with Beliebers and a particularly heinous shopping spree (it was glorious in my eyes, not so much to MasterCard).The absence of my humour and wit has likely laid heavy on your hearts.

Let me explain something quickly before I get a plethora of anonymous tipped phone calls to AA, or anything of the like. I like to go out, but it is not the bread and butter of my existence. I'm not a 'club kid', I don't do any (illicit) drugs and I spend a good chunk of my free time like most of you probably do - browsing the internet and trying to find a comfortable way to rest my iPad on my boobs while laying in bed. It's a hard knock life.

The tricky thing about my current state of 'I literally have had to repeat outfits because I have nothing left to wear out that hasn't been seen yet' is that there are several components blending together to create the perfect storm of debauchery:

• I am single (no pity party necessary, thank you)

• I live smack dab in the middle of a metropolitan area that specifically caters to young, pretty things looking for adventure.

• It is summer. I have fabulous legs that need to be seen by the general public in a variety of skirts, dresses and satin-y shorts (my current MO).

• There are patios everywhere.

• There are rooftop bars everywhere.

• The wine is ever flowing, and I rarely have to pay for my own drink.

• I've never been the kind of girl to say no to a fun time. Such is the curse of a spontaneous, 'say yes to everything' attitude.

All that being disclosed, I really, really should not be going out 4-5 times a week (probably).

I know I'm conducting myself to an excess, but I really feel repelled by the idea of sitting home alone in sweatpants eating a tub of ice cream and watching TV. I did that ad nauseum in high school, being of the supreme nerd/smart ass/too tall for high school boys variety, and I'm over the homely life. I've also overcome my insecurities of being too smart and too tall, but those revelations belong in their own over-glorified blog post. Aren’t all you readers a lucky bunch!

The ways I've liked to justify my allergy to the enclosures of my home have varied- a spectrum of 'I don't want to make my bed for a week straight' to 'how many nights can I re-use my very indelible eyeliner before people think I'm starting a cover band?', and a personal favourite of mine - 'I don't want to do groceries this month'. These are just a selection of moments where I feel as though I’m beginning to let myself go. Then I remember that is what my 40’s will be for. (From the age of 52 to my impending demise, I shall try to channel a mixture of Blythe Danner and Helen Mirren. Yes, I have a timeline of my aging process idyllically mapped out.)

I must remind myself that I am in my prime, likely never again able to gracefully manage this kind of stamina. So, as a natural conclusion, the only sensible thing is to relish the moments of absolute irresponsibility and lunacy of my lifestyle. I’d use a particularly heinous acronym in this instance, but I’m better than that and your eyes do not deserve to be scorched upon entry here.

A small request: I only ask that nobody disclose this revelation to my mother, as I am relying on her graceful aging process for my future self. No use spoiling it with stress-induced wrinkles and sleepless nights.

champagne kisses and VIP lounge passes,

Nicole xo

The Thing About Sex

Sometimes I feel that I have taken on the challenge of mastering everything to the point that it becomes second nature. Ease and grace is what makes life seem effortless, and I strive for that everyday. So, as the resident (self proclaimed) go-to girl for a myriad of topics, I can't help but feel a small sense of accomplishment. I am the keeper of secrets, the girl with no boundaries, the knower of all sample sale locations and weekday drink specials. It's a gift.

Without further ado, a selection of my favourite talents and traits. If I'm playing favourites, the last one wins out:

Want to cure hiccups? A spoonful of peanut butter, my dears. Hold it in your mouth for a moment and revel in the freedom from choking on a sound effect of airy gasps.

Need to fix a loose doorknob? Just hand me a Phillips head and please try not to block my light. Same goes for being the first to volunteer to get up on rickety raised surfaces to hammer a nail in.

It goes without saying that I am the first person to be approached as a drinking and/or shopping buddy. Both are points of pride for me.

Now, perhaps this is venturing into dangerous territory, and the Westboro Baptist Church may want my head on a pike.

I love sex. I love discussing it, doing it, and helping people break out of their shells to learn to enjoy it for themselves. It's like honey, I try to drizzle it onto every meal in the day. That was not even intended to be perverse, but there really is no helping myself when it comes to the meeting of two (or more, or less) bodies.

In terms of topics of a sexual nature, (anything from girth/length normalities, to lubricants, and the oh-so infamous "Do you think I need Plan B?" question of faith in the reproductive system) I tend to dominate the Jeopardy board of sex.

Is this normal for someone my age? Perhaps not. In all honesty, it petrifies me that men and women alike are so oblivious to their own bodies. Topics like masturbation, nudity, (legal!) pornography are so hidden away, it's almost laughable to think something we all possess is considered an 'abnormality' by so many. If civilization had tripped up somewhere along the way and found that ears were deemed inappropriate for public display, how would that manifest itself in society? I'll venture to guess that these would be far more popular.

Part of me loves bringing up these "inappropriate" conversations, just to watch the reaction of people. Truth be told, I tend to pick friends based on if they jump on board. If they shy away, with looks of disgust and judgement on their faces, I can assume we won't be having brunch.

90% of what I say, I can get away with because I presume to act blasé, as if it were a discussion about the latest possibility of rain or who enjoys the new Starbucks latte flavour. That is how sex in conversations should be handled, in my oh-so self important opinion.

In the same way that children introduced to a glass of wine at dinner tend to handle their consumption of alcohol better (i.e, they are not the miscreant lap dancing for jello shots), a solid sexual education gives one a leg up (ha!) in life. When you say 'ignorance is bliss,' I firmly disagree. An orgasm is bliss, and that requires knowledge.

So please, crack open an extra internet browser tab and find your way over to a nice wholesome list of the Kama Sutra, (I love Cosmo's for the illustrations and the abundance of pink!) pour yourself a drink - the common theme of all fun activities - and just go at it.

And for Christ's sake, if you are single and don't have this tucked beneath the bathroom sink, or god forbid this is missing from your bedside drawer, please stop reading and tap into your emergency savings/vacation/retirement fund and invest. I couldn't think of a better gift to myself.

With 99% effectiveness and a 100% guarantee of pleasure,

Nicole xo

Where can I apply to be the next Gywneth Paltrow?

As a female, I'd like to think I've done a pretty good job with fulfilling what my mother imagined for her perfect angelic child. Here are some of my favourite points, evidencing that I am an elite human being deserving of love and affection, all of which I currently coax out of a sweet glass (bottle) of riesling:

• I am in adherence to all basic and advanced level techniques in hygiene - I even shave my legs if I know they are going to be caressed by a suave, well dressed man, akin to your standard Venus Gilette commercial! (I hope this happens to you as often as it does for me.)

• I can strut in heels like no other, always savouring the dazzled looks of men and women alike while praying to reach the curb without falling into a tree, cab, small child, etc. 

• My outfits always garner at least one or two compliments throughout the day, even if it is coming from filth minded construction workers and the men who harass you with apocalyptic prophecies on major intersections.

• Although my social skills may be somewhat intense, I do manage to have a solid collection of friends who have yet to block my number or pretend to have been "really busy with my cat's yoga instruction" all weekend.

• People sometimes consult me for advice! Whether it be how much vodka should be poured into a screwdriver (the more the merrier), or how to pair a belt with a dress, I qualify as a bonafide lifestyle expert. Ha!

I hope the sarcasm needs no translation. I can be a royal hot mess, and not even the kind with a claim to a throne - the royal baby business has clearly infected this girl's mind.

In particular, I continue to be amazed by blogs, twitter feeds and instagram personalities who exude the perfect blend of sophistication, balance and actual following of recommended portion sizes on packaging. Seriously gobsmacked. I know people always jump to say "from the outside looking in.." but I want in, damnit. High sheen gloss and all.

My favourite of all of these has to be GOOP, by the infamous Gywneth Paltrow. I know her image is prone to hateful boos and snarky comments about gluten free, dairy free and joy free nightmares, but I genuinely like Ms. Paltrow. She is a beautiful, talented woman who is obviously well aware of the negativity, but continues to do what she wants. In total envy, I stare intensely at every post wondering how such a perfectly chic and ultra exclusive life comes together. Money, stunning looks, and well placed parents obviously have something to do with it, but not every celebrity's child turns out so well (as TMZ will prove time and time again). I am well aware I will never achieve such level of worship from the peons who always choose 'save' when given the option to 'splurge or save' on python Birkin bags.

So what to do? Is that even a question with an attainable answer?

Sure. The solution is to create my own glossy finish, impenetrable to a group of people (who at least in my deranged mind) look upon me with approval and envy. No need to be vicious about bringing a bitch face to a main stay position, but I keep a cardinal rule to always, under pain of death (or you know, death at the hand of humiliation) look put together and slightly overdressed for every occasion. Why else do I own an expansive closet if I'm not going to wear a dress and pearls to a 10am Monday class? Who dare utter the words "sweatpants" and "comfy-casual" to me?

It's the small accumulation of these things that build up an image of sophistication and polish. After all, how else am I going to blot out the image of a thoroughly wined blonde teetering away from the bar on a Tuesday night..

I may never have Jude Law as a lover or children named after fruit, but I have dark sunglasses I can smirk behind every time a fellow female enviously stares at my statement necklace. I bought it in Europe, sweetie.

With summery shade lipstick kisses,

Nicole xo

An Introduction

It will most likely be impossible to avoid a sort of online dating profile vibe to this, so I relent.

I am a blonde, 5'11ft curvaceous woman studying in a metropolitan city enjoying life to a degree some would call "a little too much." I've accumulated a plethora of stories from my impulsive, adventurous and bare-all attitude, and see no reason why those should stay within the confines of my brunch table. I also enjoy walks on the beach, foot
massages and splitting a pitcher of sangria (white, if you'd like to offer).

Aside from the pleasantries, I thoroughly enjoy (and not so humbly feel I have a great eye for) fashion, hair, travel, beauty and all the aesthetics you would expect to find in the deepest crevices of Pinterest. Some people might also call me hilarious and verbose, but that is up to you to decide.

Hopefully this little project doesn't go the way of my dual toned BCBG peep toed pumps which have yet to see daylight- or let's be honest here, the streetlights of the middle of the night.

Thank you ever so sincerely for managing through this,

Nicole xo