(I'm so good I started immediately on another one, you guys!)
Today I had an encounter which made me, to say the least, extremely sad.
This girl was lovely, really and truly lovely. But my good god, she had the confidence of a dust bunny (yes, the ones that hide under the bed). I could not for the life of me understand how this had developed. She was glowing from the inside out, had a fantastic sense of humour and her manicure was fierce.
So what happened?
Her female friend (why they were friends, I couldn't tell you) grabbed the sweater our little dust bunny was going to purchase, and said in a sneering tone of voice, "you look horrible in green - plus it's going to make you look fatter than you already are."
Cars crashed, bombs exploded, my mind came to a screeching halt.
GET OUT OF HERE, I desperately wanted to yell. All I could muster up was a blank stare. What's worse, bunny let her do it.
I couldn't get the little scene out of my head, so naturally I had to write a mini-manifesto about it. I'm trying to start a revolution from my coffee table.
I have overwhelming confidence levels. Sometimes fully deluded, other times completely justified - I've come to terms with this sometimes superpower. So when I encounter a woman who looks like she needs a little boost, I make the effort to throw out compliments like free samples at Sephora.
Those are such cute shoes. Oh my god, I love the perfume you're wearing. Bangs so work for you.
I'm sure you know where I'm going with this.
Therefore this problem I've been witnessing is alarmingly the complete opposite of what I've always tried to do. Girls can be nasty, it's no secret. The wretched human above qualifies, but there are so many other varieties. I've witnessed dozens of girls flirt (unknowingly) with someone else's man friend, and little does she know that she is now Enemy #1 - skank, whore, slut, whatever slur you think cuts deepest. Trust me, I doubt she thought he was that attractive.
Is the hate really necessary, ladies? Anger causes premature wrinkles, and nothing is worth that.
Another thing I've never understood is the fear of being compared to beautiful women. Perhaps I'm insane, but I have always felt surrounding yourself with beauty makes you more beautiful. In the infamous words of Mean Girls, calling someone fat won't make you skinny. No, standing beside Candice Swanepoel is probably not the best dieting method, but hating her impossible beauty makes you look even worse - jealous, vindictive and hateful.
I suggest we stop the girl hating, slut shaming, and voodoo spell casting (I want to cover all possible extremes) and rather, go shoe shopping - together. I swear on my life if the UN Council could go pick out a few perfect pairs of stilettos, we could untangle a few tricky diplomatic knots in an afternoon at Henri Bendel.
So can we try, pretty please? Own it ladies - you can't exchange your life for store credit anyways, so make it work for you.
Girl power kisses,
Nicole xoxo
the tongue in cheek, unapologetic and absurd life of a blonde bombshell
Saturday, 15 November 2014
My Strange Addiction
I've neglected you. And I am so, so sorry.
I really meant to write, but you know the drill. Life and laziness can get in the way of our most beloved activities - and if enough time has passed, you can forget the passion you once held all together. That's how I feel about all of my ex boyfriends, so why couldn't it apply in a wider sense?
And in my failure to attend to you, dear internet, I've been cheating on you. Yes, I really should be ashamed of myself. But to be completely honest with you, I've found that sometimes you can procrastinate so much you inadvertently become productive in ways you never expected.
And this is where I admit that I've become a workaholic.
Not the scary, 9-5, water cooler chatter, Netflix binge-er of sorts. Rather I seem to have fallen into the trap of taking too much onto my plate at once. Like a bad buffet. I wouldn't dare to bore you with the mundane details, but suffice to say that the vivaciousness has dimmed ever so slightly. 70 hour weeks can do that to you. Drinking black coffee at 8am can do that to you too.
I refuse to let this persist.
As you grow older, perhaps you can't halt the wrinkles, the grey hairs and the glacial speed of your metabolism, but you sure as hell don't have to become boring. Shoot me if I ever think it's a good idea to join a Friday night book club. I have to dance on a few more tables, flirt with a few more bartenders and buy many more pairs of shoes I can't afford before I'm satisfied. And even then, I'm notorious for not knowing when enough is enough.
Oh, but what fun!
I'm not delusional enough to think I'll be bar hopping into my late 40's, but god forbid I lose my art of captivation. Story telling is my bread and butter, my raison d'être, and my main form of entertainment - therefore I must dispense all available energy into making more story-worthy memories. I'll be the 21st century female Hemingway, but without war, fish, and suicide in Idaho.
As my new objective, I've decided to make a to do list*:
I promise to uphold these to the best of my ability - but I suppose only time can show my success (incarceration would be a thing to avoid, don't we think?)
Venti Blonde kisses,
Nicole xoxo
I really meant to write, but you know the drill. Life and laziness can get in the way of our most beloved activities - and if enough time has passed, you can forget the passion you once held all together. That's how I feel about all of my ex boyfriends, so why couldn't it apply in a wider sense?
And in my failure to attend to you, dear internet, I've been cheating on you. Yes, I really should be ashamed of myself. But to be completely honest with you, I've found that sometimes you can procrastinate so much you inadvertently become productive in ways you never expected.
And this is where I admit that I've become a workaholic.
Not the scary, 9-5, water cooler chatter, Netflix binge-er of sorts. Rather I seem to have fallen into the trap of taking too much onto my plate at once. Like a bad buffet. I wouldn't dare to bore you with the mundane details, but suffice to say that the vivaciousness has dimmed ever so slightly. 70 hour weeks can do that to you. Drinking black coffee at 8am can do that to you too.
I refuse to let this persist.
As you grow older, perhaps you can't halt the wrinkles, the grey hairs and the glacial speed of your metabolism, but you sure as hell don't have to become boring. Shoot me if I ever think it's a good idea to join a Friday night book club. I have to dance on a few more tables, flirt with a few more bartenders and buy many more pairs of shoes I can't afford before I'm satisfied. And even then, I'm notorious for not knowing when enough is enough.
Oh, but what fun!
I'm not delusional enough to think I'll be bar hopping into my late 40's, but god forbid I lose my art of captivation. Story telling is my bread and butter, my raison d'être, and my main form of entertainment - therefore I must dispense all available energy into making more story-worthy memories. I'll be the 21st century female Hemingway, but without war, fish, and suicide in Idaho.
As my new objective, I've decided to make a to do list*:
- Try with all my might to scribble out at least one Boob and/or Cookie related post a week. Oomph.
- Continue my usual protocol of saying yes to ridiculous things. Those tend to be the most fun anyways.
- Do not get arrested/die/become a brunette. No. No. Never.
I promise to uphold these to the best of my ability - but I suppose only time can show my success (incarceration would be a thing to avoid, don't we think?)
Venti Blonde kisses,
Nicole xoxo
*Do you see the workaholic tendencies coming into play - a to do list?!
Monday, 28 April 2014
chardonnay and guacamole make for a complete and balanced breakfast
Oh, hi there.
I apologize to my devoted fans (seriously, I have those..) for these frigid, lonely months devoid of the trademark wit and sass spouting from this sliver of the internet.
Big shout out to my father who I recently discovered reads this wholesome and thought-provoking stuff; my face is forever burnt red from that revelation, so I thank you.
I won't even begin to fabricate an excuse for my absence - the list would range from spending numerous hours perfecting the 3:45am peanut butter cookie to organizing tupperware cabinets like the deranged housewife I aspire to be. All vital, and another reminder that I should update my resume with my newfound skill sets.
All in all, winter lethargy hit me hard this year. Instead of optimistic New Year's resolutions and hopeful Valentine's Day plans, I chose to focus on restraining violent thoughts towards everyone dressed in festive-appropriate sequins (amateurs*) and cotton candy pink, respectively.
Although I seem to have wasted the idyllic tundra weather indoors, real concern has begun to set in - nary a bold lip has been painted on my mouth, I haven't properly shaved my legs in two (?) months, and there has been a disturbing rise in my collection of 'casual wear', better known as sweatpants and shirts which afford a no-bra policy. Although it doesn't really resemble spring, we are now uncomfortably close to May, bikini weather in all but current mercury gage.
So this begs the question, what the hell is wrong with me?
My natural reaction to warmer weather resembles that of a small child discovering fructose corn syrup; there is normally an abundance of jumping up and down, a demand for iced beverages from everyone's favourite capitalist mermaid, and the eye-assaulting shift to brights and bare skin, regardless of actual temperate conditions - I am a slave to my own absurdity and cold feet, after all.
I have never been particularly talented with self motivation; all of my life's progress has stemmed from borderline unhealthy spontaneity and slowly becoming my mother. I refuse to let seasonal depression (affectionately coined as SAD, thanks Google!) best me - nobody will be asking 'what happened to that girl?' this year.
So I have half-assed a solution, as always.
I have created a guideline for self imposed bribery in order to function like a semi-adult. This is almost as entertaining as it is effective, so you are dually very welcome. Here is a sample of a few of my personal favourites:
To tell a secret, there has also been a development of very real, very serious television series addictions. Not necessarily beneficial in any category, but nevertheless scripted drama keeps me from creating real life theatrics which could prove to end in incarceration if I'm not careful.
I suppose the bearings of daily life require little cheats and small consolation prizes, particularly in the context of a dreary struggle against the weather network app (which never accurately predicts week long forecasts anyways, so whatever). Anything and everything in the name of remaining sane, and I endorse it all.
Hang in there people, I have an inkling the legs will be able to make a skirtly appearance soon enough!
Self tanner kisses,
Nicole xo
*Sequins are vastly underused as a clothing option, and I myself am a huge proponent of daytime usage. They are particularly useful for camouflaging your third bagel run of the day with a certain whimsy and light reflecting distraction.
I apologize to my devoted fans (seriously, I have those..) for these frigid, lonely months devoid of the trademark wit and sass spouting from this sliver of the internet.
Big shout out to my father who I recently discovered reads this wholesome and thought-provoking stuff; my face is forever burnt red from that revelation, so I thank you.
I won't even begin to fabricate an excuse for my absence - the list would range from spending numerous hours perfecting the 3:45am peanut butter cookie to organizing tupperware cabinets like the deranged housewife I aspire to be. All vital, and another reminder that I should update my resume with my newfound skill sets.
All in all, winter lethargy hit me hard this year. Instead of optimistic New Year's resolutions and hopeful Valentine's Day plans, I chose to focus on restraining violent thoughts towards everyone dressed in festive-appropriate sequins (amateurs*) and cotton candy pink, respectively.
Although I seem to have wasted the idyllic tundra weather indoors, real concern has begun to set in - nary a bold lip has been painted on my mouth, I haven't properly shaved my legs in two (?) months, and there has been a disturbing rise in my collection of 'casual wear', better known as sweatpants and shirts which afford a no-bra policy. Although it doesn't really resemble spring, we are now uncomfortably close to May, bikini weather in all but current mercury gage.
So this begs the question, what the hell is wrong with me?
My natural reaction to warmer weather resembles that of a small child discovering fructose corn syrup; there is normally an abundance of jumping up and down, a demand for iced beverages from everyone's favourite capitalist mermaid, and the eye-assaulting shift to brights and bare skin, regardless of actual temperate conditions - I am a slave to my own absurdity and cold feet, after all.
I have never been particularly talented with self motivation; all of my life's progress has stemmed from borderline unhealthy spontaneity and slowly becoming my mother. I refuse to let seasonal depression (affectionately coined as SAD, thanks Google!) best me - nobody will be asking 'what happened to that girl?' this year.
So I have half-assed a solution, as always.
I have created a guideline for self imposed bribery in order to function like a semi-adult. This is almost as entertaining as it is effective, so you are dually very welcome. Here is a sample of a few of my personal favourites:
- responding to emails warrants a beverage of choice.
- writing my own email warrants a venti beverage of choice.
- paying credit card bills requires a blindfold and is rewarded with tequila.
- going to the gym deserves one self righteous tweet; sometimes I trade this in for an impromptu nap.
- successfully convincing a guy of my (feigned) sanity equals...I'm still developing and researching this particular endeavour.
- As a monthly bonus for not crying in public in the presence of others - not in a prime composed state, I must admit - I've settled on spa treatments. (Facials for general good behaviour, full body massages if I have also completed a load of laundry.)
To tell a secret, there has also been a development of very real, very serious television series addictions. Not necessarily beneficial in any category, but nevertheless scripted drama keeps me from creating real life theatrics which could prove to end in incarceration if I'm not careful.
I suppose the bearings of daily life require little cheats and small consolation prizes, particularly in the context of a dreary struggle against the weather network app (which never accurately predicts week long forecasts anyways, so whatever). Anything and everything in the name of remaining sane, and I endorse it all.
Hang in there people, I have an inkling the legs will be able to make a skirtly appearance soon enough!
Self tanner kisses,
Nicole xo
*Sequins are vastly underused as a clothing option, and I myself am a huge proponent of daytime usage. They are particularly useful for camouflaging your third bagel run of the day with a certain whimsy and light reflecting distraction.
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