(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?!
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