(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.
Thursday, 7 November 2013
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.**
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.**
Sunday, 20 October 2013
About Love
I am no expert on inter-relations with males.
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.
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:
- he is such a scumbag that he immediately suggests finding a third partner for after hour cocktails at his leather-laden bachelor pad
- 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
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
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
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
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.
*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
Sunday, 15 September 2013
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
(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
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