Mid-Week Ego Boost

Who doesn’t love a good ego boost?

Okay, that’s probably the same as saying to a group of pigs: “who doesn’t love a good mud bath?”, so without further delay…

…Ego boosts are chameleon in nature; not only are they versatile, but their importance varies by mood, person, and social situation.

As for me, a single girl in her late 20′s (who starts each day by checking if things got “saggier” from the night before), there are certain ego boosts that I just can’t do without:

#1: Dudes on the subway grazing my butt accidentally on purpose (which tells my brain I have an awesome “graze-able” butt)

#2: Dudes looking down my shirt (which tells my brain that the push-up bra with the uncomfortable “wiring” is doing its work)

#3: Getting dirty looks from random chicks (my brain automatically interprets these “soiled-up” stares as jealousy, and what’s more fun than that?)

You can see why I love my top 3 “boosts”, but there’s times when I need a little something extra.

I recently got myself an “extra” (it’s probably not what you’re expecting, but allow me to explain)…

…Picture a fair Spring morning in the snootier part of Toronto (“snootier” as in surrounded by designer shops and expensive restaurants). 

There I was in the midst of the opulence, strolling along in a casual manner.  I didn’t have a purpose, destination or objective in mind, but “random strolling” is one of my favourite hobbies (and the “rich people” neighbourhood is chock full of trees, nooks, and cobbled sidewalks…I dig that).

About midway through my stroll, I glanced to my right, and caught my reflection in a storefront window.

I was sort of…captivated.

I wasn’t wearing anything special, nor had I combed my hair, but there was something about me, and it made my heart skip a beat. 

My self-captivation is all well and good, but like any proper narcissist, I need to describe my outfit:

-I was clad in a pair of bum-hugging (and almost pelvis-crushing) jeans, so the bottom half was doing alright. 

-As for the top half, it was a bit of a bohemian mess: a printed long t-shirt and my favourite cropped jean jacket, all topped off with a scarf, worn 100% for vanity and 0% for warmth (translation: it was thin like a city-whore’s see-through top and completely incapable of warmth…but hey, it was glittered, so “yay ME!”). 

Now when I say “bohemian mess”, I don’t actually mean it in a bad way.  What I mean is, nothing I was wearing really matched, but it didn’t really clash either.  It’s like how celebrities get photographed looking all caught off guard in their “street wear”, but somehow they still look good.

That’s how I looked in the storefront window reflection, like a cool celebrity (especiallly when you factored-in my dark “don’t look me in the eye” pair of shades).

This had all the makings of a wonderful ego boost, but much to my surprise it got even better…

…Following my momentary “reflection”, I felt a little swagger in my step; it was completely involuntary, but it was there, and the people around me were taking notice.  This came to a head when I passed the Four Seasons.  I noticed some valet-dudes on their morning break, and they gave me the ‘ol “Oooh, where do I know that chick from?  Is she on the TV?”-type look.  It was the sort of situation where I should’ve smiled at their acknowledgement, but instead of smiling I frowned, and kind of, sort of….pouted.  I don’t even know why I did that, but it felt so right.

The more I emphasized my slightly bitchy (but awesome) expression, the more and more attention I got.  By a certain point, I had customers at patio cafes doing double-takes, homeless people craning their necks to catch a glimpse of me from their sleeping bags, and pigeons stopping their relentless shitting just so they could check me out.

What a glorious morning.

Feeling so high off this gradual (but significant) ego boost, I decided to embrace the imaginary fame even more, and so, for the first time in my life, I walked into a Gucci store.

I fully expected the sales girl to confuse me with a Bollywood Starlet.

She didn’t.

Realizing that the sales girl had zero knowledge of “Bollywood starlets”, I ignored the slight, and started to browse the collection of purses.

I picked up a purse that was $2200. 

(!)

Almost instantaneously, I pooed in my pants (just a little spotting, nothing explosive).  The poop was a direct result of “sticker-shock” (“sticker shock” is the #1 reason why grown-ups poo in their pants…closely followed by Indian food).

Feeling humbled by the incident, I left the store and ran for the “less snooty” hills (but not before finding a public bathroom, to you know…take care of stuff)…

…So the day didn’t end on a positive note, but considering the morning as a whole, it was certainly a “sum of all parts” delight for my self-esteem.  I simply felt hotter and awesomer and cooler than I had in a long time, so to celebrate, I rewarded myself with a third of a pie as an afternoon snack (which I chased with an Oh Henry chocolate bar).

(what a great way to get through the middle of the week…)

Wicked MSN Article: Love in the Modern Era…FEMBOTS! :-)

It seems like only yesterday, when I was hating men, feeling maternal, and scouting the list of sperm banks. 

“Give me 20 babies!” I cried, as I stared down coldly at my hibernating uterus.

Indeed, all I cared about was raising children and making sandwiches.

Well now it’s a brand new day, and guess what: I like boys again. 

I want to be in love please, but how do I make that happen?

I mean really, how do you woo a man in 2007? 

Is it as simple as: a hint of rouge here, a stuffed-bra there, and a trail of mom’s perfume, charting a course up my inner thigh?

By the way, those killer moves I just mentioned? That used to be my “triple-assault”, back in the 1990′s…I mean boyyyy did it score me some dong…

But hey, times have changed; I’m not 15 anymore. 

That’s right, I’m living in a brave new world, and after years of focusing on work, making “casseroles-for-one”, and reading classy periodicals, I ask myself: How do I get back in the game?

Well it’s a little scary to jump right into the mix, when you’re rockin’ dish-pan hands and a saggy ass. 

So with that in mind, I decided to do some research.

As I began this quest of mine, I was only in search of modern advice; something that would speak to “today’s woman”.  That said, my natural resource was Google.  After combing through an endless amount of superficial ”tip” lists (surely put together by street-corner hacks), I found what I was looking for.  It was…the mass merchant of life-advice…it was…MSN, with yet another wicked article :-) .

As much as I trust my Wicked MSN/Yahoo! life-advice, I was a little surprised by the title: Fembots: The New Breed of Woman. 

Huh? 

So basically, MSN was sayin’ that I should be a robot? Was it sayin’ that I needed steely eyes, and machine-gun boobs?  Did MSN want me to shut down my emotional cylinders, and play it” icy cool”?

This stood against everything I’d learned in 26 years of life; how could it be?

I mean really, I am the girl who will prance around my target in frilly skirts, whilst giggling flirtatiously, and never saying no.  I am the girl who will bake you cookies and ask about your day, and then feel sad if you don’t ask me about mine .  I am the girl who will pretend to like everything you like (up to and including the NFL, bass-fishing, and (ugh) golf), just so you’ll like me more.  I AM THE GIRL who will ask you to tell me the top 50 reasons why you think we’re “soul-mates”…yeah…I’m that girl…

At least I was “that girl”, ’cause according to the article, I had it all wrong!

Hmm…this MSN article seemed pretty damn confusing…but then I actually read it…

MY GOD did I learn a lot. 

Go on then reader, take my man-hand and clasp it in yours; let’s go on this journey together….

THE “HOWS” AND “WHYS” OF BEING A FEM-BOT (see article)

To kick things off:

-Celebrities are supporting “Fem-bot-ism”, so you should too.

 Examples:

-Sandra Oh’s character in Grey’s Anatomy:  This icy cold doctor doesn’t like hugging, but she LOVES her vibrator.

-Angelina Jolie: she sees no benefit in crying.

-Brooke Shields: she needs to get away from her kids pretty often, ’cause she doesn’t really like them.

Conclusions: Get a vibrator, don’t hug ANYONE, laugh at funerals, and if the topic of kids comes up, tell the guy you’d like some, but only on Mondays and Thursdays.

-Don’t Commit, Like Ever

-Once you’ve played it aloof for a good long while, the dude will start nesting (ugh).  Any time he mentions marriage, resist the urge to break out your “wedding scrapbook”.  In fact, burn the wedding scrapbook.  Instead, tell him that it’s “good for now”, but that you may feel differently later.

-This will freak the CRAP out of him.

-Result: He’ll probably buy you a car, and give you lots of massages.

-Good.

-Keep this up for 5-10 years…or forever.

-Important thing to note: as more time passes, you WILL get older, which means you’ll turn ugly and fat.  As this slowly starts to happen, the whole “I might leave you tomorrow, I might not” attitude won’t be as effective…“maybe I should leave HER”, he’ll wonder. 

-To stop this catastrophe dead in its tracks, get plastic surgery…early.

-It may sound extreme, but think about it: you take 10 years off your age…you add 10 years to your big strong “pimp hand”.  That’s pretty much the best equation ever, so don’t even bother fighting it.

-Shower your mate with de-grading comments

-One of the best ways to reel a guy in and keep him there, is to make him feel bad about himself.

-If he wants to cuddle, tell him to “lose the skirt” (direct quote from the article).

-If he says you look pretty in that dress, tell him that this ain’t the E! network, and that you don’t need his “Fashion 411″.  Also, tell him to stop acting like a gay fashion designer.

-If he suggests going to ANY kind of movie that isn’t a hardcore action flick (full of guns or bombs or knife-fights), call him a pussy.

-End Result:  your “man” will start to feel more and more inadequate, which will make him a lot more susceptible to “personality control”.  Muahahaha, you’re almost there…

-Get Rid of Lots of Friends

-This may seem a little un-necessary, but think about it: the more “life-long” friends you keep in the fold, the liklier you’ll be to go “soft”, via hugs, shared chocolate, and Sandra Bullock Film Fests.

-So ditch your friends please, one by one by one….

-Turn into the Terminator II Villain

-You might not have seen this in the article, but believe me, it’s in between the lines…

-Okay, so the last thing you have to do, is become like that robot-villain in Terminator II: Judgment Day

-He’s THIS guy:

-This terminator villain has a stand-out, super-cool feature:  he can meld with metal, walls, floors and other stuff.

-This is how it looks:

-Pretty cool huh?

-Here’s the best part about this all-important tactic: when your dude’s all alone at his place, watching TV, or showering, or on the toilet, do a “through the floor” pop-in!   It will scare him soooo much, and not because it’s scary that you’re walking through floors, but because it’s scary to know that you’ll catch him in the act, should he ever opt for a whore.

 -And by the way, I can’t really tell you how to do this “walking-through-floors” thing, ’cause it’s kinda like a super-power.  You either have it…or you don’t.  Good luck!

Wow, I feel so enlightened from that MSN column.  Seriously, I had NO idea that I could find and CAPTURE a man, simply by making him feel like a girl!

I wish I had known this when I was 15 (not that I didn’t enjoy myself…)

Alright then, time to flip the ol’ robot “bitch-switch”….time to score me some dong!

A Good Reason To Whine: Train-Delays and Insufferable Women…

Tuesday is NOT my regular blog-night (who blogs on a Tuesday?), but I’m fresh off the heels of some feisty rage, so something has to be said.

Today was a special day, where I was stuck on a 30-minute train-ride for TWO+  hours.  A special day indeed.

Now I don’t wanna get all “rant-like” on how much it sucked, or how an engine could just “die”, or how this ruined my whole evening, because granted, sometimes shit happens.  In situations like these, all you can really do is sit tight and make the best of it (what does “sit tight” mean? clench your bum cheeks? I’m not sure, but people always say “sit tight”…). 

Well I tried to make the best of it, but it didn’t exactly work out…

It all started off well enough; I was sitting on the train with my music full-blast; today’s playlist: 90′s love ballads.

About 5 minutes in, the dreaded conductor-man got on the speaker: “umm yeah…so the train in front of us stopped moving, so we’re gonna be sitting here for a LONG time…. haha suckas!”. 

I don’t like the conductor-man. He is a cold and sadistic man.  I’m not sure if the conductor-man has a family, but if he does, I will threaten their lives the next time I see him.

So the conductor’s announcement was followed by moans and groans (not the “sexy” kind, but the “how long’s it gonna be ’till I can put some meat loaf in my giant belly?” kind). 

We were all pissed. 

The best I could do was shrug my shoulders, and keep on listening to my 90′s love ballads. 

About 30 minutes passed, but the conductor-man (whose family I want to hurt) didn’t have a single update.

And then, a shocking thing happened: my iPod went dead.

What the hell?

I was SURE that when I’d checked the battery-gauge, there was a good 1/4 left.  I am under the suspicion that the LAST 1/4 of the battery does not last nearly as long as the FIRST 1/4….

Stupid iPod. 

As soon as my 90′s love ballads disappeared, I was much more aware of my surroundings; it was inescapable.

The most obvious thing I noticed were the 3 people sitting next to me.  They were all friends, it seemed, and they were having a lively conversation.  I should clarify that: by “they“, I mean that one person was having a lively conversation, while the other two were listening with child-like wonder. 

 What was all the fuss about?

I wasn’t sure, so I decided to listen-in.

In the next 5 minutes, I was exposed to an insufferable female creature…

She was the “me, me, me” type.  She had clearly mistaken herself for an A-list celebrity, and thus decided that every mundane detail in her life was a relevant topic for all.  It was like her very own segment of the Tonight Show With Jay Leno, ’cause no one kisses celebrity-ass and pretends to laugh at terrible jokes more than Jay Leno.

This chick seemed shifty-eyed as well; she must’ve been on the lookout for those sneaky paparazzi. 

 In the time that I was treated to her conversational talents, I learned the following:

-So she basically HAD to get a seperate text-message plan for her son, because “oh my god, can you believe he sends over 150 texts a month? He is SO popular!”

-She works at a really tall building downtown.  Everyone calls it the “pink building”, ’cause it looks pink.  Here’s the funny thing though: the building is technically made from “red marble”, but for some reason, the color never really stayed true to its name, because it looks all pink.  Isn’t that funny?

-She’s thinking of leaving the stranded train, and calling her husband to pick her up.  She actually knows this neighborhood really well, because her parents used to live here (she re-iterated this fact THREE times in the next 15 minutes)

-When she called her husband about the delay, he said he’d make some sort of chicken/pasta medley for dinner.  She seemed pretty happy about this.

-This one time, when the train was delayed for 5 hours, she averted the crisis, but ONLY because she had randomly decided to DRIVE to work that day.  She was saved by the grace of God, she said, because God cares more about her, than everyone else who was stuck on that train.

So yeah, this woman definitely believed she was rocking her Tonight Show segment…

As much as she thought she was a celebrity, she sure didn’t look like one.  In my kindest of descriptions, I can tell you the following: she had greasy/matted dirty-blonde hair, thick-framed eye glasses,  chapped lips, grimy fingernails, and 6 juicy stomach-rolls, cascading down her front like a luxury marble staircase .  Oh, and she was red-faced and sweaty, much like a pig in need of a cooling mud-bath. 

The more I listened to her, the more I wanted to put a bounty on her head. I thought about what it’d be like if she fell out of the train and broke her ribs (like if I pushed her).

What pissed me off the most was the reaction of her followers.  They ate up EVERY word she said; smiles and nods and chuckles up the waaazooo!  It was sickening.  One of the dudes had stars in his eyes everytime she spoke; I’m pretty sure he would have carried her on his back and taken her home, if only she had asked.

This repulsive behavior kind of got me thinking: where have all our standards gone, when it comes to acceptable conversation?  I mean people are always worried that kids don’t read enough books, but how do kids fair in the conversation department? If the parents are any indication, it’s all going downhill.  If we’re not going to live up to our “conversation-potential”, I suggest we all go back to being monkeys…

 As I was starting to come to this  scary conclusion, I realized that I’d been on the train for an hour and a half.

 I also realized that I had to go pee.

 There was only one bathroom in our train car,  and a tiny one at that.

Normally I would have succumbed to the “public train bathroom” allure, but in this case, I had seen EIGHT people use it in the last 3o minutes. 

Right then and there, I decided to avoid the piss.  I may not have had a logical reason to hold it in, but I figured THIS:  if 8 people’s airborne bum-germs had been in that room for the last 30 minutes, most of those bum-germs were still alive.  I just couldn’t bear the thought of bum-germs attaching themselves to my germ-free hot body.  No, I’d rather kill my kidneys.

So for the next 30 minutes, I tried not to think about booze and/or rivers. 

A short time later, the train started moving, and we were off on our merry ol’ way.   A few people sighed, a few people cheered, but most people started making-out.  There was no one close enough in my make-out range, so I started making-out with my hand (I don’t have a boyfriend, so don’t worry, I’m allowed).

I finally arrived home at about 8:30pm.  It was just enough time to wash-up, eat dinner, and slowly get ready for bed; kinda like I never left work at all!

It’s times like these that I’ m tempted to eat a 3-tiered cake right before falling asleep.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Up-Close With ME: Tryin’ to be as HOT as a Humid Summer Night…

The “Age of Love” is over, so it’s time to stop hiding behind my gimmicky TV posts; it’s time to get…PERSONAL.

The last time I let you in my world, I was weighing the pros and cons of drinking shampoo. 

A lot’s happened since then; I’m not even sure where to begin.  Hmm…I just need to open my mind, and set myself free (like those women in the maxi-pad commericials, who do hurdles and jumping-jacks and shit…)…

Okay, so I just spent 5 minutes with my arms around my head, trying to think of what to write.  While I was utterly lost in this sexy pose, I happened to catch sight of my upper-arms; they were SO close, right up next to my face…here’s what I noticed: they looked kind of fat or something.

This really can’t be true, ’cause it defies the logic of my Summer-time lifestyle. 

The thing is, when Spring ’07 came to a close, I made a personal-pact: “spend Part 1 of the summer getting thinner and leaner, so I can spend Part 2 of the summer being hotter and sluttier”. 

 As of today, part 2 of the summer is almost done.  I haven’t forgotten the plan or anything; in fact, I’ve been trying to be as hot and slutty as possible…so I ask the question: HOW could my upper-arms look fat? 

Hmm…maybe I should review my successes/failures in the thinning process.

Well to start things off, I’m not a giant-porker or anything…I mean sure, I have a little junk here or there, but everyone needs a bit of that—I call it the “Care-Bear factor”, and anyone without it is a cold unfeeling slut.  Of course, the “Care-Bear factor” is a seasonal thing, hence: nothing wrong with ditchin’ the ol’ bear suit for the summer!

So yeah, with a pretty decent starting point, all I had to do was lose maybe 10 or 20.  If I could just reach that goal, I’d be strolling the boardwalks of Toronto, in my short-skirts, belly-tops, and high heels (without people saying ”that’s a WHOLE lotta wrong“).  That’s all I really wanted; well that, and the ability to raise “anorexia concerns”.  I know that may sound weird, but think about it: as soon as people start those nasty “eating disorder rumors”, you officially know that you’re skinny enough!

So with the summer underway, I began my process, and took a few measures to ensure my success:

#1: I started eating Special K cereal.  I’d seen all these commercials for the “Special K challenge”, and how you could basically lose weight just by eating their friggin’ cereal.  In order to meet the “challenge”, you’re supposed to eat cereal for breakfast AND lunch.  That’s a nice idea, but I wasn’t about to eat any friggin’ cereal for lunch.  Instead, I started eating two bowls for breakfast (in additional to my regular lunch and dinner). 

-After a couple of weeks, I wasn’t feeling too much thinner, which didn’t make any sense.  While I was contemplating quitting the challenge, I saw a new commercial for Special K: In it, there’s this super-hot chick in a slutty red dress, and she’s eating a bowl of cereal at work.  A couple of co-workers come along, and they immediately start harrassing her (about why she’s so fucking hot all of a sudden): “Oh my god, WHAT have you been doing?”; “TELL US your secret!”.  The super-hot-chick plays it coy the WHOLE time; she giggles a bit, and finally gives a wink to her bowl of Special K. 

So basically, eating Special K helped that girl turn SUPER hot, and it also gave her a mane of flowing long hair (an aspirational hair-do for many grown-up office workers, didn’t you know?).  It also allowed her to wear slutty red dresses to work.  Now I don’t wear slutty red dresses to work (fuchsia ones, occasionally), but the point of the commercial is as clear as Lindsay Lohan’s eyes (when she’s sober and drug-free; last reference: umm…circa age 13???):  Special K makes you hot, woo-hoo!

It’s been a full 6 weeks since I started the Special K diet.  I haven’t actually weighed myself, but it worked for the super-hot chick didn’t it?…Yeah, I’d probably say I’m 30% hotter (conservative estimate).

#2: I Started Belly Dancing.  We all know that belly-dancing is ”SOOO hot right now”.  It’s like the new “pilates” or whatever, and from all celebrity-accounts, it’s a lot more rigorous than it looks.  Because of the mainstream “belly-dancing movement”, classes have been popping up all over town.  As for me, I was NOT gonna start shakin’ my food sac/exit chute in front of all those aspiring dancers.  At the same time,  I was very interested in toning up my abs, back-fat, and voluptuous rear.  So I basically did the only thing I could do: I set up a belly-dancing studio, in my very own room!  That’s right, I got myself some decorative pillows, sprawled some rich textiles across the room, put on the Disney movie Aladdin, and pretty much went to town!  

I didn’t actually have an instructional belly-dancing video,  but there were several useful clips in Aladdin.  In one scene, these nameless princess “extras” were bustin’ a lotta move during “Prince Ali’s parade”; that’s where I picked up most of my skills.

So the belly-dancing classes have been on for 4 weeks.  In terms of my success: well…let’s just say that every time I look in the mirror (and suck in my belly AS MUCH AS I CAN),  it’s “Flat-City” baby, hell yes.  I’m not one to brag of course, but that’s just the situation.

#3: I started lifting weights like a young Hulk Hogan.  I heard that if you start lifting weights (even girly ones), you’ll build more muscle, burn more calories (even in your sleep), and basically you’ll get a bit skinnier. It’s a pretty slow process at first, so I decided to speed it up, by doing double the reps, and building double the muscle.

The end result: Well…now I have…. (gasp) BIGGER UPPER ARMS!

Holy shit, so that’s why my upper-arms look fatter!

Crap.

It kinda sucks now, ’cause my original plan was to get those skinny “girly arms”, you know the ones that look like fallen twigs from an aged sycamore tree?  Yeah…I like stick-arms.  But now I’ve got these barely-legal “guns”, which (I just realized) don’t even fit into my skin-tight bodysuit-tops (but I LOVE my skin-tight bodysuit-tops! ).

I’m not sure where I went wrong; maybe the “lift weights, lose weight” theory was all a big hoax…

Well then, it looks like I’ve been had …

I’m not really sure what to do about this now, since I pretty much look like an American Gladiator chick (like the ones on ‘roids who eventually had sex changes (see example)).  I’ll probably have to do the “Star Jones thing”, where they cut out all the fat; in my case however, they’ll be slicing off my man-muscles…what a glorious waste.

As much as I’m likin’ the surgery-solution, I won’t be fixed before the end of the summer.  That kinda sucks, ’cause I’m not quite ready to leave the boardwalks of Toronto behind.  Here’s what I’ll do then:

-I’ll defer my muscle-cutting surgery to September.  That way, I won’t be stuck home in recovery-mode, and I’ll be free to wear short-skirts, belly-tops, and high-heels for the rest of the summer.  I mean yeah, I’ll be self-conscious about my tree-trunk arms, but I could always wear those long, silky “evening gown” gloves,  you know the ones that go all the way up to your shoulders? (like the kind Kate Winslet wore in Titanic).  Because of my giant muscle-guns though, I’ll have to ask for the tailor-made, extra-large size (like the kind Kate Winslet wore in Titanic).

Okay then, I’m glad I figured out my problems.  And now I must go, ’cause it’s time to Google me some ”long silky evening gown gloves”…