Monthly Archives: August 2009

The Food Gods Hate Me

DSC02700I give up. I’m pretty sure some sort of higher force has it in for me and won’t let me have food anymore. As if it weren’t enough that everything gives me diarrhea, ugh. I find gross things in whatever I’m eating on a regular basis. A few years ago, cigarette ashes were baked into the center of a muffin I bought at Dunkin Donuts. And I ate it anyway! I was so hungry. That was the worst. A little while after that, I found a Band-Aid on the pizza I’d ordered. More recently, my aunt brought me an apple cake she’d baked. I remember how delicious it looked. I happily cut myself a slice. As I began to eat it, I bit into a big ass, sharp fingernail. I’ve refused everything she’s made since. Last week, I poured myself some Raisin Bran cereal. Minutes later, an extremely long, blonde hair dangled from my mouth down into the bowl. Ew! And now, a mere minute ago, I attempted to eat raspberries. I just pulled an equally long, mysterious hair out of my mouth. Why is this happening to me? Have I been cursed? Eating is the best. I’d like to continue doing it. What’s the grossest thing you’ve found in your food?



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How To Talk To Women

Reading women can be hard. I lost count of how many times a male friend has shown me a text message from a girl and been like, “WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?” The truth is, I have no idea. Not all women are upfront and honest about their feelings; some enjoy playing mind games, others are scared of getting hurt. I know this seems like a lot to handle but fear not, my babies, I’m here to help. Well, maybe. I can’t tell you how to talk to all women, but I can tell you how to talk to some women. Like me. And Maria.

Fat Talk
Most girls will at some point complain about their weight. They might not flat-out say, “I’m a fat ass.” Instead, they’ll say something like, “I think I gained a few pounds.” Even if this is true, under no circumstances are you allowed to reply with, “So join a gym.” You might think such a comment would be helpful and supportive, but you’ll just make her feel bad. What you need to say is, “I think you’re beautiful.” Say it like you mean it though, we can tell when you’re bullshitting.

The same concept applies when she refuses to eat that second cupcake. If she’s all, “No, I can’t eat it, I’m huge,” you need to pick that thing up and feed it to her like you were feeding grapes to a fucking goddess. Expressing that you’re comfortable with our weight, whatever it may be, makes us feel sexy. And that makes us want to fuck you. It’s a win-win.

Friend Talk
Once you’re in that friend zone, there’s very little chance of you getting out. When we say that we like you as a friend, we usually mean it. So don’t make it awkward by hitting on us. I mean, that’s the whole reason we stuck you in the friend zone: because we don’t want to sleep with you. Occasionally, romances do blossom out of friendships. That’s cool and all, but if the girl isn’t responding to any of your signals (we pick up on body language you may not even realize you’re emitting, by the way), then give up. There’s a name for friends we like to have sex with: boyfriends. If that title doesn’t apply to you, then enjoy the friendship for what it is; a platonic relationship, not a challenge.

Routine Talk
Long term relationships can get old fast. Some people strive for that comfort, reassurance and daily ease; others think it’s really boring. With the secret I’m about to reveal, you won’t have to waste any time arguing about how every day is the same. Are you ready? Yes? OK, here it is.

It is my personal belief that surprises hold relationships together. I’m not saying to spoil or pamper your girlfriend. It’s not about the money, it’s about the surprise itself. Just the fact that you thought of us while we were apart makes us smile. Buy us a pair of tickets to see our favorite band (we’ll take you, anyway), write us a cute note, bake us cookies, etc. It’s not hard, really.

Favor Talk
Sometimes we’ll ask you for a favor. It might be driving us to factory outlets or going to visit our mother. These are things you dread so of course, your answer is, “No, I can’t.” Then our face gets all pissy and you’re like, “Fiiine.” Then we’re like, “No, you don’t want to, forget it.” And then an argument starts.

Doing favors for one another sucks because it always involves doing shit you hate. You need to understand that all relationships involve sacrifice and compromise. Favor talk is tricky, but even if you’re hellbent on avoiding the task at hand, try giving in to it in exchange for a blowjob or something. We don’t mind trade-offs.

Telephone “I Love You” Talk
We know you hate admitting that you love us when you’re with your boys (or whatever you call them). They’ll probably laugh and say that you’re whipped or that you’re a pussy. That’s because they’re idiots. We understand, though, and we don’t want you to feel bad because of their dumb remarks. So when we’re on the phone and you’re with other people, you don’t have to say that you love us all the time – but man up and say it some of the time. Just let it out once in a while. It means a lot to us.

There you have it. In most cases, the way to talk to women is to be honest but not brutally honest. We don’t want you to sugarcoat everything you say; we just want you to think before you speak.



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Swarming & Buzzing

THERE IS A WASP PROBLEM DOWNTOWN. Like, a severe one. This has happened every late August for the past few years. What the hell is going on? I wouldn’t mind the wasps if they weren’t so aggressive. As soon as I step out of the office, two or three of these little fuckers swarm around me and refuse to leave me alone. I have nothing for you, wasps!

I’m a little scared to start school because they always find their way onto the Concordia shuttle bus and it’s like, “What the hell? Get out of here!” The ride is grueling enough as it is. I don’t want to have to deal with this. Wasps are mean and I’m scared of them. Why can’t they be nice like their adorable cousin, the bumble bee?

I remember a few years ago, before I moved. I’d hear scratching right above my bed, in my old bedroom. At first, it was really light and no one else heard it. I did. It drove me crazy. I couldn’t sleep at night. I felt like it was getting worse by the second; for a while, I suspected I was losing my mind. Eventually, my parents heard it, too. They assumed that we had rats in the attic. They meant to call an exterminator but because the problem didn’t affect them directly, they didn’t really give a shit. I ended up putting my foot down and demanding that they get someone over. An exterminator came and shocked us all by saying that there were no rats above my bed: there were wasps. A huge nest had developped and had we not called the exterminator over, their sheer weight would have forced the ceiling to collapse. Onto me. While I slept. 

Now, I’ve never been stung. What if I’m allergic? How am I supposed to know? I don’t want to be stung. It looks like it hurts. A lady I work with’s sister had a wasp fly up her nose. It stung her IN HER NOSE! These things are ruthless!

I tried looking up ways to repel wasps but every solution is negated by a commenter claiming that it doesn’t work. I was told to throw water on them because they don’t like water; but to me, it seems that splashing them would get them even more pissed off.

Off topic, but I’m eating lunch right now and I coughed and bits of food and sauce just went all over my screen. I’m laughing but I’m not sure why I find this funny. It’s disgusting, really.

So what am I supposed to do about the wasps?



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Oh Diva Cup, How I Love Thee

Success! More reader mail! We asked a question about the Diva Cup in one of our recent posts and reader Dee was kind enough to share her experience with it. Thanks, Dee! You’re the best. By the way, everyone is welcome to write to us. Our email address is to your right. Don’t act like you don’t see it.

I first found out about this magial contraption when I was touring with my former hippie rock band. This was long before I owned one, though. At the time, my band was poor and living in a van, and we had been touring for weeks on end. I got my period and wasn’t prepared and the entire band (and yes, I was the only female) was crashing on the floor of a UVM residence hall, miles from any pharmacies, and even further from any of those awesome 24-hour CVS pharmacies they have in the US. We’d all had a few beers, and nobody could drive me to one so I started asking around for supplies, a task I’ve always loathed, even with women I KNOW, let alone women I DON’T know.

divacupA few tries produced nothing, and then I asked this girl Jenny (I even remember her name!), and she said, “Sorry, I use a cup.” I was dumbfounded. Because I’d had a few beers, I was like, “What do you mean, a cup?!” and she explained to me about this hippie-dippie device, whose benefits include not having to stick bleach or chemicals up your vag, no leaks, no need to change it every 4-6 hours, less material waste and less cramps. I was intrigued, but immediately forgot about it, and some other girl finally found me a pad (yuck! I hate pads – FIY, Melissa, I slept with tampons in all the time before I got the Diva Cup and my cooch is fine!).

Years later, I was talking with some staff members at the summer camp I worked at, and some guy said that he’d heard of this thing, the Diva Cup, which enabled women to have sex when on their period (don’t get excited, ladies & gents, you can’t – he was wrong). Intrigued by THAT idea, I researched the thing, immediately remembering my long conversation with Jenny at UVM. I found out that he was wrong about the sex-on-period thing, but liked the idea of being less wasteful, and since I had just had my first yeast infection, I liked the idea of not putting bleached tampons up there, and since I was POOR, I LOVED the idea of a one-time only fee of under $40 (at that price, if I didn’t like it, I’d just chuck it!). I tried about 12 natural product stores in Montreal before locating one in my size (finally found it at McGill’s Shag Shop, located at their downtown campus, but you can also buy it at the MacDonald campus). My first few periods with it weren’t the best, because you have to figure out how to put it in properly for YOU; all women are shaped differently. I suggest wearing a pad with it until you know you’ve got the hang of it.

For those of you whose interest I’ve peaked, here is a little more detail:

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YM: Say Anything

I tend to use this blog as an outlet to complain. After reading many of my posts, you may think that I hate being a woman and that I bear a huge grudge against men. Well, that’s only partially true. In reality, I think being a girl is pretty awesome. Being able to indulge in juicy gossip, shopping to cheer myself up and experiencing the joys of multiple orgasms (a rarity, I’ll admit) are some of the more positive aspects of being a chick. My fondest girly memories are from that awkward pre-teen phase, where you’re on the brink of womanhood but are still pretty immature and childish.

Leo DiCaprioBeing a 12 year old girl meant innocent crushes, raisin sized boobs , your first ever period and an urge to be “cool”. My walls were plastered in BSB posters and magazine cut outs. I even had laminated pictures of Nick Carter and Leo DiCaprio (think Basketball diaries, pre-Titanic). Sleepover parties happened on a weekly basis and sending anonymous, glittery love notes to cute boys was something every girl did at least once a month or daydreamed of doing.

For my 12th birthday, I got some hair mascara, a walkman, a Garbage tape and best of all, a subscription to YM. I know what you’re thinking; yes, hair mascara. Mine was blue. Remember that stuff? Anyway, back to YM. It was your typical teen mag, filled with personality quizzes and tips on how to handle your first period. My fave YM section was ‘Say Anything’, which was a collection of embarrassing stories submitted by readers. I’m positive that if you’re a girl reading this you know exactly what I’m talking about. I can vividly remember sitting on my bed with my neighbor D reading out loud about other girls’ most humiliating moments. The formula was always the same: crushes, periods and involuntary flashing, but it always guaranteed a few gasps and giggles.

britDuring lunch one day, Melissa and I were reminiscing on how much we loved YM and how disappointed we were when the mag folded in 2004. Later that day, I scoured the net to see if I could find some reminder of YM’s existence. I was hoping their URL might still work. Maybe there was a chance someone had posted a few of our beloved Say Anything stories on a blog but no luck there either. Finally, I was lucky enough to find a book by the editors of YM called “YM: The Best of Say Anything” on Amazon but unfortunately for me, they didn’t deliver this particular book to Canada. I hate when that happens! My longing for nostalgia grew so strong that I decided to order it from Barnes & Noble, even though I had to dish out more money for delivery and for the conversion rate. Ten business days later, here I am holding the preteen bible of mortifying experiences.

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Road Rage

BadDriverI am fuming. Seriously, I’m so mad right now. I can’t even describe it. Allow me to explain: I was driving to work this morning. Everything was going smoothly. That’s when it happened. The asshat in the SUV next to me decided to change lanes. Fine, no problem, whatever. Except he didn’t signal his turn OR check his blind spot. So, basically, he turned right into me. I started honking like a madwoman. This did not appear to phase him, as he continued driving into my lane even more aggressively. I had to slam on the breaks. Thankfully, there was no one directly behind me.

That bastard. I pulled up beside him at the next light and started telling him to fuck off and die. He and his wife both yelled back and gave me, gasp, the finger.

I hate when people who can’t drive give me shit. They should offer apologetic gestures for their lack of driving skills rather than try to blame the situation on me. I’m pretty cautious on the road. Well, I have to be, considering how crazy Quebec drivers, including but not limited to speed-hungry RDP wops in their souped up Civics, are.

But as polite and careful as I usually am, I also have a mean side. I think it might be road rage. I mean, I’m not mad all the time, but if a driver really pisses me off, I freak out. Once, I got so mad at a cab driver that he got out of his car and started pounding on my window, yelling at me. Also, I honk forever; once I press down on that bitch, I’m leaving my hand there for at least twenty seconds. I’ve lost it on everyone from mid-life crisis-having old men in their convertible Miatas and girls putting their makeup on behind the wheel to old ladies and driving school students.

I’m quite patient in all aspects of life, so I’m sort of puzzled as to why bad road manners get to me so much. Maybe I’ve got all kinds of pent-up frustration that I conveniently release every time a moron cuts me off. Whatever. I don’t even care at this point. I’ve narrowly escaped a bunch of bad accidents because of shitty drivers, so I feel as though I’m allowed to get mad at them.



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Period Pants

I hate my period. When my monthly gift comes along, I’m irritable, inexplicably sad and horny all at once. I scarf down Advil in a manner that can only be compared to the method in which the Cookie Monster gobbles down treats. I get cramps so excruciating that they’ve often caused me to throw up. And when someone tries to excuse my behavior and bad mood by saying something like, “Oh, she’s just on the rag”, I get even more upset. I don’t care if all this is natural and womanly or whatever, it’s my worst time of the month, every month. Fuck that commercial; I’ve never had a happy period.

I remember the first time I got it. I’d just turned thirteen, had never been kissed and had only recently started sprouting boobs. It was summer. Because my parents never believed in air conditioning, I would sleep in a tank top and underwear. One morning, my mother came to wake me up. I wouldn’t budge, so she shook me and moved my sheets around. I told her to go away. That’s when she surprisingly asked me, “Did you shit yourself?” Um, what? I freaked out and ran to the bathroom. When I got there, I realized that it wasn’t poop; it was what I’ve grown to refer to as ‘that brown stuff you get before your period’.

When my mom realized that she’d just witnessed my first menstruation, she decided to throw me a huge congratulatory party. JK, guys. She thankfully didn’t seem to care. If I remember correctly, she brought me a pad and told me to strap it around my underwear. That was that.

Since then, I’ve noticed that you always get your period at the worst times, no matter what. If you’re having a one night stand, you’ll stain a stranger’s sheets. If you’re wearing white pants, get ready to tie a sweater around your waist.

tampOver the years, I’ve learned to deal with my period in several ways. Like I’d mentioned before, I have a medicine cabinet stocked with Advil, Anaprox, Midol and even codeine. I also have a drawer full of period undies. Boys, don’t act surprised; every girl has this. Period undies are undies you don’t care about, so it’s no big deal if they get bloodied. And they will get bloodied. It happened to me last night, actually. Going for a morning piss and noticing that you have a big stain on your underwear puts you in a horrible mood and sets the tone for the rest of the day. How big do the pads have to be? Should I just be like, “Fuck it” and wear diapers?

I have somewhat of a confession to make, actually: sometimes I sleep with a tampon in. I move around so much in my sleep, I have to! I don’t want to have to wake up and scrub blood out of my mattress, you know. I’ve been trying to cut down on it because I’m scared of getting the period disease, also known as TSS.

I’m wondering if the Diva Cup will make my period a little more bearable. I think someone should write a guest post about it. Hint, hint.



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