I need to pack for this winter getaway ski trip thing we are doing this weekend. I detest packing. I loathe it. And that is rather funny, considering my extensive clothing, shoe, and accessory collection.
That's precisely why I hate packing. Too much to choose from. What if I change my mind of what I'd like to wear from when I packed? I am so indecisive. I usually change my order three times in a restaurant before the server leaves the table. I usually turn that around so he or she thinks I am flirting with them, so they don't think I'm flaky. And then I get excellent service the majority of the time.
Anywho, I usually try to pack clothing that represents me as a classy ladylike human, but then I am pissed off that I didn't bring any of my sloth attire. And when I pack for slothdom, I feel the need to be dressed like a functioning member of society. I annoy me. Why don't I pack for both scenarios, you ask? Because, I am a female and then my suitcase will weigh approximately 354 lbs and my boyfriend will hate me.
What I already packed:
-16 bathing suits
-deck of cards
-bacon
-vodka
-advil
-camera
Really, do I need to bring anything else? I could have a pretty splendid weekend with just those items. I totally want a bathing suit made of bacon now.
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Thursday, 23 February 2012
You Did What?
This evening I thought I would share some of my embarrassing/stupid moments I have had thus far in life. Some are not appropriate for this blog, but I do have some gooders that can be shared.
High school, grade 11, outdoor party in the middle of nowhere. I had just been told that my boyfriend had been flirting with some whore before I got there, and possibly had cheated. I was power pissed and out for blood. I did what any other non-sober 17 year old would do, and marched up to one of my very good looking male friends and asked if he wanted to make out. He tried to respond, but I kept cutting him off, ranting about said male slut boyfriend. When I finally stopped talking, I realized what he had been trying to tell me. As I said, this party was outdoors, and I didn't realize that when I threw myself at him, he was in the middle of peeing, and therefore, pissing all over me while I was ranting.
One story that was just stupid, again, was in high school. There was a football team in town from the US, playing against us. I ended up "befriending" a young fellow from Texas. He decided he was in love with me. I decided he wasn't that good looking and a big mistake. He wouldn't stop calling me several times a day and sending love letters. So I got one of friends one night to answer my phone one night and tell him I had died. In my 16 year old mind, problem solved! Well, that certainly backfired when he called later on to find out from my mother when the funeral was and where to send flowers. I have accepted the fact that I am going to hell.
About a year ago, I managed to trip while walking into the elevator up to my office. This is a special talent of mine. I manage to trip over nothing quite frequently. My purse goes flying and so does all of it's contents. Of course a reasonably good looking man was in there. I was pretty sure I had picked everything up, until he handed me a tampon. That was swell. I'm not sure who wanted to die more, me or him.
There's always the good old wine related stories. I should not be allowed near technology or public forum of any kind when I have been drinking. I am 100% the one that will call or text an ex when hammered. I've been known to apply for jobs online when I've been drinking. Apparently I thought I'd make an excellent paramedic one memorable night that involved a lot of vanilla vodka.
If you happen to be the love of my life via a secret crush, chances are, you will hear about it after half a dozen drinks. Loudly. I will then try to fight you after you tell me no, you don't want to get on a late night flight to get married in Vegas. It's because I'm ugly, isn't it?!
And speaking of fights, I've been in a few. Lucky for me, I grew up with a brother who seriously beat the complete shit out of me growing up. I learned a few things. And some girls, well, they fight like girls. Not that I'm a good fighter. I pretty much just close my eyes and start swinging.
I mentioned before in an earlier blog that I physically attacked a stranger at a work function over a board game. Seriously, you can't take me anywhere.
In terms of dumb shit, I'm not allowed to touch anything in our house. I'll wreck it. I'm not even allowed to hang pictures. They will be crooked, too high, while covering 19 holes in the wall behind it.
A few weeks ago, I was so proud of myself because I was at a hardware store, and decided to buy an extra jug of windshield washer fluid. I proactively put in my truck so I would have it when I ran out. (which always happens when I am conveniently going 100 miles an hour down a mudslide). Long story short, it turns out I bought plumbing antifreeze, and am a failure at life.
I've been in accidents in almost every motorized vehicle there is. I crashed my mini motorbike as a kid. I was a passenger on a quad that went through a barbed wire fence. I was a passenger in a car that rolled 8 times. Flipped a skidoo. I was a passenger in a van that drove INTO the convenience store in my hometown. (ok, that one is just hilarious) I avoid boats for obvious reasons.
I could really go on and on. How I have friends and a relationship is beyond me. Some of my readers know me very well, and know lots of other stories that didn't make tonight's blog.
My next blog is going to be a guest blog, written by somebody else. I think that is cool and interesting. I have a few different people in mind, but if you would like to write a guest entry, let me know. And that is not an invite for cyber perverts to submit pictures of their junk to me. Thanks.
High school, grade 11, outdoor party in the middle of nowhere. I had just been told that my boyfriend had been flirting with some whore before I got there, and possibly had cheated. I was power pissed and out for blood. I did what any other non-sober 17 year old would do, and marched up to one of my very good looking male friends and asked if he wanted to make out. He tried to respond, but I kept cutting him off, ranting about said male slut boyfriend. When I finally stopped talking, I realized what he had been trying to tell me. As I said, this party was outdoors, and I didn't realize that when I threw myself at him, he was in the middle of peeing, and therefore, pissing all over me while I was ranting.
One story that was just stupid, again, was in high school. There was a football team in town from the US, playing against us. I ended up "befriending" a young fellow from Texas. He decided he was in love with me. I decided he wasn't that good looking and a big mistake. He wouldn't stop calling me several times a day and sending love letters. So I got one of friends one night to answer my phone one night and tell him I had died. In my 16 year old mind, problem solved! Well, that certainly backfired when he called later on to find out from my mother when the funeral was and where to send flowers. I have accepted the fact that I am going to hell.
About a year ago, I managed to trip while walking into the elevator up to my office. This is a special talent of mine. I manage to trip over nothing quite frequently. My purse goes flying and so does all of it's contents. Of course a reasonably good looking man was in there. I was pretty sure I had picked everything up, until he handed me a tampon. That was swell. I'm not sure who wanted to die more, me or him.
There's always the good old wine related stories. I should not be allowed near technology or public forum of any kind when I have been drinking. I am 100% the one that will call or text an ex when hammered. I've been known to apply for jobs online when I've been drinking. Apparently I thought I'd make an excellent paramedic one memorable night that involved a lot of vanilla vodka.
If you happen to be the love of my life via a secret crush, chances are, you will hear about it after half a dozen drinks. Loudly. I will then try to fight you after you tell me no, you don't want to get on a late night flight to get married in Vegas. It's because I'm ugly, isn't it?!
And speaking of fights, I've been in a few. Lucky for me, I grew up with a brother who seriously beat the complete shit out of me growing up. I learned a few things. And some girls, well, they fight like girls. Not that I'm a good fighter. I pretty much just close my eyes and start swinging.
I mentioned before in an earlier blog that I physically attacked a stranger at a work function over a board game. Seriously, you can't take me anywhere.
In terms of dumb shit, I'm not allowed to touch anything in our house. I'll wreck it. I'm not even allowed to hang pictures. They will be crooked, too high, while covering 19 holes in the wall behind it.
A few weeks ago, I was so proud of myself because I was at a hardware store, and decided to buy an extra jug of windshield washer fluid. I proactively put in my truck so I would have it when I ran out. (which always happens when I am conveniently going 100 miles an hour down a mudslide). Long story short, it turns out I bought plumbing antifreeze, and am a failure at life.
I've been in accidents in almost every motorized vehicle there is. I crashed my mini motorbike as a kid. I was a passenger on a quad that went through a barbed wire fence. I was a passenger in a car that rolled 8 times. Flipped a skidoo. I was a passenger in a van that drove INTO the convenience store in my hometown. (ok, that one is just hilarious) I avoid boats for obvious reasons.
I could really go on and on. How I have friends and a relationship is beyond me. Some of my readers know me very well, and know lots of other stories that didn't make tonight's blog.
My next blog is going to be a guest blog, written by somebody else. I think that is cool and interesting. I have a few different people in mind, but if you would like to write a guest entry, let me know. And that is not an invite for cyber perverts to submit pictures of their junk to me. Thanks.
Monday, 20 February 2012
Spring Fever
Long time no blog, kitty cats!
I am a stripper school drop out. I mean, I quit pole dancing. It was early afternoon every Saturday morning. I really don't feel like trying to be hot and sexy at noon on most Saturdays. And I grew tired of the judgmental looks of horror-disgust when I said I was doing pole dancing. Everyone immediately thinks of strippers. My boyfriend's aunt jokingly-but-not-really called me a sleaze when I told her. That felt good.
I'll find something else to join and it will be blog worthy, don't you worry.
I realize I haven't blogged in decades. That is because I really don't have much to blog about, my friends. I've been working, doing some home improvement projects and hanging out with friends. The last few times we've went out, I ended up being the designated sober driver. I don't even know who I am anymore. It's sick.
There is much excitement tonight though. Tonight we booked a trip to Vegas for my birthday. We are going with my BFF since the 6th grade, and her boyfriend, and her brother and his lady. It will be my birthday, St. Patrick's Day and BFF's bro's birthday occurring while we are there. St.Patrick's Day in Vegas just screams of debauchery. I'm thinking of doing a photo diary while we are there and then putting it on the blog. Then one of my faithful readers will come to the rescue and bail me out of jail, yes?
But before we go to Vegas, in a week and a half, we are going with said BFF on a 3 night mountain ski getaway to Kimberley, BC. Skiing is at the bottom of our list of excitement though. I plan on spending a minimum of 36 hours in our private hot tub drinking mimosas, thinking up stellar ideas to present on Dragon's Den, and napping next to the fireplace. One of us will most likely come back with a broken bone, a tattoo made with a pen and a lighter and/or a world record set by longest time riding a deer. That's just how we roll, yo.
This blog is about to get kicked up a few notches. Stay tuned!
I am a stripper school drop out. I mean, I quit pole dancing. It was early afternoon every Saturday morning. I really don't feel like trying to be hot and sexy at noon on most Saturdays. And I grew tired of the judgmental looks of horror-disgust when I said I was doing pole dancing. Everyone immediately thinks of strippers. My boyfriend's aunt jokingly-but-not-really called me a sleaze when I told her. That felt good.
I'll find something else to join and it will be blog worthy, don't you worry.
I realize I haven't blogged in decades. That is because I really don't have much to blog about, my friends. I've been working, doing some home improvement projects and hanging out with friends. The last few times we've went out, I ended up being the designated sober driver. I don't even know who I am anymore. It's sick.
There is much excitement tonight though. Tonight we booked a trip to Vegas for my birthday. We are going with my BFF since the 6th grade, and her boyfriend, and her brother and his lady. It will be my birthday, St. Patrick's Day and BFF's bro's birthday occurring while we are there. St.Patrick's Day in Vegas just screams of debauchery. I'm thinking of doing a photo diary while we are there and then putting it on the blog. Then one of my faithful readers will come to the rescue and bail me out of jail, yes?
But before we go to Vegas, in a week and a half, we are going with said BFF on a 3 night mountain ski getaway to Kimberley, BC. Skiing is at the bottom of our list of excitement though. I plan on spending a minimum of 36 hours in our private hot tub drinking mimosas, thinking up stellar ideas to present on Dragon's Den, and napping next to the fireplace. One of us will most likely come back with a broken bone, a tattoo made with a pen and a lighter and/or a world record set by longest time riding a deer. That's just how we roll, yo.
This blog is about to get kicked up a few notches. Stay tuned!
Saturday, 21 January 2012
Don't Stop
First pole dancing class completed. Let me break it down for you.
First, I surprised by some of the girls in the class. A few were very "plain" for lack of a better word, but you could tell they were the "a lady in the streets, but a freak in the sheets" type as the class progressed.
Everything about this class is sexy. Even the warm ups. When you walk, you are instructed to sexy walk, dragging one foot behind you, swinging your hips, and touching yourself, running your fingers through your hair and down your body. Anyone that knows me, knows that this initially sent me into a fit of laughter. When we were doing some kind of wrist/hand warm up, all I could think of was "jazz hands". You know, from that cheerleading movie.
The class began with floor work. Learning the sexy cat pose, cat arched back, bicycle legs and..well....leg spreading. We were taught hip circles and grinding, even how to get up off the floor sexy manner. Everything is about sticking your butt out. Sounds pretty cool and empowering, right? Now, picture Betty White with arthritis doing it. That was me.
Every time I did a hip circle, something in my body cracked. Lowering down into a squat, my knees were threatening to give out. I was in pain 47 seconds into the moves. My arms and legs were shaking, and I was seeing spots. ( I fixed that, I grabbed an A&W teen burger on the way home) I pretty much resembled a female version of Napoleon Dynamite way out of her league.
Carrying on from the floor work, we learned how to flow from the floor over to the wall and to basically have sex with the wall. Ok, not really, but we did learn a routine up against the wall to Janet Jackson't "Don't Stop". From the wall, we made our way to the pole. Walking around the pole, doing fancy pole turns, more f*cking squats against the pole, and then eventually, a pole hold, where you slide down. Remember in gym class where there was a bigger kid that struggles to climb up the rope? Yup, me. I was grasping that pole, legs flailing, for dear life. Nowhere near sexy, my friends. And when we were supposed to seamlessly slide down, my sweaty hands made a screaching sound as I dropped to the ground like an uncoordinated bag of bricks.
We ran through our routine a few times, from the floor, to the wall, to the pole. The more we did it, and the more I couldn't feel my limbs, I actually got the hang of it. The whole room is covered in mirrors, and as I continued, I watched myself and was somewhat impressed. I couldn't believe it was me. And I think I got the pole hold pretty much down. Haha, pole hold made me laugh, because I have the mind of a perverted 15 year old boy. Anywho...
All in all, it was actually super fun, and as funny as it sounds, empowering. I had to remind myself not to "sexy walk" out to my car. Next week we learn the fireman pole spin! I'm going to take some muscle relaxants and a few roofies before class. 6 more weeks to go! How lucky am I to have a willing participant to watch and critique my routine practices as well? What a supportive boyfriend!
I may have to rename this blog "Aches & Pains of a Pole Dancer". Maybe I should just keep enrolling in different classes in blogging about them. Bonsai Art Pruning? Porn Directing 101? Gymnastics for Seniors? Let me know what you think!
First, I surprised by some of the girls in the class. A few were very "plain" for lack of a better word, but you could tell they were the "a lady in the streets, but a freak in the sheets" type as the class progressed.
Everything about this class is sexy. Even the warm ups. When you walk, you are instructed to sexy walk, dragging one foot behind you, swinging your hips, and touching yourself, running your fingers through your hair and down your body. Anyone that knows me, knows that this initially sent me into a fit of laughter. When we were doing some kind of wrist/hand warm up, all I could think of was "jazz hands". You know, from that cheerleading movie.
The class began with floor work. Learning the sexy cat pose, cat arched back, bicycle legs and..well....leg spreading. We were taught hip circles and grinding, even how to get up off the floor sexy manner. Everything is about sticking your butt out. Sounds pretty cool and empowering, right? Now, picture Betty White with arthritis doing it. That was me.
Every time I did a hip circle, something in my body cracked. Lowering down into a squat, my knees were threatening to give out. I was in pain 47 seconds into the moves. My arms and legs were shaking, and I was seeing spots. ( I fixed that, I grabbed an A&W teen burger on the way home) I pretty much resembled a female version of Napoleon Dynamite way out of her league.
Carrying on from the floor work, we learned how to flow from the floor over to the wall and to basically have sex with the wall. Ok, not really, but we did learn a routine up against the wall to Janet Jackson't "Don't Stop". From the wall, we made our way to the pole. Walking around the pole, doing fancy pole turns, more f*cking squats against the pole, and then eventually, a pole hold, where you slide down. Remember in gym class where there was a bigger kid that struggles to climb up the rope? Yup, me. I was grasping that pole, legs flailing, for dear life. Nowhere near sexy, my friends. And when we were supposed to seamlessly slide down, my sweaty hands made a screaching sound as I dropped to the ground like an uncoordinated bag of bricks.
We ran through our routine a few times, from the floor, to the wall, to the pole. The more we did it, and the more I couldn't feel my limbs, I actually got the hang of it. The whole room is covered in mirrors, and as I continued, I watched myself and was somewhat impressed. I couldn't believe it was me. And I think I got the pole hold pretty much down. Haha, pole hold made me laugh, because I have the mind of a perverted 15 year old boy. Anywho...
All in all, it was actually super fun, and as funny as it sounds, empowering. I had to remind myself not to "sexy walk" out to my car. Next week we learn the fireman pole spin! I'm going to take some muscle relaxants and a few roofies before class. 6 more weeks to go! How lucky am I to have a willing participant to watch and critique my routine practices as well? What a supportive boyfriend!
I may have to rename this blog "Aches & Pains of a Pole Dancer". Maybe I should just keep enrolling in different classes in blogging about them. Bonsai Art Pruning? Porn Directing 101? Gymnastics for Seniors? Let me know what you think!
Friday, 20 January 2012
Pole Star
A friend and I have enrolled in pole dancing classes. Do not laugh.
No, I have no plans to take up stripping or exotic dancing as my new vocation. Pole dancing is apparently a great full body work out, and as per my previous blog, strengthens your arms and legs immensely. And if they teach me a thing or two about being sexy along the way, bonus!
In preparation for my new fitness class, I watched some "pole dancing gone wrong" videos on YouTube. Hilarious.
Guaranteed these classes will lead to some humorous blogs. I am not the most coordinated individual to grace the Earth. First class is tomorrow afternoon. What does one wear to pole dancing classes? Hmmmm. I'm thinking a glass or three of wine will need to be consumed before class.
No, I have no plans to take up stripping or exotic dancing as my new vocation. Pole dancing is apparently a great full body work out, and as per my previous blog, strengthens your arms and legs immensely. And if they teach me a thing or two about being sexy along the way, bonus!
In preparation for my new fitness class, I watched some "pole dancing gone wrong" videos on YouTube. Hilarious.
Guaranteed these classes will lead to some humorous blogs. I am not the most coordinated individual to grace the Earth. First class is tomorrow afternoon. What does one wear to pole dancing classes? Hmmmm. I'm thinking a glass or three of wine will need to be consumed before class.
Sunday, 15 January 2012
Just The Tip
It's kind of a long and nonsensical story of how myself, my lover and our friends (another super cool couple) ended up at a strip club last night. In pervert's row, I might add. (Sorry Mom. I know, I'm gross and going to hell)
I think of myself as a reasonably confident and secure woman. I'm not jealous of other women. If my boyfriend decides to leave me for a stripper, well, then he's a douche and good riddance. So I had no issues with going. I actually find them entertaining and impressive.
I will give any girl credit that can contort and hold themselves up on a pole using only her leg muscles. I cannot even touch my toes. Sad, but true.
The strength that those girls have blows me away. It's kind of like watching Cirque du Soleil, but with naked performers. What was fascinating to me is out of the three strippers I watched last night, not one of them had an ounce of cellulite anywhere that I could see. Perhaps it was the lighting, but I had a seat right upfront and, um, personal, so I am thinking it is the pole work that attributes to their fantastic shape. Clearly I need to invest in a pole for my house. And, I am highly competitive, so if cracked out, uneducated "Destiny" can do it, I sure as hell can too.
Their faces were a different story, but I am thinking the men that go to see these entertainers aren't too concerned about the facial region. Or their feet for that matter, because I saw some pretty gnarly toes as well. I also noticed they all had really bad tattoos. I will also add that I was extremely proud that I had bigger boobs than stripper number two, because that almost never happens. Moving on.
What makes me sad is the degrading activity of when she spreads out a blanket, rolls up a piece of paper, and encourages men to hurl coins at her. Tips, as I call it. My first thought is: Sick! Money is so so dirty. Who wants that touching their vag? Second, all the credit I just gave her is gone. Girl, you are stark ass naked and asking guys to throw money at you! Coins for that matter. Do you not see what is entirely wrong with this picture? I desperately wanted to throw a robe on her, take her home, ask her what the hell went wrong in her life, and then show her where to find the job ads. I honestly do not believe that any of those girls actually enjoy doing it. And as for the stories you hear that these girls are doing it to put themselves through med school? Come the fuck on. I have yet to meet a doctor that looks like any of those girl or with a body like that.
As degrading as it is though, I would feel even worse not "tipping" them, so I chucked loonies at the stripper. I have a magnet now of her to prove it. I felt like we really connected. Maybe we'll go shopping together one day and I can buy her a sweater. With a high neck.
Some girls have questioned last night's activities and couldn't believe I let my boyfriend go and watch other naked women. And the fact that I went with is just bizarre to them. Well, let's think about this for a second. She can make sexy eyes and shake her ass in his face all that she wants. He's going home with me. He may have to help me take my boots of because I am so out of shape I can't bend over, but that's neither here nor there. I think of it as men like strippers like we ladies enjoy shoe shopping. Whatever turns your crank, baby.
In conclusion, I recant the evening with one end thought and goal: I am going to master working the pole. In sweatpants.
I think of myself as a reasonably confident and secure woman. I'm not jealous of other women. If my boyfriend decides to leave me for a stripper, well, then he's a douche and good riddance. So I had no issues with going. I actually find them entertaining and impressive.
I will give any girl credit that can contort and hold themselves up on a pole using only her leg muscles. I cannot even touch my toes. Sad, but true.
The strength that those girls have blows me away. It's kind of like watching Cirque du Soleil, but with naked performers. What was fascinating to me is out of the three strippers I watched last night, not one of them had an ounce of cellulite anywhere that I could see. Perhaps it was the lighting, but I had a seat right upfront and, um, personal, so I am thinking it is the pole work that attributes to their fantastic shape. Clearly I need to invest in a pole for my house. And, I am highly competitive, so if cracked out, uneducated "Destiny" can do it, I sure as hell can too.
Their faces were a different story, but I am thinking the men that go to see these entertainers aren't too concerned about the facial region. Or their feet for that matter, because I saw some pretty gnarly toes as well. I also noticed they all had really bad tattoos. I will also add that I was extremely proud that I had bigger boobs than stripper number two, because that almost never happens. Moving on.
What makes me sad is the degrading activity of when she spreads out a blanket, rolls up a piece of paper, and encourages men to hurl coins at her. Tips, as I call it. My first thought is: Sick! Money is so so dirty. Who wants that touching their vag? Second, all the credit I just gave her is gone. Girl, you are stark ass naked and asking guys to throw money at you! Coins for that matter. Do you not see what is entirely wrong with this picture? I desperately wanted to throw a robe on her, take her home, ask her what the hell went wrong in her life, and then show her where to find the job ads. I honestly do not believe that any of those girls actually enjoy doing it. And as for the stories you hear that these girls are doing it to put themselves through med school? Come the fuck on. I have yet to meet a doctor that looks like any of those girl or with a body like that.
As degrading as it is though, I would feel even worse not "tipping" them, so I chucked loonies at the stripper. I have a magnet now of her to prove it. I felt like we really connected. Maybe we'll go shopping together one day and I can buy her a sweater. With a high neck.
Some girls have questioned last night's activities and couldn't believe I let my boyfriend go and watch other naked women. And the fact that I went with is just bizarre to them. Well, let's think about this for a second. She can make sexy eyes and shake her ass in his face all that she wants. He's going home with me. He may have to help me take my boots of because I am so out of shape I can't bend over, but that's neither here nor there. I think of it as men like strippers like we ladies enjoy shoe shopping. Whatever turns your crank, baby.
In conclusion, I recant the evening with one end thought and goal: I am going to master working the pole. In sweatpants.
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
Allow Me to Slap You
I realize the title of this blog is "Rantings of a Wine Hag". The definition of ranting is: To Speak or shout at length in a wild, impassioned way.
I do rant. I do complain. We all do. What I cannot stand is people who constantly complain or bitch about their lives and the trivial shit that we all have to deal with. Sure, everyone has a complaint or something that bugs them. That's normal. But to constantly be a Debbie Downer and actually LOOK for something to complain about is disgusting to me. Yes, everyone hates and grumbles about Mondays. You burn the dinner that you so carefully planned and prepared all day. Shoveling snow sucks ass. There definitely are some sucky times in life. I think what some people are forgetting is there is a huge difference between crappy situations and instances, and just being plain ungrateful, insensitive and ridiculous.
Facebook is a complainers paradise. And a great source of some of my rage:
"Wahhh, I sneezed 6 times today. I'm dying!"
"Boo, my plane ride returning me from a luxury vacation in Fiji was soooo long."
"I couldn't find a job for over a year, but now that I have one, I hate going to it."
"I had to brush snow off of my Porsche Cayenne."
I don't know if they just feel too much pressure to have a status update and complaining is their default option? Honestly, I'd rather see someone declaring they are about to get shit-faced drunk (like moi) or discussing how many bowel movements they have had that week, than see some petty, ignorant, bitchy comment like "The line up I had to stand in to buy my new iPhone was so long. FML".
Which brings me to my next rant. To those of you that consistently use "FML" (f*ck my life), I suggest you take a good hard look at your life before you say that. I wonder what acronym starving children in Africa have? The homeless person trying to find somewhere warm and out of the wind? Or even the person that has been unemployed for 2 years and struggling to keep their house. I'm sure they would gladly take your place in 40 minutes of traffic. The woman struggling to beat breast cancer for the second time would in a heart beat take your sniffles and flu bug than sit through another round of chemo. And don't even bellyache about being broke while you type from your $1200 MacBook Pro.
The weather is going change, people. We don't need to write a book on it. It's too cold, it's too hot, it's too windy. You will never be happy, ok? Bring a speedo and a parka with you everywhere you go. And while we're on the subject of a speedo, yes, ok, fine. You are fat. Are you happy now? Is that the validation that you needed?
I am not, in any way, trying to say what is an acceptable complaint and what isn't. I am not the bitching police. I would just like to urge you to think before you speak. If someone says "Gee, that movie really sucked", I am not going to fly into a fit of rage and remind you that not everyone owns a television. Come on. Let's remember what the foundation of this blog is - wine and my thoughts, mostly rants. Remember, I don't like many people, so this is not intended to make me look like Mary Sunshine.
I need a reminder at times to check myself and that it could be much worse. Honestly, if my biggest complaint in life is the assholes that don't know how to walk in the mall....I have it pretty damn good.
To the serial complainers: Your life may not be so shit stained if you look at it from a different perspective. Or, unfortunately, you just might be a really miserable awful person, and in that case, I am going to unfriend you.
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
Working Girl
Going back to work after 2+ weeks off should be illegal. It is no good for anyone.
It was a spectacular vacation, filled with lots of relaxation, food, drinking, friends, family, and sweatpants. Christmas was wonderful, as was New Years. Yesterday, I was feeling very productive and optimistic about the new year. The Christmas tree and decorations came down, I made pancakes for breakfast, dusted, washed and swept floors, all before noon. I was feeling good and ready to go back to work.
Then the cold harsh reality of it all set in this morning.
One of my "hopes" for the New Year (I don't do resolutions. I know myself all too well. That's why I call them hopes) was to go to bed earlier during the week. Usually, this hag stays up until midnight or 1 am on work nights. I then hate myself and my life the next morning. So, promptly at 10pm last night, I scampered off to bed like a good girl. At 10:30 pm I was still laying there, wide awake, completely annoyed by my boyfriend's existence and his audacity to breathe. I got up, ate a bag of cheezies and spent a few hours wasting my life away on Pinterest. Goddammit, I love Pinterest.
I awakened one hour later than I planned on this morning, in quite a beast-like fashion. I laid there and went through a good half dozen scenarios as to why I couldn't go to work. I moaned, groaned and even sobbed a little, screaming at my adorable dog that this was somehow all her fault. She licked my face in return, and made it clear she needed to be let outside. So, I ponied up, let the little brat out, took a shower (fingers crossed that I used soap. I don't even remember) and dragged myself into the office.
The most useless dumdum on Earth sits at my desk today. I don't remember how to spell. What's grammar? I am referring to everything as "it" or "things". Vacation vocabulary and work vocabulary differ greatly for me it seems. I am a cavewoman. I find myself just staring off at nothing. My mouth may be partially open too. I fear now that if I am to ever quit working, I will start wearing a fanny pack, visor and shower sandals out in public to trade coupons.
Let's not even discuss my appearance today. Let's just say I only put mascara on one eye and this shit show of an outfit rivals that of Sophia from the Golden Girls. And smooth brushed hair is SO last year.
In conclusion, I am a big, dumb bag of disgusting today. It can only get better from here, right?
It was a spectacular vacation, filled with lots of relaxation, food, drinking, friends, family, and sweatpants. Christmas was wonderful, as was New Years. Yesterday, I was feeling very productive and optimistic about the new year. The Christmas tree and decorations came down, I made pancakes for breakfast, dusted, washed and swept floors, all before noon. I was feeling good and ready to go back to work.
Then the cold harsh reality of it all set in this morning.
One of my "hopes" for the New Year (I don't do resolutions. I know myself all too well. That's why I call them hopes) was to go to bed earlier during the week. Usually, this hag stays up until midnight or 1 am on work nights. I then hate myself and my life the next morning. So, promptly at 10pm last night, I scampered off to bed like a good girl. At 10:30 pm I was still laying there, wide awake, completely annoyed by my boyfriend's existence and his audacity to breathe. I got up, ate a bag of cheezies and spent a few hours wasting my life away on Pinterest. Goddammit, I love Pinterest.
I awakened one hour later than I planned on this morning, in quite a beast-like fashion. I laid there and went through a good half dozen scenarios as to why I couldn't go to work. I moaned, groaned and even sobbed a little, screaming at my adorable dog that this was somehow all her fault. She licked my face in return, and made it clear she needed to be let outside. So, I ponied up, let the little brat out, took a shower (fingers crossed that I used soap. I don't even remember) and dragged myself into the office.
The most useless dumdum on Earth sits at my desk today. I don't remember how to spell. What's grammar? I am referring to everything as "it" or "things". Vacation vocabulary and work vocabulary differ greatly for me it seems. I am a cavewoman. I find myself just staring off at nothing. My mouth may be partially open too. I fear now that if I am to ever quit working, I will start wearing a fanny pack, visor and shower sandals out in public to trade coupons.
Let's not even discuss my appearance today. Let's just say I only put mascara on one eye and this shit show of an outfit rivals that of Sophia from the Golden Girls. And smooth brushed hair is SO last year.
In conclusion, I am a big, dumb bag of disgusting today. It can only get better from here, right?
Saturday, 24 December 2011
Grinch This
There will be no haggery during Christmas. I love Christmas! I love the feeling of closeness and happiness that comes with this holiday. Family togetherness is one of the best things in this world. (After we are all together, I usually have a couple of rants, but that comes after)
Christmas is a time of beauty, from the inside out. There is something about this holiday that is truly magical. In one way or another, we all see the underlined spiritual side of this holiday. That may be religious beliefs, peace within yourself, or more willingness to understand and tolerance for others that we don't have all year round.
This is a time to forget that you may have a control freak mother who thinks your turkey will never taste as good as hers and when are you finally going to settle down and stop living in sin? Let your alcoholic father have those 5 extra drinks of holiday cheer. Who cares if Uncle George takes his teeth out at the table and leaves them on the side of his plate? Your hellion nephew who just shaved your cat is adorable today. And when your sister in law makes an underhanded comment about the cleanliness of your house, just give her a hug and a smile. She'll still be a bag tomorrow.
I would like to wish all of you a wonderful holiday, filled with laughter, peace, smiles, warmth and family. Merry Christmas!
PS. On Boxing day, I will likely be back to bitch about all the wrapping paper I had to clean up and the 64 loads of dishes I had to do.
Christmas is a time of beauty, from the inside out. There is something about this holiday that is truly magical. In one way or another, we all see the underlined spiritual side of this holiday. That may be religious beliefs, peace within yourself, or more willingness to understand and tolerance for others that we don't have all year round.
This is a time to forget that you may have a control freak mother who thinks your turkey will never taste as good as hers and when are you finally going to settle down and stop living in sin? Let your alcoholic father have those 5 extra drinks of holiday cheer. Who cares if Uncle George takes his teeth out at the table and leaves them on the side of his plate? Your hellion nephew who just shaved your cat is adorable today. And when your sister in law makes an underhanded comment about the cleanliness of your house, just give her a hug and a smile. She'll still be a bag tomorrow.
I would like to wish all of you a wonderful holiday, filled with laughter, peace, smiles, warmth and family. Merry Christmas!
PS. On Boxing day, I will likely be back to bitch about all the wrapping paper I had to clean up and the 64 loads of dishes I had to do.
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
Christmas with a Crank
Before I rant, I realize that those of you that subscribe only get notifications 24 hours after I blog. I don't know how to fix that. You will just have to check regularly I guess. And comment for crying out loud. I see I have 236 readers - 4 from Russia! Comment or I'll cut you.
If any of you go to a shopping mall, I guess it is only fair of me to tell you that I hate you. Seriously, it seems that everyone's manners and knowledge of how to walk in a mall is lost on them the second that they step foot in the building. Is it the bright lights and shiny things? Get the fucking fuck out of my way. Stop shuffling and dillydallying. Move to the side. Pick up your feet! I came dangerously close to punching someone in the back of the head today. Instead, I just purposely stepped on the back of their shoes. It felt good.
I won't single out the elderly and shoppers that are over the age of 100. They need to shop too, and have paid their dues. They had to tolerate these assholes when they were young shoppers back in 1897.
And what is up with those that are walking in the opposite direction as you, heading right toward you? I am always the one to move to the side. Enough of that shit. I refuse to move anymore and am willing to play a game of head-on-collision chicken with you, bitch.
Then you have the assholes that think it's cute to let their 1 year old learn how to walk on his own in the middle of the mall. Guess what? Your kid annoys me now and is no longer cute. And you, jackass parents, do you not realize you are just baiting kidnappers and pedophiles?
I would be willing to fund mall cops that direct people. Just like the ones that wave you through when stop lights are broken. Clearly this needs to happen as we are just barely evolved zoo animals. It's either that or an IQ test followed by an agility obstacle course in order to enter a shopping mall. So we will have mall traffic cops and I will seek anger management counselling in return. Done and done!
If any of you go to a shopping mall, I guess it is only fair of me to tell you that I hate you. Seriously, it seems that everyone's manners and knowledge of how to walk in a mall is lost on them the second that they step foot in the building. Is it the bright lights and shiny things? Get the fucking fuck out of my way. Stop shuffling and dillydallying. Move to the side. Pick up your feet! I came dangerously close to punching someone in the back of the head today. Instead, I just purposely stepped on the back of their shoes. It felt good.
I won't single out the elderly and shoppers that are over the age of 100. They need to shop too, and have paid their dues. They had to tolerate these assholes when they were young shoppers back in 1897.
And what is up with those that are walking in the opposite direction as you, heading right toward you? I am always the one to move to the side. Enough of that shit. I refuse to move anymore and am willing to play a game of head-on-collision chicken with you, bitch.
Then you have the assholes that think it's cute to let their 1 year old learn how to walk on his own in the middle of the mall. Guess what? Your kid annoys me now and is no longer cute. And you, jackass parents, do you not realize you are just baiting kidnappers and pedophiles?
I would be willing to fund mall cops that direct people. Just like the ones that wave you through when stop lights are broken. Clearly this needs to happen as we are just barely evolved zoo animals. It's either that or an IQ test followed by an agility obstacle course in order to enter a shopping mall. So we will have mall traffic cops and I will seek anger management counselling in return. Done and done!
Saturday, 17 December 2011
Divine Punishment
I need a Christmas miracle, people.
We are hosting an Ugly Christmas Sweater party tonight. There is supposed to be about 25 people coming over in 4 hours. I am still in my pajamas. I want to die.
I had a work related party last night. As usual, I was the drunken fool that nobody wants to be. It's kind of my thing. My claim to fame. I am that girl. Just once I would like to experience going out, having a few casual beverages and go home with my boyfriend who will actually say he still loves me after a night out with me.
Le sigh. That will most likely never happen.
Even the Wine Hag has her limits. I have just been introduced to mine. I am not as hardcore as I used to be. I am the equivalent of a human stump today. I cannot function. I want to cry. I want to stop shaking. And I want the little bit of puke on my bathroom floor (courtesy of moi) to magically disappear.
In 4 hours I must:
-Clean up and get rid of clutter that happens to be fucking everywhere. God damn Christmas and the wrapping paper paraphernalia that comes with it.
- Move a mattress from the lowest level of our house to the top level. Fuck.
-Brush my teeth. This needs to happen.
-Put clean sheets on our 2 guest beds. I now hate my friends.
-Take a shower. Boo.
-I still have to make my cursed Ugly Christmas sweater. I'm toying with the idea of Christmas pajamas. That would be nice.
-Go and pick up my truck that is still at the place where it all began.
-Go and buy food and snacks for tonight. My boyfriend does not agree that crackers and a jar of peanut butter set out on a nice Christmas table cloth will suffice. He's never having sex again.
In my desperation to feel human again, I have been googling hangover cures. About.com actually suggested eating mineral rich foods like pickles or canned fish. Canned fish??! Are they for real? I can tell you that if I were to come into contact with canned fish right now, it would be barfomania. Ugh, the thought of it is making gag and sweat at the same time. Sick.
I'm now going to go find a McDonald's cheeseburger and say my prayers. Would it be bad if I went to bed at my own party at 8:30? Wish me luck.
We are hosting an Ugly Christmas Sweater party tonight. There is supposed to be about 25 people coming over in 4 hours. I am still in my pajamas. I want to die.
I had a work related party last night. As usual, I was the drunken fool that nobody wants to be. It's kind of my thing. My claim to fame. I am that girl. Just once I would like to experience going out, having a few casual beverages and go home with my boyfriend who will actually say he still loves me after a night out with me.
Le sigh. That will most likely never happen.
Even the Wine Hag has her limits. I have just been introduced to mine. I am not as hardcore as I used to be. I am the equivalent of a human stump today. I cannot function. I want to cry. I want to stop shaking. And I want the little bit of puke on my bathroom floor (courtesy of moi) to magically disappear.
In 4 hours I must:
-Clean up and get rid of clutter that happens to be fucking everywhere. God damn Christmas and the wrapping paper paraphernalia that comes with it.
- Move a mattress from the lowest level of our house to the top level. Fuck.
-Brush my teeth. This needs to happen.
-Put clean sheets on our 2 guest beds. I now hate my friends.
-Take a shower. Boo.
-I still have to make my cursed Ugly Christmas sweater. I'm toying with the idea of Christmas pajamas. That would be nice.
-Go and pick up my truck that is still at the place where it all began.
-Go and buy food and snacks for tonight. My boyfriend does not agree that crackers and a jar of peanut butter set out on a nice Christmas table cloth will suffice. He's never having sex again.
In my desperation to feel human again, I have been googling hangover cures. About.com actually suggested eating mineral rich foods like pickles or canned fish. Canned fish??! Are they for real? I can tell you that if I were to come into contact with canned fish right now, it would be barfomania. Ugh, the thought of it is making gag and sweat at the same time. Sick.
I'm now going to go find a McDonald's cheeseburger and say my prayers. Would it be bad if I went to bed at my own party at 8:30? Wish me luck.
Sunday, 11 December 2011
What Doesn't Kill you Makes you Stronger
This holiday season just might kill me. My social calendar (aka scheduled pummeling of my liver) is jam packed this year. I'm not complaining at all. I love holiday parties and food and libations (please take note of my big and fancy word usage) and the activities that occur at said parties. If there is a board game to be had, I will be there front and center, bossing everyone around. I have also been known to physically attack complete strangers at parties during board games. But only if the stranger is cheating. And I only dove over a table and tackled this stranger to the ground. Once. There was no blood!
Another of my finer moments as a guest at a party was to not only parade around in the hostess' Snuggie, but then climb into bed with her at 2:30am when she was trying to sleep and suggest that we watch the Royal Wedding. Both of these occurrences happened at the same house and as I type this, I honestly cannot believe these people still talk to me.
In addition, it's always a fun challenge when you wake up after a Christmas party and try to figure out who in the hell your 5 newest Facebook friends are.
This coming week is a big and busy one. It is my last week of work before I go on holidays. I'm sure most of you that have jobs can relate to just how hard it is to maintain being drunk everyday for the month of December and stay on top of everything at work? For those of us that can pull it off successfully, I believe we should be given an award or at least an honorable mention in a History text book. I'm exhausted and it is only December 11th. I took it easy tonight and only had 2 glasses of wine. Anyway, besides a crazy work week and a few evening work events, I have 3 parties to attend before Sunday, one of them being an ugly Christmas sweater party.
I am determined to somehow fit into this week making my very own ugly Christmas sweater. Remember when I said I spent $107 at Dollarama? Well my friends, a good $35 of that was collecting the materials to make this sucker.
In my mind, this garment is magnificent. I have a plain old red sweater that I am basically going to sew on a bunch of random shit. There is going to be 2 fake sparrows sitting on my shoulders, ok. There will be bells, drums, ribbons, tiny presents, stuffed animals, bows; hell, there may even be leftovers from this fridge on this thing. You know those light up reindeer people put on their front lawn? Yeah, I'm trying to figure out a way to attach one to the back of this sweater. I figure I can somehow rig up a backpack style harness.
This sweater is going to be the Mother of all ugly Christmas sweaters. I have no idea when I am going to have the time to perfect my masterpiece, but rest assured, I will most likely be drunk when I do it, which is when I do my best work, really.
Wish me luck, and if I can figure it out, I'll post a picture of the sweater. Stay tuned on my adventures in Christmas partying this week.
Another of my finer moments as a guest at a party was to not only parade around in the hostess' Snuggie, but then climb into bed with her at 2:30am when she was trying to sleep and suggest that we watch the Royal Wedding. Both of these occurrences happened at the same house and as I type this, I honestly cannot believe these people still talk to me.
In addition, it's always a fun challenge when you wake up after a Christmas party and try to figure out who in the hell your 5 newest Facebook friends are.
This coming week is a big and busy one. It is my last week of work before I go on holidays. I'm sure most of you that have jobs can relate to just how hard it is to maintain being drunk everyday for the month of December and stay on top of everything at work? For those of us that can pull it off successfully, I believe we should be given an award or at least an honorable mention in a History text book. I'm exhausted and it is only December 11th. I took it easy tonight and only had 2 glasses of wine. Anyway, besides a crazy work week and a few evening work events, I have 3 parties to attend before Sunday, one of them being an ugly Christmas sweater party.
I am determined to somehow fit into this week making my very own ugly Christmas sweater. Remember when I said I spent $107 at Dollarama? Well my friends, a good $35 of that was collecting the materials to make this sucker.
In my mind, this garment is magnificent. I have a plain old red sweater that I am basically going to sew on a bunch of random shit. There is going to be 2 fake sparrows sitting on my shoulders, ok. There will be bells, drums, ribbons, tiny presents, stuffed animals, bows; hell, there may even be leftovers from this fridge on this thing. You know those light up reindeer people put on their front lawn? Yeah, I'm trying to figure out a way to attach one to the back of this sweater. I figure I can somehow rig up a backpack style harness.
This sweater is going to be the Mother of all ugly Christmas sweaters. I have no idea when I am going to have the time to perfect my masterpiece, but rest assured, I will most likely be drunk when I do it, which is when I do my best work, really.
Wish me luck, and if I can figure it out, I'll post a picture of the sweater. Stay tuned on my adventures in Christmas partying this week.
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
Rated "R" for Ridiculous
After I spent $107 at Dollarama (that's a whole other blog post), I watched The Bodyguard tonight. I will always like that movie. My two favorite parts are when they are about to get it on and Kevin Costner throws Whitney Houston's silk scarf in the air and it effortlessly is sliced by his samurai sword (no really, there is a samurai sword. I'm not being a pervert and referring to his junk as a sword) and the very end when she's about to leave on the plane and yells "wait!", right before Whit busts out the best part of "I Will Always Love You".
I got thinking about Kevin Costner. He had some solid movies: The Bodyguard, Dances with Wolves, Robin Hood and that baseball cornfield one or whatever. So this got me thinking about movies today. What in the hell has happened to our society's definition of entertainment? 7 out of 10 movies released now are about vampires, paranormal activity and weird, creepy possessed children. What happened to the good old movies with substance and plots that were somewhat believable and even possible?
Is it too much to ask for a terrifying slasher flick? The reason Friday the 13th and Scream films were so scary is because it is highly plausible that someone could come into your home and murder you. I don't lay awake at night worrying that there will be a Vampire vs Werewolf throw down in the front yard or that there is small sleep deprived child in my closet seeing dead people. Ridiculous!
Remember the movie called "The Ring"? What. The. Fuck.Was. That. A video tape of a wishing well, with a weird dark haired kid that climbs out. Oh, and you die if you watch the tape. Oscar worthy!
For the record, I actually hate horror movies. I would not sit and watch someone be murdered in real life, so why would I pay $10 to watch murder for entertainment purposes? But for arguments sake, and to save me from this imaginary fairyland bullshit, I'll gladly watch Freddy or Jason make a comeback.
Don't get me wrong. I can get down with some fake shit. Independance Day and Jurassic Park - love!
I'm just ready for a selection of Shawshank Redemption/Donnie Brasco/Dazed & Confused caliber movies to come out, damn it. I am forever grateful for Liam Neeson and his kickass, action packed and twisty ending films that he still releases every couple of years. Fuck this little Harry Potter bastard! (Whoever he is. I have never read a Harry Potter book or seen a movie. And I never ever will)
Until I get my wish, I will remain at home, heckling at the previews of the newest movie about a Ghost and a Warlock having a baby, and their hard decision of whether to have it baptized by a unicorn or a leprechaun, all while under siege of Santa's reindeer, being ridden by the cast of Twilight.
I got thinking about Kevin Costner. He had some solid movies: The Bodyguard, Dances with Wolves, Robin Hood and that baseball cornfield one or whatever. So this got me thinking about movies today. What in the hell has happened to our society's definition of entertainment? 7 out of 10 movies released now are about vampires, paranormal activity and weird, creepy possessed children. What happened to the good old movies with substance and plots that were somewhat believable and even possible?
Is it too much to ask for a terrifying slasher flick? The reason Friday the 13th and Scream films were so scary is because it is highly plausible that someone could come into your home and murder you. I don't lay awake at night worrying that there will be a Vampire vs Werewolf throw down in the front yard or that there is small sleep deprived child in my closet seeing dead people. Ridiculous!
Remember the movie called "The Ring"? What. The. Fuck.Was. That. A video tape of a wishing well, with a weird dark haired kid that climbs out. Oh, and you die if you watch the tape. Oscar worthy!
For the record, I actually hate horror movies. I would not sit and watch someone be murdered in real life, so why would I pay $10 to watch murder for entertainment purposes? But for arguments sake, and to save me from this imaginary fairyland bullshit, I'll gladly watch Freddy or Jason make a comeback.
Don't get me wrong. I can get down with some fake shit. Independance Day and Jurassic Park - love!
I'm just ready for a selection of Shawshank Redemption/Donnie Brasco/Dazed & Confused caliber movies to come out, damn it. I am forever grateful for Liam Neeson and his kickass, action packed and twisty ending films that he still releases every couple of years. Fuck this little Harry Potter bastard! (Whoever he is. I have never read a Harry Potter book or seen a movie. And I never ever will)
Until I get my wish, I will remain at home, heckling at the previews of the newest movie about a Ghost and a Warlock having a baby, and their hard decision of whether to have it baptized by a unicorn or a leprechaun, all while under siege of Santa's reindeer, being ridden by the cast of Twilight.
Monday, 5 December 2011
Cheese with my Wine
I don't know what it is about this year, but I cannot get enough of leopard prints. I love them! This is a new development because I usually cackled at any sort of animal print on any person that I could see. Oh, except for the RAD black and white zebra print tank top I had in university for bar hopping. It looked wicked with my cherry red low-rise pants.
Tonight I bought myself a supremely cheesy pair of satin leopard print pajamas. ($22 at Walmart!)
I. Am. Awesome. Seriously, I feel all classy and rich and lady like in these things. Like Elizabeth Taylor. I feel like I should be draping myself across the furniture and reading Jackie Collins novels while wearing every piece of jewelry I own. My sister in law said I need a pair of fuzzy high heeled slippers and I think she just may be onto something there. And bonus! The leopard print camouflages red wine spills beautifully.
Tomorrow I plan on making my boyfriend falling in love with me all over again/seducing him by prancing around in these jammies while blasting Mariah Carey's "Baby all I Want for Christmas is You" and baking something. It's totally going to work.
Tonight I bought myself a supremely cheesy pair of satin leopard print pajamas. ($22 at Walmart!)
I. Am. Awesome. Seriously, I feel all classy and rich and lady like in these things. Like Elizabeth Taylor. I feel like I should be draping myself across the furniture and reading Jackie Collins novels while wearing every piece of jewelry I own. My sister in law said I need a pair of fuzzy high heeled slippers and I think she just may be onto something there. And bonus! The leopard print camouflages red wine spills beautifully.
Tomorrow I plan on making my boyfriend falling in love with me all over again/seducing him by prancing around in these jammies while blasting Mariah Carey's "Baby all I Want for Christmas is You" and baking something. It's totally going to work.
Sunday, 4 December 2011
Haggin' Ain't Easy
Alright, so the morning after the birth of this blog, I had an extremely uneasy feeling about it. I was no longer in my super-confident-I-am-invincible-and-awesome drunken stupor. Reality had set in that I not only started a blog and basically told the world that I am an alcoholic that hates people, but I had shared it in public. People actually read it. My (not so) secret was out.
I took the links down that I had plastered all over every social media sites I am a member of (an impressive and whopping 2, if you're curious) and mulled over my options in regards to either keeping the blog, or deleting it.
Fast forward to me at last night's Christmas party and I decided to share the links with the public again after a healthy dose of super-confident-I-am-invincible-and-awesome-and-everyone-loves-me.
The blog is staying. My love of wine is clearly staying. A perfect union and it must be shared.
I'm going to clarify what I mean when I say I don't like many people. That isn't entirely accurate. I do like people and I am a real people person. What I have no tolerance for is stupidity, idiocy, losery, dumbness, trash, arrogance, assholery, bitchiness, body stench, liars, cheaters, bad hair, bad wardrobe choices, awkward conversationalists, little to no sense of humor and/or bad driving.
I told you I was judgmental. And I like to make up words.
So if you were asking yourself after my first blog if you were one of the people I actually don't like; if you possess one of the above qualities, the answer is yes.
If you do not possess any of those cursed attributes, then you are majestic in my eyes and my next blog entry will be dedicated to you, you rare little gems of human gold.
I have the shakes due to last night's merriment and desperately need a shower and a toothbrush. If I don't tend to myself immediately, I will hate myself.
Love and kisses,
The Hag
I took the links down that I had plastered all over every social media sites I am a member of (an impressive and whopping 2, if you're curious) and mulled over my options in regards to either keeping the blog, or deleting it.
Fast forward to me at last night's Christmas party and I decided to share the links with the public again after a healthy dose of super-confident-I-am-invincible-and-awesome-and-everyone-loves-me.
The blog is staying. My love of wine is clearly staying. A perfect union and it must be shared.
I'm going to clarify what I mean when I say I don't like many people. That isn't entirely accurate. I do like people and I am a real people person. What I have no tolerance for is stupidity, idiocy, losery, dumbness, trash, arrogance, assholery, bitchiness, body stench, liars, cheaters, bad hair, bad wardrobe choices, awkward conversationalists, little to no sense of humor and/or bad driving.
I told you I was judgmental. And I like to make up words.
So if you were asking yourself after my first blog if you were one of the people I actually don't like; if you possess one of the above qualities, the answer is yes.
If you do not possess any of those cursed attributes, then you are majestic in my eyes and my next blog entry will be dedicated to you, you rare little gems of human gold.
I have the shakes due to last night's merriment and desperately need a shower and a toothbrush. If I don't tend to myself immediately, I will hate myself.
Love and kisses,
The Hag
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