People I can’t delete from Facebook (but want to).

I love Facebook.

Yeah. That’s right. I can publicly admit that I LOVE FACEBOOK. Print that shit on a t-shirt and I’ll wear it to a Wu-Tang concert and not give a fuck, sonnnnn. I don’t care that your grandmother uses Facebook. I still love it. I love everything about it. I love that I can post pictures, music videos, articles, “Like” things, comment on things, tell everyone what I think of a movie I watched on Netflix and, most importantly, tell everyone on my friends list what I think about EVERYTHING. I like that I can tell a stranger off when their opinion is different than mine. Or just because I’m bored. As the narcissist that I am, Facebook has allowed me to do what I’ve always done but on a much larger scale, which is constantly prove how awesome I am and how much more valid my opinions are than everyone else’s. As much as everyone loves to downplay their usage or dependence on it, let’s face it, Facebook has changed our daily lives.

Now as much as I love Facebook, I am quite particular about who I have on my friends list. Because I share almost every detail of my life on my page, I am a bit wary of which requests I accept. Basically I won’t add anyone that I don’t personally know, unless they are a DJ/Promoter/Someone in Toronto that I add to be able to keep up with their events/mixtapes/whatever. The only way I break this rule is if you are a hot, hot, single male or a dude from POF (my friends and I call them Poffers) and I want to know if the 3 pictures you had on your POF profile are the only 3 that hide the fact that you are a troll. Even then, I will usually accept your request but if you aren’t sayin anythin, you’re deleted within a week, tops.

As for the people who actually get access to my Timeline, you’re still not safe. I do major clean-ups every 6 months or so. There are actually people who have been deleted every clean-up but add me again when they notice. I am always baffled by these people. It’s frickin’ weird, bruh. It’s like we’re playing a sick game or something. Break-ups to make-ups type shit, yo. Trust me, if I notice somehow you deleted me from your Facebook for no reason I can think of, you’re not only never getting re-added, but I’ve probably already started a blog post about what a skank you are. I guess some people don’t have an ego like mine.

Now besides the people I actually like and the people I just re-add because I feel like if I don’t they’re going to make a dress out of my skin, there is one more group of people who will probably remain on my friends list indefinitely – the people I can’t delete. Whether it’s because I’m a sap who doesn’t want to offend some people (I know, ME not wanting to offend someone is weird, right?), or that I secretly have a crush on you and want to creep you (amongst other things), there is something preventing my fingers from clicking that ‘Unfriend’ option. This is a very mixed group of people and the reasons I can’t delete them vary, but I will try to break them down for you.

The Family Member

This should be an obvious one. We’ve all gone through this; a random aunt or third cousin, twice removed adds you to Facebook and you think to yourself, “There is no way I’m letting this broad see what I really get into after Christmas dinner.” But you can’t decline them. They’re family. So you ignore the request for a little while. Hey, maybe you don’t go on Facebook every 4 minutes and you actually only sign in, like, once a month. Maybe she sent the request the day after your monthly check-in. Right. Then you realize that no one will believe that when you change your profile picture after every meal. Dammit.

Accept request.

And there you have it. For as long as you have Facebook you now have to let this person who you have only met twice at family weddings have access to your daily shenanigans. Your 4 a.m. drunken status updates. Your third cousin, twice removed will now know just how much you love greasy pizza and hate bouncers on a power trip. You will now hear a snicker when someone offers you a drink at a family function and you reply with, “No, thanks. I don’t really drink.”

The Person From Work Who Doesn’t Respect Boundaries

I actually work with someone who adds every single person in the company to Facebook. I’m serious. I find it creepy as hell, but what can you do? You can’t decline them. How would you be able to face them every day? You just have to accept and hope for the best. Hope that you can remember they are on your friends list when you have the urge to write “I FUCKING HATE EVERYONE I WORK WITH!!!! FML!!!!” as your status on Monday mornings. Hope that you remember they’ve got access to your page when you post pictures of your secret hiding spot behind the vacant desk where you go to nap sometimes. Oh, you’ve never actually had an actual conversation with this person? Too bad. They’ve now seen pictures from that birthday where you could barely see by the end of the night. You may understand that work and your personal life need to be separated (unless of course it’s someone you would actually chill with after 5 p.m.), but they don’t understand that. So now you’re fucked.

The People You Grew Apart From But Don’t Actually Hate

When I first joined Facebook I had everyone on my shit. Elementary school people, high school folks, people I’ve worked with at every job, everyone. For the first few weeks it was exciting to see all these faces that you literally hadn’t seen or thought about for more than a decade. You saw who got married, who had kids, who got nose jobs, who got fat, who got hot. But then after you start to see their updates and pictures for a little while, you realize that there was a reason you hadn’t kept in touch with these people. Because you fucking can’t stand them.

Delete. Delete. De-fucking-lete.

But there are some of them you just can’t bring yourself to delete. For me, it’s because I don’t want to offend them, regardless of whether or not they actually give two shits about me or Facebook. These are people I still respect. People I have shared moments of my life with. People I am glad I knew at some point, even if they are people that I would have no interest in knowing if I met them today.

The thought of them one day realizing that at some point, unbeknownst to them, I decided I could no longer be burdened by the possibility of seeing their face on my computer screen anymore and deleted them makes me feel bad. And I don’t like to feel bad. So these people that I haven’t seen for years, in some cases for more than half the years I’ve been alive, will forever remain on my Facebook because of some imaginary reaction I’ve decided they may have if they ever noticed that one of their 250 friends deleted them. Who’s crazy?

The People You Love To Hate

This is the group I’m actually ashamed to admit exists. These are the people that I don’t delete because occasionally taking glimpses into their lives makes me feel better about my own. Or because their page is [unintentionally] hilarious. They are people that I probably can’t stand but at some point we became “Facebook pals” and now I use them as a reminder of how much worse things could be. Don’t misunderstand; they’re not people with terminal illnesses or 5 kids they can’t feed. They’re people who take self-portraits every 3 hours. They are people who actually think duckface is a ‘cute puckered sexy lips’ pose. They are people who wRiTe liK diZ but constantly post statuses from atop a soapbox. And most importantly, they are people who are probably reading this right now and have no idea I am talking about them.

The Person Who Just Doesn’t Get It

There is always that person who thinks being friends on a social networking site means something, anything, in the real world. They’re probably the same people who think friends can live together, too.

These people stay on my Facebook simply out of pity. I know that sounds horrible but I don’t know any other way to put it. They are people who aren’t ‘with it’ enough to ‘get it’ but at some point they’ve come into your life and you don’t know how to get rid of them without being way more harsh than they deserve. They don’t necessarily bother you. They’re more like a ticking clock, usually going unnoticed until you’re in an irritable mood or just looking for something to complain about. Then they become unbearable. But you can’t fault a clock for ticking, and you can’t fault these people for being a few cards short of a deck.

They may be naive, or innocent, or maybe they just can’t keep up. They try, though. They really do. And for that you have to give ‘em credit. I guess.

Thankfully Facebook has come up with two tools that can help you deal with all of these people:

Unsubscribe and Limited Profile. Thank GAWD.


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Roommates from hell – The top 5 reasons you should live at home forever.

Bad roommates are something almost everyone can relate to. Unless you still live at home or were fortunate enough to go from mom’s to a one bedroom, you have probably lived with someone that made you yearn for your mother’s nagging at one point or another. This Canada Day will make it nine years that I’ve lived in my apartment. Nine. Years.

While that is crazy enough (I moved out when I was 20 into a dream apartment and never left), what’s crazier is the fact that instead of living alone, in peace, I continue to choose to live with roommates. I don’t do this because I’m a masochist. I do this because while I can afford my place on my own, what I can’t afford is to live on my own and continue to take vacations every few months.

Frequent vacations > Peeing with the door open.

Anyway. Enough about my dream peeing situation (do I have an obsession with pee stories?). I’m about to share with you the five worst roommate stories I have. While some of these people made horrible roommates, it doesn’t necessarily mean they were bad people (there’s my disclaimer for the few of them I’m actually still friends with who may read this). Some people just aren’t meant to live together.

*Sidenote: having had a bunch of roommates, I’m absolutely horrified when I hear about couples that are getting married before they’ve lived together. Can you hear that? I believe it’s the sound of an expedited divorce.

Here we go.

#5  Tastes like burning

As a Virgo, aka the biggest worrier of the zodiac, if there is one thing that can make me hyperventilate any time of day, it’s thinking about my apartment burning down. Besides the thought of fire making me cry, it’s also the idea that when you live in a building, it’s not just your roommate you have to worry about being a liability. Nope. You could potentially be sharing a building with hundreds – or thousands – of liabilities. One person, ONE PERSON, could forget to blow out a candle and there goes your entire life. Gone. So imagine the amount of panties I’ve had to wash after coming home to burnt stove covers or smelling something burning from my bedroom. Almost every single roommate I’ve had has burned my stove covers at one point or another. They think they’re turning one burner on but actually turn on another one, and next thing you know I’m running into the kitchen from my room yelling “WHAT’S ON FIRE?” That’s the best part. Almost every time this has happened they haven’t even noticed. All I can do is pray every night before I go to sleep that this never happens when I’m not home. Assuming, of course, my prayers about winning the lottery are ignored.

#4 Friend or foe yo state your biz

One of the most important rules I’ve learned in almost a decade of renting is this:

Never live with a friend.

There are people who claim they have lived with a friend and everything was fine. Well, there are also people who claim they can be friends with an ex. I like to call these people “delusional.”

Living with a friend is like communism – in theory it is the best idea you’ve ever had. It never works though because one person always feels more entitled. Or, one person is an angry psycho.

I once was friends with a girl for about 4 or 5 years. We’ll call her Lisa S. No, L. Simpson. At the time, I was living with the most annoying roommate I’ve ever had (who happens to be responsible for #1 on this list) so when my friend suggested we live together I almost literally jumped at the idea. Within no time I told my roommate she had to move out and the nightmare began. Before L. Simpson had even moved in we were fighting. And by “we were fighting” I really mean she was being a control freak, and over the most bullllllllshit things. But by the time I realized what was happening it was too late to do anything about it, so she moved in.

At this time I was also in school. I had a friend from class over and we were working on an assignment in my room. Because we were still awake, the light in the hallway was still on but I closed my bedroom door so we wouldn’t be too loud. It was around 11 p.m.

Not 4 a.m. 11 p.m.

Instead of turning the light off herself (ironically the light switch was right outside her bedroom door), L. Simpson decides to text me, from the next room, telling me to turn the light off because she is trying to sleep. Fuck I’ve heard of people having trouble falling asleep, but if the little bit of light that comes through the crack between your door and floor keeps you up, you have bigger problems than me. Annoyed, I responded with something stating that I was still awake, and therefore the light will probably remain on because I have a guest over and I’m not going to do homework by candlelight.

Now, if any of you know someone with a temper problem, you know that it doesn’t matter what you say or do. If they are in a bad mood/drunk/sad/mad/awake and they are looking for a fight, a fight they are going to get. People with tempers don’t actually need something specific to be said or done to flip out, they just need an opportunity. Anyway long story short, I guess my sarcasm was that opportunity because the next text I got was full of expletives and insults. At this point my friend is wondering what the eff is going on and I’m wondering what the eff is going on, so like the sane, rational person I [sometimes] am, I went over to her room and knocked on the door and said “Lisa L. Simpson, do we need to talk about something?”


I’ve been hit with a wooden spoon (mom), a rainstick (brother), I’ve even been punched in the head by a drunk Indian dude at a club before (at Fluid… of course) but I had never, ever been threatened by a friend, let alone one threatening to STAB ME IN THE FACE. I’m not sure who was more shocked, me or my friend from school. All I know is I’m the one who slept with one eye open that night.

#3  Mmmmrottenmeat

I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned it in other posts before but my sense of smell is probably more intense than that of a Bloodhound. Or Vampire. Because of this, I tend to be quite the whiner when something doesn’t smell pleasant.  This was an actual conversation I had years ago after coming in for a shift at HMV:

Vanessa: Did someone spill coffee?

Stephen: Why?

V: Because it smells like spilled coffee.

S: Don’t you mean it smells like coffee?

V: No. It smells like spilled coffee.

S: There is no way you can smell the difference between coffee and spilled coffee!

V: Did you spill coffee or not?

S: Yes. But it was hours ago!

This is why I always joke about getting a tattoo that says The Nose Knows.

It was the first summer I was living in my apartment and I was trying to get used to living with someone who wasn’t raised as a clean-freak Italian. She was cooking ground beef, but something didn’t smell right. When she was done she said, “Aw man, this beef is rotten. What a waste.” And threw it out.

I was still working at HMV and used to do a lot of 1-9 p.m. shifts. So the next day I came home from work around 9:30 p.m. I open my apartment door and almost vomited on the spot. I have never (and still haven’t to this day) smelled anything like this inside anyone’s home. It smelled like Chinatown, on a hot as ass late summer night, when the garbage is piled along Spadina up to the sky. It was putrid. I had already forgotten about the meat from the nigh before so I was not only sick to my stomach, but confused as hell. With my shirt pulled over my face, I started sniffing around the apartment, just like the aforementioned Bloodhound would (I do this often when trying to locate where a smell, good or bad, is coming from). Eventually I reached the garbage can and opened it… and almost died. Roommate had thrown the ROTTEN meat away, but for some reason decided not to throw the garbage down the chute. So the ROTTEN meat had been sitting in the garbage now for 24 hours. I just happened to be the lucky gal who got to come home to it.

#2  Roly-Poly Fish Heads

I am a very open-minded person. Stop laughing! I am… kinda. I like trying new foods and visiting places I don’t live in and seeing how the rest of the world lives. That is, of course, unless said food and cultures gross me out. Like the dead animals hanging inside-out in Chinatown. Or eating fish heads. That shit is gross.

So you could imagine my dismay one night when I open my fridge door, looking for a nice, cool, refreshing beverage and found a pan with dried up fish heads in it. The sauce and/or grease that it had been cooked in had turned into a gel and it was undoubtedly the grossest thing that has ever been in my fridge. Not only was the sight itself disgusting, but the reason this find made it onto this list was that it wasn’t even in Tupperware. I opened my fridge and saw a pan covering another pan as a lid. How lazy do you have to be to do that? So of course, I lift the pan ‘lid’ off the pan ‘Tupperware’ to see what’s inside and BAM. This is what I see (please refer to the image at the bottom of this post).

I was so disturbed I threw both pans out immediately. Curiosity definitely killed this cat.

#1  The Environmentally Friendly Moron

As I mentioned, I have a very sensitive nose.  So sensitive that I have actually woken up in the middle of the night from a boyfriend’s farts before (unfortunately, that’s a true story). So the number one worst roommate story begins with me waking up one morning to get ready for work, just like any other day. I go into the bathroom for my morning pee and as soon as I close the door behind me I immediately smell something foul. I was the first one awake so there was no way it was a lingering smell from my roommate’s deuce, so I was confused, but still half asleep anyway. As I’m sitting there I notice the smell is stronger. I look to my left and see something sitting on top of the garbage bin. It was almost like a cartoon where I rubbed my eyes to make sure what I thought I was seeing was really what I was seeing. And yes, it was. At the top of the garbage bin was a fully used tampon, wrapped in toilet paper. But not enough toilet paper that I didn’t know it was a fully used tampon wrapped in toilet paper. It was thinly wrapped enough that the blood has seeped through it to the point you could barely tell there was anything wrapping it up at all. This foul smell was my roommates DIRTY USED TAMPON SITTING OVERNIGHT 3 INCHES AWAY FROM ME. I gagged as I emptied the garbage into a plastic bag and almost ran down the hall to the garbage chute. Maybe I thought if I did it quick enough the whole scenario would erase from my memory. Clearly, it did not.

I was fuming. What kind of a dirty pig would leave something like that overnight? I’m a woman. I get my period. I understand it’s part of life. But it’s a part you don’t just leave out in the open. It’s like leaving a used condom in the open for your roommate to see. COME ON. Who thinks that’s okay?!

Still traumatized, I spent my morning at work writing her an email. Passive-aggressive, yes. But there was no way I could wait until the next time I saw her to let her know that I was now convinced she was raised in a barn by animals. The best part of this story is that she responded to my email, condescendingly, telling me that flushing tampons down the toilet is bad for the environment and even attached a fucking link to an article about it.

Are any of you still wondering why I hate people?


Roly Poly Fish Heads


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F*ck a doctor.

Well sure, you can sleep with a doctor if that’s your thing, but that’s not what I meant.

I hate doctors.

I don’t remember the last time I actually had a doctor diagnose something. My ears could be constantly ringing. I could have hives. My leg could be broken off at the knee. Doesn’t matter what I tell them. It could be the simplest of issues or the most complicated multi-tiered disease and they still won’t figure it out. For years I have been calling them Glorified Guessers and as I get older, I start to worry more and more about how important they are going to be to my survival when I’m like, 80 or something.

Nowadays, with the internetz everywhere we go, I don’t even bother going to see a doctor unless my self-diagnosis requires meds. I don’t understand how we have a shortage of doctors in this province when most people I know do the same thing – get Yahoo Answers from some know-it-all in Wisconsin and call it a day.

Today, unfortunately, I felt I required a GG’s assistance so I made an appointment. I went in and without going into too much detail (come on, I barely know you), I was given a plastic cup. You know what happens next.

As if peeing into a cup isn’t degrading enough (don’t act like you don’t get urine all over your hand, too!) at this particular office, they are sadists. The bathroom isn’t behind the door with the offices and check-up rooms. Nope. You have to go back out to the waiting room, cup in hand, past all the other people waiting, and around the reception window to get to the bathroom. Then you have to do your business with people literally sitting, in silence, 5 feet away from your… intimates. Then comes the worst part – walking past them again, this time with a cup of your own urine in your hand. Right there. Hi guys, I just peed into this cup, right over there. You probably heard it. And then heard me washing my hands for 5 minutes and using 827 paper towels to make sure there is no pee on the outside of the cup. God forbid the doctor touches my pee! Yeah, so I hope you don’t mind me walking around with this thing. I need it to, you know, figure out what’s wrong with me. Just try not to stare directly at it. Or me. Matter of fact, please hold your heads down and avert your gaze as I walk through. Thanks.

But it never happens that way, does it? No. There are no rules or etiquette regarding the moment someone fills their cup. You know why these rules don’t exist as common practices? Because someone who is designing the layout of a doctor’s office usually isn’t a moron and this issue probably doesn’t come up that often.

But enough about why. Let’s get right to it. I exit the room, with all the aforementioned shame, and tell myself not to make eye contact with anyone. But being the stubborn, curious asshole I am, I need to look at them to know if they are looking at me, and more importantly, if they know I have my own urine in my hand. As I’m looking I’m also trying to keep the urine away from me (what if I needed an 828th paper towel?) and trying to conceal it as best I can. Remember, this is all happening within about 4-6 seconds. Just as I’m 4 feet away from the door, I notice that an attractive male who looks around my age had entered the waiting room at some point while I was in the bathroom. It is at this exact moment that I am now fully moving the cup of piss behind my back, as we are looking into eachothers’ eyes. Yes. My smooth move was hiding my own pee-pee behind my back as though I was hiding a cookie from a young child. I’m pretty sure I awkwardly smiled in a ‘don’t worry, I swear it’s nothing serious’ way.

Thank Allah when I came back out he was gone. Our Missed Connection would probably read something like this:

You were holding your own pee behind your back. Did you think I didn’t notice? I did. 

I was just waiting for my girlfriend. Stop staring at me creepy pee girl.

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I’m back from Jamaica! Will start posting – regularly – asap!

I'm back from Jamaica! Will start posting - regularly - asap!

My last night in Negril, around 4 am :*(

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Advertisers are worse than the Catholic church.

Last week I went tanning (get over it) and as I took my sweater off, my hair did this flippy thing and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and thought… Damn. I look good.

2 seconds later I immediately felt guilty. Who am I to think I look good? There are billions of better looking people on this planet. And I’m fat. And I can’t run. And my shoes are dirty. And I’m lazy. And I have crow’s feet. And… the list goes on.

This is a sick, sick habit we have. In a world where everywhere we look we are force-fed images of people who are richer than us, happier than us, have better hair than us, have better clothes than us, and are having more sex than us, it’s hard to believe we have the courage to leave our beds at all.

I love creative advertising. I love clever advertising. I love powerful advertising. I do believe it serves a purpose when it’s done properly. It is the most effective way to make people aware of your brand or service or product. It’s a great way to promote charities and events. It helps create awareness about diseases or even politics. Like most things, it can be used for good.

Or evil.

The problem begins when the goal is to promote something that isn’t a necessity or even a GOOD product. That’s when advertisers have to rely on other methods to pique your interest. They need to make you feel as if you need this product more than the company needs you to buy it. And what’s the easiest way to do that? Exploit our insecurities.

The advertising industry relies on our insecurities to be profitable. If we were all self-assured, confident, people who were happy with WHO we are, the entire industry would cease to exist. They not only exploit our insecurities, but they make them 10 times worse by constantly bombarding us with images of false happiness. When you are told something over and over again, no matter how strong you are, eventually you start to believe it. That is how advertising works.

From the second we are old enough to understand the messages they are sending us, they enforce one thing: purchasing equals happiness. Happy Meals. Toys. Candy. We are raised to seek out happiness in material objects. We become addicted to the feelings we get when we get something we’ve been wanting. Instead of learning to love who we are on the inside, we learn to love brands we wear on the outside. We actually convince ourselves that how we dress has something to do with WHO we are (I’m sorry, but if you tell yourself that fashion is anything more than aesthetics and ego, you’ve got some soul searching to do). We live as slaves to brands, grateful that they’ve entered our lives to rid us of all the misery that comes from never being good enough. We want more and more and more. It’s never enough.

It’s sad. Really, really sad. People are getting ass implants, man. What are we saying as a society when people feel that their value as a human is in direct correlation to the size of their ass? The problem in chasing happiness through material objects is that it will never be enough. It’s like chasing a high. As long as you spend your time buying shit instead of developing as a PERSON, you will never be free… or truly happy.

And what happens the second we feel good about ourselves? Guilt. Shame. Second guessing ourselves. Like the Catholic Church, advertisers rely on us to feel these things in order to devote ourselves to them completely.

As ironic as it is that I’m about to reference a video that ended up being used in a Maxwell House commercial, I still think it’s a perfect example of how we should all start our days. Fuck the guilt. I’m amazing.

Now back to my job… at an advertising agency.

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Quick & Dirty

I sometimes have so many ideas or thoughts I complete none of them. I haven’t posted in 2 weeks! That’s horrible. I’m a bad person.

I’m trying to make this blog different than my Facebook page, ie., not random thoughts and questions and feelings that will pass within the hour. I want to keep this as somewhere I discuss or share things that have a little more depth than how much the guy next to me on the train smells. With that being said, I still have 400 ideas in my head right now so I thought I’d at least do a Quick & Dirty post, and maybe make it a monthly thing.. maybe even weekly. WHO KNOWS! So here are some random thoughts I’ve had within the last couple of weeks…

I equally love and hate old people.

I either look at old people the way I do babies and puppies or I look at them the way I do Rob Ford. There is no in between.

As much as I love them (or hate them), there are two separate lists in Vanessa’s world in reference to old people:

1. Things I will do for old people, always.

  • Give up my seat
  • Carry bags
  • Help them cross the street
  • Hold doors for them
  • Pick up things for them if they’ve dropped something
  • Respond when they speak to me even if I’m clearly occupied with a book or iPod or both
  • Generally act as gentle as I can in order to not scare them

2. Things I will not do for old people, ever.

  • Allow them to bully/guilt me into doing anything on list #1
  • Purposely be close enough to smell them
  • Let them use the washer and/or dryer ahead of me in the laundry room if I was there first

Clearly this thought came from my night doing laundry this weekend. As much as I enjoy having a nice, sweet conversation with you, Lil’ Old Lady from my hood, don’t think it’s going to get you in front of me to use one of the three dryers that are currently working out of five. Better start getting back to your roots, Abuelita.

This is what you're used to anyway, lady.

Someone really needs to punch Rihanna in the face… again.

RiRi is someone that makes me very scared to have my own children. The chick gets beat by her man, spends the next year (or two?) slowly turning into a prostitute, and then, yesterday, releases a remix with same dude. If this is the type of person my children will have to look up to, said children will never exist.

Round Two *ding ding ding*

I really think they put crack in McDonald’s food

For the last 3 weeks I’ve been exercising, bringing a lunch to work, cooking at home, avoiding fast food, and trying not to drink [as much]. I’ve lost 4 lbs in two weeks and I feel healthier and more energetic already.

But man, I can’t stop thinking about McDonald’s.

This is serious. I work across the street from a McDonald’s. McDonald’s is one of our clients at work. The dude who sits across from me has a golden Big Mac that I longingly ogle all day, every day.

I love all fast food – Taco Bell, McDonald’s, any type of greasy Chinese food, Wendy’s, and my opinion is that the greasier the pizza is, the better it tastes.

But I don’t sit at my desk praying to the Scale Gods to keep me out of a pizza joint or a Taco Bell. I don’t imagine eating a spicy chicken sandwich from Wendy’s. McDonald’s is the only food I get real, almost physical, cravings for. So obviously the only logical explanation is that they sprinkle each menu item with crack. Not enough for anyone to ever take legal action, but enough that after only 3 weeks avoiding it (including one cheat day when I was literally forced to be INSIDE a McDonald’s all day for work and eventually gave in to a McChicken, fries and Fruitopia) I am still thinking about it at least a few times a day. A. DAY.

Crack is wack… unless it’s in a Big Mac.

The bane of my existence

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I can’t listen to Dilla’s music anymore.

Relax. Before you start huffing and puffing, let me explain.

I will always love James Yancey, I just can’t tell you the last time I actually listened to any of his shit (besides now, as I write this). That’s sad, considering Fantastic Vol. 2 is my favourite album of all time and Climax is my favourite song of all time. It’s the only album I can say is the reason behind an 11-year friendship. I would ask DJ Law to play Slum Village every Friday and/or Saturday night at Beat Junkie at the end of the night, he always obliged, and a friendship was born. I was obsessed with SV and Dilla for a long time. I lost that feeling at some point and it’s never come back.

I’m not sure when it happened, but I think it was about a year after he died. Around the time the second wave of Dilla tributes flooded our city. But let’s not put the cart before the horse. Let me start from the beginning, at the top of the list…

I am not one of those people who remember the first album they ever bought or the first time they heard this track or that album (although I do remember getting a bunch of cassettes one year for Christmas when I was about 10, which included U2, The Black Crowes, and Kriss Kross). I don’t remember the first time I heard Slum Village or how I even came across them. Before I even knew who Dilla actually was or what else he had already produced, I was hooked on his sound.

I had grown up listening to classic rock, Brit pop, and alternative music because of my mom, my aunts had me listening to old school RnB (which wasn’t old school at the time), and I had an uncle who introduced me to classic house (again, it wasn’t ‘classic’ yet). The only hip hop I remember being in my uncle’s vinyl collection was Candyman (I was singing along to ‘Knockin’ Boots’ before I knew what the term meant) and De La Soul’s ‘3 Feet High & Rising.’ He could have had more, but that’s all I can remember. It wasn’t until I was 14 and discovered CIUT, CKLN and CHIN that I really started getting into shit I had never listened to before; punk, ska, drum’n’bass, jungle, and hip hop. Hip hop is the only one that lasted.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic. I was all about SV. I remember reviewing the J-88 album when I was writing for Chart Magazine (I just tried to find the review online but couldn’t). I can’t say I was at the legendary show at the Comfort Zone, but I was there when Dilla was spinning at Roxy Blu (although I remember thinking it wasn’t as good as ?uestlove’s performance for the same Doin’ It series). I was also at every Slum Village show in Toronto after that, but by then I don’t think Jay Dee was performing with them anymore. I put a lot of people onto Dilla and SV, and I even had my first (and only) groupie moment because of him; I once gave my number to Frank (or Dank?) because I was hoping I would be able to meet Dilla through him. Every time he would ask me to go out, I would wait to see if he would throw in “Oh, it’s no big deal. Just dinner with me and this dude I work with, producer cat named Jay Dee.” Unfortunately that never happened (and I therefore stopped picking up his calls).

Fast forward through years of me requesting Climax anytime I was anywhere Law or P-Plus were djing to February 10, 2006. I was waiting for the bus at Christie station, sitting on the bench next to the phone booth when I got a text message from J Class telling me Dilla had died. I was shocked. I had no idea he had been sick. I sat there alone on a bench, surrounded by strangers, and cried. It was the first and only time the death of any person I hadn’t known personally made me react that way.

The tribute parties began shortly after. The first one I remember was at Fez Batik. To this day, I have never seen a longer line to get in anywhere for a local DJ. This wasn’t a concert and there was no big name headliner. It was local DJs playing Dilla’s music and the place was PACKED. It was one of the best Dilla parties I have ever been to. It was the first time I realized though that listening to his music was making me sad. I remember feeling like I was going to cry a few times throughout the party. I attended party after party and the feeling wasn’t going away – this bittersweet feeling had become an uninvited guest that wouldn’t leave. It always started with me wondering why I hadn’t listened to this song or that song in a while. Remembering the amazing feelings his music used to give me. Telling myself I gotta pull out all his albums when I got home. Then it would hit me – he’s gone. Dilla’s gone forever. There will be no new music from him again. I’ll never see him live again. It’s over.

Enter the sadness.

Maybe in this situation I’m just being a pessimist. A Negative Nancy. Sure. I guess I am. But no matter what the same thing happens. Even as I’ve been writing this post, listening to his entire catalogue on shuffle, I went from happy and nostalgic to melancholy. His music has become for me what love letters from ex boyfriends are – great to read once in a while and go back to that moment where everything was tulips and rainbows… until you realize that time is over forever and you get sad.

I still attend Dilla parties every February, but I never find myself listening to his music at home anymore. It just makes me sad.  And I don’t want an abundance of sad memories to ever replace the years of good ones he brought into my life.

Stealin' street posters since '07/'08

Posted in V's World | Tagged | 2 Comments

Apparently my little brother reads my blog…

…He’s 13.

While this makes me slightly uncomfortable, I appreciate the support nonetheless.


Love you.

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Baby Daddies – to bone or not to bone?

We all have our non-negotiable requirements when it comes to dating. Some women won’t date a guy that lives at home, others have salary requirements, some won’t date certain races, and some types even have size requirements… and I’m not talking about height.

As a 29-year-old woman who is in no rush to wed or make babies anytime soon, I have become quite the picky dater. I have been compared more than once [this week] to Jerry Seinfeld. It’s not intentional, I’ve just always been comfortable being single and that allowed me to ‘find myself’ much sooner than most women my age.  Because having a man has never been the be all and end all for me, I’ve learned through dating (and lots of it) what I want and, more importantly, what I sure as fuck do not want. A man with kids can find himself in the latter category.

I’ve tried to be more understanding. Yes, people make mistakes and yes, people and situations change throughout the course of our very long lives. At some point though you have to ask yourself if being ‘understanding’ about someone else’s situation is starting to actually become ‘settling’ in your own situation. Call me selfish or too picky if you like, but I call it having standards. Standards are completely subjective, but best believe if you want to be happy you better have some.

There are 3 reasons I won’t date guys with kids ever again.

I’m a princess.

And when it comes to dating, I expect to be treated like one. Not in the way some women expect; I don’t want to be showered with gifts or compliments (unless you’re telling me how hilarious I am) or public displays of affection (vomit). Fuck, I’m the girl who usually insists on splitting the cheque on the first date. No, I’m not typical in most regards but I am in at least one big one – I like attention, and lots of it. I want to be your number one priority. I want to be the last person you think about when you go to sleep and the first person you think about when you wake up. I want to be able to vacation and party and have loud sex whenever I want. If I’m actually committing to you, best believe I expect that shit. I don’t want to plan my life around finding a babysitter or a pair of earplugs for someone else’s brat.

If you already have a kid when we meet, I won’t be number one. Ever. (And if I am you’re a bad father which is a reason in itself I wouldn’t date you.) Should I decide to have children with you one day, I know at that point our children will become our top priority. But until that day, I want to be the only person who makes you cry on a regular basis.

I’m also a corny romantic.

Again, I’m still undecided on the whole mini-me thing but if one day I decide being a mother is something I might enjoy, I will be nervous as shit. I will be scared. I will worry I won’t be good enough to raise a child. I will be going through all of this for the first time and guess what? I want the father of Cletus the Fetus to be right there with me. I want you to be nervous about being a new father. I want you to be excited the first time you feel our unborn child kick. You know, all that corny stuff you see on TV. When I’ve dated guys with kids, I’ve actually imagined the following situation:

Pregnant me: Omgomgomg honey, my water broke! Quick, get the bag! Omg. What do I do? Omg this is fucked up. Why did we get so drunk that night? Ok. Too late for that now. Omg. WE’RE HAVING A BABY!!!

Guy who has already had a kid: * Yawn* Can you get in the car? I want to be back for the hockey game.

Okay, maybe I’m being irrational. That situation would never happen. I would never be with a guy who liked hockey.

But the point I’m making here is if I choose to share my life with you, chances are I want to share all the big moments with you too. Those first time moments that you can never redo. I don’t want to experience them alone and gosh darnit I shouldn’t have to.

And finally, I’m immature, yo.

Maybe the idea of having a child is so foreign to me that I’ve made it much more serious than it is. But… probably not. I mean, you created a LIFE. You’re like God, dude. How could anything I ever do over the course of our relationship compare even remotely to the fact that you and some skank before me created a human being? It can’t! Or at least in my head it can’t.

My brain is a powerful (and insane) thing. I was talking to a guy with kids for a couple of weeks. We were in my room, laying on my bed, watching Anchorman. Do you know what I was thinking about? While my favourite movie of all time is on, out of nowhere, I’m suddenly picturing this guy in scrubs in a delivery room holding his newborn baby. This guy had to buy diapers and baby food and pay for daycare, and I am waiting to clear some space on my credit card so I can go party for 3 straight days in Vegas. How could this ever work? Needless to say I haven’t seen him since.

I don’t judge people who have had children by mistake, or on purpose, or mistakenly on purpose. I think they deserve to date and have a second or third or ninth chance at falling in love just like never-married, never-babied people like me.

I just won’t be the one dating them.

I have this tattooed on my vagina.

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TTC Offender #4 – Anxioussholes


Look at this Eastern Euro douche rushing you.

Street Name: O.F.R.O. (Only Fools Rush Out)

Description: I am impatient. It’s one of my biggest flaws and something I struggle with constantly. I’m impatient when it comes to training my new puppy. I’m impatient while watching dumb families play ‘Fast Money’ on Family Feud. I’m impatient when my mother is trying to tell me a story that involves far too many details to be completed during anything less than a 6-hour phone call. I get flustered walking behind slow families of 18 who walk side-by-side in a mall, preventing anyone from getting through without Red Rover’ing it. I’m impatient in any situation involving me driving a vehicle if anyone else is on the road (if I ever buy a car, I’m also going to buy my own roads).

I’m not impatient when it comes to everyday routines and circumstances. Wait, that sentence is misleading. What I mean is, while being impatient is one of my worst flaws, logic is one of my best virtues. When they are head-to-head, logic usually wins. This means that in a situation like, let’s say, exiting a bus, I want to scream to everyone “HURRY THE EFF UP, YOU LAZY BASTARDS” but I realize that won’t get me off the bus any faster. Instead I sit and wait until the bus has emptied and then I calmly exit. Sure, I’ve lost 0.006 seconds of my life, but I don’t have a headache and I’m not being arrested for physically attacking anyone either. I do the same thing when boarding a flight. It is my #1 traveling pet peeve when I am traveling with people who want to get up and start lining up as soon as the plane begins to board. Why stand? The plane isn’t going anywhere without you. So while everyone is crowding around waiting for their row to be called so they can wait in line to wait in line to get on the plane and then wait in line still before they can actually sit down, I am the one sitting comfortably doing a crossword, waiting for the aforementioned waiters to be gone.  Then I stroll onto that plane like I own it, bitch.

Crime: Whether breathing down your neck while you try to purchase tokens at a booth or making you wonder whether you’re on a date by their proximity to your rear when getting out of your seat, these people are a constant reminder of society’s obsession with needing to rush through life. They rush onto trains before people have exited. They run past you to grab one of the 30 available seats. They cut ahead of you in line. O.F.R.O.s live in a state of perpetual scurrying. I was once sitting next to a woman who was so eager to rush off the bus that she started standing (and trying to force me to do so also because she was on the inside seat) before the bus was even close to being at a full stop at the last stop. It was the LAST STOP. Everyone had to get off. But instead of waiting 2 seconds, she actually pushed my arm to get me up. I don’t think I would be able to reenact the glare I gave her if I tried, but I very bitchily said with it, “We’re ALL getting off here. Relax.” I may have also purposely let everyone behind us exit before I left my seat.

Punishment: The best punishment for these people is to force them to wait. Block their way. Tie your shoe in front of them. Drop something. Pretend to sleep. Fake a seizure. Do whatever you can to ensure they are forced to waste seconds of their precious time, which apparently is more important than everyone else’s.

Last Seen: Whenever you last forced them to wait. Otherwise, they’re too fast to be seen.

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