7 Slang Words I Learned in 2014 (And How To Use Them)

At the ripe old age of 29, I am slowly coming to the realization that I may no longer be “hip”.

Evidence of this includes:

  • my growing reluctance to stay awake past 10pm
  • unfamiliarity with the majority of award show performers (Ariana who now?)
  • increased disillusion with music festivals and all other non-seated events
  • the fact that I used the word “hip” in quotations in the preceding sentence.

Perhaps the biggest, and most troubling sign, however, is my complete and utter hopelessness when it comes to today’s slang. This was made clear to me recently when a friend described an online date she went on as “a total catfish”.  Say what? “You went on a date with a sea creature??” I asked, imagining the two of them at a fancy restaurant, plates full of plankton.   

“Uh, no” she said looking at me like I had three heads “it means when someone pretends to be someone they’re not online… like the MTV show?”

I wish I could say that was the only time this happened – but alas, over the past year, there have been a number of times I’ve been left with a blank stare, scrambling to urbandictionary.com to break the code, like a less-cool, worse-cheekboned Alan Turing. 

Because I love you and don’t want you to suffer the same fate, I’ve compiled a list of the top 6 slang words I learned in 2014, together with definitions, and how to use each in a sentence so you can be just like the cool kids.

1. Salty

Bitter; angry; used to connote a general bad attitude.

E.g. “She was salty when she discovered Real Housewives of Miami had been cancelled” 

2. Basic

Common; unsophisticated; transparent; generally unoriginal

e.g. “Homegirl bought a year’s supply of Pumpkin Spice Latte Mix. She’s so basic” 

3. Sharewithal

An inherent understanding of what to share on social media, when, and on what platform.

E.g. “Did you see that terrible status Alyssa posted on Facebook? Girl has ZERO sharewithal” 

4. Webisode

Overly dramatic

E.g. “Sorry for being such a webisode last night, I had way too much Pinot Grigio” 

5. Bae 

I’m sure most of you know  this one now that Pharrell has sung it to death, but did you guys know it is actually an ACRONYM? It stands for “Before Anyone Else” and can be used to describe your significant other, bestie, something incredibly cool etc.

E.g. “Nutella is, and always will be my bae” 

6. Turnt Up

Getting loose/wild; crazy partying

E.g. “I drank TWO glasses of wine while watching Extreme Weightloss Last Night. Sh*t was turnt UP”

7. Swerve

To Dodge or dismiss someone.

E.g.

My Friend: “Do you want to do a juice cleanse with me?”

Me: “SWERVE, b*tch!”

Question of the Day: What Slang Words have you learned recently?

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Throwback Thursday: 10 Childhood Comfort Foods

I had a revelation the other day.

I was sitting at my desk, eating an overpriced kale salad and freshly pressed cucumber pineapple juice, when it hit me: somewhere, along the way, I became a healthy eater.

kidvegetables

 

This wasn’t always the case.  In fact, for the majority my life, my eating habits were less “disgustingly yuppie” and more “downright disgusting”. I spent my first 23 years  eating any junk I could get my hands on, and consequently, suffering the consequences. While I was never exactly “fat”, I was definitely what you’d consider “big-boned” as a kid.  There were times  I even tipped the scales towards “chubster” or “pleasantly plump”. Let’s just say I related a lot to the book Blubber by Judy Blume, and leave it at that.

In my defence, I grew up in the 1990’s – the golden age of convenience food. Back before zealots like Michael Pollan came along with their “Eat Mostly Plants” ideologies, we all remained blissfully unaware (or at least willfully blind) to the dangers of  trans fats, aspartame and preservatives. Yes, we were free to sprinkle splenda into our coffee and to squeeze packets of sugary icing onto our toasters strudels with abandon!

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M-hmmmm Poppin’ Fresh!

And boy, did I ever. While I’ve cleaned up my act a lot since then (save for Nutella and Pinot Grigio, the saucy temptresses), every so often I can’t help but crave the delicious, processed goodness of my youth. Here were just a few of my favourite childhood comfort foods:

Pop Tarts 

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For a blissful two years in junior high, I religiously ate two S’mores flavored pop tarts and a tall glass of 2% milk every morning. That’s what they call a “balanced breakfast”, right?

Pizza Pockets

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Canadian readers will undoubtedly remember the epic pizza pocket rivalry: Pillsbury vs. McCain’s. While there has always been room in my heart for both, supporters of each were fervent in their camps. The battle culminated in a 1990’s ad campaign where each pocket was thrown against a wall and measured for maximum splatterability.

Gross? Yes. Effective? Also yes.

Lunchables 

When I was in grade 3, I  started  taking ukulele lessons at school. The best part about it (besides getting to play the ukulele… LIKE A BOSS) was staying at school for lunch. Usually this was just PB&J; but every so often, my mom would pack a Lunchable- the perfect trifecta of cheese, crackers, and some sort of mystery meat which I now know to be disgusting, but was like crack cocaine to me at the time.

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My love affair with Lunchables lasted right up until grade 11, when during a nutrition class, a guest speaker took out a Lunchable she had kept in the trunk of her car for over 3 years, and it was still in PRISTINE condition due to all the preservatives.

I wish I could say I swore off Lunchables forever after this, but alas- I will never fully resist the pull of their sodium-nitrate laden deliciousness.

Snack Cakes

The Canadian answer to Twinkies and Little Debbies, Vachon cakes were my jam as a kid. Passion flakies, Joe Louis. May Wests- so long as it was stuffed with delicious cream filling, I was on board.


Vachon cakes
Sugary Cereals

Ah cereal- my ultimate Achilles heel. I even wrote a whole post dedicated to my love for the sugary, carby goodness.

Homies

My go-to choices as a kid were Reese Peanut Butter Puffs and Lucky Charms. Sometimes, my mom would lay the smack down and force me to eat regular (non-frosted) corn flakes – to which I would respond by pouring sugar all over them to add sweetness.

Me at breakfast

I am crying into my bowl of organic quinoa muesli as we speak.

Dunkaroos

I mean, if there is a better mid-day snack for children than sugary, Kangaroo-shaped cookies dipped into pure sugar icing, then I certainly haven’t found it.

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Gushers

Unless it’s these guys.

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These hexagonal delights detonated a wonderful blast of high fructose corn syrup “fruit juice” with each bite. My only complaint? There were never enough in the package.

Hot Dogs

My love affair with hot dogs ran deep. I can’t even tell you the number of days I spent at my window, longing for the Oscar Meyer truck to make its way down my street.

weinermobile

Alas- it never found its way to small town Nova Scotia, but that didn’t prevent me from eating hot dogs  nearly every day anyway. I would literally eat them any possible way- barbequed, boiled, MICROWAVED.

I know, I’m not proud of it either.

As an aside, does anyone else remember this unfortunate, coloured ketchup incident?

Ugh.

Kraft Dinner

Perhaps the most Canadian of comfort foods, I essentially survived my first two years of undergrad on this day-glo orange pasta alone (no ketchup, of course)

 

KD

uhhh. yeah.

Fun Dips

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This childhood snack was literally 100% pure sugar. Eaten with a stick made of hardened sugar. Beautiful.

Question of the Day: What were your favourite childhood comfort foods?

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The Most Interesting Man In New York

A few months ago, my boyfriend and I took a trip to New York City for his 30th birthday.

 At least that was the “official” reason. In reality, the sole purpose of the trip was to eat as much delicious food as humanly possible.

 We ventured deep into Brooklyn for the best pizza I’ve ever eaten:

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Seriously. DiFara. Go.

… schlepped all the way to Harlem for delicious, Obama-approved fried chicken at Red Rooster, and put away our fair share of bagels,

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New York Cheesecake, and delicious, sugary street nuts.

Mmmm. street nuts.

The pièce de résistance , however, was the special birthday dinner at Babbo, Mario Batali’s restaurant in Greenwich village. 

This was a big deal for us. Not only was it the first time either of us had set foot in a Michelin-starred restaurant, it was also owned by a famous TV chef.

I mean, when the dude gets away with wearing this outfit 24/7:  

 

you know he’s a boss.

The maître d led us to our table upstairs in a quiet corner of the restaurant, and introduced us to our server for the evening, Paul.

Paul was about 6’2, with sandy blond hair and electric blue eyes. He wasn’t what you’d call “fat”; more “pleasantly plump”, with a pot-belly suggesting more than a few indulgent staff meals. With laugh lines crinkling around his eyes and a broad smile that just wouldn’t quit, he looked sort of like Bradley Cooper’s less successful, lesser known older brother. I pegged him at about 35.   

“Welcome to Babbo!” he bellowed, barely containing his enthusiasm. “Will you be enjoying the tasting menu today?”

Startled, we looked at each other, then at our menus. “There are two choices,” he continued; “the Chef’s menu, or the 7-course pasta tasting menu”

A pasta tasting menu? 

“We’ll have that one” I said, instinctively “Great Choice!” he shouted “You can never have too much pasta. And will you be having the wine pairings?”

Even though I am no wine connoisseur and knew the value of such an expensive add-on would be wasted on me, something about his eager, hopeful eyes made it virtually impossible to say no. Plus, he already thought I was a good chooser- I didn’t want to let him down.  

“Sure,” I responded, trying to quiet the chinging dollar signs in my brain.

As the evening unfolded, it became clear that Paul was quite the entertainer. Every course was accompanied by a well-timed story or joke, and his award-winning smile never ceased. Plus, his knowledge of food and wine seemed infallible. He described our mushroom ravioli in exquisite detail, even citing the origins of decorative floral garnish. (Hilsbury Farms, West Haven, Connecticut. Organic, obviously.)  Our second course wine pairing, a Casina Ebreo, was “unctuous” with a “cacophony of aromas”, and our Italian Montefalco Rosso “confident” and “playful” with some “nice legs” on her.”  

If anything, Paul’s descriptions were a bit overzealous; as evidenced by his explanation of our fourth-course pairing.

“This is a 2008 Terredora di Paolo,” he explained, “the summer of record high temperatures in Italy, where hundreds died from the heat. The heat, however, was excellent for the grapes, and produced some extremely fine wines”.

“So it wasn’t all for naught,” said my boyfriend, jokingly

“It certainly wasn’t” replied Paul, deadpan.

The real kicker, however, was when he described our fifth course pairing, an Italian Tabborini, as having “hints of potting soil”.

Both of us looked down at our napkins, trying not to burst into hysterical laughter. “He must be an actor”, I said after he had left, “because he has got to be making this shizz up”. 

I was sort of joking, but once I had the idea in my head, I couldn’t let it go. As I’ve learned from my visits there, everyone in New York has an angle- and everyone has to pay the bills. Maybe he was a struggling stage actor, trying to crack the big-time with his heartfelt, groundbreaking one-man show. Maybe he had his sights set on Days of Our Lives, auditioning to be the next possessed, resurrected evil-genius heart-throb. Or maybe he was angling for his own reality show, having amassed legions of social media followers with his clever and relatable series of YouTube videos on what men are really thinking. 

 I had intended to ask him, but after my seventh pasta course and seventh glass of wine, formulating any kind of coherent thought became impossible. So I guess I’ll never know the true story behind Paul, the server-sommelier-Broadway/soap/reality star; but I do know I enjoyed his performance that night.

Question of the Day: Ever had an extremely colorful server?

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Address Unknown

One of the key benefits to living in a condo- at least in my opinion- is all of the incorrectly addressed mail I’ve received over the years. While some might consider this a nuisance, I consider it a welcome (albeit creepy) glimpse into other people’s lives.

First there was the mail belonging to the previous tenant; some dude named Tom who really loved J.Crew and had a serious beef with Rogers telecom. Then, there was the crisp, new yearbook, addressed to Mike, a recent University of Toronto grad. Looked like a fun year, Mike!

My favourite of all, however, was the random postcard I received from the Edinburgh Zoo addressed to Julie Choi. Adorned with two impossibly cute pandas, the postcard filled Julie in on the sender’s travel so far, and signed off with “let’s meet up in October!”

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While I loved the pandas fiercely, I felt a sense of obligation to return this postcard to its rightful recipient.  So I slipped it into the “Incorrectly Addressed Mail” box in my mail room and hoped for the best.

A couple of weeks later, I checked my mail again, and like an incredibly cute boomerang, the pandas had made their way back to me.

And that’s when I really started to wonder, just who was this  Julie Choi? I assumed from the mix-up that her address must be very similar to mine, which meant she either lived in the next building, or was my immediate next door neighbor. From then on, I found myself listening extra intently to the muffled sounds of the adjacent apartment. Is that you, Julie? I wondered.

But then another thought occurred to me. What if Julie did live in my unit – but in a parallel universe?

In my deluded brain, rendered porous by prolonged isolation and loneliness, I was convinced it was highly probable that Julie and I were actually occupying the same apartment in different tracts of space or time. This letter must have slipped through some sort of wormhole temporarily opened up by an inexplicable force-  like on that TV show Sliders. I took a deep breath, fully expecting Jerry O’Connell to burst into my apartment and stun me with a neutralyzer, erasing all memory of this event.

No dice. I guess he and Rebecca Romijn must have been busy or something.

Anyway I started wondering what this parallel universe might be like. Obviously somewhat similar to ours in the sense that its inhabitants lived in condos and sent novelty postcards. Other than that, it was anyone’s guess. Maybe they weren’t people at all, but some sort of panda-loving cro-magnon species who subsisted on a diet of Fro-yo, fear, and carbon monoxide. I don’t know.

It’s been over a year since I received that postcard, and October has long come and gone.  I have no way of knowing, but I hope that Julie did meet up with her cro-magnon friends in Edinburgh, because otherwise I’d  feel sort of responsible.

As for me? I’m still trying to figure out the significance of this whole event.

Psychologist Albert Bandura has said that chance encounters have a prominent impact on shaping human lives. Some  touch only lightly, others leave more lasting effects, and some  lead people into new life trajectories altogether.

While I think this encounter is likely more of the “light touch variety”,  I’ve kept the postcard anyway. It sits in my memory box, along with my concert tickets, letters and movie stubs-  it’s jovial black and white pandas a reminder of how wonderfully random life can sometimes be.

Question of the Day: Have you ever received interesting mail that was not intended for you?

Haircut Regret

My entire life I have coveted long, luxurious hair.

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Maybe it’s because of my childhood obsession with Barbie dolls, or maybe it’s the steady diet of Saved By The Bell I consumed as a kid, but for whatever reason, I grew up thinking  that shiny, cascading locks were the consummate and only ideal of female beauty.

Unfortunately for me, my impossibly thin, pin-straight hair refused to achieve great lengths. I blame bad genes. And the two unfortunate “perm incidents” I had in grade three.

This llama knows

No matter how hard I tried to let it grow, I could never achieve anything beyond shoulder-length.

….Until I got to law school. I’m not sure what changed, but after more than 20 years of feeble growth and breakage, my puny hair suddenly began to grow like a weed. By second year, it was halfway down my back. What can I say? I guess a steady diet of Alexander Keith’s and 3 a.m. donairs does a body good.

I felt like a whole new person with my long hair, and for almost two years I reveled in its glory. But then, I went and ruined it all.

For Halloween in third year, I decided to dress up as Snow White. I had a hairdresser pin my long locks up into a bob to complete the look, and the results were, in a word, spectacular.

You guy- I was the fricking FAIREST.

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So true was the likeness that random people came up to me and suggested I apply for a job at DisneyWorld.

I was so in love with the attention I was getting that I started to think that maybe a REAL bob would be a good idea.

And that’s where I should have pumped the brakes.

But I didn’t. Instead, I made an appointment the very next day with the same hairdresser, and allowed her to chop off of my long beautiful hair. I was convinced I would love it- that when I looked in the mirror I’d see Snow White and her glossy black mane staring back at me.  But instead, when she turned around my chair, I was like:

Not only had she cut it about 2-3 inches shorter than I intended, without all that extra hair pinned up underneath, it just looked flat, puny and lifeless. It was actually so thin that you could see through it.

I immediately started to cry (apparently crying in salons is a thing for me), while the poor hairdresser tried to convince me it looked great.

But I knew in my heart that it didn’t. I mean, you know a haircut is bad when NO ONE compliments you on it. And it’s not like they didn’t notice. I cut 8 inches off! 8!

Even when I asked my mom what she thought, her mouth said “it looks great!”  but her eyes said:

My self-confidence plummeted, and I’ve been trying desperately to grow it back ever since, while at the same time dealing with the  awkward in-between stages that follow a short haircut. I’ve tried everything- vitamins, special oils, prayers to Saint Agnes, the Patron Saint of all hair.

I even tried gluing hair on a vodoo doll. (I think I might have been doing it wrong.)

I was beginning to fear that I was destined to spend the rest of my days looking like the sad, “before” girl in Pantene Pro-V commercials:

But just a few months ago, it miraculously started to grow again.  I guess Agnes must have snuck into my room while I was sleeping and sprinkled some chia seeds on that noise.

Anyway, I won’t question it- but I know that the next time I get the ridiculous urge to cut my hair, I’ll remember one thing:

Question of the Day: Have you ever regretted a haircut?

Life Is A Mixtape

As the great Rob Gordon said in High Fidelity:

“We all experience music autobiographically. I think a lot of people do. So I’ll have certain songs that mark certain times in our life and I think we’re not rare that way. Like I’ll use music as fuel, you know? Not like as inspiration but as fuel like if I need to get into a certain mindset I know there’s certain songs that I can turn on that’ll just… that’s the gas and that’ll get me right where I need to go.  Or if I need to get out of a certain state put on this song or that song and it just propels you.”

Like our consummate indie hero, I too have certain songs that bring me back to a particular time or place, or evoke a familiar feeling no matter where I am or what I’m doing.  And although I haven’t gone so far as to organize my music collection autobiographically quite yet,  that doesn’t mean certain songs haven’t been compartmentalized in my mind that way.

So in response to today’s Writing 101 prompt, Here are the three most important songs  in my life to date.

1. Lauryn Hill – Doo-Wop (That Thing)

Along with the Spice Girls’ Spice Up Your Life and Much Dance ’97, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill was one of three CDs I received for Christmas in 1998. Initially ambivalent, it only took one listen for me to forget about the other two, and immerse myself completely in the world of Lauryn: her amazing vocals, dynamite lyrics, and unbelievable swagger. I had never heard anything quite like it, and I became certifiably obsessed. I played the CD constantly and brought it everywhere I went, scratching the surface so badly that barely a rhyme could be delivered without a skip. Through Lauryn, I learned about other great hip hop acts like The Fugees, The Roots, and what would soon become an even bigger obsession: Missy Elliot.

This song, though, was my ultimate brass ring. I practiced it daily until I had every lyric down pat- and if you twist my arm (ok, you might not even have to twist my arm) I can still recite them all to this day.  

2. Death Cab For Cutie- Transatlanticism

I had this friend in high school, let’s just call her Mary. Mary was way cooler than me in every sense of the word- she played the drums, wore a pocket chain, and had that total “IDGAF” attitude I always tried, but failed to emulate. Mary and I didn’t typically hang in the same circles, but somehow we managed to form this one-off, insular friendship, and the glue that held it together was music. While I knew I loved music, I really didn’t know much about it at that point- save for my extensive Missy Elliot collection and hand-me-down Dave Matthews CDs from my older brothers. Mary, graciously turned a blind eye to my ignorance, and took it upon herself to be my musical spirit guide. We were sitting together on the bus one morning, when in a move resembling the famous scene from Garden State, she took her massive headphones off and bestowed them upon me, saying “Listen to this song, it will change your world”.

The song was Transatlanticism by Death Cab for Cutie, and it really did rock my 17-year-old world. It was moving, powerful and deep and I couldn’t get enough of it. I went out and bought the whole album that day, and listened to it on repeat for weeks. This one recommendation opened up a whole new world of indie music to me – bands like Metric, Stars, and The Shins that I never would have heard of if it wasn’t for her. So thank you, Mary, for making me the annoying indie music snob I am today.

3. Feist- Brandy Alexander

Sometimes a song isn’t so much tied to a specific memory as a feeling. That’s the case with this song. I’ve loved it since the first moment I heard it in 2007, on Feist’s third album, The Reminder. Even with its depth and powerful production, it instantly put me in a calm, reflective state. To this day, I go back to it when I need a moment of stillness or clarity; often with a glass of wine- my own, personal Brandy Alexander.

Question of the Day: What are the three most important songs in your life?

 

Writing 101: I Immediately Regret This Decision

In an effort to tone down the Big Brother PVR marathons and get myself writing and blogging more regularly, I signed up for  the WordPress“Writing 101″ course-  a daily challenge to help you build a writing habit and push you as a writer.  The course kicked off today with the following challenge: 

Take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write.

And for your first twist? Publish this stream-of-consciousness post on your blog.

Ummm….

I’ll start by saying that the idea of this challenge makes me feel physically ill. I spend days conceptualizing, drafting and over-thinking each blog post I write, eliciting feedback from my family, friends and long-suffering boyfriend before ultimately hitting “publish”. And while I know I make it look easy (AKA: it’s not very good), each word, celebrity reference and hilarious GIF are meticulously chosen to complete the whole, random picture.

I’ve often wished I could take a more “stream of consciousness” approach to this whole blogging thing- to stop considering each of my posts as little darlings, and instead just focus on getting more out there. Often I’m paralyzed by self-doubt and insecurity, allowing completed posts to sit in my drafts folder for weeks after dubbing them not funny/interesting/well written enough to be published. I don’t really know what my problem is. It’s not like I’m trying to get shortlisted for the Man Booker prize. No one has offered to turn my blog into a best-selling short story collection (YET).

I am both in awe and admiration of bloggers who manage to post several times a week. Katie, for example is killer at that. Every time I check her blog there’s a new, charming and hilarious post. Dam*it Katie!! I would hate you if you weren’t so sweet and lovable. I tried once to post a blog every day for a month (last year, in October) and it was, as the French would say, un désastre  complet. I started out with lots of gusto, but by the end of things, I was posting random Youtube songs and long soliloquies about my favourite kind of Halloween candy .

Well- my 20 minutes is almost up (I spent 10 of it looking for that awesome Ron Burgundy GIF), so I guess the secret behind posting regular, engaging content will remain a mystery to me – much like Twitter, and how some people manage to leave part of their dessert uneaten.  

Until next time!

Question of the Day: Do you ever blog “stream of consciousness” thoughts? Or is every post meticulously planned? 

Premature E-Publication

I accidentally hit “publish” on a blog post before it was ready this morning.

The whole experience was shocking, terrifying, embarrassing, and all sorts of other negative emotions ending in “ing”. Sort of like when you inadvertently hit “reply all” on an e-mail.

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no4

no2

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A few years back, my roommate, who was also my coworker at the time, accidentally sent an e-mail intended for me to our entire company. That’s over 2,000 people in multiple offices around North America. Although the e-mail itself was relatively innocuous, I still came home to find her in bed, curled up in a ball of shame and self-loathing, wailing “I’ll never work in this town again!” into a pint of Haagen Dazs.

That’s sort of how I felt this morning. How could I possibly have sent this piece of nonsensical drivel to 1,592 inboxes? With one fell swoop, my carefully constructed curtain of thesaurus words, platitudes and strategically placed GIFs had been lifted – exposing me for the fraud I am deep down inside.

I was certain my short-lived career as a mediocre blogger was over.

The funny thing is, though, that before I even had a chance to mark the post “private” (which took me like 10 minutes, since I’m kind of a Luddite) I actually received a few “likes” and comments on it.

My first thought was that these benevolent commenters felt so sorry for my epic fail that they simply wanted to ensure I didn’t impale myself over any sharp objects in my apartment. However, it occurred to me later that perhaps they just hadn’t been reading that critically. Maybe they just identified with the overall subject matter of the post (which was about invasion of personal space), and didn’t care that much about my sloppy sentences or lack of hilarious GIFs.

I guess the point I’m trying to make here, is that we bloggers shouldn’t really be so hard on ourselves. While quality is important, it’s not the be all and end all. 99% of your readers don’t care about consistency of tenses and appropriate use of semi-colons; they just want material they can relate to.

……and maybe the occasional Paul Rudd dancing GIF:

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Question of the Day: Have you ever had a premature e-publication? How did you feel?

My Life Through Instagram

I haven’t been very inspired to write lately. Perhaps it’s because of my disillusionment/exhaustion/overwhelming desire to kill myself  general sense of malaise from trying to write a novel in 30 days.

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Or maybe it’s the fact that I was sick with the plague a dreadful cold/flu last week (yeah, in JUNE. THANKS GLOBAL WARMING).

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It actually got so bad that I called in sick to work for the first time in three years. I spent a solid 8 hours watching daytime TV, periodically spraying my throat with Chloraseptic in an effort to stave off the black lung (don’t question my methods) and drifting in and out of consciousness.

………….Lemme tell ya, Anderson Cooper fever dreams are one helluva drug.  

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Oh, and I also just joined a Bachelorette pool at work, so now I have to spend approximately 90% of my time trash-talking all of my colleagues. Drew for the win!

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Anyway, since I am still pretty low on f*cks to give, rather than write a real blog post, I thought I’d try a neat little idea I saw on another blog the other day –  a summary of my life  over the past few weeks through Instagram: 

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1. A sick manicure I got a few weeks ago. It took a ridiculously long time, but those damn little chevrons made me so happy every time I looked at them that it was worth it.

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2. A few weeks back, I received free tickets to the Canadian Opera Company’s performance of Salome at the Four Seasons Center. I was really excited because I had never been to the Opera before, and the whole thing just felt so civilized.

I stole this pic from my friend Lia who was with me and is a great grammer herself
I stole this pic from my friend Lia who is also a great grammer

The performance was in German, and I will admit that for the first 30 minutes, I had no effing clue what was going on. (Even though there were subtitles. I’m just that smart.) Seriously guys, I was beginning to think I was being punked. But then someone on stage got beheaded, and after that I was totally into it

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Afterwards we were given a backstage tour and got to look at all the props (not the decapitated head though. I asked) and see how they do all the high-tech stuff. It was bomb, and if I can ever afford to buy my own tickets, I will totally go back again. So probably never.

3. Starbucks Fail. I feel like I should have been more offended by this.

4. A replica of Peggy’s Cove erected in Toronto’s financial district a couple of weeks ago. I actually thought I was seeing a mirage on my way to work in the morning, but then was lured into the display by a charming Tourism Nova Scotia employee with a familiar accent (damn those hard “A”‘s. They get me every time). I was so entranced by the man in a kilt onstage teaching the awestruck crowd how to properly cook a lobster that I ended up being 20 minutes late for work. #WorthIt

5.  I’m usually not one of those people who instagrams their food (OK, I totally am) but my lunch yesterday from IQ Food Co. was just way too good not to capture. I mean…Sh*t is like a healthy food rainbow.

6. This past Saturday I attended the Field Trip Music Festival in Toronto. The festival  celebrated the 10 year anniversary of Canadian record label Arts & Crafts, and featured a ton of amazing Canadian (and international) artists like Broken Social Scene, Feist, Stars, Bloc Party,  Ra Ra Riot, etc. It was an amazing day filled with friends, music and laughter.

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……Except for a brief period where they ran out of beer. BLAME CANADA.

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7. My new favourite show, Family Tree on HBO. It’s written and directed by Christopher Guest (Best In Show,  This is Spinal Tap) and stars mah boo Chris O’Dowd (the hot cop from Bridesmaids). It’s dry, brilliantly written and hilarious and is cheering me up from my disappointment over the new season of Arrested Development. (I’m only on episode 5- does it get better??)

8. Yogurt is good for you, right? (Side note: Nanaimo bars as a topping?? OMG)

9. I went to check out the flowers at Alan Gardens (It’s my “Serenity Now” place) last weekend and stumbled across this Cactus convention, which apparently, is a thing. Guys, there were so many weird cacti!!

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I spent a good hour checking them all out, and talking to the cactus growers who themselves are just as interesting (speaking of Christopher Guest…). Moral of the story: when life hands you a Cactus, make friends with its grower? #BadParable.

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