Selectively Bitchy

…hormonally-controlled and ranting about it…

Archive for April, 2009

Sleeping with the frenemy

Do you ever wonder about who you can really trust? I mean, can you truly ever trust the person you’ve confided in with all your deepest, darkest, death-sentence-if-anyone-ever-found-out?

My mind drifts off to that place sometimes, being one of those people from my pre-bornagaingoodgirl days. Looking back, one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made was being too trusting with certain people. Especially this one girl — she knows all my take-it-to-the-grave secrets. The ones that could destroy me both inside and out if anyone ever knew. A huge part of me wonders…will she actually take it to the grave?

A little bird recently stopped by my window sill and alerted me otherwise. I love birds. Especially this one…no matter what, I know that this little bird, even if it becomes a frenemy (though I doubt this will ever happen, unless pigs fly) will take everything to the grave.

But is there really a way to insure that frenemy will take it to the grave? Are there tests? Must we just kill her and her confidants off? In the real world, I suppose the best way is to keep your friends close and your frenemies closer.  Especially if you’re aware that frenemy has been talking about you to other people. The damage is done and there’s no turning back. The only thing you can really do at this point is instill some serious guilt tripping … and what better way to get super close than to f&^ them?


Coming soon to a store near you…

My recent post, douching is bad for you has received quite a bit of attention since last week. Methinks, douching is a common problem amongst the beautiful, talented, intelligent, successful, ambitious and driven women population (note: TrashyDumbSkanks don”t consider douching to be a problem because they’re just too plain trashy dumb and skanky to recognize they’re with a douche).

If only my girlfriend was armed with a douchedar, she probably wouldn’t have found out the hard way. After all, it’s not her fault she dated a guy for almost 10 months, was in the midst of planning a romatic vacation away with him, was pretty much moved in with him, came uber close to buying a place with him while in the interim, stumbled upon a slew of Facebook messages between him and a TrashyDumbSkank at work (who, by the way, was clearly in-the-know about his un-single status and had met my gf at a work function a few months back). Whathedisgustingf*&^?

Douches like those deserved to be tossed in nitrous oxide and burned to a cold, silver crisp. And pounded up into several million little pieces. Like in the Terminator. Vinegar isn’t enough. No I take that back. If you pound him into several million little pieces, he won’t live to experience the HPV and chlamydia and gonorrhea that TrashyDumbSkank has to offer.  Or did he get a visit from Valtrex Vixen already? Tisk, beats me.

*Sigh* … So many f*&^ing dirtyass whorebags, so little penis.

Pretty, Intelligent Girl: 1     Douche: -1

For baby Jesus’ sake, if my 19-year-old sister had a douchedar, she’d know to steer way clear of the balding (no offense to bald guys, they’re usually quite sexy but in this case, his balding adds to his douchiness) 35-year-old duno-what-the-f&^%-he-does-all-day dickwad who clearly knows she’s in a committed relationship but still pursues her (the CHILD, in my opinion) relentlessly and writes her emails saying how happy he was to know that she lied to her boyfriend and her family about where she was when she was actually over at his house FOR DINNER. Whathepedof*&^?

Douches like those need at least a week-long dose of  go-make-some-friends-who-are-remotely-close-to-your-f*&^ing-age with a side of get-a-f&^%king-life. No death by nitrous oxide required, just a dose of reality should do.

I think I’ll become a bazillionaire once I get this douchedar up and running.

The un-curious case of Mr. Pringles

It’s almost the end of a work day and I’m completely dehydrated from finding comfort in way too many carbs and all stuffed up from allergies. I feel gross. Like the tap water I’m drinking from a disgusting, scratched up plastic tumbler. Used. Tacky. Dirty.

Speaking of which, I cannot for the life of me understand why some guys, inspite of all those commercials and government-sponsored ads, think they’re Mr. Invincible when it comes to unprotected sex. Now, my issue isn’t the whole unprotected sex bit (‘cuz if they don’t already get that, then yes, they totally deserve a visit from a Valtrex Vixen), but the fact that there’s specifically this one guy I know of who, like Mr. Pringles all horny-pervert-moustache and all, once he pops, “just can’t stop”.

And the unfortunate part is for all the sucker TrashyDumbSkanks out there who actually fall for this pathetic loser, perceived charms and all. There should be a place for all those bird-brained gold-diggers to congregate and get the stupid shit slapped out of them.

Newsflash: YES, he will f*&^ you. YES, he will f*&^ you again. And maybe a few more times, and after that, I promise you, YES he will forget you. AND if you’re one of the luckier TrashyDumbSkanks out there, he WILL make you look bad.

Not that you don’t already… afterall, it costs alot to look that cheap, hunny.

Good girls don’t have sex

Or at least, thats what they like to have you think.

I must admit — i. love. sex. Yes it’s true, and i’m not embarassed to admit it, and i’ll even go further and proclaim that i love sex more than the horniest sex-on-the-mind-24/7-Coors-light-kokanee-commercial-target-audience male you’ll ever meet.

Did i scare you? If not, read on. Those magazines NEVER write about stuff like that. Ok, maybe once in a blue moon, but all those bitch mags are all about “it’s ok that you don’t want to have sex with your bf” “it’s totally normal to be too tired or just totally not in the mood when he wants it”, etcetcetc. Very rarely will you come across a piece about the exact opposite unless it’s some investigative, journalistic expose on female sex addicts or something to that effect.

*sigh* I guess I should’ve seen this coming. When I was in Kindergarten, I was hell bent on getting with this cute boy named, Dean. So cute. Big puppy dog eyes, smooth tanned skin, brunette. By “getting with” I suppose in Kindergarten, that just mean holding hands or something (or maybe that’s a little too much for a five year-old to fantasize about, if at all?), but all I ever did for a a full year of Kindergarten was chase him around the classroom, trying to kiss him. And I succeeded. In kissing him. In everything else, I just plain scared the s*&^ out of him. He didn’t even want to be my partner for craft time, even though we were the only two remaining un-partnered people left in the class.

My bf wouldn’t stop laughing when I confessed this to him, during one of our meaningful, how-my-f*&^%ed-up-childhood-probably-affected-my-adult-life conversations. He laughed so hard he started crying.

“How will you ever survive this week?” My bf teasingly asked me (is that even a word? teasingly? if not, I coined it!), all hot, wet and naked in the shower this morning. I’d recently had a procedure done which doesn’t permit anything in the pooty for at least one week. ONE. WEEK. Seven days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. 604,800 seconds.

“I don’t knoooowwww,” I whined, as I tried to slide the shower door open, like a sleazy black cat, eyeing its prey, as he struggled with me to keep it shut (FYI, i’m quite strong for a little lady…just goes to show, lack of sex to me is what kryptonite is to Superman.. a shower door! puh-lease).

143 hours, 52 minutes and 12 seconds remaining.

Wish me luck.

Douching is bad for you

According to my research..

Regular vaginal douching changes the delicate chemical balance of the vagina and can make a woman more susceptible to infections. Douching can introduce new bacteria into the vagina which can spread up through the cervix, uterus, and fallopian tubes. Researchers have found that women who douche regularly experience more vaginal irritations and infections such as bacterial vaginosis, and an increased number of sexually transmitted diseases.

For these reasons, douching is no longer recommended as a safe or healthy way to routinely clean the vagina.

I have this gorgeous, talented, intelligent, ambitious, driven and gorgeous girlfriend who just can’t shake off the douchebags she encounters.

I don’t blame her.  Douchebag encounters (DE) are very misleading.

They start out nice and harmless, like any normal date, I suppose. Fun and flirty text messages, box seats to hockey games and concerts, expensive dinners complemented by even more expensive wine, lather rinse and repeat. For a few weeks. Enough time to decide whether he’s longer-term material or not. These dates result in nothing more than a few days of analyzing the previous dates, strategic analysis conference calls or meetings with your girlfriends over a cockatail or five, and maybe even introducing him to your friends.

But a douchebag date ends slightly differently. After the expensive date, loads of wine, you’ll probably end up going back to his downtown penthouse suite where both of you will proceed to drink more expensive wine. Then douche gets trashed, words start coming out of his mouth with the sole purpose of trying to get into your pants. You’re trashed too, but you’re smart, intelligent, classy and have integrity. You don’t f*&^ on the first date. Or the second date. And hey, if you don’t feel like it, on the third date too. You’re not TrashyDumbSkank number 50034.

So the night ends, you go home, wake up with an expensive hangover, think about how well you handled the situation and get a round of applause from your girlfriends for not giving into a guy who thinks he can get whatever he wants, whenever he wants, just because he has money and is perceived to be good-looking by other TrashyDumbSkanks.

Then shit hits the fan a couple weeks later. Yes, it’s been weeks. You’ve now been going back and forth on text messages with Mr. Douche. You analyze every text, you have a strategic communications plan laid out for your reply text messages  and you’ve spent countless waking (and sleepless) hours wondering, replaying every DE you’ve had with Mr. Douche, over analyzing the evening (with or without your friends, it doesn’t matter, your brain had an overdose of douche, there’s no turning back) and taking apart his text messages, trying to read between the lines.

Whatdya mean, shit hits the fan?

Well, you later find out through an associate of his that he’s spread this wonderful rumour about you. About why “it didn’t really work out” between the two of you. Apparently, YOU wanted a relationship and he just wasn’t looking for that, and that’s why YOU aren’t with him.

You wake up in bed. No it wasn’t a dream. You were just so mentally exhausted from all this drama that you fell asleep with your head buried under your pillow, in shame. Sure, you thought you did everything right. You kept it classy, clean and f*&^% free but you still got screwed over.

Pretty, Intelligent Girl 0 : Douche 1

Listen to your doctor, douching is bad for you

What the duck?

I vacay’d to LA for a week and I must say, before I left for LA I was HELL BENT on getting lip injections.

My friend is a pharmasales rep in lalaland and has all the medical hookups imaginable (which, by the way, I will enlist several of these services after I have kids…it’s always good to know a doctor or five, but even better to know their sales reps). Naturally, if I can get a $300 job done for $0, I’m in (I’m also Chinese, so my deal-dar is always on).

Tired from the long commute, I arrived at his place and made a bee-line for the fridge, my thirst set on a glass of orange juice or something liquid to quench it. I definitely found liquid alright.  A fridge full of Restylane, some other lip filers  and HGH. I think there was more of that stuff in there than actual food.  I curiuosly peered at my potentially new best friend, the syringe of Restylane sitting the butter compartment, in its cute little pink, white and pastel green packaging. And I contemplated.

And then I went to my first lounge in LA.

I love people watching, and if you like it as much as I do, LA nightlife is the place to do it. Up until my first night out in LA, I’d never seen so much pretentiousness and douche-iness at the same place and time as I did that night.  And when you walk into a room, EVERYONE gives you what I call the “la-la-onceover”.

Like an assorted pack of designer dogs at the local dog park, only these ones are just so much better than thou that they won’t ever come up to you for a quick sniff and playful nudge.  Instead, the “la-la-onceover” leaves you feeling high and dry, completely exploited and feeling like you really need to take a scalding hot bath, no matter how badly your skin burns off.

My friend and I sit down at a table, right smack in the middle of the restaurant. The place looks so cool, I immediate make a move for my camera and Blackberry, hoping to snap a few shots of our appies, drinks and maybe a quick Tweet about the place. And that’s when my friend reached over and gave me a light smack on the hand! I looked at him like a puppy who had no idea what she’d done wrong.

“Look around! Nobody does that!”, he hissed, looking around to double check that no one was looking.

“Does what?” I whispered back, eyes darting around the room, like I was expecting jumping spiders to dismount from the ceiling onto my head if I spoke too loudly.

Turns out, nobody in LA does the camera and Blackberry thing during a restaurant outing. It’s like, sooo not cool. Which is apparently, sooo LA. Which is quite sad, because over here in Vancouver we blog, write, type and tweet the hell outta what we eat and snap as many pics as we can and plaster them everywhere. A shame too, since our bill came to about $250 USD and my jumbo sea scallops were to die for.

Anyway. During my stay, I visited many more lounges and restaurants in Orange County, Manhattan and Redondo Beach and Beverly Hills. And of course, I people watched. But more specifically, lip-watched. And I really didn’t enjoy what I saw. Way too many women have their lips done and it just doesn’t look so hot and maybe beacuse it’s LA, but it looks really obvious. I can spot fakes (boobs and bags) from a mile away, and during my visit, I developed this talent for spotting Trout Pout.

I think it was on Day 5 when I finally let go of the idea of getting my lips done.  Why? I’ll let you see for yourself…

De-lin-quen-cy or something like that…

Yeah, I’ve been tardy with the blog again. But I have a legitimate excuse — I’m still incredibly self-concious about blogging. All of three people will probably read this post, and that kinda freaky!

Anyway. I’ve been feeling like total crap this past week and I know why — a really bad influx of hormones has taken my body, mind and uterus hostage and have refused to leave until they get what they want….my sanity.

Yesterday, BF was playing his usual 20 minute video game of NHL 2009 for the millionth + 1 time and let out a loud “FUCK YEAH!” while my startled self — all huddled in the corner of my couch, three pillows tucked into my stomach curled in fetal position, quivering angrily to myself like a cracked out addict on East Hastings — let out a “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” in his direction and quickly turned back into my hole in the corner of the couch.

And that is what set off our hour-long tiff. Which ended up with him apologizing for not cutting me any slack during my time of cavewoman status (did you know way back when, women were sent to caves to have their periods!?). Which was preceded with me giving an apology for “shut the fuck up” being my initial reaction to being horribly startled.  Which also reduced me to tears of anger, rage and cuddliness all within a span of two minutes.

Screw you,  Grade 10 drama teacher. I do have range.