Valentines, sh-malentines con't

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Not really - be honest, because lets face it, if people were all sweetness and light all the time it would be quite difficult to to take anyones opinion seriously. 

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Amazing Jar

I said it before and I'll say it again. If you don't like vocal fry and the word amazing The Bachelor is not the show for you. 

Jimmy Kimmel guest-bachelored on the show this past week and the unimaginable occurred. 

At long last. Jimmy Kimmel (and the shows producers?) took it upon themselves to tackle the amazing epidemic (see past blog post). People should be punished for unimaginative and flagrant use of the word amazing. Whether it be lashings or a monetary fine there must be consequences.  The Bachelor chose the more prime-time acceptable route and introduced a swear-jar directed at the overuse of amazing throughout the episode. 

I almost cried - and then called all my friends. I may have been more excited about this than my engagement.

Sternum Watch 2014 con't - Met Gala

As usual, with unwashed hair and garbed in tattered denim, an American Apparel hoody and with no authority whatsoever I have the audacity to vomit out my picks and pans at this years Met Gala. The theme was something vague and everyone stuck to it expertly.

The Met Gala is a who’s who of  who’s wearing what.  From underwhelming, to inappropriate and back again the night was highly entertaining, even when viewed from across the continent and 12 hours after it took place.

The Trends: Sternums, slits, sheer skirts, side boob and exposed midriffs.  

The Worst:  

Rosamund Pike – horrific. That is all.  Sandra Lee (who?) wore a cross between Kim Basinger’s 1990 Oscar atrocity and a little girl’s dream come true.  The winner of my Terrible Choice Award was Lena Dunham. Seeing Giambattista Valli look god-awful was a first for me. Dunham looked dreadful in a dress that was so wholly unflattering, that when she took her shoes off it almost looked better.

The Misguided:

In a dress that belonged on a (albeit stylish) flight attendant in the mid 60’s , Michelle Williams looked meek and ineffectual as usual.  More than the dress I think it’s that feeble tight-lipped grin of hers that says, “You have to like me because I’m average – I’m just like you.” She could be stark naked and I’d still be yawning.

While we’re on the subject of total boredom, lets discuss the most overrated couple of 2014. Kim Kardashian and Kanye West smacked of averageness, wearing similar expressions reading as “we’re going through the motions” Kim had a not at all surprising strapless, slit-up-to-there navy dress designed by Who Cares while Kanye, looked adequate.  In my highly unprofessional opinion, I think it’s over between them. I think Kanye will be lucky if he makes it to the alter before he goes the way of Chris Humphries. Really, was it worth having a baby with a publicity stunt? That goes for both of you.

Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. We get it. You’re twins.  Wearing gorgeous gowns that would have looked better on anyone but them, their complimentary choices looked like they were 12 cats away from living in a derelict Georgian mansion. I imagine this is the type of outfit they’d live out their days in mourning should the other one die first. 

The Best:

In clashing pink separates, Emma Stone although harnessing three of the evening’s trends (mid riff , side boob and slit) looked effortlessly lovely. Her hair was only so so, but far better than the other unfortunate women who erred on the side of “bed head”. I’m talking to you Chloe Sevigny.

Lastly, besides being exceedingly thin, Kate Bosworth looked superb. Wearing a salmon slip dress with delicate and strategic slices across her rib cage, the ensemble embodied everything that’s good about simplicity.  Stella McCartney did it again. And then again on Cara Delavigne and then one more time on Rihanna.

Honorable mention:

Nice to see Andre Leon Tally in clothes that fit and not a parachute.

The end.

related article: Sternum watch 2014

Ah-MAZING - Ah, Spare me.

amaze verb \ə-ˈmāz\amazedamaz·ing

Hands down the most overused adjective in the past 2 years. I'm finding it increasingly grating. All I have to hear is that breath of air before the stalled "ah" and my eye begins twitching. "AH - MAAAZING!" - the national battle cry of 20-30 something women. Used to praise anything from a balled up pair of socks to skydiving. There's got to be a barometer for its use.

photo 1

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Things that aren't amazing:

  • your friend's homemade chutney - it's palatable and/or delicious.
  • a kitten pushing a shopping cart that carries another kitten - it's adorable and/or ridiculous.
  • a 40 year old flying down a slip and slide - it's hilarious and/or dangerous

Things that are amazing:

  • The Pyramids
  • Space travel (can also be filed under terrifying)
  • Surviving a cardiac arrest in a deserted parking-lot at the age of 35. (can also be filed under dumb luck)

Using a combination of shame and eye-rolls, I have successfully conditioned one friend (culprit) to curb her amazing usage - at least when she's around me.

Here's a list of synonyms to help break the cycle.

  • surprising
  • astonishing
  • astounding
  • shocking
  • startling
  • extraordinary
  • wonderful
  • marvelous
  • tremendous
  • remarkable
  • stunning  (runs a close second to amazing)
  • incredible (runs a close third to amazing)

Start listening/watching for the A-word in conversation, Instagram comments, Facebook status and tweets - you'll be sharing in my agony in no time.

Next up: Hashtags - Living with an addiction.

Only the Lonely?

Up until about 5 years ago I didn't think anything of being an only child. Actually I still don't think much of it. What's the big deal? Sure it's slightly uncommon, but what's with all of the negative stereotypes associated with only children? Blah blah blah, spoiled and self centred - I get that  . . .  in theory. But the pity? I'm increasingly surprised to hear pity in peoples voices when they hear I'm an only child. Q: "Don't you wish you had a sibling growing up?" A: "Not especially . . . no." blinking*

This recently tainted perspective was driven home after I read a Globe and Mail article by Lauren Sandler. Being "self centred", I desperatly want to read her book One and Only. Not everyone thinks they have the best parents or upbringing, but I think mine was pretty damn great and I believe part of the reason was that I am an only child.

siiiiiiigh*

Sure, I was either very well planned or a colossal mistake. In the mid 70's, after nine years of marriage my folks decided to have a baby. Lucky for everyone I was a girl. As the person who sent me an ExpressPost envelope including the Lauren Sandler article and a handful of Baby-Bels, my mother continues to dote on me (even at age 37). She was a born mother, but only ever wanted ONE. My folks were the only couple in their group of friends who had a child. They were undoubtably  those annoying people who took their daughter everywhere. Fortunately I was far better behaved then than I am now. Those were still the days of "seen and not heard". Fine by me. I always had a supply of coloring books or Hot Wheels to keep me entertained should the "adult conversation" extend beyond my elementary ears.

I used to have a friend that complained that I had never been to the end of the island that we lived on. I used to answer: "No, but I've been on safari." That shut him up. As Lauren Sandler mentions, the finacial ease is significant with only one. My parents could afford to globe-trot and take me with them. Plus they knew:

a. I'd be well behaved b. I'd appreciate the experience c. It wasn't going to bankrupt them.

Sadly it's not 1984 and any unequipped moron can have as many kids as they bloody well please. I don't know if I'll have one, three or zero children. All I know is, only children are people too . . . except smarter, more independent and better looking.

Blobs vs. Heels

As with Crocs, (gagging*) Tevas and the like serve a purpose. That purpose is to be hidden in nature and used on slippery rocky terrain. I maintain that these visually loathsome footwear choices are unnecessary in urban settings. Case in point - last weekend: Walking uphill, I overtook two women (roughly my age) wearing generic rubbery tready blobby things on their feet while I was wearing heels and a pacemaker. And there you have it.

The Defence rests.

Not Tevas.

Not Tevas.

Allergy Watch 2013

I've already had a cacophony of sneezes and snots this year. What the hell? How does that entitle me to receive more? Fury! So in the spirit of my current misery I recall a fonder(?) time: A time where I also had debilitating allergies. Picture it: London 2005. The season was Spring, and the theme was crankiness. Please enjoy the following excerpt from one of my highly popular publications, distributed at the time. left: London Plane "fruit" (spare me) - right: Cottonwood fluff, more innocent looking, almost as lethal.

It’s come to my attention that there must be a cache of mail for me somewhere in the incompetent depths of the Royal Mail Headquarters.  Seriously, there’s a room full to the brim with letters from friends and family addressed to Zenija Esmits Great Guildford St London SE1 0ES. And all the Royal Mail employees (read: thieving bastards) frolic in it like it’s a ball-room at chuck-e-cheese.

 I was talking to Clare this afternoon and conversation led to the postal service, and figured that she has sent waaaaaay more than the single postcard I’ve received from her. Now, I’m thrilled with the postcard, but I’m pretty T’oed that there are bits of mail not reaching me. I love mail. So I intend to launch a campaign against the Fucking Royal Mail (sorry, but I’m seriously pissed off) In fact, I think they should think about attaching that prefix to their title. It would help account for their continued ineptitude.

Not only does the Royal Mail seriously blow, but the post office seriously blows as well. The dregs of society frequent the place. I wonder sometimes if the wealthy and the: not strung out on smack ever send letters? Because looking at the ‘clientele’ in these places makes me think that I’m the only sober person who mails stuff.  The public businesses such as banks, post and government offices are the filthiest smears on society that I’ve ever had the displeasure to visit. They cater to the emotionally stunted that work there and the equally emotionally stunted that require their services.  I try not to touch the surfaces. Everything is encased in contaminated plexi and the tellers whether they be post or financial are all assholes. I do not generalize.

And while we’re lingering on the subject of things that tick me off, because god knows, the list is never-ending, here’s another one to add to the archive. It all happened one sunny day in May.

I don’t know what they are, and frankly I don’t care. There’s probably a botanical name for them. I highly doubt however that it’s as colorful as the one I’ve christened them with. Blinding Maple Shards. They’re the pesky little razor sharp pokey bits that form innocent looking puffballs that dangle off the Maple branches. Innocent that is, until the wind picks up and they explode into a cloud of airborne metal filings. It should be mandatory to harvest these things off the damn trees come late April. Or alternatively, chop the trees lining The Embankment down.

It was the most painful walk home EVER! Every nanosecond another fly-away razor sharp piece of fluff attacked my eyes mercilessly. I am soooo very bloodshot right now and my eyes sting like I rubbed them with fibreglass.

Just did some research… turns out what I thought was a particularly lethal maple is actually, the ‘London  Plane’ tree. Here’s what the botanists have to say about it. The crap that almost killed me is from the ‘flowers’ (deceptively innocent term) .The ‘flowers’ are dense spherical heads comprised of millions of prickles. They are wind pollinated. No shit. Now I can look forward to London Plane trees growing out of my eyes.

Tune in again for the continuation of Allergy Attack of 2005.

Short Skirts & Temper Tantrums - How to keep your man interested.

So your fella isn't paying as much attention to you as he should? Well, have a I got a system for you*.

Nothing says "Pay attention to me." like a borderline indecent skirt and indignant stamping of feet. When and if that fails, simply drop everything. Literally, and preferably in the middle of the street (watch out for oncoming traffic**). Begin whimpering. Pouting, although effective when face to face, is silent. Even if said fella manages to make it a few blocks without noticing you (because a girl in an even shorter skirt riding a bike rolled by) he will eventually hear your high pitched squealing which devolved from the initial wimpering. Keep going. It's working. He'll roll his eyes, turn around and wander back in exasperation. He's pissed off, and you look like a Grade A Imbecile. Success!

*disclaimer: this does not work.

**although speaking from personal experience an impromptu hospital stay can really solidify a floundering relationship.