Why it’s kind of okay to have a sugar daddy

So today someone at work started asking staff members what they think the dating age-range would be for someone who is 50 years old. Naturally my first response was that age is just a number and that love knows no bounds. Then slowly people started talking about it more and more and I started thinking about it more and more. Maybe I wouldn’t date a guy in his 50s. I mean, what would we talk about? I watch a lot of Charlie Rose. And I do think that airplane food is gross. And I kind of hate children playing on my lawn. Those are the main conversation topics of people in their 50s, right? But on the other hand, I wouldn’t mind having a sugar daddy.

I’m not saying that every guy you date who is 15+ years older than you is automatically a sugar daddy, you can date a poor 50 year old too (lol I wouldn’t). But when you think about a 50 year old man, you assume he has his life together, makes a ton of money and is looking for someone to share it with. Sharing wealth sounds like a really good life plan.

I’ve always told my mom that if my dreams of being a writer fail, my second dream job would be Trophy Wife. And she always tells me the same thing: “It’s good to have goals, kiddo.”

Here are some reasons why you should think about dating older men:

1) They have a job

I swear to God if one more guy suggests a date night on a Tuesday because it’s Cheap Movie Night I will lose my shit. I will intentionally, literally lose my shit, like leaving-your-pet-turtle-in-the-forest-because-you-suddenly-realize-that-this-turtle-will-probably-outlive-you-and-you-just-can’t-commit-to-that-kind-of-long-term-arrangement kind of intentionally-literally-lose-my-shit. A quick message to all the men in their early-to-mid twenties out there: get a fucking job. At this point, work at McDonald’s for all I care – I could always use a free Big Mac … or two.
Though, older men have big-boy jobs. Jobs that enable them to be home at night, off on weekends, have access to legitimate vacation time and steady pay. A man with a job is a man with goals, ambition and perseverance – things that you should want and demand in a man.

2) They have their own place

The only downside to being a struggling, starving student working part-time in a customer service job is that I don’t make the kind of money that both supports my shopaholic tendencies and allows me to live on my own. This makes late-night/early-morning booty calls a no-go. Guess it’s backseats and picnic tables at the marina for the next couple years!
But wait. Older men have homes, real homes. Not rooms off the garage that are “soundproof except sometimes my mom wakes up and checks on me in the middle of the night.” No thanks.
Having access to a bed – or some kind of mattress-like object – at the end of a really spectacular date is like finding $20 in your winter coat when you take it out at the beginning of the season. The opportunity has been there all along but it’s only surprised you now.

3) Steady paychecks, babe

I’m not saying I need to marry rich. I’m saying I would like to marry rich. And even if I don’t, having someone with a steady income and who will support you if need be is always a plus.
I want to not have to “save up” in order to go see the sloth exhibit at the Biodome, or pay for my drinks on Ladies Night. I want to go on vacations in Vermont in the fall and wear cozy sweater and riding boots I got at Michael Kors and stay at a log cabin and make a fire and drink spiked hot chocolate. Or go to an all-inclusive in Cuba and have Cuban men mistake my boyfriend for my father.
Being financially dependent on a man is sometimes seen as a big no-no but your know what, girls? I say own it. All these other broke bitches like me are just jealous we have to buy our leather pants and platform heels at Ardene’s while you spend your man’s money on Fifth Avenue.

4) Save the drama for yo mama

For older men, gone are the days of playing games and “not communicating enough”. Most older men are straight-up in their intentions and will tell you exactly what they want out of your relationship. And the best part is, he won’t take it badly when you express your intentions either.
Whether you want to be mutually exclusive or just casual FWB, I’m sure your sugar daddy will take his job a lot more seriously than whatever other jabroni you’ve been talking to/dating/sleeping with.

5) You can definitely get him to do anything you want him to do

I’m not saying manipulate him … okay, that’s definitely what I’m saying. Most sugar daddies just want to keep their little princesses happy. Betsey Johnson and gel nails make me very, very happy. Imagine having someone by your side who will indulge your every desire. Ben & Jerry’s for breakfast? Done. Jimmy Choos for that party you want to go to on Friday night? Done. Dinner at that crazy expensive restaurant you can never get reservations at because of that one time you went in and ordered one $20 martini and you yelled at the bartender because that’s ridiculous and then you didn’t pay for it and they asked you not to come back again? Done!

6) They know how to work their downstairs bidniz

This isn’t their first rodeo. There’s no fumbling for condoms, no awkward postion-switches, no anxiety over the dreaded “what do you want me to do to you?” question. He knows what women want because – well – he’s been around for a bit now; he’s learned the tricks of the trade! No worries here about having to explain to him how/why we put condoms on or that just because you are finished does not mean that I am finished. Just insanely satisfying, perfectly executed sex.

Of course, all of this needs to come with a disclaimer: I would be more than happy to see this happen with the roles reversed (girl power!) and I hope that all of you lovely women reading this grow up without having to rely on a man and I hope you all become doctors and live perfect lives.

Now go out and find a sugar daddy.

How to get yourself out of that mid-summer funk

Everyone always talks about the February Funk – that time during the winter when nothing exciting is happening and you basically just sit in your room and think about all the fun things you can do once summer hits and you’re like man I just want it to be summer.

Then summer finally hits and you realize that in order to fund your summer activities you need to work your ass off and you end up spending six out of seven days at work and you barely have time to party because you’re always ridiculously tired by the time 10pm rolls around and then you find yourself sending snapchats from your bed to your friends who are all out at bars but you’re too tired to move and you haven’t even eaten dinner yet so you’re eating Doritos out of the bag you brought to the beach the other day and you’re slowly realizing you’re halfway through summer and have accomplished nothing. Fucking lovely.

Here’s how to break the mid-summer funk.

1) Go outside

It has been as hot as Satan’s balls for the past week in Montreal. I don’t know what it is. I literally sit at the front desk at work and look out the doors at the sunshine and the people walking by and it makes me want to sit in a lawn chair and drink margaritas and read all day. Maybe even all night. As long as I have a book light and a blender, I’m as cool as a cucumber. Also, tequila. Lotsa tequila.
But I digress. Sunlight can fight skin disorders, lower blood pressure, build up your immune system and increase happiness. So get out there, people, but don’t forget your sunscreen! Melanoma doesn’t go well with your summer plans.

2) Plan a night out at least once a week

If work is getting you down – you have too much on your plate, you have to deal with horrible people every day, you work with a bunch of sex-crazed lunatics (who you love dearly), you can’t seem to get anything right or you just find your job mind-numbingly boring – plan a night away from all of that. At least once a week. Get a bunch of friends over and hang out in your cool (literally, temperature-wise) basement and play board games. Or check out that bar that sells drinks that come in buckets and taste like Freezees. Or go to the beach. Or just sit in your mom’s daycare kids’ blow-up pool and pretend you’re at the beach. Either one.

3) Kiss people

Kissing is a lot of fun and can really help you feel better. I’m not telling you to go out and hoe it up – I mean, if that’s your jam, go for it – but sometimes kissing someone can really get your spirits up. I read somewhere that kissing actually works the muscles in your face and helps them become more toned, in turn making your face look thinner. If that’s not enough to convince you to get your ass out of your house right now and just go to town on the next person you see I really don’t know what else you tell you. Other than you are not a fun person and I probably would hate kissing you.

4) Barbeques and picnics

Damn I fucking love a good BBQ. There are so many delicious summer foods. Hamburgers and hot dogs, corn on the cob, watermelon, popsicles. I could go on but then I would just want to go on out into my backyard and start up my barbeque but it is currently quarter-past-one in the morning and ain’t nobody got time for that.
Picnics are also an amazing summer activity, especially if you live in Montreal. Technically, one is allowed to drink alcohol in a public park as long as you have some kind of food item with you. This pretty much means you can bring a bag of chips and a full bottle of wine down to the waterfront and call it a picnic. Hello Doritos and Gallo, this is your home now. NOM NOM NOM.

5) Go on vacation

Let’s face it, we’re students, most of us don’t have that kind of time or money. If you can afford a trip down south, I’m happy for you (not really, but let’s just roll with it). I personally don’t have a lifestyle that is cohesive to saving large sums of money and I don’t trust myself around credit cards so that’s pretty much out of the picture for the next couple of years. I do, however, love a good staycation.
Yes, I just used the word staycation. I’ve found that people don’t generally know what their city has to offer if they are being forced to live in it every day. I only learn cool things about my city once I leave it. Ask someone who doesn’t live in your city would do if they had 48 hours to hit up everything they wanted to see and do it!

6) Road trip

I’m a huge advocate for road trips. My family has been driving 12 hours east, back home, since I was a baby. It’s a good time to read trashy magazines and compile playlists and visit stupid landmarks (looking at you, Magnetic Hill). You realize who a person really is once you’re forced on a road trip with them.
I personally am I horrible human being if I haven’t eaten approximately every three hours and my best friends learned that the hard way two years ago while on a road trip to Perth, Ontario. Road trips are a good time to bond with friends or family and be able to better pinpoint what you love about them. Like their ability to put up with a starving bitch in the backseat for two hours.

7) Don’t stress the small things

This is my favourite part about summer. At the end of the day, nothing that happens in the summer really counts. It’s hard to fuck up working, going to the beach, having barbeques, throwing house parties and generally having an amazing time with your friends. This is no time to worry about what’s going to happen in the future or what happened in the past – the summer is for the present.
So even if you’re stuck inside all day without air conditioning or you hate your job or you don’t have $13 to get onto the beach (fucking ridiculous), don’t stress. Take a breath, have a drink, and when all else fails, call on the one thing that will never let you down. The one thing that has been there for you all along, the one thing that has picked you up when you’ve fallen down and helped you back onto the horse of life. The shining star in the darkness that is life.

Breaking it down date-by-date

You see it on every dating website: “Describe your perfect first date.” There is literally no such thing. Both of you are so nervous and you have all this pent-up energy and you’ve made so many assumptions that you can’t concentrate on what’s happening. Also, there are so many expectations and rules to follow that I end up blowing the entire thing. There’s also the question of whether or not you kiss them, or go to their house, or if you let them touch your vagina. It’s all just so confusing!

I was recently talking to one of my friends and he said that when he was single he went with a five-date rule. If he still liked the person enough after five dates, he would sleep with them, because at that point he knew he was committed and he knew that the other person was willing to put some work into it.

After you get the whole sex thing out of the way – or at least give it a deadline – it’s so much easier to think about what your perfect dates would be. So I decided to list my five perfect dates, leading up to the big bang (hah).

1) The first date

You met this guy at a party a couple weeks ago, you flirted, exchanged numbers and now you’re here. Standing in front of your mirror wearing a crop top and pajama bottoms wondering how you will ever look decent enough to one day get married to someone let alone go on this stupid coffee date. You take a quick glance at your phone and think about cancelling. What would sound believable? My dog is sick? My sister needs a ride to her dance recital? I’m having an existential crisis? I have really bad diarrhea?
No. No, you need to do this. You pick up a pair of jeans and give them a quick sniff. Those will do. You take that stupid fucking crop top off, put on a real-person shirt and move onto your makeup. You put eyeliner on one eye and it looks perfect. Score. You do your other eye and it looks like you raised Amy Winehouse from the dead and hired her as your personal makeup artist. After much deliberation, you decide to go for a “natural” look – aka foundation, bronzer, blush, highlighter, brown eyeliner, nude eyeshadow and a pink lip gloss. Perfect – so natural.
He texts you that he’s outside your house and you ignore your mom’s cries of “What?! He’s too good to come ring our doorbell?!” and you book it out of there.
You get in the car, make small talk about how long it didn’t take you to do your makeup and the weather recently. You get to the café, a small little place, and sit down. Good conversation, a little bit of flirting, just enough to let you know the date’s going well. He doesn’t have any visible deformities and he seems to be the kind of person who wouldn’t turn out to be some kind of mass murderer who gets off on wearing other peoples’ skin. You laugh, talk and have a good time. He drives you home, you get kind of nervous and sweaty because you want to kiss him but you don’t know if he wants to kiss you and then BAM all of a sudden you guys are in front of your house and your mom’s light is still on and you’re getting more and more nervous so you just fucking leave without kissing him and you’re yelling at yourself like WHAT THE FUCK CHRISTINE, WRONG MOVE.

2) The second date

For some unknown reason, he asked you out again. This time you’re going to the movies because you’re 12 years old and aren’t creative enough to think of anything else. You meet him there because your history with him in cars is clearly very horrible and he buys your ticket and you joke about how you usually fall asleep in movies and he says something fucking adorable like “Well I consider myself a very comfortable sleeping surface.” And you’re all like DAMN BOY why didn’t I kiss you?!
You’re seeing some stupid movie because it’s that weird time between seasons where you’ve already seen all the good movies and all the new ones are coming out next week. You both laugh at the same jokes and shed a tear at the emotional moments and all of a sudden you can’t take it anymore so you kiss him in this dark and somewhat crowded room and you just wanna keep going but you still have to pretend you came here to see a movie. Now all you can think of is touching his face and laughing with him and you think that maybe you’re falling for him a little bit but you don’t know how he feels so you definitely don’t want to voice these opinions.
The movie ends and you sit there for another little while and just kiss a little bit and you’re super happy you drove yourself there because you probably couldn’t trust yourself in a small space with him.

3) The third date

The third date has so much potential. It’s that date where it could go either way and you tend to take the way that will get you laid. But he told you about the scar on his forearm from when he tried to make pizza the first time he got drunk at 15 and you told him about that time in kindergarten when your mom caught you kissing your pillow because you were pretending it was Tuxedo Mask from Sailor Moon and you can’t help but feel like you have a good connection with him. Tonight is the night when you find out what’s going on.
You decide on a group hang at a bar, which is a horrible idea but you roll with it. His friends are sitting a table over from yours and everyone seems to be having a good time.
Your friends like him and his friends like you and you’re all doing shots together and you start getting that touchy-feely level of tipsy and you know that if you leave with him you will sleep with him and at this point you don’t want to ruin anything. So, you go over to your best friend and you say, probably a decibel louder than you meant to, “Sweetie, dzon’t lemme go home withim. Dzon’t.” And she’s all like “Yeah gurl, I got dis.”
Boom, all of a sudden it’s the end of the night and he’s tipsy and you’re tipsy and you’re outside the bar and you’re hugging because you don’t really want to let go and one of his friends is saying, “Bro, we gotta go,” and your bestie is all like “Girl, get in the fucking car.” But he’s whispering in your ear that you look amazing tonight and you want to go home with him but your friends are calling you and you say, “Sorry, I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.” And you feel horrible, like you messed it all up. Like the world is over because this was the third date and you didn’t sleep with him.

4) The fourth date

He texted you the day after your group hang saying he’s super hungover and woke up on his couch wearing nothing but his boxers, a shirt he got in the ninth grade from a math competition and a quilt his grandmother made him when he graduated university. You find this overwhelmingly adorable and text your best friend that you want to marry him and meet his quilt-making grandmother and she’s genuinely concerned for you.
He asks what you’re up to and you say nothing so he invites you over for breakfast and you spend the rest of the day eating pancakes and watching a weird mixture of Disney and Mark Wahlberg movies and taking naps alternatively on him/his couch. You text your friends and they’re all jealous and he’s making you coffee and you’re giving him back massages while he sits on the floor in front of you and you’re overcome with happiness but now there’s even more pressure on the big deed. Now you genuinely like him and you think that maybe he genuinely likes you just by the way he looks at you sometimes and laughs at your weird jokes. Now it’s going to be sensual as opposed to down-and-dirty. You’re gonna want to look at him and you’re going to be acutely aware of his satisfaction throughout the whole thing.
Thinking about this kind of freaks you out because you don’t know if that’s what you want and it’s too new to ask him if that’s what he wants so you leave before he can suggest anything. But you leave feeling really really warm inside.

5) The fifth date

This is it. Tonight is the night. You’re going out to dinner; you wear a cute dress – one that you definitely don’t need to wear Spanx with – and he wears a really cute button-down shirt and you comment on it and he tells you how beautiful you look. You catch a whiff of his cologne mixed with a bit of anxiety-induced body odour and it reminds you of that day you spent on his couch when you sang “Colours of the Wind” with him and Pocahontas.
The dinner goes well, you share dessert and then he asks if you want to go to his place and drink or watch a movie or do anything that doesn’t involve being in public and you literally cannot take it anymore so you agree.
You end up back at his place drinking beer and eating cheesecake out of the box but at this point you’re so happy to just be with him that everything goes even better than you could have hoped for. He rocks your world and you rock his, multiple times.

Those are my five perfect dates.

Is 1500 words too much for a Plenty of Fish profile?

It’s goin’ down: I’m yellin’ Tinder

I fucking love Tinder. Actually. I really really love it. I don’t even talk to anyone on it, I just use it as a huge hot-or-not app. But recently, I’ve been missing the human contact that’s supposed to go along with Tinder. That je-ne-sais-quoi of talking to someone who’s so close to you yet you’ve never spoken. So I decided to fuck with some people on Tinder. One guy thought a Gucci Mane lyric was something I’d written to him from the heart and another guy stopped talking to me after I told him I tried hard-boiling eggs with my hoo-ha (I haven’t, just in case you were wondering.) My favourite thing to do on Tinder is like the first fifty people that show up and just see who I mutual matched with. It’s better to judge people like that. In any case, it’s been a fun ride. But what have I learned from Tinder? Here are some fun facts.

1) French dudes love me

Seriously, it’s like they look at me and they think “She wants that Quebecois D.” It’s not that I don’t, it’s not that. You don’t have to speak English to consider me attractive or to have sex with me (that sounds wonderful) but I’m not the best French speaker (I know enough to somehow get through an eight-hour shift at work and converse with the lady who works at the dep – aka saying “debit” with a French accent), so it comes down to one universally-understood language – sex – in every single conversation.

Him: Qspase sexyyy
Me: Rien, you?
Him: Uh, parles tu francais?
Me: Pas vraiment, non
Him: Tu veux faire sexy Snapchat?
Me: Pas vraiment, non
Him: pcq?
Me: Are you okay? What does that mean?
Him: quoi?
Me: Quoi?!??!?


2) Indian men also love me

I learned this about myself after being on Plenty of Fish for about two months. They wanna “take me to Mumbai and make it rain on my Casper-white skin.” (that is a legitimate quote from an Indian dude I met on Tinder approximately five days ago. I thanked him because, like, deep down that’s actually pretty sweet.)

3) The “how many miles away am I from this person?” factor is fucking creepy

Literally got a Tinder match one night from a dude who was less than a mile away from me. He opened the conversation with “Ha are you in my backyard?” and I immediately looked out my window and maybe cried a little. I find myself asking, “How far is thirty miles? Is that in Ontario? Or is that like down the street?” A solid 15 years of math classes have failed me and I’ve only realized because I’m trying to figure out if this Devin dude is standing on my front lawn without having to peek out my blinds and alert him of my presence.

4) The “which Facebook friends do we have in common?” factor is amazing

This makes it ridiculously hella easy to stalk people and it’s wonderful. I now have access to all your profile pictures, not just the four you carefully picked out to showcase yourself on Tinder. And it also gives me the pleasure of judging you further. Just the other night I was hanging out with a friend and I matched with this guy but our only mutual friend was this bitch I met two years ago who I dislike but find insanely hilarious. Anyways, I expressed this concern to my friend and she said, “Well, you’re friends with her too. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing.” Which is 100% valid. But I obviously ignored it and stopped talking to him.

5) People don’t know how to describe themselves

Keep it short, sweet and witty. One guys description was literally “I’ll give you $10 to get me off Tinder!” So like, what? We meet up, I tackle you to the ground, steal your phone, delete the app and demand my ten bucks? Because that’s what I’m gonna do. Ten bucks is ten bucks man. That’s like almost the price of a bottle of dep wine. I could use that. In your description, pick three of your hobbies and go with that. Everyone loves hobbies and it makes you sound somewhat cultured. Or make something up. Who even tells the truth anymore?!

6) People don’t know how to start conversations

Are you fucking kidding me? Hey? That’s how you wanna start this off? I don’t care if you just want to fuck me or if you want to marry me, “Hey” is the worst way of starting a conversation ever. It’s lazy and unimaginative. I don’t want to have sex with you if you’re lazy and unimaginative. Put even a smidge of thought into it and you’ll be fine, promise. This is why putting hobbies in your description is important. It gives you something to talk about even if you don’t give a shit.

7) It’s a great way to fuck with people

I did this thing where I only responded to people on Tinder using only song lyrics. One of my friends and I love listening to TLC whenever we’re together but No Scrubs is a bit too harsh, so I started looking through their other lyrics and I finally ended up at Waterfalls, but at this point I was starting to get bored so I picked literally anything. And then this happened:


Still willing to get it in.
God bless you, people of Montreal. God bless you.

How To Choose Your Words Carefully aka the title of my memoir

I scraped a woman’s car today. Not badly. A little bit of her white paint stuck to my car in a dime-shaped spot. Nothing to write home about. But this woman lost it on me. While her four-year-old watched. As she screamed profanities at me, I wondered what kind of sick joy she got out of berating a 22-year-old who works part-time at the YMCA and doesn’t update her blog as frequently as she should. What was going through her mind? How did she choose her words? Does she always speak very loudly or was this a special occasion? Does she speak like this in front of her children in her house? Is her husband this insane? How long can she keep yelling at me? Why is she doing this? Don’t cry, Christine, don’t cry.
My instinct was to cry immediately, though. But I didn’t because I come from a very proud Scottish family that doesn’t believe in crying in public. It’s the same reason why I can’t watch emotional movies in public. Nicholas Sparks? Forget about it. The first Ice Age movie where Ray Romano the Mammoth has to give the little baby back to his parents after being lost for the whole movie? Lost my shit.
So I didn’t cry. Partly because I have pride and partly because I didn’t want to give this woman the sick satisfaction that she would have gotten from knowing she broke me. I’m not going to let a soccer mom make me cry in front of her four-year-old. Hell no.
The journalist in me wanted to find out more about her life; find out what horrible trauma has led her to this moment. This moment in which she just told a young adult that “If words could kill, you would be fucking dead right now.” This moment in which her child is watching her mother become a monster and treat another human being in a horrible way. This moment in which car paint has become the biggest, most impactful aspect of her life. Part of me wanted to ask her how she would feel if someone was speaking to her child in this way.
This woman made me sad. Every aspect of her made me sad. Her SUV made me sad. Her tacky jacket made me sad. Her threatening to call her husband made me sad. Her unwavering commitment to making me sad made me sad. And then I realized that a lot of people other than her think this kind of behaviour is appropriate. Some people think that belittling others is completely copasetic; a right, in some way, that they have in order to voice their discomfort or dislike in a situation.
In journalism classes we talk about hate speech and how it affects things that go to publication and the repercussions of publishing our words. In this way, every word that we write has to be meticulously chosen. There has to be a thought process behind each one; a thought process that sometimes takes writers days to figure out. And then when you finally choose the right one, you feel accomplished and satisfied.
This is why it boggles my mind as to how this 40 year old woman could spew words from her food hole so carelessly, as if they didn’t matter. She has yet to realize, in her long life, that words are meaningful and words are powerful. Words should not be used for defamation or callousness. Words should not be used to make someone cry or to tear someone down. Words should be used to show love and compassion. Words should be used to carefully communicate our problems and help us learn from them.
In the end she apologized to me for being “loud and vulgar”, as she put it. Maybe she did realize, deep down at the bottom of her black heart, that she did something wrong and this was her way of admitting it. I hit her fucking car and I owned up to it. We’re all responsible for our actions and maybe she realized that if I was owning up to my sins she could accept hers. But the way she ended it with “Now you can go fuck off, I never want to see your face again,” made me question the sincerity of it all.
This woman is probably at home right now, definitely not sitting on her couch watching Cougar Town and thinking about the morality of words like I am. She’s probably sleeping, peacefully, like a little baby giraffe, not even worrying about the effect her words had on me. She’s going to file a claim against me and get whatever amount of money from my insurance company for the miniscule, dime-sized piece of paint I took off of her precious car and she’s going to come back to my place of work, everyday, to drop her child off at daycare. Her life is unchanged. And that’s what scares me about people like her. She’s never ever going to get it, no matter how many days she ruins for others.
So I’m gonna end this by saying that you should always choose your words carefully because you’ll never know if the person you’re screaming at will come home from work and write a blog post about you.
And if the woman who screamed at me, by some complete fluke, ever reads this, I truly hope you find happiness. And also I hope someone totals your car so fucking badly (while you and your children are safely out of the vehicle) that you don’t even recognize it. Fuck you.

What you wear to the bar and why you shouldn’t wear it to the bar

Girls go through a lot of trouble in choosing what they wear out in public. In private you can bet that I’m rocking some kind of sweatpant (and not the cute Lululemon ones – the ones that make your ass look three times larger than it is) and a Northern Getaway sweater that I “borrowed” from my aunt at a bonfire when I was 12.

But in public, I think I look pretty decent. I put on some kind of makeup and I try to pick an outfit that is mildly appropriate for where I’m going. However, it usually takes me 45 minutes to make said mildly appropriate choice. I’m currently sitting in a pile of “reject” clothes I picked out a couple of nights ago and it includes three pairs of thigh-high socks, two crop tops and a pair of purple pants I haven’t worn in three years. You girls know what I’m talking about.

However, I usually decide on a pair of leggings, a nice top that I spent way too much money on and a black cardigan. Appropriate, right? Then. I get to the bar. And bitches are dressed like we’re at a rave/bar mitzvah/funeral/hipster heaven/swinger’s party and I’m like wtf did you even look in the mirror before you came here?

So here is a breakdown of what you wear to your local bar and what it says about you.

1) Crop tops

You are a horrible human being. I like a good crop top, if you’re wearing high-waisted shorts or if your grandmother bought it for you on her deathbed and her dying wish was that you wear it out on a Wednesday night to your local pub. Every other occasion is a complete disaster. There’s nothing worse than walking into a bathroom at a bar and seeing a girl in a crop top admiring her new dolphin belly button ring in the mirror. Your crop top is bad and you should feel bad. I know you think you look adorable. And hey, you’re showing off those abs you worked so hard to get and I’m proud of you. I really am. I know how hard that is to achieve. But a bar is not the place to show that off. You’ll end up taking home a guy in a pair of those sweatpants made famous by Justin Bieber who thinks MDMA is a “lifestyle choice”.

2) Heels

The sound of a stiletto heel hitting the hardwood floor of a bar is the mating call for douchebags everywhere. I know those wedges go perfectly with your outfit and they make your calves look fucking amazing and you seriously considered not wearing them to the bar because they aren’t bar-appropriate but then your girlfriends came over and they were all, “GUUUURL YOU LOOK FIERCE GURL YOU LOOK FUCKIN FIERCE!” and you were all like “lol yeah guys I know whatever I’m just gonna do it lol … I’m fierce.” But this is not a good life choice for you. You need to not do that. It is okay to disagree with your friends sometimes. Just because they are wearing heels to a bar that is in the same strip-mall as a pizza place and a 24-hour laundromat doesn’t mean that you should. Just keep that in mind.

3) A fanny-pack

I recently learned from a friend who did a semester abroad in Holland that fanny means vagina in Dutch. And it makes a lot of sense because if you wear a fanny-pack to a bar you look just like a huge cunt. You aren’t at a rave. You aren’t at an EDM/trance/dubstep club. You are at your local bar. You are at a bar that serves $2 drinks in the middle of the week. You are at a bar that has shepherd’s pie on its menu. You are at a bar that has regular customers with nicknames like Crackhead Jerry. I don’t care if you went to Escapade this summer, it gives you no excuse to wear a fanny pack out in public. No excuse.

4) A snapback/fitted

I know you think this makes you look like a girl who doesn’t give a fuck and likes hanging out with “the guys” and listens to The Weeknd but in reality it makes you look like a girl whose ex-boyfriend lent her his baseball cap and she never gave it back because she is a psycho bitch. Why do you need to wear a snapback in a bar? A beanie I can understand, it’s generally made out of wool and it keeps you warm – and gives you an excuse not to do your hair. A hat with a brim is designed to keep the sun out of your eyes. THERE IS NO SUN IN THE BAR. IT IS NOT BRIGHT IN HERE.

5) That dress you wore to the club last week

This one is tricky, because I have worn a dress to a club and paired it with a blazer and some heels – perfectly club appropriate – and I have worn the same dress with a pair of tennis shoes and a cardigan to the bar the very next night – perfectly bar appropriate. But with dresses you need to know where to draw the line. Plunging neckline? No. Ornate detailing on one strap? No. Is it a maxi dress? Wear it. Is it all one colour? Wear it. Would you feel awkward wearing it in front of your grandfather? Don’t do it. Would you wear it to work on a summer day? Go for it. But know what is appropriate and what isn’t.

6) A jean vest

Are you a teenager in an 80′s sitcom? No? Then don’t.


I think I’ve made my point.

I tried to make this title into something basketball-related but I know nothing about basketball

I went out looking for articles talking about rebounds. Just to see what’s been done, check out whether or not I’m repeating a bunch of shit people already know, the usual journalistic stuff. And I’ve realized that there is a lot of horrible rebound stuff out there. I don’t usually give advice, I kinda just say it like it is and allow people to interpret it, but Cosmo is next-level shitty advice-giving. In this shitty Cosmo article (ps. I love Cosmo, it’s like a train wreck – you wanna look away but you can’t because it’s so hypnotizing in its destructiveness) they “clearly” outline what to do if you think the new guy you’re seeing is a rebound. This is it:

Ask a friend.

Are you kidding me? I ask my friends about everything in my life; what shoes to wear with what outfit, what I should text boys, what I should have for lunch, what they think about my urge to tuck people’s tags back in their shirts when they’re sitting in front of me (or if they have a piece of string on their shirt or something, that shit really gets to me.) I ask my friends about every tiny detail of my day – why does Cosmo think I wouldn’t ask a friend about this?

Me: Hey how’s it going?
Friend: Not bad, how are things with that guy?
Me *stuttering*: Oh … um … yeah – no. I mean, nothing. Yeah, he died.
Friend: What?! He died?!
Me: No, I’m sorry. But I think he’s a rebound and Cosmo didn’t tell me specifically to ask you about it so I made something up.

Yeah, okay. Thanks Cosmo, you’ve been a great help. And! In this little gem, they list the top 10 ways of finding out if you’re a rebound. I didn’t think it was really that hard, but apparently it is. My favourite tips are number six: “He admits he cyber-stalks his Ex and asks you to post something mean on her Facebook or Twitter.” Who are you dating, my 12-year-old neighbour?! And number nine: “You’d say your relationship was ‘fun and sexy’ not ‘loving and intimate’.” So real relationships can’t be fun and sexy? That sounds quite boring and a lot like my own personal hell.

Enough Cosmo bashing (love you, you hot mess of a mag) and let’s get down to bidnezz. In my mind, there are several different types of rebounds, not all of them involving sex. But number one is obviously …

1) The sexual rebound

You get outta that relationship and you’re just like I WANT SEX AND I WANT IT NOW. So you go out on the prowl and you find yourself a piece of man/woman that will satisfy your every need in ways your ex never did. You’re getting it on more than those squirrels in the tree right outside my house (trust me it’s a lot) and you are insatiable. You’re fielding texts from guys, girls and everything in between. You’re dedicating certain days to certain people, you’re busting out of janitor’s closets, women’s washrooms, 2-door sedans, jungle gyms, alleyways, etc. with your skirt around your hips and your hair not in the updo you started out with at the beginning of the night. I’m all for meaningless sex. Meaningless sex is lovely and fulfills our basic primal urges with absolutely no strings attached, no vulnerability and no horrible discussion-starters like “Who are we spending Christmas with?”, “I hate your mom!” and “God dammit my favourite M&Ms are peanut BUTTER not regular PEANUTS!” It’s very animalistic of us, when you think about it. It’s also a good way to bury all of your resentment and then take it out on someone in a really kinky way. Think about it, take a second.

2) The food rebound

Damn girl you eat more than Honey Boo Boo’s mom on roadkill clean-up day. You’re sitting on your couch/bed, covered in powdered cheese that might be Cheeto dust or the Kraft Dinner cheese that you ate straight from that little packet because you didn’t have the energy to make the whole meal. There are wrappers everywhere. You’re making meals that don’t even go together, like ramen with a slice of Velveeta cheese on top of it. Then for dessert you just melt some butter and stir some brown sugar and pretend it’s crème brulée or some fancy shit. Your friends invite you out and you ask if they can pick somewhere where sweatpants are appropriate because none of your jeans fit you anymore. You also check out the menu of the place beforehand so you can time your dishes properly to get the maximum amount of food down your gullet in the three hours you spend out of your bed. Filling the void in your heart by filling your stomach isn’t necessarily a bad thing though, because you could also dedicate some time to …

3) The fitness rebound

You’re up at like, 5am, watching birds fly around, running down your street and you are fucking PUMPED. You have so much energy and your mantra (“I hope he runs into me when I get skinny”) is giving you this weird cocaine-like high that makes you feel invincible. You join a gym and take every single class, even that 9am Aqua-Fit whose only other attendees are all over the age of 65. You feel great, you’ve lost weight, you’ve toned up. Your ex may have left you brokenhearted but you have a new boyfriend now and his name is Squat Rack. And he’s made your ass look better than your ex ever did.

4) The social media rebound

You are on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, Whisper, Snapchat, Skype, Pinterest, Vine, Keek, Viber, Flikr, Reddit, you’re even on Foursquare (even though Foursquare is reserved for horrible BlackBerry users – we’ll forgive you for not having a real smartphone) for like a million hours a day in the hopes that your ex will see all the shit you’ve been up to. Better check in at the train station, so he knows I’m on my way to school! That’ll show him. Oh, now I’m at Starbucks, better Instagram a pic of my drink so he knows that my caffeine intake is about the same since he left me. Now I’m in class! I’ll just tweet some stupid thing the teacher said so he knows that even though he ripped my heart out of it’s cavity he cannot break my dedication to amazing grades #preach! I’m not going to lie, sometimes I check-in just so my exes know where I am and know how much fucking fun I’m having without them. Sometimes it’s easy to take it too far, but keep yourself in check and you should be over him in no time.

5) The self-rebound

Have you ever said the words “You know what man? Imma just do me for a bit,” to a friend? Then you, darling, have completed step one of the self-rebound. This is my fave, if I do say so myself. You get your nails done, you change your hair colour, you spend a ton of money you don’t have on like two and a half items of designer clothing, you buy yourself a watch and an organizer, you watch your favourite movies, you go out and flirt but you don’t over-flirt, you start wearing red lipstick, you’re just a joy to be around. Because technically you’re dating the only person suitable of dating you – your mother-fucking self. This kind of rebound is also the hardest because – you gotta face it – sometimes, you will be alone. Sometimes you won’t be able to fill that void with meaningless sex, or food, or exercise, or social media. But that’s part of rebounding, it’s part of moving forward and it’s part of getting better.
And step two of the self-rebound is drinking a lot of wine. Like a lot of it. Stick a crazy straw in that mother and call it dinner. ‘Cause you deserve the best.