The Pick-up Artiste

I think I could start a lucrative business consulting to men on how to properly approach and pick up a woman. I have been on the receiving end of varied attempts ranging from laughable, to laughably sad to sadly psychotic. The one I will share skews on the laughably psychotic side.

A man ran up to me on the street one day, exclaiming how much he loves my hair. We will call him Federico.

Bella, I’m a hairstylist,” he said, assuming this gave him permission to stroke my hair. He insisted that I be in his next hair show and that we exchange numbers. At this point I’m convinced he’s the next hairstylist superstar and not heterosexual. I was mistaken.

Federico incessantly stalked me via text and v-mail, demanding to see me, his communication void of hair shows, bellas, and flamboyant flair, if you will.

One would think it is common knowledge that attempting to pick up a woman by pretending to be a gay hairstylist and engaging in predatory stalking activity will result in failure and possible arrest.

But alas, there is a very broad market in need of help – a very broad, unstable and potentially dangerous market. Run and hide ladies, run and hide.

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Tattoos and ADD

I’ve been enjoying watching Adam Levine and his sexy tattoos on The Voice. I’m fascinated by what could possibly inspire someone to endure intense amounts of pain in order to permanently etch something on their skin for life. As someone who has what could be diagnosed as a mild form of ADD, I can’t even endure my favourite pair of shoes for more than one season. Mmm…shoes…what was I writing about again?

I read somewhere that the part of your brain responsible for judgment is not fully formed in your teenage years. This explains A LOT and is particularly relevant when reflecting upon my questionable choice of hairstyles in high school. Think layered perm and teased bangs. Ew.

Until your brain develops, that’s what parents are for. At a certain milestone birthday in my youth, I had asked my parents whether I should get a tattoo or a belly button ring.  My parent’s preference would help me determine which was less cool. In a feat of brilliant reverse psychology that still astounds me to this day, my parents enthusiastically encouraged me to get a tattoo. I promptly got a belly button ring. But alas, after a nasty infection, my days of sporting a belly button ring were spare. What a glorious victory for my parents.

Years later, still unpierced and un-tramp-stamped, I’d like to thank my parents for messing with my undeveloped brain because it has prevented me from a lifetime of explaining to people why I got a stupid dolphin tattoo.

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A good electrician

While a shoe addict is wired to see life as a series of shoe-wearing opportunities, a writer is wired to see her life unfold in metaphors.

Unsolicited, my realtor had set me up with an electrician to install pot lights, assuming I needed them.  Maybe my lighting situation was just fine the way it was.

I called the electrician several times but he never called back.  Annoyed, I left a message asking if he was still interested. He texted me back to say that he was busy and that I should find someone else.

OMG, did my electrician just dump me over text?

My life suddenly felt void of light. I asked friends but no one knew of an electrician that was free. I started to get worried. Was I ever going to find an electrician?

As my desperation started to mount, a friend recommended her old electrician. Sure, she had always complained about him, but I had no other options. The day before he was scheduled to come over, I received a weird cancellation voice mail from a stranger. Suspicious, I called my electrician. He didn’t realize it was me and answered. Embarrassed, he stuttered through an incoherent excuse.

“So, are you not coming over tomorrow?” I could hear in the background that he was at another job.

“It’s not going to work out,” he responded.

OMG, did my electrician just get his contractor buddy to call and dump me?

He said he’d call back to reschedule but never did. I was starting to feel very insecure about my condo’s ability to attract electricians.

Desperate, I took to the Internet and was shocked to see how many electricians that were available. Or were they? Many were not interested in my condo but I finally found one.

Could he have smelled a little better? Yes. Could he have adopted a speaking instead of a yelling voice? Yes. But he was respectful and decent and got the job done.

And that is the end of the metaphor because while I may have settled for an electrician, there are some things in life you just don’t settle for. Like a bad glass of wine, of course.

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Little Black Dress

Hello lovelies

My closet has never met an LBD (translation for male readers: Little Black Dress) that it didn’t like. It’s a veritable LBD pimp – it’s never said no to an LBD I brought home. My closet houses a coven of 17 LBDs and they all live together in harmony. They bring me so much joy that my credit card and I have decided we will continue to make beautiful LBD babies.

My mom saw me wearing one such LBD and thought it prudent to advise me that its time is limited as one cannot wear a mini-skirt after a certain age. Although this wisdom was no doubt received from Emily Post’s Etiquette circa 1952, my harem of LBDs were offended at their suggested impending demise. I bought a pair of hot heels to make them feel better. After all, my LBDs do need something to play with.

I don’t propose to be a fashion expert, despite the disproportionate amount of my salary allocated to staying in fashion, but the LBD is the single best clothing investment you can make. I’m so convinced of this that I’ve multiplied my investment 17 times over. I don’t propose to be an investment adviser either, but if it makes you look and feel fabulous, it was money well spent my friend, no matter what your age.

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My (brief) time as a supermodel

As it was of no relevance or interest to me, I had not taken note of how many young, attractive women there were at my office until our National Sales Meeting. There was a large IT conference that was taking place at the same hotel and it was rife with Bill Gates-esque looking men. They looked like they all carried pocket algebra calculators and attended superhero conferences in costume. No doubt they also had an IQ double the size of mine and would soon rule the world.

One night, one such individual approached me and, enthused to the point of madness, declared that only supermodels worked at my company. Later, in the elevator, clones of this individual mobbed me to enthusiastically tell me where I worked. I felt like the ambassador of Victoria’s Secret secret supermodels.

Never before had men been so excited to speak to me. And never before had I been so struck by the power of relativity. This is the supermodel version of Einstein’s theory of relativity: the measurement of female attractiveness is relative to the nerdiness of the men observing said females, and is magnified by the likeness and size of opposing forces.

But as fleeting my time as a supermodel, I may as well revel in it. After all, these are very, very smart men.

Attempting supermodel-dom

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On Unleashing the Beast Within

Over the years many have made note of my “healthy competitive drive”, often accompanied with belittlement and such descriptors as “obnoxious” and “obsessive”. I do not consider myself more competitive than most, just more outwardly expressive of this quality. Although, I admit, I’m very annoying to play cards with.

There is a fine line between driven and crazy. Case in point: when I run on the treadmill, I like to run faster than the person beside me. I don’t stop running before they stop. The other day I notice the girl beside me is booting it. When I run faster, so does she. I’m killing myself trying to keep up with my fine new adversary. My admiration soon turns into irritation. When is this bitch going to stop running? It is at this point that I realize that I’m running beside a mirror and, in fact, the girl running beside me is my own reflection.

I was both aghast and delighted. Firstly: I look so hardcore when I run! Secondly: the metaphorical nature of this story is astounding. Thirdly: yes, I am slightly crazy. But this is the kind of crazy that I embrace. I wouldn’t be who I am or where I am without this competitive beast within.

And so I say to my reflection in the mirror: Bring it.

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Why I can’t be a spy

It’s a fact. Female spies are hot. I’ve studied Angelina Jolie’s movies and have come to terms with the fact that the world of espionage is not for me. I will have to find other ways to look hot, like blogging.

These are the important things I think about in my spare time:

  • I can’t run anywhere near as well as Tom Cruise.
  • I can’t fight in heels. In fact, I can’t fight.
  • I’m not at my best when I’m hungry, have had less than 6 hours sleep, am having a bad hair day (see Overpriced hair), have had more than 2 glass of wine or if Starbucks is out of biscotti. Other than that I’m good. About 5% of the time.
  • I get disoriented coming of out elevators, when in buildings, and at any point when driving.
  • I’m screwed if the MapQuest directions are wrong.
  • When I’m stressed, I really just need to stop. And drink.

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Things that make me cry (that shouldn’t)

  • Bad haircuts (See Overpriced Hair)
  • Handicapped dogs
  • Pinot Grigio, but only out of love
  • The “Thank You Mom” P&G commercial. I’m not a mom or an Olympic athlete (breaking news, I know!), but apparently I’m very easily manipulated by marketers.

  • But seriously, who didn’t bawl like a baby during the first 5 minutes of UP?

  • I’m a sucker for every time the fat kid/loser rocks it on reality TV.

  • Grey’s Anatomy. I had to choose happiness and stop watching it.

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A Love Letter to Pinot Grigio

Oh Pinot Grigio, how I love you so. You make me so witty and clever, if not to anyone else, then at least to myself.  You’re even good for me when consumed in healthy amounts!  And even though I never actually consume you in healthy amounts, at least I know I have that option should I choose to exercise it.

I admit, I do stray every so often for a Sauvignon Blanc or a nasty shot against my better judgment.  But I will always return to you.  Please know that even though my liver may not always accept you, my heart always will. Pinot Grigio, you are kind, benevolent, magical, and I love you.

Forever Yours,


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Things a Girl will Never Say

1. Do these pants make me look too skinny?

2. I look too hot in these photos.

3. OMG, these shoes are super cute!! I’m not gonna buy them.

4. I just got my period and I feel amazing!

5. I’m so excited to stay in tonight and watch UFC.

6. Those Victoria Secret models are so real.

7. I love it when you can see my panty lines through my pants.

8. That girl looks great with her boobs hanging out. She should do that more often.

9. Oh cool, I just got my first wrinkle!

10. I wish I could be more like Snooki.

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