Smashelorette

I love that word, it’s the perfect title for this post. My friend the Magpie posted a pic of me from Saturday night using the hashtag Smashelorette and I fucking love it so much.

You guys don’t even know. And I don’t even know if I know how to tell this story… but bear with me. The fog of booze around my brain is clearing, this might start coming together as we go.

smashelorette

I’ve been waiting for this so long. This night. This amazing night out with my girls, getting drunk, laughing. Celebrating like only girls can. With lots and lots of shrill yayys! and wooooos! to accompany every sentence. Excitedly hopping and bopping everywhere and into everything. Chanting deliciously filthy chants at every male we encounter along the way. “SHOW-US-YOUR-PENIS!”, “JUST-THE-TIP!”, and “EAT-MORE-DICK-CHEESE!” among the best  of them.

That’s what girls do. We make ourselves look as classy and lovely as we possibly can, then we go out into the world causing all the mayhem we can muster. And I do have a lot of mayhem in my heart, believe you me. I’m pretty sure that I head-butted one of my friends on the d-floor. Mistakenly, of course. But only because a bunch of mayhem had bubbled over and was going to translate into some insanely rad dance floor head-banging. I just forgot to step back first. Oopsies! It’s not the first time though, definitely won’t be the last either. Very sorry, friend.

That must be why my neck is still so sore two days later. I fucking head-banged the shit outta that dance floor. But when you’ve got a band of rad motherfuckers ripped on heroin and playing the same Led Zeppelin song on a constant loop, there’s nothing you can do but head-bang the fucking shit outta life. The power of Zeppelin compels you!

At one point I had a little chat with the guitarist, about the recent passing of Tommy Ramone. And I begged him to rally his band buddies and play me a killer Ramones cover. He nodded semi-agreeably and went to talk to his musically inclined chums. When they hit the stage again after the intermission, the guitarist tossed me a sly grin and started cranking out yet another classic Zeppelin tune… Oh man! Another 22-minute guitar solo. I shot a look of long-suffering at The Magpie, as if to say “oh well, what can you do?” and she didn’t even have to say a word. She perfectly mimed the tying off of a vein and shot a finger needle into the crook of her arm while rolling her eyes back in a perfect pantomime of druggie bliss. It was so excellent. We just laughed and danced. Then laughed and danced some more because that guitar never stopped.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself. This story clearly won’t be linear, that fucking ship has sailed. It was never going to be anyways, because I don’t remember it that way. I’m slowly remembering my way through the events of the Smashelorette. And every time I talk to someone about it, another little gem of memory is unearthed and lovingly relived.

Like when Joce reminded me that she stole a platter of 20 sliders off of someone else’s table and our motley group of girls gobbled them up in a feeding frenzy! No I didn’t dream that, it actually happened. It’s such a perfectly Joce-force thing to do.

Or when I put on a fake moustache with Dame Edna glasses and Shannie told me that I looked like Freddie Mercury. Dreams really do come true. Playing dress up in general. I mean, if you’re at a party and your friend gives you a box of costumes to dress people up in, it’s going to be a wicked time.

shannie the raver

my little peacock

Playing the underwear game! Everyone bought a pair of panties and I had to guess who bought them. An absolutely hilarious idea. Especially when one of your friends decides to buy you a pair of 3XL men’s tighty whiteys. Oh, Caitlin! You’re a beautiful little sexual harassment just waiting to happen.

she'll get ya

big underwear

Twirling and swirling around the dance floor with a very tall gentleman who didn’t speak a lick of english. But he didn’t have to. He spoke an even more important language: the language of the dance!

Eating a piece of penis cake. Thank you Bec. I always wondered what chocolate ball hair would taste like. It’s sweet. A little sticky too. Not unexpected at all. An unsavoury delight. Much like the dick cheese my friend Hoben moulded to glorious perfection. I’ve also wondered what green onion ball hair tasted like. Cross another thing off the bucket list, darling.

Doing oh so many grapefruit wedge Jell-O shots! Best summertime booze treat you can have.

jell-o shots

And of course, chugging dirt cheap champagne that made me throw up in my mouth a little…

champagne chug

When Caitlin found me a hunk with a ponytail to talk to. I got to touch it! The ponytail, of course. It was curly and sweaty and magnificent. Mmmm, oh yeah. That’s the real dream, a man with a ponytail. I’m totally being serious right now. Just wanted to make sure nobody thought I was being purposefully flip about that. Gimme them long luscious locks any time. Let me run my fingers through your hair, baby. Oh yeah, just like that!

Omg. THE MIDGET STRIPPER. *facepalm*

He was small and sweaty and he blew in my ear. Aggressively. It wasn’t sexy. It was like the blast of a backfiring car right in my earhole.

Oh right, this is an important detail: my Smashelorette party was Star Wars themed. Yeah, that’s fucking right. My friends lovingly coloured a bunch of images from a Star Wars colouring book and used them as decorations all over Joce’s apartment. It was very beautiful and meaningful to me. There were also bottles of chase with Yoda’s picture on them and labelled “Yoda Pop”. Brilliant! There was a hand drawn “Pin The Penis on Darth” game. Oh Sara, words cannot describe how much I love you for making that. And how much I loved seeing the bad first attempt at a drawing of Darth showing through the sliding glass door when I was out on the balcony. Priceless. He’s a hard dude to draw, I was very impressed with the end result.

But back to that stripper…

We were grooving along to some sweet pre-drinking tunes when suddenly the music changed. A very recognizable piece of music started to play. Is that…? Oh yeah, it is! It’s the frigging Star Wars theme music. I got really excited at that point. I sat on the special chair and buzzed with excitement. I’ve always wondered what Darth Vader’s penis looked like and tonight I was finally going to find out what he’s been hiding under that codpiece.

Just as the epic entrance music was fading out, he stepped into the room. All 4 foot 8 of him. Probably more like 5′ 3″, but who’s measuring? And he’s… um. What the fuck? He’s a cop? And now he’s making some lame cliché joke about a noise complaint… that’s something, I guess.

i'm so impressed

Actually, this worked out really well. Even though he wasn’t dressed as the Dark Lord and I couldn’t climb him like a mountain, I’ll never forget pointing and laughing at his sweat-stained underwear while he shook his crotch in my cousin’s face. AND, most important of all… he wasn’t supposed to show us his wiener but he did anyways. Joce told me she wouldn’t pay extra for him to do the full monty. So he was either such a trooper or our rowdy chants just eventually wore him down, but either way, WE GOT THAT DICK FOR FREE!

I just had a great idea for him! He should dress up like Prince when he strips. He’s got the perfect build for it… dammit. Someone should call and tell him that. I bet there are a lot of ladies out there who’d love a lap dance from The Purple One. I know I would.

There’s so much to remember! Too much to remember really. I’m grateful for cameras. And I’m thankful for all of my wonderful friends. I’m so in love with all of you.

friends

my lovely family

Dreams come true. I should probably divorce D and then re-marry him just so we can have another party like this. Another super mega-awesome blast of a time, just us girls.

But I guess even though I’m getting married, that doesn’t mean I have to slow down my bad ass partying ways, does it?

photo-3

Maybe we just need to do one more of these before the wedding. It was always going to take more than one really excellent bender to get it all out of my system anyways, right?

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Gym Rats

I got suckered in again.

Yeah, to that whole “gym” thing. The pants are too snug, and I’d like to cut the winter laziness off at the pass. I’ve been super busy this summer with tons of stuff on the social calendar, but I need something more. Something to do during the blah days of winter to keep me from flinging myself off the balcony in a fit of despair. So… the gym it is. Plus, D got us a sweet deal through his work, and you just can’t say no to savings like that!

Our membership officially began on Saturday. So this past week I decided to make the most of my last days of freedom. In other words, I ate like a heathen. One morning I ate skittles for breakfast. Not any ordinary skittles either. Skittles Riddles!

The next bite is more confusing than the last!

The riddle behind these skittles? The colours don’t match the flavours. Mmm, and I had a fantastic Vanilla Coke to further muddle the riddles. So that was a fine culinary adventure indeed.

Also, I rocked a motherfucking Big Smoke Burger for lunch on Thursday (if you haven’t had it yet, you MUST), KFC for staff lunch Friday, and then Friday night I ate about 12 Rice Krispie squares during the Breaking Bad marathon I had with D, Joss, and Harry.

My undergrad years taught me that all high people like Rice Krispie squares

And there was some chocolate milk and dill pickle chips in the mix too because my boss had it for a work snack one day and it piqued my curiosity. You know, I needed to see if that was still my favourite snack too. Mystery solved! No surprise twist ending here, I still love me some DP chips and chocolate milk.

Hmmm, re-reading those last two paragraphs I guess I can’t really say I got suckered into a gym membership. I’m starting to see it as a necessity now…

We had gym memberships back in the RHill, but we decided to forego them this summer because we wanted time to settle into our new lives. And now that the dust has settled, quite nicely on the pudge mind you, it’s time to get back to kicking the treadmill’s ass 4 times a week.

There’s a GoodLife Fitness literally 2 minutes away from our apartment, which is ideal because we had to drive to the last gym we were members at. And since I don’t drive, I could really only go whenever D felt like going too. This gym being right at my fingertips is what I need. Partly because it’s accessible, and partly because I can sprint home to my shower. I’m a little bit neurotic about showers, so this is a very big plus point for me. Ooo and towel service too! (P.S. I just had a really hard time writing that last sentence because the auto-correct kept turning “Ooo” into “Poo”. I had to correct it five times before it would stick!)

Annnnnnd I got a free gym bag too!

FREE!

I fucking love free shit! I prioritize what kind of 6-pack I’m going to buy at the LCBO based on freebies. Sorry Carlsberg, but Grolsch is giving away half pint glasses this week!

Although, I may not get to use this free bag at all because Harvey thinks it belongs to him now…

He’s gotta get to his aerobics class!

So after a week of bingeing like a maniac, I was ready for Saturday to absolve me of all my foodie sins. Laced up the sneaks, loaded the iPod with my favourite workout jams, and then reassured myself in the bathroom mirror that I’m too young to die suddenly on a treadmill no matter how out of shape I am.

Ahhhh! The smell of spandex and bros on a hungover Saturday afternoon. Is there any other smell on the planet that can make me feel both self-conscious and embraced at the same time?

The gym wasn’t overly busy, I was able to get a machine right away. I debated starting off gently with an easygoing pace vs. pushing myself to see how much stamina I still had. Then I figured, fuck it, I’ve got a lot of guilt on my hips this week so it’s better to be brave and fail as opposed to wussing out completely. I programmed the machine for 40 minutes at 7 mph and held on for dear life.

At first I huffed and puffed like I was going to blow the whole gym down, and then eventually I slipped back into that familiar rhythm. My muscles responded like crispy, neglected houseplants. They soaked up every ounce of exertion that I doled out. I bobbed along to the music, checked out some of the tight butts on the machines in front of me for motivation, and let myself get lost in sweaty progression.

Before I knew it, 40 minutes was up. Oh the ecstasy! I had fucking crushed my first workout. Boo-yaaa, take that fellow gym rats. Smash is back with a vengeance! It was by far the most glorious moment of my week. And that’s no easy feat considering how many delicious moments I had this week.

I think the best strategy for me is to keep up with the gym while I slowly ween myself off the junky foods that make me swoon. I mean, I’m not going to cut things out entirely. I’ll still rock the occasional skittle breakfast when needed, let’s not be insane here people.

Working out feels so good. Not as good as eating whatever the fuck I want will ever feel, more of a distant second to that. “Being healthy” is a totally foreign concept to me. There’s nothing I despise more on this planet than a fucking salad. Why don’t I just save the 8 bucks and munch on the front lawn for free?

I may not adapt well to these changes initially, but for now I’m gonna get me some strange and see how I like it. And I will count every workout that I survive as a tremendous victory for that day.

Treadmill, you’re my bitch now! And don’t you ever forget it.