As I’ve mentioned before, I have little-to-no inner thought. I say most of what I think. This can be good, this can be bad, this can be embarrassing and sometimes, just sometimes this can be funny.
About five years ago I was at a party with people who grew up a little differently than I did. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a comfortable, middle class life. I went to summer camp, went cottaging, sailing…bla bla bla. But the people I was hanging out with on this particular day grew up VERY comfortable. Like ‘never having to work a day in their lives if they don’t want to’ comfortable.
So, I was at this party, in this two floor massive penthouse right downtown having a grand ole time, you know; hobnobbing, drinking Absinthe, telling jokes, laughing on the patio…when I got a chill (it was December). Luckily, one of the nice fellows at the party offered me his blazer so I wouldn’t be so cold.
After standing around talking for a while, without thinking I reached into the pocket and pulled out a business card. I asked the owner of the coat what the card was for.
He responded: ‘Oh that’s for my new Ferrari I just bought’
So, without thinking or even blinking, I announced to the entire circle we were standing in that:
“Oh…I drive a 1990 Topaz. Want to trade?”
What’s that all about? It was 2005 and I’m telling someone who just bought a NEW Ferrari that I drive a 15 year old rustmobile? And to top it off, asked him if he wanted to trade. Smooth move Woodall. Smooth move. Needless to say, no one asked for my phone number that night.
Part of my job is to find people. My boss will say: “I want the contact information of the brand manager at blabla(big brand here)” and because of my savvy Googling techniques, I can find them. I’m pretty confident, that if you give me a week I can find out information on anyone. Google stalking is quite the skill set that I have acquired.
The problem with this, is that my Google-stalk goes into my personal life. Now, when I meet someone new, if I think of it when I’m bored, I’ll Google them…and once I start Googling, there’s nothing that can hold me back.
Pretty much, I like most other single females commence market research on the new potential people in my life. Here are some of the things I look for:
Are they on facebook?
Do we have mutual friends?
Are our mutual friends people I think highly of?
Are they on twitter? What do they tweet about?
Any public nudity?
Have the been published?
Are they on Linkedin (do they really work where they say they work)?
Did anyone recommend them?
Have they been involved in any public scandals?
Are they criminals?
I realize that there are a few of you reading this that are like ‘what’s that all about?’ this girl’s crazy. I admit that part of that statement is true however – to all my male friends that are less crazy, and my long coupled off girlfriends…this is just what WE do (WE being most single ladies). This is so common, that they talk about Googling people in movies, magazines…even on the Tyra Banks show, Fox, and CNN. That’s right people CNN.
We live in an age of information, so why wouldn’t you gather as much information that’s available?
Here’s why – LinkedIn. Don’t go there. This ‘research’ that you are gathering on your new interest is quasi normal (emphasis on quasi), however…on LinkedIn, they can see who clicked on their profile. Which means…they can see that YOU Google-stalked them. So you go from harmlessly looking up your potential suitor, to crazy psycho girl.
And the fact that it takes away from the excitement of it all. But goodness, pressing SEARCH can be so much fun!
My 21st birthday was quite a series of fortunate and unfortunate events.
Fortunate:
My godparents gave me the best bottle of Champers I’ve had to date!
My friends from Windsor drove up to see me
My roommates hosted a mini-pre party before the real party
My boyfriend at the time (Darren) came up with a childhood friend of mine (let’s call him Carl Fyons)
We had a million people sleep over because the party was so good, including my roommates brother Jack
Unfortunate:
I was diagnosed with Mono that afternoon
When helping my boyfriend unpack the car, I took out bags that belonged to his friends that drove him to Guelph – they were on their way to a wedding near Toronto, and I took their suits on them…oops
Jack pants’d me
Carl Fyons saw my bird
So, because I had Mono, my boyfriend and I took off early from the bar to go to bed. When everyone came home they were all loud, drunk and still rowdy, so I went up to see how the rest of the night was.
Jack was passed out on one of the three couches in our living room, so I stood in front of him and was talking to the girls and Carl. Then all of a sudden, I felt a tug on my PJ’s and my pants were on the floor. I got pants’d. What’s that all about? Who pants a girl? Apparently Jack does.
With my bare bottom in Jack’s face and my lady parts exposed to the girls and Carl, I pulled my t-shirt down, sat on the couch and yelled to the room “Carl Fyons saw my bird”.
I wasn’t mad that Jack pants’d me, in truth it was really funny. But c’mon, who pants a girl?
At a work outing I was standing with two of my bosses, when they decided that they wanted to head out. They brought up the common question asked before one leaves a bar: “to ghost, or not to ghost?”
Ghosting…What’s that all about?
Ghosting, well one of it’s definitions, is to leave a bar or event with out letting your friends know – ex. Poof! He’s gone. The thing about ‘ghosting’ is that only men can do it.
Below is what happens if a man decides to ‘ghost’:
“Where’d Bill go?” “I don’t know”
Below is a list of reactions that could happen if a girl decides to ‘ghost’:
Excessive calling to their handset
Search parties set out on the hunt
Other girls in the group yelling at each other
Crying, lots of crying
Potential fights with friends that could last for years
Getting reamed out when found
Years of ‘remember when’ stories, that one may have wanted to forget
So ladies, my advice – find one friend and just say bye. It just may save you years of grief.
A few weeks back I was channel surfing, when I stopped at Man in the Iron Mask. As per usual, I got right into it (I may love Leo just a touch).
Because I was so into the show, I did not continue my channel surfing when the commercials started to play, I watched them all. They were your typical Saturday afternoon commercials ex. yogurt commercials, lady time commercials and sad reality shows (I’m too fat, Love your naked self…etc).
BUT then came the next commercial. The ad started with a woman in her mid 40’s jumping on a trampoline admitting to the world that she could jump with out even a drizzle. What’s that all about? Did not expect that. This was when I questioned what channel I was watching. Turns out it was the Diva network – which explains a lot.
This ‘trainer’ helps you strengthen you pelvic muscles. My initial thoughts were: Does a coach come to your house? Is it an instructional book? What kind of channel/show am I watching? AND maybe I need to rethink the type of programming that I watch because the show I was watching was targeted to 45+ women. Clearly I needed to answer my questions, so I went to the website: www.jumpformyself.com
Turns out, they are selling a ‘strengthener’ ‘trainer’ that to me, looks like something you would buy at Aren’t We Naughty.
The above picture is the:
Plus 3 Value Set
Myself® Trainer Value Set includes 3 additional sensors for consistent use. Limited Time Free Shipping* ($21.95 value)
INCLUDES:
1 Myself® Trainer with full-color display
1 Vaginal Sensor with cover for hygienic storage PLUS 3 additional vaginal sensors
1 Premium storage case
Easy, step-by-step Use & Care Guide
Progress Tracker, to see your results!
Yep, that’s right, a progress checker. You can now measure how strong your hoo-ha is, whenever you want. I’m thinking that this may be a whole new level of laziness. If a woman can’t bring herself to flex and compress and she needs a machine to do it for her, I’m pretty sure that today’s woman needs a good head shaking. Who knows though, maybe when I’m a grown-up I’ll rethink my position on this.
Where I work, primarily, I work directly with Tay. She and I are like partners in crime -aka. Batman and Robin (I will at some point write about an email chain I once had explaining our ‘worknership’ – I’m in marketing, I can make words up if I want to). To sum it up, we send joint emails, if someone makes fun of her I push them, we bicker in public…you get the gist.
Anyway, in April we had two wonderful employees (Scotty and Laura) leave to start their next life adventures. Because of this we were all heading out, having some cocktails and then going to Lou Dawgs for some Loutine…mmm Loutine!
Despite the fact that we work in a fairly young office, we rarely go out as a company. We don’t really go for after work drinks and we don’t really meet up on weekends unless it’s a birthday. For the most part, we have SO much fun together during the week (I promise that isn’t sarcastic), that we are all fine to see our other friends on evenings and weekends…plus almost everyone here is married or may as well be.
On this particular day, in the morning Tay-bird screamed in excruciating itchiness that she had a huge bug bite that looked like a spider bite. So, she rubbed a little cream on it and hoped it would chill out shortly.
Side note: On this particular day Tay was right and ready to go out – this is a very rare occasion, one that must be celebrated to the highest extent that one can celebrate.
The festivities began right when the clock hit 5:30. We had a champagne toast, gave some cards and played some Rock Band. This is when we noticed that her spider bite was starting to swell.
We headed to our destination, got out of our perspective cars and walked over to Lou Dawgs. Her foot at this point pretty much doubled in width and was now spreading up her cankle – oh sorry, I meant ankle.
She and I walked over to Shoppers Drug Mart, where the pharmacist suggested that she may need to go to the hospital if the spreading did not stop. Drunk and in disbelief, she and I headed to the allergy pill section and up to the cash. Her foot had now started to change colours and was ginormous, so naturally, forgetting we were in public, we began speaking in Tay’s foot voice:
“I will crush you” said the foot.
We headed back to the party and to our dismay she had to leave because her foot hurt too much.
It turned out that she ended up having to go to the emergency room the next day because it started to spread up her leg. What’s that all about? AND on the one night she was ready let her hair down – she gets bit by a SPIDER? That’s just crazy.
Tay-bird was the butt of jokes when she returned back to the office – after having to take a sick day to elevate her poor little (giant) foot. So, over the next few weeks, her foot was assigned a few TO-DO’s on our scheduling board:
1) Change colour
2) Get smaller
3) Learn Spanish
Damn foot didn’t learn Spanish, but after a month completed the first two -TO-DO’s. In conclusion, some crazy spider bug bit Tay and now when she goes home at night time she looks like this:
Hello All! I’m realizing now that I should have introduced Max. I think I thought that because he introduced himself, that I didn’t need to…so better late than never. Max is a very talented creative writer. From writing for his blog, writing ads for work, or writing comedy skits for NBA players, Max’s sense of humour is up there with the funniest of the funniest. I’m thinking we’ll be hearing lots about him later in his career; whether he ends up writing for SNL, writing for a sitcom, or just writing anything awesome, Max will take the comedic world by storm.
Square on the penis
Hello WTAA readers, my name is Max and I work/live close to Ms. what’s-that-all-about herself, which I must say, is fairly awesome. I recently experienced a very peculiar incident and thought it would be perfect to share on this weblog. And that is the end of my introduction.
Two weeks ago I went to meet some Aussie friends at a pub for a few drinks near Queen and Niagara. For those of you not from Toronto, this is a corner where you’re just as likely to cross paths with a disheveled homeless person as a young rich person with trendier sunglasses than you. The meeting went well (I’m almost certain I single-handedly facilitated a sloppy make-out between one of the young Aussies and a rather large woman) and seeing as it was past my bed time, I decided to head home. I started to walk west and just as I passed this slow-walking gaggle of women, my evening, and the dryness of my pants, drastically changed.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a two-toned Audi TT speed down the empty street and then it happened: a full bottle of Aberfoyle water flew from the open window, past the gawking gaggle of women and hit me directly in the dick. Yes, someone threw a full bottle of water from a speeding car and hit me square on the penis.
What the eff is that all about?
So I’m standing there with this stain emanating from my junk region and a million thoughts run through my head. Actually, 5 thoughts ran through my head:
Did I just get hit in the dick with a full bottle of water?
If he was aiming at me, part of me can’t even be mad because that was an incredible throw. I mean, shit, I’m the type of guy who “beat” Duck Hunt by holding the gun right against the screen and this guy just hit the bulls-eye from 20 feet away whilst doing 60 in an uncomfortably low car.
Are those chicks actually laughing at me? Because I was literally right beside them when it happened, meaning there’s a good chance they were the targets. Either way, they’re pretty ugly so I guess we all have our problems.
Where are the police at when you need them? This was on the Thursday before the G20, meaning I literally saw over 150 police officers on that strip of Queen St. over a two hour span that night. Yet, when an actual act of terrorism goes down (don’t dismiss that claim, my pants, penis and ego were terrorized) the only people to witness this 2-million-hit-worthy YouTube video are a gang of apparently mirror-less “ladies” who think Ke$ha is the next Madonna.
My dick kinda hurts.
And that’s it. As I walked home, the water and anger slowly evaporated and I thought about how I was going to tell this story a hundred times the next day. Somehow, I only shared it a few times since but I’m happy to share it with you now. And so just in case you were wondering, that’s what getting hit in the dick with a full bottle of water is all about.
Jenerally Speaking - What's that all about? 
