How I learned that you should take the hoodie off the hook before putting it on


I wish my personal style could be described as “bed bug.”

My personal style can be described as “frumpy athlete”. I wear socks with my flip flops, comfy leggings, and giant hoodies. If I’m at work then I wear a comfy top that barely passes for “business casual.” Everything is big and chunky and comfy and warm. I feel like I’m perpetually in the cocoon stage of what should be my metamorphosis. Do I look good? Probably not. But do I love feeling I’m cuddled by a fire 24/7? Heck yeah, I do!

Personally, if I could get away with going to work wrapped in a giant comforter, I would.

That’s totally not the point of this blog though.

The point is that I wear hoodies and like any good adult, I sometimes hang my hoodies up when I’m not wearing them. I have lots of those little hook things you put over the top of your door for all of my hoodies because I have more hoodies than sense. Normally I come home, take my hoodie off and then hang it up. Then when I leave the house, I pull a hoodie down off a hook and put it on as I walk out the door.

Except this one time where I decided to crawl up into one of my hoodies while it was still on a hook. It looked easy! Just slide my head and arms on up and keep on walking. One fluid, and smooth motion. I was a genius. Why didn’t I think of this before? Why did I waste time taking my sweaters off the hook and then putting them on? So there I was, crawling up into my hoodie and sliding my arms into the sleeves and…


I had hung myself up on the door.


Let me explain! I’m tall at an easy 5’10” so this situation never crossed my mind. It didn’t occur to me that my hoodie hanging off a door hanger would be too high up for me to slip off the hook once I was in m hoodie. So there I was. Hung up on my door with the rest of my hoodies. To make matters worse, I had put the hoodie on backwards so I was dangling from my door and couldn’t see what I was doing.

It took me a solid five minutes, but I eventually got myself down, got my hoodie turned around, and got myself to work. I wasn’t even late for work! I was just slightly miffed that my genius idea hadn’t turned out to be so genius after all.



I shouldn’t cook topless



I don’t have a whole lot of body confidence. Which is weird because I dislike clothes and love being naked. I will wear flip flops year round unless there is at least an inch of snow on the ground and I will traipse around my home in as little clothing as possible. It’s more comfortable and just means less laundry for me. If not wearing clothes means I get to be comfy and do less laundry then I am all for it. Plus being naked is just all kinds of decadent fun.

It’s not so great for cooking though.


No matter how often I think that it’s ok to cook in only a sports bra and shorts, it never is. I used to have some scars on my stomach from an unfortunate bacon cooking incident and a burn mark from a run in with a hot pan. I’ve burnt my hands, my chest, stomach, shorts, and even my hair and…sometimes I learn from it. Very briefly I learn my lesson.

Except I forgot all of those lessons while making soup the other night. I still have scars on my person, but I still decided to ignore them and traipse around in my kitchen in a sports bra and sweats. I had been cooking without incident for several months and was confident in my mad kitchen skills.

Everything was smooth sailing on my potato soup making adventure. Bacon was made with no incident. Potatoes were chopped and put in the pot with broth with no incident. In fact, I had followed the whole recipe without incident. I had cut, measured, and done everything with care as the recipe told me to do.


Or at least I had until I realized that I had forgotten to add celery to the pot. The pot that was now full of piping hot liquid. The pot that was almost full to overflowing because I should have used a bigger pot. Of course I didn’t think of any of this then. The recipe said to add the celery so I was going to add the damn celery.

Without any thought, I picked up the cutting board covered in celery, grabbed my knife to scrape it in, and pivoted to start carefully scraping the chopped and crunchy green bits into the pot. Cutting board in one hand, knife in the other, everything was fine. I can cook now. I don’t need adult supervision. I carefully slid little bits of celery in a little bit at a time. I gently scraped and pushed those crunchy green bits in, bit by bit.

Or at least I did until being careful was taking too long. Patience is not one of my virtues. I’m also not known for thinking my thoughts through. At this point I was a kitchen wizard and nothing could hurt me. So instead of continuing to carefully add the celery to the pop full of nearly boiling liquid, I tipped my cutting board up and dumped the rest in with an audible scrape and SPLASH.

A splash that sent a tidal wave of potato filled, scalding broth flying up into the air. A splash that caused hundreds of tiny drops of burning liquid to spatter across my stomach and always ample cleavage. A yelp of pain and terror escaped as a line of burning liquid burrowed its way into the abyss of my chesticles and I immediately dropped my cutting board and knife to try and claw the liquid away from me.

sharp knife

Let’s read that sentence again.


As soon as I let go of the knife I let out a yelp of terror as I jumped back from the falling blade.

Then I just stood there. Potato soup spattered across my chest and stomach like some weird porn, knife and cutting board on the floor, and the smell of burning potatoes that had escaped into the element slowly filling my kitchen. There was really nothing for me to do in that moment. I just stood there and admired the mess that only I could make while trying to make soup.

Really good soup too, I might add. I eventually finished making my soup and it was darn delicious even though my cleavage was a bit sore from the cascade of hot broth that jumped down there. Now for at least the next few months I’ll cook fully clothed despite loving nudity and hopefully I’ll cook with a little more care and patience.

I mean…probably not, but a girl can hope right?


I Killed a Spider


i see pride

I am a strong, independent woman. I live alone, I can kind of cook for myself, I can put out fires all on my own, and as long as I don’t have to kill spiders or care for myself when I’m sick, I am great at living single life. I am basically that one scene from Cool Runnings in real life.

Anyway, as per my usual Friday night shenanigans, I was laying in bed watching a movie. I had my lights out and I was just getting ready to drift off to sleep amid Captain Jack Sparrow announcing that he had a jar of dirt when out of the corner of my eye I saw something huge and very gross skitter down my wall and drop on to the floor. Of course the only light that I had to see it by was my TV so I couldn’t be sure that it was a huge creepy crawly or if it was my hair moving around in the shadows. Sometimes it really is my hair and I’ll immediately want to shave my head to avoid future terrors.

This time though? I couldn’t be sure. Was I sleepy and just seeing things? Or was there a spider skittering off somewhere to lie in wait for me to bite me and not give me any neat super powers? Because the only things I get from spider bites are rashes and horrible bumps that hurt to touch.

Just to be sure that it wasn’t my crazy mass of curls going bonkers in the light of my laptop, I turned my light on and looked around for a large spider with hairy legs. I saw nothing. Except I was still convinced that I saw something, so I left my light on. In that moment I was hoping to all deities that what I saw was a combination of my sleepy mind and my frizzball hair. There is no way that something that huge could be in my bedroom. However, I was still going to sleep with my light on. Just in case. Or maybe I woul-


I saw it go scuttling across my bedroom floor and into my bathroom. It had long, spindly legs, a giant body, and it was making a break for the bathroom like it had eaten its weight in laxatives and it’s butt was about to explode with spider turds.

In summary, I had not mistaken my curly, crazy hair for a spider. The spider was a spider.


In that moment I decided that I needed a booty call. Except instead of coming over for sex, they would come over and kill spiders for me at 1am. No questions asked. No expectations. They would just walk in, I would point the creepy crawly out, then they would kill it and leave. Maybe they would cuddle me after if it was a particularly huge spider. This spider killing booty call has been one of my longest standing wishes and one of the few reasons that I would get into a relationship. I would marry the person who promised to always kill spiders for me. I’m willing to settle for a friends with spider killing benefits situation though.

But with no one else to kill the spider for me, it was up to me to blast “Eye of the Tiger” and go kill the thing. It took me a solid 5 minutes to root the thing out from behind the toilet and kill it, but it eventually died a horrible death after I sprayed it in place with extra strength hair spray and squished it.

As I knelt over the dead creepy crawly I couldn’t help but consider the problems of frizzy hair and single life. I considered shaving my head, but my skull is super lumpy and I don’t want a potato head, so I won’t be doing that. After that I considered being in a relationship, but then I realized that I was dressed in boxers pulled up to my tits with a scarf tied around my head as a sweatband and…well, I also realized that I’m not ready to give up single life either.

But hey, if you’re reading this and want to kill spiders for me at 1am, hit me up.

I ripped my pants at the gym

camel toe

Front wedgies are fun…

As a tall, fat chick, I have the joy of never being able to find pants that fit me. As a tall, fat chick who has lost 4 pants sizes in the last year, I also have the joy of constantly having to buy new pants every few months because I keep shrinking in the wash. I find things that are long enough in the leg, but too big in the waist. I find things that fit my waist, but don’t fit my hips. I find things that fit my hips and waist, but don’t fit my legs. Sometimes I find pants that fit perfectly as long as I pull them up to my tits. And for whatever reason, sometimes I find pants where the crotch isn’t long enough so I wind up with an awkward front wedgie.

So I buy all of my leggings from Wal-Mart. They are cheap, they fit, and they are durable as fuck.  I love my Wal-Mart leggings. They’re comfortable, I can get away with wearing them at work, I can hike in them, I can workout in them, and I can be a lazy cucumber in them.

Unfortunately, like many people in this world, I love sales. This particular sale happened to be at one of the few plus-sized clothing companies that BC has. All of their active-wear was buy one, get one free, and who doesn’t love a good BOGO? So I wound up buying a nice long sleeved shirt, but there wasn’t another one like it in my size so I randomly started trying on leggings and found a pair that fit. They were comfy, I could move around in them, and they were actually quite nice. I spent a solid 5 minutes hopping around in them to test them out to make sure that I liked them and could trust them before I took them home.

They were nice. Naturally they were black because none of the leggings with neat colours or patterns fit me, but that was ok. I like black. The material was nice too. It felt breathable and light. I was actually really enjoying these new pants of mine.

Or at least I was enjoying them until I got to the gym the and started moving around. The material that was breathable and light suddenly felt flimsy and transparent. I confirmed the transparency by doing a squat in front of one of my gyms many mirrors and saw that my undies were definitely visible. How the hell did I miss that in the change room when I bought them?

But my undies were black and I wasn’t wearing a thong, so no big deal, right?


downward dog

At that point I was only 30 minutes into my workout and was determined to do a full hour so I carried on. I worked my way through some of my favourite exercises and decided that my leggings weren’t so bad. I would just have to wear black undies with them at all times. Or at least that’s what I thought as I tossed a mat on an empty space of floor and set myself up to finish my workout with planking and a bit of downward dog pose.

Everything was fine while I was planking and even though I was shaking I lifted my body into downward dog. I shifted my weight around and made a few corrections to my balance, and felt really good about the pose. So good that I slowly started walking my feet towards my hands to challenge myself a little bit. One step. Two steps. Three ste-


kool aid man

I felt my ass burst free of my pants like the Kool-Aid man bursts through a wall. The seam of my leggings split open in one quick tear. Just like that my ass was in the air, and it was free. My pants were split wide open and if I hadn’t been wearing underwear I would have been ready for either an intense mating ritual or a colonoscopy.  In any event, my leggings were now a tattered flag of failure flapping open and useless. My 30 year old bottom had officially been presented to society.

Carefully, I stood up and looked around. Thankfully there were only a couple of ladies in the area to witness my ass busting free of it’s prison and they didn’t seem to notice the event. If they did notice, they were nice enough not to say anything. Since they didn’t seem to care about my rear-end hulking out of my pants, I turned my back to a mirror and tried to inspect the damage. There was a lot of posing and twisting, but no one even glanced my way as I made the attempt to see how bad the rip looked.

The seat of my leggings were wide open and my first thought was that my personal trainer would find this hilarious. Again, no one around me seemed to care so I grabbed my phone to try and take a picture of my butt. Not surprisingly, that’s when I started to get weird looks from the ladies working out near me. I mean, I was standing in front of a mirror trying to take a picture of my butt…

After a couple more attempts to take a quick pic of my butt, I gave up. The ladies that could see me didn’t look at all approving of my shenanigans.

I also gave up  because I realized I was trying to take a picture of my butt to send to my personal trainer (trust me when I say, she wouldn’t have minded and thought it was hilarious too). At that point I called it quits, got changed, and went home. From now on, I’m sticking to buying my leggings from Wal-Mart. The gym is no place to risk having a Gone Wild version of Show and Tell happening.

I decided to thread my lady parts


Looks easy, right? RIGHT?!

I’ve been getting my eyebrows threaded every few weeks for the last 5 or 6 years. Otherwise I tend to grow a uni-brow and wind up with two large caterpillars living on my face. The ladies in the salons where I get my eyebrows threaded make it seem really easy. I go in, sit down, and less than 10 minutes later, I have finely arched brows curving gracefully across my forehead. It’s fairly painless, it’s quick, doesn’t require an appointment usually, and I’m always amazed at how cleaning up my eyebrows a bit totally changes how my face changes.


Yeah, my eyebrows can kind of like this…


The whole process seems really easy! You just zip the thread across where the hairs are and they get flicked off like they never existed there. It’s magical and I’ve never really gotten how it worked, but running some twisted thread across my skin seems like a really easy thing, right?


This is exactly what I thought a few years ago when I saw a tutorial for threading your own eyebrows. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy! I watched the tutorial a few times, grabbed a spool of purple thread, and practiced the hand motions while watching the video a few more times. Then I practiced a few more times without the video to make sure that I knew what I was doing. I totally knew what I was doing.

Then seconds later I zipped off the very end of my right eyebrow. Not a lot. Just like half a centimeter off the very end where the pointy part of my eyebrow was supposed to be. Just, ZIP!  It was gone and I was stunned. Where the fuck did the end of my eyebrow go? How did it go so quickly? What the fuck just happened?

I zipped off the end of my eyebrow is what happened.

I decided to leave threading my eyebrows to the pros after that. The lesson that I learned that day was that it would be really easy for me to accidentally zip both of my eyebrows off and wind up having to draw on my fine and graceful arches. If you’ve ever met me, like I’ve met me, you’ll know that my artistic skills are highly suspect, so drawing my eyebrows on was a bit ole NOPE.

Then I forgot about this weird skill that I have, but have never used until last week when I saw a random threading tutorial pop-up. This one girl decided to practice threading on her weirdly hairy legs and it seemed to work. She wound up with some weirdly silky limbs that I admired.

This got thinking about threading other parts of my body. I briefly considered my armpits, and while I was admiring my slightly fuzzy underarms I realized that I probably didn’t have the dexterity or flexibility to thread my own pits. Arms? I do have hairy arms. Again, not possible since you need to use both hands for threading. Legs? I’d just shaved. Lady parts?

I mean…

I hadn’t gotten waxed or shaved down there for a couple weeks so things were getting out of control. My lady garden was a lady national forest. I had to shave or get waxed soon anyway, so why not?


This is what happens when I fall behind on my beauty routine.

Threading is easy, fairly painless, and always leaves the skin under my eyebrows feeling super silky and looking pretty.

It couldn’t hurt to try. In the worst case scenario, I would have to shave my downtown because threading would take too long. That was the only downside I could think of.

So set myself up in the bathroom to chickscape my lady parts. Leg up on the counter, thread in hand, I was ready. I zipped the thread back and forth in the air to practice things to make sure I knew what I was doing, and then I was ready.

I reached down and…

It as like I was trying to yank my soul out through my pubes.

It was like a paper cut. Except instead of on my finger, it was across my unsuspecting cooter.

It was like getting an accidental shock to my bajingo.

It was cruel and unusual is what it was and I immediately regretted it. Why did I think this was a good idea? All I could do was stand awkwardly in my bathroom, with one leg up on the counter, and stare in shock at what I had just done to myself. One lonely, experimental line was zipped across my hoohah, and I didn’t know if I should laugh or try and forget that I’d ever had this idea.

This painful, ridiculous, bad idea.