Selfie: The Art of Looking Ridiculous

Selfie: The Art of Looking Ridiculous

I love my iPhone. I love the pictures it can take and I love selfies. I love how they add a little humor to an otherwise arbitrary moment in our lives, simply because we have taken a photo of ourselves. Can you imagine our parents trying to take selfies back in the eighties with a Polaroid camera? What I don’t love, is the shameless, attention seeking, half-naked selfie that tells the world, you are so special you’re going to take a picture of yourself, (half naked) because hey, you’re so special you don’t need anyone else to take your picture for you. But let’s be honest, you are taking a picture of yourself in the first place (with no clothes on) because no true friend would take a picture for you posing like the girl in the Guess ads. Selfies are fun and spontaneous and if the citizens of the social media world would just stick to that, we could all be spared pictures of Kim Kardashian’s giant ass popping up on our laptops or the D-List celebutante trying to showcase her supermodel body to the world in the hopes she’ll start trending on Twitter.

Kardashian

I really, really love selfies and I’ve been involved in dozens of them. Every time I do something slightly questionable with my friends (usually involving vodka), I have to admit, a selfie usually follows. But never have I posed in anything short of a full wardrobe or with a facial expression that doesn’t naturally occur on a human. Social media and the selfie have taken the art of looking ridiculous to a whole new level. How many iron pumping, gym selfies do we need to see? I mean, really. Keep them spontaneous. Keep them fun. KEEP. YOUR. CLOTHES. ON.

How awesome was Ellen Degeneres’ record setting Oscar selfie with a slew of A-List stars? Even President Obama is akin to posting a selfie. It’s fun taking a picture of yourself (with your clothes on) or with your friends just being silly but turning your selfie into your come-hither, super sexy face just seems a bit, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall’, to me. Please stop. For the good of mankind.

And if there is one thing that must be addressed in the world of selfie etiquette it is this… girls of the world, PLEASE. STOP. DOING. DUCKFACE. I’m not sure how this rabid phenomenon ever came about – I suspect it had something to do with a Kardashian – but it’s oh so unattractive and to say the least, flat out bizarre. Puckering up your lips to try and create the illusion of bee stung proportions just makes you look like you’re TRYING to make your lips look like bee stung proportions. No one’s buying it. Just like no one’s buying your Wonder Bra under your T-shirt.

To plead my case, here is a list of duckface selfies we should all try really, really hard to banish so that we can all go back to making selfies fun again.

Demure Duckface  Well, I guess this is the point of duckface in general. Trying to hollow in those cheekbones and puff up your smacker to entice the male species. Unless you’ve had a fresh hit of collagen plumping those babies up, please go back to your normal smile and let your lips fall where they may.

Sam

Drunk & Sloppy Duckface – It always seems like a good idea when you’ve had way too many wobbly pops but why add insult to injury? You already look like shit, don’t frame it in a nice little filter for the rest of us to see.

Drunk Girl

Subtle Duckface – I’ve been known to try this one on occasion, just to see if I look *natural*. But really, no matter how subtle you go, the flared nostrils will always give you away. Trust me, you can’t do duckface without flaring your nostrils. It’s like trying to keep your eyes open when you sneeze. Impossible. Mary Kate Olsen has perfected this look over the years. The original subtle duckface girl.

Olsen

I Think I’m Marilyn Monroe Duckface – Should only be done if you are actually Marilyn Monroe. Yes, the duckface goes back to the Golden Age of Hollywood. But she knew how to do it without even trying.

Marilyn

The Self-Obsessed, Vain Woman Duckface – Always accompanied with wardrobe of trashy lingerie or one-piece white bathing suit with giant ass. (Scroll back up to top for full effect).

Sexy Selfie

J-Lo Duckface – Does she ever pose any other way? Eyes slightly squinting, of course to portray the inner sex goddess, lower lip slightly open, like you just wanna beckon that man walking by to, “Come ‘ere!”. Who is J-Lo always squinting at anyway?

JLO

And guys… one for you. Take note:

The Posing In Front Of The Mirror Shirtless At The Gym Selfie – Yeah, dudes, just don’t. Really, just don’t. We know you’re proud of your body and all your hard work, but this kind of selfie screams audition for Ron Jeremy.

Gym Selfie

So just remember, we all appreciate you taking the time to take a picture of yourself, but if you just can’t without exposing more of yourself than the world is willing to see, just know that we will all be embarrassed for you… And you will be embarrassed when you’re eighty.

Horse Selfie

The Original Selfie Guru

xo AM

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Best & Worst of the Sochi Olympics… well, some of it.

(From A Canadian Perspective…)

Sochi

The Best

The Olympic Flame. Every single time, its arrival brings a chill up your spine. And always one of the most moving and emotional parts of the closing ceremonies when it’s extinguished.

Opening ceremonies. The illuminated doves were exquisite. Never mind that one of the snowflakes didn’t open up into the fifth Olympic ring, the ceremonies were spectacular. And lest we forget, this isn’t the first time there’s been a hitch. Remember poor Catriona LeMay Doan in Vancouver 2010, standing in the stadium for those long, awkward seconds, waiting for the arm to come down so she could light it. It never did. There’s already a T-shirt with the faulty Olympic ring. That guy will be a millionaire.

Rings

Dufour-Lapointe sisters from Canada winning gold and silver in the women’s moguls. When Justine cried, we all cried too.

Dufour

Canadian men’s curling physiques. No words necessary, just look at the picture below.

Curling

Ski jumping, slopestyle and aerial skiing – those are some crazy muthas.

Snow boarder interviews. Full of ‘yeah man’s, ‘cool dude’s and ‘right on’s.  Can these guys be any more laid back? Refreshing.

Canadian cross country skiing coach replacing a Russian skier’s broken ski so that he could finish the race. Gilmore Junio giving up his spot in speed skating to allow Denny Morrison to compete. Denny won silver. Junio won the world. Olympic spirit at its finest.

Denny

‘Thanks for the Moms’ commercials. Makes me tear up every time.

Canada’s come from behind win against the Americans in women’s hockey. Astonishing.

Canada winning the gold medal in men’s hockey.

Canada Gold

The Worst (Or just plain odd)

The finish line in cross country skiing. Give these gals some cookies!

Finish Line

The lady knitting at the starting area of the slopestyle. WTF???

Knitttt

Weirdest prop – the giant Russian Matryoshka doll in the middle of the slope style hill. Complete with goggles to protect her from the snow glare. Oh and the palm tree at the base of ski jump. Meant to portray the tropical origins of ski jumping no doubt?

Matryoshka

Norway’s curling pants. Thomas Ulsrud you are a gorgeous man. Do not try to ruin that. (To get the full effect of the picture below, please put on your 3D glasses, now.)

Norway

The aptly named ‘Carnage Corner’ in cross country skiing. Wipe outs galore!

Corrupt figure skating judges. Say what you will about who won what but it was pretty obvious to even the feeblest of fans that something wasn’t right. Will we ever see a skating world without pre-determined results?

White colored men’s bobsled and speed skating uniforms. A little water on the crotch area and the whole world got to see *everything*. Stick with black in aforementioned area for now on. Please.

Res

All in all, a pretty darn amazing games. Now about that Putin….

xo AM

 

 

The Thirtysomething Gal’s Survival Guide For Shopping In Forever 21

The Thirtysomething Gal’s Survival Guide For Shopping In Forever 21 

(Yes, you still can)  

1. First and foremost, accept that in this world, you will be an XL, even if you are a size four. If you can get your arm all the way through the arm hole, call it a success. The only thing that will actually fit is if it says, One Size Fits All – and it will be a scarf. And do not be intimidated by the slew of young whippersnappers trying on gold leggings, torso-less shirts and pleather underwear. Their goal is to look ridiculous. Let them.

Forever 21 Store

2. If you spot a cute, little neon crop top with Hello Kitty on it that you secretly love, exclaim, “Oh my niece would love this!” and make sure someone hears you say it. Whatever you do, do not try it on in the store. Take it home, save yourself the look from the snotty little change room girl who just bought the same top in a different color.

Kitty Crop

3. Seek out the other thirtysomething gal in the store and give her the proverbial nod. You two are in this together, hoping the younger patrons won’t point at you as the older gals shopping in their store.

Polka Dot Panties

4. Stay away from the *5 for $10* bins. They are full of polka dots, bows, little pink animals and jelly-made jewelry. Although every woman loves a bargain, this is one area you must remind yourself you are over thirty. Do not buy from the bins. Not even for your niece. Polka dots only look chic if worn by Kate Middleton the day after giving birth. And I doubt she bought that cute, little dress from Forever 21.

Kate

5. Keep your head up high.  Twenty one is just a number. And be proud of yourself when some young teenaged girl compliments you on your gold stacked bangles. No one has to know you spent $2.99 on them to look like a million bucks.

Forever 21

xo AM

Will You Accept This Ruse? The Reality of The Bachelor

Will You Accept This Ruse?

In light of the new Bachelor season starting up Monday night with, Juan Pablum, er, Juan Don, I mean, something that rhymes with Gellato, here are five good reasons why I would NEVER apply to be on this show.

juan-pablo-shirtless-speedo

Size Matters: I haven’t been a size zero since I was twelve. So my chances of having a money shot in a hot tub died in the late 80’s. I don’t look bad in a bikini, I just don’t look like a model in a bikini. An obvious requirement for this show… unless you want everyone on Twitter to call you Thunder Thighs or Bouncing Betty which they cruelly do. All it takes is one unflattering camera angle and social media users will give you a nick name whether you like it or not. If you’re bigger than a size six, make sure you’re never in a shot beside the skinniest girl on the show. Ever.

Looking Into The Camera Monologues: I only do monologues into a hand held mirror at home, when I’m trying to like myself, or when I’m really drunk and forgot to turn off the Facetime on my iPhone. Doing them in front of America, crying your mascara off because, “I’m totally in love with this guy whom I’ve only gone out with twice and I thought we’d continue this incredible journey and I can’t believe how fast I’m falling for him on this journey but I’m so upset he was kissing Sally on this journey and made out with Jenny after he told me he really, really likes me… blah, blah, blah… on this special journey” will not do you any favors. No one wants to hear that. No one. Or the word journey. We all know the viewers are sitting at home labelling you as the Psycho, the Flake, the Skank or the Supremely Deluded. And having an on-screen heart to heart with Chris Harrison won’t save you. Be warned, this show is ALL about the editing. You might be the sweetest apple pie girl-next-door, but the crafty producers can make even you look like the Psycho.

Cinderella

Odds Are Forever Not In Your Favor: You might find love on a TV show but you won’t make it last. Only a few couples in the history of this show have. Once the free trips to Belize and the wardrobe allowance runs out and he starts taking you for wings at Billy Bob’s or on coffee dates at Free Latte Tuesdays at Starbucks, reality will suck and so will your hopes for a paradise future. If it’s a fairytale you’re looking for, stick to the little books that come with the Disney logo.

starbucks_coupon

The Rose Ceremony: This alone is enough to kill the *dream*. Standing in front of a strange boy, asking him to love you and, Pick me! amongst twenty other girls, all standing there with longing, desperate looks on their faces, no thanks. I only do desperate and longing when I’m begging the department store cashier to give me an extra 10% off. I’ve always found the rose ceremony to be degrading… and the sole reason red roses have been ruined for me. Forever. Not to mention the humiliation you must endure if you’re not given a rose. But then that’s probably because you were either the Psycho, the Flake or the Supremely Deluded.

Dead Rose

My Age: Well I’m screwed on that one. If you’re over thirty, you don’t have a hope in hell. No girl over the age of twenty eight has ever won… except for Mary Delgado but she got herself arrested… a few times. If you’re at least a decade older than the youngest contestant and make it past the first night, you will most likely get another nickname added to your social media presence – The Cougar. Let’s face it, the twenty two year olds on this show are merciless to anyone over thirty. If you even sprout one grey hair while filming, you might as well send yourself home along with your aging eggs. Besides, the producers aren’t interested in casting girls whose laugh lines they can’t hide with good lighting.

But for those of you who’ve made it your mission to get onto The Bachelor, if you suspect you’re the next one getting sent home, go on – be that Psycho girl, be that Flake, be that Drunk Girl and threaten humanity in your last monologue. You may not have won The Bachelor, but at the very least, someone will make a Twitter spoof account of you and you will achieve what you really came on this show to do… YOU WILL BE FAMOUS!

xo AM

Wax On, Wax Off

First Entry for the Virgin Vignettes: A First Time For Everything Series

(The following excerpt is FICTIONAL and told from a first person account of a FICTIONAL character)… but I’m sure this is 100% how it goes…

I could feel my body start to tremble when I saw the neon sign. La Touche. Probably used a French name to make it sound more up-scale. Not that wax salons were a dirty little secret. They simply hovered on the side of unglamorous maintenance. The salon looked unassuming in the strip mall, tucked in between Quan’s Noodle House and some trendy, little maternity shop. I walked in, hoping to God I wouldn’t hear some poor soul screaming from a back room while some evil woman pulled a strip of hot wax from, down there.

“Hello. I’m here for my ba-bikini waxing,” I managed to stammer out before taking a deep breath.

“Oh. Have you had a waxing before?” the nice little receptionist asked.  The fact that her face showed no trace of unwanted hair, I immediately felt put at ease. Bet they can make you as smooth as a baby’s bum here.

“Um, no,” I replied and watched the welcoming smile wipe right off her face. Christ, even she knew I was in for it.

“Alrighty. Well, what’s your name?”

“It’s… (Scared Shitless)… Uh, it’s Sally.”

“Follow me then, Sally.”

A few minutes later I found myself on my back on a bed, waiting for my wax connoisseur, Magda. After she introduced herself, told me she had been doing this for years and promised me *minimal* pain, I wondered how many beavers Magda had seen. Probably a lot. I suddenly felt embarrassed that she was going to see mine in its untamed glory.

“I-I meant to trim it before I came,” I suddenly blurted out. She just gave me a knowing smile, like everyone probably says that. I quickly realized I was going to have to put full trust in this stranger and leave my ladyhood in her capable hands. Much like you do when you go to the medi-clinic doctor whom doesn’t know you from a hole in the ground but is about to get real personal with you. Magda was like that – my Crotch Doctor.

She pulled out an album and handed it to me.

“Pick which design you’d like.” Design? Er, what? I wasn’t going for an Andy Warhol knock off for chrissake, I just wanted a cleaner look, a little off the sides. The album was like those catalogs you look through at the tattoo parlor to pick out a tribal design. Only this one was full of muff shots, hand sketched with precise detail. I had the choice of Triangle, Swirl, Razor Stripes, Half-Moon, Martini Glass, Postage Stamp, Brazilian or the popular yet simplistic, Landing Strip. I suddenly felt like I did when I was ten years old about to get my ears pierced. This smelled suspiciously of the same trick – pick out something pretty, followed by excruciating pain. When she realized I was blushing, she took the album from me and nodded.

Landing Strip (640x480)

“I will do something nice,” she offered. I wondered what that meant. Could she secretly pick out what would look best on me? Like those gals at the make-up counter do? I bet with her experience, Magda could pick out your muff art to match your personality… or your designer handbag.

“What about… Brazilian?” I asked. She gave me a look. That look that someone gives you when they’re really, really scared for you.

“You sure?” she asked. I nodded.

“Well, if I’m gonna run with the Brazilians, might as well go all the way, right?” I said nervously.  I only half heard what she told me. Something that sounded like, hold still, breathe and no screaming.

Then the moment of truth arrived. Magda slapped on the wax, a little too close for comfort. To the point I was sure she was going to nick one of my fallopian tubes.

“Just relax, sweetie.” That had to be the warning shot. I clenched the pillow and repeated her instructions in my head. I knew a girl once who permanently lost her eyebrow when she had it waxed. I just hoped I wasn’t about to lose a labia.

Hold still.  Hold still.  Hold fucking still!

Rip!

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkkkkk!” I didn’t know if that came out of my mouth or hers. I opened my eyes. Magda didn’t flinch. Must’ve been mine. She didn’t even give me a chance to get my wits about me. Another glop of wax was slapped onto the other side. I suddenly fell into a pattern of breathing that was somewhere on the scale of giving birth and hyperventilating, trying to ready myself for another round of torture.

Hold.  Fucking.  Still.

Rip!

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Why did I pick the goddamn Brazilian!? The baldest of the bunch!

Six more agonizing strips and it was over. The snap of Magda’s latex gloves was a relief. It meant her time down there was done. I lifted my head off the pillow, scared to look, but I had to.

Ho-ly shit.

I was hairless. For the first time since middle school. What had I just done?

Magda seemed quite pleased with her work and held up a little hand mirror so that I could take a closer look. I just nodded and bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to supress the lingering pain. I was not going to cry in front of the Crotch Doctor. The proof of my puberty would grow back and thank God, the only thing that was missing was the hair.

“We’ll see you again in three weeks,” Magda said. Oh fuck. I would have to do this again if I wanted to maintain my new look.

And that was the tipping point.

Nope. I was done. The Brazilians could keep their gift to beach going women. I for one would accept the ridicule of an unkempt pasture and gladly leave the pain and torture to someone else.

xo AM

Brazil (640x638)

 

Ode To Movember

For My Father

My father was made of magic. I’m sure of it. Like every father, he was full of super power buttons. But those buttons had one glitch… when pushed, they always activated the same thing – a super power fart. I always had to be careful around my dad for that reason but luckily, he had a ‘tell’ when he was about to let one go. He’d inch up close to you on the couch, eyes darting back and forth, and you’d know, flee the area immediately. It’s stuff like that, I miss the most.

Dad

I thought my dad would live long into old age. I thought he was invincible, that he could beat anything… but he couldn’t beat cancer. Fathers aren’t supposed to die before their time. They’re not supposed to get sick when they’re still young enough to live another thirty years. They’re not supposed to die at all. But they do. And so do brothers, sons, husbands, uncles, cousins and friends. All because we haven’t won the fight.

Every November, when I see the army of men, bearing the badge of hope across their upper lip, it warms my heart. I feel like a comforted child in their company. A band of brothers all trying to do their part to stomp out men’s cancer, growing moustaches not just for the men we’ve lost, but for the men we hope never to lose.

III

I lost my father to prostate cancer four years ago and even now, I still can’t imagine my life without him. I wasn’t done learning from him, I wasn’t done laughing at the same jokes he told over and over, I wasn’t done watching him enjoy the next stage of his life and I wasn’t done loving him. I have realized so many profound things in the last four years without my father and that grief is a tricky thing. It never really goes away. It just simmers below the surface to remind you that something has permanently changed you. You can laugh again, celebrate again, be hopeful again… but you can never be the same again. Never. It doesn’t matter your age when you lose your father. As an adult, you still feel like a six year old, not able to navigate a world without your father. To suddenly find yourself at the front of the line as the next generation to carry on the legacy, is a sobering thought when you’re still young.

If I could hug every man – friend or stranger – walking around with a moustache this past month, raising money for Movember, I would. They didn’t know my dad. They don’t even know me. But I love them. They are my heroes. They remind me that the man who was once the storyteller, the fixer-upper, the counsellor and the comedian, wasn’t in this fight alone. It reminds me that a daughter who lost her father can fight too.

Thank you, men of Movember. You make the world a better place.

xo AM

And I’m Off!

Molly

Hello newcomers. Welcome to my first blog entry! Ever. It only took five years. Sorry, there are no door-crasher specials for being the first one to view this but if you keep on reading, there might be a code embedded in this article to claim a pair of Adam Levine’s knickers (as long as you’re quick on eBay, anything’s possible). I decided to start a blog because sometimes 140 characters just isn’t enough on Twitter and I can’t keep my thoughts to myself when people do ridiculous things. Can anyone? This will mostly be a blog of short, humorous articles, filled with a good dose of sass and sarcasm. Every day type-stuff, pop culture, current affairs and if a Kardashian has another baby, I’ll be sure to devote an entire blog to that. (Wink, wink)

I’m of the Scottish-Canadian breed so I can’t promise that all of these blogs will be written without the aid of a few stouty pints. This will be a refuge for some of my unedited, uncensored thoughts and the odd f-bomb so if you’re okay with being pleasantly offended from time to time and need a good chuckle occasionally, I hope you’ll follow along, share with others and offer a comment or two. If not, just follow me on Twitter @ASMcMillan as you’ll still get the pint-size version of this. This is not a How-To blog of any kind because I don’t do crafts and step-by-step only works if you have patience – I don’t. I won’t be blogging about things like how many noodles my kid stuffed up his nose or a list of the top ten cute things my kid did. Namely because, I don’t have a kid… yet. I won’t be blogging about the coolest recipes because I can’t cook (anything edible) and I won’t be raving about my Pinterest pins because really I only pin Haute Couture, none of which I can afford. I won’t be passing myself off as a lifestyle blogger because I don’t have the kudos to be like Goop, although I covet Gwyneth Paltrow’s hair. I will never post selfies of myself doing duckface. I’ll try only to post photos of myself using Instagram filters if I look like shit. Really, I’m just looking forward to having a lot of fun with this, mostly because I’m a writer and need a place to unleash my two cents to the world until my BIG SHIP comes in. FYI, I write humorous chick lit fiction but I accidentally wrote a YA novel last year. No, there are no fucking vampires in it. I might even blog about, ahem, The Bachelor, from time to time but not because I like that show. So don’t worry, there will be no long, lusty re-caps of A Pimp In Paradise. I promise not to over-blog or post excessively or alert the world when I have a headache, runny nose or have run out of toilet paper. After all, this isn’t Facebook. Once every week or two is my goal. There might even be a serious article or two that comes up. (Movember, you are so near and dear to my heart). So I hope you enjoy my entries and I’d love to hear your comments when I get going… unless you are a douche bag troll just looking to post something nasty, then I’ll happily delete you.

So for now, as my dad always used to say… hangin’ up my end now.  xo AM