It’s become very trendy to use the hashtag of the day. As I sometimes find it difficult to associate with some of them, as they apply to the younger age group, here is what I propose as new hashtags of the day for us in that 25-40 age group…

#alzhaimermonday
Featuring pictures of yourself at your workplace, not quite ready for the day because you forgot to set your alarm clock the night before. Alternative could be a tweet about a different shoe/sock combination on each foot, as well as forgetting the stove on, the kids at home, the keys in the car... endless opportunities really.

#margaritatuesday
This one is more of a challenge day. The goal is to sneak an adult beverage into work, concealed into a smoothie, a coffee, any soft drink really, then enjoy it at the least important meeting of the day. Tweet how the beverage has improved your work experience.

#fatpantswednesday
Ah, the infamous aftermath of Taco Tuesday at the local Mexican food restaurant, a picture of yourself in your stretchiest most forgiving pants. Shouldn't have had that last margarita either, but you did. You go champ!

#maybeimgettingsickthursday
With high hopes of calling in sick on Friday, document yourself using all props available to appear and sound as sick as possible.

#blackoutfriday
Self-explanatory. Bunch of pictures you don't remember taking, and somewhat wish you never took them.

#hairofthedogsaturday
Acceptable entries: Alcoholic beverage with a fruit or a vegetable in it.

#desperationsunday
The impending doom of the Monday morning, made better with outdoor day drinking. You'll sober up by the morning, right?

Catfishing… how low would you go?

Recently, fueled by horror stories of online dating, and my friend’s experiences I can only describe as “close encounters of the creepy kind”, I decided to conduct an independent study, a social experiment if you will, on current dating standards. I am aware that some of you may be concerned about the morality of my action but hey – it was for research purposes.  No harm was intended, or even implied.

As they say, curiosity is not a feline’s friend, and boredom is the leading cause of bad ideas. Here I was, with internet access, and several friends facing the challenges of meeting people online, I thought – let’s see how hard would it be. I carefully selected four pictures, and kept one unfiltered, the next one slightly retouched, third one perfected, and the fourth one edited to smithereens. I went to a popular dating site, and created a profile with a silly user name, average everything, used song lyrics to describe myself (Steve Miller – the Joker), and as my occupation I listed “A Stripper”. Figured someone is smart enough to figure out I was being sarcastic. With a quick click of a mouse, the proverbial hook was now cast into the dating pool. Now we wait. Dun dun dun.

One hour later, I logged on to find 33 messages. WOW. Turns out 28 of them were just a “hi”. I automatically decided to discard one word messages for simple lack of effort – a wise move if I may say so myself. Five remaining were complimenting my looks, asking what do I do for fun, which strip club I work in, what am I doing that night and would I consider dating a Christian. Random. I politely responded with short, non-committal messages. Now, what happened next is how I envision a reaction of a bunch of sharks to a blood bank truck that ended up in the water. All asking for my phone number so they can send me a more intimate picture. I felt like vomiting, I had to walk away for a minute. I thought to myself, is this what dating has become? What happened to talking about likes and dislikes, going to a movie, dinner, hike, courting, anticipation of the first kiss, actually getting to know someone, actually looking forward to being with somebody? Did we really sum it all down to “Hi"? I am Bob. I like ice cream and watch True Blood. Here’s a picture of my penis”. I poured myself a hefty serving of vodka cause hey – its motherland somewhere – and concocted a devious plot. I was to randomly select an individual, and determine exactly how low someone would go for a chance at a casual encounter. I picked out a subject that I found somewhat attractive, someone who I thought would not have an issue getting a date, and started the chat. In the meantime, I decided to use my friend’s prospect, which happened to be online at the time, as a control subject so I sent him a quick hi. After his response gave me hives, I decided to add him too. What the heck. If I go to hell, might as well have a good reason. Gave myself a week, turns out I needed less than 24 hours.

3 messages into the chat, I was asked if I would consider having some “fun” that night. Well, I got blunt. Offered porn star quality action, with a twist. I casually kept adding things that would possibly discourage someone, in this particular order: boyfriend, baby, breastfeeding, unemployed, drug problem, paid escort, alcoholic, on period and, out of sheer desperation, herpes. Well that did it, but only because both of them didn’t want to use protection. Hold on, hold on there, sooo you’d have unprotected sex with a prostitute who is high and recently had a baby, and is on her period? What in the fucking world is wrong with you? In my personal opinion, a banana peel is a better alternative, but hey – to each their own. I know I sound judgmental and, you know what, I don’t give a flying rats ass. How in the fucking world is one supposed to find a future husband in the sea of dick pictures? Can the dick talk? Can it change car oil? Would the dick hold my hand in public? So so so many questions!

Let’s switch over to my friend’s “prospect”. I chose to inform her because I would be a really shitty friend if I withheld this kind of information. I asked him, multiple times, is he seeing somebody, only to receive a negative response. Why why why why why is it OK to mislead someone and to always be on the quest for something bigger, better, faster, stronger? If you wonder why you have regrets in your life, it is because you spent your entire life looking up, when you could have just looked in front of you, you dumbass.

It was that precise moment I realized that, should an unfortunate event force me to go back “out there” to search for a mate, I am better off starting my own commune, raising kangaroos and other assorted mammals, growing my own food (ok, maybe having Safeway deliver it), and running away from this disgusting society. I don’t want to live on this planet anymore. We took something as simple as a human connection, and turned it into sexting  and chlamydia.  

Congratulations, we have regressed to primate mating, and live in a world where every kiss begins with a dick pic.  Relationship in a microwave. Who’d have thunk. 

Spanx you very much.

For a while now, I've been entertaining the thought of using slimming undergarments as my own smoke and mirrors, in an attempt to look, well,  very shmexy, as opposed to just simply good. 
My journey began on a day not too long ago, could have been a Wednesday, when I was packing for a trip that involved attending a very nice wedding. Fooled by the shiny packaging and the pretty picture, I packed a spanx slip (removes inches! contours! chops, slices, juliennes!). 
Fast forward to the day of the event... I am ready to get dressed and have 15 minutes to go... should be enough for finishing touches on the hair. Now, I suspect I was possessed by a demonic force, as I suddenly decided to wear the aforementioned shmexyfying slip underneath my dress. 
Took it out of the package, looks simple enough, not as much stretch as I thought but, you know, should fit. Naturally, I first try to put it on over my head. I got it to right above my boobs, from which point it refused to move in any other direction and it just sat there like a sad role of despair. I somehow unrolled the straps and got those in the right place, but then decided i should get it over my boobs... big mistake. After 5 minutes of struggling, one side was halfway down my boob, and the other one was cutting off circulation giving me a makeshift breast reduction. Now, being a stubborn bitch that I am, I don't give up that easy. Couple scrapes, bruises, and one chafed boob later, the roll of fabric was now underneath my breast. Great success. Little did I know that the second portion of this exercise will require olympic athlete stamina, combined with flexibility of a kitten in heat. At this point, I was already late for pictures so I thought I might as well finish and see how this sonofabish looks on. Do not attempt this at home, or unsupervised. For the next 10 minutes I placed my legs and my arms in positions I didn't think were possible. I'm quite certain I dislocated my shoulder so I can pull one of the snaps together, just to realize that the front of the slip (from now on referred to as a personal torture device) has now rolled up again... and this went on until I was so sweaty that I had to change my make up. My hair also looked like I either got molested by a silverback, or dried it standing in front of a jet engine. 
Finally! All the pieces were in place and oh my, did I look like sex on a stick, everything tucked into place and properly stowed away for take off and landing...  although I was oxygen deprived, the haze only made the rest of the world look amazing too. I strutted into the room feeling like I just found shoes on sale... and then I realized, to my horror, that I had to pee...