Fall Into My Lap: A Life Plan

Perhaps it's my indecisiveness, but careful planning has never been my strong suit. Logical action plans may work for some, but life has shown me it's the kind of party goer that likes to push you straight into the pool rather than asking you to queue in an orderly fashion.

Please feel free to reference any of the following as examples:

• Romantic comedies: dramatized, yet plausible! "The One" could be just around the corner. But first you have to be nearly hit by a cab, mugged on the street, and for good measure, have lipstick on your teeth. Even the movies don't spare us the humiliation.
• Engagement announcements which claim the couple met in a grocery store/dog park/bar. I don't believe you. Unless Amazon's online grocery section now has a chat function.
• Lottery winners. Not particularly for their sheer luck in winning, but rather the amazing ability of humans to find things to spend money on. 

As cliche as it is, life is unpredictable. I hate to sound like a bumper sticker, but that resonates with me more than most life advice. Meticulous preparation often results in heavy anxiety, disappointment and a longing for an imagined life which was never meant to be. How many hours of my life I'll never get back that were spent practicing Oscar acceptance speeches? A staggering, scary amount.

A clear sign I definitely should have been enrolled in more after school activities..

So why do we allow ourselves to fabricate these fantastical ideas?

Simple answer: because it's fun! Nothing makes me quite as giddy as imagining Liam Hemsworth holding a bouquet of roses, so why apologize for any of it? The five year plan is poisonous to our psyche. Granted I'd prefer to know where my next rent cheque is coming from, but I dislike the inherent belief that we can cement future plans. Imagine the people who stockpiled a supply of AA batteries for their home phones feel right about now. Preparation can just as easily make you fall flat on your face.

Life is meant to be a constant gamble, otherwise we'd have been handed scripts in utero. I suppose some people may even live that kind of life - woe is you, future monarchs and heiresses - but that isn't the best use of human ingenuity.

Sign me up for a tiara anyways!

Security is nice, absolutely, but there's a reason we veer off the path - it either doesn't meet our expectations, or plain and simple bores us. To tears. Have you ever cried from the mundane ritual of life? I haven't, and I wouldn't wish such cruelty upon my worst enemy.

Keep yourselves up in the air lovely people,

Nicole

I Hereby Announce my Candidacy for Sass Master

It's been quite a while since I last scribbled out a rant - back then ombre hair was still acceptable, I sincerely believed I would go to the gym every day during Christmas break, and my life hadn't been taken over by a little thing called Trivia Crack.

How the times change.

I do have to disclaim something before I begin, for the sake of political correctness. Today's contribution to my tiny corner of the internet has ulterior motives, and I'm one step away from renting out bus bench ads.

I want to win.

Win what, you may ask? What I was born to win. Something that is so integral to my being, that I would likely die without it.

My sass.

(and melodramatics, apparently).

I'm here to prove my undying commitment to the art of sass in my campaign for the highly coveted Sass Master award. Yes I'm completely serious, and I hope you're enjoying every word of it.

Some of you ladies may have experienced it first hand, others may have to rely on witness accounts. Throughout my four years in this chapter, I have never let an opportunity to showcase my great gift pass me by. I'm the one one woman commentary for the myriad of bad reality television we consume, usually involving gypsy weddings, crying Kardashians and staged lie detector testing. I provide comedic relief to the iciest of meetings and sharp, witty replies to boys who attempt to sass us back (as if they could ever stand a chance). I am the physical embodiment of this, and I know with the prestige of this award, I could possibly even inspire this. I'll start the petition, because it's essential to the fabric of our society.

I'm urging those of you who still haven't done so to VOTE. Where's your democratic spirit? This is of great importance, people. We've all seen the tremendous effects of exercising your voting rights - one only has to turn to the great one, Ms. Elle Woods, to know that nobody wants the generic brand - you want the best. You want to go to Harvard Law School!

And while I may only be doing the road trip, I truly believe I am the best sass there is. Who else would write this as a break from a 20 page research paper? In all honesty, there has probably been more thoughtful effort put into this campaign than my exploration of post-war German-Polish relations. My commitment to excellence knows no bounds.


Suffice to say, I think I'll make you girls proud. As a super senior, I've learned so much from all of you, and I attribute my growing talent to the sassy atmosphere I'm happy to call my home, my sisterhood.* I am happy to say, once you're sassy, you never go back.

If all else fails, I'm not above resorting to bribery - those who know me well probably aren't too shocked to hear this, but I've gone entire winters without shovelling snow due to the persuasiveness of baked goods, served with a side of undying (sassy) gratitude. For such a high stakes scenario like this, I may even spring for Starbucks.

With that, I leave you to make your decisions. I look forward to making another inappropriate, sassy speech (which somebody should probably film this time for preservations sake) and hope to call myself Sass Master, 2015.

To life, liberty, and the pursuit of sassiness,


Nicole Stanikowski


* sass is allowed to be tinged with sappiness on occasion

Why Don't We Strut Together Anymore?

(I'm so good I started immediately on another one, you guys!)

Today I had an encounter which made me, to say the least, extremely sad.

This girl was lovely, really and truly lovely. But my good god, she had the confidence of a dust bunny (yes, the ones that hide under the bed). I could not for the life of me understand how this had developed. She was glowing from the inside out, had a fantastic sense of humour and her manicure was fierce.

So what happened?

Her female friend (why they were friends, I couldn't tell you) grabbed the sweater our little dust bunny was going to purchase, and said in a sneering tone of voice, "you look horrible in green - plus it's going to make you look fatter than you already are."

Cars crashed, bombs exploded, my mind came to a screeching halt.

GET OUT OF HERE, I desperately wanted to yell. All I could muster up was a blank stare. What's worse, bunny let her do it.

I couldn't get the little scene out of my head, so naturally I had to write a mini-manifesto about it. I'm trying to start a revolution from my coffee table.

I have overwhelming confidence levels. Sometimes fully deluded, other times completely justified - I've come to terms with this sometimes superpower. So when I encounter a woman who looks like she needs a little boost, I make the effort to throw out compliments like free samples at Sephora.

Those are such cute shoes. Oh my god, I love the perfume you're wearing. Bangs so work for you. 

I'm sure you know where I'm going with this.

Therefore this problem I've been witnessing is alarmingly the complete opposite of what I've always tried to do. Girls can be nasty, it's no secret. The wretched human above qualifies, but there are so many other varieties. I've witnessed dozens of girls flirt (unknowingly) with someone else's man friend, and little does she know that she is now Enemy #1 - skank, whore, slut, whatever slur you think cuts deepest. Trust me, I doubt she thought he was that attractive.

Is the hate really necessary, ladies? Anger causes premature wrinkles, and nothing is worth that.

Another thing I've never understood is the fear of being compared to beautiful women. Perhaps I'm insane, but I have always felt surrounding yourself with beauty makes you more beautiful. In the infamous words of Mean Girls, calling someone fat won't make you skinny. No, standing beside Candice Swanepoel is probably not the best dieting method, but hating her impossible beauty makes you look even worse - jealous, vindictive and hateful.

I suggest we stop the girl hating, slut shaming, and voodoo spell casting (I want to cover all possible extremes) and rather, go shoe shopping - together. I swear on my life if the UN Council could go pick out a few perfect pairs of stilettos, we could untangle a few tricky diplomatic knots in an afternoon at Henri Bendel.

So can we try, pretty please? Own it ladies - you can't exchange your life for store credit anyways, so make it work for you.


Girl power kisses,

Nicole xoxo

My Strange Addiction

I've neglected you. And I am so, so sorry.

I really meant to write, but you know the drill. Life and laziness can get in the way of our most beloved activities - and if enough time has passed, you can forget the passion you once held all together. That's how I feel about all of my ex boyfriends, so why couldn't it apply in a wider sense?

And in my failure to attend to you, dear internet, I've been cheating on you. Yes, I really should be ashamed of myself. But to be completely honest with you, I've found that sometimes you can procrastinate so much you inadvertently become productive in ways you never expected.

And this is where I admit that I've become a workaholic.

Not the scary, 9-5, water cooler chatter, Netflix binge-er of sorts. Rather I seem to have fallen into the trap of taking too much onto my plate at once. Like a bad buffet. I wouldn't dare to bore you with the mundane details, but suffice to say that the vivaciousness has dimmed ever so slightly. 70 hour weeks can do that to you. Drinking black coffee at 8am can do that to you too.

 I refuse to let this persist.

As you grow older, perhaps you can't halt the wrinkles, the grey hairs and the glacial speed of your metabolism, but you sure as hell don't have to become boring. Shoot me if I ever think it's a good idea to join a Friday night book club. I have to dance on a few more tables, flirt with a few more bartenders and buy many more pairs of shoes I can't afford before I'm satisfied. And even then, I'm notorious for not knowing when enough is enough.

Oh, but what fun!

I'm not delusional enough to think I'll be bar hopping into my late 40's, but god forbid I lose my art of captivation. Story telling is my bread and butter, my raison d'être, and my main form of entertainment - therefore I must dispense all available energy into making more story-worthy memories. I'll be the 21st century female Hemingway, but without war, fish, and suicide in Idaho.

As my new objective, I've decided to make a to do list*:

1. Try with all my might to scribble out at least one Boob and/or Cookie related post a week. Oomph.
2. Continue my usual protocol of saying yes to ridiculous things. Those tend to be the most fun anyways.
3. Do not get arrested/die/become a brunette. No. No. Never.

I promise to uphold these to the best of my ability - but I suppose only time can show my success (incarceration would be a thing to avoid, don't we think?)

Venti Blonde kisses,

Nicole xoxo

*Do you see the workaholic tendencies coming into play - a to do list?!

chardonnay and guacamole make for a complete and balanced breakfast

Oh, hi there.

I apologize to my devoted fans (seriously, I have those..) for these frigid, lonely months devoid of the trademark wit and sass spouting from this sliver of the internet.

Big shout out to my father who I recently discovered reads this wholesome and thought-provoking stuff; my face is forever burnt red from that revelation, so I thank you.

I won't even begin to fabricate an excuse for my absence - the list would range from spending numerous hours perfecting the 3:45am peanut butter cookie to organizing tupperware cabinets like the deranged housewife I aspire to be. All vital, and another reminder that I should update my resume with my newfound skill sets.

All in all, winter lethargy hit me hard this year. Instead of optimistic New Year's resolutions and hopeful Valentine's Day plans, I chose to focus on restraining violent thoughts towards everyone dressed in festive-appropriate sequins (amateurs*) and cotton candy pink, respectively.

Although I seem to have wasted the idyllic tundra weather indoors, real concern has begun to set in - nary a bold lip has been painted on my mouth, I haven't properly shaved my legs in two (?) months, and there has been a disturbing rise in my collection of 'casual wear', better known as sweatpants and shirts which afford a no-bra policy. Although it doesn't really resemble spring, we are now uncomfortably close to May, bikini weather in all but current mercury gage.

So this begs the question, what the hell is wrong with me?

My natural reaction to warmer weather resembles that of a small child discovering fructose corn syrup; there is normally an abundance of jumping up and down, a demand for iced beverages from everyone's favourite capitalist mermaid, and the eye-assaulting shift to brights and bare skin, regardless of actual temperate conditions - I am a slave to my own absurdity and cold feet, after all.

I have never been particularly talented with self motivation; all of my life's progress has stemmed from borderline unhealthy spontaneity and slowly becoming my mother. I refuse to let seasonal depression (affectionately coined as SAD, thanks Google!) best me - nobody will be asking 'what happened to that girl?' this year.

So I have half-assed a solution, as always.

I have created a guideline for self imposed bribery in order to function like a semi-adult. This is almost as entertaining as it is effective, so you are dually very welcome. Here is a sample of a few of my personal favourites:

• responding to emails warrants a beverage of choice.
• writing my own email warrants a venti beverage of choice.
• paying credit card bills requires a blindfold and is rewarded with tequila.
• going to the gym deserves one self righteous tweet; sometimes I trade this in for an impromptu nap.
• successfully convincing a guy of my (feigned) sanity equals...I'm still developing and researching this particular endeavour. 
• As a monthly bonus for not crying in public in the presence of others - not in a prime composed state, I must admit - I've settled on spa treatments. (Facials for general good behaviour, full body massages if I have also completed a load of laundry.)  

To tell a secret, there has also been a development of very real, very serious television series addictions. Not necessarily beneficial in any category, but nevertheless scripted drama keeps me from creating real life theatrics which could prove to end in incarceration if I'm not careful.

I suppose the bearings of daily life require little cheats and small consolation prizes, particularly in the context of a dreary struggle against the weather network app (which never accurately predicts week long forecasts anyways, so whatever). Anything and everything in the name of remaining sane, and I endorse it all.

Hang in there people, I have an inkling the legs will be able to make a skirtly appearance soon enough!

Self tanner kisses,

Nicole xo


*Sequins are vastly underused as a clothing option, and I myself am a huge proponent of daytime usage. They are particularly useful for camouflaging your third bagel run of the day with a certain whimsy and light reflecting distraction.

Transitioning: Train Wreck to Upstanding Citizen

As of late, I've felt ancient - the kind of aged where you find grey hairs and wrinkles and proceed to pay exorbitant amounts of money to continue looking like a co-ed on Spring Break.

To be fair, I am only 20 years old. So maybe this is only true in the malevolent, pessimistic corners of my mind.

But there is a feeling of maturity slowly creeping upon me. It may only be a tingling feeling now, but I sense it's going to burst out of the ground at any moment. My youth is a volcanic eruption, if you will. And my metabolism and alcohol tolerance may as well be Pompeii.

Not that I haven't felt the burden of adulthood for a long time now: I was brutally rebuffed for being 'too old' for trick-or-treating at age 12 (thanks, bitchy neighbour) and it was laughable to get a youth discount on anything without a severe glare of disbelief. It's a #tallgirlproblem.

(The world seemingly wanted to kick me into real life almost immediately following puberty. How cruel.)

Adulthood is, of course, a very real thing. It is missing the feature of solidified tangibility, however. So how and when do we signify its beginning? When do the 6.99 kid's meals come to a withering end?

(The answer is never. Bring your younger niece.)

We have various means of marking this passage of time, so here are some of my favourite commemorations in no particular order. Because organisation is reserved for responsible, grown ups:

Bat Mitzvah: it may do, but at 12 years old (in my figuratively Jewish life) I had no idea what income taxes were, let alone actually paying them.

(However, I wonder how much my Hit Clips collection would have sold for..)

So that's a solid no, as far as I'm concerned.

Driver's License: Road trip! In my parent's car! Mom, can I grab some gas money?

(God forbid I ever have to parallel park.)

Thanks family for funding my various voyages, but I hardly quantify that as independence.

University: Moving out of your parent's house into residence initially sounds like a 24/7 party, with a vast gourmet selection right at your fingertips. There's also this incredible opportunity to learn from a selection of the brightest minds in the world. FAN-TASTIC: food for thought, and your appetite.

HAHAHA!

This is obviously a fleeting dream. You discover that people in general are anti-social, crazy or just intolerable. Dining hall quality control hasn't been implemented since 1972. Most tenured professors assign essays ergonomically designed to stroke their academic egos. Oh, and you call mom within a week's time to deposit more money into your account for "books."

I'll call that a resounding no for the maturity development scale.

Domesticity: people tell me (I've yet to reach this point, thank god) that when you willingly decide to stay in on a Friday night instead of a night on the town, that is when you've fully blossomed into a world of mortgage payments and babies.

I really cannot, nor do I wish to process the image of white picket fencing and toddlers. I still consider my shoe closet my best investment portfolio, so this is inapplicable to me. Kudos to you if you've landed on solid leased/mortgaged ground.

So there are clearly multitudes of ways to mark the entrance into adulthood, but for some of us perhaps there really isn't a defined line to cross. It's entirely possible that one day you just wake up at 7am and realize kegs stands can no longer be considered an extracurricular activity.

That will be a sad, sad day.

So I propose to enjoy the dwindling days left of freedom from responsibility, no matter how many or few you have. Do something ridiculous while you still can - don't be the grandparent who doesn't have fun stories to tell about 'the good old days.' That's pretty much social suicide as the Golden Girls are concerned.

avoiding orthopaedic shoes as long as possible,

Nicole xo


** I understand not everyone experiences these milestones, or treats them so dramatically juvenile. That really is the point here. The largest congratulations to you if you actually have supported yourself since age 14.**

About Love

I am no expert on inter-relations with males.

I can be charming and witty, but these girl rules that are so swiftly applied by the fairer sex have never clicked with me. 

(I must have been sunning in the Mediterranean when that lesson was scheduled- tuition well spent, regardless!)

Something I do know about is the intimate moment when you lay eyes on the perfect prey, the winning shot that will change your life forever.

Or so I think every Saturday...afternoon.

What I am hinting at is that the lusty fun we have with our men, we encounter with the keepers of our feet.

The thing men will never understand is love at first sight with your solemate. Rivalled only by the first time you lay eyes on your wedding dress, the perfect pair of stilettos can raise a girl up, figuratively and literally, to the high heavens by just slipping into them. It's magic, and I will thank the inventor of the high heel for many a shoegasms.

It all begins with one look. I don't know of a single woman whose first thought is the price, size, comfort, or what will it go with in her closet. No. It is a very simple declaration that, "I want those." 

Shoes are just naturally inclined to be superior because they come in a pair. Ask that of a man and his reaction will take one of two forms:

1. he is such a scumbag that he immediately suggests finding a third partner for after hour cocktails at his leather-laden bachelor pad                                                         
2. he turns away in disgust, repulsed by your suggestion to drop his trousers and expose the family jewels

My point being that all comments end up being directed to that specific area. What a self obsessed gender.

Some women may find purses more seductive (and that's okay, love is love and I support all unions conducted by MasterCard) but my personal obsession is the most down to (literal) earth as possible. I like being a low maintenance girl sometimes.

Another beautiful thing: there is also no stigma in collecting dozens upon dozens of shoes. With men, numerous complications arise if you try to maintain a full roster. It has also never really been socially acceptable to lend a pair (of 'those') to a friend for the evening. Perhaps swinging will come back in vogue on the cusp of a revitalized sexual liberation - I wouldn't hold my breath, but I think I'll be sticking to blisters instead of polygamous scandals.

As a general conclusion to this long winded love letter.. shoes make me extremely happy. Until a gorgeous, tall investment banker with a big portfolio, impeccable table manners and a big 'portfolio' comes into my life, I will remain faithful to my other half. Coming perfectly packaged in a box and not having to deal with snoring is only the cherry on top of this heavenly relationship. I truly believe I'm in it for the long haul, because we all know only the weak and feeble minded take off their shoes halfway through the evening.

And I certainly am no quitter.

May your day be blessed with the sound of stilettos on hardwood and Sunday brunch gossip, my personal version of a holy day of rest and relaxation,

Nicole xo