The Skinny Promo Model Bitch Diet

I'm a skinny bitch. Bitchy, when need be, but skinny, always. How's that now, you ask? Does a hard partying, model/promoter lifestyle not shine as a beacon for health and athleticism? Oh, but it does. Allow me to introduce you to the Skinny Promo Model Bitch Diet...no sneakers or Lululemon pants required.

- Drink copious amounts of vodka.

For a little Asian, I can down my vodka with the best of them. Nurture has taken over nature in this case and my promo-breeding has made it so that three times a week from the hours of 11p.m. to last man standing, vodka renders itself to water in my body. Okay, water that gets me wasted, but not nearly as much as it should. They key here is vodka and nothing but. It's all about shots. Cranberry juice is for high school girls and pansies. The only acceptable mix is sugar-free diet Redbull or a lime. I like my girly cocktails at dinners but they tend to be full of sugar and other crap. Like my Russian girlfriends wisely advise, it's all about the WODKA.

- Those extra 4.5 inches.

I'm talking about heels, of course. Waltzing around three or four (or five or six..) times a week for hours on end in sky-high heels gives your legs quite the workout. I practically live in heels and have to run all around clubs in them providing me with an arched-angle workout that you can't get at the gym. This supposed kitten heeled comeback in fashion this season can kiss my toned ass. The magic number is 4.5...inches that is! Tall enough to look amazing and work those calves but not high enough to borderline on hooker-esque. (Defend Loubs all you want girls, but those shiny, patent leather, platform 6-inchers belong on escorts and escorts only.) Guiseppe, Nicholas, Rupert and Alexander care not just about your fashion but your health too...obviously. Now strap on a pair and get moving.

- Shake it like a Polaroid picture.

Shake it, and shake it often. Dancing at a club usually entails bobbing around from side to side while having screaming conversations with your booth mates over the bass line. Heck, on most of my nights the dance floor isn't so much a dance floor as it is a single's mixer. I make a point of dancing my face off at least once a week. When the dance floor won't suffice, there's always in the booth or better yet on the tables. Fist pumping, booty shaking, legs rocking, and whatever else you can do, do it. It's fun. It's calorie burning. And it sure beats talking to all the duds who are trying to pick you up should you remain sedentary. Oh Andre 3000, you are so wise.

- Cooked food is for suckers.

 My favorite meal is steak tartare. I could eat that for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sushi is a close second. What can I say -- I like my animals raw. Fortunately, there are enough trendy sushi restaurants in this city to dine at so I don't have to resort to health/fresh/raw eateries to maintain my raw cravings and can still be social. Dinner at Blowfish before a night out? No problem. Drinks and bites at Ja Bistro on a Saturday? Sure thing. Keeping it (mostly) raw when dining out allows for a meal that doesn't necessarily have to be belt line busting. Also, as some one who has to (seriously, has to) have dessert at, oh, almost every meal, I rather save my calories for all things sweet. Baked isn't the same as cooked, right?! Whatever, cake is so worth it.

- Sleep it off.

When you like to party, you some times get home at 4a.m. When you like to party and it's your job, some times you come home after sunrise. What does this mean for your sleep schedule? Mostly that a good portion of it occurs during the day. On the weekends anyway. And what does this mean for staying a skinny minny? Well, simply put, if you're sleeping, you can't be eating. And when you sleep your way through most normal hours of meals, it means you're eating even less. There are quite a few days a week where dinner is the only meal I have. (And some times late night junk after a night out, but I mean....McDonald's after a particularly intense night is practically a right of passage in your twenties.) Healthy, it ain't, but when I'm hungover in bed, there is not a power on Earth that will make me functional enough to prepare a meal. Until the delivery service industry evolves to fit my promoter needs (ugh, hello, how hard is bedside delivery really), daytime starvation once or twice a week it is.

- Balancing cigarettes & tofu. 

As Gwyneth Paltrow stated in her recent Harper's Bazar interview, "it's all about finding that balance between cigarettes and tofu." (Some call her insufferable, I call her perfection.) I work three nights a week and go out on my own at least one other night. But, the rest of the time, I am pretty darn healthy. Veggies galore and lean fishes and meat. Does it make up for the irreversible damage I'm likely causing my liver and otherwise the rest of the time? Probably not. But I like my cigarettes just as much, if not a little more, than my tofu. Youth is fucking precious and I plan on procuring one that I can regale endless stories from when I'm older.

And there you have it...the Skinny Promo Model Bitch Diet. Ingest with your skinny tongue firmly placed in your skinny cheek. I'll see all you 4.5 inched, straight vodka guzzling skinny bitches on the dance floor. x

 

How To Get Out of the Dreaded Friend Zone

We've all been there. Girls, you're hanging out one on one with a guy friend you've known for a while...he's been super supportive and understanding the past few weeks while you've been going through whatever break-up/parent's divorce/exam period or stressful situation in general. And suddenly his reassuring hug is less hand on your back and more hand on your butt. Wait, what?! Not cool dude, not cool.

Of course, the situation can be reversed as well although I find this to be a lot less likely a scenario. Guys, you'll be at another (supposedly) platonic dinner with your best girl friend. It's at that new Mexican hipster resto that's all the rage and you rather go with some one you can actually pig out with as opposed to a date where you have to knife and fork your way through burritos. She's being witty, sarcastic and totally void of drama unlike all the girls you've had romantic dealings with when suddenly over her third glass of pinot gris, she unveils her undying love for you. Again...what?!

Ah, the friend zone; let us all take a moment of silence for our comrades who have been there. It's not pretty. Having feelings for some one who doesn't have feelings for you sucks. Having feelings for some one who cares about you just a little shy of romantically is torture. Guys, let me give you a little tough love: if she was into you, she'd be dating you already. Simple as that. And if she decides to date you later after knowing you this long, it's because she's exhausted her other options. Not exactly a position any self-respecting dude wants to be in. So, the question remains, how does one break free of the friend zone? Simple.

- Man (or woman) up.

Listen, you can stay in friend zone limbo forever and imagine all the "what if" scenarios you want but it's conducive to just about nothing. Life doesn't work like it does in romantic movies (and trust me when I say this displeases no one more than it does yours truly) so the best thing to do is sort. Sort that shit as soon as possible!

- Figure it out in person.

Social media has given us a million new options to read into romantic interactions...turns out we all think of our potential mates as passive aggressive morons who can only express themselves via their thumbs. Omg, if he liked my photo does that mean he likes me? K, so she shared my vid on Vine then retweeted my quote on life...she's totes into me, right?! I'm all for social media. Facebook (for work), Twitter (for fun) and Instagram for....oh wait, I deleted that because no matter how close we are I don't care what you eat for breakfast...but if you want to get real answers, for the love of cheesecake, do it in person. Ask your friend love (frove?) to coffee and bring it up then. Easy, simple and straightforward.

- Coffee, not dinner.

You don't want to pull a Miranda here. As in, booking an overly romantic restaurant, sweating buckets and adding extra pressure where it wasn't needed when she wanted to tell Steve how she felt. Keep it casual so the atmosphere remains light and airy even if the conversation doesn't. The last thing you want is a whisper fight; i.e. the kind of fight that has to occur should you plan a lovey-dovey situation in public. Okay sure, your frove could potentially say they have feelings for you as well but should that occur, I mean, go on a normal first date not a ten-year-anniversary-we-left-the-kids-at-home-and-it's-our-one-night-to-escape type deal.

- Do not, I repeat do not, do it by making a move on her while you watch movies at home.

 Like, is there some cardinal guy rule that states that specific scenario must lead to sex or you are a failure as a man? Seems like it. Almost all my girlfriends who have experienced friend zone situations have had the moves put on them while watching a movie with their guy friend at home. It's creepy. And ulterior motive-y. And just in bad taste. A friendship, much less a relationship, is likely not salvageable should that situation not go well. And, if it does...well high five dude, hiiiigh five. Although you might merely have a friend with benefits as opposed to a girlfriend. (That's another blog post in itself, my dears.)

So, darling froves and frove lovers, get out of the friend zone and back into reality. Maybe it works out and maybe it doesn't, but either way you'll feel better living outside of limbo. And really, the right girl, friends first or not, won't care if you scarf down those three burritos hands-only. Until next time dear bloggees...Xx

Online Dating - Yay or Nay?

While gorging on lobster spoons and too many desserts during lunch the other day (and really, all good conversation should occur in between bites of lobster spoons) my friends introduced me to an online way of meeting people I had never heard of. And by meeting, I mean potentially banging. After whipping out his iPhone and opening the app, my friend swiftly swiped his hand over the screen, each time revealing the Facebook profile picture of  a girl which he either yayed or nayed. What was this ridiculousness? An app called Tinder. Should some girl you yayed also yay you -- and voila, you now have the feigned online confidence to send her all the creepy winky emojis you'd like.

I was baffled that there was even the demand for an app like Tinder to exist. Is this what we've come to nowadays? Starting interactions based on (likely Photoshopped) Facebook selfies that turn into a series of well-calculated, overly-wrought interactions that lead to, what I can only imagine, are painfully awkward real life meetings? It appears so. Perhaps I'm one of the rare hopeless romantics left out there, but any, seriously any, real life meeting is more romantic and natural than some contrived shoving together of online personas. Seriously, ANY. Drunken club meets look like Ariel and Prince Eric in the canoe compared to this crap.

 Those browsing on something like Tinder probably aren't looking for lasting relationships...but what about those of us who are? Is there a way to meet a legit candidate online that doesn't make you want to lie about how you've met to people when they ask? Sure, the stigma of online dating is less than it was, say ten years ago, with young professionals leading insanely busy, no-nonsense lives -- but still, we can all admit it's not an ideal beginning. "And mommy met daddy by desperately searching through countless trolls and deciding he was the least hideous of the list. Ahh, romance."

I've signed up for eHarmony before. Once, while my then-boyfriend looked on as we laughed about what matches would pop up, and again just recently for the sake of this post. (Yes, I've already deleted the profile and no, I didn't respond to any interactions. Observation only, kids.) Their maudlin, everlasting-love themed commercials always do a number on my sappy self and if I was going to sign up for any dating site, I decided it would be this one. So, dear bloggees, what did my experience reveal? Basically what I thought going into it. It's creepy. It's weird. And it feels awfully unnatural. (Upon revealing that I had signed up for an account to my sister over brunch, she promptly looked horrified, told me to delete it, and said that I was 'prey' just waiting for online lurkers to hunt me down. This did not help.)

After filling out an extensive personality questionnaire which included sections on morals, looks, lifestyle, and more, I was shown my potential 'matches' who were specifically picked out for me. And I must say, the pickings were slim. Despite being 5"10, anti-sports and urban-minded, I kept receiving icebreakers from outdoorsy, sport-loving 5"6 men from small towns outside Toronto. Fail, eHarmony. Fa to the ail. Regardless of the not-so-plenty of fish in the online dating sea, I just couldn't get over the concept of it all. There's no mystery, No whimsy. And not a shred of wonder to any of it. Even if Channing Tatum had appeared in my matches, I could never bring myself to send an icebreaker over the freaking computer to a guy I was potentially interested in.

The whole experience merely reaffirmed what I already know: I'm a hopeless romantic living in a non-romantic world. Woe is me. But I'll take my chances in the real world of meeting people over the constructed world of meeting profiles any day. All the info I had listed on my profile is meant to be revealed over candid conversation, flirty arm touches, too many whiskey sours and, most importantly, over many, many lobster spoons -- not over clicks of a keyboard. Until next time darling bloggees, I'll see you in the flesh and blood. x
 

A Girl's Guide To Clubbing; Part 2

* Note: This is the second part to a previous post: An Every Girl's Guide To Clubbing 

All right, so you know how to breeze in, air kiss the bouncers on the cheek as you do, waltz on over to the promoter spot, air kiss the promoters on the cheek as you do, and claim prime territory dancing like the queen you are on the booth. What else is there? Oh, darlings, so much. So much more.

- Don't shit where you eat. 

If you take one thing away from this article, let it be this: do not, I repeat do NOT shit where you eat. Oh, how I wish I had some one tell me this when I started going out lots and subsequently started promoting. That club owner who's been giving you attention via free drinks and his arm wrapped around you? Not your soul mate. That handsome baller who comes every Friday night and has been lavishing you with bottles of Dom P as of late? Also not your soul mate. The cute one in that group of party dudes who are always there on Thursdays and hold down the corner booth? Nope. Not your soul mate. If you're the kind of girl who can have fun and not get attached, then by all means, dive in head first. But if you're like 99% of us girls out there (human and prone to getting hurt) you will regret anything you start up in the club romance department. It'll be whirlwind. Glamorous. Sexy. Then crash and burn faster than you can say pass the Goose. Leaving you where? That broken-hearted girl who has to see her ex-whatever at a club every week using all the same moves he used on you...on new girls. I've been there...several times. Heck, I'm there right now! Drunken hook ups are inevitable; but save anything that actually involves your heart for outside of loud beats, dark lights and endless shots. Seriously. My next boyfriend is NOT going to know what the price of a magnum is or the name of any after hours spot in this city.

- Dress as you would daytime. 

Spandex shorts. Lace-up corset tops. Bodysuits...with no bottoms. I've pretty much seen it all when it comes to atrocious club attire. Ladies, there's a simple rule when it comes to dressing like not a whore. Don't wear anything you wouldn't be caught dead in daytime. As in, if you wouldn't wear it walking down the street daytime, we all don't wanna see it shaking out and about after the sun goes down. Seriously, you say? Of course this doesn't include foot wear (My Kirkwoods are meant for glitzy nights out only) and make-up (smokey eyes daytime? Raccoon. Night time? Sexpot.) but otherwise, the rule stands. Obviously that full-sequined long sleeved Matthew Williams mini would look ridiculous if you strutted down Bloor on a warm summer day, but the point is it wouldn't look indecent. Fashionistas, we welcome with open arms. T and A...men welcome with open pants. Also, keeping with this rule ensures you won't have to spend hours untagging or deleting Instagram pictures in the near future when you realize that junk does not look flattering when exposed in the trunk.

- Straps are your best friend. 

I'm talking straps on heels, dresses, tanks, and purses. Straps are the savior of the drunk fashionista for obvious reasons. Perhaps you're a mild drinker who goes out to bop around to the beat a little and mingle here and there. Or perhaps you're a vodka-swilling party girl who gets rip-roaring wasted every night her Louboutins hit the pavement. Oh, save your blushed cheeks and pride, chances are you're the second. There there, most of us are...you're only twenty-something once after all. That being said, I have lost many a clutch on a drunken evening out since with no straps to stay on, I absentmindedly leave the damn thing who knows where. And an unattended designer purse lasts about two seconds when carelessly strewn aside at a crowded venue. Save yourself the tears the next day and invest in not just the Balenciaga clutch but the one with a removable strap as well. Straps on heels help with tipsy, teetering walks to and from the bathroom, and straps on dresses prevent peekaboo bra situations...or worse yet nip slips. Strap em down ladies, and feel better about knowing that you'll survive the night unscathed and purse in hand.

- Nothing good comes after 2 a.m.

Okay...that's not true. Everything good comes after 2 a.m....but only in terms of short term gratification. You know it won't end well, but the middle part is sure as hell going to be fun. That's my mentality after 2 a.m. and my non-sober reasoning is usually to just do it and deal with any disastrous conclusions the next morning. Well, after countless after parties, both good, bad, scandalous, more scandalous, and just plain evil, I can tell you that all shenanigans after 2 a.m. are pointless. I've become a lot more restrained than I used to be and it has been entirely to my benefit. Short term gratification is satisfying, but long term maturity is progress. Taking a moment to reason with your drunk self right before getting into that dude's car to go to some AP where you know like, one person, and getting into a cab home instead will make your sober self the next day pat you on the back. Sure, we all need a rager now and then and that trek home when the sun is already up, but don't make it a weekly thing. The vampire/zombie look only works in the movies.

- Stay calm & party on.

When I'm wasted and in a mood, there is no telling me what to do. My good friend Jasmine has likened me to an angry cat in a bag when I've been upset and wasted...there's no escaping my warpath should I be set on one. However, my recent debauchery when under the influence has led to possibly the most miserable two weeks of my life. So that being said, if you're depressed about something or the other, drowning your sorrows in diluted vodka crans and cheap interactions is probably not the best way to go. Depressed drinking ends in one of three ways 1) tears 2) regretful hookups 3) a combo of the two. Should you decide to chug your way to feigned happiness anyway, at least bring along a friend you trust to make sure you don't go bat shit ballistic in the worst way. Or in my case, angry cat in a bag crazy. Side note: in light of recent events, Jasmine now has permission to slap, and/or sedate me with force should I get ferocious feline on her while we're out...the EpiPen solution to drunk Kins. Necessary.

And there you have it lovelies, A Girl's (more in-depth) Guide To Clubbing! Keep in mind these are merely rules I've set for myself after an endless stream of ups and downs experienced by yours truly in my vast number of nights out. So have your strapless, emotionally unstable, true-love-in-this-club, out until 6 a.m. madness as much as you can handle...then create your own guidelines. Club Goddess I may not be, but I'm sure as hell the Queen of learning from my mistakes. Until next time ladies...I'll be seeing you all out and about. x