The Art of Happiness: 2018

Helloooo babes xoxox

I know. I know. It's been a while, and I'm sorry! But first of all, I would like to formally welcome ya'll to my new blog! I realize my blogging journey has had a couple of false starts, but the thing is, shortly after starting the last blog, I decided to detach from the Wix platform. So I had to pack my virtual bags and move back to Blogger, which was a bit of a process.

But I'm up and running now! And I don't plan on going anywhere for a while, so please take a seat. Get comfortable. Might I interest you in a nice tall glass of strawberry açai berry refresher with coconut milk? Preferably in the size "wine bottle"? #LOL #notevenkidding

Second of all, I really need to talk about this day I've just had, ok???? Because shit has hit the fan over here.

Or in this case, the fluffy white comforter.

But I'm getting ahead of myself...

For those of you who don't know this about me, I am a lash artist by profession and I have a small home-based spa. Which is super great...most of the time. But it has its down sides.

One of the many challenges I face is pets. I have two cats that I love very much, but it just also happens that one of them is a bit of an asshole... Okay, a lot of an asshole. And when he doesn't get his way (example: I keep him locked away so he doesn't disturb my clients) he will seek revenge in the most cruel and inconvenient of ways imaginable.

In this case, he decided to poop on the bed. Like, on MY side of the bed. And did I mention my comforter is (mostly) white and brand new????????

So, yeah. Like a said. ASS. HOLE.

(Seriously, they're not as dumb as they look.)

So, needless to say, I panicked and promptly proceeded to throwing the comforter into the tub and scrubbing the stains out ASAP with all the cleaning materials at my disposal. (Baking soda is a life saver!)

Which worked... sort of. Except I still wanted to give it a run through the wash with some bleach, just to be extra safe.

Turns out, my streak of bad luck was only beginning. Or so I would very soon find out. Because after loading the comforter into the washing machine, I had walked away for all of five minutes before I smelled something... suspicious.

Something that should not have been in my house.

Something that smelled alarmingly similar to smoke.

At first, I thought it must have been coming from outside. The windows were open, after all.

But then it dawned on me.

Oh my gawd, I thought, as I dashed across the house. No no no!

I threw the door to the basement open (key piece of information: laundry room is located in basement) and immediately heard the worst possible earsplitting squeals of my life. It sounded like pigs were being murdered down there. I stumbled down the stairs at top speed and burst into the laundry room, only to discover the washing machine spewing and smoking like a bull in a fit of rage.

My heart just dropped into my shoes.

Turns out, even though the comforter had fit, once it had filled with water it had become too heavy for the machine. This quickly became abundantly clear to me when I struggled to wriggle the now-soaking-wet comforter out of the washing machine. I swear, the thing had quadrupled in weight. I felt like I was wrestling with a giant, soggy sea monster.

Water went everywhere. Smoke filled the laundry room. I just prayed the machine wouldn't spontaneously combust.

Although, at this point, I wouldn't even have been surprised. Because my luck was clearly the worst.

Thankfully, though, the machine cooled down without incident, and I was able to get the comforter back into the tub where I squeezed the water from it as best as I could.

Except then I was immediately faced with a new problem.

What the hell was I supposed to do with this giant soggy thing now?????

Anyway, all in all, it was a pretty crazy afternoon. And for those of you who are curious: I ended up having to load the car up with towels so the seats wouldn't get soaked (they still kinda did) as I transported the wet beast to my in-laws. (They have super powered washing machines capable of handling monster comforters.) Then I hurried back in time for my next client.

Oh, also: the stains came out!

So that's good.

Now feel free to enjoy these beauty shots of my bedroom setup, brought to you by non-other than wonderful Ikea. #LOL

Until next time xooxox

10 September No comments

Pull up your pants and get ready for the story of how I met my husband! My Top 5 Tips for finding true love will be posted at the end! xo

Since today is Canada day and this story revolves around something important that happened at a restaurant called The Great Canadian Bagel, I figured it would be a good time to share. Otherwise, I have nothing interesting to say about Canada Day. If any of you non-Canadians out there are curious, all you need to know is that we paint our faces red and white, go to Tim Horton's, and sacrifice a lobster in a deeply meaningful ceremonious ritual.

Pretty cool, eh?

Anyway, to get to our story...

THE GREAT CANADIAN BAGEL

The Spring of my 16th year, I remember vividly there was a sudden influx of bees in my city. They were everywhere, sneaking into every crevice and crowding the already crowded farmer's market where I found myself most Saturday mornings.

Which was absolutely horrifying, if you ask me, because one thing you should know about me is that I have never been afraid of snakes, or rats, or mice, or June bugs, or spiders... but the gentle buzzing of a bee's wings will send me flying into a tizzy.

Yes, that's right. A tizzy.

For example, on more than one occasion over the years I'd found myself trapped inside my downtown apartment with nothing but a bee or hornet to keep me company, and on each of these occasions I ran like a madwoman and immediately sought the assistance of an adult.

But, shit, I was an adult.

No. I needed a real adult. An adultier adult. An adultier adulting adult.

(On at least two of these occasions, the only individual at my disposal was my landlord who lived below us. He stared at me like I was crazy when I asked him to go upstairs and kill the buzzer for me.

I didn't even care.)

I remember only once killing a hornet with my own two capable (incapable?) hands... Long after the little devil was dead, I was still on the floor rocking gently and trying not to throw up or pass out. So I guess you could say that didn't go well.

Anyway, you get the point. I hate the damn things. I realize there is a difference between a hornet and a bee, but I'll be damned if I'm going to stick around long enough to find out which one is buzzing around my head. The sound alone gives me anxiety.

But, my embarrassing failures aside, that Spring there were bees everywhere and I was spending my days indoors as much as possible, when a dear friend of mine invited me out to breakfast. (A friend who would one day be my brother-in-law, though neither of us knew it at the time.)

"The Great Canadian Bagel," he decided would be our destination of choice, as he picked me up in a tiny blue hatchback that resembled a blueberry more than an actual car.

We drove to the restaurant, ordered two trays full of breakfast foods and coffee, and then proceeded to pick a table.

"Outside!" my companion declared, gesturing to the bistro-style tables beyond the window.

I fell silent as my belly pooled with cold, hard dread. I can't clearly remember if I protested, I might have blacked out purely from the fear, but the next thing I remember is being seated in opposite chairs outside, surrounded by flower boxes overspilling with colors, while an unforgiving sun blasted us.

"Relax," he told me. "They won't bother you if you don't bother them."

He'd noticed I was sitting frigid in my seat, my back ramrod straight as bees fluttered all around us. (I might also have momentarily stopped breathing.) He went on to try to distract me with recent stories of his life, but I barely heard a word. On the exterior, I was smiling. But, internally, I was screaming.

I was only catching bits and pieces, until, suddenly, he said, "I saw my brother last night. Apparently, he's single again."

Through the fog of panic, I muttered some appropriately sympathetic response.

He went on to ask, "What do you think of my brother, Maggie?"

This time, I forced myself to blink through the paralyzing fear. "I don't know him that well," I admitted.

Which was the truth. Despite having grown up around him (I have pictures of us together as far back as 20 years) our age difference of nine years made it difficult for us to be close.

"I suppose not," my friend nodded, his eyes unfocused for a moment as he (most-likely) thought back to last night's family dinner.

But then, what he said next changed everything.

Almost casually, he stated,"My brother is actually really smart. In fact, he's probably going to be rich someday."

Annnnnd all at once I forgot the bees, forgot my fears, forgot everything! I threw my hands forward to slam them onto the table (which was very stupid since it was a glass top. I'm lucky it didn't shatter,) and announced, "Well, shit! Really? I should marry him!"

Then I threw my head back and laughed uproariously, while my friend looked on with appropriate horror, no doubt fearing for my sanity. (As though the paralyzing fear of bees wasn't proof enough.)

He shook his head profusely. "Maggie, no!"

But I would not be deterred. I blatantly ignored his outright disapproval as a wicked grin spread across my face.

"Yup. I'm doing it," I said. "I'm sooo doing it."

He continued to shake his head. I continued to ignore him, as evil plots manifested themselves in my mind.

I might have spent the subsequent two years stalking my future husband with every tool at my disposal. (Facebook.)

Or I might not have.

I might, in fact, have forgotten all about that morning at the Great Canadian Bagel... until years later, when I was at the mall and a familiar figure suddenly materialized in the near distance before me.

Let it be known that I was in sweatpants, that my long black hair hadn't even been brushed, and that I wasn't wearing a stitch of makeup on my face.

Julien, my future husband, was sitting at one of the mall cafe's, and upon noticing him, I'd turned and said, "Hi."

Apparently, that's all it takes.

Today, the Great Canadian Bagel story remains one of my favorites. It just seems funny to me that I was joking about marrying him years before it happened.

Anyway, I will wrap things up with my advice for anyone seeking true love:

TOP 5 TIPS FOR FINDING TRUE LOVE

1. Choosing a life partner is one of the greatest acts of self-love you can do, so make sure you do it from a place of self-love. How you treat yourself is important in a relationship where two become one. xo

2. That's pretty much it.

3. There aren't even five tips.

4. I lied.

5. If the above fails you, find a rich guy and throw yourself in front of his car. You can either sue him or marry him, your choice. xo

Don't forget to eat a donut xo

01 August No comments

Since I've decided to start blogging, I thought I'd hop on tonight to quickly bore you with a subject that's important to me, in an effort to explain what I'm about. Also, at the end of this blog post I will include my TOP 5 tips for taking the perfect selfies xo. But first:

I want to talk about sharing on social media. How I do it. Why I do it. Why I'm comfortable doing it.

It's become such a common aspect of everyday life in this technology age that we live in, and I just thought I should clarify my approach as a sort of continued introduction to this blog.

Let's start with Instagram! That's the app I personally use the most. One of the reasons is that I've observed that a lot of other social media platforms today are flooded with... a lot of depressing shit, to put it so very eloquently. Whereas Instagram is all about cute outfits, cats, and "look what I ate today"s. Which may sound silly, but it's a refreshingly amusing platform where people can celebrate the good in their lives, which I believe to be a worthwhile pursuit.

Anyway, my love for Instagram aside, anyone who follows me knows that, despite sharing pictures of myself like some self-absorbed millennial that's possibly showing signs of early onset narcissism (read the supporting data here, and here), my caption game consists almost entirely of complete goofiness.

For example: exaggerations about my love of food. (Which might, in fact, not be exaggerations at all because have you ever tasted a doughnut?)

And this is important to me because there's a reason why I acknowledge and laugh in the face of my self-absorption and possible psychopathy. (Although, I'd like to point out that people used to pay large commissions and spend even larger portions of time posing for portraits and/or sculptures of themselves, whereas all I'm doing is taking an innocent selfie okkkk? Gimme a breakkkk, people. xoxo)

But, the thing is, there IS a specific reason why I social media this way, and it's this:

It's an active way for me to not take myself too seriously.

Because taking myself too seriously has seriously had a negative impact on my life.

Like, seriously.

You wouldn't think such a small thing could have such a big impact. You wouldn't think it's that important. But since life is almost entirely composed of small habits, for me, taking myself too seriously is a habit that manifested anxiety into my life, made me less patient, and generally hindered my overall happiness. And I didn't even realize it. I didn't realize how much unnecessary weight I was carrying around.

Which brings us to my goal in terms of sharing on social media.

I have made it my mission to start the #unseriousness challenge. I wish to launch forth blindly in pursuit of complete and utter unseriousness. I wish to become the comedic relief in my own life and perhaps yours. At the very least, you can laugh at my efforts. Because Instagram is all about the #inspo, which I looove, but I wish to inspire you in a different way. I wish to be an influencer of a different kind.

I wish to inspire and influence you to be unseriousness with me.

So, please, join me on the dark side. We have cookies and stuff.

TOP 5 TIPS FOR THE PERFECT SELFIE

Soooo... I've had people reach out to me via Instagram for advice on how to take good selfies. You know, besides "being pretty." (Their words, not mine. And boyyy did I get a good laugh out of that one. If you are reading this, know that you are too sweet. xo)

But anyway, here are the tips I give to anyone who asks:

1. Good lighting. Shadows are NOT your friend.

2. Know your angles and master holding your camera. I tend to favor my right side.

3. Eat a doughnut. Having sprinkles in your teeth is fine, trust me.

4. Talk. Always talk during pictures. This one is very important.

5. Let the awkward shine through. Who cares. Have fun. Nobody is watching. I mean, it's not like there's even THAT many people on the internet or anything.

6. BONUS TIP: Facetune is a great app for small edits in selfies, and where shadows are not your friend, FILTERS ARE, so make good use of the right filters and you're good to go boo xo

01 August No comments

"Can you be a blogger without a blog? Is that a thing?"

- Me.

Hello there.

For those of you who don't know me, sucks to be you.

Just kidding. My name is Maggie. Yup. Hi. Nice to meet you too.

Soooo... I've decided to reopen my blog, and I just wanted to touch up a bit on my decision before I dazzle you all with my general tomfoolery.

Thing is, I've always struggled with the concept of a blog. Sure, I'm obsessed with Instragram. I use it daily like any well-behaving basic b*tch of the modern world. But a blog? Really? Aren't those, like, so yesterday? Also, don't we have enough of them already?

Who's to say...

But despite these reservations, I can't help wondering if Instagram is enough. I mean, don't I need something to tie into the Instagram account I've created? Isn't that the next logical step in this interneting process?

I suppose it is, because here we are! I've decided to try this blogging thing out! I just have too many deep, lingering thoughts swimming beneath my otherwise calm surface.

Also, I did a poll on Instagram and ya'll said go for it. Yup, that's pretty much it.

Anyway, without further ado, let's talk about my goal here. My plan. My mission statement, if you will.

Mission Statement

1. "The Art of Overdressing", in which we learn how to go hiking in floor-length ball gowns.

2. "The Art of Writing," in which I will try to talk about the torturous process of being a writer when you have absolutely no talent. Also, maybe do mini author interviews? Also, maybe post a FREE weekly serial novel? I dunno. Basically, I have no clue what I'm going to do with this segment.

3. "The Art of Wifestyling", a word I just made up to describe the fact that I drag my husband around to places to take pictures. Yes, pictures. Expect lots of them. I was into photography before it was cool, sooooo... ha.

4. BONUS CONTENT: "Anxiety Cat is anxieting", which depicts every day struggles of a derpy kitty caught in inner turmoils that mysteriously have nothing to do with the outer world he is so terribly afraid of.

5. And last but not least: "The Art of Oversharing," in which I treat this very public domain as though it were my very own trash diary and possibly use the opportunity to give you horrible advice on everyday matters, Brule's Rules style.*

"Just hose it off, dummy." -Brule's Rules

On second thought, maybe Mr. Portokalos style, in which Windex is the answer to everything.

Soooo, yeah. To wrap things up, thank you for reading and joining me on my blogging shenanigans. I hope to shock, confuse, and disappoint. And then laugh it all off afterwards.

Also, just a quick warning before I go: I purposefully use hella lots of spelling/grammatical errors. I started doing it ironically and now I can't stop. If you know of any remedies, please feel free to sent help k thankssssss byeeeee xoxox

01 August No comments

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