Seonaid's Anguish Diary

What Would Bristol Do?

2011-07-04T02:29:00.010-05:00

Don’t lie to your mother. Pearls like this from Bristol Palin’s new memoir, “Not Afraid of Life: My Journey So Far”, have me wondering, is this where I went wrong? I still lie to my mother. I lie to her all the time. Sometimes I can’t remember what’s real and what isn’t. Other times she catches me in an unintentional truth I think is a lie, and it's only as I defend my dishonesty that I recognize my fact from my carefully orchestrated fiction.

But Bristol learned her lesson early - and it shows. With such deceptively simple advice, the high-school-slut-turned-teen-mom transformed herself into a wealthy chastity speaker cum reality star/published writer. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to what yesteryear's peers had to say, ‘cos today’s teens have a backlog of unspent wisdom.

After finishing Bristol’s easy read, I wondered what else I’d been missing. What if Hannah Montana’s got it all figured out? Never judge a book by its author. And, not all memoirs are created equal. That’s what Miley Cyrus taught me in her unrealistic “Miles to Go”- what with all the shouts out to Jesus and the bits about the importance of family. Right then I knew, this kid has not lived. She still thinks her parents won't cheat or betray her. Probably she’s not even lied that much to them, and - as Bristol pointed out - until the lying stops, the learning can’t begin. Miley’s crippling honesty will doom her to a lifetime of ignorance.

I’m in the market for second-hand knowledge, so what are publishers waiting for? They say bad things happen to good people, but has anyone actually asked Justin Bieber to weigh in? Just imagine the epic insights we might access if someone tapped the cast of Harry Potter? I’ll be waiting at the bookstore with my credit card. Or cash, should Dakota Fanning speak out against the evils of compounding interest.

~xo Seonaid

The Best & Worst Superheroes for Action & Adventure

2011-06-29T22:44:00.005-05:00

We all love a superhero, but do you ever wonder if they’re just riding the good press? They take to the streets to fight evil and corruption, but what of the battle raging behind closed doors? With this summer’s bumper crop of action movies, we take a look at which Hero’s super powers really bring the heat.

Batman: He only comes at night and leaves no trace. Plus, you’ll never know his name. Can conceal an array of sex toys in his cape. B

Daredevil: He’s blind! All the acrobatic sex you can handle, with no effort required. Hair a fucking wreck? No worries. He can’t see a damn thing! A-

Green Lantern: My favorite! Has fear issues, but the whole willpower thing speaks to me of dominance. Probably a control freak in bed. HOT. Grade: A

Hellboy: Not an attractive prospect. Love of cats is a complete turn off to the turtle-oriented. F-

Hulk: A shape-shifter in the bedroom. This guy’s temper may be a deal-breaker, but hang around for the make-up sex. There’s something to be said for that kind of passion. B+

Iron Man: He’s rich, crafty, clever and he’s got a heart problem! The time he has left will be quality. A+

Spiderman: Don't let this one stick around. He's got that sexy upside down kiss, but is that worth the hours it takes to get web out of your hair? I think not. C-

Superman: Want a man with a softer side? Whip out the kryptonite and enjoy. You’ll win the argument, but who wants a man who shrivels in a corner when you put on your jewelry? D

Thor: He could really give you a pounding, plus he’s handy around the flat. Hammer away! B

Wolverine: A total animal in bed. Someone cuts you off in traffic? He’s ready to key the car. Special Bonus: He can open that awful seamless plastic packaging! A-

~xo Seonaid
Be sure to vote for your favorite sexual super power (right side bar).

Career Rehab: Megan Fox

2011-06-27T21:56:00.004-05:00

I feel sorry for Megan Fox. She calls Michael Bay the "H" word and the next thing you know Steven Spielberg bins her ass. Perhaps I’m taking this all personally, since it just occurred to me that while I work for wreckered I could be canned by the Daily Mail. And I’m nowhere near as talented as Megan.

Luckily for her, I’ve survived a few career hot zones in my time. She’ll need to move quickly with my mea culpa salvation strategy, or she might never transform her fallen career.

1. Apologize to Michael Bay. Describe his on-set candor as "refreshing".

2. Call Steven Spielberg a Nazi. This will distract from the fact that she called an innocent man a Nazi.

3. Do charity work with orphans. What do orphans have to do with Hitler? Exactly. It’s important she makes this connection to a lack of connection early.

4. Donate a ton of money to survivors of…something. (The Holocaust?) First do research to establish existence of survivors. Surely someone’s still surviving something. Give to them. Generously.

5. Publicly condemn the Third Reich whilst celebrating her love for all things Jewish. Is Brian Austin Green Jewish? If so, celebrate his love. Publicly. It’s important to establish herself as a woman who sleeps with Jewish men who have absolutely nothing to offer. (E.g. Some of my best lovers are Jewish…)

If all else fails, develop an eating disorder or drug addiction.

Anything, anything else.

~xo Seonaid

The Pied Piper of Peril

2011-06-21T14:17:00.002-05:00

Trouble follows me wherever I go, which is ironic, since I had planned to work in the office today and therefore should not have led it anywhere. But no sooner had I arrived than my inebriated boss demanded I go in search of pastry. As if I didn’t have last night’s star-studded wrap party (including an all access back stage pass to the extras’ green room) to write up. As if I wasn’t nursing a skull-crushing migraine of my own. Complicated by a few generous hits on the bong. As if…Oh fuck it.

I wanted to object but three sets of desperate eyes turned on me accusingly. In them I saw anger, suspicion, and fully-dilated pupils. I grabbed money out of the kitty and fled before I was asked to contribute. My delivery fee was going to be a venti cappuccino.

So there I was, standing in line at the baker, flanked by the hung-over masses when it came to my attention that my fellow line-mates were all assistants of some sort – production, traffic, legal, political, secretarial. Not a diva among them. Not even a senior assistant. I felt absolutely buggered, and when I get buggered, I start to snort. I was just winding up, too, when the greedy cow in front of me snatched the last maple bar. Someone pawed at the ground with a foot. I began to snort in earnest, and that’s when I aspirated coffee into my lungs.

I don't remember anything until coming to on the sidewalk. The paramedic was kind and, thankfully, not my ex-husband. He gave me his number. Wants to teach me a new version of the Heimlich. Said it could save my life one day. That’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

~xo Seonaid

When In Rome

2011-06-19T22:36:00.001-05:00

Will one of these lucky children be the next Jolie-Pitt?

It was hot. Hotter than it needed to be, in the middle of June, in central Italy. There we were, me and the hugely pregnant Sarah, on city break and soaked to the armpits, when suddenly we were confronted with a spectre of Hollywood glamour. Angelina Jolie – on a mission of goodwill, collecting Italian orphans. Her cheeks in high blush from the blast of limousine air-conditioning. Her hair ruffled by the movements of a carefully synchronized entourage of security personnel. Sarah was oblivious to the level of shame called for by our unfortunate situation, so I was forced to bear the burden alone.
Angelina looked up, spotted us, and…grimaced. Her grateful glance toward her already-living and fifty-percent adopted children, their 18 nannies and 36 bodyguards, did not escape my notice.
Then, something magical. Angelina looked at me. We locked eyes. She held my gaze. Maybe I had a telepathic moment. I don’t know. I couldn’t say. What I can tell you is - I knew what the slim and elegant Angie, with her stork-like arms and razor-cut jaw, was thinking: “That swollen bitch is going to expect you to babysit.”
At that moment, the posse turned to contemplate the morbidly pregnant Sarah. Angelina whispered to her children. “Don’t stare,” I imagine, or something similar. Someone gasped. I think it was Shiloh, but it might have been one of her nannies. I really can’t be sure. Then the whole thing went epoch disaster – we spotted Brad Pitt.
I couldn’t tell you how I got us out of there. I only know that I did, and we returned to our tiny closet of a room 30 miles away from the city center. I peeled off my tee and headed to the bath. Only then did I spot the enormous sweat rings. I cried out in horror. Sarah tried her best to comfort me. “Oh for God’s sake,” she said. “Brad didn’t see you there. He didn’t even look your way. He wouldn’t have noticed you if I’d set you on fire.”
Thank God for small mercies.

~xo Seonaid

Sext Etiquette 101

2011-06-13T22:07:00.043-05:00

You want a hot hook-up, but the epidemic of celebrity sexting scandals is making you think twice. Ladies, never forget that great sext is all about communication.
Guaranteed Tips for Making a Clean Exit after Doing the Dirty

* Make sure you have a good data plan on your phone. Data packages are more important than free minutes because texting for sex reduces intimacy and prohibits awkward pauses.

* Text him only when drunk. Alcohol is a great excuse for poor judgment and bad decision making.

* Be explicit. You want sex. Men think, maybe I can get a commitment. No man would choose to be used for sex and then abandoned but if it's emotional support he's after, he should get a therapist. I suggest: “Want 2 c u 4 cheap meaningless sex. No strings/No spooning. U in or shld I text the next random guy?”

* Spare yourself the uncomfortable “put out and get out” formalities by going to his place.

* On arrival, tell him you meant to text someone else, but since he replied, you figured, why not?

* Straight away, bind and gag him. (Prevents physical and verbal caresses.)

* Keep your clothes on. Tell him you’re feeling kinky, but never lose sight of your keys.

* Scream another man’s name. Repeatedly. Make sure he knows the score.

* If he gets emotional after sex, pat him on the back. Insist he get a grip. When in doubt, have sex until he collapses from exhaustion.

~xo Seonaid

Peacock Eyes & Broken Dreams

2011-06-09T23:04:00.000-05:00

Could this season's shadows be Madonna's Fountain of Youth?

Do you ever think, “There’s got to be more to life than this”? I mean, on days when your editor hasn’t issued a bollocking after you were scooped by News of the World on the “Simians of Neverland: Where Are They Now?” piece. Do you have those days, dear reader?

Today I interviewed Meagan Moore, make–up artist to some of Britain’s biggest rap stars, for my feature on trends in eyeshadow pyrotechnics for the upcoming awards season. She’s 36, but you’d never know – when she’s out in public. I recently spent the evening at her flat, we got loaded, and the next morning when I dragged her from under the couch to see if she was still breathing, her bare-face made me realize - Meagan’s a genius at what she does.

Too bad her gift is wasted. In that male dominated industry, she spends the majority of her time applying base and concealer. Yet she dreams of tours with Madonna, Cher, or Steven Tyler –gracefully aging musicians whose careers depend on surgeons and cold cream magicians. Each time Meagan finds herself stemming the tide of flop sweat with a tiny (and ultimately insufficient) sponge and pancake foundation, she thinks to herself, “Is that all there is?”

Surely not, because Meagan predicts blues and greens are hot for summer. You’ll want to use a metallic liner – preferably a bronze, with a stubby point. Start light in the corners, applying more pressure as you near the outer edge. Combine with a thick fan of jewel-toned mascara and you’re ready for the podium!

~xo Seonaid

The Real Women of the Catwalk

2011-06-08T21:56:00.000-05:00

I love my job. The late nights. The parties. The complimentary drinks. The oily, sexy men - gay, straight, or lacking discernment. The sense of community that develops between single, fashionable women around a shared mirror of cocaine. And that's just Wednesday.

Normally I would resent having to sit in an audience of loathsome tourists whilst gorgeous models parade in front of me like every abandoned childhood dream. Normally. But today one of those waifs took a spill. There’s something about the injury and mortification of complete strangers that just kills me! “Scoot over,” I said. I lay down beside her and clutched my stomach.

I was evicted, but managed to sneak in for a bit of after-show bonding 'round the loo, doing shots of red bull with phentermine chasers. Playing pass the laxative whilst waiting our turn in the private stall. The intimacy I felt with each girl as I conducted my interviews - holding her hair in one hand, my recorder in the other. Their patience - each time I was forced to repeat myself due to an almost crippling inability to time my questions between spasms.

Such generosity of spirit. One of these days, I’ll learn the savage rhythm.

~xo Seonaid

The Minute My Back Was Turned

2011-06-07T18:48:00.002-05:00

Lee left me. He left the prison he was in and in so doing, left me. All those hours wasted on the Prison Break box set – you think I’d have seen it coming. It’s like this past month never happened. Some slut, supposedly his sister, organized a dramatic rescue via rooftop helicopter.
No guns, but they were heavily armed with air horns, paint balls, and bottle rockets. Didn’t even make the news. Found out at family day, along with two other women he was writing. Figures.
If there’s one thing I learned from watching all that American TV, it’s how to handle myself on the inside. If that bastard shows up at my door, I’ll be ready.
~xo Seonaid

When Good Friends Make Bad Decisions

2011-06-04T23:14:00.021-05:00

Tomorrow I’m throwing a baby shower for my best friend, Sarah. I’ve been up for hours fashioning diapers into animals and thinking deep thoughts, yet enlightenment escapes me. I love Sarah like a sister, but I don’t understand her lack of concern: that parasite is mapping a path of destruction from her abs to her anus. Once a vagina goes birth canal, there’s no turning back.

It’s not that she hasn’t thought it through. I know 'cos I asked her, “Did you think this through?” She looked as if I’d gone a bit mental, and it was obvious she didn’t get my point. I even offered a melon – as a sort of visual aide. I thought she might understand if she felt the heft of it and contemplated its crowning girth.

“Do you know how many kegels this beast of burden is going to cost you?”

Nothing I say has any impact.

Excuse me now, dear reader. I thought I was done with set up, but my tape measure is missing. My guests expect to draw lots on the size of Sarah’s swollen belly, and I don’t like to disappoint. I hope Sarah will be pleased with my efforts. But pregnant women are so bitchy, it’s best to keep your expectations low.

~xo Seonaid

Measuring a Woman's Worth, One Man @ a Time

2011-06-02T20:40:00.005-05:00

Reading about Carmen Montenegro, the woman who allegedly killed her ex-boyfriend and might have even gotten away with it but for the lack of a proper storage plan, makes me sad. What happened to drive her to take the life of a man so centrally localized to her? What would it take?

I am obsessed with this woman and her bin of body parts. It makes me realize, I really miss Lee, my incarcerated boyfriend. Even my ugly friends will have sex this weekend but I can’t get to Lee’s body to make cuts and disposals even if I need to. Life just isn’t fair.

I try to keep a positive attitude for the sake of my readers, but it’s hard when I consider the facts. My mother, font of her offspring’s weakness and despair, is crazy. Sarah, my best friend, is pregnant.
I can't help thinking, there but for the grace of God… I shudder at how they’ve ended up.

What’s needed is a good pep talk. Like, Seonaid, you are so strong. You do bold things with fashion. The modifications you made to hats and flip flops changed three people’s lives. Readers cry from across the world for your advice. Having a man who can take you places doesn’t make you successful. But even if it does, all is not lost. You have a man. In prison. You are not a loser.

(Sometimes it helps.)

~xo Seonaid

Finding and Maintaining Balance

2011-06-01T21:41:00.014-05:00

The other day, a strange woman stopped me in the grocery to ask, “How do you stay so balanced?” Rather than answer her question right then, I directed her to this blog. I’m sure the rest of you have also wondered, “How does Seonaid stay so balanced?” Rather than repeat myself, I’m addressing it here.

How do I stay so balanced? It’s not like my life is easy. On any given Thursday, you can find me juggling a thriving career as a lifestyle columnist for the prominent news outlet, wreckered, dispensing fashion and relationship advice to readers struggling with issues of…fashion and relationships. All of which means my thumb, index and middle fingers must maintain steady pressure on the pulse of our nation, and the world.

In my spare time, I date a convicted felon, drink with the girls, keep a current closet, run a household, raise a turtle and visit the elderly. Ok, that last part was bollocks, ‘cos seriously, I have enough to do. This blog is how I give back!

Seonaid's Secrets

1. It helps if you’re a Libra. I am. If not, proceed to #2. If so, click “Older posts”. Enjoy.

2. You’ve come to #2 because you’re not a Libra. The second step is admitting you have
a problem, you’re powerless to change your sign, and you need help. (Proceed to #3.)

3. Back to the grocery – buy a selection of frozen dinners – enough for 5 lunches and dinners. The other two nights are for dates or drinks with the girls. (See above). Important: Buy less if you’re popular. I am, but said 5 out of concern for your feelings. I’ll actually only be buying enough for 3, but do what works for you. (Proceed to #4.)

4. Stop at the ATM at least once a week to get £ for the days you forget your lunch or just can’t face another damn frozen dinner. (By now, you should know the drill.)

5. Go shopping. Whenever. A good diva does her part to foster her country’s economic balance.

6. Make time for your prisoner. Or if no prisoner is handy, your ordinary boyfriend. Husband. Lover. Etc. The amount of time is left to your discretion, and likely dependent on the quality of the relationship and/or the quality of the sex. (This post is not concerned with issues of quality, only balance.)

7. Get a food and water dispenser for your pet. Important: Refills.

8. Set up automatic payments for the bills. Check it occasionally but no worries. The bank will let you know when you’ve overdrafted.

9. Visit your mother in the asylum. Or at her home. Wherever she's normally found. Bring her a plant and you’re good for a month at least.

10. Make time for You! (‘Time for Me’ means a hot bath, saucy novel and bottle of hard liquor. You might want a beer. A sedative. We’re all different.)

~xo Seonaid

Secrets My Lover Keeps

2011-05-30T11:10:00.008-05:00

I found out Lee’s not actually a killer. Not of people. Hopes, dreams and schoolgirl fantasies, yes. People, no. He’s in the slammer for a bit of identity theft - a crime of opportunity, which is a lazy sort of offense, if you think of it. Not like murder, which stems from a sudden burst of passion or, in the deliberate version, has its roots in passion but which instead requires the solid and sustained effort of pre-meditation. No, Lee is just a sodding opportunist, indistinct from every other man I’ve dated. I’m so disappointed in him. I can’t even tell you.

That sly bastard. Anyone can nick a license. How hard is that? It takes a real man to find his wife in bed with her clandestine lover, and then ruthlessly avenge himself against the both of them, at the same time, without mercy. That’s the man I thought I loved. Not some small time mercenary, petty pickpocket.

It’s not just me. Every woman likes a man who’s handy with his…hands. Capable. Skilled. Knowledgeable in areas in which she is deficient. It’s part of the allure of the seasoned older man. But what has he to teach me in this? I have a real talent for our trade. Just last week, I lifted a pair of Manolo’s that were lying around in clearance. I’m wearing them now. They pinch, but that’s not the point. He’s a poser.

Thought you could have a bit of fun at my expense, eh, funny man?

You know fuck all about crime.

I've lost respect, but my life coach insists I see this through.

~xo Seonaid

Mutiny: A Prison Widow Revolts

2011-05-29T12:13:00.013-05:00

I’ve joined a support group for partners of prisoners. I have a label: widow. My letters to Lee will be so meaningful now I have a title.

Meg, our self-imposed leader, never talks about her Tony’s crimes. This is a source of contention with Robin and Angela who are deeply suspicious of her silence. We speculate on what Tony might have done, and believe it was something awful, going beyond the manslaughter, home invasion and revenge killings of our men. We resent the status Meg has claimed for herself, despite a complete lack of qualifications. (She’s a stay at home mum, for Christ’s sake.)

Meg is an alpha so her ascent was inevitable. Shame for Meg that Robin and I are also alpha’s, meaning we’ll never truly be friends. Also, Meg will soon be overthrown. Pity, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time before bars, it’s that life is about the have’s and have not’s. Robin and I have entitlement issues. We have no respect for Meg. She needs to learn how the system works.

Lee calls us the prison bitches. Brianne, whose partner has these really amazing arms, took offense when I repeated that. I appreciate her hatred for Lee because yesterday he noticed her bum, and I would not appreciate her interest.

When I learned I was a prison widow after not having been married, I considered dumping Lee. He wept when I told him. Angry tears. We did break up, for a bit, but just now a man came to my flat with freshly cut flowers. He said they were from Lee, to demonstrate how his love will always find me, anywhere I go.

That’s sweet, right?

~xo Seonaid

Captivate Your Prison Man

2011-05-26T21:25:00.004-05:00

I’ve been seeing my prison man for three weeks and people are always asking me, “Seonaid, how do you keep the love alive?” Rather than respond to each tweet and email, I’m posting my tips for sustaining a loving relationship when the bars that separate you aren’t consensual.

1. Mix it up. I like to send care letters to the prison. Sometimes I sneak in a Polaroid of me in a daring frock, or maybe just a pair of stilettos. He never knows what’s coming. Note: The censors won't let him see my hard work, but no worries. He’ll hear every detail.

2. Keep it fresh. Tell him all about your day, and then don’t mention your life for a few weeks. He’ll get suspicious. Jealous. What are you hiding? Are you seeing someone else? Another technique is to withhold all communication for a few days. Let him worry you’ve lost interest, moved on to someone with freedom on his side, or another man of the (striped) cloth. You won’t believe how loving he is when you turn up at Family Day. Which brings me to my next tip…

3. Skip Family Day. And don’t call first. Just because he’s in jail doesn’t mean you should deny him the thrill of the chase. Be thrilling. But be back next weekend.

4. Tell him you’ve taken a lesbian lover.

5. #4 obviates the need for a #5.

Enjoy!

~xo Seonaid

Life, from Both Sides of the Bars

2011-05-23T22:13:00.029-05:00

I’m a lifestyle diva, celebrated columnist and relationship expert, but it took a prison pen pal to gain the sort of notoriety I now enjoy amongst the girls. Barbara asked if he had a friend. Cait wants to meet his brother. Brad, from the salon, wants to come for family day. Sarah’s is the sole voice of dissent, but only ‘cos I haven’t told my mother.

Lee wants to know everything about my life. Where I work. What time I get there. What time I leave. What I eat. How much I spend. What I buy. It’s touching, and makes me realize how much I take for granted.

Like, mobility.

Intoxication.

Haggis, even, and the freedom to reject it.

Sushi, from that tiny shop around the corner from my flat – they make it in advance, but the older chef, he always sets aside one box for me with no masago ‘cos, I don’t know, eggs, little orange eggs - they disgust me. Such a small thing but whenever I go by and it’s not the guy who knows me, I have to scrape the eggs off... It’s just not the same as when my chef friend makes it and what can I say? I miss it.

Prison must be like being forced to eat California rolls with masago, every day, for the rest of your life. Whilst never bending over in the shower. I’m not a strong person.

Bringing it back, I have questions of my own.

Like, have you ever dropped soap in the shower? Did something happen? What? Do I even want to know?

And should I be jealous?

For starters.

~xo Seonaid

Spin Control for a Bad Hair Day

2011-05-23T21:39:00.001-05:00

Life is all sorts of cruel to the single woman. I’m tired of the judgment. Yours. Mine. Ours. The self loathing that comes with subtle obesity, water retention, and bad breakups. Yesterday I went to my cardio dance class only to discover it had morphed into some bastard relation of boot camp, involving an excess of step work with a real and somewhat significant step, dumbbells and this obscenely large ball that you hold in the air with your feet whilst raising your head in that direction. In a room full of women. I ask you, what’s my motivation?

Today I ran into my ex, Dylan, whilst in camo sweats and a dirty tee. Greasy hair arranged in a mullet, swollen by the pillow I’d just abandoned. A swollen mullet. My toes, un-painted. My lips, un-glossed. My eyes, bruised by the eyeshadows of Saturday, and the liner I put over Saturday's shadows just last night. Two weeks ago, he dumped me by text message. My looks and fashion forward sense of style are all I have left. That, and my new prison lover. Dylan’s life coaching sessions will be awkward now, but what choice do I have? Men are dispensable, but good advice is hard to find.

Unto this diva, I cry, never again will this happen. I’ve hired a paparazzo to follow me, capturing staged candids of my best angles in premium lighting. He’ll make placards for me to distribute as handout adverts.

“You’ve caught me at a bad time," I will say, "but this is what I am capable of.”

~xo Seonaid

What I Learned on Armageddon

2011-05-21T11:41:00.008-05:00

No one knows how the world will end. Except, of course the Americans. (What do we expect from America if not the end of the world as we know it? One day. I digress.) The doomsday rumors herald not an end but a beginning: the onset of my ability to welcome change, to accept love – in any and all of its forms. I choose this vision.
Perhaps it was the global catastrophe mindset – that feeling of oneness we’ll most likely share when the real and inevitable epoch disaster strikes, where finally we are forced to look at each other, hate what we see, and move beyond it. For me, that day was today.
I admit to a feeling of trepidation. What if ours was only animal attraction that will now peter out into oblivion? How would the other inmates act? Would I be accosted? Taken as a hostage? In all-out riot to be featured on the evening news? Maybe I’d set into motion all of the events that the nutters boasted about? Wouldn’t that just figure???
Instead, I rang in the apocalypse, unmolested, with my lover at his maximum security detention center, in the bosom of our nation’s correctional system. Readers, I was…embraced.
As soon as I set foot inside the sanctuary, it was clear I was among friends. The woman who led me to the back room and gently led me through the strip search, shook her head as I tried to shield my muffin top. “Girl,” she said. “Nothing I ain't seen before.” Ah, acceptance – for who I am and what life, time and an excess of alcohol and chips has done to my body.
The warden grunted her approval as I signed in and was once again embraced – this time by the security guard outside the first of many iron gates. He, perhaps sensing my distress, hugged me close. I felt his acknowledgement of my fear, and knew transcendent comfort.
Finally, I was led to an enclosure – a cubby, of sorts. Lee sat across the two-ply, reinforced plexiglass window, adorned only by a single black phone. His hands, in a heartbreaking gesture of submission, pressed firm against this symbolic barrier of oppression. Yes, he’d earned his time, but oh it hurts!
I won’t share our conversation. Some things must remain private and besides, such naked confessions of longing are not meant for the weak of heart. My wish for this sacred Saturday, dear reader and those left behind, is that you too have enjoyed a joyous apocalypse. May all your new lives be good ones.
~xo Seonaid

Fix it with Fashion

2011-05-18T16:26:00.024-05:00

Sisters, we’re not in the business of self-hatred, although we may frequently shop at that store. We’re here to take an objective inventory of our flaws. And then to spend a fortune concealing them so no one will ever know.

This month we’ll cover cankles – that failure of the ankle to distinguish itself from a dominant calf. Cankles can be congenital or may present later in life as the result of too much alcohol (guilty!).

My favorite technique for disguising my chunky stumps is to distract the eye. Breasts are the best target because they require no extra effort. Empty of that… I have some footwear picks you’ll run to.

For the bedroom, try Prada's little beauty – perfect for naughty nights with your man.

Slip on these darling mary janes and the only thing your friends will see is envy.

I love these pumps for the office. People notice my shoes and praise my work.

Feel the call of the wild in “camo-toe” boots – perfect for a summer date or a solo-trip to the pub.

Join me next month when I examine the best rings for man hands and sausage fingers.

Fatal Flaws: They Don't Have to Be a Deal Breaker

2011-05-17T21:04:00.013-05:00

Done.

The letter’s in the post, ‘cos the carrier wouldn’t give it back.

Still, I feel brave. Confident. Not dependent on others to validate my decisions. My mother would die if she knew, and that alone is worth it. And, besides her, who’s to say just ‘cos he’s a convicted murderer in a high security institution serving the better part of a life sentence that he’s a bad match? My sister Davina is married to a tax advisor, yet they manage a bit of happiness.

It could be worse. Like, he could be innocent - by reason of mental disease or defect. Instead, he’s guilty as sin. That’s something. In this dying world of ethical depravity, we'd be wise to accept whatever pittance life offers. We all want bread, but sometimes we get crust. Do you go without eating because it has a bit of mold on it? You can choose to shun a man because he killed two people whilst they slept, or you can look for the good in people. I’m trying for the latter, but it’s hard. Each misspelled word or punctuated sentence fragment beckons me to judge, goads me to condemn. It’s in my nature to disparage. It’s what I do. It’s all I know.

Talking of which. Sarah said today, if he wants to stalk me, he’ll be at the mercy of the post. She said there’s very little chance he’ll ever get out, so no worries. She said, like as not he’ll die in there before he ever gets the chance to come kill me. She said…

Never mind. I just realized she was being a bitch.

Excuse me. I’ve got to make a call.

~xo Seonaid

In Case You Don't Hear from Me...

2011-05-16T20:14:00.004-05:00

Another lengthy epistle discovered in the post. I’ve never, excepting a bit of role play, dated a man who was physically in prison. Lee is so giving with his time and information, asking only for my immediate response.
Dear Lee,

I received…

Does that opening suggest a level of dearness? I barely know anything about him. Other than his needs. He really does go on about his needs. I don’t want him to think he or his needs are dear to me. This man has time to read into my meaning.

Lee,

Too familiar?

Hello, Lee! How are you?

In prison's how he is. And kill the “!” I’m not excited. I am less than excited. I am un-thrilled. It's just a letter. To a man. An ordinary man in a public penitentiary. Who has my address. (FML!) It means nothing. He knows it means nothing, right?

Regardless, he's a convicted murderer who might one day be paroled.

He is deserving of my courtesy.

You can do this, Seonaid!!!

Hi, Lee. Thank you for your letters. I ~~am very, very sorry for the~~ apologize for the delay in responding. ~~I sympathize with your loneliness, but you really should have said that you were in pris~~ I’m sorry to hear your needs are unmet. I wish you luck. Thank you for the invitation to family day. I’m not sure I can make it. I don’t mind writing, so long as you understand ~~this~~ ~~means nothing to me.~~

Shit. I'm coming home to a lump under the duvet.

Dear Lee. Thank you for the invitation to Gateside Family Day. I look forward to seeing you there.

P.S. “Chains” is on the radio just now. I feel so close to you.

~xo Seonaid

Take out that last bit? Fuck it. This relationship is doomed.

I’m already bitter.

A Tall Glass for a Long Letter

2011-05-15T23:35:00.013-05:00

Lee’s had it rough, but it hasn’t broken him. So he says. In this letter I received today, stamped by an area prison. He’s in for life, he writes, but he's not sorry 'cos they had it coming. I gave this man my address.
It all goes back to his childhood, he says. Never had a chance. A mother who died in labor. An alcoholic father. His aunt, a prostitute, was the family’s sole support. Things went downhill after she eloped with her pimp. His brother never visits due to a crippling fear of the outdoors. No one knows what became of their sister. Lee thinks she might be in a women’s correctional, but likely that's wishful thinking.
English is Lee's first language but hand to God, you’d never know. For all his childlike grammar and immigrant spelling, he’s a rather prolific writer. Six pages, single spaced, double sided, hand-written. Took me three hours to read. Three hours and a fifth of bourbon. And a sedative.
Lee was incarcerated at the writing of this letter, but today’s ambitious prisoner needs only the handle of a toothbrush, the bowl of a spoon, a bit of tape and his wits about him to rise above those circumstances.
It would be dangerous, reckless, even, to engage this man. I should let him down easy. I'm working on my response.
~xo Seonaid

Sinners and Saints

2011-05-14T20:43:00.004-05:00

On the streets of Edinburgh I met a community servant. His name was Lee. Something about him commanded my attention. Singled him out from the other volunteers. Was it the tell-tale lines 'round his mouth, testifying to a life of hardship and misfortune? Or the furrow of deeply-felt-despair tunneling into his brow? How I longed to trace the jagged smile tattooed across his adam's apple.
He seemed shackled by circumstance, yet I discerned in him a firm and attentive lover. My seasoned eye noted the passion lurking behind his (Hideous!) uniform. Already he’d cleared debris from eleven city sidewalks. His sun must be in Scorpio.
We spoke only briefly but his thrilling confession (“Wanna tap that ass, boo”) and his rough, stolen kisses, revealed in those moments the true nature of his feelings.
I gave him my address in case he’s ever in town.
~xo Seonaid

Therapy vs. Life Coaching - How to Know What's Best for You

2011-05-09T13:00:00.005-05:00

As wreckered’s lifestyle diva, I'm always asked, “Seonaid, what’s better – a therapist or a life coach?” After 15 years of psychoanalysis, I feel qualified to say, it really all depends on your preference.
It may also depend on your particular sort of problem. I’d say, if you have trouble maintaining relationships, fail miserably at your job, have tendencies toward paranoia, use fat as a shield or sex as a weapon, you might be happier with a life coach. They won’t burden you with a diagnosis. Who really cares what you have, right? What’s important is how to fix it. I knew you’d feel that way, which is why I suggest it.
But for those of us who want to access the root of the problem, and then get that problem a name we can look up later on wikipedia - for those of us like that, I’d say, check with a therapist.
Through the years I’ve learned there’s nothing wrong with me that wasn't created and destroyed by my mother. All she needs to do is apologize. But do you think that bitch cares what it takes to lift me out of this vacuous ghetto of emotional oblivion? She’s so withholding. You just don’t even know. But my boss demands I stay on topic and, anyway, I haven’t got time enough to tell you.
As to my preference - I see a therapist. And date a life coach. Dylan has OCD so I get all the advice and direction I can handle.
~xo Seonaid

Destiny: It is What We Remake It

2011-05-08T16:29:00.004-05:00

The Buddhists (is it the Buddhists? Anyway, somebody) believe that we design our own destiny. Like, we pick out our parents and families before we are born. That everything that happens to us in this life was pre-ordained by us. Which makes you wonder… WTF was I thinking?
Well, I reject the teachings of the Buddhists (or whoever – not important. Pay attention). I reject them. I cast off the fur-lined handcuffs of this mortal coil. Starting tomorrow, I manifest a new destiny. (Not the one I tried to manifest last winter. That was bad. I've thought this one through.)
No longer will I be left holding the bag, the remainder on the lease, or the credit card debt on our dream vacation. The one he said he paid for. Right before he disappeared into the jungle with our sherpa, only to return three days later reeking of coconuts, a wicked sunburn on his back and three necrotic spider bites on his nethers. And no memory of having paid the bill. I can’t go on like this.
This Seonaid does not accept destiny – she creates it – along with a line of headbands, inspired by the fearless and peerless Princess Bea.
Divine Designs is coming.
~xo Seonaid

Fashion Reform in Government: Hope for the Future?

2011-05-06T10:42:00.008-05:00

When it comes to creating an image of effective leadership, there’s nothing more important than dressing the part. How can one expect to be taken seriously whilst wearing a tie decorated in saltires? Let’s hope Alex Salmond ignores Tavish Scott’s lead, or Scotland will never see any of the much needed tie-reform. It’s clear by now that we can’t count on Iain Gray. His one-note ideas will get us nowhere.
Thoughts, gentlemen? Here are mine.
Nick Clegg cut a dashing figure in his conservative suits and tasteful neck wear, but it simply wasn’t enough to offset his flagging reputation. Perhaps he should have done more in charcoal. I’m afraid we’ll never know, but I suspect this unfortunate sweater was his undoing.
Nicola, I congratulate you but…call me.
The future of Scotland is on the line. Fortunately, one man knows what he’s wearing. For our sake, I hope the others will follow Patrick Harvie’s fearless example. I have no idea what he stands for, but he’s sexy as hell just standing, and that’s all I ask for my country.
~xo Seonaid

A Time of Bonding

2011-05-03T15:04:00.007-05:00

Question: What sort of sister steals your boyfriend, sleeps with his brother and then begs for a set-up with your ex?
Answer: Mine.
We spent the afternoon shopping. Cait helped spend money I didn’t have. For shoes I didn’t want or (apparently) keep. I hope they give her bunions. Not that it would matter. Our men never look at her feet.
I refused permission on grounds that sharing a husband is one degree from inbreeding. They deserve each other, still it chafes. We stopped for Chinese. My fortune said “Wedding bells fill the future.” She snatched it from my trembling hand. I smacked her. She pulled my hair. I spilled my drink. In her face. Hers was empty. I laughed as they led us to the door. She cried. The waiter comforted her.
She slipped his number into her bra when she thought I couldn’t see.
~xo Seonaid

Moving On

2011-04-30T12:12:00.006-05:00

I’ve given up on Stuart. Making a baby out of thin air is exhausting. Not to mention unrewarding. My boobs might have gotten bigger but who wants birthing hips and stretch marks? Not me, friend.
Dylan is relentless in his pursuit. I miss him when he only texts 9 times before noon.
My mind runs riot.
“What does this mean?”
“Was he knifed to death in city centre?”
“Did he perish in a freak motorcycle accident?”
“Is he with another woman?”
Call me irrational and I will point to a diva who's seen it all, lost it all, and is impossible to surprise.
Dylan calls me every night. We talk for hours. Until 7, because he has to feed his dogs. They make it really difficult to build a foundation. (Mental note: get list of shelters.) Dylan says I need personal growth before I’m ready for a relationship with him. He says, sex is liberating and will help me find my core. Maybe, but it seems like a stall tactic. I think he’s afraid to let go and allow himself to love.
~xo Seonaid

why i hate stuart listen up

2011-04-28T20:22:00.003-05:00

Stuart returned this morning looking quite hung-over and more than a little over-sexed. I almost kicked him out. Instead I rinsed his toothbrush in the toilet and left without a kiss.
I turn my hatred inwards, dear reader, but sometimes it runs amok. I imagine how it would feel to stab him with a fork. I wonder if Kate Middleton ever has such thoughts. Does she ever gaze across that expansive table and think, “If only I could hurl this 15^th century ivory-handled steak knife into William’s pasty white throat, severing his vocal cords, so that I would never have to hear him laugh like that again”? I wonder.
Tomorrow the country celebrates their love. Today I think, I wish I could sleep through tomorrow. I celebrate this goal. Toward my goal, I have begun drinking whiskey. Thirty minutes ago I switched to shots. I’d like to make a toast. I drink to my oblivion. Stuart is out with our turtle masseuse. He thinks I will never know. I know he will never think where his toothbrush is headed next.
i hate who i am when i'm with him reader. i really do. i really really do.

Adventures in Personal Healing

2011-04-26T21:08:00.003-05:00

I spent the weekend with my mother. At the institution. My brother went hungry underground. Who knows where my sisters were, those neglectful bitches. I don't pity my mother, but what did I do to deserve an asylum holiday? Petty gods laugh at my expense. Don't think I am ignorant of this.
My boss enticed me back to work with a free session with Dylan, an organic life coach. I resent his cunning. Everyone has a price, and he knows my price is free.
Dylan is handsome, but he has terrible fashion sense. Flip flops in April, with those toenails? Bamboo fibers will not wear well if you don't put in the work. My soul cries out for the justice that only a lifestyle diva can deliver. Even this promise of heterosexuality could not soothe my anguish. I longed to clasp him to my bosom and heal him of his own personal betrayal. His head was halfway to my chest when I remembered Stuart. Stuart who did not come home last night. Yes. I remembered.
~xo Seonaid

Pregnancy, Pain and Prostitutes

2011-04-23T20:45:00.006-05:00

Stuart just left. He brought take away (curry for me, crickets for Hugo) and changed the locks on my door. He had a charity shop remove her things from his flat. Said Berit made threats. She's been ordered to attend anger management classes. A hooker with a heart of darkness. I'd laugh if not for fear of internal rupture.
I told Stuart about our baby. He seemed to take it well. Plumped my pillow. Pinched my breasts. Obviously, we couldn't consumate the relationship. I'm recuperating. Also, my cycle doesn't end until Tuesday. I'm so horny I'm fearful.
~xo Seonaid

The Situation, Sorted

2011-04-22T09:31:00.004-05:00

Dear Readers,
I write to you from my sick bed. There's been a terrible development. Please believe me when I say, I absolutely never meant for this to happen. In this crazy, random, happenstance universe, through no fault of our own, we are sometimes forced into the wrong place at the wrong time. Like yesterday.
Berit, without provocation, experienced a total loss of control. I don't mind telling you, since you weren't there and must trust my sincere account of this remarkable incident: I've never seen anything like it. I was in front of my flat taking Hugo Turtle for a walk, when all of a sudden, I heard…grunting. I looked across the street and there stood Berit with Stuart. She must have been crying out to me - her mouth was moving but the noises she made…were inhuman. Guttural. It puts me in mind of the Exorcist. Have you seen it? She sounded just like that little girl. Unreal! Just like her.
I’ve never seen anyone navigate such heavy traffic with such speed, agility… not grace, no, but speed and agility kept her from getting hit. Too bad, because, burdened as I was with turtle, I was unable to escape. Helpless to defend against the onslaught. Berit hammered me with her fists, screaming obscenities. My arms, of necessity, were over my head and thus blocked my vision but I imagine Berit didn't look her best. Until the bruises fade, I won't either.
A neighbor called the police. Berit was arrested. I’m filing an order of protection. She’ll be forced from her flat. That’s unfortunate but, as Stuart pointed out, she brought this on herself.
Talking of which, he was very tender towards me and our turtle. He’s stopping by to nurse my wounds. I'm going to tell him about the baby. He deserves to know.
~xo Seonaid

Making a Difference

2011-04-19T19:03:00.003-05:00

My life is ruined yet I am taunted by hope. My boss approved my expense budget – for £30. Sarah hasn’t spoken to me since her husband yelled my name during sex - my whole name, including the middle bit. As if I would have her husband. He’s irrational. Overweight. And shit in bed.
I want to be with Stuart but he refuses to answer my calls, emails and texts. He’s chosen Berit even though she’s all wrong for him. You may think I’m jealous, but in my experience, once a drug-running hooker, always so. Her tits are massive, but has she read the classics?
She's not worthy. I owe it to him – to our former love – and the love we’ll share in the future - to get rid of her. I’ve taken a flat across the street. And a part time job to pay for two flats. It’ll be worth it.
It has to be.

What to Expect When You're Not Expecting

2011-04-18T19:16:00.003-05:00

I called Stuart to share our news: I’m pregnant with his baby. I heard him tell the secretary he wasn’t in. I went by his work. He snuck out the back. I called his mobile. Berit, whore du jour, answered.
“He died,” she said.
“Bitch, do I sound lucky?” I said. She hung up.
She called back from a remote location. I knew she would. Her kind always does.
She asked what I wanted. I asked what she wanted. She asked again. I repeated myself.
“I’m pregnant,” she said. “With Stuart’s child.”
I hung up. I called back. “Me too,” I said.
She hung up. She called back. “No you’re not,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“I know you,” she said. “I’ve been you.”
She hung up. She's not pregnant, but will be. Just as soon as her period is over.
But enough about her. Why is my life so difficult? All I want is a man to love me. And our unborn child, come to that - if it must.
Last week, my mother was institutionalized after finding my father in bed with a dog. I had her committed. Yesterday I discovered my worthless father is having an affair. The only thing wrong with my mother is her vision. I left her in the asylum on principle.
My brother joined the army. Two weeks later he went AWOL. In our parent’s basement. I bring him food under cover of darkness three times a week. I would never survive a women’s prison, but what can I do? He’s family. (Supposedly.) I've given until I'm empty.
Does anyone consider Seonaid? I'd end it all if I thought someone would find me in time to pump my stomach. Such anxiety beats in the heart of every single woman. Still, I feel alone.
I could be pregnant with Stuart’s child. If this were a just universe. I curse each egg that succumbs to the relentless and bloody ritual of menstruation. With these ovaries, this uterus, I'm destined to die alone.

The Story wreckered Doesn't Want You to Read

2011-04-14T19:49:00.004-05:00

Never let the sun go down on your anger. Or so they say. I’m here to say, that’s bullshit. Let the sun rise on it too. Never let them see your anger when the sun rises. Always keep them guessing where you've gone to. Ladies, I’m talking about your men.
Today my boss called me in for an unscheduled review. "You need to leave your personal life at home," he said. "No more crying at your desk. Arguing with your boyfriends. Vomiting into the break-room recycling bin." Blah, blah. What a crap excuse to keep from giving me a raise. As if I didn’t know what he was about. Since when does a lifestyle diva not blog about…her life?
Perhaps I should do as my Editor does, and take "work" home instead. I didn’t want to point fingers, but a reporter’s first obligation is to the story.
BLIND ITEM
Which control-freaky Editor of a prominent webrag is romancing which staff sexpert behind closed doors? We hope it’s not office doors, but some of us have lives and therefore are not here ‘til all hours. (This blind item has two parts. Your part is to determine who plays them.)
Rest assured, dear reader, all will be revealed if said Editor denies the expense budget for my Caribbean expose.
As tragic as my daily existence is (and you just cannot even imagine), I am still miffed that anyone in this dump should question me after years of faithful service! Yes, last night I lost at quarters and beer pong to three underage tourists. That’s all I can tell you because there are huge holes in my memory. Perhaps I should have stopped after the six drinks I remember having. It would appear that I didn’t. Excuse me.
Yes, I woke up in the alley adjacent to the office. No, I was not in the dumpster. I was on a box, beside a naked man, covered in a mural of newspaper and trash bags. It was he, not I, who stank of cigarettes and last week’s urine. My ensemble is none of Mr. Wreck’s business, even if it is a repeat. The Belgians do it all the time yet no one calls on them for an impromptu eval.
You’d think I was the only problem, but ours is an office rife with scandal.
BLIND ITEM
Which ginger-haired suck up recently made waves at company headquarters when he was spotted by a certain lifestyle columnist using colored contacts to hide cat-like pupils? Methinks there’s a story there, but who am I to tell it? He’s high on…life. That’s all I’m saying.
But, what of the quarters and beer pong? Who were those mysterious tourists, and what have they done with my memory? Did they take my number too? Faithful following, it seems I am dangerously close to revealing details about my own personal life. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?
Henceforth, I cover who, not what, I know. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to post this for my Editor’s review.
I’d have to confirm with our sham psychic but I think I see a raise in my future.
~xo Seonaid

My Love Life, a Retrospective

2011-04-10T10:28:00.008-05:00

Dear Readers:

As Mercury drags his feet ever backwards, my life is drawn into chaos. Three men, all of them ex-boyfriends, each a loser in his own right, none of them sober, called last week. I am beset by present options, yet disgusted by past choices. It's better to be alone than with the wrong man. Right? Always. Don't you think?
Bodean: one-time fiancé, slurry with the home brew, crying after a toss-up with his momma. He’s living with her on the east end of town. (There’s a mouth begging to be silenced by some knife-crime.) He seemed surprised by my lack of interest. I am anxious for her to make herself known to their neighbors but why Bodean thought I'd be sympathetic is a mystery that endures to this very hour. And that call came on Tuesday.
On Wednesday I opened my door to delivery-man Daniel, emotional and neurological epileptic. He bore the flowers I’d sent to myself. To make dead neighbor Gary jealous. Before he died. Epic fail, as they say. Daniel and I made angry love by the fireplace. Twice. My nails are still filthy with coal dust. Daniel denied the circumstantial nature of our sex and called to schedule an after hours delivery. I spent the night drinking. In my tub. Alone. Second-guessing my decisions. Analyzing the boggy, stagnant quagmire of my love life. Googling ways to restore a mobile that's been thrown into the toilet. As is my custom.
Yesterday it was Tristan, the man I drink to forget – most nights. Tristan embodied the change he wanted to see in the world. I did not admire this about him. We started out with a Sunday morning church date, to atone for the sins of our Saturday night. It was endearing – the way he asked my name over our shared waffle, mispronounced it between sips of our mimosa, how he held my hand as he led me into the sanctuary, almost fearful I might escape. Would that I had thrown myself into traffic, dear readers.
When Tristan slid his £2 into the collection bin, I wondered but didn’t ask if that was truly 10% of his income. But how could I doubt this saint of a man, even if he was a complete sinner between the sheets? The sex was...compelling, when supply equaled demand, but eventually I could not keep up.
It all came to an apocalyptic end during bible study. Mother Universe, in Her ineffable wisdom, chose not to end my torment with one well-placed smite. Although She was asked. Repeatedly. Weekly devotionals were tribulation enough, but I was on holiday. In the middle of the Caribbean with a thong up my ass. Who did this bastard think he was, booking his dead God on our vacation? I am a tolerant girlfriend, but even I have limits.
It turned out Tristan only wanted a donation. He’s cutting out to New Zealand. I’m sure he’ll find someone who needs reforming. I pledged £2. I think he's worth it.
~xo Seonaid