Trust me, you’re not the biggest creep in your apartment building

I’ve always considered myself to be a bit of an exhibitionist.

I mean, I would never go into the adult entertainment industry or join a colony, but if I was a celebrity I would be all over the Halle Berry in Monster’s Ball stuff. Nakedness has just never been a thing for me.

Now, don’t start with the whole “well I don’t like how I look” garbage. Ceasing to care about being naked has nothing to do with what you look like without Spanx on — it has to do with freedom, which is what we’re all about over here if you hadn’t noticed.

The necessary step is not pulling a Rumor Willis and exercising your right to bare tits all over Manhattan, the ingredient I’m looking for is the ability to stand in front of a mirror and say “I feel good” (not “I look good”) and continue on with your dish washing. Which is exactly what I was doing when I remembered that my curtains were open, it was 10PM and my apartment was bow-shaped.

“I told you to wear pants!” Steve messaged me, “We’re not the only creeps in the building!”

It’s become a favorite pastime of ours to shut off the lights and spy on the neighbors. Seriously — if you’re one of them, I’m sorry, but you provide way better entertainment than Kourtney & Khloe take the Hamptons. Sometimes we’ll make up conversations you’re having. Sometimes we’ll create entire life stories — which you honestly make it really easy to do when at 9pm every evening you turn on Pink Floyd laser-show lights in your 200 square foot living room and leave them on for the entire evening with the shades up.

My sole intent is to catch people doing it a la that Sex and the City episode where Samantha invites the girls over for popcorn and wine to spy on her neighbors who just can’t get enough of each other.

Yes, I’m weird. Maybe even illegal — I’m not sure of the repercussions of telling you all this — but what I am sure of is that Steve was right. We are not the only creeps in the building.

There I was, minding my own business, in the process of some seriously delicious and empowering naked me-time when out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.

Just standing there, glass in hand, looking at me.

I immediately followed the proper protocol for encountering a bear (as opposed to a peeping Tom) — I yelled for Steve, who wasn’t there. I then said “Oh, shoot,” — in other, more explicit words. I told myself he could smell fear, so I had to continue to be confident, & then I slowly and [hopefully] inconspicuously started to back away from the window.

I made the one fatal mistake of looking directly at him, which he responded to by jumping and turning off his light.


I finally made the call to just fake a fainting spell an slither to the floor, where I crawled into the bedroom (where the curtains were shut, because #privacymatters) and remained for the rest of the night.

At least I got to bed early.

I remember reading a book called “The Bad Girl’s Guide to Getting What You Want” a million years ago. One of the things it stated as being a “seriously bad girl move” was to dance around wearing nothing with the curtains up. At the time, I didn’t have my own apartment so dancing around naked made for quite a few awkward family moments, but when I did finally move out I was way more concerned about landing an episode of Criminal Minds written about my untimely and nude murder than I was about being a bad girl.

Over time, however, after one becomes experienced in the ways of both apartment living and living alone, you kind of forget that your windows are two-way.

Which is actually why I was doing the dishes that way in the first place. Who likes pants?

When I woke up this morning, I had forgotten all about the late-night rendevouz I had just hours before with corner unit, floor 12 guy. I walked to the washroom (in clothes). I showered. I got out of the shower . . . only to realize that my towel was back in the bedroom. I booked it — a total of 20 feet if I’m being generous towards the size of my place — straight into my towel.

As I plodded my way back to the washroom I couldn’t help but look out my windows into the units across from me. Some of them had curtains drawn, but most of them were wide open. I saw a girl eating breakfast (I almost typed Cheerios but realized that was taking my creative liberty too far), I saw a man looking out over the ocean, and as I finally let my eyes drift towards corner unit, floor 12 guy I prepared myself to come face-to-face with him.

Instead, I saw him where I’ve seen him every moment I’ve peered over there since I moved in (often, obviously). Seated in front of his television, playing Call of Duty (not artistic liberty. I can see the little people on the screen).

He wasn’t sitting there staring across at me, waiting for my next blunder. He wasn’t searching the skies for the next naked person. He had just gone right on living.

Which is exactly what I should have done when I noticed him in the first place.

Living in close quarters with strangers does incredible things for your psyche. It shows you you’re normal. It shows you you’re not normal. It exercises this little muscle inside called trust that is defined as “that thing you do in silence that assures people in the elevator you aren’t going to bring up what you saw them doing last night.” It makes you feel excruciatingly alone — but also really on public display. It reminds you — often — that you are not special, and that this is a good thing.

Because you’re never going to be the first naked person in the window.

You aren’t going to be the last.

& you’re never going to be the only creep in your apartment building.


photo by Saga Sig


Behind the bar : Your waitress is smarter than you

waitress 2

“So,” she asked me over the clanking of ice in the shaker, “what do you do in real life?”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Not that there’s anything wrong with being identified as a waitress, but I’m a shitty waitress on a good day and my maroon lipstick tells my patrons everything they need to know about how seriously I take my job. Oh, I like the small talk alright, but my ability to mix an old fashioned the same, twice in a row, is non-existent.

“I’m a writer,” I said.

Here in the dimly lit brick-enclosed space that smells of muddled oranges and spilled bourbon, I can be whatever I want. “Real life” is out there. In here is a three month overdue Telus bill and a used car with $11,000 of insurance on it’s back. In here is the blood in the veins of the hustle, and everyone knows there’s more to the story.

No one wakes up one morning and says “I’m going to be a waitress!”

Unless you’re me on Monday — I said those words because I needed some fast cash.

In here are ten fanny packs, six pouches of change and forty notepads from the dollar store, all waiting to have “medium rare, seat 1” written on them. There’s nothing glamorous about wiping tables and spilling mayonnaise on your Chuck Taylors — but at midnight on a Thursday, The Black Keys playing through speakers above your head, shoes sticking to the splattered patterns of Jim Beam on the laminate, $120 dollars in your pocket and $70 in the bank, you feel slightly superior.

Not because $190 is enough money to pay half of your overdue Telus bill, but because this is the one job you can have that people won’t use to define you.

“How about you?” I asked her as I handed her the whiskey sour to take to a table in the back.

“I’m in my last year of neuroscience,” she said.

We all have to start somewhere.




Sunday Confessional: How I choose who to sit beside on the bus

you cant sit with us

Ever since that story came out about that guy who chopped up his seat partner, I’ve been a little extra cautious when I sit down on the bus. I mean the rule of thumb is that we don’t judge others — as good Christian folk we try not to notice a person making the same mistakes over and over, and we ignore the extra wing of eyeliner that in theory is a good idea but in practice just looks ridiculous. But the truth is, under every single one of our gazes lies an inner dialogue that — despite our efforts — ain’t always nice.

When I travel by Greyhound it’s because flying within Canada is stupid expensive and because my travel plans have been so last minute I couldn’t have made it to the airport in time. It’s not really by choice is what I’m saying. It’s a necessary evil of being on the go. There isn’t one single person ever, probably, who was all “man, I just had the best Greyhound trip.” That’s just not a sentence people utter.

I mean, if there’s one place in my little town that people go when they want to learn the definition of derelict — it’s the Greyhound station. It’s very transitory, very post-apocalyptic, the coffee tastes like gasoline and costs fifty cents, and absolutely everyone is traveling from somewhere like Fort McMurray or Moose Jaw.

And see? Just like that — judgement.

So how do we do it? How do we determine, through our horrible squinty eyes, which judgements take priority? I personally like to be the person at the window seat so I don’t have to be the one who decides if she’d rather have dread-locked smelly guy or sleeping mom with screaming baby — but I can only maintain my self-important bitch face for so long before someone’s pillar of judgmental priorities has me at the top.

And sometimes, I don’t have the luxury of getting on the bus first. Sometimes I have to wait my turn and — GASP — make that call.

I know we can’t judge books by the cover. I know what Jeffery Dahmer looks like and I’ll be the first to admit I think he was kind of hot in a creepy ’80s way.

I know we can’t judge the players of Big Brother by their first game.

I’ve been trying to convince my dad for years that just because someone rides a Harley doesn’t make them a criminal. I just happen to have always accidentally picked the criminal ones. My bad, dad.

People are filled with so many surprises. The beautiful 20 year old with her nose in a book — the one you think you’re safe beside — yeah, she conjured up some freaky shit after she read 50 Shades of Grey.

We just never know! Sure, the cover of a book can probably tell you what income bracket someone lives within and whether they like to lift, bro, but that’s about as far as it goes. It’s a horrible, horrible practice. And the thing we always seem to forget is that everyone knows we’re doing it.

So I’ve developed a method of madness that is still totally judgmental, but that makes the whole process a little easier. I simply sit down beside whoever looks like they wouldn’t mind having me fall asleep on their shoulder accidentally. Yeah, maybe it’s because they want to chop me up. Maybe it’s because they’re leaving Fort McMurray for the first time in 60 days. Maybe it’s because the lady is reading a Bible in her seat and she knows that the nice thing to do is just let me rest my eyes for a bit at her expense. Whatever the reason, I judge based on what I think they think of me as opposed to the other way around.

Then I get off the bus and think to myself great, now my face smells like patchouli. 


The Benefit of Life’s WTF Moments


Sometimes I do things that blow my own mind, in a WTF kind of way.

There was the time I thought a peel-off face mask was a good idea, even though I have a hairy face.

There was the time I thought “trimming” my eyebrows with scissors would be more authentic than tweezing them and consequently ended up looking like I was trying to make some sort of rebellious eyebrow-art statement.

There was the time I openly tried to seduce my grade 10 science teacher and got put into a different class (BOO.)

There was the time I ate 5 Ikea hot dogs in a row.

The time I dated a man who had a tattoo the size of his back of a devil-woman performing cunnilingus on another devil-woman.

The time I stabbed a girl in my Sunday school class with my stiletto and made her bleed through her tights.

The time I used a fake cancer story to avoid getting hit on at the bar, and the guy had just lost his sister to cancer.

The time I had 8 tequila shots at my staff Christmas party, while wearing a strapless dress.

And the time, yesterday, when I had 4 final papers to write and decided what I really needed was to have way too many day drinks and go to the strip club at 4 in the afternoon.

I just can not even fathom myself.

When these things happen, hangover or no hangover, life feels pretty bleak for a while afterwards. You’re embarrassed, or uncomfortable, or sad, or confused, or angry, or in pain, or wanting to go to AA, or all of the above in reference to both yesterday’s activities.  In addition, you look in the bathroom mirror and say WTF, self, WTF. Sometimes in reference to your eyebrows and sometimes in reference to how, in a matter of moments, your life seems to have fallen apart.

Here’s the thing about WTF moments though… they slap you silly. And sometimes, when you’ve fallen asleep and you’re just letting life drag you around, a good slapping is exactly what the doctor ordered.

So you put the bottle down, you buy an eyebrow pencil, you set higher standards, you eat a salad, and you remember to never again buy a peel-off face mask.

xo & yw

25 Things I Learned At 25

WILDFOX FALL/WINTER 13 photographed by Mark Hunter / The Cobrasnake

Each year, as I blow an extra candle out on my birthday cake, I publish a list of the lessons I learned during the course of the past year. You can see the 23 Thing I Learned At 23 & the 24 Things I Learned At 24 if you need proof that in the past 3 years I’ve learned at least 72 individually ridiculous things.  So without further ado, I present to you the 25 things I learned this year:

1.  One cannot survive on Twizzlers alone.  Eventually, your hair will start to fall out.  And keep falling out. For a long time.  So always save grocery money, even if you’re only making $7 an hour.

2. LAX has the most expensive cocktails you can fathom.  You will still buy one though.

3.  If you put your freshly painted fingertips into a bowl/sink of cold water for 60 seconds your nail polish will be bone dry and you can finally undo your jeans to pee.

4.  If you sing in the shower loud enough, your neighbor will ask you to join his band.

5.  Life is too short to be afraid to eat Mexican street meat.

6.  You can survive without a phone for a while.  Believe it or not, booty calls answer Facebook messages and so does your Mom.  Crisis averted.

7.  Don’t ever ignore the tree size limit on a Christmas tree stand.  & if you do, don’t decorate it with breakable balls.

8.  Being beautiful isn’t how you look, it’s about how you feel.  The rest will follow suit.  Just look at Mae West – the weirdest looking hot chick to ever exist, ever.

9.  Someone exists that will turn your least favorite sexual position into a god-send.  Trust me.

10.  If you listen to depressing music when you’re depressed, you will not become UN-depressed.

11.  Don’t put honey on anything you’re putting in the oven. Unless you’ve run out of all other options for meeting the fireman of your dreams.

12.  Ben & Jerry’s has a decent amount of Iron in it.  Just in case you’re feeling anemic.

13.  In Canada, we have gun laws.  That pretty much means you can ignore No Trespassing signs from now on.  You’re welcome.

14.  Never wear a white shirt with no bra during hurricane season in Florida.

15.  It’s totally possible to meet & become friends with people you stalk on instagram.  Some people even get married after meeting that way.  #creeperextrodinaire

16.  Prince Charming is gay & totally shaves his arm pits (LOL).

17.  If you take the time to make a powerpoint regarding it, your parents will give you anything. (Thx for the MacBook Pro, Mom & Dad!)

18.  You don’t actually need a couch.  Friends like the kitchen, men like the bedroom, and you sit on the floor anyway.

19. Your liver is the only organ in your body that can regenerate itself.  Start letting it.

20.  If you call your bill providers and tell them you’re poor, they won’t keep calling you being all “uh, where’s our money?”

21.  The best thing you can do to make yourself feel better in any situation is get off your ass and hit the ground running.

22. Boiled peanuts are the most vile culinary creation since that time that airplane crashed and the survivors had to start eating each other.

23.  Sometimes, especially where a flight is concerned, it’s best to just take the route you know.

24.  It doesn’t matter how old you get, fireworks are wonderful.

25.  Love happens.  So just let it.

sweet glasses, Mom

sweet glasses, Mom

xo & yw

5 Reasons I Call Seattle My Second Home

Nez Nash is a bloggin’ digital artist from Vancouver, BC in the process of launching a Swag Shop for all your personalized t-shirt needs! You’ll find her plastered all over the social medias, slumped over her laptop in a coffee shop writing the latest Fish Tale(a blog dedicated to her misadventures of online dating,) or rewarding herself with beers and friends. She takes pride in her manners, charm and humble hilarity. And is always excited to collaborate on any project.





I’ve toddled down the I-5 to the Emerald City loads of times, and whether I’ve gone in order to party, visit Grandma, or meet strange men from the internets, Seattle has always had my back.

Here are 5 Reasons Why I Call Seattle My Second Home:

5:  On my 26th birthday I rounded up my BFFs and convoyed down to Seattle to go clubbin’, as you do.  Near the end of the night, I was innocently dancing with my Latino Club Lover du Soir, when some random hoe shoved me from the windooooow to the wall.

I’ll be the first to admit, I have a tendency to get a smidge obnoxious on Nez*Day, but never enough to warrant a shove.  I spun around, eyes blazing, ready to pounce and she calmly wound up her pythons.  Her fist was inches from my face when Papi grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and tossed me out of harm’s way.  I had narrowly escaped my first ever Bar Brawl Royale!


Exhausted from all the excitement, I stumbled back to our hotel, barefoot, through the sketchy east side.  Despite my flirtation with danger all night, I concluded Nez*Day safely passed out beside my gay boyfriend, having successfully avoided getting shanked, raped or murdered.

4:  I’ve had 2 different American boys fly into Seattle to take their Nez for a Summer Fling Weekend Rendezvous, exactly 1 year apart.  I met one of these gentlemen at a reggae club in New Orleans; he fed me alligator sausage and beignets at 3am after a night of dancing and flirting.  Always a successful strategy.  The other, I was secretly / not so secretly having a brief, ridiculous Instagram Love Affair with.

I recommend the Crab Pot, the Harbor Cruise, (they have beer and snacks!) and staying at the cute lil’ boutique-y Hotel Max.

3:  My very proper English Grandmother lives just outside of Seattle and we usually take her for Mexican food at Lorenzo’s.  Nothing says “autentico” like an Italian name slapped to a Mexican restaurant, right?  However, the chile relleños make Gramz happy, and that’s not always the easiest task to accomplish.


2:  I unashamedly love the Oakland Raiders.  

Devotion to the Raider Nation has been proudly passed down in my family through GENERATIONS.  OK, singular.  One entire generation, stemming from my Dad’s roots as an English immigrant to the Bay Area. To further solidify this family bond, I decked out my black and silver Civic in Raiderobilia and cruised around town with my subs thumping.  To this day, I make sure that my little Nez Comic is always clad in a Raiders shirt.  The Nashes bleed silver and black!

When my brother scored tickets to see the Seahawks host the Raiders, it was an easy decision who to take.  I strutted around Seattle sporting my Raider swag and I (proudly) got razzed and booed everywhere I went.  Lucky for them, I was saving the spiked shoulderpads and war paint for my home game debut in the Black Hole.


1:  I also unashamedly love Ice Cube…

Screen Shot 2013-10-16 at 11.25.17 PM

Here I am at Rock the Bells in 2012, waiting to see ma man for the 3rd time.

Ice Cube is my favorite rapper, EVER!  As one can imagine, I was beyond delighted when I bought tickets to see him for the first time as he promoted his Raw Footage album.

On the big day, my best friend and I made it to Seattle in record-breaking time, promptly got wasted and made it our mission to weasel backstage.

(Ok, that last one was all on me, #sundayconfessional.)

After a night of crowd surfing and rapping my face off, I wasn’t nearly as freshly coiffed as I had appeared at the start of the night.  I belligerently slimed up to the nearest bouncer and slurred my inquiries if O’Shae was accepting visitors.  I was politely told not tonight and to let go of his shirt but my temper flared instead.

When my insults and shrill profanities didn’t get me backstage, I resulted to ugly crying.  I was one step shy of slithering down the bouncer’s beefcake bod and pretzelling around his leg, in a last ditch effort to plead for access, when my best friend scooped me up and whisked me off to the bathroom to calm my inconsolable shit down and to save the remaining scraps of my dignity.

I vaguely remember calling in sick 10 minutes before my 6am shift started and woke up sometime in the afternoon with this draped across me, temporarily shielding me from the vicious realities of my hangover:

Screen Shot 2013-10-16 at 11.17.29 PM

Seattle has continuously welcomed my triumphant return with open arms regardless how hot of a mess I was the previous trip.  Their laid back demeanor and No Judging Policy are just a few additional reasons to encourage your next vacation to the Pacific Northwest.

I happen to know of an irresistibly charming tour guide with very reasonable rates as well.

So hollar at your Nez!  I can’t wait to hear from you! xx



The 5 Guys I Have Learned To Avoid

Kelsey is a 20-something, self-proclaimed social media junkie and has made it her career in Calgary, Alberta.  She is an eternal optimist and claims to have “no filter.”  She is an avid volunteer, but also adores “a good glass of champs, some really cute shoes, and leather clothing.”  She is a go-go-goer and is a lover of everything life has to offer.  You can find her blogging monthly over at The Happiness Project, or on Instagram, LinkedIn, & Twitter.  This week on Sunday Confessional, she’s here to tell us 5 of her deal breakers.  Amen, girl!
Sunday Confessional - Kelsey Kashluba IMG1

Not a fan of dating, I find I always leave with a funny story…and never wanting to see that person again.  In my years of dating, I have learned what to avoid and these are the 5 men I run when I see:


So you show up on a date, things seem great, and then all of a sudden, mid conversation, it takes a turn for the worse.  He starts talking about how much he loves his mom – which seems sweet at first, but then… he starts on how his mom does everything for him.  You don’t want to replace his mom and you definitely don’t want to special order his shampoo, wash his laundry, or make his lunch one week into dating…

The One Night Stand From Hell  

So you decided to go out with the girls and have a great night – why not get as little wild and take someone home – I mean you never do it, so what would it hurt?  The truth?  A lot.  You end up being the man in the relationship trying to rush him out the door and he wants to stay.  Finally he leaves a few hours into the night and you think: I AM HOME FREE!  Not so fast.  The next weeks prove to be interesting; you receive messages from him stating he is confused between sex and a relationship and all you can think is… where was this confusion?  Six shots of gin + two shots of Jack = you leave that night and never call me again.  

The “I am still in love with my ex” Guy

You meet this great guy at the local grocery store and he seems so nice, so normal, so perfect.  You think it’s going to be the greatest date ever.  He talks about everything and anything – you are smitten.  And then, it’s released: for the next hour he talks about how much he hates his ex, the cat they shared, and how he burnt all the poems they would write on Sunday mornings.  NEXT.  I didn’t sign up to be a therapist.

The “this has got to be a reality show” guy

You meet, you have a great date, and then it continues… You notice he seems to watch porn a lot, but you think this is normal, all other guys probably do this and maybe your exes were just weird and didn’t  But it gets to the point where he watches it more than a regular tv show.  We aren’t talking once a week when the newest episode of Hart of Dixie airs, I mean he is watching it like you watch Friends re-runs on TV Tropolis.  You realize this relationship is doomed, especially when your mom comments on it.   

The Bad Tipper

You go out for dinner and enjoy an amazing meal at what could be the hottest spot in town.  When the bill comes, he grabs it, and you of course allow him to pay.  You sit there, in euphoria; perfect date, delicious meal, ideal service and that dessert!  Then it happens, you glimpse at the bill and notice he tipped 10%.  Unsure of what to do, because you at least want to show your face in this place again, you make a run for the bathroom, all the time wondering if your server would recognize you if you came back again.  Luckily, on your way to the washroom you run into her, slipped her a twenty, and asked her not to say anything.

Men will come and go, but a girl needs to maintain her reputation – so whether he’s addicted to porn or to cat meme’s you have to decide what’s right or wrong for you.