So apparently my posts and stories have upset a small group of people. Though I never set out to upset or offend anyone, and although I absolutely would never purposely hurt someone’s feelings – I’m not sorry.

Here’s the thing; I promise you that I created this blog with nothing but good intentions. In fact, I started this blog with no intentions – I literally was just looking for something constructive to fill my time with outside of work, drinking and marathon training that wasn’t crafts or sleeping with rando’s.

I never in a million years thought it would have taken off like it has and opened up the opportunities that I have found laid out in front of me, especially the biggest one of being able to work with and become part of The Real Cape family. Not only have I found and perfected a new creative outlet, but I’ve also been able to turn The Glitter Ginger into an additional form of income while also helping NUMEROUS other people build their own blogs that they hadn’t previously had the guts or knowledge required to do so.

I’ve made a lot of people laugh and I even made a lot of people change their opinions about me – in a positive way. The biggest problem I’ve had with the success of this blog has also been my favorite; people think they know me. Just because I give you a small glimpse through the window that is part of the mansion that is the Glitter Ginger, doesn’t mean you know what I’m about or the morals I posses. Which aren’t really that many but whatever, you get what I’m saying.

Anyways..back to the point. If you don’t like what I’m writing about or don’t think I’m funny – DON’T READ MY BLOG.

I like, totally understand what it’s like to be Lindsay Lohan or Britney Spears now. (Outside of the substance abuse problem and shaved head. And small lesbian stint.) I don’t share my personal stories to try and make you a better person or to change the world – I do it for the 5 minute comic relief it provides in your busy day.

Soo basically, what I’m trying to get at, is that whoever has a problem with what I’m doing should stop stalking me on cyber space and spend more time focusing on things that are WAY more important, like a new wardrobe or perhaps a hobby outside of leaving me creepy threatening messages.

At the end of the day, all you’re doing is further fueling The Glitter Ginger fire, because honestly, what star DOESN’T have a stalker at some point? Your mean messages and creepy threats do nothing but further verify that I have in fact made it, and I’ll be sure to give you a shout out when I appear on Ellen which is seriously bound to happen any day now.

“The ladder to success is riddled with haters because they’re usually fat and make good step stools.”

-The Glitter Ginger

Thanks. Bye.

I’ve written it before and I’ll write it again; dating someone from the Cape takes patience, understanding and usually a lot of drugs and/or alcohol. The guys here are cut from a different fabric, and that fabric is whatever cargo pants are made of. They’re rough around the edges, always kind of dirty for some reason and don’t give a shit about anything other than drinking beer after a hard days work and sleeping in on their day off.

**before I start getting hate comments and death threats; this post isn’t me talking shit, it’s me telling it like it is – oh and I’m not hating, because I myself prefer a Cape guy over a fancy Boston suit any day. Also.. lesbianhonest, us Cape chicks aren’t all fucking rainbows and butterflies, either.

Anyways – here’s my break down of a Cape guy:

He will most likely never ask you out on a date. If he does, it will happen only after you’ve already hung out or will be an invitation to a group setting. And by “invitation” I mean he’ll just show up where you are. This is something I’ve never really been able to figure out…it’s almost like they work backwards. They don’t actually start wining and dining until you’ve already slept with them. I guess they like to make sure you’re worth the steak tips and night away from the bonfire/ sitting on the couch smoking pot with their boys. I actually can’t say that I blame them. Why waste a night of The Walking Dead for a floozy who doesn’t shut up about her ex boyfriend or how much she loves her cat? Fuck. You guys are smarter than I thought..

He’s never going to take you dancing or to the ballet. But he will teach you how to fish and help you cheat when you suck at beer pong..

You’re never going to see him in a suit and tie. Unless you’re attending a wedding, and even then he’s only putting it on if it’s open bar and/or you promise to pay him in sexual favors. If you ask him to “put something nice on” for some sort of holiday or occasion he’s going to be fucking pissed. You might as well just let him stay home in his boxers because he’s going to ruin your night by pouting in the corner and telling you how much he hates your family..

They aren’t going to show up on your doorstep with flowers or buy you the Louis Vuitton bag you’ve wanted since birth (for reasons outside of the fact that they would rather punch themselves in the dick than willingly spend a mortgage payment on a leather handbag).. but you know what they will do? They will learn what makes you laugh and remember to use it on the days that you’re sad or stressed out to put a smile on your face. They’ll keep a construction logo’d hoodie in the back of their car for the nights they know you’ll bitch about being cold even though you told him to fuck off when he suggested you bring a coat, and they wouldn’t miss a family function for the world regardless of how bat shit your blood line is..

Cape guys don’t compliment you, and if they do it’s few and far between.

To be completely honest, I wouldn’t trade this Cape guy characteristic for anything. Receiving a compliment from a guy in the city is as easy as getting knifed in Hyannis – shit happens on the reg. Getting a Cape guy to say you’re beautiful when you walk into a room or that you’re incredibly smart and fun? That takes some serious fucking work. Which means it’s sincere and worth a hundred times more than Joe Shmoe who offers to buy you a vodka soda in exchange for your digits so he can send you dick pics when he gets home

You want a ring? Average wait time: 5-12 years. Some people get all bent out of shape asking, “WHAT is he waiting for?! They bought a house and a DOG but no diamond!?” slow your roll and take a step back, psycho. Cape guys are on their own time and life plan – you try and rush that mother fucker and he’ll jump ship faster than Hooper gets verbally assaulted by Islanders in Jaws. He’ll get the ring when he’s good and ready..or at least until she gets pregnant and even then it’s still another 3-4 years

So I guess what I’m trying to “break down” is that yes; Cape guys prefer Carhartt over Cartier, will almost never pick up the phone to ask or take you on a fancy first date, nor will they spit game about how beautiful and smart you are on a daily bases. BUT, what they will do, is remind you of what every girl should be so lucky to have as her other half; a hard working, thoughtful and kind hearted man who keeps you grounded, makes you feel beautiful in his t-shirt and sweatpants, always knows how to make you laugh, and hands you a cold Bud heavy while settling into the seat next to you at the bonfire.

I just couldn’t keep you waiting..

..Soo I left off with everyone in a Hooters cab, me posing with a stuffed frog and Alicia Keys blasting through the windows. Once that was done, we got dropped off at a club that Bow-Wow said was 18+ so that her and Nougat could join – it wasn’t. We roamed around for a while and finally got a seat at an outdoor place that wasn’t too strict with ID’s but was lame. Luckily, Frigid and I raised Bow-Wow to be classy broads like us and she had a flask of fireball in her purse so we were good. At one point, some dude tried to weird hit on us, but we demanded to see his ID and asked him how much money he made. Then for some reason we never figured out, the owner came over and caused a scene, demanding the creepy guy leave the bar – we obviously started accusing him of sleeping with her and told him he better go.

Poor guy.

It was time to dance. We left the lame bar and headed towards the sound of club music and bad decisions.

Pookahontas almost immediately found her place in life and perched atop some sort of shelf that she quickly turned into a stage where men were offering her money and women were bowing down at her undeniable fist pumping ability; it runs in the family:

I had a couple of dance-off’s and everyone shook their asses. Frigid was dropping it like it was hot, then kind of stopped moving. At first, we just thought she was “getting low”, but then we realized that she was just using a speaker to hold herself up and that she in fact had fallen asleep mid-dance and could no longer move. We helped her to the couch and continued dancing.

*I have no idea what I’m doing with my arms here or what Pookahontas is doing with her body in general

Once Frigid started drooling I knew it was time to go. We called the Hooters cab driver and held Frigid up while we waited.

*literally..held her up..

I demanded Hooters cab driver take us to Taco Bell – I flung open the van door and ordered $50 worth of tacos, and a cinnabun pack for my homey, (the cab driver). We ate everything, except one taco that Frigid had for breakfast the next day with coffee and a cigarette.

End night one.

The following morning we once again headed to the beach but decided to “take it slow with day drinking”. Riiiiiiight..  Frigid, Pookahontos, Buddy and I headed to the beach bar for Landsharks and Michael Jackson. We made friends with a lesbian named Deb that invited us out for the Bruins game. No thanks, Deb..no thanks.

We eventually made it home where Nougat and I spent almost an hour trying to catch lizards while everyone got ready to go out. I found a cool sports bar to watch the game and off we went to pile into the swagger wagon for chicken wings and buckets of beer. This place was AWESOME.

This bar was hands down the largest establishment I’ve ever been in and after crushing roughly 7 Corona buckets and 4 pounds of wings, the B’s won and we headed towards the stage in the back where some dude with skinny jeans and high tops was rocking out.

I’m going to pause here..and continue onto Part 3 next week…because this is when we started to meet celebrities and shit got REAL.

Stay tuned..

*Frigid and I at our first communion – the last time we wore white #demons

As you could tell from all the incriminating photos and videos that are still surfacing; I was in Tampa all weekend for my best friend, Frigid’s, bachelorette party. We’ve been inseparable since pre-school, so it’s safe to say we’ve been planning this for 25 years. The trip was so epic that I’ve had to break it down into multiple posts because I don’t want to overwhelm you with ridiculousness. To ensure you don’t get lost in the story, I’ve broken down all who attended said weekend:

• Frigid: The bride-to-be. I’ve decided to use ‘Frigid’ as her GG name for no reason other than that it rhymes with her real name, and also the deuschy guy I had to flirt with in order to get a cheap rental car asked if people ever call her that after he looked at her license. Um, no, sir in the purple shirt trying to upgrade my swagger wagon; they don’t
• Bow-Wow: Frigid’s little sister and the main reason we flew to Tampa for a weekend of ass shaking, beer drinking, chicken wing filled fun – homegirl finished her freshman year at UTampa last Friday and we wanted to make sure she was involved in all wedding festivities. Also, Frigid and I promised to road trip it back from Florida with her as she had to move all her shit home for the summer..bad idea..bad idea..
• Pookahontus: my little sister
• Shrinking Sammy : my older sister
• Buddy: she’s just buddy
• Krazy Kurls: Frigid and Bow-Wow’s cousin
• Nougat: Bow-Wow’s bestie from home who flew down to do hood rat things while us older betches were at the bars/clubs they couldn’t get into

Frigid, Shrinking Sammy and Buddy showed up at my apartment at 4am to head to Logan. Frigid was already drunk and no one had slept. She immediately admitted that she forgot to pack underwear and smelled like booze so bad that I eventually forced her to spray hand sanitizer all over her body and to stop speaking until we got through security. Once on the plane I passed out because I’m minorly narcoleptic and Frigid watched True Life: I’m a crazy girlfriend.

We landed and almost immediately got lost in the airport, then realized we booked a rental car through a pretend company that didn’t exist. Fear not, betches: The Glitter Ginger headed to the Avis counter to work her magic on the most appropriate target: a tall, thin, greasy haired man-child rocking a bright purple shirt and the look of desperation. Game On. I found out his name was Jacob and asked him if he liked Twilight – 20 minutes later we had a mini van and a confidence boost.

We headed to the condo and began crushing beers while changing into bathing suits and packing for the beach. We set up shop in the sand and within 30 minutes Frigid was unconscious in her beach chair.

Right after Nougat took this picture I fell on top of Frigid because I was too drunk to stand and woke her up. She pounded another beer. We decided we were hungry so packed back into the swagger wagon and headed to a beach bar for shitty food and cold beer. We had a pretty serious dance party in the back seat and I ended up cutting my leg open and bleed on my beach cover up. Not the first time.

Once inside the bar, I was so drunk that I apparently felt bad Frigid was the only person in our group that smoked cigarettes so told her I would smoke one, too, because friends don’t let friends smoke alone. What? Shrinking Sammy obviously recorded me because she’s worse than the paparazzi and posted that shit everywhere. I think the commentary in the back is my favorite..you hear Pookahontus call me a “cubby rat”, Nougat reminding me that sunglasses don’t make me invisible and Bow-Wow telling me I smoke cigarettes like blunts.

We went home to shower and instead of showering I ate wheat thins and took a nap. We got picked up in a Hooters cab by a guy that was instantly obsessed with us and weird had stuffed animals everywhere. But he let us drink and scream Alicia Keys at the top of our lungs so he was cool. Bow-Wow sat on my lap and fed me vodka through a straw. Everyone made me pose and take pictures with a stuffed frog. I’m going to stop here because our first night out could be an entire post in itself …

Stay tuned, psychos.

People from the Cape..we’re a special breed. I first began to realize this when I went away to college and began to notice things about people in my dorm that I wasn’t used to. For example;

• the girls on my floor had more clubbing tops than hoodies
• people were hammered after 2 beers
• everyone had fake Boston accents even though half of them were from fucking Plymouth or Marshfield
• no one went to the beach or on a boat after the month of August
• the weed sucked
• people did things other than work in the summer
• they had never had someone they grew up with die and
• they owned makeup

Needless to say, I spent a lot of my freshman year explaining how I grew up and why I was the way I was; not that I gave a flying fuck – which I guess is tip #1 when dating someone that grew up on Cape Cod:

We don’t care about a whole lot outside of making sure our asses are in the sand by 9am on our day off, that our beer is cold and that you don’t wear pastel pants to the bar. Or in life. It’s not that we don’t have other things to worry about, we just acknowledge the fact that life is short and no matter how shitty your day was, there’s nothing the ocean, your best friend or a cold drink can’t fix. Just being near the water instantly reminds you that everything WILL be okay. This goes beyond emotional issues too; to this day, I could break a bone and my mother would tell me to ‘go jump in the water’. Migraine? Go for a swim. Sore throat? Gargle with salt water. Someone broke your heart? Drown them. You get it.

Tip 2: If you want to get us over the bridge, there better be a good fucking reason, and even then we’re probs not gunna make it..

I can technically be considered an exception to this rule since I left the Cape to attend college, lived in Boston for a few years and now reside on the South Shore but one thing stands true: my ass is on Cape EVERY weekend I can get down there, especially in the Summer. We literally grew up where you vacationed – we know every bartender/DJ/band that hooks it up while you’re paying out the ass and usually have a younger sibling to be our designated driver so we can get black out and roll out of bed just in time to get in a full beach day.

Tip 3: We’re never too good for anyone

This is probably one of the things I’m most proud of having been born and raised on Cape Cod. My parents are also Cape Cod natives and I learned at a very young age that you never judge a book by it’s cover, or a druggy by it’s track marks. People choose different paths and end up where they do for so many reasons, but that doesn’t change who they were or are to you.

There are very few places in this world where a Glitter Ginger can go after getting off work, without having time to change out of her suit and heels, and be welcomed into the townie bar without judgement (actually, that’s a lie, because last time I walked into the bar in my business dress Hippie asked if I had come to cash my check at the “spank bank” – Dick) but you get what I’m saying – no one gives a fuck how much money you make, what you wear or what you do for a living – if you can drink beer and carry a conversation than you’re welcome at the bar stool next to me.

So in closing, my advice is to just accept us for what we are because if you can’t then chances are you won’t be around for much longer. Unless it’s winter, in which case we don’t have a whole lot else going for us, so we’ll put up with your bullshit until the summer people roll through.

Happy Monday!

I went to a Kentucky Derby party this weekend at my friends house and it was really fun. Everyone dressed up and looked so great, I was pumped I got to wear this fabulous giant hat; I felt so trendy. Everyone was having a really great time until this adorable little girl got kicked in the face by a horse. Like, a real one. So scary, but thank goodness she was okay.

Also, I may or may not have accidentally gotten a mini goat drunk because I fed it the fruit that was in my sangria cup, forgetting it had soaked up all the alcohol from my drink. The hairy little freak followed me around the entire party demanding more vodka fruit, and who was I to deny it? Next thing I know the goat is on the table doing some sort of walking/dancing motion that can only be compared to Miley Cyrus at the VMA’s, minus the foam finger.

Sadly, that goat wasn’t the worst date I’ve brought to a party..

So what did we learn from this? Don’t bring farm animals to parties. People get kicked in the head, goats get drunk and next thing you know there’s an ambulance in the front yard and Glitter Ginger is getting yelled at by the farm hand for teaching a mini goat how to dance on tables.