A True Tale of Survival and Courage and Stuff

It all began in a time much different than now. A time about 15-20 minutes ago.

My car desperately needed an oil change. Like, “Okay Miss have you ever heard of treating things properly?” level of desperate. Like, the kind of desperate where even that one mechanic who somehow always manages to eat a PB & J sandwich while changing a tire still has time to look up and give you judgey-mechanic-glances, level of desperate. You get the idea.

So this morning I get my helpless, hungover body out of bed and go to the his-wife-made-that-sandwich-eating mechanic who will make all my wildest dreams come true with this 56 dollar oil change. My older brother promised to pick me up, that was the deal. But then the worst thing imaginable happened.

I call and tell him it’ll take a whole HOUR and that obviously he needs to come get me because what am I? On the f***ing cast of Survivor??? How would I last if I can’t even get a simple oil change when the little sticker tells me to????

jack black

My once beloved brother tells me to just wait until it’s done and to “Look around Walmart or something.” I can’t believe my ears. Does he think I’m some kind of peasant? Some kind of nature-forager who can just live without a car and merely a laptop at 20% battery life?? I can’t live off the natural land like that.

After a brief moment of plotting revenge on his life (giving him an even more mediocre Christmas present this year) I begin the journey that will change my life.

People often tell me that I exaggerate things a lot. Probably about 3 million people have told me that. I mean, 5 million people can’t be wrong I guess, but to those 9 million people, I say no. No, I do not exaggerate. I just have a vivid imagination and the ability to keep myself entertained for pathetically long amounts of time. So sue me.

Anyway, I begin to scavenge my way through the Walmart parking lot, looking for signs of life and making friends with the seagulls on this here land. They are my people now.

These seagulls would never abandon me like my own flesh and blood did. Okay the seagulls just flew away but that’s cool, they probably went to go get help. They’ll be back.

I’m walking through the overgrown land as passengers of clearly-recently-oil-changed-cars drive by looking at me with judgemental eyes. Also, it could just be because, as it turns out, I’m walking through a decorative garden in the middle of an intersection.

It also really doesn’t help that in my having rushed to the mechanic early this morning while super hungover, I didn’t exactly try to look my best. And by that I mean, I absolutely look like a homeless person, or maybe just somehow who’s never seen the inside of a shower. There’s mascara on places of my face that don’t even really make sense, and also probably the lingering scent of regret that I feel from eating that hot dog last night. Just kidding Hot Dog, you were great last night

After trying on really hilariously ugly clothes (like come on, who wears this? I look like a knight from the middle ages. And yes I’m barefoot. This is my life now) at a nearby Winners, more like Losers considering what I currently look like… (that was a good joke, I don’t care what people say)

… I then wandered my innocent, lost soul into the nearby McDonald’s.

At first I thought it was a golden-arch looking mirage, but then I remembered that there literally is a McDonald’s in every nook and cranny on this here Earth. You know the guy (James Franco) that cut off his arm ‘cause he was desperately trapped between 2 rocks? Well, I feel like he probably only did that to score some tasty McNuggets ‘cause I guarantee there was probably a McDonald’s within an arm’s reach (pun very intended).

Anyway, this brings us to present time. Here I am in a McDonald’s.

Still waiting.



Laptop at 15%.



I look out the window and see two female humans in their natural habitat sitting in the drive-thru. They’re singing to what I assume is a Fetty Wop song, or whatever. The one friend is Snapchatting the driver’s dance moves. I shed a single tear thinking of the innocent people that will have to watch that severely lame Snapchat video for a whole 10 seconds. The dance moves were so “basic” that I rummage through the land here, find some ketchup, and manage to write out “S.O.S” across the table.

Hopefully someone sees this.

I’m sure those seagulls will.

They’re just really busy right now but they’ll be back for me.

I like the workers here at McDonald’s because they don’t judge you. Even when you sit in their restaurant writing up some ridiculous story, laughing at your own jokes, they don’t judge. Even when you get a sugar-free iced coffee so that you can look like you swear you don’t eat McDonald’s ever, they smile at you and kindly say things like: “Can I help the next in line please?”

Full disclosure: I had a Big Mac last night. I just can’t keep that from you guys, from my memoirs. I feel that Michelle, the leader of her clan here at McDonald’s, knows that about me. She has a way of reading people. I’m really just glad I had one big hefty meal within the past 12 hours in case I never see food again because of the whole being recklessly abandoned thing. By the way, it’s now been exactly 1 hour and 23 minutes. That’s 83 minutes. I’m a little ashamed that I used the remaining battery life on my iPhone to calculate what 60 + 23 was. Being abandoned in the wilderness affects your mathematical skills, among other things.

I wonder what life will be like if I ever get to leave this McDonald’s and go back to civilization and car-driving world. Will I get to eat real food again? Will people seek the tales of my survival story?? Will those seagulls keep in touch???

Okay, forget everything that’s been said here. The mechanic just called. Car’s good to go.

Moral of the story, don’t ever get an oil change.

And also, don’t trust seagulls. They’re just about as loyal as older brothers.


An Open Letter to The Super Bowl

An Open Letter to The Super Bowl

I really love watching the Super Bowl, I truly do. But there’s something that bothers me every year, so I feel I need to finally let it out.

Let it out like the air from last year’s ball!!!

Or whatever, I don’t know. Tom Brady?

I don’t think I’m alone in how I feel on this. We all know interruptions are a guaranteed annoying part of any large scale televised event. We all groan when what we’re TRYING to watch is rudely interrupted.

Just when I start to get entertained, BAM!… a bunch of men in tights fill up the screen, selfishly stealing the show. And then they fill up the screen for sometimes even 20 minutes at a time?

This grave problem, that no one seems to openly discuss for some reason, has become so bad that the Super Bowl’s main show is only able to last 30 seconds at a time before it goes back to a bunch of guys fighting for the best concussion*.

30 seconds! Those football players have hours to make great plays. Imagine trying to get a touchdown in 30 seconds?? Not easy.

Or maybe it is.

I like hockey.

But seriously, the people behind the advertisements arguably were also born with a true talent, worked their asses off to make it to the big show, plausibly suffered far fewer concussions*, but who knows, some even might also pat each other on the backside after a good idea comes about! 

(*… and yes, I did recently watch the movie Concussion. I am now extremely well versed in neuroscience, the NFL, and have become an even bigger Will Smith fan than his very own family.)

Maybe I wouldn’t have such an issue with the huge amount of air time the “football game” gets during the Super Bowl if it weren’t for a recent unsettling experience.

Around Christmas time I was at the mall shopping for everyone in my life except for myself (I was shopping for myself) and I overheard two of the retail workers talking about football. One of them was describing some form of site or show or I don’t know, I didn’t listen THAT closely, what do you want from me? And the one guy said: “… [this] makes it SO easy to understand football, even women can understand it now.”

He remembered that there was a human female specimen in the store so he quickly said: “…like kids, or anyone really, can now understand it.”

Yes, Gavin (I named him Gavin) women and children have the same brain capacity. We cannot figure out what in God’s name they’re doing with that funny shaped ball!!

Gavin, you foolish, foolish retail t-shirt folder, I do understand football. I understand there will be nachos involved, and that I can get behind.

Anyway, I think the almighty Murrica needs to hear me out on this serious issue and cut back on all the “football” that interrupts the string of 30 second wonders.

How else am I supposed to find out what car I can’t afford?

Brutally Honest Account of Daily Life as a Human Woman Lady

10:00 AM:

I march my beautiful acne-free self into the bathroom to wash my face with face wash that is obviously 100% naturally derived from grapefruits because I am NOT a peasant.

grapef shan

10:05 AM:

I splash my face with enough water to drown a small family given that my face has obviously somehow caught on fire. I truly never have as much fun as I am having right this second, but then I remember I get to eat a hilarious salad later on and I smile even more.


10:15 AM:

I then step over the dangerously large puddle and decide to shave my hairless legs.



11:01 AM:

Naturally 2 of my closest girl friends show up for the leg shaving. Like usual, we quickly max out our credit cards on matching white beautiful gowns and dance a little.


11:20 AM:

We then call our parents for a quick wire transfer of $2000 so we can book a trip down south. Why? Because we shaved our legs. Keep up.

beach shaving legs

Luckily it’s not my time of the month or else we’d all have to buy new dresses and head right back down south to dance on a beach.

tampax copy

8:00 PM:

After finally settling into our resort and googling how it could possibly still be so sunny outside, I ditch my friends for the handsome beach man that lives under the nearby waterfall. He doesn’t speak, he just laughs and twirls my little body around and around until the hairs on my legs start to grow back. Then he leaves me for the next clean shaven vacation lady that comes around.

Beach w guy

12:00 AM:

When I finally get through customs and the long period of questioning given how many sharp razors were in my bag, I hitch a ride back home. At this point, I finally get hungry. The only food I’ve had is the little bit of 100% all natural grapefruit extract face wash that accidentally got in my mouth.

12:01 AM:

HUNGRY MEANS YOGURT. OH MY GOD I LOVE YOGURT. ALL WOMEN LOVE YOGURT! Yogurt treats me with respect and tells the BEST jokes.

yog shan

Also, yogurt makes everything go downwards arrow.

activia down

12:31 AM:

Perfume time!

perfume 1

12:32 AM:

My best friend shows up with matching trench coats so that we can put on our favourite giant perfume and embrace each other romantically like we do every night.

Perfume BLOG

1:00 AM:

Time for bed! I polish my engagement ring, put on a coat of makeup and get my silly sun-kissed self cozied up into bed!


1:45 AM:

I accidentally leave my window open and the scent of a man’s body spray (ughhh MEN! ❤ xoxo) slips through the crack of the window and tickles my fancy.

1:46 AM – 10:00 AM:

The local neighbourhood women and I put on our bikinis and gather like we do every night to hunt down the man with the body spray.


It’s a good thing he makes more money than me because how else could I keep affording these wildly expensive impromptu visits down South every time I shave my legs!!

(Word of advice: don’t photoshop weird photos of yourself while sitting in a Starbucks… People. Will. Wonder.)

A Millennial’s Letter to Santa

A Millennial’s Letter to Santa

Yo Santa,


I swear I’m a dope son, just to be clear.

I just don’t know what to get my Mom this year.


I’m usually cool with the stress Christmas brings,

But Santa man, this year she wants impossible things.


She wants me to teach her how to use Facebook and Google Maps.

But I wish I could just teach her how not to write “LOL” in all caps.


She told me she wants me to stop being so rude,

and to somehow get her a “Rod Stewart” in the nude?


 Not knowing what to get her, doesn’t make me feel very #blessed,

I guess I could always just accept her Facebook friend request.


She wants me to lower the numbers when she steps on the scale,

and to finally teach her how to attach pictures to an email.


Why can’t I just give her a cheap pair of gloves,

and teach her that “lol” does not mean “lots of love.”


I tried to go shopping for her but I’m on a losing streak,

How do I wrap up me taking the garbage out once a week?


She wants me to watch movies with her that involve Tina Fey,

and she wants to Netflix and Chill with Michael Buble.


She asked me to stop using the word “dope,”

And to stop buying her so much scented soap.


I’ve been to 5 stores and I can’t find a “Tom Hanks,”

And I don’t wanna get caught buying her Spanx.


I wish a macaroni picture frame still gave her great joy,

Now I have to get her a picture with “that Justin Biebs boy.”


Alright. Whatever. I’m starting to no longer care.

Where the hell would I find a lock of “Bon Jovi’s” hair?


Santa, this year my mom just has absolutely no chill,

I think I’ll buy her all of these things then mail her the bill.


A Millennial



The Mother of a Millennial’s Letter to Santa

The Mother of a Millennial’s Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,


All I want for Christmas is some help raising my teen.

This year he asked for a hoverboard. I have no clue what that means.


His requests are ruining Christmas. Shopping has been no fun.

Why is there no bakery in town that will make me a “man bun” ?!


I just want the old times back, where he’d play action figures from his bed,

But now I find him in his room, dropping water condoms on his head.


I want to make him happy this year and I promise that I will.

I just don’t know how to make his “bae” want to “Netflix and chill”


He wants a turkey dinner but that all depends…

Will he spend the whole damn dinner “Snapchatting” his friends?


I just wish he’d stop pretending that he’s so “hashtag blessed,”

and start looking up to literally anyone but Kanye West.


The one thing he wants more than them all,

Is 10,000 followers… Can I find those at the mall?


He also wants an album from a Fetty Wap?

Is this a type of video game I can find at FutureShop?


Will he even be happy with all that I’ve bought?!

He said he’d only be happy if I got him a “THOT”


For Goodness sake… Screw him. I no longer really care.

I just found out THOT means “That Hoe Over There.”


You know what? He’s getting coal this year. Would that be “on fleek”?!

And I’m going to tell the kids at his school that his “game” is really weak.


I know exactly how he will respond. He’ll say I have “no chill”

How ‘bout this my precious son; I should have never gone off the pill.


Having a teenager is the worst. Motherhood’s a scam.

He doesn’t even mean me when he says he loves his “fam”.


As a gift, I’m going to get him a job and make him have to work.

Good luck posting that to your Instagram, you little f****** jerk.


This year he’s sure as hell not getting any of these things.

Santa, for Christmas, just make sure his hotline never “blings.”



The Mother of a Millennial

How To Daughter

Girl’s innocent mother tries to add her on Facebook…. What happens next, you won’t believe…

Sorry. I’ve always wanted to write that for an article like the mediocre ones shared on the Facebook machine.

I have been trolling my mom since 1991 when I decided to be a premature baby.

Surprise Mom! You thought you were having a November baby but I heard that you were gonna call me Holly so I abandoned-womb and popped out a couple months early.

No, Holly McCarroll does not have a “certain ring” to it.

Anyway, I have compiled my Mom Trollings into one blog because: a) I’m avoiding having to help make the turkey dinner which is obviously why you’re here as well while you use your “but I have so much homework” excuse, b) I have no social life, and, c) Refer back to b)

Mom, if you’re reading this, in my defence the following moments of pure trolling on your behalf were motivated by:

#1: Making me wear fanny packs to camp.

#2: Making me wear socks when we all know they’re FOOT PRISONS.

#3: Keeping your sewing kit in a cookie tin thus resulting in lifelong trust issues that I’m still coping with.

I will never trust a cookie tin again. Even when my mind tells me “There are definitely delicious moist chocolate chunk cookies in that tin, the evidence adds up: it even has cookies on the label and it’s in the grocery store!” my heart still says no, no Shannon, it’s probably just various coloured strings, those weird tiny scissors and an absurd amount of needles you know you’ll prick your finger on. EVERYTHING IN LIFE IS A FILTHY LIE.

Here’s some of my revenge.

A.K.A How To Daughter.

(Yes, Daughter is a verb now.)

Disclaimer: No moms were hurt in the filming of these videos

Recently I found out that my mom was finally taking the techno-plunge and activating a Facebook account like all the other cooler Debbies she’s friends with. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming. Last week I watched as she downloaded Candy Crush, of course Facebook was next on her evil, evil to-download list.

As I said in a previous blog full of brilliant advice…

Screen Shot 2015-10-10 at 6.04.54 PM

I took my own advice and took care of this issue in the most mature, dignified and respectful manor I could possibly manage. I created a fake Facebook account so she’d never see my true identity and pulled off the ultimate mom-troll.

Do other people do this too? Or does everyone just not spend their spare time wearing a Batman mask scaring their parental guardians? Should I just start watching Netflix and like, having friends and all that stuff like normal people do?Should I start worrying about the fact that I even have a Batman mask?? Ah, whatever.

Screen Shot 2015-10-10 at 6.01.04 PM

Here is Shannon P. McCarroll in all her academic glory:

My generous friends (and admittedly some people I have never met before who I assume must’ve added me in the hopes of joining the book club I’m pretending to be apart of… sorry) went along with my alter ego’s existence by writing sweet G rated comments on my new Facebook wall:

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All in all, it worked. Now my mom will never have to see what I actually wore for Halloween last year. (I was a mouse, duh.) I assure you, that would have had her screaming louder than in any of those scare videos…

Moral of the story is, I’m safe for another year of PG-13 Facebook posts, or at least until she reaches her next level of Mom tech-knowledge and finds the real me. Or I guess until she reads this blog post…


Why You Shouldn’t Keep Your Cool

I’ve struggled with this very serious/real/concerning problem for as long as I can remember. Why can’t I be cool? Why can’t I just rock some clean white converse shoes and say “doe” at the end of sentences without laughing? Why can’t I call Toronto “the 6ix” like everyone else? I don’t even know what a “fitted” hat means. uncoolBefore writing this, I came home and found my mom in the kitchen entertaining her friend who was nearly having a heart attack from laughing as she aggressively was stretching her face and saying: “look how good I’d look with Botox!!

And that’s when it hit me.

A napkin, that is. She must’ve thrown it at me when she saw me zone out upon making my discovery.

My mom is a teacher and every Friday, the teachers take turns bringing in desserts… My mom brings fruit….

I was raised by a severely uncool parent.

My mom, the woman that thinks she’s all high and mighty ’cause she doesn’t pee in the shower, is the reason I cannot be cool.

I’ve composed some evidence in the form of real life quotations from my mother that I’ve recorded through the year to support my cause:

#01: “That’s it. Book Club is cancelled and I don’t even care!!” – My Mom, the thug.

#02: “I’m wearing my indoor shoes OUTside, so no, I’m not happy.” – My Mom, in Costco.

#03: “Why do you even need friends when there’s a library just around the corner?” My Mom, owns-library-card-and-is-not-afraid-to-use-it.

#04: Her thoughts on drinking: “I’ve never done alcohol, and I sure don’t need it to have fun!” – My Mom, Straight Outta Book Club.

#05: “Do your friends still say ‘emo’”? – My Mom, sending a text message to her friend Mary. Nothing says “I have 3 degrees!” like my mom sending a text…

#06: “Shannon, if anyone is rude to you, you tell them that your mom says you do not tolerate rudeness!” – My Mom, the comeback queen.

#07: “Breaking Bad?? Sounds better than breaking wind am I right?” – My Mother, the comedian.

#08: “Vegans are people that eat gross little nuts and never stop talking about it.” – My Mom, the dietician.

#09: “There’s no nature in Vegas, so I don’t know how it’s ‘awesome‘ ” – My Mom, the party animal.

#10: “Are you an animal? You didn’t put the cap on the toothpaste. I don’t know who you are. Who raised you?!” – My Mom, being dead serious.

#11: “This is the kind of moment where I’d definitely say the ‘s’ word!” – My Mom, the potty mouth.

#12: “Ouuu I LOVE Downton Abbey” – My Mom, when no one is even remotely on the topic of Downton Abbey.

#13: My way-too-vulgar Mom sets the internet password…

Screen Shot 2015-09-16 at 1.34.49 PM

All of this nonsense aside, my mom dances like nobody’s watching,

and now so do I.


I literally dance while driving just to make that sad looking guy smile in the Corolla beside me. So sue me if I’m not cool. (You do have my permission to sue me if I rear end you whilst dancing doe… Ahhh look Mom! I used “doe” in a sentence! Maybe there’s hope for me after all!”)

My oddball Mom is right, laughter is the key to life, even if it comes at the expense of some AWFUL mom jokes. I wish I listened to my mom and abandoned the “being cool” thing years ago and spent more time dancing in other people’s rear view mirrors.

All in all, I was raised by a pack of goofs, and I’m pretty proud of it.