Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Ruben Studdard Tea

Boycott the Coffee Bean on Venice and Motor, PLEASE AND THANK YOU. 

There are two Coffee Beans that are equidistant from my house aka the house where I’m essentially a squatter. I usually end up at the Venice & Motor hobo-ass CB because I only have to make one turn, whereas the other CB is four turns. Ain’t nobody got time to turn a wrist three additional times. Also, the other CB is a drive-thru and the line usually takes 13-45 minutes to get through. Wait. I do NOT want you guys to get the wrong impression of me. I have ZERO problems waiting 13-45 minutes waiting in line, wasting my AC and my precious time, and I have done it on numerous occasions. I don't want you to think that that is something I would not do. Do they also serve their caffeinated products inside, providing me the opportunity to be in and out with my mocha blended in 3-4 minutes? Yes. But then I’d have to park and get out of my car and walk, and it becomes a whole thing. 

So ,I pull into the lot, and there was only one open space, and some man that looked like Cedric the Entertainer in Barbershop was sitting on the curb right in front of the space.


Why are you sitting on a cement curb when there are literally 12 cushioned seats three feet behind you? He made no effort to move when he saw me swinging into the space. Cedric, I WILL hit you. And I was NOT going to be a good samaritan and load him into my car and take him to the hospital because 1) I don’t know where any hospitals are, 2) he sounded like he had adult croup and I didn’t wanna touch him, and 3) I was wearing a shirt that was a little too small, and if I performed any physical activity such as lifting a 300lb man into my backseat, it would have ridden up, exposing my sexy stretch marks and surgical scars (nope, never been pregs). Not even a recently mamed Cedric needs to see that. Most normal people would have moved in fear of their lives, but as I inched my car in at the pace of turt, he stayed put until I turned off Ronda the Honda. I didn’t make eye contact with him because I’m not really doing eye contact anymore, but I could feel his creepy-croupy presence right next to my window. I heard him say, “sister, where in New York are you from?” DAMN YOU, NEW YORK LICENSE PLATE THAT I’M TOO LAZY TO CHANGE! It’s always a conversation starter with the most undesirable people at the worst times. It's always men that look like they were once arrested by Finn and Munch on Law and Order: SVU when I’m running late to an Old Navy sale. How come its never a fucking Yankee or Giants player when I’m coming home from a skin-brightening facial?? Or on my way HOME from the Old Navy sale? The hot guys never see me when I’m sporting my sassiest pastel chinos and my most sensible denim jacket, cuffed twice because I'm a baller. Rude as shit. I pretended not to see or hear him, and acted like I was trying to fish out something from under my seat. Compassion? A soul? A solid 20-30 seconds went by, so I just KNEW Cedric moved on. Spoiler alert: he didn’t. At that point, he was aggressively peering into my car through the windshield. If you’re gonna be that close to my windshield, at least squeegee it while you’re there. So I rallied and got out of the car and he asked me again. I told him I was from Long Island and he was like, “I’m from Albany! Hey neighbor!” Okay, unless you are close enough to hear me through my window, crying while I’m lying in bed, watching One Tree Hill 5-6 nights a week, we are not neighbs. Albany is practically Niagara Falls, which is practically Canada, which is practically Greenland. Go home to Greenland, sir. So this is when I should have called it a day on this CB, but I trudged on. 

A nice looking gent welcomed me and asked what I wanted. Because it was 200 degrees out, I wanted a refreshing iced tea. I read the list of teas and went with the second one because I was tired of reading even though I have eagle eye vision (don’t be jeal). “I’ll have a medium (I say medium instead of “grande” because I’m a rebel) black iced tea, kind sir.” This turd looked at me like I was insane. I was like, shit, I bet the shirt rolled up. But alas, my shirt hem was right where I like it to be, damn near my ankles.

Turd: “Are you sure you want black tea?”
Me: …crickets….
Me again: …crickets…..
Yep, still me: …crickets….
Me: “Yep”
Turd: “Hmmm, I don’t know if you're gonna like it. Do you want one of our sweet teas instead?”
Me: ::Pulls off unintended crop top in rage and strangles Turd with it::

I’M SORRY, TURD. IS IT SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND THAT THIS ENORMOUS SEA MONSTER WANTS A LIGHT, HEALTHY AND REFRESHING BEVERAGE? Oh, no. She SURELY wants a vat of the tea that they serve at Madea’s Family Reunion! Did I ASK for the Klump special? Did I ASK if you could quickly melt a stick of butter and pour it in the tea, Paula Deen style? Did I ASK for a Venti Iced Ruben Studdard? Hold the sassy suits, add an extra shot of towel to wrap around my neck as I sing to wipe the sweat away? 


Go fuck yourself. I told this hobo that I would still like a black tea, and he nervously hesitated like he had to decide which bomb wire to cut in a Die Hard movie. DIE HARD WITH A VENGEANCE BECAUSE THATS OBVI THE BEST ONE. Please go outside, get some leaves, put them in some hot water until that water turns brown, add some ice, and give it to me. YUM. THANKS. 

I went to the waiting area and practiced my breathing exercises. He called my name and I go to retrieve my tea and he hands me a dixie cup with a GD sample of the tea. “Just try it to be sure.” DA FUCK? GIMME MY TEAAAAAA! I was LIVID. I grabbed the cup out of his hand and threw it back like a champ. Was that tea bland and dumb? Yes. Would I have liked to add 32 Splendas to that dixie cup? Sure. Was it worse than Nyquil to swallow? Fine. Did I wanna die? Maybe. Did I wish that I had a pouch of Slurpee syrup concentrate to drink instead? Of course. Punch a straw in that bitch like a Capri Sun. But there was no way I could ask to change at that point. I have PRINCIPLES, people. I had to make a statement. I defiantly wiped my mouth off with the back of my hand like a college freshman at a beer pong tournament, and I literally told him it was the best drink I've ever had. I'm so sorry, every Friendly's strawberry Fribble I've ever chugged. Mommy didn't mean it! Turd finally gave me my tea, and I took it with without saying thank you (BURN), and I walked out the door. I was trembling a little when I strolled past the sweetners, but I was strong and went back to my car, upset to find that Cedric had not squeegeed my window. 


This is how much tea remained after an hour and a half. Dehydrated and proud as shit.


Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Sea of Love

OKAY. So I have this bitch friend who hoodwinked me into going on a “nice, summer harbor cruise" around manhattan the other night. Oooooh, a nice yacht on a beautiful evening. What a magical time we will have! What’s so hoodwinkery about this, you ask? Oh, she neglected to tell me until the last minute that this was a SINGLES CRUISE. Fuck. Me. I had already spent a small fortune trucking into the city and taking a cab to the sketchy-ass pier because I refuse to walk more than seven feet if it is above 72 degrees outside, so I decided to suck it up and venture out on what was sure to be a swell evening on the high seas. 

When you hear the word “yacht”, you probably think of Jay and Beyonce drinking champagne on their private vessel in the middle of the French Riviera. Something like this, right?


No. Not right. Wrong. This was essentially the “yacht” I was expected to meet my soulmate on. 


A little less Jay and Beyonce on the French Riviera, a little more shark boat at the end of Jaws. It was like the Black Pearl without the warmth and charm. As someone who has lived at sea (holla, SAS S08!), I am very picky as to where I spend my time on the ocean. And by ocean, I mean New York Harbor with dirty diapers floating around. Samesies. Anyway, this shit was like a rundown ferry. I’m fairly certain I contracted tetanus.

So, the batch of eligible bachelors on this cruise is something only to be imagined. I truly try to have a positive outlook in life. I like to THINK that I go into every situation with a great attitude, but I also like to think that it’s okay if I do not really adjust my speed when I see a slow-ass posse of birds crossing in the middle of the street. I could be wrong. The group of singles that were herded on this vessel made me ashamed to be a member of the human race. Talk about a gaggle of misfits. My god. As they came streaming in, I thought I was witnessing a perp walk. Can I get a full set of teeth in here? Some clothing with some cotton or silk in it and not just polyester fibers? What the fuck. The men on this boat closely resembled every single character that Steve Buschemi has ever played in an Adam Sandler movie.



There were two ladies behind me in line that were dressed like they were going to their cousins quinceanera, and they were also horrified at the selection of potential mates. One of them said, “what the hell. This is not for me. I only date ball players.” I’m sorry? Ball players? Oh, you’re talking about the guy who works part-time with his uncle Darius and shoots hoops with his friends at the park across the street, right? The park with no net on the rim, right? You must be. SURELY you did not think that Carmelo Anthony and Amar'e Stoudemire signed up for a Sunday night singles cruise. Something tells me that they are doing perfectly fine on their own. They do not need to spend $25 to have a coordinator named Deb organize ice-breaker games to meet women. Wait, how many of you are proud of me that I could name two players on the Knicks? FINE, I HAD TO GOOGLE IT. GET OFF MY ASS, ALREADY. 

As the ship was pulling off, most people on board probably thought I looked so peaceful and pensive as I was gazing at the beautiful waters around us. I was actually calculating how quickly I would die from NYC water toxins if I jumped off the side and swam to shore. I decided I didn’t want to risk it because the odds of me getting rescued by a cute fireman like one from Chicago Fire was slim given my luck, so I realized that the name of the game for the evening was chug as much chardonnay as I could squeeze down my gullet and try to make it until 10pm. 

I had been doing a pretty good job of avoiding guys all night, when a couple of Africans strolled over and decided to sit with me and my two friends. DAMNIT. I couldn’t figure out why they came over. I had been doing all the right things. I had puffed my gut out (more than it usually does naturally on its own), I messed up my hair a little. I was silently mouthing the lyrics to “Party in the USA” so I looked a little crazy talking to myself. I pulled out all the tricks I use on public transportation when I don’t want anyone to sit next to me. You basically just want to look as unappealing and weird as possible.



I guess my radiant beauty just can not be masked. Anyway, these guys sat down and all the fake texting and phone calls could not deter them. I gave up and was like, fine, whatever, I’ll be nice. They were talking about something for about 25 minutes, but I couldn’t tell you what it was about. I was too busy wondering if African #1 would notice if I stole his sea breeze. I did manage to find out that they were from Cote d'Ivoire. Guys, let me tell you about my time in Africa. It is tangent time. So back in 2008 when I was a young girl of only 21, I did SAS (duh) and one of our stops was South Africa. Wait. Some dumb girl on the ship who I didn’t even really know came up to me before we got to Cape Town and was like, “OMG, Lindsay. This must be so major for you. You’re going home. What's it like?” You dumb trick. We’re going to my home? Really? I had no idea we were sailing to Long Island! Oh, wowie! I can't wait to show you all the strip malls and bagel places. Dummy. Okay, that’s my tangent’s tangent. So we arrive at my “home” and all is great. 



Ooooh, girl. Do NOT get off that ship. I loved South Africa, and South Africa did NOT love me back. While strolling with my friends, I would get yelled at with things like, “I want the big juicy fat one in the middle!” and “uh oh, here comes big, big, big trouble!” EXCUSE YOU, AFRICA. IT IS JUST A LITTLE BABY FAT AND I AM WORKING ON IT. THANK YOU. And trouble? I play connect four by myself for fun. Get out of here. In the townships, I was literally followed by little kids who would throw pebbles at me. Great. I came to the motherland and got stoned. I thought I had finally gotten close to some teen girls I met at a school who liked my headband (smart girls), but once they found out that I did not know Paris Hilton personally just because I was from America, it was a fucking wrap and I was not worth their time. I’m sorry, do you know Charlize Theron? Does she come to your house for Sunday dinner? Didn’t think so. Ugh, I bet Oprah’s girls would never treat me like this. Long story short, I have some issues to work through with that beautiful continent. Yep, the whole thing. 

Okay, so these guys told us where they were from, and they were talking about how they spoke French and I made the mistake of saying, “comment t'appelles-tu?” which is literally the only thing I remember from the three months of French I took in fifth grade. Thank you, Madame Harrington. You would have thought I told them that I was Ed McMahon and I just showed up at their door with a monster sized check. They freaked out. Calm down, I’m just passing time until I can muster up the energy to go get more booze. My one little line of French opened up a flood gate, and they started throwing French at me like I was Marie fucking Antoinette. I just sat and nodded and thought about jumping into that water again, ugly firemen be damned. The boat was so loud that I still could not hear anything these dudes were saying, and then all of the sudden, one of them picks up my hand and starts kissing it. Like, repeatedly. What the fuck was going on? My first thought was to pull my hand away, but 1) my wine would have spilled and that would have been a trav, and 2) three little words came to mind. Coming. To. America.

WHAT IF THESE AFRICANS WERE ACTUALLY PRINCES, ON THIS LAME SINGLES CRUISE TO MEET A SWEET AND UNASSUMING AMERICAN LADY?! Let me find out that I rebuffed the advances of a prince, and watch me jump off of a bridge. Guys, I would literally be a nubian princess. I would have been the best royalty Africa has seen since Scar. 



That’s a Disney reference, folks. It would have also given me a chance to exact my revenge on everyone who ever wronged me over there, Count of Monte Cristo style. The fact that Cote d'Ivoire is like 3,000 miles away from South Africa doesn’t matter. Revenge is revenge. Even though there was a faint chance that I could be the next Kate Middleton, something inside me told me that rose petals and James Earl Jones would not be waiting for me back at the dock, so I somehow found a way to shake free of the Africans and went back to the bar. 

The disastrous cruise was almost over and I could see the port so close, yet so very far away. We had about 15 minutes left, and then I would go back home where my High School Musical 3 DVD was waiting for me. Second Disney reference. I’m minding my own beeswax, and some weird dude comes up to me and is all up in my grill. I don’t even remember what he looked like because 1) the booze, and 2) the new name of the game was no eye contact. I remember glancing once, and then calling it a day on being nice. His opening line to me was, “wow, you’re tall”. I was done. He then goes on to say, “why are you frowning so hard?” Hard is a texture. Can you frown a texture? And I am frowning because you are 4 inches from my face and your breath smells like Greek yogurt that has been left in the sun for 5 fucking days, and my nostrils are on fire. Thats why I’m frowning. I just said I was tired and he offered to take me home if I told him where I lived. HA, he obvi had no idea how much Law and Order: SVU I watch. Elliot Stabler would NEVER approve of that. I’m not trying to end up in a padlocked refrigerator under some overpass by the docks. Ice-T would find my foot floating in the river or some shit. No bueno. He did, however, trick me into giving him my phone number. I am too much of a lady to give a fake number (see past posts about the reject hotline), so there was that. THEN, he grabs my head, RUINS MY PERFECT SIDE PONY, and slowly leans in for the kill. GET. YOUR. CRUSTY. FUNKY. HERPES-INFESTED. LIPS. AWAY. FROM. ME. I do NOT have insurance, I can NOT afford all of the antibiotics that it would take to kill whatever it is you are planning on giving to me. Ya know when you find one wonky, dried-out, discolored baby carrot in the bottom on your fridge? That's what his lips looked like.



They looked like slugs after you pour salt on those little bastards and they shrivel up and die and then their corpses rot in the sun the next day. There was no way those things were getting near my beautiful face. Do you understand the lengths I go to to get my face to be this texture? You’re not roughing it up, no siree bob. Do you remember when Belle repeatedly dodges Gaston and his creepy sexual advances in Beauty and the Beast? 





That is what the scene on the janky, ferry boat looked like. Third Disney reference. Speaking of Beauty and the Beast, please contact me with your phone number so that the next time I am drinking, I can call you and serenade you with the ENTIRE song “Belle” (the song with all the townspeople). It’s kinda my thing. It’s just what I do. I do all of the parts by myself. It’s magic. 

So anyway, I successfully avoid this crunchy looking dude and his rusty mouth, and I bounce the fuck off of that ship. I finally get home and recover from such a great evening, and THEN, I get THIS gem yesterday. 



SHIIIIIIIIIIIIT. 

LIZZY? I know ONE Lizzy, and that is my arch nemesis and frenemy, Lizzy McGuire. Fourth Disney reference. At least get my name right. If you are reading this blog, then you are (probably)(kinda)(maybe not) my friend, and you should know how much I love my fucking name. Lindsay Chandler Mays. All day, every day. BTW, more than just my name, I love my monogram and initials (TWO DIFFERENT THINGS, PEOPLE), so when I marry, it would be great if my hubs last name also began with an “m”. I just have too many personalized shirts, totes, and necklaces to change it up now. I also LOVE first names as last names (James, Matthew [no “S”], Brian, etc), so I decided I have to find someone with a last name beginning with “m” that is also a first name. I have found exactly ONE person on my entire FB friend list who fits this criteria. If you are a male, between 22 and 30, and your last names is a first name that begins with an "m" and you are reading this, know that I am talking about YOU, and we’re gonna happen sooner or later, so just get ready. Just don’t worry about it, I’ll contact you when the time is right. If you think I’m joking, you obvi don’t know me well. It’s alright. We’ll have our whole lives together for you to get to know me. 

GR8? I literally do not have the energy or enough time in the day to get into why “gr8” is the worst thing to appear on my phone screen since Sallie Mae found a way to start texting. LEAVE ME ALONE, BITCH. YOU WILL NEVER GET MY MONEY. 

Here’s what you all need to take away from this. Africa hates me. Apparently slobbering on yourself on purpose attracts men. I love wine in plastic cups. I love Disney even more. I’m still single. 

Saturday, April 13, 2013

Top Reasons Why I’d Rather Snuggle with a Rabid Possum than go to Coachella


This is only scratching the surface of why this festival gives me severe anxiety. I’m not even going into the asshole celebrities that attend (I would kill to meet any of them), and the thousands of cut-off jorts I’d have to observe.

1. The Music
I’d like to think that I’m a very eclectic person. My top four artists of all-time are Fleetwood Mac, Jason Mraz, Stevie Wonder, and Elisa and the Kidz Kazaam. Wait, you’re not familiar with Elisa and the Kidz Kazaam? Let me tell you who they, sorry, who WE are. Back in the mid-nineties when my list of friends was short and my socks were high, I was a member of a musical group called Elisa and the Kidz Kazaam. We were a gaggle of the most musically inclined kids at East Woods School in Oyster Bay, NY. We came together under the tutelage of Elisa LoPorto, our music teacher, to create sweet, sweet tunes. Some of the gems on our debut album The Hamsters on the Loose include “Cookies”, “Really Feeling Mean”, and “Ode to Dr. Seuss”. We recorded albums, made a music video in an apple orchard, and played gigs at toys stores all over the island. We were like Kidz Incorporated except 1,000 times better. Fuck you, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Fergie and AC Slater. Sadly, the group disbanded. It’s the same old story you hear all the time. Playground politics. Here is our album:




Can you tell which one I am?

I DIGRESS. 

Freshman year of college, a fella by the name of Shithead gave me “his” phone number after we spoke for a total of 10 minutes (pure love), but when I called it 3 minutes after he left (way to play it cool, me), I discovered it was the number to...THE REJECT HOTLINE. Looking at the Coachella lineup was like when I tried to figure out why Shithead would do that. Confusing, sad, dizzying, traumatizing, soul crushing, nauseating. Time out, just look at this photo of me and Shithead taken 10 minutes prior to the phone number thing. 


I blurred out his face using my fancy iPhoto skills to protect his privacy, EVEN THOUGH HIS ASS DESERVES TO BE PUT ON BLAST. But look how happy he looks! I did leave two things in focus- his blemish and his puka shell necklace-just to show that I ended up the victor. 

OMG look at my skin in this photo. I look like a girl of only 17. 

SHIT, I STILL DIGRESS.

Out of the billions of performers listed, I only know 18 of them. And by know, I mean I might have read their names in an issue of Rolling Stone magazine that I accidentally picked up thinking it was an issue of J-14 or Teen People (RIP). Bad news: of those 18 bands, I only knew 20 songs total. Good news: 16 of those songs are Red Hot Chili Peppers songs, so that has GOT to get me some sort of street cred.

2. The Heat
The year is 2008, the month is April, the location is Pearl Harbor. SAS had just docked in Hawaii, and my peeps and I decided to go see the historic site. We get there, I wander around a little, start to get a little dizzy, start to hallucinate some talking squirrels like I’m in Enchanted or some shit, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up on the concrete, propped up against some scary dudes hair legs. After spending approximately an hour and a half outdoors in HAWAII, I passed out due to the heat. This was me minutes before the collapse:


So innocent, so naive. When I woke up, mouth full of gross guys leg hair, I had lots of old women patting me on the head, telling me that Pearl Harbor is a very emotional place for lots of people and it's understandable that I couldn’t handle it. BITCH, I’M NOT EMO, I’M HOT. IT’S 200 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT. I didn't even get to see the memorial, I passed out by the gatorade vending machines and ATM machine. I didn't even see anything that would have gotten me emotional. Even though grape Gatorade IS pretty tragic. 

I couldn’t make it 2 hours in Hawaii and you want me to spend 72 hours in the desert? The fuck do I look like, Moses? I might be African, but do NOT get confused (I was going to say “don’t get it twisted”, but we all know I can’t pull that shit off), I do NOT do the heat. I get Botox injections under my arms to prevent excessive sweating (au revoir, any potential suitors), and that mess works like a gem. There is not enough Botox in all of Bev Hills to save my poor shirts from the Coachellian heat. 

3. Boys in Tank Tops
Boys in tank tops.

4. Hygiene and Comfort
Where do you sit? Do you want me to sit on the dirt floor aka the ground for 3 days? No, thanks. One day at Fernwood Cove, my sleep away camp, my cabin mates and I sat in a circle telling stories about when we first started to shave our legs. This was in 1999, I said I started shaving in 1997, I really started shaving in 2001. THANKS, MOM FOR LETTING ME BE THE FAT TWEEN WITH HAIRY LEGS. Anyway, little did I know that I was sitting on an ant hill, and about 35 red ants FUCKED UP the back of my thighs. I had to go to the infirmary and lie on my stomach for hours while Sue the nurse treated my wounds. No more nature sitting for me. Here is a photo of our bunk:

Can you tell which one I am?

I completely understand that this is 2013, and I'm sure they have gone to great lengths to accomadate the people with ample lavatories, but I want any one of you to look me in the eyes and tell me that every single person uses/makes it to a proper bathroom facility. 

Bathing. Explain.

I went to a Warped Tour concert (is a called a concert? a show? a performace? whatever) back in the early aughts, and it was the worst experience of my life, not including the disbanding of Elisa and the Kidz Kazaam and the reject hotline thing. Why were there so many people there?! Go away! Give me some space! Stop screaming in my ear and running over my toe with your skateboard! Ugh, and people were spilling beer on my precious polo all day long. PS, if you dont wanna stand out at a Warped show(?), don’t wear a lacoste shirt, a madras skirt, and topsiders. And don’t be black. And what's with all the beer at these festivals/shows, anyways? Can a girl get a daiquiri in this bitch? A lemon drop martini? A Tokyo Tea? Geez.

5. Sexual Deviants
I just feel like there might be a lot of them there. Not everyone, but enough to keep me away.


NO, BUT SERIOUSLY. WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO SIT?

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

ME. WANT. BUTTER.

So, about ten months ago, I went under the knife. No, I didn’t get any work done on my face. Would the Mona Lisa go to a plastic surgeon? Fuck no. I joined the ranks of esteemed world figures Al Roker, Roseanne, and my dawg Randy Jackson and got weight loss surgery.

While I feel like it is my destiny to look like this,

I feel like I was kinda heading towards this destiny.


And when you look like this,



you ain’t gettin’ to this.


I was covered under Dar-Dar’s insurance (WHAT UP, OBAMA!) and I had some free time one Wednesday, so I figured, why not? *Note: because I recently turned 26, I have no more insurance as of March 31st, 2013 (what up, Obama?). I better pray to God I don’t pop a fucking staple in the near future.

Anyway, there are lots of reasons why I chose to get surgery. I got surgery so that I could become thin enough to:

*buy 5-6 boxes of ice pops at a time without getting looks like, “figures she'd buy all that sugary mess”. BITCHES, YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE. MAYBE I’M HAVING A FUCKING BACKYARD BARBECUE! In late October. The day before Hurricane Sandy. Hey, we all prepare in different ways...

*receive a piggy back ride where the “piggy” can not only support my weight, but take at least one full step forward with ease,

*at least PRETEND like its difficult for me to give one grown man or 2-3 women and children a piggy back ride (2-3 women and children...at one time),

*be able to slip my hands out of handcuffs if I'm ever kidnapped. I watch a shit ton of Dateline.

* LIMBO.

*hop a turnstile with ease should that be the route I decide to take in life,

*go to Asia and blend in. Well, I don’t know if I will ever blend in, but I’d like to go chill in Japan without people thinking that Godzilla has returned with a vengeance. Calm down, Asia. I’m not here to stomp your cities and eat your babies.

* successfully flirt my way out of a ticket. I’m not even going to get into the time I received 5 tickets in one swoop last year.

* play more than 3 rounds of hide and seek with kids before I run out of enough suitable places to hide. I’m only semi-ashamed to say that I once put a lamp shade on my head and stood in the corner of the room. A valiant effort, I’d say.

* go on Say Yes to the Dress, not Say Yes to the Dress: Big Bliss. OH MY GOSH! THERE’S NO WAY WE CAN PUT THESE HUGE MONSTERS ON TV WITH THE “REGULAR” BRIDES! THEY MIGHT GET HUNGRY IN THE FITTING ROOM AND EAT ONE OF THEM! Get outta here, Big Bliss.

* trick or treat without getting any assholish looks. Oh, I’m 5’11? And I’m still going to be that tall after losing weight? Fuck, never mind trick or treating.

*drive with one leg up on the seat. Dangerous? Sure. Adorable? Hell yes.

*squeeze into a front-load clothes dryer and have my friends take a funny picture. Girls do that “to see if they can fit” and “for a good laugh”. Bitches, stop fucking lying. THE ONLY REASON YOU CLIMBED INTO THAT APPLIANCE IS TO SHOW EVERYONE HOW SMALL YOU ARE. You know that you can fit into that fucking dryer. It’s like a bar trick; you’ve obviously done it before and you know damn well you can fold your body into such positions. We know what you’re doing, and so do you.

 

Before my operation, I had to go visit my surgeon about 100 times. This was dreadful, mainly because of the waiting room. First, have any of you ever been to a fatty doctor’s office? There are specialty fat chairs, I fuck with you not. These were like Pawnee waiting rooms. The armrests on these bitches were about 4 feet apart. They were loveseats meant for one human. Holy shit, thats the saddest song title ever. Loveseat, Party of One. You know that picture where Michael Jordan is palming that basketball while showing off his wingspan? That was me holding onto the armrests. *Note: add “get thinner than Michael Jordan” to the list above. Second, the people in this office. Oh, the people in this office. The doctors office waiting room was the same level of freak show as the the waiting room in Beetlejuice



Have you ever walked into a room and just KNOWN that you were the coolest person there? Be honest. It’s fucking awesome, I’m not going to lie. Those patients were the sketchiest bunch of weirdos I’ve ever seen. And ya know what? I’m allowed to say that until I can fit into the dryer. I don’t like to judge (HA) and I like to think I’m a nice person (HA) (even though I did win the superlative for “friendliest” in high school),

*shout out to Mikey VB*

but wow. All I’m saying is hand sanitizer. I also went to a WLS (weight loss surgery) support group that was recommended by my doctor. All the people in these meetings had already had their surgeries. If you have never sat in a room and listened to 20 obese people sob because they miss hot Cheetos and Mountain Dew, you are blessed. I’m assuming you’re all thinking it must be pretty sad, but you have no idea. Multiply your thoughts times 250, or times 250 Oreos which is how many Oreos one woman said she ate while watching one showing of The House Bunny. The House Bunny? Maybe I could see 250 Oreos if you’re watching a long movie like Titanic or that Brad Pitt movie where all his brothers go to war and he gets eaten by a bear at the end, but The House Bunny is 97 minutes long. Whatevs. So as these sad creatures sat there talking about how they were weak and ate a king size Snickers in their shower (I don’t know if they were actually showering while eating the Snickers, or just hiding out. I didn’t want to ask. Some things you just can NOT un-know), or how they spent their days crying over cookies, I sat back thinking they were Amanda Bynes level nuts. NO, LINDSAY. TOO SOON FOR AMANDA BYNES JOKES. It’s just too soon.


Fast forward five months and do you know where you will find me? Lying on my side in the middle of the grocery store, whimpering in front of the Frosted Flakes and Cap’n Crunch. I don’t mean metaphorically lying on the ground, I mean my sad, not-so-little-yet body was making direct contact with the tiles in Pathmark. MELT.DOWN. Let me tell you, you can learn a LOT about yourself when you’re being asked by a grocery store manager if he can call someone for you. Do any of you know what its like to pine over a pat of butter? To dream about bread crumbs? To consider holding up a McDonalds just to steal a happy meal sized french fry? I would have gladly gone to jail for that french fry, as long as I got to eat it in the squad car. The diet for WLS patients is pretty strict until you reach your goal weight. Think Gwenyth Paltrow on a “cheat day”. Imagine going to a lovely, greasy diner, ordering chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks, and only being allowed to eat the hot, wet, wilted lettuce underneath the chicken and mozz sticks. It’s inhumane. It’s like Brokedown Palace inhumane. I pretty much eat meat and protein drinks with fruit as a “treat”. WAIT. That reminds me. WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP HYPING UP FRUIT? The nutritionist I had to see before surgery constantly jazzed up fruit, trying to trick me. “Hungry for some ice cream? Freeze some apple slices! Yummm!” NO, HEIFER. NOT YUM. 1. I’m not a teething infant. Sucking on frozen fruit is not going to appease me. 2. how is that a reasonable substitute for ice cream? They are in two totally different food groups and have completely different textures and consistencies. Is your theory that anything that you can put in your mouth can taste like ice cream if you will it so? OH, GOODY. MY BRACES TASTE LIKE A STRAWBERRY SUNDAE. WHATS THAT YUMMY TASTE? AM I DRINKING A CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE? OH NO, ITS JUST AN ENDOSCOPY TUBE GOING DOWN MY THROAT. Fuck this shit. I might be delirious with visions of carbohydrates and saturated fats, but I’m not a fucking moron.

 Like I said before, its been 10 months and I’d like to tell you the cravings have completely stopped, but I’d also like to tell you that I didn’t walk out in public today in sweat pants, slippers, and a bathing suit because I have no clean bras, but I can’t do that, either. I’ll be sure to keep you updated, but I have to run now. There’s a single egg white and a glass of water with my name on it. Fuck.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Fresh Mozzerella in the Marcy Projects

As many of you know, I have a sister named Roz. Roz is (for the most part) a very reliable, kind, and smart person. Her main faults are her strong affinity for Timberland products, her unfortunate collection of "kooky hats", and some unsavory online dating matches (sorry to put your shit on blast, sis). Roz is also not one to turn down a free meal. She's not greedy, but lets say that she is not afraid to work the system (the system being our parents) for some grub. I can appreciate a good hustle. And because my mom pictures her as a starving child trying to make it in the ghetto's of India, she doesn't hesitate to send her 28 year old child groceries. Recently, Roz sent out her list of foods that she "wouldnt mind taking off of our hands". Lets take a peeky-peek. ******************************************************************************* Meats/Seafood 1. Chicken breasts 2. boneless pork chops (I like the thick cut ones) 3. Sandwich Fixins 4. 1lb of roast beef or Maple Glazed Honey Turkey 5. 1/4 lb sliced provolone 6. Miracle whip 7. relish Fresh Stuff 8. fat free or part skim ricotta cheese (any brand) 9. cucumbers 10. tomatoes (any kind) 11. red,orange or yellow peppers 12. strawberries 13. salad 14. golden potatoes Non-Food 15. 2 storage bins for linens 16. 3 containers to store flour and sugar (they dont have to be huge because my cabinet shelves are short) 17. plastic wrap for wrapping meats and freezing them 18.sandwich baggies non-vital items 19. fresh mozzerella (Bel Giosio if they have it, but any brand is fine) 20. shrimp 21. salmon 22. london broil or any lean steak 23. canned corn 24. frozen broccoli 25. oranges 26. plums 27. pears 28. necatrines 29. bananas 30. cantaloupe 31. whole wheat egg noodles 32. wax paper 33. lemons ***************************************************************************************** First of all, don't ever write "fixins" again. Second of all, what the fuck is this? Mariah Carey's concert rider? Is this what Christina demands Carson Daly to hand deliver to her every night before The Voice? OKAY. As a broke, 20-something, you should be asking for food because you need the essentials. This should be like a soup kitchen or a food bank. Times should be rough, like in the Marcy Projects. Are they eating Bel Giosio fresh mozzerella and salmon in the Marcy Projects? I don't remember hearing Jay-Z rapping about Bel Gioso fresh mozzerella and salmon in any of his early tunes. Nectarines?? No. No exotic citrus fruits. You can get enough vitamin C from some generic oranges, thank you. Whole wheat egg noodles? You will get half or no wheat, and you will like it. "Maple Glazed Honey Turkey". Pour some Mrs. Butterworths on a chicken patty and call it a day, sis. And I love how she has "non-vital" items, like her blood will stop pumping if she doesnt have the stuff in the other categories. Oh, no! I will stop breathing if I don't have my provolone! Im positive that once I head out on my own like Emile Hirsch in Into The Wild, I will long for a nice care package from home, but come on. Crustaceans? Really? Crustaceans??

Saturday, May 5, 2012

Dear Abby, My Spanx are longer than my skirt! What's a girl to do? Help! Sincerely, Lumpy on Long Island

Pee Couch

Before I got fired (to be addressed in a later blog), I used to babysit for these two swell little tots. There was a five year old girl who looked like a Caucasian Dora the Explorer except chunkier (no judgment), and a boy who could have been anywhere between 5 months and 3 years. Honestly I have no idea how old this kid was. All I know is that he was old enough to stand, but apparently too young to realize that shit goes in a toilet and not in ones pants. I didn't even know his name until the 3rd time I babysat. The parents called him precious boy and his sister called him bobo. I called him child. So fat, white Dora liked to play a game called lets pee in inappropriate places and stress the babysitter out. This particular evening, she decided to be mean to one Ms. Jennifer Convertible. I watched as she climbed onto the back of the couch cushion, and slowly, the tan cushions became dark brown as a Grinch smile creeped across her face.
To make matters worse, she was wearing a skirt with no underwear on because thats just how fat, white Dora rolls, so there was nothing to help lessen the force of the stream. It was a LOT of urine, and there was no wiping it off of this suede couch. I was so nervous when the parents came home, but I told them what happened and they laughed at me. "Lindsay, you clearly don't have kids. They pee on that couch all the time!" Wait. Wait. Wait. Why is this happening? Why is this normal? Why are you going to make tea and not attending to the piss-filled couch cushion, mom? Why are you going to check your e-mail, dad? Why am I dealing with all of this when I'm only making pre-teen babysitter money? And why did no one tell me that that was the designated urine couch before I lounged on it for 2 hours?

Friday, May 4, 2012

Eddie Winslow and the Fuzzy Silk Shirt

SO, this lanky-ass loser who sadly sits three cubies away from me at work thinks that the smooth fashions that men of color (Will Smith, AJ Slater, Cockroach...) sported in the 1990's is a smashing look. His name is Eddie Winslow. I believe his birth name is Joseph, but Im fairly certain that Eddie Winslow is his actual name, so thats what I call him...while talking about him behind his back because I've never actually spoken to Eddie. Everyday, I am visually assaulted by his black sitcom-y apparel. Let me tell you, this fool LOVES a good color-blocking. "Hmmm, what shall I wear today, closet? Oh, a black shirt with one burgandy sleeve and one teal sleeve? Good choice!" WTF, no its NOT a good choice! And all of his shirts are made of that weird fabric thats like fuzzy silk. That is literally the best that I can describe this fabric. Fuzzy silk. He is also not known to turn down a geometric shape. Think of the Fresh Prince episode when Will and Tyriq wore the same shirt to Hilary's catering job.
Unless you are on your way to a Boyz II Men or Bell Biv DeVoe concert with a shorty named Shanice or Tanya with an "a" on your arm, change your fucking shirt. And take off those 5,000 pleat plants while you're at it.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Bucket-O-Bleach

My ass is cold tonight.

Let me tell you a little something about Victoria’s Secret. Their underwear costs the approximate amount of a 1994 Nissan Sentra, and their underwear would fit comfortably on an M&M. Not even a fucking peanut M&M, but a regular, classic, dime-sized M&M. While I actually have a concave derriere, my front guttage area more than makes up for my non-butt. That’s why my jeans always fit so well when I would wear them backwards on backwards day during sprit week in high school. Whomp, whomp. But Vicki’s underwear is so small that I could go to Michaels, buy a swatch of fabric and some ribbon, swing by Coldstones because there is a Coldstones conveniently located next to my local Michaels, go home, eat my frozen treat, and make the same underwear for under $3. My fucking ice-cream would cost 3 times that. Gotta Have It my ass (too bad I really do, though). Sorry, Vicki, but I’m not paying $18 for a perma-wedgie. The only thing I would buy from there would be a $48 before tax bra so that I could go home and hang myself with it after seeing this shit all up in my grill.

You think I wanna see this ho's football-sized vag in my face as I’m trying not to think about how my arm is the same circumference as this bitches waist? Depressing. Back to Coldstones we go.

So anyway, that is why I do not shop at Victoria’s Secret.

I instead choose to purchase my under things at the following locations: Target, K-mart, and Sears. Here’s a little tip that the people on the style network won’t tell you: FOR UNDER $7, YOU CAN GET 6 PAIRS OF AWESOME, COMFORTABLE UNDERWEAR. You walk your ass into one of these stores, try not to make eye-contact with all of the people with wonky, lazy eyes that are bound to be shopping there, and you sail into the underwear section and find the wall of wonder. Hanes and Fruit of the Loom make amazing cotton underwear that come rolled up in neat little bundles, sealed with love and a piece of scotch tape. They have different styles and types, and I love to get the granniest ones (I refuse to say the word that rhymes with schmanties) that I can find that go way above my belly button. They are essentially gym shorts from the 70’s, and I love them. It is heaven in your pants. Don't knock it till ya rock it, ladies. Instead of regular sizes, they come in sizes 2-10, which in regular people world is size range xs-xxxl. It’s probably the only time I will ever be a size 6…There are 5 pairs in a pack, and they usually include a bonus pair for the low price of $6.87. Total. CHA-CHING. Is there anything better than this in life? Sitting in a suede recliner chair in $1.14 underwear while eating ice-pops and watching High School Musical 2 is essentially how I wanna leave this world. No shame. No regrets.

The only downside to my packages of underwear rolls is that they often come in really dumb patterns. Beige and turquoise dandelions, shooting starts, gray and pink hearts, dumb shit like that. I do not let this stand in the way of my purchase, though. Still too sweet of a deal. And it’s not like anyone but me sees these bad boys, anyway. Actually, my aunt does, too, when I trick her into doing my laundry, but she doesn’t judge. She has no right to. She walks all the way to 7-11 just to buy Mountain Dew and taquitos. Okay, B. Spears in 2006. Tonight, I thought I had the perfect solution- BLEACH. My understanding of the powers of bleach is that you can put any fabric in bleach, swirl that mess around, let it soak for a little, and a short time later, the items in there would be white! Eureka (‘s Castle was the best show ever)! I tried this tonight. I got six new, still taped-up pairs of my unmentionables (which I’ve actually mentioned quite a bit), and tossed those babies into some undiluted bleach. Remember when Cher tried to bake that dude cookies by just dropping the whole log on a cookie sheet…

So I went babysitting, got harassed and taunted by some tweens, pretty much my usual evening. I got home a few hours later, scooped myself a cup of blue Marino’s ice, ate it while laughing at all of the misfortunes of the teen moms on Teen Mom, then went to take a shower. I opened the shower curtain and saw my 5-gallon bucket of bleach. It was quite the pleasant surprise because I had forgotten about those suckers. I peeked in only to find…beige and turquoise dandelions, shooting stars, and gray and pink hearts! What the fuck, bleach? Do your fucking job, bleach! Pissed off that my experiment didn’t work, I went to fish them out using a wire hanger, and the point of the hanger poked right through my drawers! Okay, I chalked it up to a freakishly sharp hanger. I got some of the latex gloves that I stole from my grandma’s hospital room over the weekend (I’m a legit medical supplies klepto), and put them on. As soon as my hand lifted the rim of one of the pairs from out of the bucket, the whole thing just tore to shreds and disintegrated! Who the fuck am I, Edward Scissorhands?? It was like wet tissue paper. I thought that maybe it was just a freak pair (?) and I went to get the next one and THE SAME THNG HAPPENED. Tore apart like beef that had been in a crock-pot for a week. Why did no one ever tell me that when trying to remove the flowers off of your underwear, you could not sit them in a bucket of concentrated bleach for 5 hours? Thanks a lot, “friends” and “loved ones”. Assholes.

So now I’m out $6.87, I have to go buy Dar-Dar some more bleach because I used 80% of the entire container, and I have to go back to k-mart with the lazy-eyed, camo wearing people and get some new underwear. Worth the trip.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Dear fam, I'm sorry you had to find me like this...

Today, I got stuck under a bathroom door.

I went to the gym today (19 days ‘til a size 2…almost there!), and SURPRISE! Disaster ensued. I am going to Sears to purchase a Shake Weight, a Thigh Master, and a Hula Chair so that I can pursue my fitness goals in the privacy of my own home while watching my favorite movie of all time, Con Air, on a loop. Today’s disaster is the indirect result of my cheapness and cowardice.

When I entered the gym today, I was greeted by a sea of greasy, overly tanned, midget gorilla-juiceheads, as my fellow Long Islander Jenni “J-Woww” Farley would call them. I can tell you that their mid-sections and lats (yup, I know what a lat is-I might not have them, but I know what they are) were tanned as well, because they were all wearing those pointless manks that are torn from their arm-pits down to about two inches from the hem. Why? Seriously, why would you do that to your shirt? I’m sure Mr. Hardy did not intend for his sparkly, purple tiger to be torn in half and decapitated. Remind me to go into how I believe that Ed Hardy is just a pseudonym for an older, pissed off Lisa Frank. Ed Tiger. Lisa tiger.

Anyway, I was standing there, wondering why these guys were working out in aprons, when I realized that only about 13% of them were actually doing anything. In each little pod, there were about six “bros” standing around one guy who looked like he was having a seizure while lifting a 20-pound dumbbell. Uh-oh! Someone hasn’t been drinking their Ron-Ron juice! Tsk, tsk. WAIT A MINUTE! Why weren’t any of these people at work!? It was 2:13pm, how is every gross male in a 10-mile radius available for a leisurely, mid-afternoon lift? I might not know much about “conventional jobs”, but I am sure that no lunch break is at 2:13pm. And you all didn’t just get home from the night shift at the gas station, either. Yes, I was at the gym at 2:13pm, but that is neither here nor there. My job is being a house-daughter, and like every good house-daughter, I have to look good.

Because all of these creatures were loitering around the machines like they were tailgating at a Mets game (HA, the Mets), I decided to go into the nice, dark theater room to do my cardio. Usually, I get lucky and a nice Adam Sandler movie from the 90’s or early aughts is playing, but noooo. I walk in and see Angie’s big-ass, bony head wearing a wig that looks worse than mine. Great. Salt. Some CIA, espionage, government shit. I don’t understand that mess when I am fully minded and focused, and you want me to try to follow that story while I am deliriously trying to not fall off of a treadmill? GIMME SOME NEVER BEEN KISSED UP IN THIS BITCH! Whatever, that’s why I had my headphones. I did my thing, got into a groove, and finished my hour. Yesssss. One mile in an hour! I must be butter cuz I’m on a roll. Mmmmm, butter. I stumble off the machine, wipe it down because I’m considerate like that, and I go to walk out of the theater and who is right there? “Jen” the trainer! Gadzoinks!

Okay, so I finished my training sessions with “Jen” and decided not to renew them. When we were working together, she would show me what to do once, and then just stand there blabbing about her boyfriend issues, her Rav 4 issues (the issue being that she owns a Rav 4, I'm assuming), and her other dumb Commack issues. Ugh, I wish more of you readers lived on Long Island so that you would know why Commack is never worth talking about. Have you BEEN to that movie theater? I’m pretty sure I saw a 6-year-old stab an 8 year-old in the parking lot after Ratatouille. Back to “Jen”. We would do the same exact exercises every time, so I decided I didn’t need to keep paying her $75 an hour. Do you know how many Pizza Hut stuffed crust piz…- er, I mean salads I could buy with $75? I didn’t really do anything wrong by not renewing our sessions, but I still felt guilty. Why was she there, anyway? She told me that she’s done with all of her sessions by noon every Tuesday. I remember because she told me that right after she told me about how she went to an auto-show in the mall parking lot that weekend and her boyfriend got drunk and dumped beer on a car and got them kicked out.

My solution was to hide out in the theater room until she left. The 90 year-old she was working with didn’t seem like she had much more in her. Just like the time I decided it was a good idea to fake a sprained pinky in high school so I could go see Joh* Th* Traine* (letters are missing for discretion) in the training room, I was wrong. That old bat was powerlifting like a fucking champ. She could have showed those mank wearers a thing or two. AN HOUR AND 31 MINUTES LATER, “Jen” finally left. What’s the only thing worse than watching and not understanding a thing in Salt once? Watching and not understanding a thing in Salt twice. By the time I was done working out, I really thought I was gonna die. Two+ hours of cardio? Do I LOOK Ethiopian? The gym had still not cleared out, and the path to the parking lot was packed, so I decided to take a breather in the bathroom. Let a girl wheeze in private. I went into a stall, huffing and puffing like I was a Catholic school girl giving birth to her secret baby in the toilet before scampering off to algebra. After I began a normal breathing regimen, I went to leave, and the lock wouldn’t turn. Strange. I knew I was a tad weak, but come on. I try it again, and the lock would not turn! I try some more, and realize this thing isn’t budging. No one was around, and I even tried to call the front desk from my cell, but I had no service. AT+T, you dumb bitch. I only had one solution. Shimmy my sweaty ass under the door.

I have never been good at estimating sizes or distances or anything like that, but I thought I could SURELY fit under the door with ease. Just like the time I decided it was a good idea to “fall” and fake a sprained ankle to get the attention of a guy walking by (C-Brad, I love you!), I was wrong. Have you ever seen those fishing shows where someone catches a huge swordfish and it flops around on deck like its on a mission? Remember in Jaws when Bruce (the name of the shark, duh) gets stuck in the boat and thrashes it around like it is a piece of paper? Yeah, you know where I’m going with this. After about 23 seconds, WHICH IS A LONG TIME TO BE WEDGED UNDER A DOOR LIKE A HUMAN DOOR STOP, I was thinking about typing a goodbye note on my iPhone for my family to read after they found my lifeless body stuck under a bathroom stall door. But like the guy who cut off his arm when he was stuck in the rocks, I didn’t give up. I did one more wiggle, and I was out. Free at last, free at last.


I wish that I could tell you all that this whole experience was rare, and that this was NOT a normal day in my life, but I love you all too much to lie. Tomorrow, I think I might just do some jumping jacks in my living room.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Rose DeWitt Bukater and an entire Cantaloupe.

Think back to the year 1997 when you and all your little power-bead wearing friends were going to see Titanic in the theater for the 4th time. One of the scenes in the movie that always stands out to people is the one where Kate Winslet is lying in the middle of the ocean on a door or some shit. She is blankly starting at the beautiful night sky, completely numb to everything around her. She has gone through a truly horrific event and she is still in danger, but she seems so defeated and traumatized that she has no fight left in her (this is before she starts to spastically blow that whistle). She is dazed and can only muster enough energy to sing a whimper of some creepy, child killer in a horror movie type song. THAT IS WHAT I AM GOING THROUGH RIGHT NOW, EXCEPT TO THE 11TH POWER. I am lying on a proverbial door in the middle of the ocean. Rose DeWitt Bukater hit an iceberg, well guess what? I hit a damn glacier. Stop complaining and start swimming. The reason for my current near-catatonic state is because of a chance encounter with The Detox Diva.

Last week, I was at the gym with Jen, my trainer, when some woman with a bunch of pamphlets walks in and begins talking to all the old women and Guido wannabees (the only people who go to my gym…its retro fitness…nuff said) who walk into the gym. Oh, by the way, I don’t know if Jen is my trainer’s actual name. We’ve been working together for a few weeks, and I didn’t really catch it the first time we were introduced. I don’t have any contracts or anything with her name on it, and she doesn’t wear a nametag, so I just went with Jen. I’ve thought about asking her what it is, but seeing as that we have spent roughly 17 hours one on one together in the last month, that might be a little weird. What I sometimes do in that situation is say, “Oh, how do you spell your name? I’ve heard it spelled differently a bunch”, but the last time I did that, this guy replied, “B-O-B”…But I digress. So on my way out, I stop to chat with this lady, the Detox Diva. I usually never fraternize with these types of salespeople, but I figured I had to stall time anyway because I couldn’t drive yet due to a lack of muscle control. “Jen” thinks it’s a fun game to make me bench press 400 pounds for 25 minutes at a time. Basically, this lady promotes a body detox that can last from 3 days to 3 months that’s supposed to cleanse your entire body from harmful toxins. One of the main reasons I decided to give it a whirl was because this detox aids weight loss and I had just seen a picture of Blake Lively and I decided that I was gonna be a size 2 by Christmas. Of 2011. Oh, and for all you men-folk who may not be familiar with female dress sizes, I’m only about a size away from that.

So on this detox, I can only eat raw fruits and vegetables. The fruit thing is no problem, but the veggies are a different story. Um, I will eat lettuce and carrots. Not even real carrots, but baby carrots. Not even baby carrots, but SHREDDED baby carrots. I have to shred my carrots because I’ve been nursing a pretty ripe cavity for some time, and shockingly, my current job of googling headbands and spying on my neighbors doesn’t have the best insurance plan. My tooth doesn’t bother me too much, as long as I avoid contact with sweet foods, cold foods, hot foods, chewy foods, or hard foods. Otherwise were golden. I figure I can put off the dentist until my teeth start looking like those of an Appalachian toddler who has spent its entire life drinking drinking Mountain Dew out of a baby bottle. Or the other Lindsay from Long Island, that Lohan ho. So, yes. I have to shred my carrots. I hate tomatoes. I used to like cucumbers when I was little, but that was when my mom would cut that jelly shit out of the centers. Once I discovered that cucumbers didn’t naturally come like that, that mess had to go. A) Too much work to de-jelly and B) Its gross. My problem with veggies is that I like eating them, but most of them need to be cooked since I…am not a Neanderthal. So that drastically cuts my options, but I decided to do this non-sense anyway. The Detox Diva warns me of some of the possible symptoms I might experience on my 5-day detox, and I’d like to take a few minutes to tell you about how I’ve been doing with these symptoms.

Hunger- On this detox, I can eat as much raw fruit and veggies as I want, but its key that I eat a lot of leafy greens which is filling and extra helpful for the detox. DD so perkily suggested that I drink a “green monster” every 5 hours while awake. A green monster is a concoction of a handful of spinach, a handful of chard, a stalk of celery, a lemon, an apple, a banana, and berries of my choice “as a treat”.
1. HA. HA. HAHAHA. HA. That’s a cute suggestion, DD.
2. Bitch, don’t you dare try to trick me into thinking I could make this shit doable by tossing in a few raspberries. A strawberry will not make this taste like a strawberry fribble.
3. Everyone knows I’m the world’s pickiest eater, and I do NOT mix foods. I still eat off of a sectioned plate. I wont put a topping on my ice cream because I don’t even get how that would work. I pick the tips off my French fries before eating them. My sister once fed me lasagna with chicken in it, and I almost threw that ho out of her apartment window. It would have been easy, too, because her windows don’t even have screens. #MySisterLivesLikeTheMurdererFromGhost. #SwayzeForever. So you want me to put what and WHAT together? And then you want me to do WHAT with it? No, no, no. Homie don’t play dat. OMG it was so hard for me to type “dat” just now. So instead of a “hearty” green smoothie for breakfast, I instead had this. Oh swell. So lets see what I ate today. An apple. Two grapefruits (why hello, acid reflux and stomach ulcers. So glad you could join the party). A bowl of spinach with some lemon juice and pepper as dressing. I’m not even gonna go into that. A cantaloupe. Whoops, let me repeat that incase you didn’t understand- I had an ENTIRE cantaloupe for dinner. I washed all that down with some anger and bitterness.

Around 8pm, the time I would usually like a little dessert, I went to my freezer, bypassed my impressive ice pop collection which was probably getting freezer burned (mommy misses you!), and pulled out my pathetic little baggie of frozen grapes. DD told me that frozen grapes is a wonderful little treat and I should pretend I’m eating ice-cream bon-bons. DD, have you ever HAD an ice-cream bon-bon? This jiggly ass grape tastes NOTHING like ice cream! Do not patronize me! I am not a fool. Don’t give me a piece of rock candy and tell me it’s a diamond. Shit, do you know what I would do for a piece of rock candy right now? Anyway, this is not Hook. I cannot pretend like I’m dining on some wonderfully/creepily bright colored food, when in reality, its just porridge. I am not Rufio (I wish) and I am not up for this. DD is a rude, crude, lewd, bag of pre-chewed food dude. Ette.

Fatigue- Lets all go back to a magical movie named Sandlot. Remember when Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez got his brand new PF Flyers? Remember when he heard the great bambinos voice telling him that heroes get remembered, but legends never die? Remember when he hopped over the fence to go get the ball and made it back safely? Remember when Hercules hopped over the fence for revenge? Remember how Hercules then chased Benny through the alley? And then through the movie theater? And then through the town picnic? And then under a big cake? And then through the pool where Wendy Peffercorn worked? And then back to the Sandlot where his friends were already waiting because Squints told them about a shortcut? And then Hercules bit Benny’s shirt? And then Benny hopped back over the fence, but when the dog did it, the fence fell on him? Then Benny helped him? Then Hercules licked Benny’s face? Well, as tired as Benny “The Jet” Rodriguez was after pickling the beast for 8 minutes, that’s how tired I was when I walked to my mailbox this afternoon. The lack of a normal diet has made me a weak zombie, and I had to pickle my own beast today. The beast being my sidewalk.


Irritability- A nice way of me telling you all that I have been a major bitch. I now get Sawyer from Lost. He wasn’t really an asshole, that poor man was just hungry! How Hurley didn’t end up killing anyone in a hunger-rage-blackout is besides me. Tonight, Dar-Dar tried to do a nice thing and brought me a pack of gum to “keep my mouth busy”. She tossed it on the couch next to me, and I started my Hulk transformation. I rocketed that pack of Juicy Fruit so hard at her skull while screaming that I couldn’t have sugar. I then LITERALLY started crying. I experienced so many emotions in that moment that I was about to start writing poetry. POETRY. Yuck.

I was driving home today and I knew that a Wendy’s was coming up, and I swear on my Zac Efron pillow that the wheel started turning towards it on its on. I somehow fought the wheel and just looked away and thought about the delicious meal of water and a granny smith waiting for me at home. I was in the right lane, and some fool in a Hyundai crosses 2 lanes of traffic and cuts me off! I don’t know if I have gotten into my road rage in previous blogs, but let me tell you- I have a lot of it. If that weren’t bad enough, he cut me off TO TURN INTO THE WENDYS! Really? You have to go to Wendy’s now? That fucker knew I was detoxing. Salt. In. Wound. And THEN, the light right in front of the Wendy’s turned red! So I had to sit in front of that fucking Wendy’s for 47 fucking seconds, watching that fucking Hyundai in the fucking drive-thru line eat all of MY fucking spicy nuggets. I hope they only gave him 9 instead of 10.

Hallucinations/Weird, Depressing Behavior- This is a true story picture that I drew today while coloring with the little girl I was babysitting.

Those are mozzarella sticks. Breaded, not batter-dipped. Those little green dots are the flecks of seasoning that is often used in the breading of mozzarella sticks. The red puddle is the marinara dipping sauce. That yellow stuff coming out of one of the sticks is the mozzarella cheese that is oozing out of a stick that I had already bitten. And if this picture came to life right now and someone offered me a mozzarella stick with that rancid looking yellow cheese, you can bet your bottom dollar ass that I would eat that shit up. I want to say that it is NEVER okay to draw appetizers. Unless you are an artist being paid by Friendly’s to design their new menu, it is NEVER okay to draw appetizers.

Oh, and this is on day one of my detox.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Take that, Chance, Sassy, and Shadow

If you know me, then you know how I feel about animals. If you are an exotic or wild animal, fine, you’re kinda cool. You can stay. But domestic animals? Gross. If I see you, I’m gonna have to get my Cruella on. Boy, was that woman misunderstood. Anyway, Even though I’m no fan of furry little creatures, I love me some animal movies. Dunston Checks In? Yes, please. Free Willy? Duh. Zeus and Roxanne? I think I’ll watch it twice. One of my other faves is Homeward Bound. For someone who has such a cold heart, I really give my tear ducts a workout during that shit. Can’t someone just help those damn animals get back home!? They’re out there getting assaulted by porcupines and rubbed up on by creepy old men in log cabins. Their journey home was, indeed, an arduous one with so many things standing in their way, BUT it has got NOTHING on my journey home yesterday…

Obstacle #1:
I had been in the DC/Baltimore area for the weekend visiting some of my peeps, and I decided to leave for home at around 11:45 AM for an ETA of 4:30PM. Fabulous. Before I left though, my dear friend and I decide to go to IHOP for breakfast! AWESOME! No, actually. Not awesome. While IHOP falls in my top two places in the universe, I forgot about the state that those damn short stacks put me in. After my pancake sessions, all I wanna do is roll home (literally roll, like log roll) and doze in and out of sleep for the next 4-6 hours while watching Unsolved Mysteries. Pancakes are essentially my Thanksgiving dinner. So after my last bite of pancake, I was ready for some bonding time with Fluffington (my son/pillow), until I realized that I had to spend the next 5 hours driving! Nooo! Anyone have any Jolt or speed I can borrow? Is Jolt even a thing? Are the kids still drinking that?

Obstacle #2:
RAIN. LOTS OF RAIN. Why, Zeus?? Pretty much right after I left, it started to down pour. When I’m driving long distances, I like to put that cruise control on, recline, file the nails a little, open up the People and catch up on some news, but when its raining, I’m forced to pay attention. Damn it to hell. So I spend about two hours trying not to drown on I-95, but then the rain just gets too heavy, so I decide to pull over for a few minutes and hope it lightens up. I stop at the next rest stop, which is the Fenimore Cooper rest area in NJ. Here is why Fenimore Cooper sucks- Roy Rogers. Rather, a LACK of Roy Rogers. The only time I will eat fried chicken is if it’s from RR and that is why I look forward to road trips. The only place to find a RR is at rest stops, and I pick the ONE in all of NJ that doesn’t have one! Crap, crap, crap. So I sat at a table for 10 minutes staring at this lady, and then the rain finally stopped. I also had to leave because Bobbarino was at home waiting for me to get back because I had the EZ pass and he was going to Albany last night. Sure, pops. I’ll rush home in inclement weather so that you can save $6.00 on the Throgs Neck Bridge. I walk out to my car, and there is a blind woman leaning against my car! Who is she and where did she come from? Why did she decide to rest herself upon my vehicle? I obviously have nothing against blind people, but my last two interactions with them led to me getting physically abused. Thaaaaats another blog. So I decided to wait it out. I spent about 45 seconds standing 3 feet away from this woman, facing her, hoping that she would feel my presence and relocate. At around second 46, a man came out carrying an ice cream cone and said, “okay, mom! Lets go!” WHAT?! You abandon your blind mother in a parking lot so you can go get some self-serve? Why is she not allowed inside? And I notice you have one cone in your hand. You didn’t even get a cone for your blind mother? I bet he didn’t even tell her he was getting ice cream. He didn’t want to pay for 2 cones. Grimy.

AND he got sprinkles.

Obstacle #3:
I’m back on the road, inching home, when I notice that I am in an exit only lane, heading to Perth Amboy. What the fuck is a Perth Amboy?? I still had about 100 miles to go until I got home, so I knew I had to get over. I go to merge, and this huge Huggies truck wouldn’t let me over! Not only did he not let me over, he pretty much drove me off the road. As I’m now veering toward this mysterious Perth Amboy, I look over and see those obnoxious Huggies babies on the side of the truck smiling and laughing at me. They were like the baby in Honey, I Blew up the Kid! I could see them thinking, “Have fun in Perth Amboy, bitch! Mwahahahaha.” Dumb babies. So I’m now somewhere in NJ, trying to get back to the highway, when I see a billboard for an outlet center. The picture on the billboard was someone in a Lacoste Shirt with Gucci sun-g’s. It was essentially me, except in a models body. And 25 feet tall. So I’m all like, you dumb babies, IM having the last laugh. As it turns out, they definitely did have the last laugh because I got lost trying to find the outlets and ended up at a meat distribution facility instead. Of course.

Obstacle #4:
Five and a half hours after my departure, I finally make it to the Belt parkway. For you non-New Yorkers, the Belt is a dumb, crowded parkway that goes from BK to LI, and still about an hour away from my house. I’m sitting in my car, and my eyes were getting a little watery. I was listening to Nas’ song “I Can”, and that song always gets me a little misty. So inspirational. So wise. As I’m about to wipe my eyes, I sneeze very hard. So hard, that MY RIGHT CONTACT POPS OUT! It was already lubed up and slippery from my tears, so that sneeze just propelled that sucker out. So to recap, it’s raining so hard my windshield wipers are basically useless, I’m on one on the craziest motorways in NY, and I’m trying not to get hit by the speeding motorist doing 85 on a windy, flooded, 2 lane road. And now, I can’t see out of the right eye. I didn’t see it on my shirt or on the wheel, so I assume it’s on the floor. I try to feel around for it with my toes. Contact, is that you? Oh, no. That’s an advil. Contact, is that you? Oh, no. That’s a braid that fell out of my hair days earlier. Contact, is that you? Oh, no. That’s a sneaker. *Note- I was not wearing sneakers that day. I almost give up and decide to pull over when I look down and see this.

My contact landed on my blue-raspberry Dum-Dum. For realskis? FOR REALSKIS??

So, at around 7PM, I make it home. I made it through the deadly rain, traffic, blind people, taunting babies, dashed polo shirt dreams, and artificial fruit-flavored seeing aids. Just like Shadow in Homeward Bound when he crawls out of the ditch and limps home to a welcoming family, I inch up my driveway and embrace Dar-Dar, who then tells me she can’t see the TV.