Sorry, but you are not awesome.

In honor of this crap movie about Facebook coming out in theaters today, I have another Facebook gripe. People, ENOUGH with the backdoor bragging. It’s really becoming an issue for me. I’m just on the book to find incriminating evidence on my enemies (and more importantly, my frenemies) and to keep tabs on but NOT stalk certain people. I don’t wanna log on and have to roll my beautiful, almond shaped eyes because your status is ridiculous. Did you pick up on that little one I snuck in there? See what I just did? Anyway, here are some scenarios to better illustrate my point.

Exercise and Body“ Does anyone have about 30 great workout tunes? I’m about to go on my daily 9 mile run and I need to stay pumped!”

“Ugh, why did I have to workout so much and go from a size 6 to a size 2?! New, small jeans are SOOOOO expensive! Maybe I still have my old jeans from 7th grade in the attic, let me go check.”

Good. For. You. You went to the gym. Do you want a cookie? I bet you do, actually. You are not the only person in the world who works out. You can run like an Etheopian and I can walk like an American. So what. Do me a favor, and pick me up a strawberry frosted donut from one of the four Dunkin Donuts you are bound to pass on your three county jog, Forest Gump.

Boyfriend/Love“ I have gone to three stores looking for a vase that’s big enough to hold the 3 dozen, long-stemmed red roses my boyfriend just gave me for no reason. Suggestions?”

I have a suggestion. Shove the roses up your butt. I’m sorry that I’m not sorry for the graphic and bitter comment, but give me a break. He probably went to some gross club like The Crazy Donkey in Farmingdale (for those of you not from Long Island, be glad you’ve never heard of this establishment) and hooked up with some chick that has chunky, Kelly Clarkson circa 2003 highlights and pink frosted lipstick. Ya know what else he’s probably gonna give you? The clap. Are you gonna write about THAT when it happens? Didn’t think so, so just keep the little love fest between the two of you. And your pharmacist.

School/Career“ Can someone lend me their phone? Mine died and I need to call Princeton to let them know that I will be attending in the fall, then I need to call the other 11 schools I was accepted to and turn them down. So busy!”

“Carrying in the mail on Fridays is so difficult ever since I got that huge pay raise- the check is big and heavy!”

Well, aren’t you just a genius and sooooo talented. I went to a janky state school, and I bet I can still spell words like “self-righteous” and “insecure” just as well as you can act them. I don’t care that you went from the mailroom clerk to the jr. assistant in training. Congrats. Now you can use your millions to buy me, your impoverished friend, a drink next the next time we go out. Put your money where my mouth is.

The moral of the story is to just stop because everyone can see what you are doing, and you look dumb. We just don’t care. Frankly, I would have 100% more respect for you if you just came out and declared your awesomeness. “ I won the lotto, I am better than you.” Done. “I lost weight, I am amazing.” Done. “I got a 1600 on the SAT’s and Lindsay Mays took it three times, determined to reach her goal of 1200 but was 10 points shy with an 1190 , HA HA.” Done.

IHOP lunch breaks?

As often stated, I am the Mays family errand gal. Mother needs some gel inserts for her shoes for a cocktail party? Lindsay to Target. Ro needs one of her sparkly, rhinestoned, geometric hemmed, one shoulder tops dry cleaned so she can wear it to a place that doesn’t require a sparkly, rhinestoned, geometric hemmed, one shoulder top? Off to the dry cleaners it is. I have just accepted my duties. Last week, my dearest grandmother asked me to pick up some fresh fruit for her at this little market, and obviously I obliged. I hoped that I would at least get a nice pie with heart-shaped crust cut-outs out of the situation. So I go to this little side of the road joint, and I see no farmers in overalls. I see no little kids with two missing front teeth trying to eat an apple while swinging their legs off the back of a parked pick-up. Something was peculiar. I mosey on up to front door of this place, and there is a note taped to the door that says “Went down the road. Be back in 35 minutes.”

Okay.

“Went down the road” ??? WTF is this? Its not like you are a nanny leaving a note for the mom saying that you briefly took the kids to the park down the street. You are a BUSINESS! And whats down the road?? The only thing to the right of the market was the parkway, and the only thing to the left of the market was an IHOP. Did you take a hiatus from your place of business for a quick Rooty Tooty Fresh N’ Fruity? Were you going to get a chocolate milk and a short stack? Hash browns? Steak sirloin tips and mashed potatoes? By the way, I do not now, nor will I EVER understand or respect people who order dinner foods at IHOP. Not natural. That’s like getting a bagel at Dunkin Donuts or a salad at Burger King. Who does that? ANYWAY, if they had written ,“Went to IHOP, go get your fruit somewhere else”, I honestly probably would have went there and joined them. This is a picture of me at an International House of Pancakes on my 23rd birthday.

I hope that when I do get a job, it is one that will allow me to leave mid-day for some flap jacks.

“Be back in 35 minutes” ??? Again, WTF is this? I DO NOT KNOW WHEN YOU LEFT, THEREFORE I DO NOT KNOW THESE MYSTERIOUS 35 MINUTES WILL BE UP! This is probably my biggest pet peeve in the world besides catfish hair (we will get to catfish hair when I am emotionally stable to tackle that subject). When stores or people say “be back in – minutes” that is no help unless I know when they posted it! Maybe they put the note up 34 minutes ago when I was still at home eating my Cap n’ Crunch and finishing up the previous nights episode of Secret Life of an American Teenager. Or maybe it was two minutes ago and I passed the owners on the street, but didn’t notice them because I was belting out “Eenie Meenie” by the Biebs and Sean Kingston. Either way, it does not help me. I have things to do. I’m a busy lady. I’m like Kelly Ripa. I don’t have time to sit around in my car in the parking lot waiting for you to get back from IHOP so that I can buy some apples for dear old Granny.

So I wait about four minutes in my car and then decide to roll-bounce out of there. I was over this janky little shut-down in the middle of the day market. Guess where my next stop was? PATHMARK! For those of you not in the tri-state area, Pathmark is a janky little grocery store chain. Pathmark is to grocery stores as JC Penney is to department stores. If grandmama can tell the difference between side of the road market apples and grocery store apples, I will happily go pick some apples for her from a tree like when the Von Trapp kids were swinging from those trees wearing rompers made out of curtains.

Back the Fuck Off

Ya know when you are supposed to go to the gym because when you go to the gym and do something that creates results, people compliment you and stuff and that’s awesome, so you tell yourself you’re going to go to the gym after class, but you forgot that “E! Investigates: Rich Kids Who Kill” was coming on, so you put the gym off for an hour, then two, then 3 days roll around, and then you feel so bad for putting off the gym that you just don’t go for weeks and pretend like the gym doesn’t even exist, but then you miss getting compliments and attention, so you go back to the gym? Well, thats what happened with this blog. And I miss getting compliments and attention. And there are no new E! specials happening. So we’re back.

During the hiatus, a few people asked when I would post again, and I always promised a new post soon, and it was honky doory. BUT things got weird when some weirdo goes, “if you don’t post something new, I’m going to slash your tires, snap all your headbands, and cut your braids off.” Woah. Back the fuck off, crazy. I understand that I am awesome and fantastic, and quite frankly, the cats meow, but ease up. That’s a little drastic. The way to get me to do something is NOT to threaten my headbands. I can find or steal new tires. I can go buy a new pack of 1B hair for $37 on Long Island, $25 in Harlem. But I can NOT replace some of my precious babies. So back the fuck off. Here are some other people who can do the same:

1. The toothless wench who pushes carts at the grocery store who yelled at me for parking in an expectant mother/mother with toddlers parking spot. Ya know what? Hell yes I am parking in this damn parking spot. Will it make you feel better if I puff my gut out for you? And by the way, it's 11:30 at night, why would a toddler be at the grocery store at 11:30 at night? You call the police on me for parking in this fake-ass, made-up parking spot, and I will call child services. All I wanted was some raspberry lemondade and some watermelon Big League Chew. Back the fuck off.

2. The Long Island losers who drive around in their Lil Bow Wow circa The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, piece of shit neon cars with the purple headlights who pass me on the parkway as I’m doing 75. Driving is something I take very personally. I think I am a FABULOUS driver. Sure, there are some trees, a fire hydrant, and a few ignored stop signs that beg to differ, but I know that I am a fabulous driver. I have somewhere to be, I’m going to get there in a timely manner. When I’m on the parkway, already doing 20 miles (safely) over the limit, don’t you DARE have the nerve to pass ME, honk at me, or glare at me from your dumb ass reclined driver seat that you can't possibly see over. I can’t wait until Norman Black, the state trooper who gave me a ticket for going 10 (okay, 28) miles over the limit, gives you a speeding ticket. It's gonna be tough paying for your trunk stereo system when you have a $215 ticket to pay to the great state of New York. Back the fuck off.

3. The sketch man sitting outside of Delia’s at the mall. Do not sit there with your compadres, eating a stale cinnamon sugar pretzel or a cup of Dip N' Dots and try to “holla” at me while I’m simply trying to exchange one of my in denial, too small purchases. Offering to buy me a piece of “jewelry” from Things Remembered is not the way to woo me. “Jewelry” from Things Remembered is the equivalent of buying a piece of “crystal” from a Hallmark store. If it's sitting next to a tower of discounted Beanie Babies and a pack of Rollos, it ain’t crystal. If its sitting next to a heart-shaped serving spoon and a crucifix alarm clock, it ain't jewelry. Back the fuck off.

You all get the gist. Whether you are pissing me off, or just too close to my personal space, back the fuck off. Seriously. Back off. Im just a simply, quiet, introverted gal.

A girl just wants to buy her grapefruit

Every three days, I go to the grocery store to re-fill the only four things I consume. Tropicana Orange Juice, acid-free if my GERD is acting up, chicken, grapefruits, and ice-pops. I like to keep things simple. I go to check out with my goods, and like always, there are about two registers open. I get in line behind two other people and start flipping through a rousing issue of People magazines sexiest bachelor issue. I had just assumed it was the sexiest bachelor issue because the Biebs was on the cover. So I’m standing there, getting the fever all over again, and then this woman rushes up behind me carrying a package of pampers. She is visibly anxious and says, “Can you believe they only have TWO registers open? I need to get home and meet my kids school bus! I don’t know what I’m going to do!” For those of you who are unaware, I was voted “friendliest” in my high-school yearbook, not to toot my own horn. Being the lovely person that I am, I said, “If you only have the diapers, please just go ahead of me.” Yes, I was dying to get home because there was an episode of Jerseylicious burning a hole in my DVR, but I was nice. She was so grateful and appreciative and she said I was really helping her out since her son was going to be home from school soon. Ahhhhhh. Good deed done. And THEN, she pulled the most grimy-ass move to ever take place in a Stop and Shop.

I’m now standing behind this lady and her one pack of pampers, when this gross tween who was wearing a Stuff by Hilary Duff (the Duffsters K-Mart clothing line) track suit comes up behind me with a HUGE basket filled to the brim. Cool, no big deal. However, it became a big deal when that Pampers carrying nappy-headed ho (*please see note at the bottom) goes, “Nicole, there you are. Come up here with me. This girl said we can cut her.” WHAAAAAAT?! You slimy, slime-head. I was baffled as the trashy kid rammed past me with her load of shit.

I am normally a very non-confrontational person. I like to use my loud volume for good and not for evil. But I was not taking this. I was already in a bad mood that day because when I had gotten into my car that morning, I discovered that my favorite lip-balm stick had melted because it was so hot in there. Like I have $7.50 plus tax to spend replacing my lip balm. Anyway, I got up the nerve and defended myself. I told her that I asked her if she just had one item and she said yes, and that’s why I let her cut me. Homegirl turns to me and says, “I DID just have one item….in my hands. We never talked about how much else I had coming on the way.” GRRRRRR. To make matters worse, this lady had the most asshole products in her cart. Lots of produce, which meant taking forever to weigh everything and type in codes (why do you have to put only one apple in each bag?!) About 30 baby food jars. Cases of water, which needed to be hauled out of the cart in order to scan it. DVD’s which had to have the sensors taken off of them using a special tool. The works. And who buys DVD’s from the grocery store?! Correction: who buys DVD’s??? I came up with the best, wittiest, most creative response I could come up with- I told her that she was not cool. Groundbreaking, I know. As those two jerks were yucking it up at their evil doings, the register next to me opened up, and I sucked it up and moved over there. As I was getting my stuff rung-up, I looked over at the gruesome twosome and their register was having problems! Sweet victory! Karma is alive and well. I bet those two were con-artists who use this school bus scam all the time. They were like Sawyer and his lady friend in Lost when they do all their little tricks. Taking advantage of poor, unsuspecting ladies when they are at their most vulnerable state, reading about the Biebs. I had secretly wished that her kid’s bus got home early and a neighbor would call CPS. Maybe in a perfect world. But if it were a perfect world, my favorite lip-balm wouldn’t have melted.

*She actually had very nice hair, like that of a Kardashian. Nappy-headed ho was for dramatic effect.

Silver. Metallic. Uggs.

This rant needs no other words.

Drake, I mean Jimmy, I mean AUBREY!

Here’s a little story for you. During my two-month stint as a highly disgruntled employee at a little sweatshop known formally as The Gap, I decided I wanted to try something new. As you all know, I am a big fan of my middle name, Chandler. When I filled out my application to stand for five hours at a time and fold khakis in a dark basement until my fingers bled, I decided to say that while my name is Lindsay, I have always gone by Chandler. Lies. I thought it would be fun! Wrong. Many times during my employment, I would hear, “Chandler to the registers! Chandler to the fitting rooms! Chandler, fix the Muzak, its skipping! Chandler, wipe the lint out of the vents!” over the secret service ear-pieces we were required to wear. And what would I do when I heard "Chandler" being called? Absolutely nothing. Never once did I remember that I was suppose to be Chandler, the happy worker, and not Lindsay, the bitter and tired slave. Only when my evil manager would twirl HER handlebar mustache (no, it was seriously a handlebar mustache) and yell at me for not responding, would I remember my alias. I was eventually “let go”. Those Communists. Long story still pretty long, going by your middle name is never a good idea. Unless, apparently, you are a fake Canadian rapper named “Drake.”

Half the time, I want to kick that guy in the sack, and the other half of the time, I want to mother so many of his children. I am aware that one act may hinder the success of the other act, but that’s a risk I need to take. YOUR NAME IS NOT DRAKE! YOUR NAME IS AUBREY GRAHAM! IF YOU DON’T LIKE AUBREY GRAHAM, YOU CAN GO BY JIMMY BROOKS, KID IN A WHEELCHAIR WHO WAS SHOT BY THE KID WHO BEAT UP HIS FAT GIRLFRIEND!

I’m sorry for the Kanye formatted rant. Let me back track for all of you who are not familiar with Canadian tween programming. There is a little gem of a show in the land to the north of us named Degrassi. Degrassi WAS an awesome show about slutty kids ranging from Grade 8 to University (that’s what those crazy Canucks call school) who do drugs, get STD’s, cheat on science fair projects, deal with hate crimes, have bad haircuts (spinner), have pregnancy scares, have pregnancies, have girls vs boys band wars, etc. It sounds like every other show on the CW, but it really was awesome. The slogan is “Degrassi…it goes there”. That should sum it all up. Somehow, this show is on The N, nickelodeons teen channel, and is deemed appropriate for little kids. Whatevs. Anyway, one of the old cast members was a nice boy named Jimmy Brooks. Jimmy liked to shoot hoops with his guy pals, take his bi-polar girlfriend on dates to the movies to catch a flick, and was an all around great guy. One day, this loner kid named Rick flips out because everyone hates him because he beat up his fat girlfriend named Terri. So of course he brings a gun to school. Guess who gets shot. JIMMY! Now his hoops dreams are dashed, he's stuck in a wheelchair, and he has to deal with erectile dysfunction. Poor Jim. So life gets better for him, he lives each day to the fullest, leaves Degrassi, blah blah blah. Wondering what Jimmy looks like? Let me show you a picture.
GADZOINKS! THAT’S NOT JIMMY! THAT’S AUBREY! NO, THAT’S DRAKE! AHHHH, WHO IS IT?! IM SO CONFUSED! Yes, boys and girls, the “man” who you know as “Drake” is an imposter. Let me tell you something, “Drake”. You can sing all about caressing women, and how to treat a lady right, and how she’s the best sex you’ve ever had, but you can’t fool me with those beautiful eyes and that mulatto skin. I know your deal. Don’t think you can just change your name and become cool. I TRIED IT. DIDN’T WORK. Embrace your roots. You will always be that little Canadian child actor. And does your buddy, Lil Wayne know about your “hard” past? Does he know about your little stint on a kids show? Does he know that in Grade 8, your best friend Spinner tried to peer pressure you into having sex with Ashley, but you chickened out and the two of you spent the evening laughing, blowing up condoms and watching movies? Does he know she dumped you because you spent too much time at her house and were too clingy? How did you get all this street cred? Lie on your resume? And that brings me to other rappers as well. Uhhh, Cornelius aka Nelly? Bernard aka Jizzal Man? Clifford aka Method Man? All these people are frauds! If these guys were as cool and self-assured as they claim, they should be comfortable with their given names. Next time I see Method Man strolling down the street, I’m going to say, “Hey, Clifford! Hows it going buddy?” You just wait.

I really do not know why this Drake thing angers me so. Maybe I need to work more on separating the real (Aubrey Drake Graham) from the make believe (Jimmy Brooks, student at Degrassi High). I don’t care though. I don’t care how much he sings about how much he loves me and my reproductive organs and what he wants to do with them. I mean, I don't care how much he sings about how much he loves the ladies and their reproductive organs and what he wants to do with them. Jimmy Brooks forever! Get out of here, “Drake”.

Go here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJ7UCm6uxNc&feature=related and go to the 30 second mark. If I make up a rap like that, can I get signed to Young Money, too?

There is no salary for watching Elliot Stabler

Hello, family, frends, and hopeful secret admirers. I am back. I wanted to wait a little while before my next post because I don’t want everyone to think I’m just bitter and whiny. But lets be honest. There have been a weeks worth of eye rolls, expletives, and road rage building up, and they are dying to be typed out. Lets start with this.

NO, I DON’T HAVE A JOB. LEAVE ME ALONE AND STOP ASKING. So, for the past couple (couple usually means two, but for this, it means two plus a lot more) of months, I have been unemployed. At first, it was FUNempolyed. Fifteen hour marathons of Law and Order: SVU? Bring on Ice-T’s ponytail (rest in peace)! 2pm trips in my pajamas to four different grocery stores looking for Five Alive? Well worth the gas money I don’t have! But after the bad Tyler Perry sitcoms take over daytime TV on the days there is no SVU, and after I have exhausted all of my efforts to discover the best citrus drink of my childhood, things aren’t so much fun anymore. When the mailman calls you by name (Leslie…) you realize its time to hit Craigslist a little harder. So yeah, having no job blows chunga, but I’m working on it. In the meantime, stop asking me how the job hunt is going. If I don’t have a fucking job, obviously it's not going well! Dummies. Oh, the search is going fantastically! I’ve been offered several $100,000 jobs, but I turned them down because I enjoy driving over to my grandma’s housing complex multiple times a day so I can help all her old-ass friends reach their crock pots on high shelves, and help recover their stray Keds and cats from under their beds.

The job question is one of those topics that you have to talk about politely, when in reality, you want to punch someone in the kidneys when they bring it up. College acceptance? Well, I got rejected from 8 schools (including my top three), wait-listed at two, and into one, thanks for asking. My diet? Yeah, I had to lie on the floor, stick a wire coat -hanger through the zipper of my jeans, and pull for dear life in order to get them zipped, thanks for asking. Prom date? Hmm, if I remember correctly, he sent me an e-mail a couple (this time, it's literally two) of days before prom saying he actually couldn’t take me because he wanted to hang out with his cousin instead, thanks for asking. And almost prom date, if you are reading this, please refer to my last blog post. I’ve (kinda) recovered. I hold (almost) no grudge. To everyone else, if I have good news, I will hire the pilot who flew those Tiger banners over the Masters to write my news in the sky. Otherwise, take a pill.

And on a different note, and I am totally aware this is completely selfish, I’m over all the facebook good news statuses. This is not suggesting people stop sharing their happy career news because as soon as I get a gig, that shit will be written in caps on the book, but for right now, I’m just a bitter hypocrite. I'm so glad you’re a Disney Imagineer, let me go pick up my moms dry cleaning. Congrats on becoming an assistant designer at Ralph Lauren, I need to go run out to my mailbox before the mailman comes so I can return my Netflix. I know I’m a horrid person, and if I actually like you, I AM genuinely happy for you, but for the majority, I can’t help it if my jaw clenches a tad at your news. Boobs.

The Hot-Pocket Nerd

Today, I'm at Rite-Aid buying some discounted Easter candy, and I spot a figure from my past buying a single Hot Pocket. Lets call him Alfred. Alfred was a kid from my church youth group who I was OBSESSED with back in 2001. No offense Pastor Bob, but Alfred was pretty much the only reason I went to church. Surprisingly (HA), I was less than discrete with my adoration for him. I bet he could tell that I didn't actually like the sport of rollerball. There is no way, however, that he could deny the chemistry we had with each other when we worked together on our rap about Moses and his awesomeness.

So I see Alfred and go up to him to say hello. I mean, we were in the same Sunday school class and youth group for seven years and it's always nice to catch up with old friends. After exchanging niceties, he just took a breath and said, "so I guess we can hang out or something (I didnt even ask him to, P.S.), but besides that, I don't think I'm up for anything else. I mean, I kinda remember you liking me and stuff so I don't want to send you mixed signals." .........EXCUSE YOU?!?! Ugh, get over yourself, douche! Do you think I still doodle your name on my church program?? Do you think after nine years, I still get giddy when I think about the time you sat next to me in the church van on the way to our mini-golf trip?? NO, fool! A lot of things have changed since nine years ago. You don't see me walking around town in my Buffy the Vampire Slayer t-shirt, do you? You don't see me wearing a whole tub of body glitter gel from Claire's all over my skin and hair, do you? Nope.

Although I have been known to be, how would you say, "stalkerish" (such a harsh word!) at times, what girl hasn't committed postal crimes? Who hasn't broken into and entered a dorm room or car? Who hasn't stolen a date book or hacked into a computer to find someones class schedule? Excuse me for having awesome detective skills and dedication. Even though I have no regrets about previous actions, I am proud to say that my efforts have gone from illegal to just slightly creepy. And ya know what? Im okay with just slightly creepy. Do I embarrass myself and my accomplices at times? Most likely. Do I ever make people feel slighty uncomfortable? Sure! But I promise not to boil any bunnies like Glenn Close did in Fatal Attraction, and I promise not to sabotage your drug test so that you are kicked off the team like Erica Christensen did in Swimfan. Calm down.

So, I could not let Alfred continue to think that he was hot shit. I told him that I obviously hadn't liked him since the summer before 9th grade (false, winter of 10th grade) and that I was seeing someone and it was pretty serious (false, not seeing anyone) and that I actually had to run since I was late for a meeting (false, I was planning on sitting in my car and eating my discounted candy). I left Alfred in the aisle, debating which Hot Pocket to buy. He's a nerd. I could have given him the (stolen) contact info of at least 15 people who I have been "involved" with since him who could assure him that I don't linger on them years later like an STD. Ugh. Whatevs.

*Tip: Do NOT profess your love to someone on AIM on Christmas morning. Just because it's Christmas, it doesn't mean the result will be positive. It will not end up like an ABC Family movie. So I've heard.

SURI

Exactly four years ago, it began it's reign of terror. Two losers (one who finds it necessary to contort her face and talk out of the side of her face while whining about her love problems on the creek) created an evil little "girl" who would begin her quest to dominate the world. Its name is Suri Cruise.

Okay, I know (people think) that she is just a harmless child, but that is what she wants everyone to think. She has managed to mesmerize and brainwash America into thinking that her lifestyle is adorable. It's not! She's crazy! I'm not even convinced she's only four! She is a woman in a childs body. She's like that girl from Orphan, a grown woman who just doesn't age. She's like a reverse Jack. That is a reference is to awesome movie featuring Robin Williams and a post-fly-girl, pre-Selena/Anaconda J.Lo. I see this picture and think, "Hmm, when did Samantha from Sex and the City dye her hair?" All this thing does is shop and lunch! Note to TomKat: they DO have a thing called pre-school! Ask little Violet Affleck! That happy little child is just so darling and well-rounded. I bet she can count. The only math Suri does is when she tries to figure out how much shes spent on her Black card.

Let me break down my issues with Suri:
1. The hair- get that audacious little bob out of my face! Ahhh, I'm so cute, ahhhh, I'm so cutting edge, ahhh, I'm such a trendsetter. Get out of here! You're not Anna Wintour, even though your wardrobe costs more than hers. Suri thinks that with a simple shake of her sassy hair, she can get away with anything. Ya know what? Shes right! All you fools let her get away with murder cuz she has cute hair. Do you know whats cuter than a bob on a three year old? A gheri curl on a four year old.

2. The clothes- THE GIRLS GOT HER OWN FASHION BLOG. If I hear one more person call that thing stylish, I'm gonna chunga all over this place. When everything you have is Burberry, Stella McCartney, and Dior, its gonna be hard to look like shit no matter what combo you choose."Suri has such a good eye for clothes. She often picks out my outfits and says, 'mommy, don't wear that with that. Put this on instead' and sure enough, her choice looks amazing!"- Katie "Kate" Holmes, crack-smoking mother. Joey Potter, even a slug could tell you that your lame cuffed baggy jeans and boxy blazers are a no-no. Your kid isn't special, she's just not blind! And Suri, put on some pants! Whatever, little girls look cute in dresses, blah blah. When it's December in NYC and you're strutting around the UES like you own shit, I don't wanna see your tiny knees shaking because you are so cold. Maybe that silk sundress isn't the best choice in 27 degree weather?? According to Katie, Suri refuses to wear pants. I would say bribe her with a cookie, but you KNOW Suri is on a diet and doesn't eat carbs.

3. The shoes- My blood pressure is rising. Christian Louboutins? CHRISTIAN LOUBOUTINS!? Are you kidding me?! I can't take it. Im waiting for Payless' BOGO so I can get some new shoes, and shes parading around in CL's. Won't they get ruined when she's out playing with the other kids? Oh, wait. She doesn't play and she doesn't like anyone under that age of 41. Does a three-year-old REALLY need custom heels?! How is she supposed to shop all day with sore feet? At least she has all of her $130 a pop Bonpoint raw silk mary janes when she wants to go caj. (OMG, I just realized I dont know how to write the abbrev for casual! What a trav.)

4. The accessories- Custom made Birken, Marc Jacobs, and Ferragamo bags? I'm done. What does she have to put in there besides her lipstick, credit cards, Blackberry, Vogue, business cards, ear muffs, and pashmina??

This may seem a tad harsh, but so be it. Something about her seems so shifty. I just don't trust those dark little eyes. Maybe I'm a tad jealous. I'd love to not go to work, not go to school, and just spend my time lunching with friends, hitting up Bergdorfs, checking out Broadway shows, and getting carried around everywhere, but thats not the case. I get a very good sense of people early on. I predicted during episode 2 of season one of Gossip Girl that Jenny Humphrey was going to turn into a major bitch, and noooooo one believed me and where is Jenny Humphrey now? She's Constance's new mean girl who likes to sabotage her gay stepbrothers relationships, steal her stepsisters hot boyfriend, and make fashion pieces that serve as drug carriers.

I will NOT brake for Choco Taco's

Let me start by professing my love for ice cream men and their vessels. A few weeks ago, I was cruising down the highway on my way to Costco to grab a slice of pizza and a churro, -wait. Let me repeat myself. I was cruising down the highway on my way to Costco to grab a slice of pizza and a churro, when I looked to the left and noticed a whole fleet of ice cream men sailing down the L.I.E. There was a caravan of TWELVE ice cream men in a row! At that magical sight, I felt like the rotund little German boy who goes by the name of Augustus Gloop when he enters Willy Wonkas creepy-ass factory. I thought it was a mirage!

Now let me get real for a moment like Dr. Phil. We've all missed fly balls in the outfield during softball games because we've been too distracted by the ICM playing his Pied Piper music in the parking lot. After seeing the ICM slowly rolling down the street, we've all scoured our front yards on all fours for any lost change, similar to the way Rick Moranis scoured his lawn for his lost, miniature children in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. Little did he know they were busy getting it on inside of a Lego with the neighbor kids. But I digress. Basically, we've all fallen headfirst into that proverbial chocolate river at one point of another. Clearly, I am in support of consuming ice-products until your tongue is raw and the roof of your mouth stings. However, I recently had my first negative experience with an ICM since I discovered that they swapped the wooden scrapers that come with Marinos italian ices for plastic ones.

This afternoon, I'm driving down a residential street, when I come across an ice cream truck parked on the other side of the road. It had its little stop sign out, telling me to wait while a child finished selecting his or her frozen treat. No biggie. Oh, wait. Whats that, you say? There were NINE kids in line?! And I have to wait for all of these little jerk-asses to get their treats?! That is unreasonable. And quick question. It is 1:12 on a Wednesday afternoon, why are you all not in school?! Who do you think you are, Lil Wayne? Suri Cruise? GO TO SCHOOL. Go solve a proof. So after sitting in the luxury of my 1997 Nissan Altima for 47 seconds (which is longer than you think), I decided to channel my inner Fonzie or Danny Zuko and get rebellious. I slowly inched past the ice cream truck, making sure not to tap any of those uneducated tykes with my ride, and as I was almost completely in the clear, some mother standing on a stoop yelled out, "WAY TO FOLLOW THE LAW'S RULES!" Okay, first off, laws OR rules. Please pick one or the other. Second, leave me the hell alone. I need to get home so I can try to pry my mushed body out of my non-effective, imitation Spanx! Just incase that lady took down my license plate number and was going to report me to the feds, I went from Fonzie to Screech Powers and waited through two whole verses of a K-Ci and JoJo song until the runts were done. One day, I will exact my frosty revenge.

Hmmm, and maybe I wouldn't need the Spanx if I didn't like ice cream so much. Damn you, Augustus Gloop.

An open letter to all Snuggie haters

Dear Snuggie Haters of America,

Why can't you just let a girl get her Snuggie on, literally!? As an avid Snuggie enthusiast, I can not explain the rage I feel when I hear people putting down that better than cashmere wonder. Along with those little heat packets that I used to stick in my ski gloves when my dad, Bobbarino, thought it would be a great idea to make a 7 year old girl stay out on super advanced skiing trails in the middle of blizzards for up to 5 hours, the Snuggie is the greatest warming invention ever. Any person above 5'8'' knows that when you just want to curl up on the couch and watch 10 hours of Lifetime when they have marathons of movies like Mother, May I Sleep with Danger? and A Woman Scorned: The Betty Broderick Story, the worst thing is when you get under some inappropriately shaped blanket (why the hell do they even make square blankets?! Spongebob doesn't like Lifetime!) and that damn blanket hits you mid-shin. WHAT. THE. SHIT. Why must I choose between frozen toes and a chilly neck?! The Snuggie allows me not to make that Sophie's choice! Before the Snuggie, I had to wear this if I wanted full warmth.
Duck footies, no more! But I will keep them, just because they are duck footies.

The Snuggie is so great, that I often wear it out in public. I am tired of seeing your judgey faces every time I step out in my blue buddy. All of you pedestrians, cyclists, and skateboarders don't have to worry when I drive in my snuggie. I have come up with a rigging system so that it doesn't become a driving hazard (anymore). I have better things to do with my time than hit you with my vehicle. And ya know what? If you DO see me swerving towards you, it's not because of my long, baggy Snuggie. It's because you still think its okay to ride a Razor scooter, and I need to teach you a lesson.

The Snugs is also a great party outfit. As a group of 25 Semester at Sea kids can tell you, the girl who surprises everyone and shows up to a Colorado vacation house wearing her snugs is bound to be the life of the party!*Note: faces have been blurred to protect innocent parties who may be too ashamed to associate themselves with a Snuggie wearer.

And when that life of the party forgets that it's necessary to consume more than screwdrivers and wine slurpees (delish) in a 24-hour period and she passes out, her friends can have a great time draping her snuggie over her and putting fake flora on her and taking photos. Oh, speak of the devil!

Possibly my favorite time to wear my snuggie is at the movie theater. YUP. The movie theater. If I'm paying $10.75 to see this damn movie, you bet your fat ass I'm gonna be comfortable while doing it. And bitch, maybe my Snuggie wants to check out Avatar, too! See what all the damn hype is about. I dare you to say something to me, movie theater worker. See if I don't bring Fluffington Chandler Mays III (my pillow, obvi) next time, too. You wanna play froggy? Jump. Oh, and by the way, I snuck a slurpee and donut into the theater. What about it?

Listen, I understand the Snuggie is not for everyone. You have no desire to wear my Snuggie, and I have no desire to wear your eggplant colored Juicy Coutour sweatsuit with a bejeweled crown on the back of the hoodie and on the thigh of the pant leg. To each his own. But before you completely write off the Snuggie or continue to judge me for loving mine, look at this picture of Bobbarino. How could you hate something that puts this precious smile on a hardworking mans face on Christmas morning???

Sincerely,
Lindsay, who is nice and warm from head to toe, Mays

A mothers love

The bond that a mother has with her child is a bond like no other.
I promise to explain this cat picture at a later date and time.

There are times, however, when that mother would like to bond her child's hands behind her back and tie her down to a chair when that child is being "annoying". My own mother, Dar-Dar Binks, is a lovely woman who is quite easy to enrage. So what do I do for fun when I'm bored? Push some buttons.

Most family fridges have kids pictures, report cards, and birthday party invitations on them. Ours have post-its of hate on them. When Dar-dar Binks gets angered, she says some truly great things, and I decided to write them down and post them on the fridge so she can feel some sort of public shame/guilt. I'd like to share some of those HILARIOUS gems with you. *Note: Do not fear- mother has never acted on any of these threats. No need to call CPS. Roz and I do end up on the floor after hearing these outburts, but that's from laughing

• I’m gonna stomp you and punch you in the gut.
• I’m gonna tie you down and squirt this whipped cream down your throat and clog it up.
• See the five fingers of death? They’ll claw your face off and make you feel like a burn victim.
• I don’t want your big, gross face drooling on my pillow.
• I swear Im going to burn the skin off you and peel you like a watermelon.
• I’m gonna get a hot poker and stab your eyes. Leave me alone.
• I almost punched you in the lips and make your face swell up.
• Don’t make me put you in a sleeper hold. I’ll scissor grip your neck with my legs and squeeze until your dumb eyes pop out.
• I just want to harpoon this clothes hanger at your head and maybe it will wrap around your skull and choke you.
• I’ll scrape your eyeballs out.
• I’m gonna crush those glasses into your eyes and make them permanent contacts.
• If you do it again, I’m gonna put your head in a vice and slam your head til its like a falafel.

Who would have guessed...

In the words of Howie Dorough,

quit playing games with my heart.

So, I'm at the gym this morning with my trainer, lets call him Franklin. Little background info on Franklin: he loves me. He asks me out on a date every week. Yes, it's at the gym, and yes, I pay him for it, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, mid-way through our romantic date near the medicine balls and cardio machines the other day, he decides to make small talk and this is the convo that ensued:

F: "Oh, so did you pick up Ushers new CD?"
L: "Of course. Raymond vs. Raymond. I love it!"
F: "Whats your favorite track on it?"
L: "Ummm, I forget the name but its the one with thats Black Eyed Peas loser on it."
F; "Thats a good one. Ya know what my favorite is?"
L: "No, what is it?"
F: "Making Love into the Night."
L: ...silence...

First of all, hellllll no I don't have the new Usher CD! Why would I have the new Usher CD? It's not 2004. Here's a confession for you, Usher: no one likes you and your head is big. Not ego wise. It's literally big and awkward. And take off those damn sunglasses, Bono. The only thing good Usher's done lately is discover that little Canadian sensation, JB. (I am aware this is the second time I've mentioned Justin Bieber, and can guarantee it will not be the last.) Second of all, I'm sorry, WHAT?! You can NOT say shit like that to me unless you are ready to put a ring on it. Before he could get the word "night" out, I was already thinking about what shade of hydrangeas will adorn the tables at our late fall wedding. I was able to physically restrain myself from giving you a bear hug when you welcomed me to the gym with a pat on the shoulder. I took a deep breath and didn't pounce on you when you freed my braid from that medieval ab machine thing when it got caught around a bolt (yup). But then you come at me with "making love into the night" ?! Thanks. And way to catch me off guard. Here I am, trying desperately not to pass out from that janky ass exercise you had me doing involving two aerobic steps, a medicine ball, and a jump rope ALL AT THE SAME TIME, and then you practically propose to me? Can we NOT get engaged while I'm trying to find a discrete way to soak up all the sweat covering my face so that my contact doesn't pop out? (Yes, I have sweated out a contact before. It takes skill.)

After I was able to catch my breath and regain my physical and emotional balance, our session was over. We ended the day with a sensual high-five. I have to go now because I need to go think of a reason to go back to the gym post-shower, in regular clothes, looking decent so that Franklin can see what his future bride looks like when she's not panting like a Roman gladiator. Maybe I'll do the "I think I lost my earring here this morning" thing. Again.

An open letter to all children ages 2-12

Dear children of Long Island,

Stop. Staring. At. Me.

When I am pacing the frozen foods section of the grocery store, just let me debate between Edy's Lime Frozen Fruit Bars and Popsicle Firecrackers in peace. When I am sitting at a red light next to your car, just let me get my Justin Bieber on in peace. When I am in Old Navy about to buy a pocketed tee in a size large when I damn well know I haven't been an Old Navy large since 8th grade, let me be in denial in peace. I want to handle my business around town without feeling your beady little racist eyes bugging out at me! Yup, I'm drinking my Fribble at Friendly's in the booth right next to you. What are you gonna do about it? It ain't 1954 anymore, sucka.

Does this look like the type of person who could ever harm you?


Oops! Wrong picture. Does this look like the type of person who could ever harm you?


The answer is no! Let me reassure you that the big, black monster will not eat you! I will not club you over the head and drag you back to my lair. When you glare at me from behind your moms leg as you tighten your grip on her hand, what exactly is it that makes you so terrified of me? Is it the lilac, monogrammed polo? The flower headband? Ohhhh, I bet it is the pink and green paisley shorts (I did hear that the Crips are adapting paisley as their new print). Oh, wait. It's the Gucci sunglasses. BTW, I am not trying to name drop with the sunglasses. I am simply bringing to light the fact that girls wearing big designer sunglasses are usually harmless, Naomi Campbell excluded. Maybe you need to stop worrying about me, and start asking questions about the balding man in the khakis hanging out by the training bras in Sears.

This is what I propose. The first time I notice you checking me out, I will smile and give you a little wave. Then I will go back to chilling at my favorite spot (Target, duh). The second time we make eye contact and you are still staring at me like you saw me on Cops, Cheaters, or Maury (I WISH!), I will give you "the look." The "okay, im being nice, but enough is enough" look. If there is a third time, you have NO RIGHT to start crying, tell your parents about me, or throw a can of corn at my head after I make the meanest, scariest face possible. At that point, I'm trying to terrify you. Deal with it.

I hope we can move on from this point and have a nice relationship from here on out. If you drop your sippy cup, I'll pick it up and hand it to you with a nice big smile. In return, you can say "thanks Rihanna! I love your music, by the way!" I will then give a little chuckle, and ruffle your hair if it looks soft enough.

Sincerely,
Lindsay I Promise I Will Not Devour You Mays