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. 

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?

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.