Just Watch and Judge

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.

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.

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.

An Open Apology to a Teen Baby

Dear Leah,

I’m sorry for a lot of things. I’m sorry that mommy’s face is often scary because some days she has eyebrows and some days she doesn’t. I’m sorry that daddy lets you play with balloons, which is highly frowned upon for someone of your age because of safety reasons. I’m sorry that your parents rarely put clothes on you, which is weird because you are like 31 years old now and should be wearing clothes. I’m sorry that the few times you ARE clothed, you are often wearing clothes that would be rejected from Wal-Mart because of poor quality. I’m sorry that your parents make you play with toothbrushes and beef jerky wrapper while Sophia gets a puppy. I’m sorry that while you are wearing crap-ass polyester, that bastard Bintley is living it up like fucking King of Chat-nooga with Kaaahl and Rhon, dirt bikes, cotton tees, and his 4, seemingly financially stable grandparents. I’m sorry that all of your grandparents look like they are from the worst parts of Appalachia. I’m sorry that you are forced to sleep on a mattress on the floor, when we know that mommy can afford a bed since she is pulling in the same salary as her co-worker Farrah, and Sophia has a nice bed, WITH sheets. I’m sorry that mommy uses your bed money on hair gel so that she can pull her thinning hair back super tight so that we can see her scalp. I’m sorry that you found daddy’s condoms and had to have the image of him mounting some poor lady seared into your large head. I’m sorry that while you are cute now, it’s inevitable that that will change in 8-10 years because of genetics. Last but not least, I’m sorry that you are constantly being judged by 24-year-olds who still live in their childhood bedrooms and sleep under their No Doubt and Party of Five posters.

Love,
LCM

Racist Technology

Technology, specifically the internet, is a sign of modern times and progression in the world. With one press of a button, you can activate nuclear weapons, donate millions to help people in need, or if you are me, you can accidentally order 36 ruby-red grapefruits from Texas, and select the $33 express shipping option. Word of advice: do NOT go to fruit wholesalers websites after downing multiple red-raspberry martinis at The Cheesecake Factory. So if your internet is so fabulous and advanced, Mr. Al Gore, why is my computer stuck in 1952? WHY IS MY PANDORA AND NETFLIX RACIST? Pandora and Netflix will not let me delight in the entertainment of white people, and they feel the need to force the arts of my people on me.

So, like anyone with a pulse, I occasionally like to listen to a little John Mayer when I’m feeling a number of different emotions. “Comfortable” is my break-up song. When I do eventually get a boyfriend and then he breaks up with me because he found my Helga Pataki-esque shrine to Justin Bieber in my closet and doesn’t find it endearing or socially acceptable, I plan on curling up in my Little Mermaid sheets, sipping my Nesquick (my comfort beverage) and playing “Comfortable” on repeat. I digress. So I’m in the car driving to IKEA to purchase everything from a spatula to a Russian baby to a brick of coke. Cocaine comes in bricks right? My drug knowledge stops at the Biebs- he’s my drug of choice. Earlier that day, as I was getting winded walking to my car, I saw a 70 year-old sprinting around my neighborhood like a fucking cheetah, and it made me depressed, so it was time to put on a little J. May. What would one expect on a J. May Pandora station? Some Jason Mraz? A smidge of Ray Lamontagne? A sprinkling of Maroon 5, right? WRONG. What was the first song on my J. May Pandora playlist? PUSSY. MONEY. WEED.

If I had to pick the top three things in this world that I know the least about, they would be pussy, money, and weed. What the fuck, Pandora? Why would you think I wanted to hear this?? We all love a lil’ Lil Wayne. I can relate to him because we have a lot in common. His last name is Carter. I happen to enjoy the film Coach Carter. One of his hit songs was “Lollipop”. I have never been known to turn down a Blow Pop. He has a daughter named Nivea. I use Nivea lotion. As much as I love and appreciate his music, there is a certain time and place for it. I applaud some of his messages, such as his promotion of safe sexual health ("Safe sex is great sex, better wear a latex/ Cuz you don't want that late text, that I think I'm late text"), but I was in more of a mellow, wallow in your self-pity and loneliness type of mood.

So I gave that bitch Pandora the benefit of the doubt and chalked it up to a glitch. I skip to the next song and I don’t get “Waiting for the World to Change.” I get “Straight Outta Compton” by N.W.A. I’m done. I’m fucking done. “Pussy, Money, Weed” was one thing, but with N.W.A., Pandora was REALLY sending me a direct message with this propaganda. Compton? John Mayer is from fucking Fairfield, Connecticut. I get it, Pandora. You are trying to toughen me up. I’m sorry that I like to scrapbook, scour E-Bay for the discontinued pink Burberry Nova Check headband, and go apple picking out east. I apologize. I turned off the Pandora. I didn’t even feel the need to weep to J. May anymore. I needed to vent out my rage, so I put on some Linkin Park. Everyone needs to scream it out sometimes.

A few months ago, I experienced similar prejudices from another popular media company known as Neflix. I have had very few issues with Netflix over the years. I thank them that I can watch every episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer anytime I want, while reading the Slayers Guide (thank you Dar-Dar and Bobbarino for buying me the guide for X-mas ’98). Because of Netflix, I can play an episode of Law and Order: SVU every night before I go to bed, which always leads to colorful dreams. But like I said, they are not perfect. If you will remember, there was a little gem of a show during the 1999-2001 television seasons known as Popular. That shit was awesome. I moved both seasons to the top of my queue and broke out the butterfly hair clips and power bead bracelets. Two short days later, I ran (I walked) to my mailbox to retrieve the first 3 discs of season one. Season one, disc one= success. Season one, disc three= success. Season one, disc two=FAIL. Instead of episodes 4-7 of Popular, I got The Cosby Show, season 6, disc 3! No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

Everyone loves them some Huxtables (except for the light-skinned one), and I am no exception. Do you know how much I wanted to do that dance with them on the staircase for Cliff’s parents for their anniversary? Do you know how much I wanted to play that prank on a drunk Vanessa and pretend to drink alcohol with her during a drinking game, even though it was only tea? Do you know how much I wanted to live across the street from that little fat kid who never spoke and was terrified of everything? Even though I would trade a set of my own grandparents for Cliff and Claire (sorry, Luby and Fred), I WANTED MY POPULAR! Yes, Netflix, thanks for showing me that blacks can actually have jobs and read and shit, but this is unacceptable. To make matters worse, they send me the season with Raven-Symone playing that little precocious jerk, Olivia! Way to rub salt in the wound. Everyone in America knows that Raven-Symone is in my top 20 list of arch nemeses! Fine, don’t invite me to be a member of the Cheetah Girls, even though I look fabulous in animal print.



Denise went to Africa and picked up a kid while she was there. I’d rather go to Africa and pick up Malaria. What an audacious little know it all. I bet she babysits for Suri and they spend their whole time plotting against me. And it’s not like Popular wasn’t diverse. Hello, there was one black student in the whole school, duh. How many more do we need? It was the WB for crying out loud. Unless it’s the now defunct Friday night line-up of urban sitcoms, you knew what you were getting. Felicity? Gilmore Girls? Dawson’s Creek? Need I go on?

I eventually received disc 2 of Popular in October. A few weeks ago, I changed my membership plan and had to return all the discs I had within 7 days, or I would get charged $14.99 for each one. Every single day, I got e-mails from them harassing me for the disc. Get off my ass, Netflix! I’ve only had the disc for 5 months! Relax! How many people in north-western Suffolk County of Long Island are anxiously waiting for that disc to be available? Don’t make me do a door to door survey. I eventually found the disc. It was behind the toaster. Don’t ask, because I do not have an answer for you.

Zeus, you are a jerk.

May I ask a question? Yes? Okay, then. WHY DON’T THE GODS WANT ME TO HAVE SLURPEES? Yes, the frosty treats found at thousands of 7-11’s around the world. My love for Slurpees is no secret.

One time, I enjoyed a delectable peach Slurpee at a rest stop in Georgia on my way to Ozark, Alabama. I was an adventurous 12-year-old “summering” in Harrison, Maine the first time I tried a lemon-lime Slurpee. Three years ago, I cooled off from the hot, Malaysian sun with a Slurpee. I have no idea what flavor it was because shockingly, I don’t read Malay, but it was hot pink and that shit was awesome. I have always appreciated the fact that for $1.19, I can get a decent sized icy beverage on pretty much every corner. So why, pray tell, are the heavens against me drinking a Slurpee? I’m a huge believer in signs. In first grade when I was the same shoe size as my teacher, Mrs. Goldfarb, I knew that it was a sign that for the rest of my life, I would struggle to find shoes that fit me that weren’t from brands like Love My Comfort or Healthy Style. My first sign that Disney had a personal vendetta against me was when I lost the lead in That’s so Raven to one Ms. Raven-Symone. Bitch stole my career. Um, hello? A portly African-American lass with wonderful singing abilities, an expert sense of comedic timing, and a boatload of sass? Are you KIDDING me? Moving on, THREE events have transpired in the last seven days that have made me realize that something is going on.

INCIDENT NUMBER 1- SNUGGIE DANGER
Tuesday, January 25th. I walk into a 7-11 after my session at the gym. I usually eat a grapefruit after my workouts, but I was out of grapefruits, and my new favorite Slurpee is Snow Fruit. The Snow Fruit slurpee is lemon-lime with a splash of grapefruit flavoring in it. Samesies, right? So, I pump my Snow Fruit slurps (that’s what us regulars call them) all the way to the top. Note: the people who fill the cup and put the lid on WITHOUT then going back and sticking the nozzle in the hole to fill the slurp to the top of the dome are idiots. So, I’m walking to the counter with my slurp, I have my quarters and nickels ready, and then BOOM SMASH SPLAT. I open my eyes to find myself on all fours, with lemon lime with a splash of grapefruit flavoring all over my hands and jeans. I was in such a slurp haze, I wasn’t looking and I tripped over a pyramid of Snuggies. How fucking ironic. My number one favorite thing in the world got in the way of my number two favorite thing in the world. There is something very humbling about looking up to find a homeless man with four teeth staring down and laughing at you as he eats a 7-11 taquito and chugs some Mountain Dew. I apologized to the clerk whose name I know but I’m not going to say because I have a feeling I shouldn’t know the clerks name. I then sulked out of the store, Snow Fruit-free, sticky and wet. The only plus is that even though my jeans got wet, at least I wasn’t wearing my pajama jeans, which I WILL own in the very near future.

INCIDENT NUMBER 2- THE SHARP SHOVEL
Wednesday, January 26th. I hold my head up high as I breeze back in through those doors. I sashay past the hard donuts and stale slices of “pizza”, and get my slurp. I do my thing, top it off, walk successfully to the register, and leave with my slurp in tact. Hot dog. I drive home carefully, not so that I don’t slide on the ice, but so that I don’t spill any snow fruit, and I crawl into bed. I take ONE SIP and then SLASH! The bastard shovel part of the spoon cut my tongue! When I get fancy, I like to scoop some slurp and then drizzle it on my tongue the way ancient Romans (or Greeks…what's the diff?) would tilt their heads back and delight in grapes. Makes me feel classy. It just figured that I got a wonky-ass straw with a freakishly sharp edge. Make no mistake, I finished the slurp. All of it. But I still have an awkward nick on my tongue.

INCIDENT NUMBER 3- BLACK ICE
Saturday, January 29th. I was heading to a family party at my sisters (where I was forced to eat lasagne with chicken in it) and I was told to get some chips and salsa. 7-11 is easier than going into a store, so I sailed into that familiar parking lot. I get the goods and then go get a slurp. Did I really want one? Eh, not really. But I was there, so…duh. I get into my car and start backing out when all of the sudden, BAM SQUEEK CRUNCH. My tires hit a patch of black ice and my car fishtails and crashes into the back of someones car. Yea, I hit a parked car. Mother nature, you’re a dirty whore. I should have sailed off like Halle Berry, but my damn Jiminy Cricket started harassing me. Plus, the owner was sitting in the car and I was in no mood for a Paul Walker high speed chase that night. So she called a few days later and lets me know how much the damage will cost. $450! FOUR HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS! Do you know how many fucking slurps I could buy with that much money?! And I didn’t even do that much damage to her car.

I’m no mechanic, but there were no dents or anything. Couldn’t they just get a rag and some toothpaste (that’s how I polish my jewelry) and buff that shit out? Im calling x to the z Xzibit. He can help. He always does.

Five days, two slurps, three accidents. I just don’t understand. I ask for very little in this world. My two hours of the Bachelor every Monday (which I’m supposed to be boycotting for political reasons but I don’t because I am weak). A pair of designer sunglasses here and there. The dropping of a new Beiber song every once in a while. Is it too much to ask that I enjoy a $1.19 delight every now and then without tripping over slankets, drawing blood, or getting into and losing a fight with concrete? I just don’t get it. All I know is that if you are listening up there, Zeus, I want to let you and your bastard compadres know that this isn’t over.

Margarine Hunt

I’m just going to pretend like I haven’t sucked the big one at this blog biz for the past 6+ months.

So, a few months ago, I pulled into a Walgreens parking lot in some snazzy workout capris and one of those breathable workout tops from Old Navy (bitch, please- like I can afford Under Armour), feeling great after a pretty impressive 174-minute workout at the gym. I only stayed for so long because The Sound of Music was playing in the gym movie theater and I obviously had to wait till the very end to see if that bastard Rolf would change his mind and not blow his whistle in the abbey to alert his Nazi buddies. He did. He always does. With a pep in my hole-in-the-toe New Balance sneaks, I pass by the $5 flu shot sign on the window. I scoff at the sign, thinking that flu shots are for the weak, and that $5 could get me 24 Italian-ice cups at the Marinos Italian-ice warehouse. TWENTY-FOUR. That’s approximately 5 days worth of Italian-ice. BLUE OR LEMON, PLEASE AND THANK YOU.

And now, here’s another number for you: 58.

Fifty-eight is the amount of dollars my Italian-ice loving ass has spent in the last four days on products that will help rid me of the miserable flu that is currently crippling my soul. Nyquil, Dayquil, Mucinex, Alieve, bottled water, OJ, Ramen, sorbet, hard candies, soup, tea, and endless tissues ain’t cheap. Damn you, summertime stupidity. So yes, I have spent the last few days pretty much unable to move my body. I have been swilling cough syrup like I should have gold and diamond teeth and a hit on HOT 97, and my tongue literally has cuts on it from consuming so many mints and Halls. I am convinced that I belong in the Arkansas wilderness because I was about to pass out dead. Last night was the first time in days I was able to drive a little, and I knew where I had to go. I had to go on a hunt for margarine. Dar-Dar had made cornbread to go with dinner, and I only like margarine on my southern, bread-like treat, NOT butter. And what’s the only spreadable butter-ish topping we have in the house? Fucking butter. The grocery store was too far to drive (approx. 4.5 minutes) and I didn’t wanna push it, so I decided to go with CVS down the street. They sell those stupid-ass Crustables and 10 varieties of flavored milk, so surely they would have my I Can’t Believe its not Butter.

On a day when I’m at 100%, ready to take on the world, I can usually be found in ratty topsiders, some sweats, a tee (or a polo, only if I’m feeling extra sassy), and the messiest messy bun this side of the Jersey Shore. You can only IMAGINE what I look like when I have been knocking on deaths door. I was sporting a rainbow sherbet stained shirt with a bizarre hole right in the nip (think Mean Girls), a stretched out sweatSKIRT (yup, they make ‘em), and my men’s slippers from K-Mart. I’m not even going to go into what my hair and face were doing. The only coats I could find in a 15-foot radius (I got some of my energy back, but no way was I going to walk down the hallway to the coat closet; that would have been simply absurd) were a thin vest, a NorthFace fleece (yeah right, what am I, still in high school? pass) and Dar-Dars knee length, faux-fur coat. Can you guess which one I went with?



If the Olsen twins can walk around with some bullshit homeless-chic style, why can’t I? Or is that look only reserved for 11-pound billionaires? No one has ever owned dirty slippers, ashy legs, a fur coat, and ratty hair the way I did at 7:37 PM on Sunday, January 9th, 2011. I walked into that CVS the way I imagine Naomi Campbell walking into an anger management class- with nothing but swagger and pride. I strut my stuff over to the grocery aisle, past the canned pistachios, vanilla wafers, and salsa, and head to the fridge section. What does this crap-ass fridge have to offer me? One tub of cream cheese, 11 single sticks of butter, expired milk, and half a carton of eggs. WHAT. THE. FUCK. Rite-Aid would NEVER let this shit happen. I can’t even describe my disappointment. You have regular, chocolate, strawberry, banana, MINT, and creamsicle flavored milk, but you only have six eggs? LITERALLY SIX EGGS?? As I stomped away in disgust, I also passed those damn Crustables.

To get back to the front of the store, I had to walk through the diaper/lady product aisle. As I walk past, plotting possible solutions to my cornbread spread dilemma, some 15 year old, pizza-faced shit has the nerve to chuckle under his and mutter “that’s a look”. Okay, Im still so angry that I just now had to take a minute and say my cool down mantra that I learned from Carl Winslow. Three, two, one. One, two, thee. What the heck is bothering me. I stopped in my tracks. Pivoted on the heels of my discounted men’s footwear. Swooshed my fur around like my idol, Cruella DeVil. I was NOT in the mood for this. I was so fuming, all I could say was “what was that?” and he looked me up and down, smiled and said, “nothing ma’am. Have a terrific night.” You stupid shit-head. Right now, even though I feel like I have been tackled by two of my future husbands (Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and Vin Diesel), I STILL come out here and manage to look like former sitcom stars who went on to make some pretty bomb straight to VHS movies in the nineties and early aughts and then became weird bag ladies. And I look awesome doing it. Do you know what he was doing at that moment? HE WAS STOCKING THE SHELVES WITH GENERIC VAGINAL ITCH MEDICATION. Last time I checked, which was just yesterday, organizing genital cream always tops looking like a hobo on the FML list, so keep the laughs to yourself, Chuckles. If I wasn’t all talk and no action, I would have pulled a Naomi and spread that vag cream all over his face, but alas, I will just vent my frustrations here. But if any of you happen to go to CVS on Broadway-Greenlawn Rd in Greenlawn, NY and happen to run into a tween-looking jerk named Henry with lots of pimples on his nose and frosted tips in his greasy hair, please make fun of him.

Oh, and Dar-Dar burnt the cornbread.

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