Momism: How Much is that Mosarc Going for?

Back Story: My mom and I have been working on a Van Gogh puzzle (Starry Night) for one week...

Me: Ugh! This is taking forever.
Mindel: Seriously. I should sell this Mozarc puzzle for $500 for the amount of time this took us.
Me: Mozarc?
Mindel: Yeah. Mozarc, ya know? The artist of Starry Nights...like you said...he's famous...
Me: Ummm, do you mean Mozart? Like the classical musician...not the artist...
Mindel: Oh, I guess...then who's this?
Me: Van Gogh. And it's Starry Night. Oy.

Momism: Technology, Say Whaaaaaaaaaaa?

I have not been posting very often because school hates me. BUT, this was far too wonderful to not share with the world:

Mindel: You know the movie "Wall Street" that was just in the theaters that I really wanted to see?
Me: Yeah. What about it?
Mindel: Well, I want to see the first one. What was it called?
Me: "Wall Street."
Mindel: No, the original one???
Me: It was called "Wall Street."
Mindel: Oh. Well, how come I cannot find it in any video store???
Me: It's an old movie mom. It was made in the late 80's or early 90's, so you can't look where the new releases are.
Mindel (completely serious): IT'S THAT OLD? Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? They made movies back then???  That was a long time ago?!
Me: Ummm, pretty sure you were born almost 30 years before that movie was made and didn't they make movies when you were a kid?
Mindel: Yeah, I guess...but I still think that was a long time ago...I duh-no...

I should probably be worried but this is FAR TOO FUNNY.

The Racial Profiling Game

Today, in Immigration and the Law, my class played a game all the hip kids are playing. The game was called "Who Looks Like an Illegal and Should be Thrown Off the Bus." Did I mention those "hip kids" are related to Sarah Palin? In this very appropriate game, my professor selects the whitest person in class (Side Note: I was NOT the whitest person for once in my life...looks like the dark shadow my freckles cast have finally paid off). The boy with blond curls, blue eyes, and albino-like skin was spotted, my professor motions him to stand in front of the class.

Professor: Okay, Mr. Whitey McWhiterson, I want you to pick all the people in the class who look like they could be illegals. Then tell them they must get off the bus.
Whitey Mc Whiterson: Um...um...I really don't feel comfortable doing that...
 Professor: SIGH!

She decides to select another lucky winner, while I duck behind my '17 computer screen.

Professor: Will you please help us with this exercise?
Other White Kid: I am sorry...I just can't do that.
Professor: Oh, c'mon!!!

Don't worry, Professor. "Let's Practice Racial Profiling in Law School," you have a volunteer. That's right. One out of the four whities in my class decided to participate in the new game only Mel Gibson would find fun.

Stupid White Guy: So, all I have to do is pick out the brown people?
Professor: (laughing) Pretty much.
Stupid White Guy: (pointing) Okay, well, you're brown, you're brown, you're Asian but that's the same, you're brown...okay, all of you off the bus.

Soooooo, how many inappropriate things happened in one class? Give it a go.

Additional Side Note: My professor is an immigrant from Mexico/Immigration attorney

Mumford and Buns

Told you I was going to do it, Jamie.

On Monday, I went to the Mumford and Son’s concert with my BFF Jamie. If you don’t know who Jamie is, well, she’s the one who always comments on my blog posts…the only one…singular…not plural. Ahem. We were really looking forward to this concert because we know every single song and have been obsessed with them for FOREVER (meaning: we thought the Opening Act was Mumford and blurted out “HER” when the word was “ME” in the song. Winners).

Anywho, since school has decided to take advantage of me, like a jock with a roofie, I had to drive to the city of smog inhaling Angels after class. Doesn’t sound that bad does it? Well, not initially, but then I had to go and wake-up at 5am. Um, I’m sorry but if it is still dark outside then my face should be planted on a pillow with drool all over it and I should be having dreams about Collin Firth feeding me Bahhhhhh-gels. What? It could happen.

Driving in LA was what I was looking forward to most. There are so many fun car games to play, like:

1.       Don’t hit the hipster crossing the street; or

2.       Honk as loud as you can and for as long as possible

After successfully dodging a man wearing jeans so tight that I am sure he will never utter the plural of “ball” again, I took a nap in a Target garage, and then made my way to the concert line. Boy oh boy was it a lucky day. GUESS WHO I GOT TO STAND IN FRONT OF? You’re probably thinking it was someone famous. No. It’s better. Recovering druggies. I was standing there. Alone. For an hour. I heard more about Jesus, needles, and wagons than I have in my entire life. The best (worst?) part was when Jamie finally arrived and said “I read that blog post and I was like ‘I want whatever Lauren’s snorting or shooting-up.’”  I kid you not. They got silent after that. 

I am going to sum up the next 5 hours:

1.       Pretty sure God shat wannabe hipsters into that concert hall. Jamie and I looked like Housewives compared to all of the emotionless, scarf/oxford/suspender wearing hipsters.

2.       Deodorant. No one wore it. What the shit, people?

3.       Opening Act, aka, Erykah Badu’s and Amy Winehouse’s crack baby.

4.       Amazing Mumford concert. AMAZING. Just next time, I would prefer that they don’t snort coke for 3 hours before the show, so I don’t have to wait 3 ½ hours for them to hit the stage. Thankyouverymuch.

Moobies With A Side Of Bra

You need a Man bra. No, not you! Silly goose. I am watching the Biggest Loser, which fits quite perfectly with my classy “taste” in TV shows. Like, if my taste was a fine wine, you could box my shit up and call me Franzia. So, anyway, this man’s moobies (man boobs) are just flopping up and down and it makes me sad because I know how much that hurts. STOP YELLING AT HIM, JILLIAN MICHAELS! That she-man is terrorizing the gym. I mean, do you really think it is a good idea to yell, “you’re going to die” at morbidly obese people? What the shit, Jillian?


I know, I am rambling, but let me get to my point. So, some chick was on her bike and then we get a shot of Jillian, talking behind the scenes, “she tries to use her asthma as an excuse, she says she can’t breathe, but I know that’s not her problem.” You’re right, Jillian. Having a 280-pound woman peddle on a bike for an hour couldn’t possibly trigger her asthma. You asshole.

Bike Lady w/ Asthma: I…can’t…breathe…my…lungs…burn

Jillian: I know that’s not the problem. Tell me. What’s the problem?

Bike Lady w/ Asthma: My…lungs…burn…

Jillian: You’re sad your dad died, aren’t you?

Sooooo, she’s using her asthma as a defense mechanism? Trainer and psychologist…YOU GETTEM JILLIAN.

The Reason You Just Got Slapped...

is because you premise a story with FAKE horrible news, only to tell me the really good news.

Example:

Dumbass: I have herpes.
Unfortunate Girlfriend: WHAAAAAAAA? Oh, no. WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY VA-JAY-JAY?
Dumbass: Just kidding! Will you marry me?

I really don't know who thought it would be a good idea to make someone depressed before you tell them good news, but whoever it was, is a fartbucket. Extreme lows before extreme highs only work in certain situations, like when you are trying to make something really bad sound better:

Boyfriend: Sarah Palin is President.
Girlfriend: Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
Boyfriend: JK. I have herpes.
Girlfriend: Phew.

Word.

You Sound Like You're From London

You know those people who use an accent when pronouncing foreign words? Like, instead of using their best Kevin Costner to say "Chill-ee Kon Car-nay," they use the spanish accent they never had and channel Sofia Vergara "Chee-leh Cohn Carr-ne". Not to brag or anything, ahem, but I am one of those people. I KNOW. I am sooooooooooooooooooooo annoying, but when did you ever doubt that? I am the person who says "ahh-nt" instead of "Ant." I am a classy broad. Gosh, I have the biggest wedgy right now.

Okay, I have a point. So, I drove past an Einstein's Bagels yesterday and it got me thinking. No pun intended, but homegurl got it doooooooooown. It got me thinking about the En-ga-lish. Does a person from England pronounce "Bagel" as "BAAAAAH-GEL"?

Say it out loud, because I cannot stop laughing. Furthermore, what if they are eating Bahgels and playing boggle??? That must be horribly confusing. It also explains the whole "scones" for breakfast thing and the lack of a Jewlation (sounds more like a sexual act - Did you Jewlate today? I love experiencing Jewlation...I'm done...Jewlating).

Real Friends are WAAAAAAY Better Than Imaginary Ones

Me: Rachel, I need to cut my hair. It keeps getting super knotted.
Rachel: Do you know why?
Me: Because it's long.
Rachel: No. Your hairs don't like eachother, so they keep beating one another up.

I thought this was by far the funniest thing she has have said. Then, I remembered this little jewel.

This is Rachel learning who won American Idol.

No one should expect me to be normal with a best friend like this and a mom like, well, you know.

Crunchy Leaf, You Lookin Fine

Fall. I truly love this season. It means I can wear my 50 zillion cardigans with my pearls. People ask if I stole my style from Mad Men, then I look at them as if they deserve to be punched, because they are dumb, and tell them that 1952 came up with the style before Mad Men did. Ahhhhhh, the serenity of fall.


I also love CRUNCHY LEAVES. I love it like a platter full of gas inducing cheese. I would make out with those crunchy leaves if I thought it was mildly appropriate or sanitary. Whatevs. I rather live in lust. Nevertheless, you totally know what I am talking about, right? The leaves that fall (little pun, don’t be a playa hata) and are all crunchy when you step on them. I LOVE IT. I have never done drugs, but I imagine drugs are like stepping on crunchy leaves. THE ADRENALINE. Okay, I am calm. Phew. The worst is when you are walking all ziggy-zaggy (grammatically, I am five), so you can step on every leaf, and then you get that one leaf that looks crunchy, but it is soggy. UGH, such a downer. That’s what I assume someone in rehab would feel like.


Excuse me, Mr. Party Crasher, this is my moment. Not yours.



My almost adulterous obsession with leaves and appreciation for sweaters and pearl necklaces (the one’s from oysters, not weinies) are the things that eliminate the evil that comes with fall. What evil do you speak of, Lauren? Vampires? A new season of American Idol? All of the above? Don’t be silly. Vampires don’t exist and American Idol provides swoon-worthy Ryan Hotcrest moments. The evils I am referring to are holiday flavors and slutty costumes.


Holiday Flavors

It really peels my onion when I open my F-book page and every single status update in my newsfeed has to do with a “pumpkin spiced chai tea latte.” First, any beverage that sounds like it has a vagina and needs a purse is automatically on my “you are dumb” list. Second, I am pretty sure the only reason you people are obsessed with these dumb “seasonal” beverages is because it is SEASONAL. Unlike, the daily “Vanilla Chai Tea Latte” you brutally attack, like Lorelai Gilmore would a Pop-Tart. I did just make a Gilmore Girls reference. Pat on back.

Slutty Costumes

Yeah, I know. Almost every human has made some type of comment about slutty Halloween costumes. I have worn them. A lot of them. Boobs, butt, perhaps a flashing of the hoo-ha…been there, done that, hung my head in shame. My new motto: If Oprah cannot fit it, then it should not be a costume. Ladies, you do not need a Halloween costume to act slutty, we have alcohol and fake blackouts for that.

No one I know…Definitely not me: OMG. Did I really hook up with that guy, tell you that you are ugly, and slap a baby? Sorry. I was soooooo wasted.

Costume manufacturers have made slutty versions of every costume. Real police woman uniform= kind of looks like a lesbian, but costume police woman = kind of looks like the hooker the real police woman should be arresting. Real female firefighter = hides all the cellulite, but costume firefighter = you are probably going to come out of that burning building looking like a melted Chucky doll. Just sayiiiiin.

I think every woman who wears a slutty costume on Halloween should have to wear her costume the day after. All day. Hahahaha. President Obama, can we make this a law? Next year. After I wear my last slutty costume of the decade…

Momism: I'll Haunt You

This is not a recent conversation. This conversation has taken place on numerous occasions, such as dinners, holidays, and birthdays. It started when I was seven, and thank GOD, I was mature enough to look at my nutso mom and tell her she's barking up the wrong tree. What is this mysterious conversation? Here you go:

Mindel: I don't want to be buried in the ground.


Me: Mom, that has nothing to do with my birthday.

Mindel: You are a year older, Lauren, and I am not getting any younger.

Me: Oooooookay?

Mindel: Well, I don't want to be buried in the ground.

Me: Don't start with me mom.

Mindel: You are the meanest daughter.

Me: Mom!

Mindel: I can't believe you...your own mother...you can't even give me one little thing.

Me: Mom, I have told you a million times. I AM NOT PUTTING YOU IN A SHED.

Mindel: But what if I wake up. Do you really want me to wake up in the dirt or a wall?!

Me: Are you serious right now? You are crazy. All these nutty superstitions have made you insane.

Mindel: Fine! You don't want to keep me in your garage, then I am just going to haunt you. Forever.

Me: You are the creepiest person.


I know that there are some very serious issues here, like a fear of death or the fact that my grandpa told my mom he would be hiding in the closet when he passes, so if she ever does anything bad he will catch her. But, honestly, WHO ASKS TO REMAIN IN YOUR GARAGE AS A PRECAUTION??? Gosh, I love her.

Can I Get a Slice of Douche?

Pizza has become soooooooooooooooo boring. The cheese, the tomato, the bread...I mean, it is the prude of food. Pizza needs to remove that promise ring and create a new slutty image. That new pizza whore is Ed Hardy.

Wait. Wannabe douchey pizza say whaaaaaat?

You huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurd me. Ed. Hardy. All over your face. A San Francisco pizzerria is now making pizza that just might buy you a drink, roofie you, and leave a trail of rhinestones on your bedroom floor.  Exhibit A:


Mirror mirror on the wall,  who's the douchiest
 pizza box of them all?

Get it while it's hot brah, because the pizza box with a rhinestoned eagle on it is a limited edition. Whaaaaat? That means you only have 10,000 chances to get an STD from food.  THE HORROR.

When I Grow Up

Remember when adults used to ask "What do you want to be when you grow-up?" and you used to say something so awesome like astronaut or archaeologist or Heidi Fleiss. Don't judge. Homegurl had an E! True Hollywood Story. Then, all of a sudden you're in your junior year of high school with sexy acne and ridiculous insecurities and the only thing you care about is your prominent buttcrack hanging out them slutty low-rise jeans. Baby got more back than a wall at a high school dance.

 

               

Now that you've figured out that becoming an astronaut requires good grades and a lack of make-out sessions with your BF, you decide to go all Robert Frost on the parentals and take the road less traveled. "Mom, I don't want to go to college. I want to be an ARTIST." Yeah. You might as well tell your parents you're preggers with Roman Polanski's baby.

Don't you worry your little touchas off. I have developed a pretty decent argument for not going to college: "Snooki went to college."

U Kan Go To Kawledge Just Lyk Me

The Reason You Suck...

...is because you release grades at 4pm on a Friday afternoon. That means I can check grades and then:

• go drive my car off a cliff on the way home from work
• go to happy hour and have 10 too many puke-tini's
• start crying in the library

Thank you for providing me with so many wonderful options.

I Profess My Love

I am not the type to have crushes on my professors. Usually because they are women, they are just so incredibly awful that I want to throw bologna at their faces, or they don't have that typical mountain man look I love. Of course, there is an exception to my taste and I call him Smithypoo.

I am kind-of in love with my Constitutional Law professor. It's not the "I love you and I am going to violate your 4th amendment right to privacy by peering in your window with my night vision binoculars" type of love. I mean...I would never do that...nope...ahem. He is so nerdy and adorable with his ADHD and inability to finish a sentence properly. I just want to pinch his cheeks. He's like a Steve Urkel and Porky Pig sandwich. Not Kosher but adorable.

Best part? Everytime he calls on me he awkwardly looks right above my head. No. Seriously. He never looks me in the eye (probably because he's worried he'll get lost in the puddle of my large black tar pupils) and instead stares directly above my head. Maybe there is an invisible fat baby that only he can see, sitting on my head. That totally explains the headaches. Whattup wit dat Fat Baby?

The other day, I had to miss class. So, of course, I e-mailed Smithy-Poo to get the assignment and what I missed. His reply, and I quote, "Sorry, you couldn't be here. The class missed you." I know, right? He totally loves me.

Last, but not least, he looks like Max who owned The Max on Saved by the Bell. Oh. Is that your heart going pitter patter too now. Back off bitches.

Are You a Snazzy Napper?

While reading another blog, the existence of, quite possibly, the best product to ever be invented was brought to my attention:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MthSUD8cMqk

Please, watch the above. Then order it. This product could create a number of possibilities, such as:

1. Getting punched in the face for making such a poor decision
2. Subjecting yourself to a voluntary strip search at the airport
3. Hiding the ugly
4. Becoming the most awesome burglar EVER

Granted, most of these possibilities are likely to result in you becoming depressed or severly injured, but, c'mon...it's so worth the risk. I will dedicate a whole blogpost to you and your pressured misfortune.

Can I Get an Oy Vay?

I am going to Palm Springs this weekend. Yom Kippur is this weekend too. That means I will be repenting for the holiday, in the desert...like a real Jew. Holla!

On another note, my mom has joined facebook. Yep. The same woman who publicly announced my boobs are like melons and told my ex-bf how Rabbis have sex. Goodbye, dignity.

BRB. Gotta Go Get Gay Married.

Fine, fine. I am not gay, but my mom has asked me if I am gay enough times to make me an honorary:

First time:

Me: I don’t want to wear heels.

Mom: Are you a lesbian?

Second Time:

Me: I love hockey.

Mom: You know…you can tell me if you’re gay.

Third Time:

Mom: (looking at a picture of my then boyfriend) So, you’re gay?

No, but for serious. I am completely perplexed as to how a member of the Ku Klux Klan has the right to express hate under our constitution, yet a gay person in the military cannot utilize those constitutional rights they are fighting to protect. Maybe it is that very legitimate fear that if you hang out with gay people, you will catch the gay bug and become gay too. Again. A completely legitimate fear. Kind of like, if you hang out with black people, you will probably become black. Right? Oh. Is that silly? Weird.

Thank God, U.S. District Courts are shedding their negative Nancy persona and making some intelligent decisions regarding equality. So far, Proposition 8 and the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” crapicy (Crap + Policy…Webster better not try to jock my style) have been found unconstitutional. Word to yo mutha! Of course, these judgments will be appealed, all the way to the mystical court of the supreme…the one with Scalia, not Diana Ross. Hopefully, the court will hear the cases. Also, let’s cross our fingers and hope that butthole Scalia doesn’t compare homosexuality to murder this time.

Happy Jew Year!

Being Jewish is awesome. Why? Well, I love playing into stereotypes.

Stereotype 1: Jew's are "penny pinchers."

I am not stingy. I enjoy the occasional heads-up penny, lying on the ground, begging for some action. BUT, when it comes to enjoying my money (loans) rather than saving my money (loans), I prefer going for broke. Fortunately, I can use my Jewstus (Status as a Jew, and yes, I will be creating numersous words out of Jew throughout this blog. Holla.) to get me out of any financial predicament I do not want to be in.

Friend: Lauren, let's go out to the bars tonight!
Me (need to do hw but don't want to sound nerdy): Oooooh. Sorry. I'm Jewish. I need to save my money.

Stereotype 2: Jew's could guilt trip a nun if they wanted to.

Okay, this is not a stereotype. Jew's are over-qualified guilt trippers. I feel guilty about 99% of the actions I have taken in life because of guilt tripping. Don't feel bad. My mom tells me she is proud of me and that she loves me everyday but what would a compliment be without a little guilt?

Mom: I am so proud of you, Lauren. You have accomplished so much.
Me: Thank you, mommy. I was in the library for 5 hours today. I am going to go out tonight with friends...
Mom: Lauren! Really? You have so much money in loans and you are going to go spend it on alcohol. I worked so hard to make sure you got a decent education...

See how she flipped that around? I was the one with the stressful day and now she's the one who is stressed. The worst part of this "gift" is that you are not born with it; you acquire the skill over time...probably from the relentless nagging of your mother. I do know one thing, though. Once I have this whole guilt tripping thing down, the judge doesn't have a chance in hell.

There are other stereotypes, but I am in the library and I am just imagining Mindel's opinion of blogging during working hours. She doesn't even need to be here to guilt trip. So, HAPPY JEW YEAR!

They Sell Nuts in Street Carts

During the week long vacation my law school thinks is enough to repress the the puke inducing memories of studying and reading a silly document called "The Constitution," I took a little trip to New York. And, no, I am not going to reference that stupid Jay-Z song, while telling you about my trip.

After living in San Diego for two years and having a mom that looks like she has J-Lo's bronzing crew, I have developed quite a complex regarding my "no darker than an uncooked chicken" skintone. I mean, you know it's bad when a guy who is trying to hit on you says "Damn, girl! You Vampire white." Damn, boy! You are never going to see a vagina. Anyway, it was refreshing to go to a city where my pale is NORMAL.

No Snooki bronzer here. Just my all natural pale + my "look I just had a stroke" smile.

Since I was only in the city of 30 Rock and Gossip Girl for 3 days, I had to get my priorities straight when it came to what I wanted to see and do. Empire State building or 30 Rock building (aka Rockafeller Center)?

30 ROCK BUILDING. DUH! That's me on the zillionth floor of the building. You probably didn't notice the word "boobs" on my chest, but in case you did: I really love this picture but my boobs looked like they could have bitch slapped Dolly Parton's boobs back to an A-Cup. Hence, I took the liberty of censoring and subtitling. You're welcome.

Obviously, the only reason I went to Rockafeller Center was in hopes of running into my bestie Tina Fey. I mean, when you approach most of life's problems wondering WWTFD (What Would Tina Fey Do?), it's pretty much written in the stars that you'll randomly run into TF.

Yeah. That's Tina in the same spot where I was posing. She said "Hi" to me and now we're on a first name basis. She's probably going to read my blog. Not to brag or anything. FINE! It was just my imagination, Smokey Robinson. But, someday. Someday, she'll be making that face when she's thinking "WWLRD." Word.

I am kind of tired of writing, but I will leave you with this:

I met a man in NY. He introduced me to his pigeons, so it's kinda official. I did have to fight that old broad for him but it was worth it. He feeds me birdseed.

Oh, Brandon Walsh!

Today is a very important day. Today is 90210 - Septermber 2, 2010 = 90210...like the show...for those of you whore (actually meant to write "who" but that was too awesome of a Freudian slip to delete) are kinda slow.

Any person who experienced the 90's has been affected by 90210...and Milli Vanilli, but we won't travel that dreadlocked road right now. Why do you think Eminem is a rapper? Pretty sure it's because Brian Austin Green serenaded us with his sweet, white boy beats at the Peach Pit Afterdark. Duh.

90210 tackled every topic your parents never wanted to discuss. Instead of the sex talk, watch Andrea suffer through teenage pregnancy. First, who the hell wants to be like Andrea? She looked like she was 40. Second, her husband was super creepy looking. I was just waiting for him to show Andy his collection of Troll dolls and cut her to pieces (in that order). Basically, that chick's life was enough to make me want to convert and become a nun. Sarah Palin didn't allow Bristol to watch 90210. Exactly.

I Bring Class in a Ziploc Bag

Today, I have:

• gone to the gym and successfully avoided the farter;


• sat in three classes and took actual notes instead of spending the majority of my time on facebook, gchat, and E!Online (don't hate);


• successfuly chewed crunchy food in the library; and


• managed to make my cubicle look like someone with a horrible coke addiction was sitting at it (put your mind in the gutter because I wasn't referring to the coke polar bears like to advertise in their free time)

Like my self portrait? Tres chic. I know. I classed the shit out of that cubicle with my pearls, half-eaten grapefruit, and supposed drug bags. The cardigan practically makes me Jackie-O. Holla.

If this was in a Highlights magazine the goal would be to find all of the Ziploc bags. Sorry, Earth, for depleting your ozone one bag at a time...or in my case 12. I have tried using those Glade plastic containers and other earth friendly methods, such as stuffing all the food in my bra. It did not work. Glade is not rolley backpack friendly and the food bra left some major chest stains. I don't want the nickname Lactating Lauren, again.

I should have never gone to law school. I should be a crime scene investigator. I would always have a bag for the evidence AND it would be recycled because I would have already used it for my lunch. Take that Captain Planet.

Say Cheese! Not You Scalia...Say Formaggio

I am taking Current Issues in Constitutional Law this semester. My first assignment was to list 5 things I know about the Supreme Court. Ummm, when did Law School become Elementary School, dawg? Answer:

Obviously I had to google the Supreme Court as soon as I received this assignment. As I observed the plethora of photographs of the Justices, I noticed one thing: every photo looks like my elementary school class picture. So, I took the liberty of using Microsoft Office Paint to edit in that little faux whiteboard. Take that photoshop.

Check out Chief Justice Rehnquist in the center. Homeboy was obviously not on good terms with anyone that day or he just had an enema based on his knee clenching stance. Don't poo in the robe, Rehnquist!

Momism: Deny Deny Deny

I am visiting Big Mama. What does this mean? This means that homegurl gonna be loaded with mad material fo da blog. Thanks, Mommy.

Me: Nothing is on TV.

Mindel: Well, we can watch a movie on deny.

Me: Huh? On deny? Is that a new network?

Mindel: No. You know? They play movies or whatever ON DENY.

Me (raised eyebrow): OnDemand?

Mindel: Isn't that what I said?

No, mom. That's not what you said.

Me: Holy Moses walking through the desert. I need to blog about this.

Mindel: Do you have nothing better to do with your life? Is this what you do? Blog?

Thanks for making me feel better about myself. Mom.

The Reason You Suck...

...is not because you are a vampire. I made a funny. No, the reason you suck is because there are three rows of cubicles. THREE ROWS. I am the only person sitting in this area. And YOU, Mr. gargantuan earphones, have decided to sit your 1992 looking self right next to me. Really? Who does that?

Obviously, the only reason I have such a big poblem with this situation is because this guy is wearing gigantic headphones. Pretty sure your 2006 Dell Inspiron does not make you a DJ, so there is no need to wear those melon sized headphones, Samantha Ronson.

My Excuse: It's Finals Week; Yours: None

Excerpt from a recent text convo with a guy I dated:

Me: What does a flower call his friend? BUDD-Y! hahahaha! (Yes, I made this up. Im-press-ive.)
Shawn: you are the dorkiest person ever
Me: Oooooooh! Will you notify Guinness? I always wanted to be in a booooooook. Thankyouverymuch.
Shawn: You are so good at making me want to punch you.
Me: Weird. You and Chris Brown flirt the same way.

Yep. Looks like that Mayan homeless man who read my palm and told me that I have an amazing love line must have been wrong. Weird.

Why I Associate Brazilians With Torture

Groupon was very polite today, as they are everyday, and sent me a wonderful deal. The e-mail title read:

"1/2-off Brazilian Blowout"

First Reaction: WHAT?! What kind of sick tortured soul would want to do that to their Hoo-ha?

5 Seconds Later: Brazilians are SICK. First, they try and enforce the notion that women who are 18 and older need to look like Lolita in their nether regions and now they are implementing some new strategy of torture. Oh, so sorry, I guess waxing every square inch of your va-jay-jay was just not enough.

10 Seconds After the 5 Seconds: Oh. Um. They meant the hair on my head. Blowout...hair straightening mechanism for the hair on your head. Hmmm. I knew that.

(P.S. No images here because the most appropriate ones would probably get me kicked off the blog and we all know how much you would hate that.)

So That's Why Child Labor is Illegal

I am crying in my little corner cubby because I just found out that my hero is a sham. This is almost as bad as that time I ran out of cheese and I didn't have my back-up bag-o-cheese like I usually do. So, you're probably wondering who this mysterious hero is. It is the Hot Piece Of Ass who quit her job on a series of white boards and e-mailed the pics to her boss and co-workers. LIE. Ummmm, homegurl did not do that. Ugh. Every time I think I have found someone cooler than me, they just have to go and ruin it.

(Just to let you know, Little Miss Dream killer, the acronym for Hot Piece Of Ass is not HOPA. Now you are just a DOPA...think about it)

Nonetheless, Dream killer got me thinking about the worst job I have ever had. Trust me there was some stiff competition for the #1 spot but one stood out like a nun in a mall: Gloria Jean's Coffee. Oh the glory days.

I started working at GJC at the ripe age of 17. I was so excited. Free coffee everyday and 20%-off the tin lunch pails I collected. I wouldn't be surprised if you had some major jealousy issues going on right now. Anywho, that rosy view created by my Jewish excitement over free/discounted goods was quickly removed. Why do you say that, Lauren?

Well, let's see. One of my co-workers, a round and bald gay man, we'll call him Floyd, liked to talk about his life. Floyd would chat me up daily. He would sit on the counter and eat and tell me stories. Oh. Did I mention that Floyd had dentures and would remove them to eat? So, gummy Floyd would tell me stories about him and his boyfriend. "Omg. My boyfriend is so controlling. But I love him so much. It's because he's huge. He's like 7'1. Do you know what that means? Yeah. It's like a horse. So good." Ummm. Excuse me? I'm sorry. I don't think my 17 year old ears heard you correctly. Did you just compare your big boyfriends ding-a-ling to a horse? Floyd was fired.

I would like to say that Floyd was the worst part. But he wasn't. The worst were the customers.

Pregnant Lady (frowning): Miss, I asked for decaf.

Me (smiling): Yes, ma'am. I made you a decaf.

Preggy McPreggerson: Um, well, THIS tastes like it has caffeine in it.

Me (smiling): (thinking: No shit Sherlock. Did you think it was going to taste like apple juice?) Don't worry ma'am, it's decaf.

Preggo My Eggo (scathing tone): Miss, I don't think you understand. I cannot have caffeine. I am pregnant.

Me (smiling): (thinking: Oh really? you mean you aren't hiding a toddler under your shirt?) I understand. I assure you it's decaf.

Preggy: Just give me a refund.

Whatever. At least I got food poisoning during one of my shifts and puked all over the floor. True story. That's right HOPA! Who's the winner now??? (vulgar Mc Hammer dance move)

What I Learned in the Library Today

I think I grew more hair on my arms. This is not good because my arms already look like Godzilla's twin. So much for studying. Now all I want to do is try to braid my new locks of love.

(Disclaimer: This is not an accurate representation. The lighting in here does not properly portray my hair growth)

Momism: Pretend Slutty Mama Say What?

My mom is a very untraditional mother. Hard as nails, but my best friend in the world. Since she is so offbeat, her advice tends to never come out properly. Hence, Momisms.

Me: (looking at an old pic of mama) Damn, mom. You were hot. Why don't I look like that now?

Mindel: Don't be ridiculous, Lauren. I was hot, wasn't I?

Me: Duh. Why'd you have to go marry a short, not so cute, Italian? You messed up my cute genes.

Mindel: You're pretty, Lauren, but you're as tall as a tree stump. I don't know how you are so short.

Me: Yeah, thanks. So, boys must have been all over you in high school. Did a bunch of boys like you because you were so hot?

Mindel: No. The boys liked me because they thought I was a really big slut.

Me: Um...

Mindel: Yeah. I had thin eyebrows and wore white lipstick, so they thought I would have sex with them.

Me: Oh...

Mindel: That's why I would never let you wear white lipstick. Too bad you have two watermelons for boobs...you're like jailbait.

Me: Thanks?

The Reason I Want Stick Jalapenos in Your Nose is...

...you fart in the gym. I really want to know, and I mean REALLY REALLY WANT TO KNOW, why people think that it is socially acceptable to fart in public places. Excuse me Mr. "It's a natural occurrence and everybody does it!" Unless your butt is farting vanilla scented air, I really do not want to be trapped on the treadmill next to you while you toot so many "Silent but Deadlies" that the army is trying to recruit you.

It is one thing to be walking outside, in the open, with fresh air surrounding you, and let one loose. See, the difference here is that you are polluting FRESH air, which will eventually give your stale butt-air a big hug and then eat it for dinner. Thus, leaving my nostrils as happy as a Billy Ray Cyrus mullet. It is a whole different ballgame when you decide to release your toxic fumes in an enclosed area. Let me explain. When you fart inside, you are adding stale air to stale air.

Stale air + stale air = a butt load (or a butt empty) of stale air

This leaves my face looking like a pug because it is all scrunched up from the noxious fume (yes, noxious, because you are depleting the ozone layer one fart at a time) surrounding me. I can try to escape by switching treadmills. Oh. But wait. There's the raw egg in a baby diaper smell again. It has spread faster than the mustache trend.

So, PLEASE REMEMBER, it is NOT a natural occurrence and everybody does NOT do it.

Finals Makes Me Wanna Throw Bologna

Guess what?! It's about that time, again. WHAT TIME IS IT? It's time for me to lose my mind and start talking crazy. Not straying from the norm too much, but I am a wee bit more off center than usual. Right this moment, I am sitting in a cubicle in the back corner of the library, or as I like to call it, the building of tears. I have these nifty little earplugs that mold to the shape of my ear. THEY. ARE. AWESOME. These bad boys make me want to jump in a pool to see if water can break them down. I will take a bath later and let y'all know how it goes.

Next, I have consumed two mugs of coffee, a whole grapefruit, and 2 Fiber fruit bars. Obviously, I did not think this through when I was packing my lunch. Now I am the crazy girl, who is slouched over because of the intense stomach pains. It feels like Rocky Balboa is practicing for his next match. You'll get the Russian, Rocky...just leave me be.

Last, my hair smells like coconut and my body smells like vanilla. I am supposed to be memorizing the Code of Ethics that I am to live by once I'm a blah-yer, but all I can think of is how bad I want a macaroon. DAMN YOU FAT MAN SOUL. Damn you.

STOP BLINKING AT ME!

I cannot drive. Fact. I know it is absurd. I am so perfect in every single way. How is it possible that I cannot drive? Well, it’s possible. My car has the bruises to prove it. Sorry parked bus that I sideswiped. Sorry dormant cement poll that got to third base with my car. In all honesty, neither should have been in my way. *cue Luda ‘Get Out Da Way’*

Even though my driving should be confined to the Power Wheels my butt wishes it would fit in, I still feel the need to kvetch about other drivers on the road. Just because I cannot do, doesn’t mean I cannot complain. Jew genes strike again. SO, on that note, whattup with blinker happy drivers? I absolutely despise people who leave their blinker on. Hate it. Like, have the paparazzi follow it, take a bunch of embarrassing pictures of it and sell them to the Enquirer hate. Why? Well, for completely irrational reasons, of course. But, honestly, when have you ever known me to be logical. Let’s get serious people.

Reason #1: It makes me think the car is schizophrenic. Who doesn’t feel bad for a schizo? Not I. Mel Gibson put down your hand. We all know you hate schizo’s, along with Jews, black people, gay people, fat people, and leprechauns. When a person leaves their blinker on, I literally think the car is having a blinking seizure. PEOPLE! The highway is not a rave, no need to be leaving your blinkers on all willy nilly.

Reason #2: The beat of the blinker NEVER matches the beat of the Gavin Degraw CD stuck in my CD player, which I am stuck listening to (Gavin, you totally owe me a lap dance if I ever meet you. Actually, you kind of owe my car a lap dance since, technically, my car is the one you are emotionally scarring. Wait until you see what’s under my hood. Bow chicka bow wow). When the beat of my music does not match the continuous blinking in front of me, it throws my white girl dance moves off-balance (tapping my steering wheel), which throws my driving skills even more off-balance. Do you really want to take that risk, BLINKER SLUT? DO YOU? That’s what I thought.

I Winona Ryder'd Your Story

This is a great story my cousin told me twice. I would also like to publicly warn Lifetime. Do not try to make a Lifetime original movie based on this story. Jessica, the clown, and I own all rights.

Jessica:

So, it was April Fool’s Day and the St. Stupid’s Day Parade was going on in the city. I was walking back to my office with my tacos. I got tacos for lunch. All of a sudden a stupid clown KICKED ME. THAT FUCKING CLOWN KICKED ME. I couldn’t believe it. I was so pissed. “You stupid fucking clown!” When I said that he ran a block away, looked back at me, and told me to go back to LA. What does that even mean?! “Fuck you clown!”

That clown almost made me drop my tacos. I would have been really pissed if I dropped my tacos.

The End

Moral of Jessica’s Story: Don’t make homegirl drop her tacos.

When I Was 25...

So, what’d you do this weekend shoog-uh?

Oh. You know. The usual. I got all crunk and stuff with ma ladies, Cindy and Samantha. We traded in our Cabbage Patch dolls for some pre-teen fun that would make Miley Cyrus jealous.

Really?

Uh, duh. First stop, yogurt land in my mini dress. The yogurt guy was all like “what flava you want?” and I was all like “Pffft. I want three. It’s self serve, donkey. Don’t act like you haven’t seen me here 5 times in the past 3 days.” Then he was all like “whoa.” Then I was like “Don’t mess with me on a Friday night fool.” Then I walked to the yogurt machine with a little Jive. Riveting material here.

Once I filled my cup with yogurt, I moseyed on over to the toppings bar. I stared yogurt man right in the eye and loaded my cup with GRANOLA. He was like “you can’t have all those toppings.” Then I was all like “SAY HELLO TO MY LACTOSE FRIEND!” and I threw the cup of yogurt in his face.

Okay. That didn’t happen at all. I paid for my yogurt and then inhaled it. I just like to pretend I have these awesome conversations with the yogurt man because I am in there so often that I am able to read his judgmental face that says “Why you eatin so much yogurt?” Well, because, IT HAS BACTERIA THAT IS REALLY GOOD FOR MY LADY PARTS... also, I love the new chocolate coconut mint flavor. It tastes like a Mounds Bar.

After Cindy and Samantha finished telling me the story about shaving their friends neck (neck hair + yogurt = best topping ever) we decided to turn our G-rated fun up a notch. Oh, be ready for this. We went to a bar. Where they serve alcohol. And have customers older than 9. Back-off Disney evening, we are going straight to ABC Family.

Waitress: What can I get you ladies?

Samantha: Do you guys have water?

Waitress: Um. Yeah...

Me: Ooooooh! I am so thirsty. Can we get three waters?

Waitress: (really annoyed) would you like anything else?

Cindy: STEAK FRIES?!

Samantha, Cindy, and I: YEAH! STEAK FRIES!

Waitress: Ugh. I'll be back with your water and fries.

Oh. I can tell you're worried. Please, don't be. We asked for the ketchup and vinegar when the waitress brought us our fries and waters. Phew! I know you're relieved.

Sometimes I Wonder Why I Don't Have A BF

Do you remember your first crush? I do. I mean I remember my first crush, not your first crush. That would be creepy. And hot.

Exhibit A: The Scarecrow

Who's that sexy man that lights my fire and then runs away from it? It's the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Duh. I held a grudge against Dorothy for 2 years because of this brainless bag of straw. I thought that skipping, red slippered, ho-bag was trying to get all up in my business. I mean, the woman helped him get a brain! The only thing I could offer him was a Kraft single and a minute long serenade on my Casio. Hmmm. Wonder if that will work now?

Exhibit B: David Bowie in Labyrinth

HOLY FREAKING HOTNESS. There was something so wonderfully erotic about David Bowie in the Labyrinth. His spiky blonde hair, sharp pointed teeth, and large bulge (it was honestly disturbing) made me sing like a choir girl. When I first saw the movie I told my mom that I was going to marry Bowie. She then asked me if I was a lesbian. I was 5.

Exhibit C: Tom Selleck

Back-up, homegurl. Mind yo business and stop fantasizing about running yo fingers across my man's chest. I don't care if you have seen every episode of Magnum PI and own Mr. Baseball, I called dibs on this hunky piece of hairy man meat in 1989. Award for most mature crush by a 4 year old goes to MOI. I used to daydream about Tom's (yes, we are on a first name basis) manstache.

Best part, TS's Magnum double lived in my building. That's right. Ready to cry some real tears, drama club? He was almost as good as the real thing. I used to force my mom to take me to his apartment, so I could ask him to tell Tom that "I love him" and ask him if he would marry me...WHEN I TURNED 18. Gosh. I'm not gross.

Who was your first crush?

America. Way Better than Korea.

Fireworks in the nightime and jean cut-offs on whitetrash...these are a few of my favorite things! You were supposed to sing that like Julie Andrews, WHO, BY THE WAY, was the original Justin Bieber. Compare and contrast the following:

You totally see it. Anywho, fireworks and jean cut-offs means it's 4th of July and that means I have an excuse to be my trashy self. This year my dumb BFF and her BF and his BF came down to SD to visit me. That was so much fun and I am not even going to translate it. Stop being annoyed by me and get with the lingo.

The whole weekend was filled with amazingness but the most amazing of all the days was the 4th. Why? Well, it could be the disgustingly inebriated girl in a bikini who dropped her sandwich roll on the pee infested sidewalk of downtown San Diego and just HAD TO bend over to get it. "WHAT THE FUCK?" Yep. That was Jon's very suttle reaction. At least the attention was no longer on her exposed bottom and instead focused on drunk Jon in the middle of the street laughing at the hot mess. Later that evening Jon would outdo himself by stealing two slices of pizza from Ciro's: "Who leaves pizza just sitting on the counter? I had to eat them." Poor drunk people who are still yearning for their greasy carbs.

Another possible reason why the day was so amazing could be my last trip to the restroom that evening. The fireworks were over. Danielle and I had to pee the litre of alcohol we just drank. So, we entered the fancy Hyatt Regency. We were about to enter the restroom when a 30 something woman came running out of the bathroom with her blonde crimped hair and American flag shirt. "I'M NOT PREGNANT!!!" Wait. Excuse me. "THE TEST CAME OUT NEGATIVE." Ahem. What? "I LOVE YOU, BABY (jumps into hubby's arms)!" Really? I mean, really? Did you really just take a pregnancy test, in a hotel bathroom, on the 4th of July? Yes. Yes, you did.

Too bad she wasn't preggers. She could have had a themed baby. Frat boy Jon style ;)

Under-WHAT?!

It was 1989 and I was looking all sassy in my polka-dot skirt, pink crunch socks, and my fly fanny pack. I was ready to take on the world with the outfit that made Dakota Fanning look like a punk. Unfortunately, I had some horrible opposition to wearing underwear. I really don’t know why, but I just felt like my carebear underoo’s would get in the way of my schoolyard crunking.

My hatred of underwear worried mama bear. Mindel saw my staunch opposition to my elementary chastity belt as a hint to teenage trouble. No underwear at the age of 4 meant I would be the less freckled version of Lindsay Lohan. Word. But, it really was not that complicated. I did not want to wear underwear because Mindel said I was supposed to and it acted as one more obstacle to my potty time. What can I say? I am half Italian, which means I AM INCREDIBLY LAZY. It’s in the genes.

Well, back to my skirt story. So, Mindel was all up in my business:

Mindel: Lauren, did you put on your underwear?
Me: (cross arms and stare-off)
Mindel: I told you to put on your underwear. The boys are going to think you are a slut.
Me: What’s a slut?
Mindel: A girl that doesn’t wear underwear, applies too much white lipstick, and shaves.
Me: I want to be a slut. Can I have lipstick?
Mindel: Fine. You don’t want to wear underwear. I am tired of fighting with you. You can learn your lesson the hard way.

What the heck, mom? Calling me a slut at the age of FOUR? Always trying to one-up Freud. Well, Mindel said I can learn my lesson and boy oh boy did I learn my lesson. It was time for recess and being as intelligent as I was I decided it was a good day to go on the Jungle Gym. WHY AM I SO DUMB? So, I climbed up the stupid spherical awesomeness. I still hadn’t Britney-ed anyone. Then I had the most genius idea of all: hang upside down. GASP.

Oh. Yeah. The gasp was not from me. The gasp was from my teacher. There were other reactions too. Like, Yosi, my schoolyard crush, who yelled “WHAT’S THAT?” He was referring to my whoo-whoo, in case you were wondering. Ms. Cookie, sat me down, explained the importance of underwear, and basically told me that my whoo-whoo scared everyone “Species” status.

Yeah. Underwear became my favorite item of clothing after that incident.

Hot Damn!

Hot damn! This song makes me want to go all Striptease up in this heezy. Where's a dirty stripper pole when you need one? I love songs that make you want to do a little dip and make that scrunchy/kissy sex face. Thank you bald Annie Lennox.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLykoLuljWM

New Music, Puh-lease?

I am in desperate need of new, up beat, fast paced, running music. Okay. I'll be more serious. "Slow-walk, perhaps jogging, but I want to be running and if I wasn't such a fat ass I would be running" music.

Please. Please. Please. This is a desperate plea. I will send you cookies and my liver (if you're into that whole "black market" thing). Or, if you need a kidney in the future, I can help you find someone who wants to give you theirs. Oh. Did you think I was going to offer you my kidney for your music recommendations? No. I'm sorry. A liver is one thing. I already bar hopped with Patricia (my liver). But my Kidney? That's just being silly.

Also, try and steer clear of Rihanna. She is so yesterday according to Hill Duff.

Lance Armstrong Tried to Kill Me

Remember when I had that really genius idea to take a Pilate's class at the gym and I almost died. Well, yesterday, I was sitting on my couch eating a bag of rice cakes with a cube of butter and...no, I am not being sarcastic. I literally had half a stick of butter on a napkin that I was slicing onto my rice cakes. What? Shape magazine said rice cakes are healthy. Stop judging me, Judy.

So, there I was, buttering my intestinal tract, when I thought "hmmm, maybe I should go to a cycling class today." I wish I had a time machine so I could go back to that very moment to throw a lawn chair at my head. But no. Time travel is for whores and I am obviously the Virgin Mary in this story.

I got to the gym early so I could pick out a good bike and get it adjusted properly. Look at me. Such a go getter. Like Hillary Duff chasing her dream of being a REAL singer. Now, onto my first issue: my over sized Kardashian a.k.a my butt. If you have ever felt like your butt was jiggly or big, go sit on a bike and tell me how you feel. My butt fat was building a fort around that damn seat. A FREAKING FORT. I had every corner of that seat covered with at least an inch of my fat. Like white on rice. Motivation to work even harder in the class? You would think so. I would hope so. Ha.

Ethan, the instructor, comes prancing into the room. Yep. His skipping could give Dorothy a run for her money. "Okay, guys! (wide smile) Who's ready to meet those New Year's resolutions and work that booty?!" Lance Armstrong with one more testicle say what? His high-pitched excitement really should have been a warning to my fat soul. But nooooooooooooooooo. Fat soul wanted to play. Fat soul wanted to barf butter and rice cakes and kidneys. Why can't I just have a normal fat soul who wants to chill with Paula Deen and Rosie O'Donnell and eat butter wrapped in bacon?

We started with a nice slow pace. Ethan was punching the air it was so easy. I, on the other hand, was sweating and heaving and had the sudden urge to push Mr. Prancy-pants off his stupid stationary bike and watch him cry. Sorry, Ethan, but you brought this upon yourself.

Worst part. I had the brilliant idea to position my bike directly in front of that butthole. He was watching me like I was the piece of chocolate he doesn't allow himself to eat. Can you say awkward? He kept telling me to speed up, turn up the incline, stop crying, etc.. Well, EXCUSE ME!!! Not all of us can look like Mary friggin Poppins while riding a bicycle through hell. Go eat a twinky and be average you butt.

So. There was blood. There was a lot of sweat. And, I may have cried a little. BUT. I survived. Poor man's Lance + 1 testicle can suck it.

Gavin De-LOVE

I have been obsessed with Gavin Degraw since my junior year of college. My obsession really started when the hairriest man in the universe - my ex-boyfriend of course - would sing Gavin songs to me. It was so romantic. His drinking 37 beers in one day...not so much. POINT IS, if Gavin could make my relationship with a hairy drunk hobbit last 7 months too long, then Gavin deserves a medal, a big gulp, and a blog post.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgh9T1easaU

You're obsessed now too. Aren't you? Well, BACK THE HECK UP. He's mine.

Sooo...Ummm...

Yo. What's up with you "Mr. Basketball"? Thinkin you're so cool with all your "celeb-ri-ties" sitting in yo court and yo fancy shoes making squeaky sounds on da floor. That's right. Squeaky sounds. I'm talkin to you BASKETBALL.

Don't write me off and call me crazy because I am talking to a sport. You all know what my sassy conversation with basketball is all about. Think about it. If all the sports in the world got together for brunch. Yeah. I said brunch. Sports don't do dinner, they do TWO meals in one. BRUNCH. [White girl gang sign] So. Now. All the sports in the world are sitting together, eating bagels and shmear and talking about Golf behind its back. YOU KNOW basketball is the douchebag of the group. Mmmmmhmmmm. I said it. Basketball is the douche.

Soccer is the prude. Baseball is the wise mom. Football is the brain dead dad. And basketball. Well, basketball is the Jersey Shore, fist pumping, Ed Hardy wearing tool. Basketball is the guy in the club, who wears gold chains and tries to butt-hump random girls.

Okay, okay. I am just taking all my anger out on basketball for stealing my wise mama's glory. Basketball is all up in baseball's business for half the year. Mama can back her own thang up.

Feelings?

My Family's So Cool, They Make Chuck Norris Look Lame

So, this past weekend, I went back to LA to celebrate my cousins' graduations and my aunt's birthday. Now, for some people, visiting family is about as fun as being forced to watch Glitter on repeat. Sorry, Mariah Carey. Please don't order Nick Cannon to beat me up. Shudder. But, visiting my family is like eating the giant pickle in Disneyland. That's right. AWESOME. Even though they dedicated 8.5 hours of the 24 hours I was visiting to making fun of my blog...

Samantha: Did you hear Lauren has a blog?

Rest of Family: WHAT? Really? Who are you? Why are you so lame?

Samantha: Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! Lauren's so dumb.

Me: You're related to me. Burn.

We are possibly the most embarrassing bunch of kids to be around but that is the best part. The brisket(meat) of my family is a spit ball fight in a restaurant, Uncle Ben offending someone, Aunt Sara telling a funny story about growing up in Canadian Harlem, or Aunt Carmela doing the chicken dance (you think you know, but you have no idea until you see it).

Then, there's my mom. Mindel deserves a whole blog post, but I will leave you with this little sample platter (Microwavable, of course). My mom is a beauty freak. Yes, she's gorgeous, but I am not referring to that. I am referring to the fact that at every single family function she is doing something that should be done in a salon and not at a Hanuka dinner party. Glue-on nails. Check. Wax legs. Check. Can I getta M.C. Hammer dance? Hammer time.

Next, we have my cousins. No. Not my cousins. To me, they are my sisters and brother from another, blood related, mother. They are my sanity and insanity all rolled in one. Like a Jelly donut. Ewww. I don't like donuts. Like a Pb&J sandwich. Mmmmmm. Samantha, Jessica, Ashlee and Jimmy. Here are the basics:

1. Jessica thinks she is a vampire. Oh, are you confused? Jessica LITERALLY thinks she is a vampire. I remember this one time we were walking and she was hoping a vampire would jump out of the bushes and turn her. Jessica then changed her mind because she thought her features would remain the same FOREVER, and she did not want to be a vampire with short hair. Wannabe vampire gots to get her priorities in line.


2. Samantha is my eyebrow twin and she bites. She just bites randomly. She was also OBSESSED with David Boreanaz and Drew Lachey. That's right. Angel and the poor man's Nick Lachey. She had a whole notebook with a marble cover DEDICATED to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I am laughing so hard right now.


3. Ashlee is the baby sister. Always the artistic one who loved the weirdest crap ever. Muffy bears, porcelain dolls, furbies, and that God awful Tickle-Me-Elmo. But above all of her crazy toys, Ashlee loved her Binky. Binky? Her pacifier. That child sucked on that thing until she was 7 and after that she would have to tap her lip to fall asleep. Word.


4. Jimmy. Notice how all the other names are female. Yep. Poor little Jimmy. He got his nails painted, was forced to play Barbie, and was then excluded from playing Barbie. Barbie was always found with her head missing when he was excluded. Can you say Henry VIII? My favorite was when we would play Pretty Pretty Princess. That kid would ALWAYS win. He was always the Princess. I'm still jealous.

So, Chuck Norris. You can suck it.