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.

My Wallet Has Money Diarrhea Every Time I Enter Target

Target. The housewife's dream and the Jewish girl's nightmare. I go to Target. All I need is some toiletpaper, Clorox, and Clean and Clear for that nasty pimple I call my face. What happens? Somehow, I exit the store with swizzle straws and a Snuggie made for dogs. Shopaholic say what? MY DOG WON'T EVEN FIT THAT DAMN SNUGGIE. Basically, I enter Target and my Jewish emotions are thrown into a Tornado of inexpensive necessities. Typical situation:

Me: La-dee-da-dee-da! I need toiletpaper. Doo-do-doo.

Target: Ooooooooooh! Why bonjour Mademoiselle. Have you seen my wonderful deal on Gerber's baby food?

Me: No. No. No. You can't get me this time, Target. I don't have a baby, nor do I know anyone who has a baby. So, HA! Jokes on you.

Target: But it is on special. Two for $1. You might see a baby tomorrow and want to give it food.

Me: DAMN YOU TARGET. DAMN YOU.

So, there I am with 10 jars of unneeded and unwanted baby food. Why you gotta be dat way, Target? There was a very specific plan to buy three things and spend at most $25. Eight bags and $104 later, my wallet's exlax has struck again.

Does Target rape your emotions and wallet too? Please start singing the Michael Jackson song and tell me I am not alone and you are here with me.

I’m Not on a Boat, I’m on a Date!

Remember Taylor #2? [Use cottonmouth Marlon Brando gangsta voice here + Italian hand gesture] If you don’t, it’s because you haven’t been reading my blog obsessively and now you have offended me. You can earn my respect back by sending me a jar of pickles and a lifetime supply of Hydrogen Peroxide. Don’t hate. [Brando out]

So, after much debate, I agreed to a date because, who knows, he might be great. I am practically Busta Rhymes with these crazy flows. Wick-a, Wick-a, whaaaaa. My flow skillz being beside the point, this time around, questionably gay Taylor went for a more gender-neutral option. No yoga and fro-yo. Tacos and douche bags for two, please.

We were supposed to meet at 6:45, which gave me ample time to go home and change. Instead, I sat on my couch and refused to remove the outfit that made me look like a lesbian office assistant. I don’t know. I just really wanted to show up to a trashy taco bar in my work suit. I’ll raise you one lesbian prude for TWO tacos? FINE! I’ll change! I stomped to my closet, which is presently my floor, and picked the least wrinkled pair of jeans and sweater. Now, I looked like a beat up version of Natalie Portman. You know? As if she was punched multiple times in the face. Whatevs. I can deal. Also, Rachel gave the outfit a shrug. Two thumbs up!!!

Of course, I arrived 5 minutes EARLY. So, there I was standing awkwardly in between a guy wearing a shirt with more rhinestones on it than an Elton John suit and a group of girls, ALL wearing white dresses, with their hoo-ha’s near exposure. I mean, whenever it’s 50° outside, I think “what dress is most likely to show my vagina?” Britney Spears jealousy, for reals.
Taylor finally arrived at 7pm. Late. Ummm, I could have been sitting on my couch watching Wheel of Fortune, buddy. My time is precious…based on the novel Push by Sapphire. I let it slide nonetheless because I had sufficient entertainment surrounding me.

Now, when I first saw him I thought “Hmmm. Well, he’s cuter/taller and less goofy looking than I remember.” I guess alcohol can skew your perception. WHO KNEW?! He came up to me with a big smile and apologized for his tardiness. That was nice. At least he acknowledged his faux pas. We started a little awkward banter, which I love. Banter is the way to my cheesy heart. Mmmm, cheese. I digress. So, as we were talking, there was something about him. He just reminded me of someone, but I could not put my stubby little finger on it. We began the typical first date convo, "what kind of music do you like" “what do you do for fun” “have you ever slept with a hooker...” Typical.

Well, good thing I asked him that last question because his answer started like this “WELL, do I have an interesting story regarding that one…” Wait. What? You have an interesting story pertaining to my hooker question. Of course, you do. Because this just wouldn’t be my life if a guy didn’t call me an ice queen or have an interesting story about him and a hooker on our first date. BAM! It hit me like a ton of bricks. I KNOW WHO HE REMINDS ME OF!!!

Lochlyn Munro!!! Oh. You don’t know who that is? This very typical name, Lochlyn, does not ring a bell? Well, he is the questionably homosexual, goofy looking guy from White Chicks, Freddy vs. Jason, A Guy Thing, etc. Oh. You haven’t seen those award winners? WHO ARE YOU AND HOW DO YOU EVEN KNOW ME?

Yes, he looks like Lochlyn (best name evaaaaaaaaaaa) and for the rest of the evening that’s all I could think about. Why am I the most annoying person on the planet? Since this is getting kinda long, to sum up the date:

1. Taylor did not sleep with a hooker. His wallet was almost stolen by a hooker AND her chain smoking pimp almost beat the Lochlyn out of his face
2. At some point during the date I began to wonder how he would react to me throwing a taco at his face. I don't think that's love.
3. He was an awesome and fun guy that I would love to hang out with, but no spark. But, hey, I made a new friend that I can eat tacos and do yoga with. Wow. New low.

Lesson In Love: Just because you are not interested in him as a boyfriend, does not mean you cannot make him a new friend. Less stress and STD'S. Woot woot.

Why You Gotta Be Sittin In Front of Me, Yo?

Last night was date night. Since I lack a boyfriend and my imaginary one is the worst conversationist ever (always playing the silent card...whattup wit dat?), it meant Rachel and I do something that she finds only mildly annoying. Thus, we ventured to the AMC to see Get Him to the Greek. Russell Brand's bendy chicken legs in tight pants. Yes, please?

First, we headed to the AMC in Fashion Valley. Rachel prefers this theater to the one in Mission Valley. Oh. In case you are confused. Rachel is my BFF/Roommate. She pretty much hates everything. Babies, young adults, animals, people in general, crowds, the sun, flowers, etc. She does like cheese. Maybe that's why we get along so well? Who knows. Shrug. Anywho, we went to the FV AMC because Rachel was already sacrificing part of her sanity by sitting in a crowded theater, so it might as well be one she kinda likes. We arrive 30 minutes early. Lo and behold, SOLD OUT. "Ugggggggghhhhhhh, of course." Oh. Also, Rachel doesn't express emotions in a yell. It is usually monotone. So, "I love you" may sound like "I want to rub a dirty diaper all over your face."

We hop back in Lurch (formerly Lil Weezy) and head to Mission Valley. Theater is empty. SCORE. We pick the best seats in the house and Rachel looks only mildly annoyed. +1 for life. People begin to filter in, but in no way, shape or form is the theater even near crowded, nor will it become crowded. Then. There they were. The typical San Diego couple. Little 105lb blonde girl with glowing orange skin from her spray tan addiction. Like an Oompa Loompa, but cuter. And her Boyfriend. Wearing his sexy Ed Hardy shirt that makes me want to pinch his nipples and then kick him.

They start assessing their seating options. Look right in my direction. Bam. They decide to sit in the two seats RIGHT IN FRONT of me and Rachel. Ummm. Excuse me Douchey McDoucherson and your Glowstick girlfriend. Why do you find it necessary to sit in the seat that is the foot rest for my Hobbit feet? Was there really no other seat in this EMPTY theater that appealed to you? I know my feet emit some hella-amazing pheramones BUT honestly! Furthermore, when they sat down, it was with such gusto. Like, they had to slam their bodies into the chair so gold would come flying out of their butthole. Rude.

Most annoyting part: THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS!!! People need to get some theater etiquette. Maybe instead of playing those lame commercials that make the Army look like a trip to Disneyland, the can teach the theater morons to not sit directly in front of someone in an empty theater. Word.

I Wish I Could Punch Nature

I wish I could tell you about this weekend in story form, but that would require me to write a book. So, I am going law school style on this bad boy and bullet-pointing my life: It was Memorial Day weekend, which means it was time for the Lauren, Danielle, William, and Jeff annual backpacking trip. We don’t BBQ on holidays. We fight bears on holidays.

Day 1. We woke up at the butt-crack of dawn on Saturday morning, actually excited to go walk 22 miles with a 30lb backpack. First problem.

After our delicious Starbucks coffee, we embarked on the first day’s adventure. Notice the life in my voice? That’s because at this point in the trip, I still had life in my soul. The first day was a 12 mile hike and it honestly was not that bad. I promise I am not on drugs. The trail was mostly downhill and our Off Bug Spray bitch slapped every mosquito that attempted to gnaw at our soul. Take that, wannabe vampires.

When we finally arrived at our camp-sight, we built a cute little fire pit out of rocks and ate our delicious PIZZA. Say what? Bet you didn’t think you could make pizza in the wilderness. Well you can. We did. Brush of the shoulders.

Day 2. This was supposed to be our 6 mile day. The easier day. WRONG. Day 2 was the day mother nature found us and decided she hated us. Then bitch slapped us. Then kicked us until we bled. Let the battle begin.

First, the trail was as wide as I was [Insert fat joke here]. Now, if you think you would enjoy balancing on a sidewalk curb that was hanging off the edge of a cliff, while wearing a 30lb backpack, then this would be fun for you (you, also, most likely have something mentally wrong with you and I would see a professional for it). If not, well then, you would hate your life at this point. I am not a ballerina. I don’t do balance. I cannot even walk well on a regular sidewalk. WHY MUST YOU PLAY SUCH CRUEL JOKES ON ME, LIFE?

Even worse, this trail was ALL uphill. Poor nauseated Danielle and gassy William playing his gastro-intestinal trombone. (P.S. we were eating a zillion grams of fiber a day. We were like an Activia commercial. Take that Bifulus-Regularis.) Now, I know I am Jewish and my people walked through the desert…blah, blah, blah. But, this was absolutely ridiculous. Even Moses would have had to take some breathers and a Matzah break.

We finally stopped for lunch at a lovely little campsite, where we met the most perfect couple in the world. The guy lacked any sign of face stubble and the girl’s hair was perfect…straight out of a Pantene commercial. EVEN THEIR DOGS WERE PERFECT. Not one spot of dirt on them. Hence, we automatically hated/wanted to be them. There were also 6 others there who informed us that our campsite was a 4-hour hike away. This information got all of us in a tissy fit because we wanted to make it there before dark (it was 4pm already). So, we threw on our deathpacks and started moving. Oh, if you were thinking things already sound crappy, well then get ready to go for a swim in the sea of POO.

After walking for 25 minutes, Jeff and I reached a fork in the road. Go straight or go right. We went straight and miraculously figured that Danielle and William had Harry Potter magical powers and would know where we went. UGH! I hate when my psychic powers don’t work. We were more wrong than whoever thought it would be a good idea to make the movie Gigli.

Jeff and I walked for an hour before we realized that we couldn’t even see them on the trail. We waited for ten. Nope. Called out their names. Nothing. Somehow, we found cell phone service and called/texted/e-mailed William. Then, we walked back to the lunch spot in hopes that we would find them there. Zilch.

Day 3. That’s when we found out they were alive. Turns out Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn went TEN MILES down the wrong crap-path, slept on the poo-trail, and only survived because Mother Theresa’s grandchildren found them and helped them escape the jaw of Big Sur (yes, the one I want to punch). When I saw them walking down that mountain I felt so relieved and so sick to my stomach at how traumatized they looked. Shake angry fist at stupid mountain.

The Few Good Memories:

• Jeff (looking at our nails with a pound of dirt under them): This is the opposite of a French Manicure. This is like a poo manicure.


• William playing the butt trombone all the way up the mountain


• Me falling 3 times within an hour


• Jeff using multiple items of clothing for horrible purposes


• The wind quartet


• Danielle’s million nervous questions


• Not camping related but Dominic’s idea for a porn: Hand-jobs on Tractors. Word.

• Jon's calm and collected reaction. Thanks, Dad. :)