I Passed The Bar

*11/19/11 edit: I passed the Bar and when I found out I did pretty much everything but vomit. I cried, I shook like Jesus was remove-en the sin from muh body, I screamed, and then I bit my mom (I had to know the moment was real). Honestly one of the best feelings ever. I had convinced myself I failed and I would have to spend another 3 months studying and hating cute babies. That's right. Studying for the bar even makes babies suck (babies might also suck if you are 16 and Pregnant. See MTV.). Then, when I typed in my code and RED writing showed up, I thought I definitely failed. But, as it turns out, someone at the Office of the CA State Bar thought it would be a terrific idea to tell people they passed/failed in red writing. Yeah. Then my vision cleared, the clouds parted, yada yada yada, I bit my mom.

 

Sometimes Your Vagina Is Going To Burn

Evening of Day 7 - 

Michael: Everyone! Listen up! Okay. So, I have some advice for tomorrow. First, do not shave ANYTHING. You will burn. Second, MEN, I recommend that you wear a condom. Just trust me. Third, LADIES, I know it does not sound pleasant, but if you have vaseline, you should make good use of it and put it all over your lady parts.
Everyone Else: Ummm...

Afternoon of Day 8:

Michael: Do not throw that used condom at my face. Do not do it. I can't believe you just put a used condom on my face.

So, I guess all that is left to do is explain how we got from A (condoms and a vaseline hole) to B (used condom on the face). Birthright was showing us how to make Jewish babies. Obvi. Fine. That's not what happened. You can't make Jewish babies with condoms, unless you make a condom balloon baby (glad my name is officially linked with condom balloon baby). Turns out that Birthright or as I prefer to label us "Shnoz with a Cause" was making its way down to the Dead Sea. Fact: the dead see is the lowest point on earth.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Dead Sea, it is the saltiest sea on the planet. Meaning, hoes be floating:

Exhibit A: I am not holding myself up. Nor are my two watermelon colored children floaties for boobs holding me up, despite what it may look like. It's all salt. Sorry peppa, but it looks like you're the Jan Brady of this trip. 

Since the Dead Sea is the saltiest sea on the planet, there are certain precautions that must be taken to avoid injury, but mainly embarrassment. First and foremost, you must not shave. Shaving is like having an open cut waiting to get burned. And let's be honest, Jews aren't necessarily known for their lack of hair. That means a million burning open wounds. But, not shaving was common knowledge. What was not common knowledge was the vulnerability of those natural holes in our body.

Michael, our group leader, was kind enough to share some tips to avoid burning sensations that should only come with an STD or a fire in your pants. Men were told to wear condoms to avoid a salty stinging sensation in their flopper. Women were told to lube up with the container of Vaseline we brought to Israel. Right. Because when I pack for vacation I always remember to bring my Costco sized jar of Vaseline.

Well, Michael's advice caused quite a bit of commotion. The men did not know how they were going to keep a condom on their ding-dong if they weren't aroused. Okay, time to grow up: penis, penis, penis. See, I can use the real word. Now that that's over with. The men were stressing, but then they figured out that they were only floating in the water and not flopping around (pun intended). So, condom on the floppy ding-dong problem solved. Don't worry Israel, your Dead Sea won't have a bunch of used condom balloon babies floating around. Now for the whole Vaseline issue. Yeah, why don't you tell 25 girls to smother their vagina with petroleum jelly and see what kind of reaction you get. "Are you trying to give us a bladder infection?" Needless to say, we all learned a lot about each other that evening.

Despite the advice, I decided to skip the Vaseline facial and risk the burn. I tip-toed into the water because just like your "first time," moving slower will obviously protect the hoo hoo. This needs to be a song:

Girl if you forget to take it slow
you're probly gonna cry
cuz the stinging's gonna blow

I digress. About ten minutes later, my whole body was in the water, floating stiffly. As you can see above, I floated. As you can see below, my vagina was in immense salty burning pain:

Can you see the fake constrained smile? I am not pooping in the water. In between my gritted teeth I am saying "ow,ow,ow,ow,ow."

And that was my experience in the Dead Sea. But, the story is not over. Remember that little "do not throw that used condom at my face" incident. Well, turns out the whole "wear a condom and Vaseline your holes" was a practical joke, which no one knew of until it was too late. I guess one of the boys was not too happy about the practical joke. Hence, condom to the face. Michael sure is lucky a female did not get angry about the joke.

A Onsieless Wedding

Danielle and Jon, this post is dedicated to you, mainly because it was your wedding and it would be selfish to dedicate this post to pictures of me in onesies. Nonetheless, here's one for the road:

Me doing the robot in a onesie. Jeeeeaaaaaloooouuus.

Almost a month ago, I got to attend one of the most joyful, fun and creative weddings EVER. Caps means business. P.S. This is going to look more like your kindergarten reading assignment than an actual post. Sometimes life just needs to be a photo montage with a sentence. CUE MONTAGE.

Danielle (my witty/cat loving/maxi-pad wearing besty) and Jon (the practical/cat loving/converse but used to be NB wearing new addition to my extended non-Jewish family)

NB. Oh memories.

Check out the GIANT maxi pad she is wearing. I love the internet.

 married in a beautiful and heart warming ceremony on the beach.

That's what the ceremony looked like before the people arrived. Once the people arrived, it looked like this, but with people.

 I had the pleasure of helping Danielle make sure the day went smoothly. Meaning, I got to kick hippies off of the beach and be in complete awe of how beautiful she looked,

Beautiful right?

 and be impressed with how handsome the groom looked,

Eat your heart out, LOLCATZ.

 Even the sun thought they were really really good looking. Cue God music and parting clouds.

No wedding is complete without the sun taking siesta to give you perfect lighting.

Soon they were married and walking down the aisle to Taio Cruz. Fiiiiine, their recessional was Queen.

CUE THE DRINKING. I began mixing my champagne and wine like a booty-hoe in a rap video

which obviously helped me give the most awesome speech ever. Awkward body language? Check. Mention Danielle's crush on John Cusack? Check. Tie love into speech? Check. Someone take me to the bank because I got a lotta checks!

But then Cory gave his speech and wore his tight pants and of course he was way funnier...

you can tell by all the people who were laughing during his speech. It was like David Bowie was doing 15 minutes of heartwarming stand-up comedy. Jon, stop trying to one up me with your funny friends who look better than I do in pants . Thanks.

After the speeches, we got to dance. I personally forgot how to do the "look like an angry Stevie Wonder" dance. However, seems like Danielle is up to date. Let me know if you want to contact her about some lessons.

Jon and Danielle totally pulled off their first dance without looking like any blind singers

Soon the night was over, leaving the most beautiful day to our memories. But, thanks to these pictures, we will never forget the moment Jon and Danielle had a very deep political conversation about cupcakes. Typical.

Thank you Jon and Danielle for sharing such a special day. You are an inspiring couple.

It's Legit.

Guess what this little Jewish drummer girl did? Israel. Wait. No, I didn't do Israel, but I did take advantage of my Moses blood and go on an all expense paid 10 day trip to the motherland. Charlie Sheen's tiger blood may come with two schichsa goddesses, but my Moses blood comes with multiple rich menches who like to send impressionable young adults on free trips to Israel to facilitate the production of Jewish babies. Winning.

All silliness aside (yes, I can be serious...occasionally), this was the most influential and inspiring trip I have ever been on. Since there were so many emotions (ups, downs, and any other direction an escalator travels), I am breaking this vacation into multiple posts. The serious aspects will be respected and get its own post. Prepare yourself because it will lack awkward and reveal some of my other layers. That's right. Baby's got layers like a cake. Vanilla. The amusing and funny parts will get their own post as well (all I have to say is burning hoo-ha).

Sababa.

Momism: Calorie Counting Queen

While driving on Ventura Blvd. like a Tom Petty song:

Mom: So Cal Sushi...hmmm...we should try that one day.
Me: I'm down.
Mom: I wonder how they make it low cal...
Me: huh?
Mom: So Cal Sushi...do you think they use brown rice?
Me: Wait. What? Why do you think it's low calorie sushi? Wait...
Mom: So Cal?!
Me: Mom. So Cal means Southern California.
Mom: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Me: hahahahahahahaha! Thank you for that.

Grandma Say Whaaaaat: Wizard of Oz Complex

My grandma was a 5'8, buxom Polish woman with boobs that could throw punches. No, really. I used to love buckling her bra because it had like 40 buckles... it was massive, but so were her boobies. I digress. So, besides my G-ma's awesome boobs, she knew how to tell a great story and LOVED to get a great laugh. Grandma Hela (Oh, you can bet I will be making hella slang references with her name...sorry Grams) usually got her laughs at another persons expense and that was always the most entertaining part. Thus, every once in a while I will dedicate a post to my Grandma Hela. You're Welcome.

Hela was my after school babysitter/my version of summer camp. Who needed to play with kids that crap their pants and pick their nose when I could eat mashed potatoes all day long while watching Bonanza? Exactly. In addition to watching awesome '70's reruns, Hela and I would also watch old Shirley Temple movies, which initiated this conversation:

Me: Grandma, when did movies change to color?
Hela: Well, a long time ago, all movies could only be in black and white...
Me: I know, but what about the Wizard of Oz? That movie is both.
Hela: Well, that movie changed it all. See, the whole world used to be black and white, which is why movies were not in color.
Me: Really? (said with wide eye innocence)
Hela: Of course! Then, when they were making the Wizard of Oz, the Wizard didn't like the black and white anymore because it wasn't pretty so he gave the world color.
Me: Ohhhh, so that's why all the old pictures of you and mommy are in black and white.
Hela: Yep.

That's the Wizard giving the the world color.

Now, if you know me, I am sure this story explains a lot about me. I didn't learn the truth until I was 7yrs old, when my mom started laughing at me and then got a worried look in her eyes. However, this really explains why my teachers, at the very religious school I attended, did not like me:

Religious Teachers: God made the world.
Me: Yes, but the Wizard gave it color!

Thanks for building character, Grandma.

In A Pickle

No, not literally. That would never ever happen, because I would eat myself out of the pickle. Take that pickle. I am in a job pickle. But wait Lauren, how can that be when you have been such a success at every job you have had and you graduated law school? Well, let me explain:

I AM OVERQUALIFIED.

Yes, it is true. I am overqualified to work. At least that's what three out of four employers have told me.

Employer #1: You know after looking at your resume, your qualifications exceed the highest position I can offer you...
Me: Ummm...thanks? So, are you going to hire me?
Employer #1: I'm sorry, but you're too much of  a risk.
Me: Your outfit is too much of a risk. (I didn't really say that, but I should have. Who the hell wears jean on jean and is actually serious about it? Exactly.)

Employer #2: Wow, your resume is quite impressive.
Me: Thank you. I really tried to be a well-rounded law student.
Employer #2: Unfortunately, you just seem too qualified for this position...how do I explain it...a flight risk.
Me: Right. Yeah, someone who is unqualified for the job will probably be a better fit. Dildo. (I didn't say any of this either, but my imagination did. Imagination burn.)

Employer #3: I'm sorry but I just think we are looking for someone with less experience. But don't worry, you are a very intelligent and pretty girl and you'll find something.
Me: Are you fucking serious?

I will not write the dialogue from employer #4 because that was an Armenian nightmare. No, I am not racist. But the attorney interviewed 75 people that day and the 15 that were in my group were all Armenian. Do you even know how much my whiter than white self stuck out? Second, I could hear every single interview (I was the last one to go) "Oh, what Armenian organizations are you a part of? You speak Armenian? Perfect!) Really?! Spanish I can understand, BUT ARMENIAN?

This is my life. So, basically, if you know ANYONE who wants to hire an overqualified curmudgeon in Los Angeles, let me know.

Awkward out.

I Would Like To Thank...

Football with a vagina. It's the EMMYS! I got my spicy cheetoes ready for 2 hours of pre-show and 3 hours of actual show. Yes, I do care what famous people wear to unimportant events because celebrities matter and I love the way they make me feel insecure. And anyway it's the Emmys, which means that there is at least one person that my family can honestly say I am better looking than...such as, Jimmy Kimmel.

Now for the important stuff: Who showed off their tatas best?

Tata score: 10. However, it looks like skittles are going to start shooting out of her chesticles. Fail Brooke. 

"Yes, I would like a cup of tea and a new butt plug." You're too pretty to look like my grandma's curtains. I mean, your goddamn name is MINKA. That even sounds pretty, unlike your boner killer dress.

I want to be you Rashida. Mostly because I want to be named Rashida, but also because your are gorgeous. 

I need to end here because these two make me want to make babies with both of them. Or I could just pretend to be your baby while you let me spoon both of you. Call me.

Blog Wars!!!

Whoever said "imitation is the most sincere form of flattery" was probably the asshole in the room that everyone secretly wants to pee on. Imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery because I thought of that idea first and I deserve the credit. I don't care how amazing/funny/perfect you think I am. I understand that I am all of these things, which is why I don't want any competition. Just ruins the flava.

So what provoked this tirade? Well some chick went all single white female on me and stole the name of my blog. What the what?! Except genius pants called hers "Making It Awkard." Well guess what Making It Awkward? I'm a verb and you're a noun and verbs are action words, so my blog can make yours cry.

Me Blog Slapping "Making It Awkward." True story.

Why Does My Apartment Smell Like A Baby Diaper?

Joseph Whearty, I dedicate this post to you. But, you shouldn't feel so special because I also dedicate posts to Fran Drescher and vaginas.

Mr. Whearty recently informed me that Febreeze has a new scent called Moroccan Bazaar. Generally, scented sprays are not that interesting and definitely should not be written about in this prime piece of blog ass, but think about that name a bit. When I think of Morocco, I generally think of pashminas (fancy name for a goddamn scarf) and food that would make me wish I was in a country that had porcelain toilet bowls. But I also think of spices and other crap that could possibly smell good. Now, when I think of a Moroccan bazaar, well, why don't you close your eyes and tell me what your imagination sees...

Oh, yeah. This looks like it smells delicious. Yep.

Since mine is the only opinion that counts (take that mass media) when someone tells me that my room will smell like a Moroccan Bazaar, I don't ride on a unicorn across a shiny rainbow to vanilla scented (the only good scent) lala land. No. Because nothing happy or pleasant can come out of a scent that is supposed to smell like a third world shopping center.  Febreeze is just using an exotic country to make something sound like it will smell good. For example: Parisian Subway Breeze. Subways smell a port-o-potty, but you put Parisian in front of it and OILA. Suckers.

You know that a real Moroccan Bazaar smells like all those times you go to a party. Some asshole always eats too much quiche and ends up taking a party crap. Party craps consist of them pooping during the party but doing everything possible to cover the smell, such as spraying too much of the goddamn glade airfreshener that the dumbass host left on the toilet lid. NEWSFLASH: the air freshener doesn't cover the smell of your poop, but it does let me know that you took a massive crap and decided to singe my nosehairs even more so with the smell of poop bathing in cheap perfume.

You lose Febreeze. You lose.

Momism: Sister Act

A couple of weekends ago I had a garage sale with Mindel, my foxy aunt Carmela, and my butthole cousin Samantha. Sorry, Sam, but you really should have known by now. Sam was telling her mom that the guy trying to cut a deal on the surfboard was actually flirting with her. Here is how the convo went down:

Sam: Mom, he was checking you out...
Auntie C: Really?! Nah...
Sam: Yes. He was and he's about 20 years younger.
Auntie C: Oooooooooh! I can be like one of those Coyote's
Me and Sam: Coyote? What does that have to do with anything?
Auntie C: I'm like a Coyote...getting younger men...
Me and Sam: Ummm, do you mean a "Cougar"?

Mindel, looks like you've got some competition.

The Dougie Can Suck It.

Google Images makes me feel better about my life.

 Once upon a time, I promised you a story about that time I peed my pants, and since I don't shy away from making a complete ass of myself, that time has come. Thus, the tale begins...

In my youth, I thought my bladder was superman. Meaning, I thought that I would never pee my pants. Yes, I did go to public school. Why do you ask? For some odd and overall dumb reason, I always tried not to go to the bathroom when I had to, just to test the waters. That was a good pun, now laugh. Anyway, this resulted in that first grade incident of me peeing on the alphabet carpet. But that was completely reasonable because I was getting used to my 6yr old lady parts and the letter Q pissed me off...literally.

However, you would think, and most likely hope, that by the age of 12 I had full control of my bladder. That would mean I was a normal 12yr old who was not developmentally challenged. Yeah, we all know this would be a complete misstatement of my youth. So, you are left with a somewhat challenged 12yr old girl who really had to pee and also had to take pookie (my awesome dog, not a crap) out for a walk. A smart person would have peed before walking the dog, but I chose to play the "how long can you hold it before you stain yo pants" game. By the time we were in front of my apartment building, I had to break into the most manic pee-pee dance. Imagine someone attempting to do the vertical snake, while holding their crotch Michael Jackson style. If I were any older I would have looked like a Ellen Degeneres dance segment (now you will notice how much her moves look like a pee pee dance). Worst of all, I lived in a neighborhood that was 90% old Russian ladies. Do you know what old Russian ladies do? They go for circular walks around the block with their flowered umbrellas and orthopedic shoes. I can't even tell you how many fashtinkina yentas walked around me whispering in Russian about the weird American girl touching herself in the middle of the street.

Then. It happened. I couldn't hold it any longer. You know when you have to pee so bad that you can't even move? My poor bladder was so overwhelmed that I couldn't even do the dance any longer. I had to stand in the middle of the sidewalk, one leg crossed over the other, while slightly bent over. But then,  I became determined "I am not peeing my pants in the middle of this sidewalk. Nope. I am not doing it." So, I ran. I ran as fast as I could up the stairs of the front of the building to my elevator. Little did I know, that when your bladder has gone numb from having to pee so bad, it just kinda comes out at that point. Yeah. I guess I started peeing my pants when I started running and was done by the time I made it to the elevator. Mom was really proud of me that day. Really proud.

Lesson Learned: Don't be dumb.

Momism: I'm Watching You. Oh Wait. Maybe I'm Not. Shoot.

You know that feeling when you sit in a chair so long that your butt feels taken advantage of? Not pleasant. Also, I think my butt is getting dented from sitting so often... and you thought certain things just were not possible. Ha. I laugh at your ignorance.

Well, I got that horrible butt feeling, so I decided to take a little break and call mama bear. Yeah. Here you go:

Me: Hi muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummy! (I like to sound British sometimes. I also like bah-gels.)
Mindel: Hi bubby. Did you know that my computer can search for an address and see the street???
Me:You mean like on Google Maps? Where you can get a picture view?
Mindel: Yes! Lauren, I didn't know my computer could do that.
Me: My computer can do it too, Mom. It's a website. All computers with internet can use the site...
Mindel: Oh. Well, still, it's amazing! But it was so weird because I was talking to the guy I am going on a date with tomorrow and I looked up his house. I saw a red car in the picture view and asked him if there was a red car in front of his house, but he said no. And...
Me: Wait, wait, wait. Mom, do you think the image is live? Like you are looking at his house right now?
Mindel: Yes. Isn't it? If there isn't something filming it right now, then how could I possibly see it?
Me: Jesus Christ.

Technology Sometimes You Rock That Germ Filled Bubble I Live In

Usually, technology sends me through a hellish torpedo of stupidity and insulting images of Sarah Chalke (she just really pisses me off), but there are moments when I turn into a seventh grader going through puberty and wanna scam on technology like it was Taylor Hanson serenading me with Mmm-Bop. What? That's a solid fantasy, yo.

The divine recognition of my bordering on creepy appreciation for all that is associated with the future came from something I would fall in love with if I were that person who loves inanimate objects (tried to find the psychological term but I couldn't, so now I am the girl who has "people who fall in love with inanimate object" in my search bank): my recognition came from a Red Box. Red Box is technology at its best i.e. it serves cheap lazy people like me.

How the Red Box humping goes down: It's a bright and beautiful day in sunny San Diego. Perfect day for a walk in the park or swim in the ocean. F-that punks. Skin cancer and shark bites are for broke ass hoes, I stay in bed to  watch my 10 inch TV  and collect cookie crumbs in my cleavage like a real woman. No honestly, if I were murdered in my bed during the weekend (knock on wood) the po po's wouldn't need tape because my body would be outlined by food crumbs. Back off my nuts Jake Gyllenhaal, I know you want my sexay bodday. I digress. As soon as I get tired of watching the 11 channels available, I decide to turn to a movie.

Due to my psychopathic need to have a five foot no entry circle around me and remain in the same food stained clothing (and I use that term lightly), Blockbuster is just out of the question. Dun da dun dun! RED BOX i.e. the reason unicorns fart rainbows. All I have to do is go to one of the 65 Seven-Eleven's in my neighborhood and pay $1(!) for a beautiful machine to poop a movie. Also, then I can go into Seven and buy a gargantuan coke, WHICH, by the way, comes with a free sausage biscuit. Don't eat it. There is a chance you might prematurely lose an internal organ.

Wow. I can't believe I wrote this much about Red Box. I need to get my life together.

Momism: Can Anybody Hear Me???

This one time, in Rome, you know, because I am so worldly and classy and shit like that, I spent two weeks trying to figure out the movie this line is from: "Is anybody out there (echo  echo echo)? Can anybody hear me?" I literally spent two weeks SEARCHING 2006 Google (faaar less superior to 2011 Google) trying to find this goddamn line. Surprisingly, my nifty brain dug through the hot mess I have stored up there and found the answer, which is Titanic. I really don't know where I was going with this story. I think it was supposed to be an intro to my Momism, but it doesn't really work, except for the Titanic line. Perhaps I just wanted to brag about my trip to Rome. Yeah that's probably it. Because I am that type of person.

Voicemail on my Cellphone from Mindel:

Lauren, are you there? I am at the store and I have a question about the pearl necklace you want *mind out of gutter*. Laureeeeeeeeeen. Pick up the phone. Caaaaaaaan you hear me? Heeeeeeeeello! Dammit Lauren I know you are there...(to the store clerk) I know she hears me, she just wont pick it up.

Ummm, yeah. I don't know if you know this mom but I cannot hear your message while you are leaving it on my cellphone. No worries. I'll just blog about it.

How I Will Ruin My Credit Score Beyond Repair

I am a sucker for a good deal. Or a bad deal. Or pretty much anything that makes me think I am getting something for free. For instance, it seriously takes so much strength to not take food from other peoples room service carts. C'mon, there was a whole UNTOUCHED pancake left...perfectly okay. Free pancake for a 50% chance of getting a most likely curable disease. Worth it.

Just begging me to eat it.

Another wonderful example is my arch nemesis Target, which hits me where it hurts (left boob) every time. Target has this awesome program where you get a $5 gift card when you purchase far too much of one crappy product. Today I bought 4 deoderants, 8 boxes of tampons, and 6 packages of soap, just to get $5 back. I looked like the girl who always has her period and has HORRIBLE body odor because my woman hormones are all Randy Quaid crazy. Stop giving me the stank eye Kimberly the Cashier. I do what I want.

However, I have found my kryptonite; the thing that is going to make me curl up into a ball and sing Celine Dion songs until my ears bleed. Chase Freedom. A credit card with a cash back and bonus point program. Freedom my fat dimply ass. This credit card is something that I like to call plastic death or compare to that time I thought I was buying a really awesome antique table on e-bay only to be delivered a small box with dollhouse furniture. Buries head in shame. ALL I WANT TO DO IS EARN POINTS. I am obsessed. I have researched the products that give me double, triple and quadruple points and cannot stop. My heart is palpatating just thinking about earning more points.

Picture not true to size. For reals, homeboi.

Basically, I ordered subscriptions to magazines I never heard of (did you know there are magazines about knitting?), had flowers delivered to myself and purchased MORE tampons from drugstore.com because they give me more points. Soooooooo, I spent $400 thus far just so I can earn, wait for it, waaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiit for it, 1,500 points or the equivalent of $15 dollars towards a flight.

Winner winner chicken dinner, bitches.

April Suck It Fool

Why I hate today:

2005

Doctor Ovary Face: Well, looks like you have crabs.
Me: WHAT?! I thought you have to have sex to get that...my mom's going to kill me.
Doctor Ovary Face: April Fools!
Me: I hate your dirty doctor face.

1989

Grandma: Michael Jackson is a woman.
Me: Really? I thought so.
Grandma: Yep.
(two years later)
Grandma: April fools!

Definitely explains why I had friend instead of friends.

2008

Boss: We need you to come in at 5am tomorrow?
Me: April Fools!
Boss: Huh?
Me: April fools?!
Boss: No.

This holiday sucks a fatty because I will believe anything you tell me and will get beyond excited about it. But, I like to think of this as an endearing quality because it just shows how much faith I have in people. Right? Right? JUST GO WITH IT.

The Reason You Will Be Gonnorrhea In Your Second Life

Have you seen it? Have you? Those goddamn Old Navy commercials with the wannabe pop stars who sing about how their vagina hugging jeans got them out of a speeding ticket? They induce a fiery rage within me and the only thing I want to do is find the doucheholes who thought of this dildo of an idea and throw a giant diaper at their face. Not at their chest. At their bare face and I hope it gets in their mouth.

I wish I was a lawyer already, so I could sue the crap out of Old Navy for sucking. Assholes. See link below:


This Makes Me Pee Blood

Playa's Gonna Play, J-Dater's Gonna Hate

Mindel has left the wild and created a J-Date account. J-Date is the Jew version of Match.com, for you goys out there who are unfamiliar. That's right. After 24 years of being single (with a whole lot of young shmucky boyfriends in between), mamacita is ready to find some Jew love.

Basically, Mindel pays a monthly membership fee and I get stuck searching for potential booty candidates...ahem...I mean boyfriends. Gross. Why? Well, she still hasn't figured out this whole internet fad and adds ".com" to every term she searches on Google. So, I have to reply to the e-mails, review the profiles, and find someone who doesn't look like Charles Manson. Move over Patti Stanger, a new matchmaking bitch is in town. Don't make me snap my fingers in a J formation.

After a lot of filtering, my mom (I) exchanged numbers with a little hottiepotottie. Here is how their first and last conversation went:

Jew Man: Hi.
Mindel: Hi.
Jew Man: So, if I can't see you for a couple of days, would you have phone sex with me?
Mindel: Are you fucking kidding me?

Fine. There was some more conversation in between all of that, but, I mean, that's the only part that really matters. Of course, I get the angry phone call from mom, "Who the hell are you setting me up with?!" Ummm, we'll gettem next time slugger?

P.S. I know you are so stoked that Mindel joined J-Date because now you get to hear about all of her hot messes.

What A Drag

It's been soooooooooooo looooong, bay-bay. Come give mama some suga. Preferably a pie. Homegurl was on her deathbed for the past two weeks, aka, I had the flu and watched two seasons of Ugly Betty in bed. My room smells like a diaper.

On a positive note, I had a lot of thinking time and with this thinking time I had some life altering revelations: What man would play me (in drag of course) in my life story??? 

3. Peter Falk - He's odd and he probably smells weird. Basically, me in a nutshell.

Oooooh, look how cute I am when I'm confused. Tee hee hee.

  2. Tom Selleck- Magnum P.I. gots the stache and my chest hair would keep me warm in public bathrooms (they're always so unnecessarily cold). 

1. Christopher Walken - Homeboy is the most awkward old man ever. So, me with a wiener in 50yrs.

Oh-muh-gawd. He's already preparing for the role. Walken love for reals.

BooBee. The One That Stings.

You should remember this because you are obsessed with me. For reals. But, in case you don't, here's the link Bee Problem and a brief explanation. I attract bees and due to this Charlie Sheen-esque bad problem homegurl bee lookin like a fool half the time.

I thought this issue could not get any worse than having beehives outside of my window, but apparently it can and it did.

Me: Doin ma thang in the shower. Washin ma hair and obsessively shaving my aaaaaaaaaaaaaaarmpits.
You: A bee, checkin me out in the shower.

WHAT?! Yes, there was a bee in my shower. WTF, Bee? Can't a girl getta little bit of privacy? Well, we all know what happened after that. I screamed, the bee buzzed, I ran out of the shower, the bee stayed in, I stubbed my toe, then I aimed the shower head at the bee and yeah. Sorry bee, but my body doesn't want to be sexually assaulted by you.

The Pits

First and Foremost, I would like to announce that I have survived the WORST Oscars ever and detergent laced rice cakes. Anne Hathaway was a stupid giddy school girl the whole time and James Franco was offensively indifferent. Pretty sure he was more baked than one of my overcooked cakes. Dear Oscars Committee, just because they are pretty to look at and still have their mothers cut their food DOESN'T mean they will make a good show. Thank God for Collin Firth and his public declaration of his love and appreciation for me. You heard it, right?

Second, I love shaving my armpits. In the shower this morning, I lathered the pits and got to work and ultimately decided that shaving my pits of steel is the best part of the shower. If only men could get this much joy from life.

I Will Drop Kick You If You Interrupt This Program

Make crazy crooked psycho face and yell "IT'S THE OSCARS!!!"

It is my favorite day of the year, besides Thanksgiving, Memorial Day, and National Cheese Day. I usually only see one out of the 5/10 movies nominated because I usually see movies that cause migraines or internal bleeding upon contact. However, this year I classed my shit up and saw 5 out of the 10 Oscar movies. It might be because I sneaked into one on Christmas day (sorry True Grit...I wish I gave you the money instead of Little Fockers) and one involved my lovermuffin-kissyourface-stalkyouforever  Colin Firth, but it still counts like calories.

Best Actor: My Hubby
Best Actress: That Bird Hoe (if you see this movie DON'T GET THE POPCORN KillerPopcorn )
Best Movie: I predict it's Social Network (send me a cool pair of sunglasses if I win)

Sorry, I need to get back to this program.

When My Appetite Kills

I eat things I really should not eat. Stop thinking of cavities and fat kids because I am not talking about candy. I am referring to those questionable items in the back of your fridge; the ones you cannot determine, for the life of you, whether it is a bunch of raisins stuck together or that strawberry that got lost from the pack. I did put it in my mouth and it was a strawberry. Shiver.

To the point. I was craving rice cakes...wtf already right? So, I was craving rice cakes. I had some in my cabinet that just happened to roll next to my laundry detergent and Bounce dryer sheets. Thought nothing of it. I take one bite. "Hmmm, this is odd. Why does this taste like spring?" Of course, being as curious as a cat, I just had to take another bite. "This tastes horrible...I wonder if my detergent spilled on this?" Yes, I did finish the rice cake.

Well, guess what Lauren? CURIOSITY KILLED THE FUCKING CAT. Go away horrible stomach pain and go bother a fat middle aged man! The whole point of this post is that if I begin foaming at the mouth and lapse into a detergent coma, please let the doctor know what happened.

I Am Awesome

Today I texted my joke to a guy I went on a date with one month ago. The response:

Can we make-out again?

Winner. I plan on using this whole "joke" tactic on the street. Let's see what I catch...hopefully nothing diseasy.

Karma Is An Ear Bleeding Bitch

My mom and I like to scare people. Yes, there is something wrong with us but that should be left for a different blog post. We love to hide behind doors, in closets, make fake seances, and throw stuff at people just to get the tiniest scream out of them. It's a problem. After years of torturing friends and each other, it was bound to bite us in the ass. Something bad had to come from one of these disgustingly pleasing scare tactics. BAM!

I was home for the weekend and had just suffered bad highlights. I mean sobbing in the corner with a pint of Ben & Jerry's while looking up at the ceiling screaming "WHY" bad highlights. My hair looked like it should be wearing an Ed Hardy shirt. ANYWAY. I hopped into the shower to wash the tears away. When I got out I performed my usual Q-tip routine while I walked to my room to get some PJ's.

BOO!

All I can say is there was a scream, a Q-tip jammed into my ear, and then some blood.

Lesson: Don't walk around MY house with a Q-tip in ear because someone is bound to scare you and you might end up in the emergency room.

Happy Baaaaaaaah-day!

Why couldn't the shepherd see?

Because he didn't have a lamb-p!

Yes. I wrote this. On my birfday. Creative birfday girl say whaaaaaaaaaaa?! Popsicle gonna be ALL up in my business.

Balls To The Wall

Speaking of Sex, this is a quote from today's BLAH SKOOL reading:

It is like juggling too many balls.”  Some people can juggle six balls at once, and some only one!

Alternative Dispute Resolution for the win!

We're Soooooo Sex And The City

Why does every woman born within 1975 - 1992 find it necessary to compare themselves to the women in Sex and the City??? Most often, you and some girl-friends decide to go out for a drink or, in my case, frozen yogurt. The mere fact that there is more than one vagina on this venture, ignites the urge to make the comparison: "Ooooh! Look at us! We are drinking cocktails that taste like suntan lotion and wearing bright colors...WE ARE SO SEX AND THE CITY!!! WHICH ONE ARE YOU???"

And that's the worst part. The actual breakdown of which character you are most like. The SATC women are extremes of 4 different characters. Samantha is the overly sexed, how do you not have an STD??? character. Miranda is the extremely cynical, not too cute lawyer. Charlotte is the vain prude. And then there is Carrie. Almost every lady wants to be Carrie. Why? Well, because she is the most well rounded of the Dried Up Hoo Ha crew (sounds like a fruit, huh? Yuck). However, no one EVER gets Carrie. You always get the offensive character.

For example, I always get Charlotte or Miranda and this is how the rest goes:

Me: Um, are you calling me snobby/cynical? Why?
Friend: Because you don't like to have sex with rando's (Charlotte). Because you are going to be a lawyer (Miranda).
Me: Wow. Awesome logic.

I usually retort with "You are EXACTLY like Samantha." Comparing someone to a sexaholic who probably has a saggy vagina usually shuts down the conversation. Now we can talk about real issues like which Golden Girl I would be. I am so Dorothy.

Aging With Grace

How do you know that you are getting older? You start laughing so hard at one of YOUR own jokes and you pee your pants. Well, not a lot. But just enough to make you embarrassed by the fact that you are even posting this on the web.

Fancy pants.

P.S. Remind me to tell you about that time I legitimately peed ma pants when I was above the age of 5 and below the age of 20.

Laundry Woes

There is one chore I hate more than any other chore in the universe. That chore is laundry. I have 50 pairs of underwear for the very purpose of avoiding laundry day. I would probably wear my undies 2 days in a row to tack on a few extra laundry free days, if I didn't have a huge fear that that would be the day someone would see my 2-day undaroos. The washer, then dryer, then FOLDING. Thinking about this annoys me.

Worst part is that by the time your jeans smell like a bathroom full of farts woven into fabric they are the perfect fit. No longer snug, with a little give in the hips. But it's time to wash them because you are almost 26 and if you don't attract a man within the next few years you are going to be like one of those chicks from Sex and the City but with no sex, more cats, and cobwebbed genitals (how gross is that word? Genitals. Hahaha). So, you wash the jeans. Lo and behold, you have to suck-in and jump around your apartment just to get them to zip. "Did I gain weight during the 3 hours it took me to do laundry?" NO, YOU DIDN'T. Just, when you turned the dryer dial to 60-minutes, those 60 minutes included a shot to your self-esteem and a complimentary serving of a 2-day muffin top.

Don't even get me started on the fucking socks.

Miss Me Miss Me Now You Wanna Kiss Me

It's been so long since you heard from me! Sorry for putting you in a state of depression that you thought you would never escape. But after a week long blog break, I have accomplished quite a bit: vegas, ballet, bomb diggity oatmeal (no really. It was the bees knees.). I am too tired to write anything of substance, so I will leave you with this:

HAPPY VD!!! No, not venereal disease. That's never happy. Trust. It's Valentines Day. The day that I want to cuddle up to a box of Franzia and Russell Stovers. Now buy me this: MakeMeSexy

What Happens At Law Prom...

...gets photographed and posted on the internet FOREVER.

We arrived at Law Prom so excited for our adventure...

I got to eat yummy dessert...

and then ruin it with my face...

at least I got some action.

Fin.

Tramp Your Stamp

I have learned quite a few lessons today:

1. It's probably best not to take advantage of the 3-hour open bar at you LAW prom. There will be professors, you will make a fool of yourself, and you will yell out "Professor Glen Smith, where are you?! I love you."

2. If a guy, you are not interested in, tries to make out with you and starts shoving his tongue all over your face, it is better to push him off of you, rather than just stand there in shock, grimace on face, mouth closed and tight lipped. My poor make-up. I mean...um...that poor girl's make-up.

3. Don't fall asleep on your wrist. You might wake up with a black butterfly on your cheek, cry and start cursing yourself for not remembering why you got a tattoo on your cheek. Then realize that it's the stamp on your wrist that you got for your law prom's open bar. Sorry for that panicked morning phone call, Mom.

4. NEVER, and I mean NEVER, drink anything named after a suicide pilot. Nothing pleasant can come from it. Screw you Kamikaze.

5. Last, I would be the worst bulimic chick ever. It might have been the questionable 3 course meal or lesson #4, but I felt absolutely horrendous this morning. I have not vomited since 2006 (screw you Taco Bell). I spent one hour trying to induce vomiting. NO CIGAR. I called mom, asked the internet, and nothing worked. Hence, I have come to the conclusion that the best way to kill me is by orally poisoning me because I will not be able to regurgitate it fast enough. Good story, huh?

Scizzor Talk: I Will Cut You

Some people like to chit chat with their hairstylist. Talk about their affairs, the weird rash the recently discovered, or that one time they accidentally sharted. You know, the usual. However, I am not one of those people. There is a reason why I go to Fantastic Sam's and not the Pretty People Salons that do everything from haircuts to bedazzle your buttcrack; I am not looking to talk, I just want a person who probably doesn't even work for Fantastic Sam's to trim my hair. Never. Happens.Yesterday, I decided my hair was making me look like one of those Flavor Flav chicks after a love spat. Aaaaaaaaaand that's when it's time for a haircut.

My "hairstylist" greeted me with "Oh, heeeeeellooooo! You walk so well. Like a model, but too short." Hmmm, thanks? Ever notice that whenever you are dealing with stylists, they always give you backhanded compliments that make you feel like that time you ate your whole birthday cake by yourself? Don Juan sat me down and began brushing my hair. "You have really soft hair, but the color looks raw." What?! Did you just compare my hair to uncooked meat? Who does that?

Now for the Grand finale:

God's Gift to Hair: I love your sweater. Those sleeves look like so 1980's!
Me: (I want to punch your skinny jean restricted balls) Thanks. Fake smile.
God's Gift to Hair: Have you ever been to the gay club across the street?! They play eighties music.
Me: No, I haven't been there.
God's Gift to Hair: (condescending) Oh, you probably only go to straight bars...
Me: Since, I am more interested in the P than the V, yes, I generally go to straight bars.