Ooopsie Poopsi

If you shy away from disgusting things or do not want to imagine me in an unflattering light (AS IF THAT'S EVEN POSSIBLE???), then I suggest you do not read past this point.

So, I woke up this morning with a massive headache. Whenever this happens, I try to figure out the reason for my version of morning wood.

Me talking to myself: Hmmm, what caused this headache? Did I have a roller derby dream again? Nah. Did I get in a bar fight with the dumb chick who stole my pickle? Nah, that can't happen more than once. Hmmm, I did eat an abnormal amount of fiber yesterday. COULD I HAVE A POOPACHE???

My mind is settled that the cause of my morning headache is an overdoes of fiber. I ate 3 servings of fiber cereal, 2 fiber fruit bars, a grapefruit (surprisingly LOADED with fiber), and a fiber healthy dinner. Now, honestly, you are supposed to poop 4 times a day, but I ate enough fiber to unclog half of China's poopulation. The problem is that I have not gone yet. I have a poopache. Stop making that face. I warned you about reading past the first sentence. Now deal with it.

I just finished my morning coffee and I took an Excedrin Migraine. I won't let you know how my morning turns out, but I imagine that I will be a much happier person later in the day.

San Francisco Let Me See That Thong

Let me know if you understand the title of this post. You are awesome if you do.

Me and my jet-setting awesomeness went to San Francisco last weekend. I love SF because it is the city of stereotypes: hippies, gays, and druggies, OH MY!  Wrap it up in a tortilla and call it heaven.

Vacation began with an awkward encounter on the plane. I was really looking forward to getting groped by airport security but I gueeeeeeeeeeess I don’t look like a terrorist or my boobies are not big enough, so that didn’t pan out. After missing out on some airport action, I got to sit next to a hot little number on the death trap. Well, he was like 50 and had 2 kids but let’s pretend he looked like Colin Firth and wanted to make out with me. So, Colin offered me a free drink ticket and of course I say “Oh, no thanks, I’m saving myself.” Wait. What? WHO SAYS THAT? I mean, besides Mel Gibson. 

Anywho, lovermuffinbffslutbag – aka Audra – picked my ass up from the airport and surprised my Kim Kardashian booty with homemade chocolate chip cookies. Since Rachel refuses to feed my fat face and there is no such thing as a “microwaveable choco-crack cookie,” you can only imagine how rarely I get to make-out with a homemade cookie. Mmmmmmm. Dear Audra, if you want to keep the fire burnin, send me cookies. Please and thank you. 

Friday was spent with my NEWLY ENGAGED BESTY and her fiancée. Bomb diggity. We talked wedding and drank wine at a nifty little spot on the water. Then I lamented how I have one less friend to compete with me for Brett Michaels love on Rock of Love: Season 15 – The Adult Diaper Years. Once my tears dried and left streaks of orange bronzer on my cheeks, we ate tacos and drank alcohol and got to hang out with the inventor of HJ’s on Tractors (check your local fetish store around 2012). I can probably get you an autographed video. Not to brag or anything.

Saturday = Wise Sons Deli = Crap my pants delicious deli food. No offense San Di-Goy-go, but when it comes to deli food I feel like Moses would if you dropped him in China and told him to find a latke. Lost, starved and confused. Thank God, my friend Evan Bloom just opened his awesome deli in San Francisco. Here comes my shameless advertisement: 

Are you searching for mouth-watering corned beef? Ever find yourself craving a gargantuan homemade bagel with a hefty helping of cream cheese AND lox?  Well, tell your stomach to grumble no longer because your Jewish cravings have been answered! Wise Sons Deli. Bitch. 

I threw that “bitch” in for flavor. The salt of my sentence. If you are reading my blog and you live in SF, then go to Wise Sons and God will grant you one wish and give you one kosher turkey leg. 

The rest of my Saturday consisted of hanging with my lovermuffin and my cousin and shopping for some naughties. I won’t mention who bought the naughties because I don’t want that person to be embarrassed. SEE, I DO HAVE A SOUL. So, um, then we waited an HOUR AND A HALF for some damn tacos. But, we were with good company (my other engaged friend and his fiancée) and the tacos were tacolicious, so it was all good. You would be laughing right now if you were part of that nifty group because the taco place is named tacolicious. Wicka wicka whaaaaaat! Pickle boob. 

I am so tired of writing that I am not making sense anymore. Here are some pictures for you to touch:

Kill Fat Bitches, yo.

Okay, LOOK CHALLENGED!

Mama said knock you out, so I'm gonna knock you out.

    

FIN.

Breaking Va-Jay-Jay News

So, during my egotistical attempt to locate my blog with the search term "Va-Jay-Jay Protector" I landed upon a true gem. It was the first site to pop-up in my search: The Real Va-Jay-Jay Protector

Can I getta oh my Va-Jay-Jay Visor?! Amen. It is a visor FOR YOUR VAGINA. "It provides modesty and sanitary protection." Pretty sure keeping your vagina on lock-down instead of playing "look-at-me" is a better way to remain modest and sanitary. The best part is the brief history. " The idea of the Va J-J Visor originated a few years ago after a night of hanging out." Hmmm, you mean you were hanging out, talking about your vaginas and how to make them more modest? Umm, that's cool. Next: "We settled on the name after rejecting other possibilities like 'The Clam Shell', 'The Beaver Dam', 'The Bonnie Bonnet', 'The Hoo Ha Hoodie', and 'The Sister Hood' because we had long referred to this area of our anatomy as our va j-j."ALL of these names are WAY better than Va-Jay-Jay Visor. Looks like I have new vagina references...HOO HA...HOODIE.

Tweet Your Va-Jay-Jay Protector

I just joined twitter. My life CAN be summed up in 140 characters or less. Obama would be proud. Makeitawkward is the name and stop judging me with your judgy eyes. Save it for the courts JUDY.

Also, the locks in my school's bathroom stalls are called Hiney Protectors. I think they should be nicknamed Va-Jay-Jay Protectors.

P.S. My name is now forever linked with Va-jay-jay protector. I might just have to google my blog 6 zillion times today.

Momism: Milk-a-Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?

In yogurt shop:

Mindel: There are so many flavors. Ooooh, this Cookies n' Cream sounds good.
Me: Yeah, but it's dairy free.
Mindel: So?
Me: It wont taste the same?
Mindel: Why not?
Me: Because there is no dairy in it.
Mindel: Wait. What does that mean?
Me: Ummmm, dairy is a milk product...
Mindel: Sooooooooooooo?
Me: OH-MUH-GAAAAAWD! It means there is no milk in it!
Mindel: Oh. Well that's just not yogurt. Excuse me sir why do you even call this a yogurt shop?

 I think it cannot get worse. Hah.

Facecrack With A Chance Of Showers

I hate those nights where I am so inexplicably tired that I cannot fall asleep because I have to stalk people I don't know on Facebook, check weather.com incessantly (pft. I think the weather is interesting. Suck it donkey.), go on E!News to see if anyone I love to hate has been arrested or is preggers.

I love you technology for making me socially inept and providing me with more knowledge than any human should have on storm cycles.

P.S. I went to San Francisco this past weekend, but I have to wash my hair, so I will tell you about it later. It's not you, it's me. Promises.

Brighty Whitey

Google says this is Mother Nature. I say this is some stoned sister of the Jolly Green Giant.

 Seeing as that I have to complain about everything. HELLO! We all know that I am Jewish by now. I feel the need to stick it to mother nature today. Within the past month we have had torrential downpours and 30 degree weather in San Diego. I know you dirty east coasters don't understand that 30 degree weather in So-Cal means "I'm so cold my nipples just froze off my body and now look like cement freckles," but it does and you should sympatize (spelled the way hottie with the body Rev. Al Sharpton would say it).

But today was one asshole of a day. No, not in a bad way. As in, it was so hot I literally felt like I was stuck in someone's asshole. I am such a lady. It was such a nice change from the norm. Unfortunately, my skin, once compared to a vampires white, has been in hibernation. I literally could be a persons flashlight because I am so white. I am so white that they should have a box under Caucasian that says "Bright White." That bad.

So here's my little tiff with MN. That slut gave me a sunburn! Technically, it was her little bitch we like to call the "sun" that did it. I still blame MN. Suck it weather whore.

Boy Meets Chuck Norris

Waking up early on a weekend is a Kanye just interrupted my speech downer. Every weekend, my goal is to fulfill my Beauty Sleep obligation because Joan Rivers told me it's a necessity for natural beauty and we all know that Joan Rivers holds the key to youth. Ahem. So, waking up at 7am on a Saturday gets my 18th-century knickers in a twist. Mama likes her granny panties.

However, this Saturday was not a typical Saturday. There I am, trying to fall back asleep and cursing Octomom for having so many babies. Homegurl could use them like Pokemon trading cards. Jus sayin. It just wasn't working, so I turned on the boobtube.

Chuck Norris on a Bowflex. Hand me a cold one, Charlie Sheen, because I need to cool down. Holy lifetime infomercial. The man is like 78 yet he can pull a 200lb weight like it was Justin Bieber. Sorry Biebs, it's true. Then, for some disturbing reason, I decided to change channel. What. The. Cory. Matthews. Boy Meets World, aka, the show that made look like an asshole for 3 years of my life. That bangin crimpy hair Topanga Lawrence sported made me look like a white poodle. Why you gotta do me that way Tow-payn-ga?

Needless to say, I had ample entertainment for the next 4 hours. Off to the Golden Hoes!

How To Be Famous. No Really.

After spending hours reading gossip columns and watching E! True Hollywood Story, I have learned the secret to being famous. No, it's not giving out BJ's like it's Halloween candy or getting breast implants. Mmmm, I want chicken. Sorry, the term breast implants makes me think of chicken and then I get hungry. But I digress. So, the secret to being famous:

1. You sang in front of the mirror.

But, Lauren, this is far too simple? Sit down Kanye and I will explain. Whenever a celebrity is asked "How did you know you wanted to be a singer/actor/dildo?" the celebrity answers with "I knew because I danced and sang in front of my mirror." Really? That's amazing because I knew I wanted to be a lawyer when I started filing pretend motions in front of the mirror. Weird. Sorry to crush your dreams Taylor Swift but every child sings to a mirror audience. It's like a childhood requirement, along with peeing your pants and eating your boogers.

2. You were a nerd.

Ever notice how celebrities were NOT cool until they became famous??? "Did you have a lot of friends in high school? No, the kids used to pick on me. " Newsflash, they didn't pick on you because you were a nerd they picked on you because you were a total whore nipple. So, why don't you go cry in your pretty corner Scarlett Johanson, while the real nerds continue dressing like cracked out Carebears and setting curves.

3. You were ugly.

ALL celebrities were ugly before they were famous. They were so hideous they belonged on Rock of Love instead of in movies. Then, one day, Jake Gyllenhaal, Brad Pitt, and Jessica Biel bumped into Jesus and asked him to fix their faces. ALAKAZAM! And then they were pretty. Yep, that's exactly how it happened...in their drug induced dreams. Celebrities are always trying to relate to real people by saying they used to be ugly. You know what I have to say to that? What the effing shit? It makes me really happy to know that in order to relate you have to be ugly like the rest of us. Go ingest some more botox, dicks.

4. You lived in your car.

Oooooh, look at me! I was sooooo poor that I had to live in my car. Now I have miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillions of dollars that I spend on Evian baths, gold-flaked ice cream, and diamond encrusted toilets because everyone should take sparkly poops.

5. You have mommy/daddy issues.

My dad wasn't around, my mom is Sarah Palin, wah wah wah. Sad. Good thing you have a money to spend on legit psychotherapy from Dr. Drew or Phil.

If you find that you fulfill the above, you are pretty much guaranteed stardom and free sex from hookers. Jus sayin, Charlie Sheen.

Good Booby To You!

Today was a day for a professional outfit. Class presentations deserve at least sooooooome effort. I decided on my button-up collared shirt and some black straight-leg slacks. Very Audrey Hepburn instead of the usual homeless person meets Punky Brewster.

I packed my bag and began my walk to school. There are a couple churches and rehabs in my neighborhood, so I often run into homeless people and the elderly. La dee da dee da (that's the sound of me walking. Precious, I know). An old man walked past me and said "Good day young lady." Totally brightened my day. Old people are so cute. Then a homeless man sitting on the curb said "You have some change." Notice the lack of question mark. Keep that in mind. Once I reached the rehab, some tatted-up Jesse James look-a-like said "You have a good day. I know I will."

Okay, that's it. What the heck is going on? I never get this much attention. An Audrey Hepburn outfit is just an outfit, I still have my face. I look down at myself. Oh, oh. OHHHHHHHH. My shirt was half unbuttoned and my chest was freer than Willy. I looked a little further down. Oh. My fly was also open.

Lesson of the Day: Look in the mirror before you leave home. So much for my attempt at class. I am forever sticking with my homeless person meets Punky look.

I Just Need Another Jewel, Man. Just One More.

Sometimes the internet is useful: shopping, news, porn. Sometimes the internet can just suck it: WebMD, virus from downloading too much porn, BEJEWELED. Stupid bejeweled interferes with my life and most of my intelligence because instead of being a productive human being I am playing shiny crack. Officially five steps closer to having the IQ of a carrot. It's possible and yes I am admitting to a bejeweled addiction.

During winter break I thought I would find a mindless distraction to numb my swollen brain. Pft, distraction my ass. IT'S CRACK. I cannot stop playing this game and it's filtering into my academic life. Oh, you think it it's possible to turn a murder case into five different types of precious jewels and then match them accordingly? My carrot brain begs to differ. 

If I fail out of school and never get married, the Jew that created this game needs to write me a letter of apology. Oh you know it was a Jew that invented the game. David was probably playing Tetris one day and got bored because the game didn't involve anything shiny or of value...and then there was Bejewled. It's in the bible.

Okay. Gotta go and play some Bejeweled. Lates.

Dear Alcohol, Why You Gotta Do Me That Way?

At what point in my life did one shot of tequila turn into feeling like some dirty groper slipped me a roofie? Three drinks last night. Three drinks. Three drinks and I wake-up looking like Snookie after a bar fight and, well, just looking like Snookie in any shape or form is enough for you to send me a care package and a hug. 

College. Those were the days. The days when I could drink Popov Vodka mixed with Franzia boxed class and still have enough dignity to be one K-Fed away from a full-on Britney. I would wake up in a lawn chair, go on a jog to the dining hall, eat something that was probably meat but was supposed to be cereal and then do it all over again. My young liver deserved a box of chocolates and a bag of Funions. That's how I say thank you.

Present. These are the days God punishes me for all the white lies I told in my youth. Yes, Mom. I was the one who peed on the dining room floor because I could not make it to the bathroom in time...not the dog. What?!!! I was 4 and still learning bladder control. Gosh. The hangovers are just so bad. Absolutely awful. One drink or 15 drinks, it doesn't matter. It all leaves me with the same question and feeling the next morning: How the shit does that Betty Ford drop-out Lindsay do it??? Worst part is that I don't vomit. I love that word. It's like the adult version of puke. Probably how people know that I am not a minor...because I use adult words like vomit and vagina. Where was I? I got sidetracked. Oh yeah. I don't vomit, so all that alchy is just festering in my stomach with 5 microwaved quesadillas I somehow managed to eat.

Ugh, this computer screen is making me dizzy. I need cures. I wish the Golden Girls was on TV.

Will You Accept This Rose? DUH!

DUN DA DA DUN!!! IT'S BACHELOR TIME. There are three ways to turn me into a giddy school girl. Two of them involve massive quantities of food eaten in a horrifically short amount of time while drinking alcohol out of my bra (http://weirdnews.about.com/od/weirdphotos/ig/Strange-New-Products.-0F7/Wine-Rack-Bra.htm) and the third involves an ego-maniac whose ego I would like to stroke after a ten minute montage of our six week whirlwind romance.

That's me and Jake. He fell in love with my delicate features and girlish charm.

TV does not get any better than ABC's The Bachelor. Everything that is good in the world makes that show. It's like God took a big pot, threw in Christmas, Rainbows, and dumbass posters of babies dressed as flowers or donkey's, and out came the most perfect show in the world. The Bachelor has a montage of a man doing push-ups, then running on the beach, then talking about his feelings, then taking his shirt off, then looking into the distance pensively, within the first 5 minutes of the show. Did you read how many times I had to use the word "then" in that sentence? FOUR! That's what you call "crap your pants" good.

Last night's premiere DID NOT disappoint, I mean, if that was even possible.The new bachelor is actually the old bachelor who left the two train-wrecked hoes at the altar. Homeboy was obviously waiting for me. Ahem. Personally, I wouldn't have picked them either but after his douchey stunt, every woman in America probably wanted to hunt down Brad Womack to tar and feather his ass. I mean he left Jenny and Deanna (did you really think I wouldn't remember their names?) at the altar because he was not ready for a "relationship." I call it "not ready for a relationship because he was hoping to get more va-jay-jay than Tiger Woods" after being on TV.  WRONG.

Hence, he is back on the show to "reclaim" his dignity through MULTIPLE scenes of him stating how he is a changed man because he saw a psychologist and got rid of his daddy issues. Seriously, the 2-hour premiere consisted of at least one hour of whining about daddy, which is not a huge change from the norm but I REALLY DON'T CARE. The only thing I am interested in is which psycho girl who is 200 marbles shy of sanity he is going to choose.

All of the women were soooooooooooooooooooo worried about whether he would pick a winner this time...woe is me. I wonder if they realize that they are on television competing against 29 other ladies for one man's affection? I would not risk my reputation for those odds...okay, I would. These ladies get all "Flava Flave" up in your grill crazy. One minute she's a sweet little southern belle from Louisiana and then she's Britney Spears shave my head psycho.

I love this show and I really don't know where I was going with this post other than to admit that I watch crap TV, which you already know. Whatevs.

Wait. I Have to be an Adult? What the Shit.

Today is the first day of my last semester. Cue the Titanic quartet (honestly, was I the only one rooting for the quartet to survive? Jack and Rose were sooooooo annoying. "Oh Jack, I love you. Paint my boobies." BORING.) Basically, I have been a total dildo for the past 25 years of my life and wasted my time learning stuff. After 4 years of college and 3 years of law school the only skills I have been left with are:

1.  Mediocre grammar
2. The ability to name all 9 Supreme Court Justices and the inability to name all of Santa's reindeer
3. The true meaning of the Wizard of Oz. That ho bag's shoes are supposed to be silver.
4. The discovery that mixing orange soda and bacardi is NOT like a mimosa and WILL make you a classy bitch because you will learn to NEVER mix orange soda and bacardi again. 

Soooooooo...ummmmmmm...now what? Like, do I have to go out and practice law and shit? I like learning. It puts me in my little anti-social food bubble. I love that bubble. Mmmmm, peanut-butter, nutella and marshmallow sandwich while sitting in a corner watching reruns of Hannah Montana on my laptop bubble. I would make-out with that bubble like it was a 1997 poster of Taylor Hanson. But noooooooooooooooooo. I have to go get a real job and make real money and forget about the Taylor Hanson posters I got from the latest issue of Teen Bop. Also, now I will  be judged by a whole new group of people who ask me about my ziploc addiction and rolley backpack obsession. I will probably want these people to like me too, so I will have to act normal and not look like a mentally challenged space cadet:

Exhibit A: Sometimes I exude Tina Fey cool and sometimes this happens. Okay, usually this happens. 

Yeah. I actually had that look on my face today when I had to announce the last book I read to my class. "The last book I read was Twilight." Good thing I am used to being judged for most decisions I make in life. Dear Maturity, I will find you soon.

I Don't Know What to Think

I was checking my stats because I am awesome. Someone found my blog after searching "the whitest person in class." I don't know if I should be happy that I am linked to that sentence. Whatevs. If stupid crap like that leads to my blog then I am going to be the "whitest and most popular person in class." Take that bitches.

The image google provides for "the whitest person in class." This makes me happy.

Um, Hi...What's Up?

It's been a while. We started this nice little 5 to 10 posts a month relationship and then NOTHING. I left baby in the corner and never asked mama bear to dirty dance. Sorry. But, I'm Jack Nicholson in The Shining back. FINE. I am not completely back because I am watching the two-weeks worth of prime TV I have saved on my DVR. That means 20-hours of Gossip Girl, 90210, Glee, 30 Rock and Vampire Diaries. I am "What what in the butt" happy.

Other than telling you about the useless way I am spending my new year I would like to inform you about my life during the past two months:

1. I got me a lil sister! NO, Mindel did not pop one out. I was matched with a little sister after joining Big Brothers, Big Sisters. I am really excited and scared. I might make this child into the most awkward and nerdy middle schooler ever. Sorry universe.

2. I put a peach in a ziploc bag.
3. I put scrambled eggs in a ziploc bag. Riveting, I know.

They kind of smelled like butthole. No. They really did smell like butthole.

4. I referenced ziploc bags far too many times in 1 blog post. Sorry.
5. I got in touch with my Joots (Jew + Roots) and celebrated the shit out of Hanukkah. I got my own menorah and lit the candles all 8 days. Yes, the candles were kosher. Unfortunately, my menorah was placed next to a piggy bank...I don't know how kosher that is but I feel like I lost some God points. Sorry for reals.

 
6. Blossom. I was Blossom for Halloween and I learned a major lesson. My lesson was that men who hit on a girl dressed like an awkward and mediocre looking teen idol probably have a weird fetish and are just as creepy as the guys who hit on the slutty police women.

Eat your heart out Mayim Bialik. Slut.

7. I ran in the rain. Yep. I AM THAT INTERESTING.
8. Rachel passed the bar.
9. I would be a real ass face if I dedicated only one sentence to Rachel's passing the bar. So, here is this video:

Side note: Holy effing crap. Serena was drugged and that vagina head Juliette is blackmailing Lilly.

10. It's New Years Day and I have resolved to write at least 15 posts a month. You're welcome.