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.

Gimmeeeee The Fix

It's the season. Not football season. Not get your girlfriend preggers and have a shotgun wedding season. IT'S GIRL SCOUT COOKIE SEASON!!!.

Girl Scout cookie season is a two-month long holiday in my twinkling eyes. The cookie that is harder to find than a tattooed baby is one of the many versions of crack I enjoy:

Notice how once I discovered GS Cookies it was an automatic climb on my food crack scale?

Half the year I am roaming the streets with bloodshot eyes, just searching for that little creature to give me a fix. But noooooooooooooo! GS Cookies are only sold during a specific month every year. It makes me want to punch those people who complain that their stupid Starbucks Vanilla Moccachino Snow Man Vagina Latte is only in stores for two months. Assholes. You can go and buy your stupid flavorings and make the drink yourself. Can I go and buy cookie ingredients and make a GS cookie? NO! They have to be made by the little Girl Scout Elves in the GS sweatshop. The one time I am not opposed to child labor.

Well, today is the day of all holy days. Rachel is bringing me FIVE BOXES OF COOKIES. FIVE BOXES. First, I love the fact that I don't have to actually purchase the cookies from the seasonal drug dealer. They are always outside of the supermarket when I am not expecting them and I have no cash. "Oh Muh Gawd! I just need 2 boxes please! I don't have any cash... WILL YOU TAKE MY PARTIALLY USED GIFT CARD TO SOUPLANTATION???" Obviously not a pretty scene. Next, I get 5 boxes, which means I have one and a half days of sitting on my couch with crumbs all ovah muh bod-eeee from the two boxes I scarfed. Then, I get to freeze the other 3 boxes. That means, if I play my cards right and don't give in to my need, I will have cookies for an additional two months. Best. Day. Ever.

My dealer.