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.