Dating Advice From The Bachelor: It's Legit

More likely than not, you remember my healthy obsession with the Bachelor. Baby just want a rose and a man who does montage push-ups. Montage push-ups. Heeeeeeeey. Enough of that. Well, you can only imagine the joy rainbows I barfed when God (formally known as the American Broadcasting Company) blessed this heavenly earth with season…umm…season “you have been watching this show since high school and even the people who still watch the Real World are shaming you.” Sorry for my long sentences, it has been awhile and my fingers are all excited. Asdlfjoencas. See. Looks like 2012 is going to be a good year. I laugh in your end of the world predicting face, Mayans. 

Accordingly, every year I learn a new dating technique from the most appropriate people to learn dating do’s and don’ts from: desperate single pageant girls who most likely spraytan their vajewhas (I don’t know why, but I am kind of falling for this new childish word for vagina). So, please, let me share my newly acquired knowledge as a Happy New Year present for my readers…all 3 of you.

Things I have learned: 

• Bring Your Grandma to Date Night

Turns out, I have been dating wrong. Your personality can get him interested, but your grandmother can take Baby right out of that corner and sell her faster than a Princess Leia blow-up doll at Comic-Con. A grown woman actually brought her Grandmother on the show because she’s “super close” to her Grammy. Meaning, the Bachelor will never dump her bedazzled face while under septuagenarian pressure. Lo and behold, the blonde with a mediocre personality and a golden girl on her arm got a rose.

Hence, next man I date is going to meet every family member over the age of 60. Ba bam.

• Props

Again. I have been doing this dating thing wrong. But honestly, you cannot blame me. I was in law school and then there was that drunk birthday problem…point is, I am getting back into the swing of things. Apparently, things have changed a lot since I have been gone. I always thought that the guy calls you, he picks you up or you find a good spot to meet if he seems like he might be a crazy serial killer stalker type, you talk a little bit, maybe make-out if he at least appears sane, and then you go home. 

Nope. Wrong. Props. (say it like you are Tom Haverford on Parks and Rec – if you do not know to what I am referring then shame on you and 2012 is going to suck unless you figure shit out). Almost every girl on the Bachelwhore (like what I did there?) had a prop. One girl had a large hat, then there was grandma chick, one had a soccer ball…a girl had a flipping HORSE! Yep. A girl rode in on a horse, as if she were some exotic beauty from a Harlequinn Romance novel. 

Point: Mama’s getting a horse.

• Don’t Be the Psychotic Blogger Chick

Now, although I love to start a first date with a some awkward moments and I usually am the psychotic blogger chick, but this girl just took the cake. On the very first night she managed to screw up a quote, yell at someone for not being into Ben enough, and cry for hours in the bathroom. She started off the show with this introduction: “Ummm, so, I’m like a blogger. It’s what I do for a living. I blog about relationships and how I over-analyze them. I just really over-analyze relationships too much. Hahaha!”

Okay, cra-y cra-y! 

• Don’t Ask a Girl to Share a Tampon with You

Wait. Why exactly not?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Crunchy Leaf, You Lookin Fine

Fall. I truly love this season. It means I can wear my 50 zillion cardigans with my pearls. People ask if I stole my style from Mad Men, then I look at them as if they deserve to be punched, because they are dumb, and tell them that 1952 came up with the style before Mad Men did. Ahhhhhh, the serenity of fall.


I also love CRUNCHY LEAVES. I love it like a platter full of gas inducing cheese. I would make out with those crunchy leaves if I thought it was mildly appropriate or sanitary. Whatevs. I rather live in lust. Nevertheless, you totally know what I am talking about, right? The leaves that fall (little pun, don’t be a playa hata) and are all crunchy when you step on them. I LOVE IT. I have never done drugs, but I imagine drugs are like stepping on crunchy leaves. THE ADRENALINE. Okay, I am calm. Phew. The worst is when you are walking all ziggy-zaggy (grammatically, I am five), so you can step on every leaf, and then you get that one leaf that looks crunchy, but it is soggy. UGH, such a downer. That’s what I assume someone in rehab would feel like.


Excuse me, Mr. Party Crasher, this is my moment. Not yours.



My almost adulterous obsession with leaves and appreciation for sweaters and pearl necklaces (the one’s from oysters, not weinies) are the things that eliminate the evil that comes with fall. What evil do you speak of, Lauren? Vampires? A new season of American Idol? All of the above? Don’t be silly. Vampires don’t exist and American Idol provides swoon-worthy Ryan Hotcrest moments. The evils I am referring to are holiday flavors and slutty costumes.


Holiday Flavors

It really peels my onion when I open my F-book page and every single status update in my newsfeed has to do with a “pumpkin spiced chai tea latte.” First, any beverage that sounds like it has a vagina and needs a purse is automatically on my “you are dumb” list. Second, I am pretty sure the only reason you people are obsessed with these dumb “seasonal” beverages is because it is SEASONAL. Unlike, the daily “Vanilla Chai Tea Latte” you brutally attack, like Lorelai Gilmore would a Pop-Tart. I did just make a Gilmore Girls reference. Pat on back.

Slutty Costumes

Yeah, I know. Almost every human has made some type of comment about slutty Halloween costumes. I have worn them. A lot of them. Boobs, butt, perhaps a flashing of the hoo-ha…been there, done that, hung my head in shame. My new motto: If Oprah cannot fit it, then it should not be a costume. Ladies, you do not need a Halloween costume to act slutty, we have alcohol and fake blackouts for that.

No one I know…Definitely not me: OMG. Did I really hook up with that guy, tell you that you are ugly, and slap a baby? Sorry. I was soooooo wasted.

Costume manufacturers have made slutty versions of every costume. Real police woman uniform= kind of looks like a lesbian, but costume police woman = kind of looks like the hooker the real police woman should be arresting. Real female firefighter = hides all the cellulite, but costume firefighter = you are probably going to come out of that burning building looking like a melted Chucky doll. Just sayiiiiin.

I think every woman who wears a slutty costume on Halloween should have to wear her costume the day after. All day. Hahahaha. President Obama, can we make this a law? Next year. After I wear my last slutty costume of the decade…

I Bring Class in a Ziploc Bag

Today, I have:

• gone to the gym and successfully avoided the farter;


• sat in three classes and took actual notes instead of spending the majority of my time on facebook, gchat, and E!Online (don't hate);


• successfuly chewed crunchy food in the library; and


• managed to make my cubicle look like someone with a horrible coke addiction was sitting at it (put your mind in the gutter because I wasn't referring to the coke polar bears like to advertise in their free time)

Like my self portrait? Tres chic. I know. I classed the shit out of that cubicle with my pearls, half-eaten grapefruit, and supposed drug bags. The cardigan practically makes me Jackie-O. Holla.

If this was in a Highlights magazine the goal would be to find all of the Ziploc bags. Sorry, Earth, for depleting your ozone one bag at a time...or in my case 12. I have tried using those Glade plastic containers and other earth friendly methods, such as stuffing all the food in my bra. It did not work. Glade is not rolley backpack friendly and the food bra left some major chest stains. I don't want the nickname Lactating Lauren, again.

I should have never gone to law school. I should be a crime scene investigator. I would always have a bag for the evidence AND it would be recycled because I would have already used it for my lunch. Take that Captain Planet.

My Wallet Has Money Diarrhea Every Time I Enter Target

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

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

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

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

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

Me: DAMN YOU TARGET. DAMN YOU.

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

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