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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

Why You Gotta Be Sittin In Front of Me, Yo?

Last night was date night. Since I lack a boyfriend and my imaginary one is the worst conversationist ever (always playing the silent card...whattup wit dat?), it meant Rachel and I do something that she finds only mildly annoying. Thus, we ventured to the AMC to see Get Him to the Greek. Russell Brand's bendy chicken legs in tight pants. Yes, please?

First, we headed to the AMC in Fashion Valley. Rachel prefers this theater to the one in Mission Valley. Oh. In case you are confused. Rachel is my BFF/Roommate. She pretty much hates everything. Babies, young adults, animals, people in general, crowds, the sun, flowers, etc. She does like cheese. Maybe that's why we get along so well? Who knows. Shrug. Anywho, we went to the FV AMC because Rachel was already sacrificing part of her sanity by sitting in a crowded theater, so it might as well be one she kinda likes. We arrive 30 minutes early. Lo and behold, SOLD OUT. "Ugggggggghhhhhhh, of course." Oh. Also, Rachel doesn't express emotions in a yell. It is usually monotone. So, "I love you" may sound like "I want to rub a dirty diaper all over your face."

We hop back in Lurch (formerly Lil Weezy) and head to Mission Valley. Theater is empty. SCORE. We pick the best seats in the house and Rachel looks only mildly annoyed. +1 for life. People begin to filter in, but in no way, shape or form is the theater even near crowded, nor will it become crowded. Then. There they were. The typical San Diego couple. Little 105lb blonde girl with glowing orange skin from her spray tan addiction. Like an Oompa Loompa, but cuter. And her Boyfriend. Wearing his sexy Ed Hardy shirt that makes me want to pinch his nipples and then kick him.

They start assessing their seating options. Look right in my direction. Bam. They decide to sit in the two seats RIGHT IN FRONT of me and Rachel. Ummm. Excuse me Douchey McDoucherson and your Glowstick girlfriend. Why do you find it necessary to sit in the seat that is the foot rest for my Hobbit feet? Was there really no other seat in this EMPTY theater that appealed to you? I know my feet emit some hella-amazing pheramones BUT honestly! Furthermore, when they sat down, it was with such gusto. Like, they had to slam their bodies into the chair so gold would come flying out of their butthole. Rude.

Most annoyting part: THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS!!! People need to get some theater etiquette. Maybe instead of playing those lame commercials that make the Army look like a trip to Disneyland, the can teach the theater morons to not sit directly in front of someone in an empty theater. Word.

I Attract 3 Things

I attract 3 things:

1. Homeless people


2. Flying objects


3. Bees

Homeless People: I don't know what it is, but homeless people love me. To them, I am the garbage bin that contains the jackpot. It's like they automatically know that I am a sucker and will listen to whatever nonesense they have to tell me. Whether they are talking about the crackwhore that kicked 'em in the nutsack and stole their shoes or the true meaning of Cheese (Ch = chopped and Eese = chopped with ease), I listen and find their stories are well told and much more amusing than any law school lecture.

Flying Objects: It doesn't matter where I am, if there is something flying through the air it will most likely land on my head. I have been hit by a baseball, bird poop, an orange, a sandwich, a pigeon...you get the point. Weird thing is that I really don't care who has seen all of these embarrassing encounters between my head and objects. I just really hope that no one was aiming for my head. That would really suck.

Bees: People love to play the victim, BUT, I promise you that in no way am I trying to play the victim here. Bees are out to get me. They are part of the mafia and have a hit out on me. You think I am crazy? Well, then call me Anne Heche because this is TRUE. I have never been stung before and they know it or something. Within 6 months my apartment has had 3 beehives outside of it. Each beehive gets closer and closer to my room. If there is a bee outside, do you think it goes to a flower to pollinate it? NO. It tries to pollinate ME. Hence, I am left running in circles with my rolley backpack. So, Mr. Bee, I am onto you. Watch your step.

More Olives Please?!

Subway. Oh, my divine Subway. Why do you tease me so? Yes, I said tease. Why? Well, I see an advertisement for a $5 footlong. Of course, I automatically crave the turkey sub with the toppings exploding out of the overstuffed sandwich being advertised in this enticing commercial. So, I hop in Lil Weezy (my not-so-trusty mode of transportation)and make my way to Subway. When I enter the shop, the usual scent of feet and meat enters my nostrils. Mmmmmmm!

Sandwich Artist: What can I get you?
Me: I would like a turkey footlong on wheat, please.
Sandwich Artist: Toppings?
Me: Yes! Lettuce, tomato, pickle, olives...ummmm...

Usually, this is where the dialogue turns ugly. How, you may ask, does dialogue "turn ugly" in a Subway? Well, that question is rather easy. If the staff wouldn't be so chintzy with the toppings, my attitude would remain in its typical upbeat tone. BUT, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. They never fail to put a ridiculously small amount of toppings on. AND, if you have ever been to a subway you KNOW what I am talking about. You say "I want olives" and they put 4 olives on your sandwich. As if each olive was king of a particular section of your sandwich and no other olives can enter the territory without war.

So, of course, I ask for more olives, and then, I get the look. That look that says "Oh great, I got the chick that's gonna give me a hassle." YES, Mr. Sandwich Man, I am going to give you a flippin hassle if you don't put more olives on my sandwich! Anyway, after the look, the Artist (ahem) puts 3 more olives on, creating 3 new olive territories. Now, I am annoyed. I mean, c'mon! How am I supposed to even taste those olives through the chunky foot-tasting wheat bread?

In my newly annoyed state, I address my dear sandwich maker again, "May I pleeeeaaaaase have more olives?" This time he is not going for it. "Ma'am, I am going to have to charge you extra for more." WHAT? EXCUSE ME? You want to charge me extra for the 3 more olives you are going to throw on that pathetic excuse for a sandwich! I am no longer sweet and complacent, that goes out the door in 1.3 seconds, and the "Listen, bitch" comes out. I call this alter "Listen, bitch" because my first sentence always starts with "Listen" and I always dream of having enough courage to add the bitch (I never do, but wouldn't that make an interesting story?).

"Listen, sir, you put a total of 7 olives on my sandwich. Is there an olive limit? In training, do they tell you that 7 is the maximum and then you have to start charging per set of 3? Is there a shortage of olives in the world that I do not know of? Do you save the extra olives you don't put on sandwiches, and eat them after your shift? I mean, really man..." At this point, he is annoyed and he can tell I am just getting started. So, I get my way. After a lot of wasted breath and time, the Sandwich chef picks up the handfull of olives that he should have from the start and throws them on my sandwich like a defeated child.

Yes. I have won this battle but I know there will be more. I know this will happen every time I go to Subway. So, Mr. Sandwich Man, be prepared because I have my voluminous speech ready to break you down and annoy the hell out of you.

Lauren: 36
Sandwich Man: 0