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?

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.

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.

Technology Sometimes You Rock That Germ Filled Bubble I Live In

Usually, technology sends me through a hellish torpedo of stupidity and insulting images of Sarah Chalke (she just really pisses me off), but there are moments when I turn into a seventh grader going through puberty and wanna scam on technology like it was Taylor Hanson serenading me with Mmm-Bop. What? That's a solid fantasy, yo.

The divine recognition of my bordering on creepy appreciation for all that is associated with the future came from something I would fall in love with if I were that person who loves inanimate objects (tried to find the psychological term but I couldn't, so now I am the girl who has "people who fall in love with inanimate object" in my search bank): my recognition came from a Red Box. Red Box is technology at its best i.e. it serves cheap lazy people like me.

How the Red Box humping goes down: It's a bright and beautiful day in sunny San Diego. Perfect day for a walk in the park or swim in the ocean. F-that punks. Skin cancer and shark bites are for broke ass hoes, I stay in bed to  watch my 10 inch TV  and collect cookie crumbs in my cleavage like a real woman. No honestly, if I were murdered in my bed during the weekend (knock on wood) the po po's wouldn't need tape because my body would be outlined by food crumbs. Back off my nuts Jake Gyllenhaal, I know you want my sexay bodday. I digress. As soon as I get tired of watching the 11 channels available, I decide to turn to a movie.

Due to my psychopathic need to have a five foot no entry circle around me and remain in the same food stained clothing (and I use that term lightly), Blockbuster is just out of the question. Dun da dun dun! RED BOX i.e. the reason unicorns fart rainbows. All I have to do is go to one of the 65 Seven-Eleven's in my neighborhood and pay $1(!) for a beautiful machine to poop a movie. Also, then I can go into Seven and buy a gargantuan coke, WHICH, by the way, comes with a free sausage biscuit. Don't eat it. There is a chance you might prematurely lose an internal organ.

Wow. I can't believe I wrote this much about Red Box. I need to get my life together.

What A Drag

It's been soooooooooooo looooong, bay-bay. Come give mama some suga. Preferably a pie. Homegurl was on her deathbed for the past two weeks, aka, I had the flu and watched two seasons of Ugly Betty in bed. My room smells like a diaper.

On a positive note, I had a lot of thinking time and with this thinking time I had some life altering revelations: What man would play me (in drag of course) in my life story??? 

3. Peter Falk - He's odd and he probably smells weird. Basically, me in a nutshell.

Oooooh, look how cute I am when I'm confused. Tee hee hee.

  2. Tom Selleck- Magnum P.I. gots the stache and my chest hair would keep me warm in public bathrooms (they're always so unnecessarily cold). 

1. Christopher Walken - Homeboy is the most awkward old man ever. So, me with a wiener in 50yrs.

Oh-muh-gawd. He's already preparing for the role. Walken love for reals.

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.

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.

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.

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.