Momism: Calorie Counting Queen

While driving on Ventura Blvd. like a Tom Petty song:

Mom: So Cal Sushi...hmmm...we should try that one day.
Me: I'm down.
Mom: I wonder how they make it low cal...
Me: huh?
Mom: So Cal Sushi...do you think they use brown rice?
Me: Wait. What? Why do you think it's low calorie sushi? Wait...
Mom: So Cal?!
Me: Mom. So Cal means Southern California.
Mom: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Me: hahahahahahahaha! Thank you for that.

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.

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.

Ooopsie Poopsi

If you shy away from disgusting things or do not want to imagine me in an unflattering light (AS IF THAT'S EVEN POSSIBLE???), then I suggest you do not read past this point.

So, I woke up this morning with a massive headache. Whenever this happens, I try to figure out the reason for my version of morning wood.

Me talking to myself: Hmmm, what caused this headache? Did I have a roller derby dream again? Nah. Did I get in a bar fight with the dumb chick who stole my pickle? Nah, that can't happen more than once. Hmmm, I did eat an abnormal amount of fiber yesterday. COULD I HAVE A POOPACHE???

My mind is settled that the cause of my morning headache is an overdoes of fiber. I ate 3 servings of fiber cereal, 2 fiber fruit bars, a grapefruit (surprisingly LOADED with fiber), and a fiber healthy dinner. Now, honestly, you are supposed to poop 4 times a day, but I ate enough fiber to unclog half of China's poopulation. The problem is that I have not gone yet. I have a poopache. Stop making that face. I warned you about reading past the first sentence. Now deal with it.

I just finished my morning coffee and I took an Excedrin Migraine. I won't let you know how my morning turns out, but I imagine that I will be a much happier person later in the day.

Poisoning My Friends and Burning Down Kitchens

Better than Brett Michaels

One thing on my Summer To Do List is to bake. Now, if you know me, this is a very risky and adventurous task. Might as well be jumping out of a plane. Growing up, breakfast came from McDonalds, lunch was made by the questionable lady at school who would lick her dentures every five seconds, and dinner was either Thai or some other delicious ethnic cuisine...like Del Taco. Point is, mama didn't cook.

My wonderful mother threw away ALL of our pots and pans when I was eight years old. Why? Well, Mindel (that's her name) felt that if we had no pots, no pans, and only food that was microwavable, she could never get roped in to cooking holiday meals. Something like this:

Aunt Carmela: Mindel, will you make your delicious casserole for Thanksgiving?

Mindel: Oh, sorry Carmela. I have no pots or pans.
Carmela(angry tone): You can buy the disposable ones from the market, Mindel.
Mindel(frustrated): My stove is broken.

That's right. Mama would use every excuse in the book to make sure she did not have to cook. Going as far as unplugging the stove if someone tried to catch her in her anti-Martha Stewart lies. Homegirl be straight trippin.

Ding! Now you get it. I AM doing something challenging. Totally going against my heritage. There is no cooking or baking gene in my body. I tried boiling eggs once. They exploded all over my kitchen and I had to repaint it. I baked cookies. They were the best weapon I ever had. Don't mess with me fool or my cooking will bitch slap you. So, I have undertaken this challenging task to make food that doesn't poison my friends or break walls. Thus far I have made:

Biscuits (a.k.a. Brett Michaels)- They were actually tasty. Sheenika, my law school boyfriend, ate like three. +1 for my soul.

Oatmeal Bars (a.k.a. Cancer Sticks)- Ummm, accidentally used the SPLENDA Brown Sugar...yeah. They tasted like cancer.

Cheddar Jalapeno Cornbread (a.k.a. Bobby Brown) - I know, right? Quite a task for a novice. Homegirl Ina Garten had that cornbrizzle on lock. Me, well, not so much. Ina is like Whitney Houston and I'm like Bobby Brown. She's got all the talent and I'm trying to steal the crazy bitches fame. The C-bread needed more cheese fo sho. Otherwise, not too bad.

If you have any recipe recommendations, let me know. I need some new weapons of mass destruction. Word to Mindel.

Gosh, I Love Yogurt

Yogurt. Delicious, enticing, divine yogurt. If only everything in life were as pleasing as you. Men? No. I mean, do they come in 78+ aw-inspiring flavors, ranging from Red Velvet, to Pistacchio, to Banana Cream Pie? Do they come with 36+ incredibly fattening but oh so inviting toppings? No.

Yogurt is the easiest decision I have to make in the day. You are a fluffy bed of semi-guilt free love. My blanket of comfort during finals. I had two whole servings of you today and I would got get a third if I weren't so embarrassed to make the third trip into the Yogurtland. The second time in I had to lie and say I was getting you for my roommate. The guy gave me the look. The look that says "I know you are getting it for yourself, so I am just going to give you the raised eyebrow of suspicion and laugh at you with my co-workers once your jiggly butt walks out the door." Sexy yogurt interlude:

Bow-Chicka-Bow-Wow
Back. Where was I? Weird looks from the Yogurt man? Yes. He may give me weird looks, but I got the Yogurt in the end, Mr. Yogurt Man. You may have an unlimited supply, but I have an unlimited love. Too much? Never. So, until tomorrow, I'll be dreaming about you Madagascar Vanilla.

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