Umm, Yeah.

I would just like to let my readers know that one of the traffic sources to my blog is whoresex.com. I don't know who you are, but I am pretty sure you were disappointed when you clicked on this link and didn't see a bunch of whore sex. Also, I should probably stop using the word vagina in my blog so much. Probably.

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.

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.

Miss Me Miss Me Now You Wanna Kiss Me

It's been so long since you heard from me! Sorry for putting you in a state of depression that you thought you would never escape. But after a week long blog break, I have accomplished quite a bit: vegas, ballet, bomb diggity oatmeal (no really. It was the bees knees.). I am too tired to write anything of substance, so I will leave you with this:

HAPPY VD!!! No, not venereal disease. That's never happy. Trust. It's Valentines Day. The day that I want to cuddle up to a box of Franzia and Russell Stovers. Now buy me this: MakeMeSexy

Good Booby To You!

Today was a day for a professional outfit. Class presentations deserve at least sooooooome effort. I decided on my button-up collared shirt and some black straight-leg slacks. Very Audrey Hepburn instead of the usual homeless person meets Punky Brewster.

I packed my bag and began my walk to school. There are a couple churches and rehabs in my neighborhood, so I often run into homeless people and the elderly. La dee da dee da (that's the sound of me walking. Precious, I know). An old man walked past me and said "Good day young lady." Totally brightened my day. Old people are so cute. Then a homeless man sitting on the curb said "You have some change." Notice the lack of question mark. Keep that in mind. Once I reached the rehab, some tatted-up Jesse James look-a-like said "You have a good day. I know I will."

Okay, that's it. What the heck is going on? I never get this much attention. An Audrey Hepburn outfit is just an outfit, I still have my face. I look down at myself. Oh, oh. OHHHHHHHH. My shirt was half unbuttoned and my chest was freer than Willy. I looked a little further down. Oh. My fly was also open.

Lesson of the Day: Look in the mirror before you leave home. So much for my attempt at class. I am forever sticking with my homeless person meets Punky look.

I Don't Know What to Think

I was checking my stats because I am awesome. Someone found my blog after searching "the whitest person in class." I don't know if I should be happy that I am linked to that sentence. Whatevs. If stupid crap like that leads to my blog then I am going to be the "whitest and most popular person in class." Take that bitches.

The image google provides for "the whitest person in class." This makes me happy.

Um, Hi...What's Up?

It's been a while. We started this nice little 5 to 10 posts a month relationship and then NOTHING. I left baby in the corner and never asked mama bear to dirty dance. Sorry. But, I'm Jack Nicholson in The Shining back. FINE. I am not completely back because I am watching the two-weeks worth of prime TV I have saved on my DVR. That means 20-hours of Gossip Girl, 90210, Glee, 30 Rock and Vampire Diaries. I am "What what in the butt" happy.

Other than telling you about the useless way I am spending my new year I would like to inform you about my life during the past two months:

1. I got me a lil sister! NO, Mindel did not pop one out. I was matched with a little sister after joining Big Brothers, Big Sisters. I am really excited and scared. I might make this child into the most awkward and nerdy middle schooler ever. Sorry universe.

2. I put a peach in a ziploc bag.
3. I put scrambled eggs in a ziploc bag. Riveting, I know.

They kind of smelled like butthole. No. They really did smell like butthole.

4. I referenced ziploc bags far too many times in 1 blog post. Sorry.
5. I got in touch with my Joots (Jew + Roots) and celebrated the shit out of Hanukkah. I got my own menorah and lit the candles all 8 days. Yes, the candles were kosher. Unfortunately, my menorah was placed next to a piggy bank...I don't know how kosher that is but I feel like I lost some God points. Sorry for reals.

 
6. Blossom. I was Blossom for Halloween and I learned a major lesson. My lesson was that men who hit on a girl dressed like an awkward and mediocre looking teen idol probably have a weird fetish and are just as creepy as the guys who hit on the slutty police women.

Eat your heart out Mayim Bialik. Slut.

7. I ran in the rain. Yep. I AM THAT INTERESTING.
8. Rachel passed the bar.
9. I would be a real ass face if I dedicated only one sentence to Rachel's passing the bar. So, here is this video:

Side note: Holy effing crap. Serena was drugged and that vagina head Juliette is blackmailing Lilly.

10. It's New Years Day and I have resolved to write at least 15 posts a month. You're welcome.

The Racial Profiling Game

Today, in Immigration and the Law, my class played a game all the hip kids are playing. The game was called "Who Looks Like an Illegal and Should be Thrown Off the Bus." Did I mention those "hip kids" are related to Sarah Palin? In this very appropriate game, my professor selects the whitest person in class (Side Note: I was NOT the whitest person for once in my life...looks like the dark shadow my freckles cast have finally paid off). The boy with blond curls, blue eyes, and albino-like skin was spotted, my professor motions him to stand in front of the class.

Professor: Okay, Mr. Whitey McWhiterson, I want you to pick all the people in the class who look like they could be illegals. Then tell them they must get off the bus.
Whitey Mc Whiterson: Um...um...I really don't feel comfortable doing that...
 Professor: SIGH!

She decides to select another lucky winner, while I duck behind my '17 computer screen.

Professor: Will you please help us with this exercise?
Other White Kid: I am sorry...I just can't do that.
Professor: Oh, c'mon!!!

Don't worry, Professor. "Let's Practice Racial Profiling in Law School," you have a volunteer. That's right. One out of the four whities in my class decided to participate in the new game only Mel Gibson would find fun.

Stupid White Guy: So, all I have to do is pick out the brown people?
Professor: (laughing) Pretty much.
Stupid White Guy: (pointing) Okay, well, you're brown, you're brown, you're Asian but that's the same, you're brown...okay, all of you off the bus.

Soooooo, how many inappropriate things happened in one class? Give it a go.

Additional Side Note: My professor is an immigrant from Mexico/Immigration attorney

You Sound Like You're From London

You know those people who use an accent when pronouncing foreign words? Like, instead of using their best Kevin Costner to say "Chill-ee Kon Car-nay," they use the spanish accent they never had and channel Sofia Vergara "Chee-leh Cohn Carr-ne". Not to brag or anything, ahem, but I am one of those people. I KNOW. I am sooooooooooooooooooooo annoying, but when did you ever doubt that? I am the person who says "ahh-nt" instead of "Ant." I am a classy broad. Gosh, I have the biggest wedgy right now.

Okay, I have a point. So, I drove past an Einstein's Bagels yesterday and it got me thinking. No pun intended, but homegurl got it doooooooooown. It got me thinking about the En-ga-lish. Does a person from England pronounce "Bagel" as "BAAAAAH-GEL"?

Say it out loud, because I cannot stop laughing. Furthermore, what if they are eating Bahgels and playing boggle??? That must be horribly confusing. It also explains the whole "scones" for breakfast thing and the lack of a Jewlation (sounds more like a sexual act - Did you Jewlate today? I love experiencing Jewlation...I'm done...Jewlating).

I Profess My Love

I am not the type to have crushes on my professors. Usually because they are women, they are just so incredibly awful that I want to throw bologna at their faces, or they don't have that typical mountain man look I love. Of course, there is an exception to my taste and I call him Smithypoo.

I am kind-of in love with my Constitutional Law professor. It's not the "I love you and I am going to violate your 4th amendment right to privacy by peering in your window with my night vision binoculars" type of love. I mean...I would never do that...nope...ahem. He is so nerdy and adorable with his ADHD and inability to finish a sentence properly. I just want to pinch his cheeks. He's like a Steve Urkel and Porky Pig sandwich. Not Kosher but adorable.

Best part? Everytime he calls on me he awkwardly looks right above my head. No. Seriously. He never looks me in the eye (probably because he's worried he'll get lost in the puddle of my large black tar pupils) and instead stares directly above my head. Maybe there is an invisible fat baby that only he can see, sitting on my head. That totally explains the headaches. Whattup wit dat Fat Baby?

The other day, I had to miss class. So, of course, I e-mailed Smithy-Poo to get the assignment and what I missed. His reply, and I quote, "Sorry, you couldn't be here. The class missed you." I know, right? He totally loves me.

Last, but not least, he looks like Max who owned The Max on Saved by the Bell. Oh. Is that your heart going pitter patter too now. Back off bitches.

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.

Say Cheese! Not You Scalia...Say Formaggio

I am taking Current Issues in Constitutional Law this semester. My first assignment was to list 5 things I know about the Supreme Court. Ummm, when did Law School become Elementary School, dawg? Answer:

Obviously I had to google the Supreme Court as soon as I received this assignment. As I observed the plethora of photographs of the Justices, I noticed one thing: every photo looks like my elementary school class picture. So, I took the liberty of using Microsoft Office Paint to edit in that little faux whiteboard. Take that photoshop.

Check out Chief Justice Rehnquist in the center. Homeboy was obviously not on good terms with anyone that day or he just had an enema based on his knee clenching stance. Don't poo in the robe, Rehnquist!

Why I Associate Brazilians With Torture

Groupon was very polite today, as they are everyday, and sent me a wonderful deal. The e-mail title read:

"1/2-off Brazilian Blowout"

First Reaction: WHAT?! What kind of sick tortured soul would want to do that to their Hoo-ha?

5 Seconds Later: Brazilians are SICK. First, they try and enforce the notion that women who are 18 and older need to look like Lolita in their nether regions and now they are implementing some new strategy of torture. Oh, so sorry, I guess waxing every square inch of your va-jay-jay was just not enough.

10 Seconds After the 5 Seconds: Oh. Um. They meant the hair on my head. Blowout...hair straightening mechanism for the hair on your head. Hmmm. I knew that.

(P.S. No images here because the most appropriate ones would probably get me kicked off the blog and we all know how much you would hate that.)

What I Learned in the Library Today

I think I grew more hair on my arms. This is not good because my arms already look like Godzilla's twin. So much for studying. Now all I want to do is try to braid my new locks of love.

(Disclaimer: This is not an accurate representation. The lighting in here does not properly portray my hair growth)

Finals Makes Me Wanna Throw Bologna

Guess what?! It's about that time, again. WHAT TIME IS IT? It's time for me to lose my mind and start talking crazy. Not straying from the norm too much, but I am a wee bit more off center than usual. Right this moment, I am sitting in a cubicle in the back corner of the library, or as I like to call it, the building of tears. I have these nifty little earplugs that mold to the shape of my ear. THEY. ARE. AWESOME. These bad boys make me want to jump in a pool to see if water can break them down. I will take a bath later and let y'all know how it goes.

Next, I have consumed two mugs of coffee, a whole grapefruit, and 2 Fiber fruit bars. Obviously, I did not think this through when I was packing my lunch. Now I am the crazy girl, who is slouched over because of the intense stomach pains. It feels like Rocky Balboa is practicing for his next match. You'll get the Russian, Rocky...just leave me be.

Last, my hair smells like coconut and my body smells like vanilla. I am supposed to be memorizing the Code of Ethics that I am to live by once I'm a blah-yer, but all I can think of is how bad I want a macaroon. DAMN YOU FAT MAN SOUL. Damn you.

STOP BLINKING AT ME!

I cannot drive. Fact. I know it is absurd. I am so perfect in every single way. How is it possible that I cannot drive? Well, it’s possible. My car has the bruises to prove it. Sorry parked bus that I sideswiped. Sorry dormant cement poll that got to third base with my car. In all honesty, neither should have been in my way. *cue Luda ‘Get Out Da Way’*

Even though my driving should be confined to the Power Wheels my butt wishes it would fit in, I still feel the need to kvetch about other drivers on the road. Just because I cannot do, doesn’t mean I cannot complain. Jew genes strike again. SO, on that note, whattup with blinker happy drivers? I absolutely despise people who leave their blinker on. Hate it. Like, have the paparazzi follow it, take a bunch of embarrassing pictures of it and sell them to the Enquirer hate. Why? Well, for completely irrational reasons, of course. But, honestly, when have you ever known me to be logical. Let’s get serious people.

Reason #1: It makes me think the car is schizophrenic. Who doesn’t feel bad for a schizo? Not I. Mel Gibson put down your hand. We all know you hate schizo’s, along with Jews, black people, gay people, fat people, and leprechauns. When a person leaves their blinker on, I literally think the car is having a blinking seizure. PEOPLE! The highway is not a rave, no need to be leaving your blinkers on all willy nilly.

Reason #2: The beat of the blinker NEVER matches the beat of the Gavin Degraw CD stuck in my CD player, which I am stuck listening to (Gavin, you totally owe me a lap dance if I ever meet you. Actually, you kind of owe my car a lap dance since, technically, my car is the one you are emotionally scarring. Wait until you see what’s under my hood. Bow chicka bow wow). When the beat of my music does not match the continuous blinking in front of me, it throws my white girl dance moves off-balance (tapping my steering wheel), which throws my driving skills even more off-balance. Do you really want to take that risk, BLINKER SLUT? DO YOU? That’s what I thought.

Under-WHAT?!

It was 1989 and I was looking all sassy in my polka-dot skirt, pink crunch socks, and my fly fanny pack. I was ready to take on the world with the outfit that made Dakota Fanning look like a punk. Unfortunately, I had some horrible opposition to wearing underwear. I really don’t know why, but I just felt like my carebear underoo’s would get in the way of my schoolyard crunking.

My hatred of underwear worried mama bear. Mindel saw my staunch opposition to my elementary chastity belt as a hint to teenage trouble. No underwear at the age of 4 meant I would be the less freckled version of Lindsay Lohan. Word. But, it really was not that complicated. I did not want to wear underwear because Mindel said I was supposed to and it acted as one more obstacle to my potty time. What can I say? I am half Italian, which means I AM INCREDIBLY LAZY. It’s in the genes.

Well, back to my skirt story. So, Mindel was all up in my business:

Mindel: Lauren, did you put on your underwear?
Me: (cross arms and stare-off)
Mindel: I told you to put on your underwear. The boys are going to think you are a slut.
Me: What’s a slut?
Mindel: A girl that doesn’t wear underwear, applies too much white lipstick, and shaves.
Me: I want to be a slut. Can I have lipstick?
Mindel: Fine. You don’t want to wear underwear. I am tired of fighting with you. You can learn your lesson the hard way.

What the heck, mom? Calling me a slut at the age of FOUR? Always trying to one-up Freud. Well, Mindel said I can learn my lesson and boy oh boy did I learn my lesson. It was time for recess and being as intelligent as I was I decided it was a good day to go on the Jungle Gym. WHY AM I SO DUMB? So, I climbed up the stupid spherical awesomeness. I still hadn’t Britney-ed anyone. Then I had the most genius idea of all: hang upside down. GASP.

Oh. Yeah. The gasp was not from me. The gasp was from my teacher. There were other reactions too. Like, Yosi, my schoolyard crush, who yelled “WHAT’S THAT?” He was referring to my whoo-whoo, in case you were wondering. Ms. Cookie, sat me down, explained the importance of underwear, and basically told me that my whoo-whoo scared everyone “Species” status.

Yeah. Underwear became my favorite item of clothing after that incident.

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.

Inhaler's Were Cool, Right?

I should be doing my schoolwork, but I cannot get this giddy feeling of childhood out of my system. It feels like someone just let me loose on a batch of Pixi Stick straws. This happens every time I have to read or write for school...I let my mind wander off into the ever increasing distant memory of my childhood. You know, the simple days. When homework meant making sentences with weekly vocabulary words or expressing your present knowledge of a historical event through a diorama. Occasionally, I long for those days. I love the present and I thoroughly enjoy nesting in it, but sometimes it is so sweet to bask in the sugary memories of my peachy childhood. I was fascinated by everything and afraid of nothing. I had ridiculous aspirations and all I really wanted was a pink skirt and crimped hair. Here are some goodies that I can pull from my memory bank:

1. POGS!!! Yes, I had hundreds of pogs, as well as, the ridiculous accessories necessary for a praise worthy collection


2. Inhaler. No, I did not have asthma. No, I did not have an inhaler. Yes, I did pretend I had asthma and an inhaler. Why? Well, some of you may not remember the award-winner "Sidekicks," but that Johnathan Brandis/Chuck Norris karate movie MADE my childhood. And, if Johnathan Brandis had asthma in the movie, then I did in real life.


3. Pink skirt, puh-lease? The first memory I have of my mom getting angry with me is my memory of my 4th birthday. Every pre-schooler got to announce their birthday wish to the class on their birthday. On Feb. 23rd, it was my turn. I was so excited and on the way to school my mom asked me "what are you going to wish for, bubby?" Bubbling over with excitement, I told my mom I was going to wish for a pink skirt. Well, if you don't know what Jewish guilt is, here's a little lesson: "You are going to wish for a skirt? Lauren, I can't believe you. *shakes head* You are not even going to wish for your family's health. We love you so much, and you are going to pick a skirt over your family. You just really disappointed me." Hence, I wished for my family's health. My mom bought me the pink skirt, too.


4. Getting Kraft-y. I have always had a deep and well-rooted appreciation for cheese. My taste has been refined, of course, but when I was 5 I could down a package of Kraft singles in 20 minutes tops. Kraft singles was my joy and being such a sweet and endearing youngling, I loved to share my joy. Thus, every person who entered my home got a Kraft singles as a welcoming gift. You're Welcome.
5. Kerropi, Pochacco, or Hello Kitty? My preference was Pochacco. Confused? If you were a child from 1993 - 1997, then you're emotional state was determined by how many Sanrio goodies you owned. Sanrio made pencil boxes cool, pens fun, and birthday presents easy. Also, Sanrio helped me survive my adolescent crushes...he loved Kerroppi, so I expressed my interest through the purchase of a Kerroppi eraser, just for him.
6. Sprinklers. Pools were awesome, baths were fun, but the days I got to run through the sprinklers were priceless. There was something so exciting about running on the wet grass while water was shooting at me. Maybe the excitement sprung from the "rebel-like" qualities the activity held...I didn't always have to be in my swimsuit, I could be in school-clothes and SHOES! How awesome is that? Running through water with your clothes on!

I guess I sometimes long for my childhood because of the mystery it held, the excitement that was derived from the most miniscule of things, and the endless entertainment round pieces of cardboard could provide. I enjoyed every moment of my adventures and catastrophes. Now, I am happy that I get to enjoy them through memory :)