Must Have Been My Janky Toe

It was time for “the talk.” Yes, you know to what I am referring. The “Are we or aren’t we official?” talk. I went in nervous and expecting the worst. In the end, I did not get what I want. Why? Well, he doesn’t want to be in a relationship with me. Most likely because I have this really janky pinky toe. It has an odd nail and it is kind of gross. I think he was intimidated by it. Yeah, that was most likely it.

Despite my jokes, it hurts. A lot. After a crying sesh with girlfriends, I still feel like someone was throwing mayonnaise at me all day (I hate mayo). I really liked him. He was the first guy that I liked in a long time and I was ready to take it to the next level. But he was not.

Nonetheless, I am satisfied. I am satisfied because I went into “the talk” knowing what I needed and I stood strong. He was not ready to give me a relationship, and my position did not falter. I want someone to be ready for me now. To want what I have to offer now. I am a wonderful girlfriend and a good person and I deserve someone who will appreciate me. I respect him. I respect his decision. He did what he felt was right for him and I am doing what I feel is best for me. Every woman deserves to feel like she is enough for the other person. That is what I want.

I may be sad right now, but most importantly, I am hopeful. I believe in fate. I also believe that fate is making and taking every move possible to create the future you desire. So, I did not get what I want this time, but at least I was proactive. I will eventually get what I want. Maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but soon, because I am willing to take those steps necessary to obtain it.

But, maybe I should get my janky toe fixed. That way the next guy has no excuse. Word :-P

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.

I Count Like Count Chocula

I got this from another blog I occasionally read. I think this is relevant to all of our lives.

"Your wants and needs are just as important as his, and if you don’t express them because you think it will scare him away, then you’re saying you don’t count as much as he does."

I love this. My fear tends to take over my rationality. A lot. My amazing friends give me the best advice ever (I love you guys), yet I still act like a tool. So, here's to putting aside my doucheyness and saying I COUNT. Amen, sistahs.

Recommendations. Yes, I Have Some Insight!

I tend to love when friends recommend a new product or thing to do. So, every now and then, when I think of something nifty to do or use something that makes me yell jimminy cricket (that means it's good), I will dedicate a little blog post to it. I am that cool.

New Lash Blast Fusion Mascara - By Covergirl

No. I am not one of Tyra's new Top Model minions, released into the world with a script to promote CG products. This is mainly because I am 30 inches too short, and 40 face blows too ugly. BUT, I am a miniature/average looking human being here to tell you that this new mascara is wonderful.

I am not a fan of any other CG mascara or any other of the stupid lash blasts. Mainly because "Lash Blast" sounds like your eyelashes will have explosive diarrhea if you use it. Oh, don't deny it! But, also because the mascara would never dry on my lashes, nor make them as voluminous as it said it would. Tear. This new mascara is made to not only volumize but also lengthen your lashes. IT ACTUALLY DOES IT!

So, my awesome lady readers, male too (whatever floats your boat), go out and spend the $8.59 on Lash Blast Fusion. Totally worth it.

Typical. Absolutely Typical.

Let me just premise this story with the fact that I have two Taylors in my phone.

Taylor #1: Taylor Robinette (as listed in my phone) is a cute redhead who enjoys awkward banter and CiCi's Pizza. She is fun, makes odd Popeye faces for my camera, and has a deep appreciation for Tyra Banks.

Taylor #2: He is a guy I was stuck talking to when Audra met the 34yr old love of her life. At first I thought he was gay. No. He's not gay. He texted me two days later asking me to join him "for a yoga sesh and then some fro yo." Again. Not gay.

There I was, resting on my couch. Watching Say Yes to the Dress, like any normal, single, 25yr old. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, goes the cell phone. Ohhhhh. Look. A text from Taylor #1. "What are you up to tonight?" I was excited because I've been wanting a little rendezvous with my fellow Tyra loving redhead. "I plan on going out! Let's meet up!" Taylor #1 responds two seconds later with "I plan on watching the sunset in PB and then going out from there. Come join me." Now, this struck me as a little odd. Why was Taylor watching the sunset in PB? Whatevs. Sugar muffin likes sunsets. I went with it and told her that I would meet her around 9, after the sunset...

HOLY FLIPP'N CRAP.

I may be in law school but DAMN! My data processing system is straight up jank. Word. As you may have realized as soon as I said "sunset," this was not Taylor #1 but rather questionably gay Taylor #2. Do I want to watch sunsets with him? No. Do I want to get drunk with him after the sunset? No. FAIL.

P.S. I am wearing an awesome polka dot onesie. I look like a brunette, midget version of Lucille Ball. For reals.

Catastrophe

What is the deal with cats? I don't get it. It's like all of a sudden the world is OBSESSED with cats doing dumb things. "Ohhhhhhh, look! A cat falling in a toilet! How cute." No. This is not cute. Nothing about this cat doing ridiculous things is cute, Danielle, Jon, and Dom. Cats attack you and sit on your face. They pur too. Purring is so creepy. It's like they have a pearl stuck in their throat or they are that creepy cigarette lady who smokes through her neck hole. Cats are neck holes.

Nonetheless, I will respect your cats Danielle because they are family. Just remember. They are forced family.

You Are Lame.com

For the second time - YES, SECOND TIME - in a month, I have heard someone add ".com" to the end of their sentence. Two examples of this absolutely ridiculous expression are:

Real Life Scenario #1:
Me, talking to my friends in the middle of the "make me sweat like a fat man" crowded bar, look'n fly in my nautical slut dress (I passed on the onesie, Danielle). My delicate frame was suddenly pushed like a wimpy schoolboy by some drunken, stumbling foolio. Yes. I did just say "foolio." Deal with it.
Douchey looking guy in the bar w/ even douchier smurf hair decides to come to my rescue with his quick wit. And I quote, "That was rude .com."

I don't know why but this kinda made me want to make-out with him and punch him at the same time. Completely normal.

Real Life Scenario #2:
Me: trying to get around all of the "ooooooh, I am so environmentally friendly and hip because I shop at Trader Joe's" people, so I can get to the cheese section of the market.
Dumb couple: blocking my cheese selection because they are trying to decide whether the Laughing Cow swiss cheese wedges will be good.
First issue with this situation is WHO THE HECK HASN'T TRIED LAUGHING COW CHEESE WEDGES YET? I mean, really?! Where have you been for the last seven years? Obviously in hell because that is the only place that would not have these cheese wedges. Warsaw too, but that might as well be hell. Second issue with this situation is why the heck are you debating whether or not you should buy cheese? There is no debate when it comes to cheese. It doesn't matter why type it is. Stop dilly-dallying and buy it!
Where was I going with this? Oh, yes, I almost forgot due to the abundance of problems with this 15 minutes of my life. So, a third person (blocking my way to the cheese!) walks up to the couple to help them come to their senses.
Third Butthole Blocking My Cheese: OMG. You should totally buy those. They are the bomb.com

No. I did not want to make-out with this person. I really just wanted to punch her. Right in the baby-maker.

Moral of the story: Don't block my cheese. Oh. And if you add .com to the end of your sentence, everything evil in the world will happen to you.