smart ass.

being the smartest kid in community college is like being the skinniest kid at fat camp. 

before you get your panties in a twist over me insulting the school i attend, please keep in mind that we all have our reasons for choosing this particular institution. for my reasons, please refer to the shriveling and dying of the money tree (papa bear’s wallet). if you know me at all, you understand that i am, at my core, an underachiever or what more kind individuals refer to as a “free spirit”. although i don’t fault myself a single bit for living at home and being a noncontributing member of society in general, you might. to me, that sounds like a personal problem. did you hear that? super sassy. anyway, i underachieve. i’ve always believed that if you set the bar low enough, success is not only more enjoyable, but downright surprising. in my humble opinion, community college is the scholastic manifestation of underachievement. it may be that i’ve finally found my passion in life (eating... i mean, cooking) or that somehow between mercer and the fine college i now attend, i obtained some sort of magical genius (doubtful), whichever the case may be i’ve gained maximum grades with minimal effort. should i feel bad about this? probably.  but you know what, i don’t. going to this school is like having season passes to a three ring circus; it gives me endless material on which the humor you, i’ve finally gotten to see what actually happens when people are raised by wolves, and i think i am building some abdominal muscles from laughing so hard at other people. in all seriousness, i like this community college thing. beyond the obvious ego boosting qualities, i get to cook shit and then get graded for it. sure, i turn crimson and astonishingly procure a mumble every time someone asks me where i go to school, but let me be candid, i quite like being the coolest kid at dragoncon. and i guess, what this whole thing boils down to, other than the fact that i am content in my laziness, is that my  lackadaisical approach to school won’t hurt anyone in the end. we’re talking food here, people (casey bowen voice). as long as i don’t inadvertently give you some kind of foodborne illness or even if i do, i think the world will continue rotating on its axis. 

my goals probably aren’t as lofty as yours. i don’t really care about changing the world. as long as there are shoes sales and bottles of vodka available, i think the world is just fine. right now, i’m perfectly content cooking things that people enjoy and writing things that make those same people tinkle in their pants, a little. 

rover over.

i won’t lie to you. i drove a minivan and i was feeling it. 

so, i had a fabulous/eventful weekend with my lovely girlfriends (not to be confused with my girlfriend, princess oreo, who, for some strange reason was not invited). for starters, my car exploded. ok, i mean it didn’t like have flames or anything shooting out of the hood, but it’s broken beyond repair and there was some boiling anti-freeze/witches brew type action which helped heighten the overall effect. after propositioning both a mechanic and a man at enterprise, a minivan was rented, transportation was set and eventful bachelorette activities ensued, including but not limited to: mint chocolate chip ice cream teeth brushing, drink spillage, toe smashage, misuse of/assault with maracas, creepy bachelors, not creepy naked old man hand holding, slow dancing, penis glitter tattoos, living a teenage dream, late night food runs in the minivan, microphone stealing, girly men drinking washington apple shots, suspicion of kidnapping, unwanted dancing attack/humpage by strangers, jersey shore marathon, general antagonizing/insulting of guidos/everyone else, removal from bar, sidewalk chilling and regurgitating of whole french fries. yes, i know you want more. you want the details. how do you brush your teeth with ice cream? where did you find this naked man? how can you throw up an entire french fry/swallow an entire french fry in the first place? for those answers, feel free to contact me/be around me in the next couple of months and my great love for dramatic storytelling will take over and you can get the whole scoop, including accurate impersonations. for now, i would like to get back to this minivan. i am kinda obsessed with it. you might not be aware of this, but minivans are nice as shit on the inside and have awesome features which were clearly not present when you or i were sitting in the back of one drinking juice boxes and feeding our fathers 3 year old m&ms from under the seat (what? you never did that? lindsey did. she’s a beta alpha beta, a bad ass bitch, if you will. we’re related, obvs). you may have noticed that minivans are still heinous on the outside; some things never change. hey, minivans aren’t perfect, but let’s be honest, i am. i have no clue what the outside of this thing looked like, other than it was van-like and fugly, and i’m not positive on either the make or model, i just know that the inside was magical, the doors were cool, and driving it was an enthralling and pleasurable experience. when papa bear told me the rover was doneso and had to be replaced, i was really tempted to tell him about the torrid weekend affair i had with this damn minivan and have one of my very own waiting for me in the garage at home. mine would have had several tiny televisions and pink track lighting. but, alas, even i’m not cool enough to rock a minivan, regardless of how truly luxurious their interiors may be. 

so, with a tear in my eye (i love you landrover, may you rest in peace/be sold quickly on craigslist) and hope in my heart for the day when i may receive a minivan to have and to hold (with automatic sliding doors, keyless start and an alarmingly roomy interior), i wish for each of you, my dear friends, a life of naked man hand holding and the realization of your very own teenage dream (vodka shots).

minivan lovin'. pure joy.

don't let his age fool you. this man had some of the softest skin my hands have ever touched, plus he helped us find the bar.

the "it looks like you're wearing a midget fannypack" description is by far the most accurate.

double stuffed.

naming a black and white cat oreo is about as creative as naming a baby girl born in the mid 1980’s lauren, but hey, panda and papa bear, no judgements here. 

panda was the philanthropist/animal rights activist who first discovered and rescued princess oreo lantz. yeah, we’re both princesses, get over it. despite being the cutest, tiniest little kitten in the world, oreo was also the most evil. each member of our family had to wear oven mits/work gloves to feed the little shit out of a bottle, lest we be accused of trying to kill ourselves via the world’s smallest razor blade (cat scratches). she was a gluttonous pain in the ass from the beginning, gulping down ungodly amounts of kitten milk while ripping the flesh from our hands and forearms. that being said, oreo is my best friend. she is a very good listener and never interrupts me when i talk, both qualities that i find necessary in a friendship relationship. she is basically motivated by food and slumber, which happen to be among my favorite things. we cuddle, but that bitch always makes me be big spoon because she is a selfish lover and because i am slightly larger. i accidentally made her obese and consequently accidentally made myself obese as well. we don’t care, more to love. oreo is also a huge whorebag. all the boy cats on our street love her and meow at our windows. i on the other hand have the occasional construction worker/mailman/jehovah’s witness try to sneak a peek of me in my pj’s through the window, very sexy. my favorite boyfriend is the brad pitt, and thanks for asking you selfish asshole, we are doing quite well (it’s love). oreo’s favorite boyfriend is the black and white cat next door who looks exactly like her and has, on occasion, been carried into our house under false assumptions of indeed being our beloved orey cat. clearly, the princess is an unapologetic narcissist, another quality which i find quite endearing. she hates outdoors/getting dirty, as these hobbies are for poor people/cats. she flat out refused to come camping/hiking/diva attacking with papa bear and i, because she is very smart (street smart + books smart combo, really). oreo never grooms/cleans herself; those are jobs for humans involving combs and pink barbie brushes. i would like to carry oreo around in one of those funny little baby backpack in the front type deals and let her scratch off the faces of individuals dumb enough to approach us. i have no idea what those midget carrying frontpacks are called as i find the idea of children appalling. the point is, i want one for my cat with an extra little hole for her tail. on a final note, i hate cats. please don’t tell me stories about your animals and be aware that i don’t really like dogs either. i only like oreo because she is the absolute worst specimen of the feline species currently in existence. and for the love of god, don't taint our beautiful relationship with some kind of vulgar cat/lady parts reference, so immature (pervert).

just when you were beginning to feel bad for me and all the ridiculousness which comprises my life story, i busted out the crazy cat lady talk. dating a cat is totally normal. 

glamour shot

example of double stuffedness/cuteness

barbie brush for "grooming"

we fixed our hairs for this one

fuglasville.

you only consider me a snob, because you deem your lackluster taste acceptable. 

now of course, this statement has nothing to do with you (people reading this blog). i would not dare to insult your intelligence or taste by comparing you to the people who live in the godforsaken town, you know, the one where i currently cease to thrive. i’m about to tell you all about this charming (sarcasm) city that i live in, but please note that the following summation will only contain factual information gathered from city archives and first-hand accounts. 

my people (parents), the german/american indians were attempting to escape from a place of academic persecution (medical school) in order that they may raise their beautiful, naturally blonde-headed indian princess daughter in a land free of such scholastic demands, when they came upon a land filled with platform flip flops and mullet haircuts. the matriarch of the tribe had always wanted to be taller and thus fell in love with this land of platform flip flops and the chief had indeed experimented with long hair in high school/college and so instantly gravitated towards the mullets in the illustrious city of fuglasville, georgia. many years passed, which do not matter because the naturally blonde-headed indian princess does not remember them and it was before she learned of shopping malls and vodka, and fuglasville began to change from the land of ultimate promise (platforms/mullets) to a miserable place to be. oh yeah, and somewhere in there the family welcomed a tragically unattractive, dimwitted, midget child who would reek havoc upon her parents in later years with her childish antics, overdrafted bank accounts, general irresponsible behavior, drinking habits and inability to find a single job and/or move out of the house (loser). a shopping mall was erected (har har, wiener) in fuglasville, it sucked and was later overrun with a child gang, comprised of 8 and 9 year olds toting guns and stealing yo bazooka bubblegum (bitches) and currently houses stores no one has ever heard of which sell either airbrushed tupac t-shirts or pink john deere trucker hats/georgia gurlllllz license tags. fortunately the indian princess was able to escape the horrible town for a brief 5 year period in which she built her alcohol tolerance to mystifying levels and rarely attended meaningless classes. then one day, on her own accord and not because her parents forced her to under penalty of the dreaded “move home or we’re cutting you off”, the beautiful, successful, scholarly natural blonde decided to move back to fuglasville to help her elderly parents. she now spends her time as their personal servant, slaving over their dinners and begging for money to survive. the poor princess finds a small amount of solace in the fact that atlanta exists a mere 20 miles from her prison and that individuals in varying parts of the state/country offer weekend escapes in their wigwams. the whole thing it quite sad.

now on to some indisputably accurate information about fuglasville. there are 5 types of people who inhabit this shithole. they are as follows:

1. rednecks
2. white/trailer trash (who vary only slightly from rednecks in that they live in trailers, duh, and have long since sold their shotguns and pick-up trucks for the supplies necessary to start their own meth labs)
3. black people
4. people who think they are rich and live in nice houses (who in actuality are in debt up to their eyeballs and live in shitty/poorly constructed cookie cutter houses with brick facade in needlessly pretentious neighborhoods with golf cart paths. these individuals also wear brighton jewelry, have never heard of lenox and drive tahoes)
5. my family (who vary only slightly from the people who think they are rich and live in nice houses in that they take dave ramsey classes, live in houses built and stuck in the early 1990’s but of sturdy materials, wear david yurman, live part time at lenox mall and drive pieces of shit land rovers which break, on average, every 5 months)

bad fashion, bad taste, bad music, bad roots, bad cars, bad bars, bad shoes, bad hair, and bad shopping are just a few of the things that douglasville does best. so, if you’ve ever considered your life or current residence less than satisfactory, why don’t you call me up and take a tour of this desolate wasteland (not being dramatic)? i’d love to show you some of the hilariously unsatisfactory things this fine city has to offer!