nkotbsb.

i, admittedly, have really absurd taste in music. i still listen to boy bands, frequently. basically, i never stopped liking boy bands. it was like, one day you’re 12 and no one cares that you’re obsessed with the backstreet boys, and then all of a sudden i’m 25 and i’m supposed to have, what, forgotten the lyrics to the songs i listened to 27,510,267 times on my walkman?! i don’t think so, hobo. 

i’d actually like to expand this statement to include most, if not all, ridiculous late 90’s pop music. when did it become unacceptable for grown men to dress in coordinating outfits while singing their hearts out (complete with emphatic arm motions and matching intense facial expressions) in spacious plane hangers? remember when mtv used to play music videos? remember trl? i watched that shit like it was my job, frantically voting for bsb on the home phone/landline. i’m really having a hard time expressing how much i truly enjoy terrible pop music because my witty commentary on the absurdity of the entire genre is getting in the way. i’m being serious. among the most played songs on my ipod are any number of britney spears songs and bbmak’s “back here” which is, arguably, the best song of all time. it very well may be that i am using cheesy pop music to replace the romance movie, for which i have zero tolerance. the notebook literally makes me sick at my stomach, but listening to pseudo-straight men singing about love in perfect harmony makes me believe. again, i’m being serious. i went to my 4th (?) backstreet boys concert last year, a tour which also featured new kids on the block, and all jokes aside, it was one of the best days of my life. true, the guys frolicking around on stage were all middled aged, dramatically less attractive than i remembered, winded, and more than slightly pathetic, but their music was the same and i knew every damn word. i wore glitter, smelled like a baby prostitute, and got hammer time on some pineapple smirnoff (consumed on marta from a mcdonalds cup with the bestie, klass), judge me. sometimes i just think it’s best to bask in a time period where christina’s genie was still in the bottle and ludacris was still relevant/not "collaborating" with justin bieber. you will never, ever, convince me that nsync’s “merry christmas, happy holidays” isn’t the best way to kick off, spend, and end the holiday season or that britney is too far gone to come out with a song to simultaneously annoy the shit out of you and make you want to dance. backstreet’s back, alright?

videos to help you get on my level (it's where you want to be):

2/3 of these british guys are cute. from what i've seen/heard, that's not a bad statistic. 

seriously, eff that dear john/notebook/pathetic girl shit, this is love. 

she's a crazy bitch, but she's the right thing to do. 

this is fabulous. although, aging gentlemen should keep their shirts on during concerts (i'm looking at you ugly wahlberg).

fort lantz.

although i’ve regaled most of you with the absurdity of my papa bear, some of his ridiculousness bears (pun intended) repeating. you should read this entire post with a drawn out, borderline redneck, southern accent. 

my father is convinced that that little pandy, wingy cole and i “negotiate our safety on a constant basis”. he insists that “safety is non-negotiable”, once banning me and my 23 year old sister from the local mall after dark, asserting that an aggressive child gang was prowling outside of the movie theater waiting to shoot 6 ft tall white girls (with nerf guns?) as they exited the building after harry potter and, that this kind of dangerous scene should be avoided all together. “nothing good happens after midnight”. “i don’t understand why you girls need to leave the house after it is dark”. announced at 7:30 pm. papa bear is also convinced that because my mother and i do not close the garage doors, deadbolt the doors, and set the alarm while at home, we are “enticing, if not inviting burglars into our home at which point i’m going to have to shoot someone and(he gets real dramatic here, arms flailing, voice screeching) THE BLOOD IS GOING TO BE ON YOUR HANDS!” after this spiel, there are tears in our eyes and we start coughing from suppressed laughter. panda pees her pants (it’s an old person thing) and i cackle like a witch. this does not please papa bear. indignantly, he chortles that we can “laugh all we want, but it ain’t gonna be funny when there’s a dead person in the foyer”. apparently, this imaginary burglar, now dead in our home’s entrance, isn’t the only person trying to break into fort lantz. being that we have the only home on the block (planet) with a summer “cool tub”, everybody wants in on the action, “especially the democrats”. now, please, please, please, before i even continue with this post do not try to get political on me. unless you want to tell me that you are joining the party party, i don’t want to hear your self-important political bullshit. “i don’t believe in the republican party or the democratic party, i just believe in parties”. 

after a weekend marathon of one of my favorite shows, the walking dead, papa bear has, in a lighthearted divergence from “the blood is going to be on your hands”, turned his attention away from the democrat invasion and instead is focusing on the zombie apocalypse, ascertaining various weapons and supplies to take down the droves of walkers and/or democrats eager to plunder the backwoods paradise which is fort lantz. when one such event does occur, i’d like to think that you’d all be welcome to our maximum security fortress, but sadly it has been made clear that only those with usable skills will be allowed on the premises. thank god i’m a “pretty decent shot for someone in a dress and a damn fine cook (both statements i choose to take as compliments)”, otherwise my presence would be deemed unnecessary and i would be forced to wander in cohorts with the mindless hoard (democrats). just kidding, i don’t care about that shit, remember? 

pretty, pretty, princess.

i really fancy myself a sleeping beauty, given my aptitude for napping, or perhaps rapunzel based on my desire for obnoxiously long hair, but find myself, in the most practical sense of the characterization, a cinderella, as i currently do chores for a “living”.

i am a disney princess. just wanted to get that out of the way as to avoid any confusion or misgivings based on the title alone. granted, you’ve probably never seen me on the big screen before as i am a vodka riddled, foul mouthed princess, but i’m totally legit. i have a lovable sidekick in the form of princess oreo, (also a princess, in case the title preceding her name didn’t stick) a bitchy little cat from the wrong side of the tracks with a snarky attitude and an affinity for bacon. please note that i use this sidekick prop as both a singing partner and an object by which to convey inner monologue verbally without looking “crazy”. talking to cats is normal and healthy. i sing to little o as well, mostly usher because they’re both black and sexy. her words, not mine. in all seriousness, i’ve always wanted to be a disney princess. i may or may not have a new life plan in the works which involves losing only enough weight to be a “real life” disney princess at disney world. i worked with a gentleman recently, a former employee for disney world resort, who told me he used to see disney princesses running down underground corridors on their way to events cussing like sailors while chain smoking cigarettes. as it should be. this propelled my desire to sing to animals into overdrive, and now all i can think about is scaring children and getting paid for it. that, and putting oreo the orca in a little mouse (tiger, fish, bird, monkey, raccoon, frog, chipmunk) costume and having her aid in the terrorizing (scratching) of small creatures. while i realize that being a 25 year old disney princess is not the most adult thing to do, i just can’t shake the desire to break out in spontaneous song for the sole purpose of annoying the shit out of everyone around me. i’m talking real klassy with a “k” princess action here, people. thoughts on the new life plan?

a perfect example of the kind of princess i'd be. that's a wig, bitch. 

swamp thing.

although this post could very well be referring to what my hair looks like when i wake up in the morning/don’t brush or wash it for days on end, it’s not about my tresses at all, but rather about an ongoing obsession and possibly infallible life plan. 

as you very well may know, i don’t meet the minimum qualifications to be a front desk clerk and was "lucky" enough to get a job as a hostess, (a position, if it can even be called that, that i had in high school) so i've to really shift gears in order to conjure up a life plan more suitable to my non-existent skill set. in the midst of my confusion i found a light at the end of an alligator shaped tunnel. i’m talking about a cajun, bayou, french language butchering, alligator wrangling, drinking, smoking, mudda frickan life altering realization in the form of the history channel’s swamp people. the show is currently in hiatus, so if you haven’t seen it, for the love of all things entertaining, get on it. now, i’m sure you’re wondering how this swamp people obsession relates to my own life as i hate the outdoors, manual labor, and people who are drunker than me (cajun). i have decided that instead of starting this “life” thing everyone is talking about, or applying for another 158 jobs online, or taking an internship, i am going to go live in the swamp, marry a landry (lauren landry really has a nice {yurman} ring to it), have shoes and handbags made of alligator, drunkenly ramble in order to fit in with the locals, and most importantly start my own spin-off show entitled “the real swamp wives of louisiana”. before you start in on me, i realize that this plan, like all my others, may have some flaws. i’m sure the shopping is abysmal, so i’m researching the availability of the interweb and ups in the pierre part area, while simultaneously calculating the cost of a private jet. also, this plan is shocking because i fear both commitment and marriage, but i assume marriages in the bayou are not legally binding and involve placing bud light pull tabs on each others’ fingers and calling it a day; that, i can deal with. 

i’d like to add that since writing this lovely little piece, i have, against all odds and rejections, gained employment. let the record reflect that despite this achievement, becoming a real swamp wife of louisiana with the beautiful/alligator loving bianca nawrocki is still my life plan. jobs are for poor people and mine makes me want to kill myself. 

gaining the trust and blank stare/toothless grin of junior and willie edwards is only the first step in my master plan.

teaching little o to attack gators/go outside will be phase two of the plan.

now will someone please buy me one of these koozies so that i will have something to keep my drink cold while i execute my dream?