forgive me blogspot, for i have sinned. it has been 22 days since my last blogfession. eh, you’ll get over it; oreo and i have been very busy little (or not) kittens.
did you know that you have to have a job in order to pay for an eminent move into the city? it’s insane. also, did you know that a bachelors degree (a designer diploma, at that) coupled with a completely pointless associates degree from a prestigious technical school no longer qualify you for any job, whatsoever? it’s true. at any rate, princess o and i are ready to be adults and are looking forward to the spacious cardboard box (of the refrigerator variety, of course) that we will soon be inhabiting. in preparation for such a move, and because i obviously posses the skills to live quite comfortably in an iron jungle (budgeting skills, a complete professional wardrobe, keen street smarts, my daddy’s money and my mama’s good looks?), oreo the orca whale is having to make some adjustments in preparation for life outside of fuglasville. step number one involves me backing up my ridiculous claims with some actual results. yeah, that’s right, i am, in fact, toilet training my cat. papa bear purchased a fabulous product, aptly named citikitty for us off the interweb and operation “cat peeing in the toilet” is in full swing in the lantzalot (so punny) household. in about 25 complicated steps you too can have your mean little bundle of black and white fur tinkling in the potty instead of in the litterbox. well, guess what? oreo is a stubborn little shit and we are stuck around step 5. she has a strange new habit that involves me taking her outside on a leash and her doing her business outside instead of in her citikitty toilet contraption. that’s right folks, instead of turning my cat into a well adjusted urban feline, i’ve made her a dog. let’s face it, it could be worse; i could have made her into a hamster, and everyone knows cedar chips smell weird (although i would love to see o-ey run in one of those metal wheels, not that she’s capable of running in the first place, for serious). did i mention that i bought stupid o an adorable little pink harness and matching retractable leash? well, it did, and watching her walk with them on is the funniest thing i’ve ever seen. she hates it and walks in a manner dubbed “flat cat” by mrs. panda. all around, complete, success.
so, let us review. oreo and i are moving out. i still have no job. princess oreo still cannot use the human potty or walk on a leash without doing something most similar to a military crawl. the life plan is in full swing people, and going quite well.
sometimes there aren’t words that are good enough. there is no elaborate strand of prose adequately exact and no description of feeling appropriately grand or remotely accurate. whitney, you touched my life in a manner beyond words and all i know is that i love you and miss you, every day, beautiful soulmate...
if the saying is true that aspiring authors should “write what you know”, then i’ve been bullshitting you poor people for quite some time. if i know anything at all it’s not about kittens, fashion blunders, or relationships; it’s about vodka.
having tried absolutely (pun intended?) every type of liquor, malt beverage, wine, champagne, and every combination thereof, i can honestly attest to the fact that there is no better friend than the fermented potato. the list of grievances concerning other intoxicants is extensive: rum is too sweet, gin makes me hate christmas/myself, whiskey adds a level of vulgarity to my already rowdy self that everyone (myself included) finds unacceptable, grain alcohol is only reserved for the the everclear hot tub experiment (which has yet to transpire... mythbusters?), and tequila usually leads to projectile vomiting (ideal). this, my friends, is where vodka outshines the competition. you can mix it with anything, if you spill it on yourself it dries clear, it enhances yet doesn’t overpower my natural bitchiness, and it comes in a large variety of flavors. having stated my intentions of persuading you, the reader, that vodka is superior to all other alcohols, i will now set forth a jumbled list of things to consider before ultimately conceding to my will and admitting that vodka reins as the king all of liquor. when discussing the supremacy of russia’s “little water”, one must be mindful of price, flavor and overall wiener factor.
although some may argue that only expensive vodka is worth drinking, i would like to remind you that i have yet to meet someone rich enough to marry, in some cases quantity is better than quality, and that all individuals, including papa bear, have a cap on weekly alcohol budgets. that being said, i will not drink any vodka that comes in a plastic bottle, unless of course i am very inebriated or very, very desperate. this is what one might call “standards”; i don’t have many, but this is a non-negotiable (much like safety). is grey goose better than svedka? yes. is kettle one superior to smirnoff? definitely. would i turn down either of the lesser quality vodkas or either of the expensive brands? do you know me at all? you see, i don’t care if you filtered my vodka through charcoal 500 times, i don’t care that some russian dude in an igloo with a furry hood said it’s the best, and i don’t care that your vodka is sponsored by p diddy/diddy/diddy dirty money. if it’s 13.99, in glass, and doesn’t taste like rubbing alcohol, i’ll drink it (love you, svedka).
transition to the flavor component. ideally, vodka should taste like nothing. in rare cases this actually happens. in most cases, put on your big girl panties, it’s alcohol, it’s going to burn. while nothing can make this girl happier than vodka + water + lime, flavored varieties certainly have their place. for example, fancy the orange creamsicle of childhood? vanilla vodka + orange soda. magic. need to add a zing to a drink which can technically count as a meal/is the thing of hangover legends? pepper vodka + bloody mary mix. cured. better yet, bacon vodka. obese. need a drink which makes you feel like a lady who lunches rather than the blatant alcoholic you really are? peach vodka + champagne + mango puree. bellini bliss. you welcome.
which ultimately leads me to my final point, the wiener factor. you have a wiener/think you’re too big of a badass to drink vodka. vodka is for girls. you’re scared of paper umbrellas in drinks. you only drink beer. you only drink whiskey. news, freaking, flash. you have to drink a bottle of beer in order to have consumed the same as a single shot of vodka. you are wasting valuable stomach space. both vodka and whiskey, on average, are 80 proof, meaning 40% alcohol. you’re going to mix that whiskey with coca cola, i’m going to mix my vodka with water. you’re a fatty (i know, i know, i’m not one to talk. i’m only this squishy because they say you can’t trust a skinny chef, politics) and to add insult to injury, your hangover will be worse than mine because unlike my fabulously clear drink of choice yours contains tannins and acetone which make you feel like shit and significantly decreases your next day cognition. who’s the wiener now?
learn to hydrate and intoxicate simultaneously, hobos.
if this drunk baby doesn't make you laugh, then i don't know what will.
i’ve recently been made painfully aware of the fact that i suffer from seasonal allergies. more specifically, i suffer from pollen being directly deposited into my nose by one oreo lantz.
you see, when a kitty cat rolls around on your pollen-laiden driveway and then insists on sleeping on your face, pollen inhalation is all but inevitable. so, after administering copious amounts of antihistamines, nasal sprays, and decongestants simultaneously i was able to conclude that there are lots of things for which i have a similar allergic reaction. and while some of the lists below cause physical reactions such as nausea and eyeball pain, many leave impressions as well as symptoms which can not be treated with either over the counter or prescription medication, such as emotional damage and permanent memory etching. very. scary. stuff. really, i hate many, many things so making a short list of allergies comes as natural as cats and barbie hair brushes.
i am allergic to:
fugly footwear.including, but not limited to: kitten heels, mules, platform flip flops, plastic flip flops, bedazzled flip flops, now that i think about it, all flip flops, double stacked keds, wedges with heels under 4”, any heel under 4” (see also, kitten heel), bulbous flats, anything too cheap, too plastic, or too much like something panda would wear.
heinous clothing. including but not limited to: anything purchased from hollister, american eagle, or abercrombie, cargo shorts, jhorts (unless purchased with proper fit, length, and fabric containing less than 10% spandex, also known as “demin”, never okay for anyone with a wiener), tea length dresses (hello, cankles), capris, man capris, capris of any kind, all graphic tees, anything that looks like lisa frank, a rhinestone, someone who smokes meth, and a tattoo artist had a baby (see ed hardy), spaghetti strap tank tops worn as shirts (not even close, please, please stop), tube tops, ribbon belts, anything too tight, too short, or too fugly.
animal people. individuals who indiscriminately like all animals have deep seated issues and more likely than not problems with normal human interaction.
picky eaters. everyone is allowed to have their “things”. if you stick syrup, a raisin or a canned black olive in front of me, i will punch you. transversely, if the only thing you’ll eat is a chicken finger, we’re going to have a little problem.
the morning time. yes, i stay up until 5 am. yes, i know that this is not “normal”. yes, i remain grumpy until noon. yes, i usually continue to be grumpy after that. no, i will not apologize. no, i don’t want a damn bagel.
work. i really don’t mind words like “project” or “experiment”, but work is absolutely disgusting. manual labor is out of the question. “working out” has the word work in it, so, no.
higher education. i don’t like it. i feel significantly dumber now than i did when i started college.
love/marriage/relationships. i get it. sometimes you people love each other and want to hold hands, kiss each other in public, share your bank accounts and be lifetime roommates, or whatever. that’s great. you scare me. no thank you.
i supposed you are expecting some kind of conclusion to this rant. i’m allergic to many things. chances are i’m even a little allergic to you. fear not, for there is an easy solution which will attract rather than detract my much sought after affection, luring me to you like a bee to honey: carry around a bottle of vodka.
on a final and, you guessed it, unrelated note, i'd like to thank miranda lambert for writing a song about me. that was kind.
i remember a time (yesterday) when every major life decision was made using one of the following methods: magic 8 ball, horoscopes, ipod dipping, mash, chinese fortune tellers, or bible dipping. if i can’t shake, click, shuffle, spell, count or point my way to a solution, then damnit, there isn’t a solution to be had.
go ahead, trust in your “everything happens for a reason” philosophy. as far as i’m concerned everything happens because i trust the shuffle on my ipod to pick a song worthy of interpreting my ever so important and life changing queries. do you need to know whether or not you should go to the bar on a monday? shake a magic 8 ball. when the ball tells you, “ask again later”, drink a bottle of wine and give it another try. do you need to know when the next dramatic mood swing (due to the graviational pull/alignment of pluto, the dwarf planet) will send your friends running in the opposite direction? you better get your crabby (astrological sign joke?) ass to the nearest horoscope app/use the interweb and pick up on your planetary vibes. need to figure out who you’ll marry, where you’ll live, what your salary, occupation and child count will be? duh, mash that shit. do you have only mere days left until formal and have yet to choose a date? get to folding, numbering, color coding and candidate selecting, it’s time for a chinese fortune teller (true story). need general, hardly accurate and always out of context advice from the jesus? dust off the bible your grandma gave you, ask a broad and generally open-ended question, start ruffling the pages, jab your finger onto a random page and start reading. now you have, by word of divine authority, the answer to all your problems. i think sometimes, in an attempt to be “grown-ups” we decide to make things more complicated than they should be. we discuss at length the nature of, variables of, and solutions to our various problems, questions and concerns, rarely considering the fact that despite our best and lengthiest analysis, most things either fall apart or fall into place.
when you really think about it, you probably already know whether or not you’re going out on a monday, when you’re grumpy, and who you will definitely not be marrying. why not let yourself be surprised with some vague cosmic readings which coincide perfectly with your current mood and/or situation, live in a shack with brad pitt (hey, i’d take it), or have the theme song to your life be drake’s “fancy”? feel free to discuss your feelings, but don’t be upset when i only answer yes or no questions with phrases such as, “it is decidedly so” and "as i see it, no".
magic 8 ball application. seer of all things, and the direct answer to the question: "will i ever graduate from college?"
finally, and on a completely unrelated note, oreo and i are loving our friend britney's new music video, although we are pretty sure brit brit stole/took inspiration from the first line from little princess o ♫ this kitten got your tong tied in knots i see ♫
i’m going out on a limb here and putting your high school english composition and/or elementary writing skills to the test with something i am calling a simile/analogy combo.
a diploma from mercer is like a pair of designer shoes.
ok, maybe designer shoes is a bit of a stretch, but mercer is at least similar to a pair of overpriced marginally well-known brand name shoes in a pricey boutique. you see, a mercer diploma, similar to the friends hanging out in my closet, and on my floor, in my car, and in my purse, is all about the label. sure, mercer is no yale or harvard; it’s not a vanderbilt, hell, it’s not even an emory, but the fact remains that what mercer lacks in credentials, football players, and enrollment statistics it makes up for in that sneaky little designer price tag. and, just like those crafty boutiques, high end department stores and online shops, mercer offers their own personal brand of coupons and free shipping cunningly masked as these things they call scholarships. you honestly don’t even have to be that smart (personal experience) and this school will literally throw money at you. so, you’ve given into the scam, combined several coupons and decide to make mercer your home for the next four (five if you’re lucky, six if you’re ridiculous, and seven if you’re me) years. what do you expect to get out of this? if mercer is anything like a pair of overpriced designer shoes, which duh i’ve said like ten times i think it is, you can expect plenty of pain, regret, general discomfort, recognition of poor decision making skills, barefootedness, falling, and possible bodily harm. the pain comes when you realize you’re expected to go to class while hungover to listen to some loser pontificate over matters of “epic importance” (no thank you, if you want to learn something take dr. macke). the regret surfaces when you find out that even after your 21st birthday you can’t legally drink in your (on campus) place of residence and that your body can and will be considered a “container” and while intoxicated is not allowed on campus either. the general discomfort occurs when you see the ragamuffins which are now your “classmates”. the recognition of poor decision making skills comes after the aforementioned realizations and at the point which you understand that you will spend the next ten years of your life paying off your college loans/receive angry scowls from papa bear concerning how much of his hard earned money went to your damn designer degree. the barefootedness, falling, and bodily injury are more personal interjections which reflect the level of intoxication necessary to deal with the above list of general complaints. and hey, guess what? most hobos wouldn't know a manolo from a steve madden if you hit them in the face with it.
there is hope in all this, kiddos. for those discerning enough to know the difference there is a huge distinction between your cute jessica simpson platforms (georgia state) and a pair of ($1200) christian louboutins (mercer). let’s just hope that your potential employer didn’t get their pumps at tj maxx and that you know how to rock the shit out of that designer diploma.
hey lady, i don’t mean to be rude (lies), but if you don’t back the hell away from me, immediately, i’m going to have a panic attack and be forced to kick you in the virginia.
i don’t know what has caused the sudden uprise in people crowding around and touching me while in public, but it’s starting to make me feel like a psycho. i’m not sure if i’ve started emitting “stand on top of me, breathe on me, and if it’s not too much trouble go ahead and touch me, stranger” pheromones or something, but i can’t seem to shop, eat, or buy groceries without randars invading my personal space. as a general rule of thumb, i would prefer if all strangers stayed as far away from me as humanly possible (unless said stranger is of the tall, dark, and handsome variety and meets the criteria mentioned in the “boyfriend application”, in which case i would prefer that aforementioned individual actually stands as close to me as humanly possible while shucking out hundred dollar bills in the general direction of the nearest pair of shoes). recently, i was shopping, looking at accessories, when a lady came up behind me, reached around my body, mexi-hold style, and starting checking out a pair of fugly feather earrings somewhere around my bellybutton region. really bitch? you can’t wait 37 seconds for me to decide that these earrings are gross as shit and move? you want my body? i get it, woman; everybody loves me, but you are a stranger. everyone knows that strangers don’t wash their hands after using the potty. or how about at the grocery store when i am trying to check out and you ram me with your basket and then literally breathe down my neck while i’m trying to pay? are you trying to steal the pin on my debit card (i can assure you, if there is money in my account it won’t be there for long), you wanna go halfsies on a bunch of bananas or are you hoping to get to second base in publix? whichever way, hate to break it to you, i’m not interested (see above for “unless stranger is of the tall dark and handsome variety...”). although i’ve found that looking at the invasive individual and simply saying, “is this real life?” works quite well, i am forced to consider more drastic alternatives as you people just can’t get enough of my lovely lady lumps. although i’ve been told that holding ones arms straight out to the sides and spinning in a large circle not only clears an area in width approximately equal to your own height of any bystanders who may be too close, but also defines clear personal space parameters, i believe there is a more effective solution to this common problem. the next time i go out, i’m taping a sign to my back that reads: “massive, explosive diarrhea. please stay back”. i’ve learned that poop is always the best way out of uncomfortable or unwelcome social situations (thanks, bronwyn/lindsey).
in conclusion, unless you are a bestie or a sexy man please stay away from me and my kitty cat as we are no more fond of strangers touching us than we are of heinous footwear.
if you're close enough to know whether or not i'm fresh, you're too damn close.
of course, i can't talk about personal space without my good friend luuuuuuuda!
