designer diploma.

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. 

did i take it too far with the shoe analogy?

i'm gonna betch slap you shetbag!

personal space.

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!

peacock.

describing my overall state of being this week as “disheveled” would be a vast, bordering on criminal, understatement. 

i’m sure you’ve all had weeks where you just can’t seem to get it together; well, hello readers, welcome to my life. between listening to katy perry’s “peacock” and mentally calculating the best way to insert the peacock/chicken dance into everyday life i’ve done one or more of the following in the past week: constructed a 7 layer torte masterpiece/shitshow in “culinary” class, made out with an irish man, had a girl ask me, “did you just wake up 5 minutes ago? you look crazy” (to which i wanted to reply, “no bitch, i have a 45 minute drive to this hellhole and therefore woke up 50 minutes ago”), unintentionally covered over half my ass with a delightful layer of chocolate ganache, aced a french test (take that, trelawney), had a panic attack in the freezer, made a grown man cry, refrained from shoe shopping of any kind, combed princess oreo, and wonder upon wonders, shaved my legs. so in my world, i guess you could call aforementioned occurrences typical, but i’ve been seriously debating which (none) of these “normal” activities could fit into a “real” person’s schedule. you know, a real person who doesn’t live at home with their parents, exist on their (monopoly) money and has a “j” word (job)? you see, the way i figure it is there’s not always going to be a freezer nearby that you can walk into and scream the f word, no one dances at work, you can’t make out with (short) people because they are irish and you can’t understand them, and if your co-worker asks you if you woke up 5 minutes ago it’s not because he/she is complimenting your ability to quickly pull together an outfit and look ravishing in no time at all. these assumptions lead me to believe that i am quite literally having a life plan crisis. who is going to hire me/maybe i should join the circus under a traveling show which headliner reads, “come one, come all, and see the worlds meanest/laziest cat and her disheveled owner”? that show sounds lame. 

it seems as though the only solution here is to get princess oreo a better talent so we can begin our tour. kitty cat toilet training begins now, complete with flushing. on a final note, and to encourage participation in the comments section, i pose the following question: “what marketable traits should princess oreo and i begin banking on in order to create a “j” word which suites our individual talents and lends itself to peacock dancing outbursts”?

crafty bitch.

my sincerest apologies for lack of posting. it seems as though i have been quite busy with (very) important tasks including, but not limited to: shoe shopping (to quote carrie, “i've spent $40,000 on shoes and I have no place to live? i will literally be the old woman who lived in her shoes!”), school (teaching myself french, trelawney be damned), furniture shopping, cooking (neither for pleasure nor money, barf), and some moderate to heavy crafting. 

although many of these activities are part of a weekly schedule (shoe shopping, duh) the addition of both furniture shopping and crafting are due to my building anxiousness regarding my current living situation. i need to get the hell out of the bear den, asap. i may or may not be going completely insane. i am therefore, furiously collecting/shopping/crafting for what i am currently calling my “hypothetical apartment”. so far, the furnishing and decorating of “hypothetical apartment” is going quite well. the walls have been hypothetically filled with frames, mirrors, jewelry displays, paintings, and various hanging items. the closets have been packed with clothes and are overflowing with shoes. i have a bed, a desk which will never be used (i mean, honestly, who uses a desk? for work? at home?), dressers, nightstands, whatever. a couch, real or imagined has yet to be purchased, but fortunately there is still time to find something, hypothetically speaking of course. i will be crafting like damn martha stewart until may/june/graduation/being hired/learning how to use a stripper pole at an establishment to be named “strippers plus” featuring overweight exotic dancers/killing my parents and gaining a large inheritance/marrying rich. because i know you were wondering, oreo has been more of a hinderance than a help through the crafting process as her paws have yet to correctly grip a sewing needle or paintbrush, though i am considering dipping her feet in paint and letting her walk on a canvas (too much? crazy cat lady? i already know the answer?). i guess i really am a crafty bitch because i just filled an entire paragraph with the “crafting is so strenuous” ruse and you’ve fallen for my cleverly worded ploy (insert witch cackle/my laugh here).

what was that? you want to see some of my craftiness? you want to tell me how amazing i am in the comment area below? alright, but please remember i’m quite bashful.

fine jewels

various crafty items, 3 "paintings" and preschool-y monogram hanging letters

navy pillow + ratty old t-shirt, minor sewing skills and (i'm not going to lie) a ton of fabric glue

work in progress, could be cute, could eventually make me want to barf...

back to school.

do you remember what your first day of high school/college felt like? trust me, i am not about to get nostalgic on your ass, i’m trying to remind you that the day i just mentioned was horrifying. 

for reasons too long, complicated, and utterly ridiculous to explain here i’ve been taking classes at every college within a 50 mile radius of my (parent’s) house. it seems as though i’ve been hanging out with the weirdos in community college long enough that, despite the pointless nature of the classes and overall scariness of many of the students involved, i feel quite comfortable among the culinary hobos. i am not, however feeling very confident among the students of the ever prestigious university of west georgia. for starters, i have never felt so incredibly awkward or unprepared in my entire life. i showed up on campus and had no idea where to park, where my class was, where to buy books, where to get a student id, where to get a parking sticker, and in general where the hell i was and what was i doing. being my ever confident (bitchy) self, i simply parked wherever i felt like parking, much like i did at mercer, although with much more positive results. i had a campus map, but i was not about to embarrass myself with a lost freshman stigma, so i studied the map carefully and then began to wander aimlessly around campus using only my excellent (terrible) sense of direction as a guide. in the end, i think the expression “going around your ass to get to your elbow” sums up my building finding skills. my class began at 12 and i walked into the classroom at 11:40, perfect timing, responsible earliness, student shows interest in learning. wrong. the classroom was full and the professor informed me that i was either incredibly late or remarkably early. she made me sit through her other french class and then my french class. they were exactly the same. the obligatory, “tell everyone your name, year and major” created an unnecessary amount of confusion and needless mumbling on my part. i said, “my name is lauren lantz, i’m a senior, i guess, and i’m a communications major”. professor trelawney (nerd reference of course, although in this case, remarkable accurate, her hair was quite unfortunate looking) looked at me and said, “you think you’re a senior? are you in your 4th year?” to which i replied, “no ma’am, i am in my last year”. i’m pretty sure she thought i was retarded, but i wasn’t about to tell the 18 year olds in my class that i’ve been at this shit for 7 years, even i have a limit for amount of endurable humiliation. also, it just so happens that there is no communications major available at this school, thus confirming trelawney’s previous inclination that i am mentally retarded. perfect. the rest of the class was absurd, as trelawney forced students to read the (redundant) syllabus aloud. after class i figured i should ask the professor of french/divination where i could procure a student id and parking sticker. she gave me the most stupid answer i’ve ever heard by saying, “in the ucc”, like i knew that the hell a ucc was. meanwhile, i was mentally calculating the time it would take me to decipher that kind of abbreviation of the microscopic map i hid in my purse, and ultimately decided i would find some kind of attractive mancandy thing to show me where it was at a later date. after her ridiculous answer to my legitimate question, i determined that professor trelawney was dimwitted and marked her off as entirely incompetent. additionally, everyone in my class either has 10 facial piercing or is african american or some combination thereof, which means i either have to get my tongue/eyebrow/lip/nose pierced or log some serious tanning bed time. 

in conclusion, bring on the parking tickets, campus security. i still don’t know where the hell to park or where the ucc, whatever that may be/stand for, is. and might i ask where my prefect was for this whole experience? you are certainly no hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry. 

the boyfriend application.

i am now accepting boyfriend applications, but be ye warned, the application/screening process is arduous and the actual relationship portion taxing, in a strictly monetary sense, of course.  

__________________________________________________________________________________

Application de Petit Ami

(that’s french snob for ‘boyfriend application’)

Name: _______________________

(interesting/aristocratic names and subsequent titles preferred, although not strictly required)

Age: _______

(applicants must be between the ages of 21 and 45, unless otherwise qualified (prince/king of medium to large sized country)

Height: _______

(this requirement has less to do with actual preference and more to do with the fact that i have achieved the height of 6’2’’ with heels. if you are under this height and would like for me to pet the top of your head like a small puppy as i tower over you, then please proceed)

Yearly Income: _____________________   Trust Fund/Inheritance: ______________

(notice the space i left for all the “0’s”. although i am interested in your yearly income for obvious reasons, i am more-so interested in your disposable income, as i plan to dispose of it properly. please note that this area would be an appropriate section to place all trust funds and/or family inheritances you have/stand to gain)

Houses: _______________________________________________________________  

Vacation Homes: ________________________________________________________

Property: ______________________________________________________________

(obviously your parents’ home does not count. but wait lauren, you live at home with your parents. my parents could beat up your parents, so back off. i do what i want. now, buy a house, loser)

Please answer either YES or NO to the following questions.

1. Will you be willing to follow strict guidelines of engagement procedures which include top shelf vodka and a ring no less than 2 karats? 
2. Are you physically able to pick me up off of the ground should I decide to drink my own body weight and act like a complete and total asshole? 
3. Will you be kind to princess oreo, accepting the fact that she, like her mother, deserves to lounge around all day doing absolutely nothing? 
4. Do you know the difference between “your” and “you’re”? Are you willing to accept that anything you write to me will be graded with red pen and handed back, therefore requiring a “final draft” revision? 
5. Will you leave me the hell alone and let me go out with my friends and please allow yourself to do the same?                         
6. Can you beat me in Mario Kart (N64 or Wii) and will you help me unlock Rosalina, because I’m having a hard time and would like to kick your ass using her as my player?      
7. Do you promise to never make me touch your feet?                                                      

(if the answer is NO to any of the above questions please disregard boyfriend application altogether as you, at this time, do not qualify/are despicable) 

Signature: ____________________________________        Date:_________________

Please include a non-refundable check or cash deposit of $300 dollars to cover processing fees (bottles of wine for sorting through the thousands of applications i’m sure to receive, shoes to wear while sorting, catnip)

__________________________________________________________________________________

i suppose that now all there is left to do is sit back and wait for the numerous male suitors who will undoubtedly be throwing themselves at my fabulousness. by fabulousness of course i mean trainwreckness. and by trainwreckness i mean hot messness. i'm fairly certain that this is the process by which every great love story begins, with rules, guidelines, greed, and conditions. i'm also fairly certain that love is is a choice and not a feeling. and i am absolutely certain that you did not visit this blog to hear me pontificate about matters of love/relationships.

mean girls.

“i’m sorry that people are so jealous of me... but i can’t help it that i’m so popular”

if you know anything about me, you know that i am totally obsessed with mean girls (the movie and the group of girls i lovingly call the same name), not only because everything tina fay writes/acts in turns to gold, but also because of it’s hilariously accurate depiction of high school girls/girls in general. let’s be totally clear about this. if you are a girl, you are a bitch. whether that bitchiness be out in open like my own, or carefully hidden behind layers or syrupy (sick) sweetness, the mean girl is somewhere in there, waiting to be unleashed. the first time that i was called a mean girl was my sophomore year of college. although i made no attempts out of the ordinary to receive the honor or being called a mean girl, a delightful man, who will we refer to as “big black dad” (bbd) informed me that he had watched a movie that perfectly depicted my group of friends. seems as though bbd had viewed mean girls and immediately thought of the whitest, snobbiest, most fabulous 19 year olds he could think of and i, of all people, was fortunate enough to be lumped into this group. according to bbd, qualifications for mean girl status include: refusing to pay cover, judging/making fun of everyone, getting drinks for free, knowing individuals who allow you to get into and drink from the bar for free on a first name basis and being uncharacteristically kind to them, refusing to dance, making fun of skanks, and being extremely exclusive. i was so flattered with the comparison that i could have cried. although there is still some debate as to which mean girl i would be and which individuals have earned their place as second and third generation mean girls, i’d like to add that, as any oscar nominee would say, being nominated was an honor in and of itself and i am humbled to be considered among such talented individuals. 

my love of mean girls came to mind after a recent facebook fueled website discovery. i’m not even going to mention the site involved because it is completely and utterly ridonkulous and does not bear repeating, but it’s purpose it to allow randoms to critique and numerically quantify the value of fraternities and sororities on specific campuses, along with publicized personal opinions on the aforementioned criteria. aside from being ludicrous (i always want to write “ludacris”, luuuuuuda), i think the people posting on this site are missing the point. if you were bright enough to make it through the end of mean girls, you know that the message of the movie boils down to this, girls are mean and cruel to each other, even the fugly ones who make out with their gym coaches and have heavy flows and wide-set vaginas. furthermore, and not a part of the movie just personal brilliance, sororities and fraternities are, in their design, exclusive; that doesn’t make us mean, it makes us discerning. and sure, some of the drama that goes on in the houses of such wonderful mean girls and mean boys is petty and stupid, but the drama that goes on among the “sexually active band geeks” or the “cool asians” is probably equally as trivial. so whether you’re a sorostitute arguing over an exec position or a chubby mcfatterson wrestling over the last m&m left in the economy size bag, you’re a mean girl, it’s who we are, own it. and as for “those girls are bitches” being an accurate description for any group of girls, yeah we are, all of us in one way or another have an evil emotional monster living inside us. please for the love of vocabulary, come up with something more descriptive than that or better yet, go back to your hobo friends and tighten each others head gear, you’re looking a little gap toothed. 

this is what is referred to as the mean girl "a" team. applications for subsequent mean girls are being accepted at this time.