Tag Archives: boring

Gizzy’s Diary – Entry 1

Dear Diary,

This week has been mediocre, as is my life.  I accepted the role of ‘guinea pig’ for my team’s Halloween costume at work.  Meaning, I got to bring all the supplies home, make the costume, and then had to instruct everyone at work on how to make it.  They called me Miss Gizzy, and it felt good.  However, applying 2 layers of paper mache to a beach ball did not feel good.   In fact, it made me feel really fucking gross because the “paste” is made out of flour and water and when I went outside to walk the dog, my neighbor asked if I was aware that I had biscuit in my hair. I wanted to ask if he was aware that he should shut the fuck up, but be proud, Diary, I did not.

Last weekend I went to visit Gigi.  We threw ourselves a “I’m not getting married” Bachelorette party, which was fun because we got free drinks and negative attention, but ended in Gigi getting flowers from a guy that hit on me. I won’t even elaborate because I’m still pissed at that flower stealing whore face.

Earlier this week I threw 2 tantrums in public. Both over spaghetti squash, or rather the lack there of. I mean, I don’t live on fucking Antarctica. Can I not expect my local grocer to carry a common food item such as that? According to Walmart Manager Billy, I cannot.

Thanks for listening, Diary.


Your BFF, Gizzy<3

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Lately my life has been drama free, like so drama free that I have found myself contemplating really stupid shit.  Yesterday, I expressed my desire to Lucky to have a cooler last name.  My Dad’s side of the family is half Native American half English, unfortunately for us – my Grandpa’s side is the English side, so I got stuck with a really common boring last name, like Smith.  But what I really want to be is Dutch so I can have a cool last name like, Van der Groot or something awesome like that.  

In other words, I need some excitement in my life.  It’s gotten so bad that even my parents are kind of annoyed with me texting them from the next room to say, “What are you dooooing in there?” My sister started 3rd grade this week and even she doesn’t want to play with me after work.  It’s time to move out.

My dear old friend Betty is also moving out of her apartment with her live in boyfriend, The Douchebag, because he told her to go.  She got the brilliant idea that we should live together, with her 4 year old. A-no-thank-you.  

For starters, I’m not down to live with a child when it’s not related to me.  Especially when that child gets up with the sun at 5am.  Second, Betty wants to live in our hometown, where she works.  I live there now, but don’t work there and I absolutely do not plan on staying there permanently.  I’ve told her this, but she’s persistent and has even taken it upon herself to find us a nice 5 bedroom log cabin nestled away on 15 acres.  

After I thought about this some more I realized that my wanting to sleep in and not spend Saturday’s up top my John Deere tractor mowing the fields shouldn’t be the reason not to live with Betty and Dot.  My reason to not live with them should be because her daughter needs a stable environment.  Not that I wouldn’t take part in providing that (lets be honest, I like to get drunk and cuss so I’m not a good influence), but Betty needs to show her daughter that she can take care of them on her own and that they don’t need anyone else.  

I hope you can all help me celebrate this mature revelation I’ve had.  I think I’m ready to call myself an adult.  [After I move out of my parent’s house.]

On a completely unrelated note, I am quite upset with people that own storage units.  When I moved back from the big city I had to get one because I have some stuff and all my stuff wouldn’t fit in my sister’s toy room that now doubles as my bedroom.  First, I was upset that it costs $60 a month to rent a tiny room that is barely big enough to walk in and turn around in.  Second, my storage place called me today to inform me that my first month’s storage unit rent was at a discounted price because I was new, and now it gets jacked up to $84 a month, and if I don’t want to rent it anymore I have 6 minutes to come and get my crap.  Come to find out, this is just how storage unit places are.  Shady.  So I bitched and moaned and paid the $84 and now I’m telling you about it.  And you know what I’m going to do about it? Nothing, because like your parents tell you when you want to come home early from sleep-away camp, I paid for my shit to stay in that unit and by God it’s going to stay there until the time is up!

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Where the milk is free.

Aw, poor lil Gizzy. I know the feeling. I’ve been depressed all weekend, because I too am having to face the facts that my life is super boring. What will happen to Cocktails at Tiffany’s if Gizzy and I don’t spice things up? Welp, my guess is a lot more looking into the past and/or making up shit about our awesome futures.

My dad is still in town, we are recovering from yesterday’s drunken football day, and watching more football today—minus the beer (for now, ask me in about four hours). However, I saw something on Thursday that disturbed me so much, I had to capture it and post it for you all:

Seriously? That’s disgusting.

Talk amongst yourselves.

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Hey, white liar.

I can’t drink coffee this morning. This is a huge problem.

I got my teeth whitened yesterday and have to go 24-hours without eating or drinking anything dark [racist, much?]. So, I’m stuck at the office [yep, on Columbus Day] drinking white tea. Fuck this.

Anyway, I’ve been in the damn dumps all weekend. By hey, what else is new? I showed up at work Thursday, for a meeting in which they basically told us our company is declaring bankruptcy at the end of the year. Splendid. I left work, hooked up with Fratty, and went to the Melting Pot with Anne to stuff myself with meats and cheese.

Anne is going through a hard time, too—her fiance has two weeks to prove himself at work or else he gets canned. So both of us felt guilty for spending the money, but it is a treat we give ourself about every other month. So we get there, order the usual: Spinach Mushroom salad, Wisconsin Trio Cheese, steak and seafood plate, and the s’mores dessert.

I just proved Gizzy’s theory that all of our readers think we are huge. I weighed in at 124 at the dr’s office two weeks ago, so draw your own conclusions.

So the salads are great, and then the cheese comes. The Melting Pot prides itself on mixing everything right in front of you, so the waitress pours in the wine, a variety of cheese, and proceeds to beat it like she’s scrambling eggs for her ex-husband. It was real awkward. She tells us to enjoy.

Umm, she just mixed up a batch of cheese soup. Anne pulled up the fork and the cheese dripped off it, with the consistency of honey mustard dressing. Uh no. I have a horrid fear of soggy bread, I was not about to dip my cubes of rye in that shit. So the manager walks by and this conversation happens:

Anne: We don’t think our cheese is thick enough [takes the fork, shows him the drip].

Mgr: it’s supposed to be like that.

Anne: nnoooo. We’ve had it many times, and it’s never been like this.

Mgr: your waiters probably made it wrong before.

Anne: Well, we aren’t going to eat it.

Mgr: I can add more cheese, but it’s supposed to be the consistency of warm honey.

Anne: Honey is thick, add the cheese.

Mgr: ok, you had the Big Night Out cheese?

Anne: no, see? You don’t even know. It’s the trio.

What in fucking hell? I’m not a food snob, but shit, if the food I’m paying for isn’t up to par, then fucking fix it. I’ve waited tables, and guess what? The customer is always right. No one would’ve dipped their bread into that cheese broth. It was disgusting. And then you’re going to throw your very own staff under the bus and say they’ve made it wrong every time we’ve been there? Christ.

Anyway, the cheese was fixed and the rest of the meal was quite delish. Friday night was ultra-depressing, to say the least. I stayed home to clean my entire apartment, from top to bottom. Saturday, I ran errands all day—buying gifts for a baby shower I have to go to next Sunday [kill me]. While I was out, my phone was blowing up—lights, vibrating, sirens, the works. What was all the racket? This:

Lucky Lady,

Your anniversary with

Disgusting Trashy Cheating Bastard Ex

Is in: 7 days

Well, fucking hell. So it is. What would’ve been three years will be Saturday. Three years, wasted, of my precious life, and all optimism that I once had for love and marriage gone down the shitter. I’m shopping for other people’s success getting reminders of past love, while I’m sure he’s fucking every cunt in town. Live it up, you bastard.

Needless to say, I needed a pitcher of beer. So I met up with Anne, her fiance, and her dad Saturday night to watch a football game. Everything was going pretty well until I get this on my piece of shit phone:

Pageant Queen: WE’RE ENGAGED!!!!!!!

Fucking fuck fuck. It took everything I had not to slam my face into the wooden table and just drown myself in my 4th pint of beer. Later, when I was bitching to Gizzy about it, she told me we need to get over it and stop making a big deal out of it when people get engaged. I can say I’ll try, but honestly, there is no one left to get engaged. Seriously when The Ex gets engaged NO ONE tell me. Seriously. Do not, because I will kill myself.

Sunday, I got my teeth whitened, which was fine at first, then it hurt like a bitch for the remainder of the day. I tried to sleep it off, which resulted in a dream about McFaggot. In the dream, I was at a party and McFaggot showed up in a limo. He got out of the limo, wearing the tuxedo he had on when I met him. But when he saw I was there, he turned around and left.


I had to go to a writer’s meeting Sunday night, for a local magazine I work for. There, I saw this guy I’ve seen at the meetings. He is kind of cute, in a nerdy way, and I’m pretty sure we had a college class together or something, but I can’t figure it out. He flips burgers and writes for the magazine. No, really. And that’s what my life is now. Thinking about cute guys flipping burgers.

I drove home from that meeting listening to country music. And yes, I considered just driving off a cliff.

So, as much as I don’t want it to happen, I’m thinking I might need to meet 100 guys for the 100th post. But hey, it’s up to you. So if you haven’t voted yet, go do it! For the sake of my sanity.

I should sign off with something positive, right? Last night, I had a hot dream about ShyGuy. Seriously. I was on the beach and he came out of nowhere [there were even rays of sunshine behind him] and I tackled him. Right there in the sand. I was supposed to be on vacation with Gizzy, but she was late. When I called her, she was all, “I’ll be there tomorrow,” so there I was stuck at the beach, alone.

ShyGuy was all, Lucky, I’m not going to leave you here alone. Mmmmhmmm.

I’m no dream-reader, but I’m pretty sure I know what it means: we need more ShyGuy! Holla if ya hear me 😉

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Protected: I take my sugar with coffee and cream.

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Just because I’m straight doesn’t mean I write good.

Moments ago, I just dropped of my guest of honor that I’ve been killing myself entertaining the last FIVE FUCKING DAYS. I cannot tell you how excited I was to wake up this morning and get his ass to the airport…it was better than Christmas. I think I mentioned it, but I’m not sure, that a guy I met on a boat trip earlier this summer was traveling the five states away to spend a few days with me.

At first, I was really excited. Then I met Matt, and we went on our two amazing dates, and then I was wondering if me and this guy…I’ll call him Townie since he is from a small town and clearly very small-minded…anyway, I was wondering if we were going to get along. We had been texting and talking on the phone for the few months since the boat trip, but I was slowly starting to recall things he did that I didn’t like—flirting with me by making fun of me, asking me to kiss him before getting angry that I pulled away.

But I told myself I was going to try and have a fun time with him. I planned lots of fun activities for us—tour of a local brewery, dinner with my friends, trips to several bars, eating local food, private tour of local football stadium, etc. Did I get a thank you? Nope. Nothing. Not even a, wow this is cool.

Some of the comments I did get were:

*That tour guide wasn’t very good*I didn’t like that movie*Your shampoo smells weird, like mint*Are we actually going to stores in the mall?*What’s Williams-Sanoma?*It’s funny they card us here*You and your friends talk alot of shit about people who are 30, I’m 31*This pasta salad is different*

I don’t want my ass kissed. But when I arrange a PRIVATE TOUR of a football stadium, I expect a thank-you. We got to see the locker room, the tunnel where the players run out before a game, and we walked onto the turf. Yeah, our tour guide sucked because SHE WASN’T A TOUR GUIDE. I called in a favor because I know the owner, thanks. So what did Townie say to that? “So how did you hook it up, then, you Googled it?”


Really? Afterward, I took him to this little bistro by my place. He said, “how do you know of all these places to go? People just tell you about them?”

Me: I’ve lived here for 7 years. I work for the biggest company in the city. I am a journalist. I meet people. I go places.

Honestly, I felt like I was talking to an old friend that hadn’t grown at all, when I had. I understand he grew up in a small town and has lived there his whole life, but I couldn’t believe he wasn’t open to try new things. His entire visit I was sending SOS text-messages to my friend Nicole and ShyGuy, who confirmed to me that the guy was a douche, after I told him this little ditty:

Townie’s first night in, we were out with my friends drinking and he kept wanting to kiss me. I am not a fan of PDA, so I backed off. He said, “really?” I’m like, not here. We get back to my place and I give him a kiss…to which he says, “Seriously, you have to stop with these half-ass kisses.”

Okay faggot ass mother fucker, I’m stopping with the kisses all-together. And I did. And he slept on my couch for the remainder of the trip. When his last night in town was upon me, I was perky, knowing I just needed to entertain him one more night and then I would be FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST.

So we went to a Mexican place for food and margaritas, then across the street for a few beers. Afterward, I realized he hadn’t even seen downtown yet, so I drove us downtown where I took him to the roof of a building to see the river and the city. I should have told him to jump, because what happened next is ridiculous.

We walked around the corner to a fun little beach bar…it was dead because it was a Tuesday night. So there is a girl sitting by herself at one end, a guy by himself at the other, and the bartender standing in the middle. We take our seats in the middle, order a few drinks, and the guy to my left says he just got back from Iraq that morning and he had to stay in town for a few weeks before he could go back to his hometown. Honestly, I’m pretty cheesy about our troops and people who are out there fighting for us, so I told him thank you for his service and offered to by him a shot.

He let me, and then asked if he could show us some pictures. He scooted over to us and was flipping through some on his phone…when things got interesting.

Townie: how long have you been in the service?

Soldier: 18 years, since I was old enough to enlist.

Townie: wow, what made you decide to enlist?

Soldier: I grew up in a small town where you either enlist…or you get stuck with the bad crowd doing meth.

Townie: really? Because I grew up in a small town and just went to work after high school and I’m not addicted to meth.

Soldier: I have a degree from UC Berkelee, buddy. It opened doors for me, it’s just what I wanted to do.

Townie: (obviously feeling less like a man) I mean I have been working since I was 12 years old.

Soldier: Umm how did you do that? Were you working in some Korean sweat shop?

Townie: No, like doing dishes for my parents.

Soldier: You’re a douche.

Townie: Fuck you.

Soldier: Well I really don’t want to do this in front of your girl, so let’s step outside.

Townie: (says to me) What should I do?

WHAT IN THE FUCKING FUCK FUCK???!!!!?????!!$$ First of all, I am not the one that got you into this stupid mess. YOU, Townie, are the one comparing household chores to bombs in Iraq, not me. Really, I wanted him to step outside and get his ass kicked, so I could leave him on the street and spend my night in peace. But I simply said, I dunno.

Townie: I’m not going to fight you.

Soldier: It’s fine if you do, let’s just take it outside.

It went on from there and fizzled out. I finished my beer, while Townie sat there and got pissed at me for not saving him. When we drove home, he didn’t say a word to me, and when we got to my place he told me he thought I was never going to leave. Well excuse me, asshole, but you’re a grown ass man and shouldn’t leave it up to me to take care of your problems.


The highlight of this 5-day long date was going to the pool to watch a volleyball match and drink heavily. When a player was down, they asked a girl (wearing a captain’s hat and swim trunks) if she would fill in. Her response?

“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m good at sports.”

Cheers to that, Lezzie.

This goes down in history as the worst second date…EVER.

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Bradley likes Olive Garden.

Well, Gizzy is boarding a cruise ship right now with her family for five days…so you all get to put up with me AALLLL week. Don’t worry kids, just when I thought the well was going dry a pile of new dating stories fell into my lap—not in the good way.

I realized last week that I mentioned this guy Bradley in a post but had never really explained my situation with him. Remember that concert I went to…er maybe a month ago and the girl’s face was all bloody?! Well that’s where I met Bradley. He was with the group of guys who asked me to come stand with them. The guys were cool, but I was genuinely interested in watching the concert (singing, dancing, screaming) and generally being annoying. So, while I talked to Bradley it was very small talk and we were both having drinks, so I wasn’t in a clear mindset to make any quick judgments. When Bradley left, he asked for my number. I gave it to him and he texted me an hour later or so to see if I made it home okay.

I thought it was nice, but didn’t know what to think. The next few days he sent me some really nice texts—how was your day? How is work going? etc. Since we were talking through text, the conversations weren’t too deep but I remembered that at the concert he mentioned his age—30, and said he was working as a waiter. I assumed he was in school or something so I asked him about that.

He said he wasn’t in school because he hadn’t found a school that had the major he was interested in. So I asked him about this major…he said he wanted to do personal training. I found it difficult to believe he couldn’t find a school with that, which I said. He was like, nope I can’t find it. I said, well Kinesiology is pretty popular, or even sports medicine. And he’s like, “wait, what’s it called?” Kinesiology.

He thought he could get a degree in personal training. Shit.

I feel like as I get older, I have come to understand more different situations. But honestly, I don’t know if I can forgive a guy putting off school for 12 years because he can’t find a school that has a non-existent major. My girl friends kept being like, come on Lucky, it’s a night out and a free meal. NO, no, no, no. I am not poor. I am not desperate for a free meal, especially if it means horrible conversation. But, I didn’t blow him off just yet…because I am a retard.

He still continued to send me nice text messages and asked me to hang out again but I told him about my detox. He said he would wait until I was finished, then I wished I had told him I was on a year-long detox. When it was over he sent me a few texts asking me if I was ready for real food, which of course, I was.

Bradley: What’s your favorite kind of food?

Me: I like Italian.

Bradley: Favorite restaurant?

Me: I don’t have a favorite—I like all the local spots.

***TIME OUT***I do have to mention that the city I live in is a food paradise. And the local Italian joints are amazing, along with other local food. But when I’m thinking about a date, I want to be in a nice environment…

Bradley: Bradley likes Olive Garden 🙂



Olive Garden.

WTF am I supposed to do with that? For starters, why did he all of the sudden start talking in 3rd person? Bradley is a moron. I immediately texted ShyGuy and asked him if I was stuck up for not wanting to go on a date to Olive Garden. He told me I was. But you know what? I hate Olive Garden, right along with Chili’s, Applebees, and anything similar. Simply because it’s loud as hell and the food is never that great.

If you like Olive Garden, then that’s great for you. But honestly, all I can think of is the endless everything—breadsticks, soup, salad, noodles…ick. And then there’s the berber carpet and wheels on the chairs. Basically, any place that gives crayons to kids isn’t date material. I’m sorry, but I think there are way too many better places to eat—hell, there is this burger shack by my office. Raoul is the chef there….and damn does he make a great burger and fries. I’ve been on a few first dates there actually and was happy to be there. So I guess I’m a food shob. Or an atmosphere snob. So be it.

I replied to Bradley to see if he could save himself.

Me: Seriously? Out off all the local places, you like OG?

Bradley: Love the attitude. I went to Olive Garden a few weeks ago and it was so good. I love a little culture in my food.

I didn’t think a remark like that deserved a response. Let’s just see how cultured Olive Garden really is.

And now I’m sure you all think I’m a huge bitch. Anyway, I have a date this evening with someone else. And I swear to all that is holy, if he pulls up to Olive Garden, I’m just going to down myself in the endless soup bowl.

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Now, the secret service is after me

Oh, what an interesting weekend it was…and by “interesting” I clearly mean boring. Since I have been drinking myself stupid for the last three months, I decided to go on a detoxification plan. This plan involves herbal supplements paired with a strict diet that includes no drinking (along with no salt, sugar, red meat, dairy, or caffeine). While the plan sucked at first, I only have nine days left and I’m feeling pretty good.

However, such a strict eating plan doesn’t make for very exciting weekend plans.

Naturally, since I couldn’t go out, I had random guys texting me out the wazoo. What the hell?

I got a text from Danny boy Friday night saying that we haven’t hung out in awhile and wanted to know what I’m doing.

Well, I didn’t know what I was supposed to say…anything I said would’ve sounded like a cheap excuse not to hangout. And if I told him I was doing a detox, then I would’ve sounded like a crack whore. Then, I realized how stupid the whole thing was, like why on earth do I even care what I say to this guy because he is such a total CREEPER?


Well, shortly afterward, I get a message from the guy I met at that concert last weekend, Brad. He had been texting me throughout the week, which I thought was nice. However, I don’t remember him being the hottest of guys. NOW, I realize how superficial that sounds, but I was just telling Gizzy yesterday that I’ve never dated a guy who I think is a total HOTTIE.

Of course, I am physically attracted to them, or else I wouldn’t be with them. But I’m attracted to their personality first, and the looks come second. So right now, I’m on the lookout for a total hottie. And why shouldn’t I be? DAMN!

Anyway, Brad texts me saying he’s going to another concert and wants me to come along…ugh. I ran into the same problem as I had with Danny…I can’t tell I guy I’ve just met that I’m doing a detox—it’s going to come across all wrong. He’s either going to think I’m a crack addict, or a complete weirdo with an anorexia problem.

So I pretty much avoided both questions (from both guys) all together and hoped they’d think I was playing hard to get instead of sitting on my couch watching Will & Grace eating soy yogurt.

I fell asleep pretty early on Friday evening, which meant I woke up at 3 am, ready to rumble. Well, oddly enough, my friend Nicole (the one who is getting married) was still out partying and had sent me a message saying she found a guy for me. Ah, this is one of the many reasons I love Nicole. When I’m at home sitting on my fat ass, she is out, scouring the bars for eligible men for her lone single gal, Lucky.

So we are texting back and forth about this new guy she’s supposedly found and she decides to call me. So we talk for a bit and she says the guy, Burton, wants to talk to me. So we talk.

And he tells me he’s 24 (check)

From Jersey (eh, check)

Has a solid job (check)

As one of Obama’s Secret Servicemen (AND SIGN THE CHECK, SEALED, DELIVERED)

Wants me to take him to Nicole’s wedding (eh, we’ll see)

Says I should come to DC (uh, Check)

There just so happens to be another politico in DC that I’m trying to make out with. In reality, these need to be two separate visits, but damn, could DC be my very own man jackpot?!

Here’s to hoping!

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First effing post

This is the place where we, Lucky & Gizzy, get to vent about it all—our love lives (or lack thereof), our jobs (or lack thereof), and the shit that happens in the middle. Please leave comments, send us questions, or just watch it like a sitcom.

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