Tag Archives: tiffanys

Suntan lotion is good for me.

I often spend my evenings at the tanning bed.

And I know by me saying that, you all just got an image of me being way too tan—Snooki like—obsessed with my looks, peppering my vocabulary with “like” and “as if.”

And that perception is pretty much true. I went to the tanning bed a lot in high school, because I was part of a dance team, so I needed that year-’round glow. Since then, I really never thought about going—I lay by the pool like a fiend.

However, when I got dumped a year ago I decided I needed to get out there! I needed to look good! I should care about my looks! So, like, dammit, I do!

And it makes me more stupid every day. But, when you hate your job, are single, have no friends, and are terrified of becoming a cat lady, the tanning bed becomes your savior.

So there I was, waiting for my turn in the platinum lay down, when the sales lady asked me what lotion I was currently using. Hrmm…some triple bronze cellulite reducing tingle glitter cocaine shit, why?

“We’ve got the new J-Woww lotion!!!! It’s soooooo gooooood. I like, just looooove it!”

How could I fucking miss it? The place put up signs when they got it in, saying it was bound to sell out and here this chick was licking my twat just to get me to shell out the $80 for it.

While I enjoy watching J-Woww and her gravity-defying tits on tv, I sure as shit don’t plan on looking like her. Does the tanning lotion promise pre-mature aging and an abusive boyfriend on the side?

So I went for the biggest insult I could find.

“I doubt it’s the lotion that makes J-Woww so tan.”

“But….but, it’s so good. You don’t even smell like a tanning bed afterward,” she pleaded.

“I heard J-Woww does a TRIPLE THREAT.”

“What’s THAT?” she asked me.

“She goes into the UV bed, then gets a spray tan, then goes back into the UV bed,” I said, raising my eyebrows in all the right places.

“Oh my god!…but wait! I didn’t think you could tan more than once a day?” she said.

Idiot.

“She’s JAY WOWW. I’m sure they let her do whatever she wants…or she probably has a tanning bed in her HOUSE.”

Wait. Why the fuck was I having this conversation? And wait. How the fuck did I even know this little tid bit (I definitely read it somewhere).

I do what they, in the tanning biz, call a double-dip—UV bed, then a spray tan. And I come out looking like Snooki, minus the chub.

So, there, I said it. The tanning bed has made me stupid, and quite catty. It’s also made me unaware of just how tan I am, which results in my coworkers being like, “You’re soooo tan!!!” when I think I’m pale…so I’m in a constant state of paranoia.

Anyway, my Easter alone was quite fabulous. I put a smoked ham in the oven and made a gourmet meal of coriander glazed baby carrots, scalloped potatoes with cheese, and a raspberry truffle tart for dessert. I pretty much ate all day, and drank a bottle of white. And I felt closer to Jesus.

This week, there’s a ton of exciting things coming up that I know you’re all going to be excited about. 1. The Royal Wedding. Who else is excited? I will get more into this on Thursday, but just know that I’ll be up in time for ALL of the coverage on Friday. If you’re on the fence about watching it, please do! I will be on Twitter, commenting on all the glory that is (no more) Waitie Katie!

In the meantime, I want to know, what are you doing to celebrate? I was thinking of making myself a grande dinner worthy of the new queen-to-be, but what does one queen-to-be eat? Tea and crumpets? William’s ballsac?

Anyway, this weekend is the kickoff to wedding season in my world. I have my first bachelorette party, which is happening a few hours away, so it’s an entire weekend long (let’s hope my liver rivals that of J-Woww’s) and when I get home? I have my first bridal shower of the season. It’s gonna be one giant love fest—everyone going on and on about their lovers, and me, raving about my new tolerance for vodka on the rocks.

I’ve totally become the hired talent. Oh, Lucky! She’s just soooo funny!

Ahem, I’m leaving out one huge moment of the week—my work retreat.

Yes, you read it, you said it, you stole your mama’s credit, MY. WORK. RETREAT.

Friday, during work hours, I have been roped into a work retreat. A world of free pizza, semi-circles, and cumbaya. My Lord.

I’ve heard the stories of previous work retreats. People cry. People yell. People Cuss.

This year? Lucky laughs.

I’m seriously looking forward to it—solely hoping someone loses their shit. I’m banking on an episode of Springer to happen right before my eyes.

Luck-y! Luck-y! Luck-y!

A girl can dream.

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Karma is with the bride.

Remember that post I wrote a few days ago…you know, about how I’m broke because of wedding season? Yeah, well all the brides-to-be must have gotten together and plotted a scheme against my life because I was complaining. But before I begin the rant on my latest failures…the Sex and The City episode I was referring to was “A Woman’s Right to Shoes.” Coincidentally, when I got home Tuesday night, that was the episode I had reached in my 3-week marathon of Sex and the City dvds.

The best part of the episode is when Carrie calls Kiera, leaves her a message saying “I’m getting married…to myself. And I’m registered an Monolo Blahnik,” and then she gets the shoes (as a wedding gift) from Kiera.

I need to do that.

Anyway, late last week I was doing the usual cleaning of the apartment, when I noticed a cluster of tiny black bugs near my kitchen sink. I figured they came from the drain, so I bleached my sink and drain, and called it a day. Well, that is until I went into my bathroom to brush my teeth and saw another cluster of little black bugs.

Weird.

The next day, when I got home from work, I spotted a few more…not near any sink. One on the wall, one on my couch. I was utterly disgusted, so I got out my trusty vacuum, put the tiniest attachment on it, and proceeded to vacuum my entire place…every molding, every corner, even up to the ceiling.

I was bug-free. Or so I thought.

I had been doing some major Googling, trying to figure out what these little beasts were—they were a little bigger than a flee, body of a beetle, smaller than an ant, didn’t fly. However, many pictures and descriptions I found didn’t help. I searched my flours and pastas for weavals, and found nothing, I searched my mattress for bed bugs, again, nothing.

Tuesday night, I had just wrapped up my nightly routine in the bathroom, waltzed into my bedroom, to see a little black bitch on my clean white sheets.

Oh no he didn’t.

I had had enough. I refused to live in a garden. So I whipped open my computer again, to try and find the answers. A few scrolls down, and I saw a suggestion—bugs that eat cat food. Aha!

So I marched into my kitchen, and flung open my cat cabinet. Eh, saw a few bugs, nothing to satisfy this as the source. The article said to store cat food in air tight containers. So, I found some tupperware for the time being, and prepared to pour. Starting with a box of Friskies, I poured.

What came out of that box was quite possibly the sickest thing I’ve seen in my life. Every single morsel of food was half eaten…and the bugs were there. Everywhere.

I cried.

I cried because it was gross. I cried because I hate bugs. I cried because my cat had been eating bug food and I failed to notice. When I looked in his dish, sure enough, bug city. I was a shitty mom.

I composed myself, grabbed a trash bag, and started to throw everything away—the box of Friskies, any cat treats, even a new bag of Iams (i checked it, to find it oddly bug-free, but I didn’t want to take any chances). I emptied my cats dishes and put everything in the dishwasher. My kitty was left with a hungry belly for the night.

When I got on the Friskies website, I saw many complaints of the same thing. Apparently, I purchased a box of Friskies that was infested, and I was being punished for it.

I could hardly sleep that night, unable to get the image of the bugs out of my head, worried about my cat’s health, and overall just feeling disgusting. At lunch yesterday, I made a trip to the pet store and bought all fresh catfood (I opened everything before I bought it, inspecting for bugs) and it wasn’t Friskies.

I also purchased a large collection of air tight containers. Now, all my catfood, flours, pastas, sugars, etc are stored away, safe and sound.

On my drive home from work last night, I got an e-mail from Jesus Belt, saying the magazine was cutting back on freelancers.

Just what I needed to hear.

When I got home, I saw a few straggling bugs, which I expected. I’m still waiting for the rest of the crop to die of hunger. However, I dragged myself around the kitchen, cleaning once again. I was exhausted of my recent life. I was upset about losing freelance money. And I was tired of cleaning up bugs.

So here I am. Stricken my karma. Because I’m a big, single, bitch. Where’s The Bieb when I need him?

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Some people really are destined to be…alone.

One night, (I believe it was super bowl Sunday) Lucky and I had a long talk about how we are awkward and a-social, and how we genuinely feel there’s no one out there waiting for us.  This conversation was prompted by #1 my drugs and #2 the fact that it was Snoop-Linus’ birthday, I sent him a Happy Birthday text, and heard nothing back for almost 24 hours.  I was starting to get the feeling that I should just suck up all of Snoop-Linus’ bad habits and cheating ways and be with him, I texted Lucky for a reality check, but when it comes to the two of us we can quickly bring the other one down too, as I did with Lucky that very night.

Anyway, the point of this story is that I don’t know how to talk to people, and I’m afraid it has me doomed to be a lonely old maid or to be with what I know, someone who treats me like shit. I won’t lie, Snoop-Linus finally texted back, we got into an argument, I said some things he said some things, it was ok for a few days, and now it’s back to awful.  If I can’t even get my cheating ex-boyfriend to give me any attention, how in the EFF am I supposed to get it from a nice guy?

It’s not just men that I feel like I can’t communicate with, it’s women too.  Like I can’t even make conversation good enough/act interested enough in peoples lame stories slash lives to get a decent group of girlfriends.  It all just seems so exhausting, and that is pretty much the same way I feel about dating.  Hearing the backstory of every ex-boyfriend/girlfriend and lame friend they’ve had that got them where they are today wears me out.  I mean that’s a lot of talking, and frankly if someone wants to put it all out there I’ll put my face into a pitcher of beer and listen.  But, they better not expect me to reciprocate the stories, because if that’s the case we’re going to need something a lot stronger than beer.  And by that I mean tranquilizers and a therapist.

Of course, I have my current friends who I will listen to/whine to about my problems all day long, but that’s because I already know their stories, I know the people in the stories, and I feel comfortable giving/asking for advice.  But when you meet someone new and they are telling you all of these stories where they’re all, “Oh and THEN John drug me behind his car and left me in a dumpster for dead.” And when I say, “Oh thank god you got rid of him!” And in walks said John with their 3 kids and malshi-poo, I’m the asshole.  So unacceptable.

So here I am, 1 month in to what was supposed to be the greatest decision/fresh start of my life and I’m pretty miserable. Not because I live in the laundry room of a frat house and have curtains for walls, but because I’m too lazy to make friends or find any kind of romantic life for myself.   Even Anth doesn’t want to hang out with me anymore because I’m gross and lately have been coughing things up.  I can’t help it, I’m sick.  So now I don’t know what to do.  For the time being I’m blaming it on the -10 degree weather and the fact that I’m still “adjusting.”  But I can only use these excuses for so long until I have to suck it up and face reality: that I’m probably doomed to be alone forever.  And just in the knick of time for Valentines Day (black holiday, as you will hear it commonly referred to by Lucky and myself.)

Speaking of Valentines day, I realized yesterday that I’m in the same, slightly modified, boat that I was last year.  Last year at Valentines Day I was figuring things out with Snoop-Linus after he had cheated on me a few weeks earlier, and when it came to V-Day weekend he ignored me because I asked him to come home with me to see one of my best friends who was in from out of town.  He said no because that would cut down on drinking time with his friends.  I went alone and stayed at home for the weekend and asked my 6 year old sister to be my Valentine.  She was the best Valentine I could’ve ever asked for, I bought her a Bratz doll and she got me candy and we watched movies all day.  Of course, as soon as I woke up on actual V-day last year (which was a Sunday if you all recall) when the drinking had commenced Snoop-Linus was asking me to dinner for that night because, “There’s no one he’d rather spend Valentines day with,” I don’t think I ever got an apology for being treated like shit and ignored all weekend; I just got a dinner, that I should’ve rejected.

So, in the memory of traditions I’m asking my little sister to be my Valentine again this year.  I’m going to drive my happy ass home tonight after work to play barbies and watch cartoons all weekend, and I couldn’t be happier about that decision.  If I ever find a guy who is OK with watching Disney movies and drinking chocolate milk with my sister and I on said black holiday, he might be in the running as a decent boyfriend.  This is all Neal Bledsoe’s fault.  We could be together right now.

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Pish posh

It’s Monday at 11:30pm and I just invented beer bongs for Barbie’s, then bonged a beer out of it myself.

Has anyone been keeping up on that MTV show, I Used to be Fat? No? Well, I have! And it’s amazing.  I don’t have anything against fat people, I’ll probably be one someday.  But the people on it make me want to punch them sometimes.  I’m not going to go all, ohhh what the fuck do they expect when they sit around eating cheeseburgers and tootsie rolls all day? Because I sit around and eat cheeseburgers and tootsie rolls all day.  They piss me off because when they sign up for the show they know some ex-army lieutenant is going to be training them and he is going to kick their ass and when he does they whine about it.

This past week Marci used to be fat.  In the beginning we hear Marci’s sob story about how she gets made fun of and can’t shop at regular stores because she’s fat.  Then we meet her trainer Justin, an ex-military hoorah guy.

Day 1 Justin makes Marci want to kill herself.  She threatens to puke on the treadmill if he doesn’t give her a break, so he does and she goes and lies down on the nasty gym bathroom floor.  Justin goes all daddy on her and says, “Don’t make me tell you to get up off of that floor again.  If I have to, I’m leaving and you can stay FAT!” Way to put it plain and simple J-Bone.  Knock her self esteem down 1 last time before she shreds all those pounds.

The next day Justin set up a boot camp outside for Marci, and for about 5 seconds, she sounded like my 6 year old sister, “I don’t want to be outside! I promise if we go inside I won’t complain.  Wahhhhh!!” And Justin had to go into daddy mode on her again, “Well sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to in life.” So Marci whined a while longer but made it through day 2 of boot camp.

Marci had 89 days to lose 90 pounds and she did it, so great for her.  She got some dresses, one that was pretty skank-a-lish and almost showed her coooookaaa (Jersey Shore term for you.) After her final weigh in, Justin tells her how proud he is and how he never thought she could do it because the first day he walked in and she was “sitting in her bed with food all around her looking fat and disgusting.”  This guy really knows how to sugar coat it.  And all is right with the world because Marci is skinny and Justin got a 3 month long power trip.

Anyway, it’s 2 days until the big move and I’m no closer to having a home and no closer to being packed.  At all.  Does anyone want to come be my roommate? I’ve tried convincing Lucky but I don’t think she is taking me seriously.   I’m starting to get a little more nervous about it all.  Pretty much none of my friends are that excited that I’m moving to the city.  They’re all, “Ohh yeah lets get some dinner and drinks next week.”  So chances are I’m going to be sitting in my bed alone every weekend (just like I do now) writing blogs about guys I wish I was getting (Neal Bledsoe.)  WHICH BY THE WAY, I have a way better chance of getting now that I am moving to the city.  Not that he’ll ever be in my city, but it’s a big one and the chances are better.  I’ll have to keep up on my Neal Bledsoe creepy so I know if he’s ever in town.  God, I’m such a stalker.  It would be totally acceptable if he were a real celebrity.  But he’s not, so I fully expect a restraining order.

Anyway, my work friends threw me a going away party on Friday and I nearly cried, no one has ever thrown me a party.  I haven’t had a birthday party since I was 10 years old.  They had a cake, a picture of the cake I was supposed to get with penguins on it but I didn’t get it because the guy that was supposed to pick it up called in sick, a t-shirt, and people I didn’t even think cared about my well being (the salesmen) were coming in from their sales calls early to wish me good luck in the big city and give me their emails so that I could keep in touch.  Here I found all of these people that give a shit about me and now I’m leaving.  I’m pretty sad about it.  I cried, twice.

I was talking to Anth yesterday about who he hangs out with on the weekends because my ideal goal is to move to the city and have a How I Met Your Mother group of friends to hang with.  Anth could be Barney, I could be Lily (because she gets married), and then there’s still 3 openings.  But he told me he hangs out with people we went to college with.  Gross.

That was one of my main reasons for not moving to the city earlier.  It’s like SHIT U all over again.  SHIT U is about 100 miles south of the city so with each graduating class they ship bus loads of them up there.  And the last thing I want to do is relive college.

I liked college, but the few close friends I have in the city hang out with a bunch of douchers.  Douchers=frat boys and sorority whores.  I have nothing against them, but every time I go to visit and have to be in the same room as them I want to kill myself and it is NOT a good time.  They’re just pretty lame.  Doing exactly what you would expect, shooters and picking up anything with a vagina or penis.  It’s really annoying.

At this point in my life I’m really looking for some quality friends.  I need friends who want to eat food before we go out drinking.  Not purge before we go out drinking.  Spanks but no spanks.

Can we start placing bets on how long it will be before I’m back at home hanging out with my sister getting sugar drunk on chocolate milk on the weekends?  I give myself 2 months.

 

P.S. Black Swan looks scary as eff.

P.P.S.  Did everyone see Ron Ron on the Xenadrine commercial? AHHHHAHAHA AND he’s on the website:

Ron Ron also has his own website, complete with fan club.  Which we are members of.  There’s a section where you can “book” Ron Ron for an event.  I’m half tempted to see how much it is to book him to write a blog for us.  I wonder if they charge extra for making him think.  Hmm…

“My GTL routine just got even better.  XGTL baby – Xenadrine.  Gym.  Tan.  Laundry.” – Ron Ron

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