Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Counting Sheep and Office Supply Training Manuals

Okay, so getting a single hour of sleep (and that's a generous estimation) last night is not cutting it.  Needless to say, I will be skipping my classes in between shifts at work to go home and nap.  I'm such a nerd I feel guilty about skipping class, so it's rare... but today I could very well fall asleep at my desk, so for the sake of productivity later, I'm crawling back to bed. 

I could probably push through with some caffeine, but being a coffee addict is the exact reason I sleep so poorly some times.  I get dehydrated very easily, and caffeine running through my veins in place of blood doesn't help that cause much.  It's like a constant hangover, minus the fun time the night before.  Aren't dehydration and stress two of the leading causes of larger issues?  I could be completely wrong, I wouldn't even trust my diagnosis on trimming your fingernails, that's how medically inept I am. 

Considering my day isn't very long, I don't have much to tell you all about.  Students at work couldn't use the stapler, but what else is new?  Seriously, I ask this question at least every other post, but how the hell did some of my peers even get to this level of academia without knowing how to use office supplies?  I should seriously create a "How To" manual for the basic office supplies.  "To staple papers: step one, place paper inside.  Step two, push down."  My office goes through staplers like fraternity boys go through cases of Bud Light.

Did I mention that counting sheep doesn't work?  And in fact, I will imagine the sheep from the Serta commercials and then picture them all wearing different little lamb-clothes and then my mind just wanders from there, imagining farm animal fashion shows and Bravo-TV-station-esque shows featuring diva clothing designer sheep.  Totally normal, right? I know, I exclude normalcy. 


Monday, February 27, 2012

That Time A Chimpanzee Trimmed My Hair

Well, Fall Out Boy came on the radio this morning as I sipped my free Dunkin Donuts iced coffee, so I guess this Monday started out peachy.  Although, somehow I'm just incredibly grouchy about things I just can't seem to leave in last week.  Mainly, I'm talking about my Fringe Banking class and this horrendous haircut I got yesterday.  This means that every little thing today is bugging the ever-living crap out of me.  For example, the fact that everyone at work today is mumbling at me.  I just want to grab their faces and move their mouths with my hands while yelling "ENUNCIATE!" 

So, my first rant is this class I'm taking.  I'm an overachiever for even taking it in the first place.  It's one of those upper-level elective classes with 15 people in the course and everything is discussion and group work.  Of course, my randomly assigned group places me with two freshmen who have no idea how to write a book report, let alone a technical paper.  Not to mention this professor we have is the most nit-picky person ever.  Like he's really going to take off 13 points because he didn't like the fact that I used a bar graph instead of a chart to display info.  Dick move right there.  My group has consistently gotten Bs on all of our projects, which, did I mention, are due almost every week?  Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they could actually do research on their own without using Wikipedia.  How did you get into college again?  I despise group work, as I've mentioned before.  Almost as much as I despise Socialism. 

Secondly, this haircut.  What the hell was I thinking, going to SuperCuts in the first place.  Well, I thought that if I told them exactly what I wanted, they couldn't really mess it up.  Boy, was I wrong.  Apparently a trim means 3 inches off my hair.  I doubt this woman even had a cosmetology license, considering she had no clue what "pivoting concave layers" were.  It's a textbook term that you learn in beauty school when you learn the basics of cutting.  That should have been my red flag to book it out of there.  Or maybe I should have just ran out of the chair screaming when she made a face that clearly said "oh-crap-I-screwed-this-up" and then attempted to cover her incompetent ass by telling me my layers were cut wrong in the first place.  Excuse me, Ma'am, but I normally get my hair done at Paul Mitchel, and I actually think a chimpanzee could trim hair better than you're doing right now. 

Obviously, I called back and complained and was told I'd be given a refund... however, I have to do so during times that are convenient for them.  Obnoxious.  They even offered to fix it for me.  Oh, sorry, I already look like a homeless crack addict had at my hair with a pair of yard shears, but sure, I trust you to "fix" it.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go put six thousand bobby pins in my hair to hide these hack-marks and attempt to research regulations on alternative financial service providers in New Jersey. 


Friday, February 24, 2012


Hey guys!  For those of you who noticed I moved (on the interwebz, I mean), this is where you can get your daily dose of caffeine and extinct reptiles from now on.  For those of you who didn't notice, well, never mind. 

So, this weekend in the good ole town of Orlando is All-Star weekend.  Apparently, that means that some really awesome NBA basketball players are shooting hoops at the Amway center and then getting obliteratingly drunk downtown with some other very classy celebrities like Nicki Minaj.  Needless to say, half of the town is in hysterics as they daydream about meeting Dwight Howard himself or having the chance to go shot for shot with Shaquille O'Neal at a club.  Okay, so I have no idea if Shaq is even coming to said "All-Star Weekend," nor do I know who any of the All-Stars are, but that doesn't stop me from having an opinion on the town's obnoxious excitement. 

I get that it's really cool to have so many famous people and great athletes in the same place at the same time.  I get that it's going to be a really fun game to watch, if you can actually afford to go.  But what I don't understand is why any college student in their right mind wants to pay $150 cover to get into a really terrible club just on the off chance that some slam-dunk-star happens to be there.  I don't even really understand how it's fun to be crammed into a bar with fifteen thousand other drunk people all waiting on the same celebrity to make an appearance.  With so many people, how can you even get to the bar to get a drink?  How can you dance?  I can stand in line for free at the DMV...

I'm not just hating on the NBA here.  I never understood the uproar about Jersey Shore stars coming to clubs downtown here, either.  Cool, let's all go pay a zillion dollars to get into a club, then be crammed in with a hundred other people, just for DJ Paulie D to not even show up... And even if he did, he's going to go straight to a VIP section specifically blocked off from the rest of the crowd.  Am I the only one on this planet who thinks it's incredibly unlikely that Chad Ochocinco is going to say "oh, no thanks, I don't need a private couch fully stocked with bottles of liquor that cost more than a semester of tuition, I think I'll have a cheap long island in a plastic cup with this young fellow over here."  News flash, it ain't gonna happen.  And don't even get me started on this whole "Ocho Cinco" nonsense.  His number is 85, which in Spanish is "ochenta y cinco."  Illiterate.  Regardless, good for Orlando for hosting such a mess of sexy black men and getting the entire town pumped up about basketball and drinking.  I will be avoiding the crazed-fan-ridden downtown streets tonight like Colt avoids communists.  (It's a great analogy if you know Colt, trust me.)


Thursday, February 23, 2012

Public Transportation Shouldn't Make Food

I hate Subway.  Not the underground public transportation in New York.  I'm talking about the chair restaurant that makes cold cut sandwiches and markets them for being healthy.  Okay, so, simple solution, I just don't eat there, right?  Wrong.  It's the only sub place on campus, which means when I'm craving a sandwich, it's my only option.  (Even more support for my women-should-make-sandwiches-in-the-kitchen movement; I can make a turkey club a hell of a lot better than Subway can.) 

So I guess I could just find somewhere else to eat on campus, but instead I'm just going to complain.  What is their bread made out of?  It always feels stale.  It has zero taste, aside from the cheese and "herbs" they bake on top, which I'm convinced isn't real either.  It's probably plastic cheese and grass cut up to look like herbs.  I never feel like I've just eaten a healthy turkey-on-wheat lunch after consuming a footlong.  Oh, well, obviously because I ate the entire footlong and so obviously I feel like Big Bertha all up in my jeans.  Wrong.  I feel like I ingested sponge-bread and a barrel of nitrates that they probably marinated that ham in before slicing it.  And why do none of the employees know moderation with toppings?  I either get one lonely pickle on my meal-between-buns or an entire pickle barrel.  It's a little obnoxious.  I'm going to start specifying the exact number of toppings I would like.  "Yes, three tomato slices, one shake of salt and pepper, 20 shreds of lettuce... NO, that's 21, I said 20!  And eight black olives."  

I think I'm also just weird and picky about food.  There are plenty of times I crave shrimp or lobster ravioli, but I dislike both of those foods.  Any time I eat a brownie or a cookie I want to dip it into a cold glass of milk, but any time I actually give in and try it, I realize, yet again, that I hate milk.  I'm definitely a freak of nature for craving things I don't even like.  Did I mention milk comes from cow boobs.  As in, the breasts of cows.  Cow titties.  The things teenage female cows flash at Cow-Mardi-Gras to get more cowbell... and you want to drink that?  Disgusting. 

And now I'm going to wrap this up before all the real annoyances of my day peep in... like AdSense being a complete toolbag or nonsense power trips crampin my style. 


Wednesday, February 22, 2012

I Don't Know Calculus

So, I swear, every day after I write a post I think of 6 other things I could have written about instead.  Yet, come the next day, poof, it's all out of my brain.  I used to pre-write posts, but that sort of eliminates the daily therepudic effect that writing every morning has for me.  So here I am sitting again, trying to figure out what's up in my brain in between frantic notes-to-self to remember to do my public economics assignment and daydreams of a new bikini. 

Though this blog reeks of snarky sarcasm and an impressive number of rants about things that annoy me, I consider myself a very friendly person.  I will talk to just about anyone, and I try hard to be nice to people just because.  Weird, right?  You all thought I was some angsty grouchy feminist behind a Macbook, didn't you?  Grouchy is true if I haven't had my coffee.  Angsty, not so much.  And although I have aspirations to be successful on my own, I wear a bra and have no problems making my future husband sandwiches.  Oh, and I am currently using a Windows PC.  Did I just blow your mind? 

So, back to how I'm charming, delightful, and friendly.  I think it's a great quality to have, if I do say so myself.  (I should probably add some humility and humble pie to that list, but I'd rather stare at myself in reflective surfaces and tell myself how beautiful I am today, sorry).  Doesn't it make your day when someone sincerely compliments your outfit?  Or when someone holds the door for you, even though you're clearly 10 paces behind and they didn't have to?  Well, why can't I be that person and brighten someone else's day?  I'd like to think I can try. 

There's that old saying about scoring more flies with honey than with vinegar.  Let's be serious, when has anyone ever wanted flies?  I want a step towards my career.  Why do big-time firms look for high GPAs and the ability to do calculus and whip up regression formulas in your head instead of people skills?  Why is being adaptable, friendly, professional, and charming under-rated?  Or am I just not looking in the right field?  Sure, I have a good GPA and can partially derive things that don't include logarithms... but so can everyone else in my major.  The difference between them and me is that I don't want to hold a conversation with them.  Whoops, I think my confidence is showing, which apparently is a very intimidating trait for a female to exhibit.  You can teach me how to manage risk with derivatives, but you can't teach personality. 

Now before you go saying to yourself "Self, this girl thinks she can glide by on her good looks and charisma, but that's not going to fly because I've spent the past 20 years of my life hittin' the books and it's not that easy," I'll tell you that I know this.  I'm not an economics major because I can meet a cute hubby in my classes.  (It's quite the contrary, actually.  Woof).  I'm just saying that it's a little discouraging that being obnoxiously specialized in one area is more valuable than being well-rounded. 

I suppose I'm freaking out about nothing.  I have, like, 4 months left to flounder around and enjoy my youth.  I have the rest of my life to worry about the rest of my life.  And if that doesn't work out, RENT kinda made being poor look like fun, minus the AIDS-and-dying part. 


Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Spring Break Countdown

Oh what wondrous nugget of joy do I want to share with you all today?  Let's talk about Spring Break, since it is fast approaching.  I will be taking that week off from Blogger-world.  I know, you are all so sad.  Why, you ask?  Well, because I have much more pressing obligations that week, such as drinking margaritas out of 18-in-long plastic tube cups at a bar named after a Hispanic amphibian, or eating my weight in unlimited cruise food or trying to keep my friend Colt out of cruise jail.  I realize that I have never addressed anyone by name in my posts before, but Colt is just another level of human and cannot be described any other way.  I think everyone in my vacation party is a little nervous that he will end up in Bahamian prison at some point in the week and have to sail a raft back to America.  Colt loves America more than anyone else I know.  (He's left me 3-minute long voice mails of the National Anthem).

I got off topic.  How incredibly unlike me.  (Sarcasm.)  Anyways, Spring Break is in a short two weeks and I have a lot to do.  We have to order matching neon shirts to wear on the boat.  I have to make sure all my frat-tanks are properly laundered and round up my collection of cutoff shorts and bikinis.  I have to make a copy of my passport.  I have to clean and sanitize some hair product bottles to fill with alcohol to smuggle in my luggage.  I have to call my credit card company.  I have to get a tan.  Such a busy list! 

I understand that the point of a tropical vacation is to bronze in the sun, but I live in Florida and should be bronze all the time.  Remember my irritations with the weatherman lately?  Now you see why they are justified.  He is clearly personally imposing on my Spring Break preparations.  Next CVS going to suddenly stop selling all their knock-off brands of things so I can't buy extra detangler spray to dump out and replace with vodka.  The world is conspiring against the most monumental collegiate vacation of the year. 

Since this is my last and final year of college, this is also my last and final year of a real Spring Break.  This is the last time it is appropriate for me to spend a solid week in a bikini, not wear shoes, and drink out of fruits carved into drinking vessels.  This is the last year I can run around in neon-on-neon-on-neon shirts printed with obnoxious sayings like "rage hard or die trying."  After college, places like Panama City Beach and Freeport, Bahamas are places that should only exist in memories or as photos in a folder on my desktop titled "The Last Hurrah."  I'm not saying that graduation will cause me to lose my ability to party, but it's commonly agreed that sloppy Spring Break weeks are no longer acceptable in the "real world."  I feel like "real world" vacations just don't involve 20 sorority girls and rum pineapples.  Aren't I supposed to go to, like, Key West when I'm "grown up?"  That all being said, two weeks can't fly by fast enough.  I'm jonseing for the ocean. 


Monday, February 20, 2012

Weekend = #Winning

Hi readers.  Although, I'm not really sure who reads this nonsense.  Some people tell me I'm funny, other people probably think I'm the reason 2nd amendment rights shouldn't be applied to everyone.  Oh well. 

My whole weekend of birthday celebrations was pretty awesome, thank you for asking.  I went to see The Vow, and lost about 5 pounds of water weight from sobbing the entire time.  What?  I'm pathetic?  You go watch the sexiness that is Channing Tatum cry and see if you don't tear up, too.  My boyfriend took me to the Shipyard Emporium, which is an incredibly awesome microbrewery.  My mom took me shopping for some much-needed clothing, although I'm pretty sure H&M was debuting their "Springtime Nun" collection.  And I romped around downtown at the big-girl bars and even had my tradiational birthday dance-off with a random stranger to the tune of "C'mon 'N Ride It (The Train)". 

The crowning jewel of the weekend was the family plus boyfriends dinner at Ceviche's.  Firstly, if you've never been there, go.  Right now.  Take a speeding rocket ship and order one of everything, even if you think you'll hate it, because you will absolutely love it.  And order a few pitchers of sangria.  If you don't like wine, order it anyways, because it tastes like juice.  But it's not juice at all, trust me on that one.  And then order a drink made with basil and gin, even if you hate gin, because I hate gin and I still drank that entire thing, times two.  I even ate sweetbreads, which, news flash, aren't sweet or bread.  They're actually deep fried glands of cows, or something along those lines.  Before you gape in disgust, they are a delicacy and you haven't tried them at Ceviche, don't be rude.  My point of this is that by the end of the night I'm pretty sure my family ate and drank the place out of house and home.  That's what you get when you put some Italians in a tapas restaurant.  (You don't know what "tapas" are?  Do you know what Wikipedia is?  It's nothing like that at all, but you can find out on your own.)

Yesterday, the weatherman decided to smite me yet again with hurricane-esque winds and too many clouds.  He always makes my weekdays, when I'm in class and working, so sunny and beautiful and bright, and then it's like he just rains on everyone's weekend parade.  Literally.  So instead of enjoying the sunny beaches of Florida like I should have been able to do, I spent yesterday being a lazy bum and cooking.  I love cooking, so it wasn't a total waste.  In fact, I made homemade cranberry jam, so I guess I'll toss Sunday into the "win" pile after all. 

All in all, my birthday weekend was a major success.  And that obnoxious wind blew in some perfectly cool and sunny weather to make Monday suck a little less. 


Thursday, February 16, 2012

Happy Anniversary of My Day Of Birth

It's my birthday, guys!  I know, almost as exciting as the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, Christmas, and Cinco de Mayo put together!  Or not.  I didn't wake up feeling any different, just exhausted as usual, which is probably my old age catching up to me.  A tooth hurts and I'm pretty sure I'm catching arthritis in my hips as we speak. 

I spent last night laying in bed eating candy and cookies, since now that I'm old my metabolism is going to clock out and go on a vacation forever.  My boyfriend made reservations for a surprise tonight at 7pm... doesn't he know I eat dinner at 4pm with the rest of the elderly now?  I'm trying to cash in on at early bird special.  Speaking of birds, I'm thinking of taking up bird-watching as a hobby, who's with me?!  It's the perfect past time so I can tell you how everything was back in my day...

Maybe I'm overreacting just a tad.  I am still a twenty-something, not even out of college yet.  I'm allowed to be dramatic, it's my birthday.  What, did you not get that memo?  I made sure to send duplicates and print it on hot pink paper with glitter. 

Anyways, what was my point again?  Oh, yeah, today is awesome because it celebrates the day of birth of the most awesomely beautiful person int he world: me.  I decided I would give my ole coffee pot a break today and treat myself to Starbucks before work.  Turns out, everyone else who is awake at 7:30am decided to stop for a cup of java before work, too.  Have you ever noticed how it is impossible to order just a coffee at Starbucks?  Sure, you go to Dunkin Donuts, its a medium-hot-coffee-cream-and-sugar.  Plain and simple.  But not Starbucks.  No matter what you order, you sound like a pretentious dick.  "I'll have a grande-light-double-shot-caramel-macchiato-hold-the-foam-add-whip."  And your total will be five billion dollars.  Oh, can you add in one of those horrible stale scones and then put it all into a cake with a chip-and-dale dancer so he can pop out and deliver my caffeine to me in a sequined Speedo?  No, ma'am, that is asking too much. 

Regardless, 20 minutes later I left the place with a medium caffeinated drink and $6 less in my bank account.  What the hell, it's my birthday, I should live a little.  And this really is delicious.  Seriously, Starbucks, I sound pompous enough as it is with my sarcastic narcissism, please don't add to it with your uppity beverage lingo. 

Happy birthday to me!


Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Letter To My Peers: Student Union Edition

Dear Advocates of Various Causes At the Student Union,

As a passerby on my way to class, I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop shoving fliers, clip boards, and free pencils in my face.  I am only walking through this obnoxious hoard of tables, tents, and banners because you and about 50 other advocates of various other causes take up the entire center of school, and I need to get to the business building.  I am in no way interested in Swirl Saturday at the bar you promo for.  I do not want to sign a petition to stop the health center from providing birth control.  And, Mormons, although you are dressed oh so nicely in your slacks and tie, I know the power of prayer works because I beg Jesus weekly to let me avoid you. 

Don't get me wrong, I understand providing information about your club, honor society, or charity to the masses as we go about our day.  I understand that your internship with the local Obama campaign requires you to stand in the hot sun and help students register to vote.  What I don't agree with is your party affiliation.  I've been registered to vote since 08.  I'm already in 3 honors societies.  I have no place at a "Latin Fever" salsa club.  And if you want people do donate to a fundraiser, get a credit card machine so people can't use the "I have no cash" excuse anymore.  If you're handing out free travel mugs, pens, or energy drinks, I want one, but I don't want to have to put my name, email, or phone number down before I can receive it. 

If I don't look interested, it's because I'm not.  Please don't try to walk with me to explain why weed should be legal.  Please do not ask me some open-ended question that makes me sound like a complete ass-hat if I disregard it.  ("Do you WANT puppies to die?  If you cared, you'd donate!")  And please, please do not try to talk politics or religion with me.  That's just not appropriate conversation for a first date. 

I look forward to ignoring you again next week. 


Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Those Candy Hearts Taste Awful

Well, it's Valentine's Day, and it would be incredibly stereotypical of me to post about this Hallmark holiday like everyone else is.  Then again, I'm kind of stereotypical, so why not. 

I feel like Valentine's Day (which is actually technically Saint Valentine's Day) is the most controversial holiday in America.  You either love it, or you hate it, or you think it was made up by a card company, or you are bitter because you're single and adamantly insist it is "just Tuesday."  Whatever your reasoning is, I'm here to have an opinion on it.  (Who asked me?  Well, no one, but the point of a blog is to write your opinion on things regardless of if people care.) 

To all those girls out there pissed off that one day out of this fine 366-day year is being "wasted" on cheap displays of affection by all those "annoying" couples you so desperately long to be a part of: stop whining.  Firstly, guys don't like girls who whine about being single.  And secondly, you may not have a boyfriend because you spend your life whining about how lonely you are, but you could show some affection to that best friend of yours who undoubtedly listens to you whine all the time.  Or your parents, who, you know, probably conceived you on Valentine's Day.  It's a day to celebrate love of all kinds. 

To all those people out there boycotting this "capitalist" holiday "invented" by Hallmark: make an important political statement by voting, instead.  Your stubborn attitude towards Valentine's day isn't keeping husbands and boyfriends everywhere from buying their sweethearts chocolates and cards and overpriced flowers.  You're really just missing out on all the fun.  And you're probably a communist, since you so vehemently despise the product of a free market.  And, President's Day is a made-up holiday, too, except it was "invented" by some bankers who wanted an extra long weekend each year.  I really don't care if you insist on abstaining from holiday festivities, it just leaves more heart-shaped Reeses for the rest of us.

To the people who treat Valentine's Day as Annual-Buy-Me-Diamonds-As-Redemption-For-Being-A-Terrible-Significant-Other Day: hold the phone.  I get that February 14th is all about showing your loved ones how much they mean to you, but that doesn't mean its the only day for that.  If you treat this holiday as your saving grace to try and buy love back, you probably shouldn't be in that relationship in the first place.  It's a time to do a little extra, not get a year's worth of lovin' in one little red box and then prop your feet up with a beer for the other 354 days and become a cheating douche.  And girls, if you're mad that your boyfriend didn't buy you diamonds or some new overpriced silver adornments from Tiffany's, don't express it.  You sound greedy, and you could very well be in the first category of people I addressed, not only jewelry-less, but man-less, too. 

Personally, I feel as if I don't fall into any of these categories.  I made my boyfriend brunch today, baked my best friend cookies, and will be celebrating the rest of the evening at work with hibachi takeout.  If that doesn't sound like love, I don't know what does. 


Monday, February 13, 2012

Caution: Birthday Brattiness Ahead

It's my birthday week!  Which means that my birthday is this week.  How clever.  I'm turning an incredibly boring age.  Once you turn 21, each year has a diminishing marginal acceptance of getting torn-down drunk to celebrate.  This birthday means I'm one year closer to claiming myself as an independent on my taxes and having to pay my own health insurance.  Bummer.

Nevertheless, I am not letting this one go by unnoticed.  Regardless of my age, I am an incredible birthday brat.  I will act like my birthday should be a nationally recognized holiday when, in reality, no one else around me could care even a fraction as much as I do about how I celebrate or what I do.  In fact, people would probably rather watch paint dry than give a rat's ass about my birthday, I know this.  I tried to think of something extraordinary to do to mark this not-so-monumental age, but since I've already been skydiving and am too terrified of scuba diving to swim with sharks, I decided that drinking and engaging in a shopping spree will have to do. 

My birthday is like a wedding in my eyes.  My accompanying guests should be dressed appropriately and look great, but not better than me.  No one should be wearing the same color as me.  In fact, everyone should wear black while I wear red sequins.  I refuse to be the DD and if anyone tries to steal my thunder, Thor will smite them with a lightening bolt of birthday rage.  Maybe I'm exaggerating a little... try snatching that thunder and see what happens, muchacho. 

And before you shake your head at this and say to yourself "wow, what a pretentious girl" I'll point out that in all reality, you probably get self-entitled on your big day, too.  At least a little bit.  And if you're not, well maybe you should be.  We should all be exuberantly celebrating the day we graced the earth with our presence. 

And since I know you're DYING to send me a gift, things I would happily accept would be a mint-green bandeau bikini with bottoms that don't have ties, a gift card to Chick Fil A, anything from H&M or CottonOn, or these gold and coral enamel bangles I saw at Target this weekend.  Thanks and kisses in advance! 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go knock my ego down a peg. 


Thursday, February 9, 2012

None For Me, Thanks

On this chilly and sleepy morning, I found myself stumbling around the interwebs on some blogs of people I've never met.  A few of them were mothers, who blogged about their pregnancy and their life as, well, mothers,  and it got me thinking of how much I never want children.

Oh, sure, I think some babies are cute (not all of them.  Some of them need to grow into their Mick-Jagger-esque mouths or Mafia-boss-noses).  I think small children are adorable all dressed up and smiling.  But that's about it.  That's where my baby-and-children loving stops.  I could very easily go the entirety of my life satisfying my desire to buy cute tiny clothes as gifts for children of my friends and family, and then send them back to said friends and family when they get smelly, sticky, or whiney.

Firstly, not all babies are cute.  I'm not sure if I could bear the thought of birthing an ugly baby.  There, I said it!  And I KNOW I'm not the only one with his fear, I've read Mommywood by Tori Spelling and she was concerned about Stella's nose, too!  (Her children fall into the adorable category, by the way.)  Which brings me to my next reason I can never have children.  The whole birth process is disgusting and painful and sacrificial.  Giving up 9 months of cold cuts and coffee and wine and eggs Benedict just to spend 12 hours in excruciating pain shoving a watermelon-sized wailing thing out of a hole the size of an orange?  Now, if you've ever spent time in the produce section of Publix, you can imagine how painful that could be.  Did I mention no coffee or wine for 9 entire months? 

I get that the whole being-a-mother thing is supposed to be rewarding and selfless, but you have to admit that vacations are a lot easier without toddlers wailing on an airplane or pooping in a resort pool.  (My mom discovered children's Benadryl when she used to fly with my sister and I.  Well played, mom.) 

Children cry.  A lot.  They cause your boobs to sag, and probably a lot of other things on my body that I couldn't even imagine sagging.  They cause grey hair, and even baldness.  They swallow bugs and small toys.  They go from happy and giggling to vomit-machine in a split second.  Somehow, even though every time you feed them more mushy carrots end up in your hair than in their mouths, they have to have their diapers changed approximately ever 8 seconds. 

Did I mention that you can't drink coffee for 9 months?  And during those 9 months you will swell like a balloon and throw up every morning and you'll have to pee every 4 minutes because a fetus is kickboxing on your bladder?  Don't you want to rush right to your gynecologist and have them stick that fish-hook-looking Mirena thing up your hoo-hoo right this moment? 
Obviously I wouldn't be here if my mom hadn't decided to go through all that agony for me and my sister, and I'm incredibly grateful for that.  Just for now, and for a long while, my view of children is the same as my answer to an offer of shrimp cocktail: none for me, thanks.


Wednesday, February 8, 2012

A Letter To My Peers

Dear UCF Towers Residents,

How did you get accepted to this fine Floridian university?  I was under the impression that college acceptance relies on GPA and grades and SAT scores and other measures of intelligence.  It seems, however, that somewhere between that "Congratulations!" letter in the large envelope and your actual moving onto campus, you lost all of your intellect.  Apparently, going to college means you can forget all of those lessons we learned in kindergarten.  Like looking BOTH WAYS before crossing a street.  Who would have known that such a simple idea could be fundamental to your success as a human being? 

Instead, you choose to ignore that voice in your head, and jaywalking laws, and the little flashing red hand on the other side of the crosswalk, or the fact that my giant SUV has the right of way. You ignore all of that and walk right into the middle of the street.  Or ride your bike across the middle of traffic.  You're a dumb ass, and if I were Charles Darwin, I would use natural selection to justify not slamming on my breaks to avoid my bumper ramming into your dumbfounded face.  I despise driving past those two intersections every day I'm on campus.  Where in the hell do you need to go that is SO important your life is worth risking? Classes don't start for another 15 minutes.  Not to mention that judging from the clueless look on your face as you STOP WALKING in the MIDDLE of the lane when my light has been green for a good 3 minutes, you have no idea you're on a roadway and not frolicking in a field of poppies with the Tin Man.  He didn't have a brain, either.  You two would make great friends. 

I would greatly appreciate it if you could find the time to review the Florida drivers manual, and then test your invincibility on I4 during rush hour.  Best of luck! 


Tuesday, February 7, 2012

What Happened To Vegetables?

I hate diets.  I think they are pointless and ineffective.  Today, I was watching some daytime TV and I flipped past a talk show where some beauty pageant star was talking about her daily diet and her exercise routine.  Apparently she'd lost a lot of weight by buckling down and changing her eating habits and working out all the time.  Good for her, really.  My issue is with what her daily diet was. 

Her breakfast was plain oatmeal and plain egg whites.  Snacks were protein shakes or plain yogurt.  Lunch was plain tuna and lettuce.  Dinner was plain chicken and plain brown rice.  Gross.  How bland and boring.  If I had to eat that every single day, I think I'd be more concerned with suicide than obesity.
Since when did eating healthy mean eating things that taste like, well, nothing?  That's wasted calories in my eyes.  Food is such an important part of my life, I just couldn't imagine missing out on so much deliciousness.  I understand that not everyone was raised by a diabetic mother and an Italian father who, together, are the most food-obsessed people I know.  I get that not everyone actually craves salad like I do.  What I don't get is why people starve themselves to lose weight, or go on crazy "diets" where they only eat cereal or grapefruit or lizard feet.  I think we can all predict the ending to that story.  Want a hint?  It ends with you sitting on the kitchen floor in front of your fridge around 12:56am devouring a pint of Ben and Jerry's.  What ever happened to moderation?  What happened to just making smarter choices?  What happened to vegetables? 

And, just to clarify, I am in no way bashing anyone with weight concerns.  I am in no way saying that I am better than anyone because of my eating habits.  I am also not saying I have the healthiest of regimens.  I would rather eat pizza than go to the gym.  I simply just don't understand why people submit to chalky protein shakes or meal substitute bars that taste like sand.  There's probably more nutrition in the sand, to be honest. 


Monday, February 6, 2012

Why The Patriots Are Still The Best

If one more person reminds me that the Giants won the Superbowl, I just may have a conniption fit.  I am well aware, guys.  I watched the entire game.  I saw it with my own two eyes.  You are not Fox Breaking News over here, so please stop repeating ESPN.  And before you say it, yes, I am bitter.  Oh well.

In order to fall asleep without crying my eyes out to visions of Tom Brady crying his eyes out, I had to comfort myself by justifying this terrible loss.  I get that the Giants won, fair and square, but that doesn't mean I can't let my Patriots pride cloud my judgement and send me on a rant of justification. 

The Pats are ranked 31 out of 32 teams for worst defense.  The game was a close won, and the Giants took it by four measly points.  (I get that it only takes one to win, whatever, be quiet.)  Basically, that's like The Situation bragging that he beat up a 12 year old and only suffered a black eye.  In my eyes, the Pats proved that even when they're bad, they're still better than 30 other teams out there. 

Secondly, since when is everyone in Florida a Giants fan?  What the hell?  Don't we have THREE football teams of our own?  Oh, but they all suck, you say?  Bandwagon-Giants-fan, I say.  Enjoy your bandwagon glory.  Weren't you just a die-hard Broncos (coughTebowcough) fan five weeks ago? If I can't be comforted by anything else, at least the Tebowites were silenced by the victory of Brady this season.  I didn't seen Timmy breaking any Superbowl records last night...

Let me also add my three cents on the half-time show.  Firstly, Madonna is fifty-something years old and can still rock.  Whatever negative you have to say about her is just jealousy because you will look like a talentless crypt keeper when you're her age.  I'm just glad it wasn't some annoying, over-played group like LMFAO again.  I may have poked my ear drums out. 

And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pout and ignore the fact that I gained 16 pounds from eating an entire bowl of 5-layer dip. 


Friday, February 3, 2012

Dear Delta, You Suck

I despise airlines.  No, I am not afraid of flying.  I've actually been on airplanes quite a few times in my life.  I understand how they work, I can navigate my way around an airport on my own, and I've even managed to successfully sneak a Cuban cigar past customs.  (I'm a bad ass, I know.)  No, I am not travel-challenged.  The issue is that so many other people in airports are. 

Firstly, why the hell are flights so expensive?  I mean, I understand those giant metal tubes are heavy and require a lot of fuel to fly up in the air successfully.  I don't want Southwest cutting costs buying the bargain gasoline or the alcoholic pilot.  Aside from fuel and paying the employees, what else does all that money go to?  Definitely not those paper-thin "blankets" they give you.  I understand that building an airplane is costly, but how many of you have been on a really up-to-date plane?  Pretty sure the last time I flew to Boston the seats were still that ugly navy color and the plane was built back when smoking was allowed on board, all they did was super-glue the ashtray closed.  So really, my money isn't building better planes.  You don't even get peanuts anymore.  Pretty sure the snack I got last time was a "package" of pretzels.  AKA three pretzel crumbs and a ton of salt.  I was so hungry I ate the salt.  And then I had to buy a $6 soda because I was so thirsty.  Which then made me have to pee, so I went back to that thing they call a bathroom, which is really just a closet with a hole that I'd assume just sucks toilet paper into the sky.  Terrifying.  Dear Delta, spend some of those arms and legs your charging me for flights on a bathroom renovation. 

As if the actual accommodations of the plane weren't horrid enough, I then have to deal with the hoards of tourists and inexperienced travelers.  Living in Micky Mouse's back yard means that any time I fly home from a vacation, I'm stuffed next to grandma and her whole family from North Dakota who decided to fly on the giant eagle int he sky for the first time and bring their practically albino family to DISNEY LANDDDD.  Firstly, quiet down, I can hear you over my iPod blaring.  Secondly, please tell your child to stop kicking and pushing my seat or my first will.  Third, when we pull up to the gate, grab your belongings and use those two legs God gave you to quickly get off. 

Seriously though, shave some of those hundreds off my flight price, I'll spend it on in-flight wine, and you can just watch your customer satisfaction ratings go up. 


Thursday, February 2, 2012

To The Sucker making Money Off Rocks

Happy Thursday!  Today, around approximately 3:30pm, my weekend begins!  Needless to say, I'm already in that state of mind.  It's a new month, and better than that, it's my birthday month!  Feel free to send me a Birchbox subscription, a year of The Economist, or OPI's "It's Totally Fort Worth It" polish.  Those OPI employees are so clever.  Anyways, I'm a huge birthday brat so I'm sure you will all be hearing about my celebrations endlessly this month.  At least it's a short one!

Recently, I got to thinking about things.  Specifically, things that make money.  Even more specifically, things that make money but that probably shouldn't.  Why the hell are things like dinner shows featuring farm animals profitable?  Who thought that serving food in a place that smells like stables would be a great idea?  The same goes for strip clubs with buffets.  I mean, I get the concept of "everything a man needs in one place" but isn't that just downright disgusting?  Not to mention there should be some kind of food safety law against nipples being so close to your entree. 

And pet rocks.  Some man is just pulling in the big bucks selling rocks.  The entire Earth is made of rocks.  Plus, what a disappointing pet!  They can't even cuddle with you.  Uh, decaf coffee is another thing that just doesn't make sense.  Who says "yeah let me drink some bitter hot stuff just because I love the taste?"  Helloooooo, the whole purpose of coffee is to keep people like me from looking like we belong in a zombie video game every morning.  And finally, rain coats without hoods.  I get that you're supposed to have an umbrella, but then I wouldn't really need the raincoat, now would I?  One of my friends has an obnoxiously expensive raincoat from some designer and do you think he could include an extra flap of fabric to cover your head?  Oh, no.  He probably sells that separately for an additional million dollars.

With that, I'm going to go drink my very caffeinated coffee. 


Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?

Okay, maybe I'm biased in my opinion here, but it's seriously appalling how few of my peers can write even decently.  I enjoy writing and reading and always have, and I understand that many other people don't but... come on! 

Did you really, think, this is the appropriate way, to put commas into a sentence?  When is starting a sentence with 'but" or "and" ever acceptable?  Was your third-grade teacher putting wine in her thermos and got too drunk to teach the lesson about the difference between "their" and "there" and "they're"?  I'd bet money that Microsoft Word has a heart attack every time it attempts to correct your research papers.  Just in casually observing my classmates, I no longer think Americans are disadvantaged because we don't learn multiple languages like other countries do.  We are disadvantaged because our country can't even speak one language properly. 

Stop reading trashy "literature" about vampires and a slutty, dramatic girl.  Stop overwriting your iPhone auto correct with drunken twitter hash tags.  Stop listening to rap music and thinking that Nicki Minaj knows the correct pronunciation of anything.  Sign up for an English class.  Better yet, just volunteer at an elementary school and evaluate your confidence level after little Billy out-spells you with his vocab list of three-syllable words and you realize you are not smarter than a 5th grader.