MichiganBoseekoSally (And Other Imaginary Friends)

HEY YOU!

2006-08-25T13:01:00.000-04:00

movin' the party to www.imaginaryblogger.com

maybe i'll actually write more often. (maybe.)

I wonder what she'd get for anal ...

2006-08-11T12:14:00.000-04:00

If my mother had offered me a summer job like this, I'd have been much more willing to put in overtime.

Come on, ya'll ... body piercings and clothes! Who wouldn't blow their mom's boyfriend?

Two words: Open Bar

2006-07-26T10:56:00.000-04:00

I'm in a wedding on Saturday -- my first stint as a bridesmaid (shout-out to my pink, poofy, I'm-definitely-going-to-face-plant-down-the-aisle bridesmaid dress!). The wedding is in PA, which means it's going to be a weekend affair. And let me tell ya … it's going to be a doozy of a weekend.

I'm not going to spoil a perfectly delicious post-wedding blog entry by outlining the potential (read: inevitable) pitfalls ahead of time, but I will say this: Bitches better get ready to see my ugly face. Think a rabid, crying Claire Danes. Then picture that mess in a pink taffeta and an updo.

I get so bajiggity when I or someone close to me reaches these milestone events, and since the bride happens to be my oldest friend (we were infants when we first "met"), I'm going to be an emotional, busted wreck.

Without a date.

2006-07-20T14:18:00.000-04:00

Things are happening. They're not as big and glamorous as I had anticipated (or, more appropriately, had hoped against hope for), but they're happening nonetheless.

1) I got a new (full-time, non-temp) job. So what if I'm compromising a bit in terms of salary and location? Could be worse, right? It's a good job doing something I'll enjoy and it provides a lot in terms of growth/business opportunities. Plus, after paying $400/month for COBRA, it will be nice to have "reasonably priced" health insurance again.

2) With this new job, it’s possible* that I’ll be able to move back out of my parents’ house and into my own place (the angels in heaven lift their voices in glorious refrain).

*Possible in that it depends on my ability to budget with the less than stellar paychecks I’ll be receiving bimonthly. Considering that northern Jersey doesn’t exactly provide much bang for your buck in terms of real estate, AND considering that mama need a new car like Tom Cruise needs a lobotomy, things ain’t lookin’ so good. We shall see.

3) No new love on the horizon, but I feel confident that my break-up was for the best. I adored Brian, but I don’t think we were ever really in love. I can’t speak for him, of course, but I think I was more in love with the idea of our relationship than anything else. Maybe. I’m probably wrong and that excuse is just my defense mechanism for dealing. (Can I rely on more relationship clichés?) Eh. Regardless, the break-up was enlightening and allowed for a lot of productive introspection. (There we go.) I don’t think it changed me in any significant way, except that I now know that I’m a frigid bitch. Perfection.

Visions

2006-07-05T12:06:00.000-04:00

Have you ever had the feeling that something great -- or a couple of something greats -- is just around the corner?

For the past few weeks I've had the overwhelming feeling that something amazing is coming my way. My intuition isn't giving me specifics and so I have no idea if this "something" is going to be in the form of a new job, a new man, lottery winnings, an instant loss of 15 pounds, or a combination of some/all all of the above.

But it's coming … I swear to Christ it's coming.

loves it

2006-06-30T10:15:00.000-04:00

Last night I met two astrophysicists.

What's cool about this is not just that these two men were insanely brilliant (yum) or that they shared a killer sense of humor (yum yum) or that one of them was young and single and pretty damn attractive for a scientist (yum cubed). It's also cool because of the 6 billion people on Earth, only 6000 are astrophysicists.

Statistically speaking, that means I have met two people who can claim that they are -- quite literally -- one in a million.

That, Paris Hilton, is what I call hot.

Family Ties

2006-06-26T14:02:00.000-04:00

Although everything else in my life is a confused mess right now, I realized this weekend that there is one thing of which I am absolutely certain: I need to live by the ocean.

Of course, since I'm fairly broke, this isn't a need that will be fulfilled any time soon. Before I can focus on getting myself a place by the beach, I should take baby steps toward getting my own place period. So yep, this boomerang Jersey girl is likely to remain in a land-locked town for a loooong time.

HOWEVER, the dream is not completely lost. I'm one of those fortunate po' folks who has *rich parents* -- they weren't always loaded (funny how I feel the need to explain, as if being born rich is inherently evil while earning one's wealth admirable and noble … eh), but they're pretty well-off these days and although I'm not totally comfortable with it, I try to milk their situation for all it's worth.

Case in point? Mommy and Daddy have a new beach house, which means Mommy and Daddy have a permanent beach-house guest.

I can't load the picture at the moment -- I'll try again later -- but for now, here's what you need to know:

Manasquan, NJ
Brand new
One very short block from the beach
One very short block from the inlet
Only houses away from debaucherous college boys with beer pong tables up the ass

Happy summer to me.

Lauren, on no sleep

2006-06-21T11:50:00.000-04:00

Since it's been brought to my attention that I'm potentially crasy -- yep, that's "crasy" with an "s" (I hear it's much worse than being crazy with a "z"), I've decided to go all out and do something totally nuts:

For the third day in a row, I'm blogging at work.

(ANTHONY, ARE YOU READING THIS? I DARE YOU TO FIRE ME! I KNOW YOU TRACK MY INTERNET USAGE DAILY. YOU'VE PROBABLY EVEN HACKED INTO MY EMAIL … WHICH MEANS YOU KNOW ABOUT MY PLANS TO MAKE SWEET, SWEET LOVIN' TO ALL KRISPY KREME FRANCHISE OWNERS ON THE EAST COAST. YOU DIRTY BITCH! THAT'S NOBODY'S BUSINESS BUT MY OWN! YOU MAY NOT GIVE A RAT'S ASS ABOUT ME, YOU FUCKING FED, BUT ANDY DICK's look-alike WILL NOT BE HAPPY WHEN HE LEARNS THAT YOU'VE CAUGHT WIND OF OUR PLAN. I'LL CUT YOU, ANT. I SWEAR TO CHRIST I'LL CUT YOU IF YOU EVEN TRY TO STOP US.)

I'm totally bad-ass, no?

And now, a few other things that suck about my very recent break-up …

2006-06-20T14:49:00.000-04:00

1. For fear of being sexually molested at work, I must not let on that I am suddenly single.

This means that I'll have to endure constant questions like:
"How's Brian?"
"How's your man?"
"Your man treating you right?"
"You still happy with Brian?"

To which I'll have to answer:
"He's great!"
"We're as in love as ever!"
"Having tons of mind-blowing sex that will forever ruin me for other men!"
"I've never been happier."

2. Auto-populating email fields. No I'm not trying to email Brian, you mother-fucking, cock-sucking, anal-raping machine, but thanks for reminding me that I can't.

3. Stories -- like this -- that yesterday I would have forwarded to Brian with the message: SEE! I TOLD YOU CROCS AREN'T SEXY ON STRAIGHT MEN!

Dear Brian,

2006-06-20T13:35:00.000-04:00

I guess I should start by saying that since you don't know I have a blog, the likelihood of you reading this letter is fairly non-existent. But that's okay. Writing to you in this forum is simply (and hopefully) a cathartic exercise in my attempt to get over you.

I'm so hurt and confused and sad right now, which isn't surprising seeing as we only broke up last night. But it's a weird kind of post-relationship funk that I'm experiencing at the moment. I'm not sure if it's because I'm still not clear about the reasons behind the break-up or if I'm just so experienced at feeling disappointed/devastated/disillusioned that I've become somewhat numb to those emotions. Maybe numb is too strong a word -- maybe the emotions themselves have become distorted.

Break-ups are so weird when you're the one who didn't want things to end. You're left with all of these questions and all of this baggage, and the only person who can provide answers or shoulder some of the weight for you is the one person you can no longer turn to. Well, at least not without seeming like a psycho-obsessed-stalker ex who doesn't get the hint that IT'S. JUST. OVER.

I don't want to be one of those people. It's just that our situation strikes me as incredibly odd because you seemed so adamant that your motivation for ending things wasn't our incompatibility or your lack of feelings for me or the impossibility of a future together. It's entirely likely that those were just words -- words that made it easier for you to do the dirty deed -- but I'm not wholly convinced of that.

Despite the fact that over the past month-and-a-half we've seen each other only a handful of times, when we were together it was amazing. Should I now be suspect of those experiences? Should I replay every conversation we had about our future together and our feelings for each other only through some kind of filter?

You got so angry last night when I questioned if all of the incredible things you had had said and done -- RIGHT UP THROUGH LAST WEEK -- had been a ruse. I don't know what I should attribute your anger to. Was I right in being suspicious, and were you only angry because I called you out on being phony and cowardly? Or are you truly as utterly (and suddenly) confused about everything as you let on?

You say you're miserable -- that you're sick of the city and your job and your friends and your co-workers. You say that you're considering moving back upstate. And you say that in the midst of all this personal misery, trying to make this relationship work is just too hard.

I'm sad that I'm only hearing about all of this unhappiness now, when it's too late for me to be there for you. I never met the person you described last night, and the fact that there's a side of you that I don't know makes me call my own feelings and actions into question. How real were my emotions if they weren't based on reality?

But I guess we're both guilty of holding back. You don't even know that I have this blog -- I didn't want you reading it … I'm not sure why, but I didn't -- and so what does that say about how well you knew me?

I don't know where this rant leaves me. I guess I'm just sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't come into the city more often. I'm sorry that we never had a Christmas together. I'm sorry that I'm not only losing you, but that I'm also losing your family. I'm sorry that I'll never look at the Empire State Building without thinking of you. I'm sorry that 25 miles kept our relationship from growing like it could have. I'm sorry that my wrist feels naked without my pink rubber band and Wal-Mart "bling" encircling it. I'm sorry that I'll never kiss you again.

But most of all I'm sorry that we didn't trust each other enough to reveal the flawed/darker sides of our personality. If we had just been a little more fucked up, we would have been so much healthier.

Greetings from Suzy Sunshine

2006-06-16T12:59:00.000-04:00

I'm having a really shitty week.

-My temporary I-get-sexually-harassed-every-day-and-have-to-take-it-if-I-don't-want-my-mother-to-disown-me job is becoming more unbearable by the minute.

I don't want their paychecks.

-I didn't get to see my I-miss-him-so-much-it-hurts Sugar-Booger because I was stuck doing shit work for my shit job on the morning he was in the area.

I don't want Teej to live on the West Coast.

- My 16-year-old-smells-like-shit-but-we-love-her-anyway dog was put down.

I don't want Tash to be dead.

- My 6-month-old-until-recently-everything-was-coming-up-daisies relationship seems to be falling apart.

I don't want it to end.

- My always-questionable-if-not-somewhat-non-existent grasp of reality seems to be quickly slipping away.

I don't want to be crazy.

Unless, of course, crazy means being completely unaware that everything fucking SUCKS right now. In that case, bring on the straight jacket.

Kisses!

Love: The romance buzz-killer

2006-04-19T14:10:00.000-04:00

What's the easiest way to put an end to the honeymoon stage of a new relationship?

Say "I love you." It works every time.

WELCOME HOME, SUGAR-BOOGER!

2006-04-03T14:20:00.000-04:00

Dear Sally,

I'm jumping out of my skin at the moment because in less than four hours, we will be reunited! In fact, I just got off the phone with you and we've made plans to meet up at Penn Station at 6:15.

Sweet, sweet Jugurtha.

I'm not sure what I'll do when I first see you. Well, that's not entirely true. I do know that a quick sprint will be involved; I'm just not sure of the run's motivation.

What I mean is, will I be risking a broken heel and frizzy hair so that I can hug you sooner, or will I risk these disasters so that we can start judging people asap?

At this point I'm thinking the latter. I mean, seriously ... we don't have much time together and there is A LOT of ground to cover (read: people to ridicule) in NYC.

Either way, I'm so glad you're hear, Sugs. Life just hasn't been the same without you.

PizzaFace

2006-04-02T14:57:00.000-04:00

I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

This morning I woke up to find a crescent-shaped line of pimples sprinkled down the right side of my chin. I'm not talking about your normal freckle-sized pimples -- I'm talking about the tumor-sized fuckers that are unpoppable and hurt like a bitch. What the fuck is this all about? Granted, I am going to get my period any day now, but still ... I'm 26-fucking-years-old. This is unacceptable.

If my hormones are still raging to the point where they cause big-ass break-outs, then why can't they also give me big-ass boobs? Unacceptable!

April Fool's Day Joke That Is Not Even Remotely Funny ... Especially When I'm Premenstrual

2006-04-01T13:49:00.000-05:00

My boyfriend sending me the following text message:"I think we should see other people."

Here's my April Fool's Day joke to you, honey: FUCK YOU. Get it? Cause I won't.

Kisses!

Remembering

2006-03-12T14:36:00.000-05:00

RO,

It's been exactly a year since you wrapped your car around a tree and ended your life.

It's strange to think that this anniversary of your death is only the first of so many more to come. Maybe it's this thought that once again has me agonizing over your state of mind on that March afternoon.

I understand the depression, I understand the hopelessness, and I understand the personal events that compelled you to walk out the door that day. But what I will never know is this:

As you stepped on the accelerator of your mom's minivan and flew -- unflinchingly -- toward your tree, did you understand how infinite the finite can be?

God I hope so.

Tick Tock Knock Me Up

2006-03-09T22:06:00.000-05:00

For the past month or so I've been having consistent dreams that I'm either pregnant or that I've just given birth. The dreams are so insanely vivid and my feelings for my lil' bundle of joy so overwhelmingly strong that I when I wake up and realize the trick my subconscious has played on me, I feel a deep sense of loss.

It seems that in my case, the proverbial biological clock isn't just ticking, it's screaming its fucking head off.

Must Be Love

2006-03-06T10:15:00.000-05:00

On Friday, Brian and I will have been together for three months. Yep, three whole months.

You know how 25 years together marks the "silver anniversary" and 50 the "gold"? Well, apparently the three-month milestone marks the cool-now-I'm-comfortable-enough-to-rip-ass-in-front-of-you-and-you-still-have-to-love-me "methane anniversary."

I won't go into further details (some things are sacred), but I will leave you with this thought ...Nothing says love like a Dutch Oven.

Happy three months, stank-ass. Lay off the broccoli, eh?

Ridunkulous

2006-03-01T06:16:00.000-05:00

It's 6:30 in the morning and there are so many things I should be doing. I should be up this early because I've just come home from the gym and need to shower and get ready to go to work. I should be deciding which pair of my designer shoes look best with my brand new Armani suit. I should be sipping at a steaming hot cup of Starbucks coffee as I hurry out the door of my kick-ass apartment and head to my kick-ass office where I do minimal work for maximum dollars.

I. Should.

But I'm not. Instead, my lazy ass is looking forward to another day of pathetic unemployment. Instead, I'm fermenting in the Target sweats I haven't changed in a week. Instead, my Aerobed and I have taken up temporary residence in my friend's kick-ass apartment. And I can't afford the Starbucks.

I know that somebody other than myself sees the injustice in this situation. Whoever you are, wherever you are, I'm available to start immediately.

Miz Jackson, I feel your pain

2006-01-28T09:58:00.000-05:00

Another life-changing epiphany today: I am such a fucking asshole.

Last August, Alli and I went on a cruise to Mexico. The trip marked the end of what had been a year of bad-ass training and near starvation. The pay-off from our efforts -- in addition to the aforementioned floating vaca -- was enormous. We both toned up (I was infatuated with my arms -- if it had been anatomically possible I would have made sweet, sweet love to them) and we both lost a good deal of weight. We also both vowed never to allow ourselves to return to our pre-cruise state.

Ask Janet how easy that promise is to uphold, mmmkay?

I suppose it's worth mentioning that I've never been what you'd call a "big girl." A fast metabolism and years of on again/off again running have never allowed my 5'4 frame to support more than 135 pounds. The worst that happens when I don't exercise? I "balloon" from my ideal 115 pounds to 135 pounds and I accumulate an oh-so-attractive layer of fat around my arms, abdomen and ass. I never get to the point where I'd say I'm "chubby" (although I will mention that by some cruel trick of nature, my teeny tiny tits and less than ample calves remain unaltered by my weight gain), but as a perfectionist, my fatter self is SO NOT OKAY.

The point of this now long-winded diatribe is that despite my eariler vow, I am currently SO NOT OKAY. A few months of laziness (no doubt inspired by my depressing state of unemployment and cohabitation), a few weeks of illness (some unnamed virus that until a week ago we thought was mono) and a few trips to Wendy's (do I even need to explain?) have left me flabby and fatigued. Bollocks.

But I am going to try not to spiral into a pattern of self-loathing and continued apathy/lethargy. Monday morning things change. I'll be in training again, because Jugurtha as my witness, if I have to have small tits, then at least I can have a proportionately small ass.

Amen.

Calgon (or a potentially lethal cocktail of tranquilizers), Take Me Away

2006-01-25T19:34:00.000-05:00

Dear Sally,

I apologize for the recent silence on my end. I have no real excuse -- I'm still unemployed, I'm still living at home, I'm still a waste of space. My days consist of one series of blahs on top of another series of yadas, and it's definitely starting to take a toll. Can your brain atrophy? Because I'm fairly certain that I'm getting dumber by the day.

In other news, wait ... nope. There is no other news, unless you consider my dog eating her own shit headline-worthy material.

Dear Jugurtha on high, send a sister some help. (And by help, I mean a check made out to "cash.")

Love,
Felicity

New Year's (Sucky) Eve

2006-01-04T00:02:00.000-05:00

Dear Sally,

Is it possible that 96 hours after my last New Year’s Eve libation I’m still reeling in the after-effects of open bar mania? I’m not talking about a hang-over … that’s child’s play. I’m talking about that horribly sick feeling I get in my stomach when I finally start to remember all of the ridiculous things my drunk ass did while ringing in the new year. Note to self: I am getting far too old to drink into the wee hours of the morning and still conduct myself appropriately. Flirting with your ex’s brother, falling flat on your ass in the middle of the bar, and puking in a public bathroom are not attractive qualities in a young lady such as myself.

All I can say, dear Sally, is that for both of our sakes, we must hope that this past New Year’s Eve was not foreshadowing the year to come.

Here’s to 2006,
Felicity

Total. Goner.

2005-12-22T13:12:00.000-05:00

The random guy I met in a bar almost two weeks ago? I've seen him twice since our first encounter, and, miracle of miracles, I actually want to see him again. This is a good thing, right? I should enjoy it and not sit here holding my breath, waiting to find something wrong with him or for him to find something wrong with me? I'm not accustomed to liking the guy I'm dating, and I'd certainly forgotten what it feels like to potentially/possibly/maybe/too-soon-to-tell-but-perhaps want to invest in a potential/possible/maybe/too-soon-to-tell-but-perhaps relationship.

I am so fucking screwed.

An epiphany and a toast

2005-12-15T12:49:00.000-05:00

It fucking blows to be poor. It fucking blows harder to be poor during the holidays.

...which leads to ...

Here's to my daddy, who once again will be paying for his own Christmas present. God bless you and your American Express, Jamie D.!

Addendum

2005-12-13T20:58:00.000-05:00

Randomly going through TJ's archives and happened upon this entry from our sophomore year of college:

"Last night, as Lauren and I were walking from my car to our apartment, we went past a pile of garbage bags near the curb. She decided to be a bad ass, because that rebellious streak really takes her over sometimes (ha), and ran toward a trash bag prepared to kick it. Everything from this point on happened in slow motion ... her right leg went back and then forward toward the black bag. She kicked into the trash and as she tried to then step over it her foot got caught and she stumbled onto the concrete, ass and back first and bruised her kneee big time. (aside: I slammed me arm into the radiator last night, giving me a freaking painful bruise) To make it even funnier, as she hit the ground she farted. It was really loud.

Enough said."

Enough said, indeed.

The Dating Game (a.k.a. The Land of Suckdom)

2005-12-13T16:35:00.000-05:00

Currently unemployed and temporarily living at home, I haven't had many opportunities to go out and capitalize on my status as a single twentysomething. While my bank account certainly thanks me, my social life is dying a slow and painful death.

To tell you the truth, sacrificing the single scene hasn't been as painful as I let on. After all, when I do go out, a drunk and dazed Lauren usually ends up giving her number to some massive tool. She then spends the following week doing what any mature 26-year-old woman would do: dodging phone calls from the lad who was unfortunate enough to make her acquaintance that previous Saturday evening. It sounds mean and childish, I know. But as they say, karma's a bitch.

Well, folks, the bitch finally caught up to me this past weekend.

I went out in the city this weekend with some girlfriends. It was a good time -- in part because after 5 years of drinking legally, I finally managed to take note of my limit and not drink myself into oblivion, and in part because I met a guy I actually liked. We really hit it off ... so much so that when we parted ways, I actually sent a shout-out up to the dating gods. When you've experienced the dry-spell that I have, you don't fuck around. I wanted to make sure that this dude would follow through on his promise to call me.

It's only been a few days, but the phone ain't a-ringin'. Even if this isn't karma getting me back for my years of man-eating ... even if this guy is just waiting the standard three days before dialing my digits ... well, I still bite my thumb at the damn dating gods.

The rules of the dating game suck, and I'm not sure I'm still in the mood to play.

Let It Snow (and then melt really fucking fast)

2005-12-09T18:38:00.000-05:00

Dear Santa,

I woke up this morning to find that the gods had taken a huge dump outside of my house. Nine inches of snow coated the ground and icicles shimmered and dangled precariously from tree branches. While certainly a pretty scene (it looked unreal -- like something the “artist” (whore) Thomas Kinkade would have painted), I was pissed. As the eldest of three girls (and the only one with any athletic abilities or inclination), I'm the lucky gal who gets to schlep outside and shovel the divine defecation. A frighteningly pale chick in over-sized duck boots shoveling a spot in the snow for her three dogs to shit? Not exactly the serene vista of pathetically over-bought commercial art.

Anyway, I was going to take some pictures of the winter wonderland that is my backyard, but then I remembered my digital camera is broken (and has been broken for at least four months). It's really too bad, because the shit circle I shoveled really is worth remembering.

Do you think you could bring me a new digital camera this year? I figured it's the least you could do, seeing as you still haven't brought me the big brother I've requested each Christmas for the past 25 years.

Thanks!

Love,
Lauren

P.S. I hope you don't mind, but this year I'm experimenting with my cookie recipe. I hear pico de gallo is the new chocolate!

Fried Chicken and Waffles

2005-12-08T11:25:00.000-05:00

Dear Sally,

Primetime television just isn't the same without you. Programs that we used to enjoy together I now enjoy alone, flanked on one side by a purring, flea-infested, ambiguously gendered feline, and on the other by a snoring, morbidly obese, arguably homosexual canine. Their only responses to funny scenes or pathetic lines? Ass bombs that would make even you gag.

Tonight I'm supposed to attend an Apprentice viewing party with Randal and other cast members at Delta's. My car, however, is once again uncooperative (methinks I need a jump, as does my car) and I'm not sure I want to brave the trip down to New Brunswick, especially since there is a snowstorm on the horizon. (Remember snow?) Perhaps I ought to suck it up, if only for the opportunity to socialize with creatures other than my flatuent pets. Your thoughts?

I eagerly await your response.

Ciao,
Felicity

The Cat Formally Known As Princess

2005-12-04T16:02:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago I adopted a stray cat. At first a temporary addition to the family, Princess Roberta Sanchez became a permanent Duffy when nobody responded to the "found" signs TJ and I had posted in Rahway. She came home with me last week when TJ and I officially left our apartment (and I officially became a 26-year-old living with her parents).

Like any good pet owner, I made an appointment to bring Berta to the vet for a check-up and vaccinations. Yesterday was the big day.

In addition to learning that Princess Roberta Sanchez had fleas, ear mites, and an ear-based yeast infection, I also learned that the damn cat has remnants of a neutered scrotum.

Yeah. Turns out Princess Roberta Sanchez is a dude.

It's December 1st ...

2005-12-01T22:08:00.000-05:00

... which begs the question, "HOW THE FUCK IS IT ALREADY DECEMBER 1st?"

I need to find a job asap, or this year the fam and friends are getting homemade stocking stuffers. Given my lack of artistic ability and my lack of interest in all things arts and crafts, I'm thinking we don't want this to happen.

Oh yeah, and Santa? All I want for Christmas is an apartment. Do it.

The Gods React

2005-11-30T22:58:00.000-05:00

Dear Felicity,

I hope you're enjoying the last half-hour or so of your cross-country flight. (It still hasn't sunk in that we're not roomies any longer ... I guess it takes some time to digest your very own series finale). Anywayzz, I was thinking about our lil' car incident this afternoon (and at some point I'll share the dreadful details of what happened once you were whisked away in your fancy-schmancy cab) when I had an epiphany:

My car overheating on the fugging Belt Parkway on the fugging day that I'm bringing you to the fugging airport to move to fugging California is a fugging sign from the gods that something is fugging amiss. Clearly, we are not supposed to be separated. What we have is like what Ben and Felicity had (minus the awesome hair and sexual tension), and although the gods' attempt to keep us together failed today, sooner or later destiny will prevail.

Alls I'm saying is that I wouldn't unpack your bags just yet. Some way or another, you're going to be back where you belong: Next to me on a couch in New Jersey, eating Munchos and watching Laguna Beach.

Miss you already,
Sally

2005-11-29T13:09:00.000-05:00

I've been negligent in my duty to post. What can ya do? Things are ca-wazy at the moment and I'm lucky if I have the energy to shower. Should I be alarmed that I've grown to enjoy the stench of my own B.O.?

Moved all of my shit out of the apartment last night. Many thanks to TJ, Caitlin and mis padres for helping me with that chore-and-a-half. I still can't believe I'm moving home, albeit temporarily. There's something unsettling about living under your parents' roof at age 26, but I suppose at this point I should be grateful that I'm living under a roof at all.

If nothing else, this experience should make for some interesting stories ...

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2005-11-22T18:08:00.000-05:00

Having moved a buhjillion times during childhood, you'd think I'd be devoid of any emotional reaction when packing up an apartment in which I've lived only a year (and which is located in a stank-ass town in the armpit of New Jersey). Yet today, going through my room (and, I might add, feeling disgusted by the amount of crap one can accumulate in such a small space in such a short amount of time), I'm so very sad that yet another life experience is drawing to a close.

And I know it's not just that. I'm upset because Teej leaves for Berkeley in eight days. Seeing the little life we had together get packed away and thrown out and donated to Goodwill is even harder than I had anticipated.

Change sucks.

Feces: A Tale in Three Parts (Long Entry Alert)

2005-11-21T22:21:00.000-05:00

Part I
I awoke this morning to a foul, foul odor ... foul, foul odor. After a few moments of gag-licious confusion, I spotted the source. It seems my current roommate, Princess Roberta "Carl" Sanchez, had grown tired of using her litter box and thus decided to relieve herself in the far corner of my room. Nothing like waking up at 5 a.m. and having to scoop up a pile of fecal soft serve. Fucked. Up.

Part II
After the rough start to my day, I was in no mood to trek it back to my parents' house in northern Jersey. Especially since the reason for said journey was to care for their new not-so-house-broken puppy. But I'm a glutton for punishment, so I sucked it up and headed north.

As soon as I got home, I brought the puppy outside to take care of business. I repeated this action -- in vain -- every two hours for the entire day. Apparently, Peanut/Toot/Slut had not been getting enough fiber in her diet.

Or so I thought. Two minutes after our last visit to the backyard, I turned around to find Toot "assuming the position" and taking a massive puppy shit right on my mother's family-room rug.
What the fuck? I know the little bitch did it on purpose, especially since as I was scrubbing the evidence out of the carpet, I'm pretty sure it was Toot who walked by me and said, "Suck it, bitch." I'm also fairly certain that she gave me the finger and ran away laughing maniacally.

Part III
I was getting ready to head back to my apartment after my long day of dog-sitting and I was relieved that this literally shitty day was almost behind me. I had just about made it to the door when I felt something squish beneath my feet.

I didn't have to smell it or see it to know what it was that had squished. My parents' old, decrepit, stank-ass dog has not had control of her bowels for months now, and it seems that I had stepped right into her latest offering to the shit gods.

I probably should have turned around and cleaned up the mess that Tash had made and that I had just made worse, but by this point I was so pissed that I continued out the door, wiped my shoes off on the front lawn, got in the car and drove the hell home.

The only saving grace of this entire day is the fact that I was wearing my sister's shoes. Suck it, bitch!

Here kitty, kitty

2005-11-20T17:18:00.000-05:00

So anybody who knows anything about anything knows that I have a huge soft-spot for all things furry.

Um, strike that. Let's try again.

Anybody who knows anything about anything knows that I have a huge soft-spot for all things furry that also have four legs and either purr or bark. As I'm fairly certain that that description excludes all things genital, I think I've made my point.

I say this because it will explain why last night I (temporarily) adopted a friendly female cat that had been wandering through the parking lot of my apartment building. Since Uncle TJ is a bit allergic to felines, Princess Roberta Sanchez (a.k.a. Carl) is currently holed up in my room where she has a major case of gas. And the runs.

Alls I'm saying is that these owners better think about claiming this bitch before my bed linens become permanently saturated with Carl's shit stench.

Introductions

2005-11-19T00:20:00.000-05:00

As if I didn't have enough distracting me from finding gainful employment (shout-out to all my WB girls -- what up, Lorelai?), I got meself a blog. www.suelogris.blogspot.com. That's "suelo gris", ya'll ... not Sue Logris.

For those of you who missed out on taking high school Spanish classes, "suelo gris" means "gray floor" en espanol. I wanted to come up with a truly creative URL for this mo-fo, but Related was on and I had to act quickly (the theme song is mother short). That said, I went with TJ's suggestion to use a phrase from our high-school days.

TJ and I had almost every class together our senior year, including the last class of the day -- AP Spanish. It was an intense class, as exemplified by our profesora's no-nonsense attitude with her classroom policy: If your feet were on el suelo gris, you could not -- UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES -- speak English. And trust me, you did not want to mess with this woman. Awesome teacher, but scary as all hell.

What does this tale from my academic past have to do with this blog? Nada. In fact, I didn't even remember the damn policy until TJ told me about it earlier this evening.

I just wanted to make sure you didn't think my name was Sue.

Suck On This

2005-11-18T19:15:00.000-05:00

Dear Sally,

How do you start a blog?

Love,
Lauren