Posts tagged CollegeHumor
Posts tagged CollegeHumor
I’ve spent the past three hours rolling around in bed in a mixture of sweat and Indian food. I can’t tell if it’s hot in my apartment or if the heat is coming from the kinetic energy of me eating three plates of paratha.
I started tonight thinking, “You know what? I’m treating myself. I deserve it!” (and all that Eat, Pray, Love bullsh*t) Cut to three hours later, I’m spread-eagle on my bed, angrily sipping a mango lassi out of a straw.
I’ve decided to stop eating meat for a while. This turn of events came when I touched the ribbed, hard vein on the underside of a raw chicken the other night and nearly threw up.
My new “vegetarian” diet has increased my bread and cheese intake tenfold. I now order Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale and Hearty two times a day. I am slowly going broke, gaining weight and losing self respect. (In other words, my usual prep for bikini season.)
You know what F**K THAT S**T! F**k killing yourself to look good for three months out of the year. Just give up like me. It’s easy. Turn the lights off during sex. Problem solved.
I’m beginning to get a belly and I kind of like it. Now I just unbutton my top button at work and let it hang. That made for an awkward moment with my co-worker the other day but it sure felt good.
My pouch is comforting like a little friend, or a pet. I want to name it something cool like “Zanzabar” or “Melissa” or something.
Eh well, Master Chef is on.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
I’ve never been one of those “eat lunch in the park” kind of girls. You know the type with the work-appropriate sundresses, eating colorful salads and reading about DIY tampon doilies or whatever.
I’m more of a “sweaty, dirty pants-wearing, huffing food into my mouth over the keyboard and crying” kind of girl. (For more on this check out my post: How to Eat a Bag of Tostitos “Hint of Lime” Chips in One Sitting )
But today I decided to “go out and get some sun!”*
On my way to the park, I picked up some pan-seared salmon from Cafetasia off of Broadway. It had a B rating but I like to live on the edge.
“Pan-seared” turned out to be a generous term, as what was handed to me was a plastic container of gray fish soup.
“F**k it, not turning back now,” I thought, walking past a teen couple dry-humping on a mound of grass in Washington Square Park.*
I quickly scanned my surroundings for a vacant bench with enough space on either side so that I wouldn’t have to make human contact. Next I uncovered my salmon soup. It smelled like my five year-old sister’s wet swimsuit, but as it was my only available sustenance, I dove in.
Apart from the sloshing mixture beneath it, it really wasn’t that bad. I started snacking on the accompanying container of white rice, alternating bites and was having a pretty good time with it.
Soon a homeless gentleman man pulled up next to me and spread some cardboard down for a nap. Things were looking up.
Then it happened: I turned, grabbing my purse and the plastic container holding my salmon soup crashed to the ground, splashing oily fish water all over my pants.
“Raaaaah!” I yelled, to the surrounding people’s blank stares.
F**k the park.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
Have you ever spilled s**t on your pants? Done something embarassing in a public setting? Email me at: firstname.lastname@example.org. Let’s talk about it.
* As my mother often suggests to me with anxious eyes in a tone usually reserved for mental patients on the verge of breakdown.
* May or may not have lingered a little too long looking at them. I’m a creep. It’s my cross to bear.
So, I ordered massage oil candles online last week.*
(I may or may not have been laying face down on my bed eating macaroni and cheese out of a cup at the time of this purchase.)
What is unusual about this situation, is that I made the mistake of joining the store’s mailing list.*
Now those of you that know me know that I am a working professional*
You know what doesn’t look professional??
Having emails with subjects like “STRAP-ON SALE! LIMITED TIME ONLY!” at the top of your inbox when your supervisor walks by your desk…
What am I? Some thrifty, sexual creep who can’t resist a bargain?*
But honestly, if there’s anything more humbling than buying sensual massage items alone at 1am with macaroni and cheese on your face, it’s hoarding coupons with names like “Treat URself 2 Pleasure” and “Bondage Kit 25% OFF” in order to buy said items.
So there’s a slice of life for you…
Till next time. Eat up folks!
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*I never click that button!!!
When the waiter brings my food at a restaurant
Hello old friends!
You may have noticed that I haven’t posted for a while.
Perhaps you assumed that I had finally contracted Type II Diabetes and had died face down in a child’s birthday cake somewhere.
But guess what?
I’m back, baby
And I just put some delicious nachos in the microwave…
Let’s do this
So, the reason for my departure isn’t that I’ve been busy, or overwhelmed with success, or lost my sh*t like that KONY 2012 guy who ran around screaming and masturbating on the streets of San Diego.*
I’ve just been lazy
Eating for me has recently become less of a source of humor, than a crippling and systematic assault on my metabolism and well-being.
Right now I’m hunched over my computer in a dirty bathrobe simultaneously ordering delivery from two different Chinese food restaurants.*
I haven’t gone grocery shopping for four months, and have recently taken to ordering double lunches and double dinners so that my refrigerator now resembles the bomb shelter of a neurotic, indecisive, salt addict.
In order to feed the monster, I’ve perfected a way to cheat the delivery.com system so that I get 25% off each time.
Surprisingly, people aren’t as impressed with this as I thought they would be…
THE SCENE: House party, two twenty-something girls standing at the table next to the chips and dip
Me: Mmm… Love these Naked chips, right?
Cute Girl in Jumper: Oh my god! Obsessed! They’re the best.
Me: (quietly) So I like to eat alone in my bed off of my stomach sometimes…
Cute Girl in Jumper: Sorry, what?
Me: (hyperventilating) Like just after work! Ha! It’s not weird! Ha! Like I’m not spending all day alone in my apartment!!! I love daylight!! Anyway, Delivery.com. You know them right?? So, they have all these points, I’ve redeemed a lot of them and gotten mugs and stuff! But the other day I found this great way to save money on…. Wait, where are you going?
And so the story goes…
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*Alright, that was me.
*In other words: it’s your typical Monday night.
So maybe I’m not eating it right, but in all of my yogurt-consuming experiences I have never:
Commercials make yogurt seem like a party drug for women:
The scene: two women are sitting on a couch in their apartment
Cheryl: Becky have you tried this new Xtra Fantasy Cream yogurt from Yoplait?
Becky: No girl! Tell me about it!
Cheryl: Well, this kind is xtra luxurious and xtra decadent. It’s like you’re eating a cheesecake at a fancy restaurant, but then you wake up and you’re really just sitting in your cubicle eating low-cal yogurt out of a plastic container!
Becky: Ooh that’s just what I need girl!
They both laugh and stare at each other. The camera pans out while they spoon yogurt into each others mouths and the voice over goes, “Xtra Fantasy Cream yogurt from Yoplait, for bi-curious women everywhere.”
When I eat yogurt, the process goes something like this:
Step 1: I’m at the grocery store and decide to round out my purchases with some “health food” so I pick up a container of YoCrunch, the kind with the chocolate candies in packet on the top. (Baby steps)
Step 2: The next day at work I proudly brandish it on my desk saying, “Yep. Eating healthy today, guys. Watchin’ my figure, you know,” to no one in particular.
Step 3: At lunchtime I lunge at the container with my nails attempting to pierce the foil cover but it does not move.
Step 4: I claw at it for five minutes to no avail, rage slowly building inside of me.
Step 5: Panic mode sets in and I lose it, stabbing the foil with a fork.
Step 6: A final stab sends a mix of chocolate candies and yogurt flying all over my desk.
Step 7: I drink down the yogurt greedily and am done in two seconds feeling unsatisfied.
Step 8: My co-worker walks by and stares at the pools of yogurt on my desk, “Oh it’s… I just.. It’s not what you think…” I say before they turn away.
Step 9: I am alone, feeling like a pervert and I’m still hungry.
Step 10: Time to order Delivery.com
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*That’s what bacon is for
Here’s the thing:
I’m biologically female.*
But there are a few things I don’t understand about commercials geared towards women.
You know the ones, I’m talking about:
The scene: A white mom wearing a matching sweater set and sensible slacks sits at the kitchen table drinking tea when a stampede of teenagers roll in carrying hockey sticks, soccer balls and a crow-bar screaming and lunging on the carpet.
“Kids! Can you just…” she calls after them.
“Oh well,” she chuckles, shaking her head cheerfully while reaching down to procure a swiffer.
In an instant she cleans up the mess they’ve made, wipes her brow and high-fives a cartoon character while the kids run behind her in the background and f**k up the carpet again.
In reality, that situation would go like this:
The scene: A tired, frazzled, bloated middle-aged woman with no bra and sweatpants is lying on the couch watching QVC and eating Little Debbies, when a team of filthy teenagers run in front of her on the carpet,
“Oh HELL no!” she yells, launching up off the sofa, Little Debbie wrappers flying everywhere, “Tommy! Get your ass back here! I WILL F**KING END YOU!”
The camera pans out with her chasing after them with the swiffer screaming, “Not on my watch motherf**ker!”
That’s real life for you.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*I did a quick-check in the shower the other day, and I’m pretty sure.
Editor’s Note: Since I posted this, multiple people have informed me that it is “platanos” not “plantanos.” I’m leaving this in as a prime example of my whiteness. Maybe this was why the waitress smiled at me when I asked for more…
My boyfriend, James, lives in Harlem and every night he eats at a little chicken and rice restaurant down the street from his apartment.
It’s $5 for a whole plate of food, and he speaks about it with the reverence that devout Catholics have for Jesus or the excitement that Kristen Bell feels when a “sloth is near”*
I went there with him the other day, and it went something like this:
(We walk in, greeted by a smiling Dominican woman behind the counter)
Woman: (to James) Hola papi! Lookin’ good! How are you?
James: I’m great, darlin! Got that ill mondongo today?
(they both break out in a chorus of laughter)
Woman: (laughing) Oh you!
Me: (hovering in the background in my puffy coat, laughing loudly, clearly confused) HA! HA! Right??
Both: (stop laughing and look at me as if I had just farted)
James: (pause) So anyway… Can I get the lunch special?
At this point, I feel like I should mention something to you.
Alright, borderline translucent…
And I don’t just mean skin color. I’m talking country-club going, khaki-wearing, socks with sandals white.
If I was a genre of music I would be smooth jazz.
I used to try to pretend I wasn’t as white. I went tanning, dyed my hair dark brown, and wore hoop earrings. But it just felt weird, like that time Christina Aguilera was brunette and did a music video with Lil’ Kim*
I wish my life was like one of those Old Navy commercials with the black dad and Asian mom and Native American children all dancing in the sunlight, throwing snowballs and wearing knit hats.
But alas, I am sorely, painfully, Caucasian.
James is white too. But I don’t think anyone has ever told him this, and sometimes I literally have no idea what he is saying.
The other day we were walking down the street and he pulled me aside whispering, “Yo, everyone be sleepin’ on Harlem son.”
“Yeah, son…” I whispered back, “They mad tired!”
Judging by the sad look on his face, I feel like this wasn’t the correct response.
Back to restaurant: at that point I wanted to yell, “Hey! I can dig it! Chicken is the ill na na!” but I restrained myself and instead climbed onto one of high stools on the counter with my hands in my lap, like a five year-old waiting for din din.
James quickly ordered two lunch specials. As the waitresses were dancing to the radio, flirting with the regular customers and dipping ladles into different spicy sauces, I sat there tapping my foot to the beat in my J. Crew turtleneck.
Then it came: a heaping plate of morro rice, kidney beans, plantanos and roasted chicken breast with crispy skin glistening.
It was over. I dove in, forsaking all cutlery, face in the plate, eating bite after bite of delicious chicken with rice, kidney beans, and plantanos.
I alternated between James’s plate and my own, stealing his chicken skin, to which he promptly responded, “What the f**k son??”
“Sorry daughter!”, I joked. He didn’t laugh, but I know he liked it.
Then with crazy eyes and chicken grease on my face, I grunted to the woman with maroon hair behind the counter, “More plantanos please!” She gave me a nod and spooned six extra fried plantains on my plate and smiled. We finally understood each other.
“Food is colorblind”, I thought, downing a 22 of Budweiser.
Then a second thought came to mind, “This beer tastes like sh*t.”
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*This is actually really cute: http://youtu.be/t5jw3T3Jy70
* Still not sure what the f**k that was about: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dg8QgUIKXHw
Here’s the scenario:
You’re out at dinner with a friend.
You’re excited to eat a real meal because let’s face it, you can only order delivery from Zen Palate so many times before the delivery man just laughs in your face when you open the door.
“HAHA! Oh miss! You again!”, he smiles.
“Yes, ‘me again,’” you growl, hastily pulling the bag of Chinese food back into your lair.
The exchange is quick and filled with guilt, like a crackhead getting his next fix.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You got those good dumplings tonight?”, you whisper, scratching your neck furiously. “Give ‘em to me! Here’s $5! Now scram!”
This is troubling.
But back to the scenario:
You sit down to a lovely white tablecloth setting with your friend Tammy/Holly/Krystal and look at the menu. “Pork belly! Duck confit! Perfect!” you think. You like this place. You commend yourself for having chosen such an excellent restaurant and feel proud of yourself for 3.2 seconds before the waiter comes over and asks,
“Would you ladies like bottled water or tap?’”
Now this bothers you for a few reasons:
A.) You know he can just look at your stained shirt, crumpled jeans and H&M shoes and deduce the answer to that question himself.
B.) When you do finally mutter, “Tap works,” the waiter looks at you as if you’d just said: “Oh boy! You be fancy folk! I kin just go an’ suck on the faucet behin the barn, like I do at Pa’s house!”*
He quickly brings you your “poor people” water, and begins to take your order.
It is at this moment that Tammy/Holly/Krystal f**king does the unthinkable,
“And what would you like, Miss?”
“Oh! Me?”, she says, as if surprised he would even ask. “I’ll just have a side salad! I’m not that hungry.” and then turns to look at you.
“WHAT??!!! Who the f**k are you?”, you’re screaming in your head, a frozen smile cast over your face.
Now when you order a “real person” meal*, you look like an obese monster. Like, “Hide your kids! I might eat them too!”
You know she’s just going to stare at you while you eat three full courses. And you’re a gross eater. No one wants to see that.
The waiter turns to you and asks you the same question, to which you mumble sheepishly, “Stkerrrtwo.”
“Sorry what was that ma’am?”, he repeats.
“Stakrtoooo,” you mutter, a little louder this time.
“Ma’am I can’t understand…”
“STEAK FOR TWO! I’M HAVING THE MOTHERF**KING STEAK FOR TWO!”, you shout at the top of your lungs, a wild look in your eyes, your hair sticking out in every direction.
The waiter runs off and you turn back to your friend who is now looking at you like you’re some kind of zoo animal.
“What?” you say, “I’m hungry.”
JUST EAT THE FOOD
* Honestly who actually orders bottled water at dinner? I just imagine some old British lady in a fur pantsuit like, “Daaahling! I only drink Evian made from ice-cubes hand-melted by orphans in Latvia. But do make sure they’re real orphans! I want to taste their tears!”
*Like two whole chickens, extra fixin’s, drizzled with butter