Posts tagged girl
Posts tagged girl
This words are majic (bom shaka laka bom ) say it next to your vagina and the jenie will come out to make your wishes come true
- an actual message on OKCupid
Even now, I can’t recall whether it was the soft accent on the word “majic”, the rhythmic onomatopoeia of the bom shaka laka bom or the tender advice to whisper to my vagina so that a mystical “jenie” would come out that made me fall for you, Rider911.
But I fell hard.
I studied your provocative beach picz with a hookah in hand for hours.
What I wouldn’t give to be a grain of sand on that beach!
Your glorious room, where the real majic would happen…
But then I tried your request, Rider, and nothing happened.
Just me alone in sweatpants whispering to my vagina.*
Waiting for an answer that would never come…
YOU MADE A FOOL OUT OF ME, RIDER!
I see now that the jenie was a metephor.
You’re the jenie; the jenie who broke my heart.
So why don’t you and your chic oversize black coat and XXL vespa helmet go toy with another woman’s emotions and leave me here.
I hope I never see your hauntingly sexy blurry face again.
Also, cute dog.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*It was, after all, a Tuesday
Today I woke up from my Xanax-induced slumber with a chihuhau-mix puppy on each breast.
I’d like to tell you that the night before I had left my crack den apartment, white-girl twerked the night away & made an emotional connection with a human woman/man, but no. Instead I spent my night frantically Wikipedia-ing Gouda cheese, lisping along to Drake through Crest Whitestrips, and forcing my two 8-lb dog-children Taco & Nacho into a position so that I would be middle spon.
I recently moved to Bushwick aka “Tha Dirty B” aka “Rape St. USA” and am living with my friend Roman and a Canadian male model named Tina*
They sleep in a bunkbed in the next room, and our apartment is something like a bizarro world Threes Company, only with more hair products.*
I also now have a corporate j-o-b where I have started wearing Hillary Clinton pantsuits and I like it.
Now instead of waking up hungover next to a pizza box that looks like a raccoon has attacked it, my mornings consist of me:
(I assume he’s referring to the flats, but he could be a shoulder-pad guy.)
Check back soon for my next post “OKcupid? More like OKSTUPID!!! #LOL #SINGLE”
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*Names have been changed for privacy
*Thanks to Tim Garbinsky for this lucid and haunting comparison
Me in the Feminist Bookstore Scene from Portlandia at the Peoples Improv Theater Acting for Sketch Comedy Graduation Show. What’s that you say?? I make a sexy Fred Armisen? Stop it. I’m peeing.
Check out my cameo in the Dave and Ethan comedy music video “Maybe”!
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
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
Editor’s Note: If you’re related to me or hold me in high esteem please do not continue on, as there are things I will share here with you that will make you clutch your turtlenecks and cardigans in horror.
Now that two of you are out of the way, let’s go!
It was a warm summer afternoon and I was passed out in a bra and underwear on top of my comforter with makeup smudged on my face from the past night, and empty applesauce containers scattered on the floor.
It was like any other Tuesday.
But this time was a little different. This time I sensed that I was not alone…
Now, we’ve all been there: the dreaded “Morning After.”
Who can really say?
It was at that very moment that I began to sense a presence in the bed next to me, like someone was watching my every move.
“F**k!” I whispered, grabbing my phone quickly to see who I was last talking to. The last text I sent was, “Hayyy, wat r u doin. I’m drunzzzzks.”
It was to my grandma.
I don’t even think she gets text messages.
"Whew, dodged that bullet", I thought with shmide*
Still sensing someone next to me, I immediately went over possible escape plans in my head:
“I can pretend to be dead”
“I can say that I have an appointment to run to!”
No, I don’t look like the type of person who has appointments.
"I can just leave!”
No, it’s my apartment.
After twenty minutes of debating to how to exit, I decided to face my fears.
I attempted a seductive yawn like I imagine a sleepy Playboy Bunny would do and rolled over, instead I sounded like I was having a small stroke.
My eyes closed, fearing the worst, I reached out next to me and touched something firm and cardboard-like. Then I opened my eyes and saw it: an extra-large Papa John’s pizza box ripped down the middle like an animal had gotten into it. Pieces of crust were scattered all over the bed and remnants of marina sauce were on my face and body.
“Wow”, I thought and then said the only thing I could think to ask,
“Well was it good for you?”
JUST EAT THE FOOD
* Check out my “How To Eat A Bag of Tostitos Hint Of Lime Doritos In One Sitting” post for more on this word.
Setting: Sixth-grade cafeteria
“What are you doing?”
My best friend Jessica was staring at me with a look of disgust usually reserved for roadkill and vomit as I panted excitedly, balling up a grilled cheese sandwich in my hands and shoving it in my face, “Romggg. You gotta try this!”
“You’re such a gross eater,” she snorted, as I stared at her blankly, half of a grilled cheese sandwich hanging out of my mouth.
“Warrever…” I slurred, continuing to eat my sandwich.
It was grilled cheese day and no one was going to ruin it for me. No one.
I am a gross eater. It is my cross to bear.
I eat with my hands, nose and sometimes forehead, tossing morsel upon morsel of delicious food down my gullet. This is an especially great tactic on dates if you want someone to like “you for you.”:
GUY: “Um. You have food in your hair.”
ME: “Ohhhh, haha. Weirddd…”, I would say with feigned embarrassment, frantically eying the table for scraps.
I eat sourdough bread by scooping out the doughy middle, rolling it into a ball and slowly chewing on the yeasty goodness* leaving the carcass of hollowed out crust on whatever surface is closest to me, before raiding the fridge for cheese.
It’s an addiction.
While some little girls want dresses or Barbies, I wanted Burger King.
There’s a home video of me when I was three years-old, wearing tiger print velour overalls standing on top of a wooden fence near our house with my dad shouting,
“Come on Peachie! Who wants Burger King??”, goading me in the same tone of voice one would use when asking a dog if they want a treat.
At the mention of “Burger King” my eyes widened to twice their normal size and I started yelling wild jibberish and scooting my butt at record speed along the wooden railing to meet him until my mom came out yelling,
“Paul! What are you making her do?! Peach! Get down from there!”
But I just keep motoring on towards glory and that glorious BK paper crown.*
So gross eaters of the world, embrace it. Who cares if you always seem to get milkshake in your beard? Or your hands always smell like garlic? Or the sight of you eating lunch makes people physically sick?
You’re enjoying one of the best parts of life! Delicious, terribly unhealthy food.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*Realizing that “yeasty” and “goodness” should never be used next to each other in a sentence. Keeping it in.
*Just spoke to my dad on the phone this morning and confirmed this story saying, “That explains a lot” and breaking in a fit of laughter. Five minutes later, he stopped laughing and ended the conversation with, “Alright kiddo! Well hope you’re going to the gym!” Thanks, Dad.
The reviews are in, my good friends!
I smell success!
Or I might just be smelling my own body as I haven’t showered since I started this blog and I’m running on pure adrenaline!*
But seriously, thank you for the support and the nice comments. I really do appreciate it. Otherwise all this snarkiness would just bottle up inside me and I’d end up a bitter, weathered alcoholic in a robe eating two-day old lo-mein out of the carton. (too late!)
But for real, I love you. I am IN love with you.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*This may or may not be true. I actually can’t remember the last time I showered. Get over it.
I live in New York City and see weird sh*t everyday.
It takes a lot to shock me. But on my way to work, this ad did just that:
It’s Tropicana’s new NYC ad campaign. In case you couldn’t see, the arrow is pointing to a bottle of orange juice.
So here’s the thing, Tropicana. I have never seen two ex-boyfriends on the subway train at the same time. EVER. I ride the subway at least four times a day. And I’ve dated at least 7 million people in this city.
(I know. The numbers don’t add up. It’s weird.)
But seriously, what are they trying to say with this ad? “Hey ladies! Thirsty? Drink this OJ and forget about those mistakes you made your sophomore year of college!”
I just imagine some guy named Jeb at Tropicana Corporate like, “Now if there’s one thing I know about promiscuous women, it’s that they LOVE juice. Right? Right?” And everyone around the conference table nodding in agreement, “Sluts sure do love citrus, Sir!”
If you ever DID see two of your ex-boyfriends on the same train, in what scenario would a carton of orange juice make it better?
I can picture it now:
Jenny enters the train.
Things are going well until she notices Bill, and Dan! Oh no! Not one, but two of her ex-boyfriends!
Jenny reaches in her purse, struggling to find her savior: that smushed up carton of orange juice she bought at the bodega yesterday. She attacks the little papery envelope with her nails but can’t tear it apart. People on the train start to stare. “Got it!” she yells triumphantly holding the carton above her head like a golden chalice.
At that moment Bill notices her and comes over, “Hey Jenny! How have you been?” he says.
Terror washes over here face. “Nuh uh!” she blurts, guzzling from the carton, eyes closed tight, shaking her head from side to side. Little beads of perspiration forming on her brow.
“Ummm… Ok?”, Bill mutters and backs away, instantly reminded of why they broke up in the first place.*
Just then ex-boyfriend #2 Dan saunters over. “Yo Jen!” he says. “Crazy to bump into you! What’s going on?” But Jenny just closes her eyes even tighter and starts humming to herself “Narrrrr, narrrr”, sucking down that tiny carton of orange juice like her life depends on it.
“Jen WTF is wrong with you? Is there even any juice left? The carton is empty!” he blurts.
“Narrrr narr” she mumbles frantically, tipping back what is now an empty carton.
“23rd street!” the conductor calls out and Jenny walks off of the train.
“Thanks Tropicana!” she beams giving the thumbs up to a non-existent camera behind the garbage can.
If I saw two of my ex-boyfriends on the train I would introduce them to each other and then sit in awkward silence, waiting to see who cracks first.
I have no problem with uncomfortable situations. In fact, I thrive on them as vampires thrive on blood.*
So come at me, ex-boyfriends of the world. I’ll bring my OJ. It’s gonna go down.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
* She’s f**king crazy (great clip on this here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N007irODH9s )
*I know this is true because I read it in Twilight, a great little series by Stephanie Meyer. You should check it out if you haven’t heard of it. I think it’s gonna be big.