Season One, Episode Twenty-Five: One Day I Will Get Slapped By Julia Child’s Ghost

I am a picky eater.

I always have been, I most likely always will.  My list of things I won’t eat probably outnumbers the list of things that I do eat by a landslide.  I’ll share a general consensus of the things that I don’t eat with you just so that you can get a ballpark estimate of the way things are for me at mealtime.

  • Fish, shrimp, shark (I suppose that could be fish, but I just think it deserves its own spot on the list of things I don’t eat), mussels, oysters, clams, lobster, crab, sea urchins, porpoise (you never know)…pretty much anything that swims and/or dwells in saltwater or freshwater ecosystems.  I can’t do it, it’s gross.  And it smells.  And I really loved The Little Mermaid and I don’t want to chance eating Sebastian or Flounder or one of Ariel’s cousins or whatever.  Judge away, but you all remember what happened to that crazy French chef who tried to turn Sebastian into Ariel and Eric’s lunch.  Just sayin’.

    Pfft. Les Poissons indeed.

  • Steak, shredded beef, cubed beef, anything that is essentially NOT ground beef.  Not really sure how or why this quirk came into being, but I’ve tried steak and thought it was gross.  It was too chewy.  Perhaps I need to try a slab of cow that has been cooked medium well or better and slathered in cheese and bacon–the steak I had was medium rare or some shit, and was NOT delicious.  Maybe I was too busy thinking about how reddish pink the piece I was chewing was, or maybe I’m just not fancy or cultured enough.  I don’t know.
  • Poultry.  That includes chicken, duck, quail, grouse (whatever the hell that is), pheasant, Cornish hen, and turkey.  Pretty much anything with wings that lays eggs.  I do, however, eat eggs.  But only scrambled and with cheese.  No negotiations.  I do remember that I used to eat Chicken McNuggets as a tot, that I adored them with sweet and sour sauce.  I remember why I stopped eating them too–I was at a McDonald’s down on Euclid Avenue waaaay back when I was 4 or 5, maybe I was a little older, I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I took a bite of that crispy morsel of chicken dipped in that golden sauce and into a bone.  I bit into a big hunk of chicken bone.  I freaked out in a quiet fashion and spat it out into my McNugget box (I was very classeh).  I remember telling my mom that I was full of chicken and just wanted my fries.  But I never ever ate chicken again after that day.
  • Pork.  Well…I eat bacon, sausage, and bologna.  And chorizo.  Anything else…no dice, as Charles Bronson would say.
  • Most vegetables.  I will eat ketchup, potatoes, etcetera, etcetera…I’ve started this new thing where I blend up veggies and mix them with meat or whatever so that I get the nutritional benefits without actually having to see the vegetables on my plate.  This goes back to an intense dinnertime showdown between five year old Me and my dad and a plate of cold and slimy Popeye spinach.

    Yuck. Twenty-one years later it still grosses me out.

  • Most fruit.  I’m trying, though.  I think if I can’t see it in its original form, I’m good.

I have reason to believe that I have an irrational fear of trying new foods or trying the foods listed above.  I seriously freak out.  I’ve smacked a fork away once or twice when faced with the seemingly inevitable prospect of trying pork ear or steamed kale or whatever.  I like to think that I look like a lioness backed into a corner.

What?!?!?! You want me to try the Grilled Palm and Garlic Heart Puttanesca? Noooooo!!!! Rawrrrrr...

So, as I said, I’m picky.  Insanely picky.  My boyfriend, however, is not.  He loves food, especially fish and veggies and fruit and weird grains that I’ve never heard of.  We go to fancy restaurants and I think he gets embarrassed because I have to critically analyze the menu for something that I will remotely try.  I unapologetically eat like a five year old.  I love pasta, so usually they have something pastalicious on the menu and I just tweak it to my culinary whim.  I’m sure I sound like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally when I order.  I like going out with him to eat, but honestly I would just like to go to some seedy little Mexican restaurant that makes great tacos or a fabulous quirky place that makes amazing grilled cheese that rocks my world.  I like simple comfort food.  I may eat like a five year old, but it works for me.  I like eating mac and cheese and burgers and pancakes and waffles and cookies and grilled cheese…And I do try new things, I just have to adjust them.

I’m sure it drives him crazy, I’m sure it drives everyone who has eaten with me crazy.  I just like to think its another one of those quirks that makes me me.  And I’m sure I’ll broaden my horizons more as I get older; I already have expanded my culinary horizons by leaps and bounds since I was five.  I just need to do it on my terms.

Maybe one day I’ll just go ahead and try the Duck Meatball Soup.

Season One, Episode Twenty-Four: Chubby Babies Wielding Arrows and Slutty Streetwalking Mailmen

I hate painting my nails.  I always inevitably wind up smudging a nail somehow.  Usually it’s when I think my nails are dry and then I figure it’s safe to go pee and I smear them trying to carefully take my pants off.


Well, anyway, I am sitting here contemplating an idea for a story that keeps tickling my synapses and researching ghost towns and drowned towns and thinking about how deliciously melancholy the idea of an entire town under water is.  I’m also thinking about fairy tales and possible names for my main character and how bright my nail polish is (China Glaze lacquer in Pink Voltage.  It’s very very neon pink.) and how much I liked the pilot episode of Smash that I just watched on Hulu.  The mind of a writer is a fantastic thing.  We multitask.

These are obviously not my nails because they are not smudged. No, these are phantom nails I found via Google.

It’s Valentine’s Day.  Yay.  This will actually be the first V-Day that I will not be at work or watching sitcoms over a bowl of Ben and Jerry’s.  I’m excited.  I’m not exactly sure what proper Valentine’s Day etiquette is, but I guarantee you that I will screw it up somehow.  I’m not exactly a particularly classeh ladeh.  Part of me keeps reminding me that there’s a new episode of New Girl on tonight and that I have chocolate gelato in the freezer.  To that schlumpy sweatpant-clad part of me, I say nay.  I will go get overdressed and put on an acceptable amount of makeup and venture out into bitter cold and snow to have a good time.  I’ll be like a hooker mailman (I just giggled at the mental image), but instead of mail I will be delivering…joy.  Yes.

Hmm. They look as though they were delivered some joy by a fat cheeked baby wielding arrows or a hooker mailman.

In other news, my unemployment was rejected on supposedly justifiable grounds, and I am not really wanting to fight the decision, although I have been advised by everyone and their mom to fight it until I get it.  I don’t really feel like fighting with my old boss.  That is a battle not worth fighting because I’ll just wind up getting pissed and I don’t need the stress.  I had four years of that shit and I actually like not having to deal with her anymore.  I might reapply, but if the state ruled that the firing was allowable, I highly doubt that I will receive any compensation.  Just saying.  I don’t feel like wasting time over $165 a week.  Hell, if I have to I’ll apply at Target or something to tide myself over until I find out what is going to happen with the casino.  I applied for state benefits, so I’m just waiting on a response from them.  I highly doubt that I will get rejected when my gross weekly income is nada.

I just thought I’d drop on in and write a quick post because I have been neglectful of a lot of stuff as of late.  This whole days blending together thing is really becoming an issue.  I’m mixing up my days of the week and sleeping a lot.  I think I need to find a routine hobby so that I don’t turn into a crazy person.  Maybe I’ll join the gym so that I have to actually leave the house on a regular basis.

Season One, Episode Twenty-Two: Musings of the Unemployed and Adorkable

It’s been like a week and a half since I got fired, and while it hasn’t been as horrible as I thought it would be, I have discovered a few things about being unemployed that I thought I should share with you.  Since I love making inane lists, I figured I would bust out my deep introspectiveness out on y’all that way.


Things That I Didn’t Exactly Know About Myself Until I Lost My Job, Version 1.0 (Because I’m pretty certain that there will be more editions as the time goes by):

*I am pretty lazy.  I actually kinda sorta knew this about myself, but not having a job to apply myself to has really brought out the lazy side of me.  I’m sure some may argue that my sudden laziness and sleepiness could be depression from my firing manifesting itself, but I’m just going with I’m inherently lazy.  I slept for like 15 hours the other day.  In two evenly spaced increments of time…I think I got up to gather my laundry in a sleepy, stumbly fashion at noonish, and then proceeded to lay back down and sleep til 5 pm.  And I think I was momentarily confused as to why it was so dark, realized what time it was, said “eh” and got up to go deep fry some mini tacos.

…which brings me to another thing I’ve learned about myself.

*I eat.  A LOT.  Several times a day, as a matter of fact.  I kinda knew that I had a big appetite, but back in the days when I had a job, general lack of morale and the crushing sadness of doing inane work made me forget that I was hungry.  Now that I’m unemployed, I do stuff like sleep half the day and then get up and deep fry some Jose Ole mini tacos in my deep fryer and read the Steve Jobs biography.  I’m pretty sure I’ve gained weight in the past week and a half.

Mmm...Damn you, Jose Ole Mini Tacos. You're a tiny calorie-laden bomb of deliciousness.

*I really have no concrete sense of time.  Since I don’t really have a structured day except for when I go to casino class, I pretty much have blurred the line between night and day.  I have stayed up until sunrise a few times in the past week.  I’ve woken up after sunset a few times as well.  I might have been a Cullen in a past undead life.

*I have a pretty persuasive mind, that if taken into the wrong hands could very well be used for evil.  Like I listened to Lana Del Rey on iTunes and couldn’t decide if I liked her or not, so I Hulu‘ed her horribly awkward performance on Saturday Night Live and thought she was a crap singer.  But I couldn’t stop thinking about her song “Blue Jeans” and wound up talking myself into buying a few songs even though I think she is pretty awful.  I listened to them a few times and I was like “god, she is horrible” and then my mind was like “is she really, Lashawn?  Perhaps you should listen again”.  And so I did.

Oh, Lana, I know you are terribly mediocre singer, but there is just SOMETHING about you that makes me go "hmm...I have to listen to you again".

*I read.  A LOT.  I mean, I know I read a lot, I pride myself on my superb love of all things literary.  I learned to read at three and a half, reading is pretty much an intrinsic part of me just as much as my love of music or cheese.  But I didn’t know that I will pretty much read anything, good or bad.  I blame it on my persuasive mind (see above notation).  I also think it might have to be partly due to the crushing boredom that is starting to sink in.  I spent four hours on Wikipedia tonight, reading about random shit and random tangents that I clicked on in the originally random article I started four hours earlier.  I think I’m gonna have to dust off my library card before my brain starts oozing out of my ears from lack of superb reading material.

*I like the idea of exercising, but I don’t actually like to do it.  I think that I might have to talk myself into liking it though, if my thoughtless eating and laziness continues.  I don’t want to be the girl that gained 65 pounds after she lost her job.  That just seems like the beginning of a very slippery slope that could lead to some pretty serious repercussions.  It’s time to bust out my free weights and my Gazelle and the Pilates DVDs I bought a few years back.  And that Women’s Health book of 584546846 exercises that I got on a fitness kick.

I get a pretty good workout on my Gazelle, but Tony Little makes me giggle.

Season One, Episode Twenty: I Don’t Want To Be THAT Guy…You Know, The One Who Throws Around Their Awesomeness

Oh.  My.  God.

I feel like I’m gonna throw up.  I think I’m being attacked from the inside by the delicious kugel I just sucked down like a friggin’ Dyson.  Ughhhh.  But you don’t want to hear how the noodley goodness is doing roundhouses in my tummy.  So I digress…

It’s January Fifourth (it’s that gray area between the Fourth and the Fifth, because to some it’s still nighttime and to others it’s early morning…I say it’s still Wednesday, but I know some of you may not concur with me and say it’s Thursday–and some people in the New Zealand/Australia area might even go a step further and say it’s nearly Friday), and I am contemplating the new year and the obligatory resolutions that come along with it.  I don’t really get the concept of making resolutions, especially when people make crazy and outlandish ones that they never really keep.  According to, some of the most common resolutions made in America are as follows:

  • Drink less alcohol
  • Eat healthy food
  • Get a better education
  • Get a better job
  • Get fit/Lose weight
  • Manage debt
  • Manage stress
  • Quit smoking

I wonder how many people actually are still keeping those resolutions by the time June rolls around.  I always feel like New Year’s and Lent fall too close together, and there is just way too much resoluting and sacrificing for Jesus and I just can’t do it.

Maybe I’m just non-committal?  Could be.  Whatever the reason, I have compiled a short, but detailed list of previous resolutions of yore and why they failed:

  • Swear less.  I’ve tried that one for Lent a few times too.  It doesn’t work.  I may look sweet and aw shucksish, but I have the mouth of a trucker.  I think all my attempts lasted a few hours.
  • Lose 10-30 pounds.  Pfft.  I love food waaaaay too much to eat healthy.  I hate most healthy food and I can rationalize consuming half a package of Oreos during an episode of New Girl.  That one has lasted me a few weeks, but I always crash and/or burn.
  • Get fit.  Yeaaaaaah…I lasted nearly a year on this one.  I am a pretty vain person, and I like getting all buff and toned and wearing smaller pants.  Who doesn’t?  I am also a sucker for having super toned arms and a fit back, so this was a resolution that I enjoyed…until work derailed me and I fell off the workout wagon.
  • Be a nicer person.  I am, for the most part, a pretty nice person.  Even more so if I like you or think you have potential to be included on my golden list of compadreship.  But if I don’t like you?  Oh that is a sad card to be dealt, because I am quite bitchy and mean.  In both the preppy mean girl mean and in the smart person who makes mean comments that sail over your head and that you don’t really get until you think about it later.  I can usually do good on this one until I inevitably run into a person that I decide I hate.
  • Be less messy.  Oh man…yeah, that one doesn’t get too far out of the gate.  I don’t even know why I try to make that one, to be honest.
  • Try to go to bed earlier.  Um…yeah.  You see how well that one worked out.

I decided that this year I’m just going to not make any resolutions and see how that works out.  Ash Wednesday is February 22nd, and I have to come up with something particularly good to impress Jesus, so I’ll come up with a good Lenten thing to give up.  Maybe I’ll actually keep it?  That would be a first.  I don’t think I have ever kept a resolution or whatever I gave up for Lent.

Wow.  I am a non-committal, foul-mouthed, slightly chubby, mean and messy nocturnal Catholic who eats badly.

You can't argue with perfection.

At least I’m funny.  That’s gotta count for something, right?  😛

Season One, Episode Eighteen: Migraines and Monochromatic Mayhem


So boring.

I feel bad for the poor day, however.  It’s not like it asked to be boring and dull and ho-hum.  It’s the monochromatic sibling in a family of neons and pastels.  No one wakes up on a Monday morning and jumps happily out of bed and chirps “Yay, it’s Monday!  I can’t wait for the day of neverending work and monotony ahead of me to begin!”  You think of Monday and you think, Crap, I have work.  All week long.  You think Monday, you automatically start to yawn because there is just something inherently tiring about Mondays.  Monday is not known for being a day of festivity and glee.  Nay.  Monday wanted to be cool, but instead Monday wears clunky glasses and ill-fitting sweater jackets.  Monday is Friday and Saturday’s nerdy older sister who would rather stay home and memorize the Periodic Table instead of go to the club and hook up with some greasy, over-tanned and over-muscled guy named Tony who wears waaay too much gel in his hair.  Monday is a day of general blah-itivity.  Monday is the Karen in the room (cool points if you caught the Dane Cook reference).

So…not only was it a droll and blah kind of Monday, it was a Monday after a three day weekend, one of those Mondays that you dread, especially when Christmas came the day before and you’re still kind of full of Yuletide spirit.  I really was not looking forward to today because I wasn’t really in the mood to go to work and do workish stuff, but to make things worse, I had a ridiculous migraine all day long.  My head was hurting when I went to sleep last night, but I figured it’d be gone by morning.  Wrong.  Not only was my head screaming when I got up, but I also had an upset stomach.  Faaaabulous.  I felt like I was completely hungover all day long, which wasn’t even fair because I haven’t touched alcohol in weeks.  The phones were obnoxious at work, and I took a few ibuprofen and chased it with Mountain Dew to try to soothe the ferocious brain beast.  I’m feeling a lot better, but my head is still kind of achy.

I just scrolled down my screen in my little composition work area and couldn’t help but notice the tags that WordPress suggested that have absolutely nothing to do with what I just wrote.  I’ll share a few with you:

Um…okay.  Did any of you guys see anything that would remotely correspond to any of those tags in the first few lines of today’s post?  No?  Me neither.  I just Googled this Louis C.K. fellow and apparently he’s a comedian.  Okay…I can see how broadly he fits into the grand scheme of tagging things, but I’m still a little confused by the other suggestions.  Whatever.  I’m thinking maybe a certain blogging platform had too much non-virgin eggnog on Christmas morning.  And on Kwanzaa/Boxing Day.

Speaking of holiday festivity and joy, I am wearing one of the new sweaters my mom and dad got me for Christmas.  It’s comfy, it’s warm, and I like it.  Especially because it’s all belted and business below my rack and ’80s prom dress above.  It’s got that weird shoulder thing going on…I’ll find a pic to show you.

Sorta like this, only as a sweater, and not white or ruffly at the top. Sorta hideous, I suppose, but super comfy and awkward. Yes!

I feel like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink, only cuter.  I was messing with the shoulders all day to look like I really should have been at some kid’s Senior Prom, circa 1986 instead of at a Ford dealership, answering phones and informing people that our parts and service departments were closed due to the holiday.  Too bad my hair was in a ponytail and I didn’t have a particularly gaudy corsage on hand, because I would have looked pretty damn awesome at that receptionist window.

Next time, next time.

Season One, Episode Seventeen: The Myth of the Supermom

As being a mom goes, I guess one would say that I’m not particularly very good at it.

Let me rephrase that.  I am a good mom, in the actual definition of a mother.  My son is pretty well adjusted and happy, he eats three meals a day, is very loved, and takes his baths and does his homework.  I’m good at the parenting part.  It’s this idealized notion of motherhood that I suck at.

My fabulous little boy!

I’m not very good at being the stereotypical idea of what a mom should be.  I go on to sites like CafeMom, which I refer to as the “MySpace of Mommydom”  or other “mommy friendly” blogs/sites and I’m just like wow, I really suck at this mom shit.  These ladies are really on the ball when it comes to the nominees for Mom of the Year 2011.  I’m not married, nor do I really have a desire to do so.  I’m not a stay-at-home mom.  I don’t cut my son’s sandwiches into fun little shapes with cookie cutters because A.) I would never be able to come up with something like that on my own, and B.) I think it’s a little stupid to cut my kid’s PB & J into the shape of an Easter egg just because Holy Week is right around the corner.  I don’t volunteer for school related activities because I work crazy hours, so if it’s in the morning I’m usually sleeping because I’m tired from work the day before, or if it’s in the afternoon I’m trapped at work.  I actually don’t really like kids that aren’t mine.  I don’t make fun little crafts for Nicky to take to school because I don’t have an ounce of craftiness in my body, and I remember making fun of the kids that would bring in crafty stuff for the teacher.

I am nowhere near this. Nowhere. In my world, the dishes would be piled up and I'd be off doing something fun and adventurous with my son. My husband would be the one washing the dishes in joyous exultation.

I can’t sew.  I’ve tried, but I can’t make cutesy blankets or scarves or whatever the hell it is that those perennially perfect moms do with their spare time.  You know, the little bit of spare time they have between making amazing vegan/organic meals that they have to take pictures of to remind the moms like me how much we suck for taking our kids to McDonald’s or making them Ramen noodles for dinner, taking their kids to the 8858475484 sports practices, ballet recitals, and band rehearsals, and just being all around awesome and perfect.  I’ve never made a cake from scratch or boasted about how I got this stubborn grass stain out of my husband’s khaki shorts.  I don’t have time to create a beautifully elaborate scrapbook of every single memory my son and I have shared or created in the almost seven years he’s been alive.  I barely have enough time to spend with him when I get home from work before it’s time for him to go to bed.  I am not a domestic goddess, not by a long shot.  Nor do I want to be.  It actually sounds pretty damn boring.

I’m not jealous of, or threatened by these “supermoms”, the stay-at-home Wonder Women who claim to be able to change a diaper and frost a cake simultaneously.  First of all, that is overwhelmingly unhygienic, and secondly, I highly doubt that they can actually do that.  No, I actually think it’s pretty cool that they are so dedicated to making their husbands and children so happy.  That is their life and they love it.  Kudos to them.  I, on the other hand, am on the other end of the spectrum.  Like I said earlier, I have no desire to get married and have a huge house with a white picket fence and big backyard for my 2.5 children and my golden retriever.  I have no desire to buy a minivan or discuss home decor or the amazing sale on corn at Giant Eagle.  Nay.  I suppose I am selfish.  And lazy.  And crazy independent.  I’ve always been that way, though.  I was the girl who didn’t want a husband or a dream house or kids.  I wanted to travel the world and have ridiculous experiences to tell whenever I’d write home or visit or whatever.  I didn’t want that cutesy perfect life most girls dream of, with the fairytale wedding and the Cinderella-type happy ending.  I don’t even think my Barbies lived happily ever after, to be honest.

That said, however, I love my son.  I love being a mom.  I’ll just never be that perfect idea of what a mother should be.  I’m the mom who is always late, rushing out the door in the middle of winter without my coat on, juggling my purse and coffee and coat and keys, yelling up the stairs for Nicky to hurry up, when he is actually on the porch with me, coat all zipped up and ready to go.  I’m the mom who loves snuggling up with her son and watching movies.  I’d rather crack jokes with Nicky and lose at Monopoly Jr. than pretend to be perfect.  I’m the mom who sings silly songs at the top of her lungs and gets in tickle fights and has awesome conversations with her kid.  I’m a hands on mom. I’m the mom who works six days in order to make forty hours so that she can supplement the ridiculously low child support she gets a month.  I’m the mom who toughs it out and still lives at home because she has the common sense to know that she can’t do it alone.  I’m pretty proficient in self-sacrifice.

I think, actually, that this alleged “Supermom” that seems to exist only on CafeMom and these other peachy keen mommy sites is just a myth.  It’s easier to sound perfect when you’re behind a computer screen and no one is actually there to back you up.  I’m willing to wager that 85% of the moms in the world are like me–imperfect and fun and nowhere near the stereotype from the 1950s.  I’m pretty sure that I’m the definition of a real mom, and I’m okay with it.  Just don’t ask me my thoughts on matching wall paint colors with curtains and upholstery.  You’ll get a blank stare 😛

I love this, haha. Sums me up in one short sentence.

Season One, Episode Fifteen: A Very Lala Christmas Eve

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Christmas Eve, 2011.

My house smells like hot chocolate and s’mores, thanks to the amazing candles I bought from Bath and Body yesterday at the mall.  My dad is watching TV, and getting frustrated that the only thing on TV is The Sound of Music and It’s A Wonderful Life.  My mom and Nicky are at my grandma’s house, celebrating Christmas Eve.  I just got back from Mass, church was packed, and I’m still not in the Christmas spirit.

There’s still no snow on the ground, although it is reallllly cold out.

I’m pretty bored.  I’m still dressed from Mass, I smell fabulous and look fabulous, thanks to the Atelier cologne sample I got from Birchbox (Ambre Nue), the new foundation I just bought (philosophy The Supernatural), and my rockin’ new eyeshadow from Stila (It Girl Palette #2).  I’m all for looking awesome while I blog to all my lovelies 🙂  Speaking of lovelies, I’d like to thank all the readers who came over to scope out my fab post on Alex O’Loughlin.  You guys rock!  Thanks for the unexpected hits and I hope you guys come back to read more excellence.  Increased page activity is always a great Christmas present!

I just scoped out the NORAD Santa Tracker on my iPhone, courtesy of Google Maps, and it appears that the Big Guy is currently in Tarrafal, Cape Verde.  I guess it’s time for me to start preparing the plate of Chips Ahoy and glass of milk.  And since he is probably hours from Ohio, I suppose I should remind Santa that Alex would be a nice little present to find beneath my tree tomorrow morning…and maybe this makeup collection from Chanel.  Just sayin’, Santa.

I’ll provide Santa with some visual aids, just in case he missed yesterday’s post.

Alex O’Loughlin:

Come on Santa...You could put one of those huge bows that they put on new cars on him and nothing else...well...maybe shorts because Nicky will be there, hahaha.

Chanel makeup:

So Santa, just go to the Chanel website, click "makeup" and then select this collection. Scroll on down and decide what you think would be best for me. I'm leaning toward the blush and the hot pink lipstick.

Season One, Episode Fourteen: Santa Baby

So…Christmas is in a few short days, and I totally just realized that I didn’t send out my Christmas list to Santa Claus.

Well, shit.

…I hope Santa reads blogs!!!

Dear Santa,

I have been a reaaaaallllly reaaaaaallly good girl this year.  Seriously.  I refrained from any mischief, shenanigans, poppycock, and/or tomfoolery all year long.  I was thinking that since I’ve been such an awful good girl that it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle if you were to try to get me a few of the things I have compiled in my short list below.  You can skip around and get what you think is best, but I’m really more or less partial to number one and number five.  To prevent confusion, I’ve added pictures for quick and easy referencing.  Thanks Santa!



L. Diddy’s Fabulous List of Christmas Excellence (The 2011 Edition):

1.  Alex O’Loughlin.

Umm...yum, Santa.

2.  A little something from Tiffany.

I'm not even saying it has to be this, Santa. I'm just giving you a general idea of what I have in mind...

3.  Perry the Platypus.  How friggin’ cool would he be???

4.  An iPad 2.

I want one of these sooo bad. They are super fantabulous.

5.  Alex O’Loughlin.

...Sorry, I was drooling. Oh my goodness.

Season One, Episode Thirteen: Musings of a Night Owl

Hello. My name is Lashawn, and I am a night owl.

It’s four am, and what am I doing? Am I sleeping? Noooo. I’m sitting at my laptop in my badass penguin pajamas, playing with the Biblical Curse Generator. I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty entertained. It might be because it’s four in the morning, it might be because I’m slightly jacked up on caffeine, it might be because I enjoy the simpler things in life, I don’t know. What I do know is that the shit this site is coming up with is cracking me up. For example:

“May you see your pomegranates wither, O thou dabbler in abominations!”

Take that, guy who wanted to argue with me over the price of his oil change.

Staying up late opens your eyes to a whole new world dominated mostly by network syndicated comedies (such as How I Met Your Mother and That 70’s Show) and cheesy yet überslick infomercials for hair removal products and weird spandex bra shaper things that I don’t really need. Late nights make you feel classy, like you’re better than all the people who fell asleep during CSI: Miami. Horatio Caine peers at you over the top of his sunglasses and salutes you my friend, because you stayed up long enough to see him catch the bad guy and utter some really horrible and cheesy dialogue before and after he handcuffs said villainous villain. It’s a twofer kind of thing.

Horatio Caine: "There will be no tying of virtuous young maidens to any railroad tracks on my watch, evil silent film guy." Dastardly Evil Guy: "Curses, foiled again!"

Sleep? Ha, who needs sleep.

Sleep is overrated.

People often ask me why I stay up until the birds are chirping. I say why not? I work in the afternoon, my life is pretty boring…so why the hell not? I would much rather stay up late than wake up early in the morning, if that makes any sort of sense. I’ve always been a night person, even when I was a young lass. Nighttime is me time. I can shut off the Lashawn that the rest of the world gets to see and get in my pajamas and be the Lashawn who enjoys aloneness and contemplation and a good book or a corny sitcom.

I like the quiet, the solitude of what Robert Louis Stevenson called “the black hours”. I like that I can just sit and think and not have to be a mom or a sister or a receptionist or a friend or a daughter or anything that everyone else wants me to be. I can just be me, and not have to worry about what the rest of the world thinks. I can read random crap on Wikipedia or research the French Revolution or watch an old show from the ’50s. I can sit around with my favorite fleece blanket and eat Tostitos and salsa and not have to share. I can sit on my upstairs porch and just look up at the night sky and feel so infinitely insignificant and think philosophical things. It’s my favorite time of day, hands down.

To me, the night is beautiful, in some ways just as beautiful as the daytime, in other ways possibly more. One of my favorite things ever is when the sun sets and there’s this smooth, seamingless transition of blues and purples and pinks across the sky, from east to west. Simply beautiful. I adore the stars, and I think the twinkling, sparkling “heavens” are just as breathtaking as the white clouds across a vivid blue mid-afternoon sky. You can’t appreciate the sunshine without the inkiness of night. Sunrise wouldn’t be as memorable without the sunset. I’m suddenly reminded of one of my favorite quotes:

“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness so I can see the stars.”

Season One, Episode Eleven: The Ravages of Time Are Knocking Upon My Door

My birthday was this past Saturday. I am officially 26…and looking at what I just wrote, who the hell in their right mind would want to be unofficially 26? Perhaps a crazy person…yes, only a crazy person would want to go from 25 (which we all know is a whole ‘nother ballgame) and pretend to be 26. The only way I would do it is if there was a large monetary compensation, or something equally awesome.

Like, I don’t know, maybe this badass pegasus.

I’d consider it then.

But seriously, I’m 26. Four more years to 30. Ouch. I suppose 26 is a grand achievement. If I lived in the 1600s, like in Jamestown or whatever, I’d have like ten years left in my life before I died a horrible death from cholera or smallpox. I’d have 54516561 kids by now, all named after virtues and kings and whatever, married to a guy named James Blacksmitherson and living in a leaky shack shittily constructed out of logs and mud and no windows. I’d be all about sewing and hanging out with my equally fabulous friends, Rebecca and Prudence. We’d have the best gray bonnets in the entire village. The bitches would be jealous.

Oh yes. They would be jealous.

But anyway. Christmas is coming. Tres exciting, no? I am proud to announce that I finished my shopping for Nicky an entire week ahead of schedule. I usually am rushing around on the 23rd, hating myself for waiting until the last minute. This year, I finished on the 16th. I think that warrants a high five…so I totally just gave myself one. (I usually do this so that I am not left hanging, by well, myself. Denying someone a high five is such an asshole move, and I am not an asshole.) Perhaps this early shoppage is a part of turning 26? Perhaps.

Or I just remembered to do it early this year.

My god…I think I might just be growing up.