Tag Archives: classy

I’m bringing evil to tomorrow’s potluck

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Tomorrow my office is throwing a potluck party for a woman who’s transferring to another division. For the past few days I’ve been included in general “What are you bringing?” e-mails from my co-workers, none of which I’ve replied to.

I figured I’m young and I’m black and my hat’s real low I’m new to the office, it’s totally okay if I show up empty-handed. They already had sandwiches and sodas and clam dips and cookies and silverware covered — what else could I even offer? What am I supposed to bring? Vegetables?  I’m trying to pay off my student loans, I can’t afford a $15 veggie platter! What is you, nuts?!

I planned to show up, eat, say goodbye to the lady, give her a pat on the noggin, and call it an afternoon. At least I planned to do that until about an hour ago… right until my sweetly selfless self got mixed up with a punk named Pinterest.

AND I'M LIKE, EFF YOU

Pinterest is social network that’ll teach you how to clean corn with a toothbrush, stick glitter on your eggs, and make your pretzels give birth to butterflies. It’s Real Simple meets Martha Stewart, and it makes me feel like a sub-par human lady.

Get your egg geodes out my damn face

I’ve had a Pinterest account for a while but I’d never really used it until tonight. I had a couple of recipes taking up premium bookmark space on my toolbar, so I decided to pin them as a means of saving them. I started clicking through some of the recipe pages and came across a recipe for cookie dough dip. I like cookies, I like dough, and I love to dip, so I checked it out.

Now dip baby, dip

I read through the ingredients and the instructions and it seemed super easy. I already had all the ingredients, it didn’t require any cooking, and the creator claimed it was a big hit at potluck parties. Just like that, I was convinced.

Here are the ingredients. See if you think anything sounds strange:

Chocolate chips

Brown sugar

Vanilla extract

Milk

Baking powder

Peanut butter

Oatmeal

Garbanzo beans

GARBANZO BEANS. An entire can of garbanzo beans. At first, I thought it clever and convenient.

“Garbanzo beans! Why, I just bought three cans of those the other day. What a lovely and healthy way to make chocolate chip cookie dough. Chocolate-Covered Katie says they’re delicious, and she never lies. I must make them now!”

And that’s exactly what I did. Even though I dislike oatmeal cookies, and I hate peanut butter cookies, I decided to make a dessert dish by mixing the main ingredients of each with a full can of garbanzo beans.

My cookie dough dip did not come out well.

It came out tasting like really gritty peanut butter hummus with a hint of vanilla, and it is just awful. There’s still whole chunks of garbanzos in there. Even the chocolate chips are gross.

What it's supposed to look like

What mine looks like. (I gagged when I opened up the Tupperware container to take this picture)

I devoted 20 minutes of my life to it, though, so I’m still going to bring it to the potluck tomorrow. I figure I’ll drop it off anonymously, serve some Saltines with it (you’re supposed to dip cookies or graham crackers in it, but I ain’t got the funds for that), and see if anyone eats it. My guess is maybe. My other guess is that they’ll hate it. My last guess is that they’ll be gassy for days.

(I’m just kidding… sweet gritty peanut butter hummus with chocolate chips is very popular around here. People are going to love it!)

List of music videos at an amusement park or carnival or fair.

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If you did a Google search for “list of music videos at an amusement park or carnival or fair” before today, you’d be very disappointed with the results. I know I was.

Thanks to me, the world is now a better place. You’re welcome.

(You’re also welcome to comment with any music videos I’m missing; this list needs to be as complete as possible.)

Update, July 1, 2015: Someone did comment with several music videos I missed, so I’ve added them to the list. It’s amazing how many people Google “list of music videos at an amusement park.” It’s also amazing how terrifying most of these videos are.

Update, February 23, 2016: I continue to get comments with more carnival/fair music videos. While I love that this list is getting bigger, I feel like I’m duplicating efforts by adding them to the post. So, for the complete list, make sure you read the comments. More treasures reside there.

 

Jordan Knight – Give It to You
If there’s such a thing as falling in love with a person based on a facial expression, Mr. Knight invented it at second :52.

Ja Rule ft. Ashanti – Mesmerize
Ja Rule is such an adorable mouse. I’d go street for him.

Usher – My Way
Things I don’t like about this video: Usher’s painted eyelashes, Tyrese’s chin piercing, and JD’s armpit fuzz.

V V Brown – Shark in the Water
V V Brown should remake this with the original Degrassi cast (the original Next generation. I miss baby Drake and goth Ashley.)

50 Cent – Amusement Park
Cleverest rap metaphor of all time.

Mariah Carey – Fantasy
Yeaaahhhyuhhhh yeaaaaayeeeeeeee ooooooooooo yaaaaaeeeuuuh.

(These are the new ones)

P!nk – Who Knew

Avril Lavigne – Girlfriend

Beyoncé – XO

Seether – Remedy

Birdy – Wings

Coldplay – Magic

Block B – Jackpot

K. Will – Love Blossom

Poets of the Fall – Carnival of Rust

Finntroll – Under Bergets Rot

Alice In Chains – I Stay Away

Sunny Hill – Midnight Circus

B.A.P – 1004(Angel)

Akdong Musician(AKMU) – GIVE LOVE M/V

Justin Timberlake – Mirrors

Nine Inch Nails – Starsuckers, Inc.

Nightwish – Storytime

HI SUHYUN – ‘나는 달라

(Update – September 28, 2015)

JoJo – Baby It’s You

(Update – December 29, 2015)

Melanie Martinez – Carousel

(Update – February 20, 2016)

Krewella – Enjoy the Ride

It’s me, the D.O. double gizzle.

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I’m not that good at drinking.

By that, I mean I’m not that good at drinking alcohol. Actually, I’m not that good at drinking anything, but I’m an especially bad boozer. I don’t booze well.

It’s not that I drink too often, or I get too aggressive or too emotional when I do. If anything, I’m not practiced, aggressive, or emotional enough. The real problem is… when I drink… I…

Turn into Snoop Dogg.

Two sips into a glass of Nuvo, and I’m Snoopier than Tha Doggfather himself.

Me last Friday

I start rapping. 

The first night I ever got certifiably crunked, I freestyled for my entire family and my brother-in-law’s family, who I’d never really met before. Fortunately, my sister filmed it and put it on Facebook. Unfortunately, I’m not going to share it here because 1) I don’t know how to download videos off Facebook, and 2) It’s very rather shameful. I will share my best lines, though.

“I found crap on my face. I’m like, am I in outer space? I’m confused. Where’s this dude?”

“You’z a Pokemon. You’z a fool, mon.”

I adopt a limp. 

Upon leaving the bar, I often begin walking with a gangsta lean. I suffer from a bum knee that only ever flares up after a drink or two. It’s a serious ailment, belee dat.

I become obsessed with blunts. 

Not blunts made of the marijuana! What do you think I am, a weed criminal?! I get obsessed with Phillie blunts, a perfectly legal, perfectly awful, cigar.

I became obsessed with Phillie blunts last New Year’s Eve. After getting stuck with a pack of them at a Christmas party Yankee Swap, I thought it’d be a nice gift to bring to my cousin’s New Year’s Eve party.

A few minutes before midnight, and after a few drinks, I decided it was time to get to Phillie blunting. I had no intention of smoking the cigar — I’d barely ever even seen one up close — but I thought it’d be fun to light one. The flame had yet to touch the tip of the cigar before I started dry heaving/convulsing. I thought cigars would taste like Cuban sangwiches or grape leaves or something. I was wrong; they taste like straight lung venom.

They look like hotdogs

Now, I bet you’re thinking, “Snoop is far superior to you! If drinking makes you act like him, then BITCH WHY AIN’T YOU GET SO THROWED EVERYDAY?”

I’ll tell you why I ain’t get so throwed everyday. Even though Snoop Dogg is a much better person than I am, strangers don’t seem to appreciate when I take on the persona of a 41-year-old former Crip.

Cab drivers don’t like when I accuse them of “trippin”.

My peers (other 41-year-old former Crips) don’t like when I introduce myself to them with complicated handshakes.

Bartenders of fancy nightclubs don’t like when I order a gin and juice and then don’t know what kind of juice I want.

And I don’t like the thought of me drinking enough to start acting like this:


Every time a dog pees, I cry

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Last weekend I was in charge of taking out the dog. For the most part, whenever Chico started creep-staring with his monkey eyes, it was my duty to take him outside for a whiz. I’d gear up in the family dog-walking outfit — long coat, stupid hat, flashlight headband — and take the little muttdogger out. And boy, ain’t it a hassle in the assle!

For some reason, taking out dogs is the most difficult of all household chores. It’s different than dog walking — dog walking is voluntary and pleasant. When I feel like walking the dog, I’m happy to strap on a coal miner’s headlight and go for a stroll. When I’m on the couch in a bathrobe, yelling at Jenelle Evans that I seen her with Kieffah, and Chico starts scratching at my eyeballs, dog walking is neither voluntary nor pleasant.

Only people who watch Teen Mom 2 will appreciate this video. 

I was going to do my own impression's of Jenelle's mom, but it came out way too disturbing. Enjoy this lovely picture instead!

I think, in part, it’s Chico’s fault. He’s real picky with his pooping, so a quick trip outside ends up being a 20-minute search for the perfect patch of snow. Plus, sometimes he fake limps, going as far as walking with only three legs. The vet’s checked him out and said he’s fine — he really just pretends to have a bum leg. Do you know how embarrassing that is? Especially if we run into other dogs? It’s like making fun of an amputee! He’s sick!

Look at that devil!

My past experiences are also partly to blame for my hatred of taking out dogs. Just one past experience, really.

It happened when I was 13.

I had just gotten home from a long day of the 8th grade. I was pretty stressed out from having to wear jeans all day, so I changed into some ripped boxer shorts, grabbed a snack, and turned on the TV. I was about halfway through a bowl of shredded mozzarella cheese and an episode of Jett Jackson when our then-family-dog, Halle, started a-whimpering. Girl needed to pee.

Even though it was the middle of winter, I threw on a gross old barn coat over my boxers, my favorite pair of backless slippers, and headed outside with Halle. It was below freezing, but I felt fine. So fine, in fact, that when Halle walked across the driveway, into the yard, and up onto the two feet of crusty snow, I followed along. It was like walking on water, except even cooler because it was fragile ice instead!

Fun fact: I've had these slippers since 3rd grade. They've fit me perfectly every year since then. They're tied with 9 other objects on my "Top 10 Favorite Object List."

I walked about five steps before da inevitable happened: my right foot crashed through the ice and into the snow, cutting my bare leg on the way down. Not wanting to keep it there for long, I tried lifting it out. Unfortunately, while doing that, my other foot crashed through the ice, too.

In the confusion of having very cold, very hurty feet and legs, I dropped Halle’s leash. Apparently a dog leash is less heavy than a chubby 8th grader, because it slid across the ice and down the little hill in our front yard and (kind of) wrapped itself around a tree.

I guess slippers are less heavy than chubby 8th graders, too; the next two steps I took resulted in the loss of both slippers. I had no pants, no leash, and no shoes. All I had were some bloody feets and a steady stream of drive-by spectators. And some tears… had a a fair amount of tears, too.

BRB. Chico needs to whizzle.

Living at home ain’t that bad

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Here is a list of reasons why I haven’t updated in over a month:

1. Teen Mom 2 (Chelsea’s mom looks like Kathy Griffin.)

2. Love & Hip Hop (Fabolous a dog.)

3. T.I. and Tiny: The Family Hustle (Do they have a son named “Da Money”?)

4. The Big Bang Theory (I want a friend like Sheldon.)

5. Chef Roble & Co. (That African mixologist is only dating you for camera time, Jasmine.)

6. Love Games (Sydney think she ghetto fabulous Katy Perry. Trick please.)

7. Toddlers and Tiaras (A dolla make me holla, honey boo boo child.)

8. Hoarders (Clean up, sickos.)

9. Intervention (Clean up, sickos.)

10. Dexter (Spoiler alert: THAT SHIT CRAY.)

11. Storage Wars (Jarrod and Brandi need to step their unit-picking game up.)

12. Dance Moms (Why wouldn’t you want to be like Maddie? I want to be like Maddie!)

13. I moved home to Maine.

14. I got a full-time job.

15. This precious child:

His name's Tyson, but I call him Da Money

Actually, I really did move home and get a full-time job — but, including the three and a half hour drive from Connecticut to Maine, the entire move took less than five hours, and I only started my new job on Tuesday. Other than hanging out with my favorite nephew, all I’ve done for the past month is watch TV. It’s just so fun! And easy!

Sadly, though, the funness and easiness of doing nothing but televisioning has come to an end. Look at me — I’m an adult now! I’m a college graduate! I have a real job! I moved back in with my parents! I sleep in the same twin-sized bed I sleep-puked Chinese food on in kindergarten! I made it!

It fits me nicely!

Even though moving in with my parents may not sound very cool, I really am excited. There’s a lot of benefits that come with living in Maine’s golden town.

1. I live fa free.

2. I eat fa free.

3. I’m kind of close to ski mountains, which makes skiing down mountains much easier.

4. I live across the street from a fine nighttime establishment — the type of bar where everyone knows your name, and daughters fist fight their fathers, and patrons crash cars into the house across the street once every few years. Here’s the only Google review of the place:

5. In the summer of 2003, when I was away from home for a few days, my oldest sister surprised me by re-decorating my room. She painted the walls baby blue, pasted dragonflies on my desk (which she also painted baby blue), and stuck random pieces of flowery paper on the walls. I’ve always been very feminine and sweet, so it’s nice to have a room that reflects my personality so well.

Mowing the lawn in my leather jacket -- such a lady!

6. We have a nice wood stove in our kitchen, ideal for bottom warming and the like. Turns out, it’s also ideal for bottom burning. (By the way, khakis are not ideal for wearing with burned butts. They don’t hide butt burn ooze very well, and that can be embarrassing if you wear them to school.)

7. My parents like watching TV, too. And American Idol auditions just started!

Don’t shower with the door open. Especially at an office

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My sister Meg and her boyfriend Isaac have been kind enough to let me live with them and they cute baby, Tyson. For the past two and a half weeks, they’ve given me shelter and Greek yogurt and unlimited access to season 6 of Dexter. The only thing they haven’t given me is privacy.

Not like they’re all up in my bidnass or anything, goodness nah. They’ve not only given me my own bedroom – the biggest one I’ve ever had, even – but it came with a door and a lock and a comfortable bed and a huge TV and cable and everything. If I wanted, I could chill in my pimp room and act private all day. At least, I could be private from Meg and Isaac and Tyson. I just can’t be private from the neighbors. Sees, it’s a new crib and I ain’t got no curtains yet.

Luckily, having no curtains isn’t that big of a deal. If I don’t want my neighbors to see me in da buff, I can always change in the bathroom, or the closet, or behind the wardrobe. And since curtains are easy enough to come by, I could even hop on down to Walmart and buy myself a set. (Do curtains come in sets?)

When it comes to getting ready and purchasing household necessities, though, I’m a lazy little arseholio. Therefore, I usually don’t bother to hide myself from the bare windows, and I have no plans to do so in the future. I figure, if my mom’s 7o-year-old employee man has already seen me naked, at their office, a few peeping neighbors ain’t no thang.

How my mom’s 70-year-old employee man saw me naked

Last summer (maybe it was in the fall, but now that I’m done with school everything feels like summer), a real trick of a hurricane hit the U.S. Her name was Irene, and she really wasn’t that tricktastic, but she did knock out the power in my hometown for a while. It wasn’t even out for 24 hours, actually, but since my mom’s work has a shower in the basement and I get stanky quick, I went to her office to defunkify myself.

Since my mom had showered before me, she gave me a few tips.

Mom: Bathroom light’s broked. Leave the door to the hallway open, no one goes down there anyway. Maybe even leave the shower curtain open, too. And remember, it’s a shower. You’ll want to be very naked for it.

Always obedient, I did everything my mother said. I left the door to the hallway open, and the shower curtain to the bathroom open. And I got very naked. For fun, I threw my clothes, underpants included, all over the room. And then, it was time to shower.

Apparently, it was also time for the elderly fellow from the shipping department, Joe, and the UPS dude to make their monthly visit to the basement. About three minutes into my shower, I started hearing banging down the hallway. At the same time I figured out there were people in the basement – about five seconds after hearing the banging – two shadows passed in front of the open bathroom door. I’d tried to shut the curtain, but my next encounter with Joe let me know I didn’t do it in time.

Joe: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? SHUT THE DOOR NEXT TIME YOU SHOWER HERE, YOU SICKO.

I was less naked and more unhappy than i appear here

After hearing Joe, who’s usually real jokey, sassinate me for showering in the open, a lack of bedroom curtains doesn’t seem that bad.

The time a janitor almost killed me

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Sometimes I’m a paranoid lady. About normal things, like unemployment and salmonella and armpits; and about some not normal things, like imaginary murderers and full-on-rapists. And when I’m paranoid about make-believe bad guys, it usually turns out badly.

For example, last Thursday night, sometime after the turkey feast had turned to turkey farts, my mom made me take the fambly dog, Chico, for a walk. We’d had Thanksgiving dinner at my sister/brother-in-law’s house, and they live in a real neighborhood — you know, blocks and sidewalks and stuff — but still, ’twas night! Past 6 o’clock, at least! Street lamps or not, I don’t care, it was dark as a mufugga out there. And everyone knows the freaks come out at night.

Even Whodini can tell you that

Chico as my witness, there was a freak out there that night. About seven minutes into the walk, I noticed a car following us. Well, I noticed a car parked on the street with its lights on, so I decided it was following us. Worried they’d kidnap my dog and 22-year-old, 6-foot me, I started speed walking and robot arming. Thirty seconds later, when I saw it was parked in the same spot with its lights still on, I realized speed walking wasn’t enough. Even though I was almost back to the house, I screamed “GO!” to Chico, spread my fingers wide for extra Allie speed, and started sprinting. And then I looked to my right and saw that all of my sister’s neighbors from next door were outside and watching me.

See? A bad ending! And that’s actually the least terrible of all the times my irrational paranoia/bitchassness has funked me over. Here’s an even worse one.

In 1998, there was a real bad ice storm in Maine. Everyone lost power and school was cancelled for two weeks. For warmth, my family had to bring all of our mattresses into the living room and make a super bed to share. We had to toast bagels on gas heaters. It was, by far, the best two weeks of my life.

During the day my sisters and I would go into my mom’s work. Her office still had power, so we’d go in and watch rented movies in the conference room, and get our nails painted by the crazy nail lady in the same building, and climb the shelves in the shipping department. It was awesome.

The only un-awesome part was that her work shared a bathroom with the rest of the building. To get to the bathroom, you had to walk down a long-ish hallway, take a left, and walk a foot. It might not sound like that big a deal, but it is when there’s wormy janitors creeping around.

One time, after leaving the bathroom, I heard a bunch of clanging keys. I don’t think I even turned around to see what it was — I just assumed it was janitor with bad intentions. So, when I turned the corner into the long hallway, I started sprinting. I was pumping my little  9-year-old legs like crazy — had my Allie speed fingers spread and everything. Sure, I hadn’t seen a janitor, and I certainly hadn’t seen a janitor who looked like he tryna steal me, but I knew one was there. And I knew he wasn’t far behind.

Knowing that — that he wasn’t far behind — I wanted to see just how far away he was. Still sprinting forward, I turned my head around to see where he was. He wasn’t there. A glass door was, though — only it was in front of me. Boy did I hit the shiz outta dat.

And not just “Oh boy I hit the shiz outta dat and bumped my noggin,” either. It was “Oh boy I hit the shiz outta dat and why’m I on the ground? Where’d all this glass come from? Why are there people running towards me? Am I crying?”

Actually, I wasn’t crying — I was totally fine. Apparently I could’ve died pretty easily, though. The door was supposed to make like James Frey and break into a million harmless little pieces; instead, it broke into four to five huge impaling-loving shards. They all missed me and I didn’t have so much as a scratch. Minus a bruise on my knee which I lovingly call my permabruise, cause the bastard’s still there.

Dramatization. The white stuff on my nose is lotion, btdubs

Also, one time I was home alone and convinced myself there was an impostor of my neighbor sneaking around. I ran into a wall and lost feeling in a part of the same knee. I call it a black hole, because that’s what it was.

I like it because it let's me time travel

The Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens

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Growing up, Thanksgiving was always a pretty normal holiday at my fambly’s household. Pies would bake, dinner rolls would burn, my dad would spill boiling turkey juice on his bare feet, and I, despite having never gone to a single church service in my life, would force my family to bow their heads in silence as I led a weirdo prayer about God and arrowheads. Nothing too notetwerthy.

In fact, my most memorable Thanksgiving didn’t even happen on Thanksgiving. It happened a few days later, on what I call “The Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens.”

The Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens

In 2008, my cousins Ira and Holly hosted Thanksgiving, and they did a right fine jarb. There were all the makings of a good Thanksgiving: family, babies, turkey, and sturdy crackers. We talked and played and laughed and did all the things you’re supposed to do on a national holiday. It was fun! Everything was great!

And the greatness continued the next day. My cousin Petey and I woke up early Friday morning for our first ski trip of the season. We left the house around 6 a.m. and drove the two hours to Sunday River. We suited up in our suits, chairlifted up the mountain, and skied down one trail. Then we smiled and high-fived each other and clapped. Then we packed up and drove the two hours back home.

Thang was, I wasn’t feeling so hot.

Actually, I felt the opposite of so hot; I felt craptastic. Craptastic enough that on the drive home, we had to pull over at a gas station so I could run in and break my 10-year puke-free streak. You know what’s unfun? Throwing up in a public bathroom. You know that’s especially unfun? Destroying the one thing you’re proud of, like a 10-year no-vomit record.

Shaking his fist at me n mah stank smells

When we finally got back to my house, after a ride of rolled down windows (by that I mean I farted a whole lot), I learned my mom and sister were sick, too. Apparently, we’d all caught the same bug our baby cousins had had a few days earlier. It sucked, but after a day of rest, a few bowls of chicken noodle soup, and some soda on the side, I was fine. Fine, at least, until the Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens, which happened after I’d returned to college.

Since the day I threw up in a gas station bathroom, I’d been perfectly healthy. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday all passed without incident. So, as I’m sure you’d understand, I didn’t expect Wednesday to be any different. And so, as I’m sure you’d also understand, when I burped a burp smelling of sulphur, rotten eggs, and human poop, I blamed it on the Golden Grahams I’d eaten for breakfast and headed to Writing for Mass Media class.

About four burps into class, my friend Owen whispered sweetly in my ear.

Owen: Daaaayummm. Smell dat? Someone keeps farting in this bitch.

Me: I… I think it’s me. Me burps. I think it’s me burps!

Owen: No, fool! Can’t you smell it? It’s a fart. The smelliest fart smell I’ve ever smelled. It smells so bad it’s scary.

Me: Um… I really think it might be me. I feel a burp coming. Here, let me do it straight in your face so you can tell for sure.

(I burp in his face.)

Owen: Oh my God. It is you. Do it again, it’s incredible. P.S. YA SICK.

And Owen was right — I was sick. Really sick. By 5 p.m., my belly had doubled in size with gas and angry stanks. My appetite was fine, though, so for dinner I ate a cheeseburger, fries, chocolate cake, and a Coke. As a result, my belly quadrupled in size by 6 p.m. and I was stankier and more uncomfortable than ever.

Which is unfortunate, because 6 p.m. was also the time of the college radio meeting — my first meeting as promotions director. Know what promotions directors have to do at college radio meetings? Speak. In front of tens of people!

What I did at that meeting doesn’t even count as public speaking. I could tell you about how I was completely hunched over, or how all I did was grunt, or how I couldn’t help but leak a few fartburps. All you really need to know, though, is that my pants were unzipped and unbuttoned. The whole time.

Then, when it was over, I went back to my dorm and pooped 30 times and let out five 15-second farts.

Happy Thanksgiving!