FLASH POST! Driving Blind.

Quick post so I can go nappy-bye.

My frequent readers know that most my days are weird because I have my freak flag stapled to my chest BUT today had an extra sprinkle of “hmm…how unusual.”

I woke up in a shit mood because I had love dreams and I woke up and didn’t have a love reality. I didn’t feel so hot between a headache and my morning acid reflux so I threw back some alka seltzer and made a coffee (I’m REALLY GREAT at balancing acids and anti-acids!). I don’t remember getting dressed but I was in my car, peeling out on some wet leaves, burping up some hot remains of whatever acid I ate before bed.

It was rainy while I was driving to work so I had my new windshield wipers swishing. SWISH swish SWISH swish SWISH swish SWICCRRRRKKKKKKKKKKKKK.

My driver’s side windshield wipe cracked off and the jagged metal remains propelled it off into the road and under my back tire. GuhBUMbum.

I could see the car behind me crunching it under their tire. Cya later windshield wiper! RIP! Have a nice life! Drop me a line!

It was raining pretty heavily so I couldn’t stick my head out the driver’s side window. That and it’d get ripped off by the renegade MBTA buses they have Tokyo drifting in the streets. I’m pretty hunchy as it is (did I tell you a potential suitor asked if I had scoliosis? HE THOUGHT I HAD SCOLIOSIS) so I craned my neck to the passengers side.

I was in panic mode until I got to work, when I burst out laughing at the absurdity of annihilating my own new windshield wiper. Pulverized. Crunched to smithereens. Swish Swish Swish CLUNK annnndd there she gooooes goooodbyyyyeee!

Thankfully, I had my old wipers in the trunk in case of emergency. I spent 45 minutes searching YouTube for videos until I just read the (5) steps in the instruction manual- 3 of which include making sure you shut your car off before you run yourself over.

I changed it, crisis averted, christ has risen or something.

It was horrifying not being able to see or even pull the car over. That being said I’m really sorry if your pet cat, dog, or maybe even your husband don’t return home tonight, I forgot to check my wheel wells. My panic mode shuts down my peripheral vision and I’m pretty sure I was chanting something in Sanskrit. But I’m ALIVE and changed my own wiper because I’m big and strong.

OKAY! Flash post over. Thank you for reading.

k love you byyyee why do you always smell like bread?

500 Days of Flannel

The wolf in sheep’s flannel.

I’ve been investing in men’s clothing lately. Specifically in $16 men’s flannels at Macy’s WHO, by the way, leaves the heat on 500 degrees in all their department stores. By the time I made it to the Men’s Department on the second floor I had to duck behind some scarves and wipe my upper lip sweat on the hats and mittens.

I’m starting to believe I have what one would call an “obsessive” personality. That hint might have been dropped for you when I started my series of posts “Songs I Listen to Compulsively” (new addition coming up soon…lots of Hall & Oates in this household this month).

WELL m’dears, if you have not tried on the John Ashford flannel collection, YOU are surely missing out. So what if it makes my already fleshy triceps look like giant meaty turkey legs you’d likely only find at a Renaissance Faire? They may look big but you know, those turkey legs are also damn DELICIOUS. You have to make sacrifices for the great good sometimes. And that greater good is the comfort of knowing you have a fantastic and comfortable outfit you can wear 8 days in a row without repeating a pattern or getting questioned about your own personal hygiene.

AND THEY HAVE CHRISTMAS-ESQUE COLORS! Like most plaid flannels, the standard red/green/some other color make you look extra festive and definitely not obnoxious at all.

Speaking of obnoxious, it’s that time of year again…IT’S A VERY LOLO CHRISTMAS! Every year I bathe in the holiday spirit by soaking myself in a nice hot bath of humiliation. Well, I’m not embarrassed by it, but I’m sure my peers have picked up the slack on those reindeer reigns and are mortified for me. SEE BELOW.

Screen Shot 2014-11-19 at 9.08.00 PM

I really relish in stretching the bounds of my appearance. In other words, I’m not afraid of seeing how far I can go to make myself look like an asshole. Turns out, all it takes is my blowdryer and a Kmart clearance sweater!

Anyhonk, if I don’t get my 13 hours of sleep I just might crack. I’m going to go lay down in my nice, soft, pile of flannels and dream about buying Irish Springs body wash and shaving my face.

okay I love you and don’t forget to build a castle in the sands of time.

Shy Children

Hello, my friends.

As I write this, I sit here in as an adult woman wearing $15 oversized, doughnut patterned, flannel pajamas I bought at Kmart. I’m wearing 4 different colors of eye shadow, burning my already dried out eyelids. I’ve previously mentioned the Gold Bond I’ve purchased and I’m steadily working my way through the tube. If you can believe it, I never used to be this wild.

We all know and love the BuzzFeed Quiz. Which potato are you most like? What color booger are you? BUT the holy grail: Are you an introvert or an extrovert?

It seems with the break of all this quiz fever, the introvert/extrovert theme kept coming up over and over again. It got me to thinking about my life as a shy child, forever suctioned to my mother’s leg, forced to respond to inane questions at my family’s functions. “Where did you get that dress? Can I borrow it?” a cheerful 40-year old woman would screech into my face. No, you idiot. You’re OshKosh days are long gone.

How did I go from shy child to indifferent adult telling the world about the types of shits I take and how much I’m sweating?

Shy child syndrome lasted from about kindergarten to three years after I graduated college. I still feel traumatizing moments lurking around the corner.

The worst for me was ordering at restaurants.

The happy server grinning, “AND WHAT CAN I GET FOR YOU?!”

I dreaded my turn. I’d whisper, “pasta with marinara sauce.” Please leave me alone.

“SORRY, DIDN’T CATCH THAT SWEETIE. WHAT WAS THAT?”

Dammit. I’d whisper again “pasta with marinara sauce.”

Good enough for you?

“THE PEPPERONI PIZZA?”

Shit. That was my cue to nod and eat whatever gruel they presented with me. Unless my mother would pipe up and ruin everything.

“LAUREN, SPEAK UP. SHE’D LIKE THE PASTA WITH MARINARA SAUCE.”

Nooooooo mother. How could you betray me? I couldn’t let them win. My 9-year-old pride was to impenetrable. “NO I’D LOVE THE TRIPE!” Let me die here please.

There were many a-time when I would be choking to death on an onion or paint chip and I’d sit in silence, suffering and waiting for death to take me. I could usually play it off in a crowd but mothers have a sixth sense when their child is  casually choking to death before their eyes. I vividly recall choking on a D’Angelo’s sub in the middle of the food court. My windpipe sealed shut. I would’ve been happy to die there, clear bra straps coming out of my Weathervane crop top with a giant glittery “68” on the front. But my mother had different plans.

“SHE’S CHOKING, MY GOD SHE’S CHOKING!”

Shut up and let me die, Marge. 

The situation was diffused when she fisted my mouth and removed the offending string of vidalia,..

SO, my question to you children: Are you an introvert or an extrovert? Were you a shy or an outgoing child? (Loki voice) TELL ME. 

k love you don’t forget to wipe your feet before ruin nana’s carpet