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I hate everyone

I hate everyone, Innapropriate, Not Pleased, pregnant stuff, Vom stuff

I hate everyone. If you knew about this and didn’t tell me, hang your head in shame.

October 11, 2010

Seriously?

Seriously.

SERIOUSLY?!

F.F.F.F.F.F.F.

I’m pissed off. Pissed because I know nothing about pregnancy because no one talks about the creepy gross shit. People talk about the kicks and the cute belly and the big boobs. But I am NOT PREPARED FOR THIS. And you know what? I am taking it on myself to be sure that you know more stuff that I did before I donated my body over to a baby. This basically  means that this post is not meant to be read with 1) breakfast 2) your dad or 3) a priest.

And with that I present to you my emergency embarrassing drug store trip in my local town:

This is about to get graphic my friends.

For 4 days I’ve had a pain in the ass and it’s not B. It didn’t get better. So finally I do a little google. Again, google=devil embodied. And I learned about the H word. Which I really don’t want to say because it creeps me out and makes it real and FINE. hemorrhoids (which I still can’t spell even after googling 87 times.) Do you even KNOW what a hemorrhoid really is? I didn’t. Apparently though like almost EVERY pregnant woman gets them. Do you know how many babies are in the world? Like billions. That means at least ONE woman who had a baby could have given me a heads up on this one.

A hemorrhoid is a swollen blood vessel that literally POPS out of your butt. Jesus I wish I was kidding. It hurts. It hurts your butt, your brain, your eyes and your heart. And apparently when you are pregnant, the body snatcher presses everything downwards, including butt vessels. MURDER MY FACE PLEASE.

So after telling facebook, B and my yoga class, I had to take action. You’d think because I am pretty open and honest that I don’t get embarrassed about stuff. Wrong. This is totally my defense mechanism against ultimate butt shame. Hence, please note the additional distraction purchases, whose purpose is ONLY to distract the cashier from thinking that I have a butt vessel problem. Even though I do. But girls who buy Lucky magazine and cool new face washes CAN’T have butt vessel problems. It’s totally for someone else.

And of course I aim for the cashier who looks like a nice mom who will give me an “aw sweetie” look, and then, of course the young cute 16 year old is all, I can take you over here. Great. So then I’m like taking things out of my cart like stacked on top of each other so you can’t really see the butt meds even though she has to physically ring it up one by one anyway and remove my stacked tower of distraction. Then she piles everything in a bag and puts the Lucky Mag on top like a shame cover.

I came home and told B this:

Me: See? I should feel shame. She put the Lucky Mag was put on top of everything else!

B: Don’t you think you’re reading too much into this?

Me: No.

B: So you’re probably not reading enough into it. (rolls eyes)

Me: EXACTLY.

So now you know. You know more about pregnancy than you did before and you know more about my butt than anyone should know. Including me. If you need me I’ll be trying to suck back in a butt vessel.

kill me.

MODG

Seriously? Seriously. SERIOUSLY?! F.F.F.F.F.F.F. I’m pissed off. Pissed because I know nothing about pregnancy because no one talks about…

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I hate everyone, Not Pleased, wedding

Once and for all you will now understand why I do not discuss my wedding. UPDATED

September 29, 2010

*Warning up front… this post is going to come across a little “mean girls” of me. But I feel like it’s the only way to get you to understand why I black balled myself from discussing my own wedding forever and ever. MANY of you have asked me to post about it. I feel that after this post, you will never ask me again.

A few things you should know about my wedding. Besides the fact that I married a super awesome hot guy, it changed my life. I became slightly obsessed with my wedding. I planned every detail in a super psycho killer sort of way. My wedding was a success, people saw my wedding, people asked me to plan their weddings, I became a wedding planner, I started blogging about weddings, I started hating weddings, but I loved blogging.

AND NOW I’M A BLOGGER. Who is paid nothing. But I thank my wedding for starting it all.

Also you should know, I have wedding stalkers. I’m not saying this in a “I’m so awesome” kind of way. I’m saying this in a “I’ve been scared to bring up my wedding on my own blog for fear of their wrath and stalking abilities”. I’ve been married now for almost 4 years and I still get emails, people on facebook who have tracked me down to ask me what shade of green my napkins were. Brides are scary bitches. I know because I was one of them.

To the stalker’s credit, it’s my own fault. I totally put my wedding out there on theknot, facebook and it even made it into a magazine. I thought I was the wedding shit. However I didn’t think it would go this far.

I will let the pictures speak for themselves. I’m keeping the bride anonymous because I’m not THAT mean. But I need you to know what I’m talking about here. All pictures are credited to the really awesome photographer Laura Novak. She rocks my face off. And of course she worked for us both.

Here we go. My pics are at the top.

*UPDATED EDIT* The bride asked me to take the pictures down. So I did. Listen, I do what she says. You would too out of pure fear. I did however include accurate substitutes. See below.

Ok. I think we’ve all seen enough. First gut instinct when I saw these? Flattering. Definitely. Second gut instinct? Intellectual property! … and my dress and my jewelry and my flowers and my SOUL. Dude, that’s my brain splattered all over your wedding! OK listen, my wedding was 4 years ago and I’m over it. That’s why I haven’t brought this up until now. And I KNOW that by posting this all the old stalkers are going to come out of the woodwork and at this point, it’s cool. But man, I get getting inspiration from someone else, but this is a new level.

PLEASE DON’T BASH THIS BRIDE. That’s not the point of this. I can’t have another preppy girl situation. The point is that 1) this is way funny to see 2) NO MORE WEDDING STUFF LIKE EVER.

Happy Wedding Wednesday.

*Warning up front… this post is going to come across a little “mean girls” of me. But I feel…

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I hate everyone

MS Paint therapy with MODG. An accurate artisitc portrayel of misery and dispair. Plus pirate stuff.

September 7, 2010

All I care about right now, is being miserable that my 3 day weekend is over. The joy I felt to actually experience the 3 day weekend is no match for the misery I now feel to witness it’s death. In fact I am so miserable that I drew a scenario that to me, seems better and more appealing than having this 3 day weekend end. Please see below

I decided that I would rather be murdered in the face by a pirate sword than have my 3 day weekend end.

But then I thought, this doesn’t REALLY describe how I feel.


I would then rather, after being face murdered by a pirate sword, be eaten by a murder pirate bird in a bloody fashion, than have my 3 day weekend come to a miserable end.

Still not there.

Then after being face murdered by a pirate sword, eaten by a human feasting blood bird, I would rather a super angry and yet also hungry pirate boy/man eat my remains out of anger that his bird and sword are now all bloody….than have my 3 day weekend end.

So after really getting in touch with my despair. I finally realized that IF given the choice between having my 3 day weekend end and slamming a pirate sword in my face then being eaten by a dirty blood bird, followed by a baby child pirate cleaning me off and FINALLY ending with my ultimate demise by spending all of eternity as a pile of bones with Kelly Bensimon on a fake horse on a deserted pirate island….I would choose the bones and blood and stuff for sure.

And I’d definitely rather spend an hour and a half on MS Paint than do any of the bullshit that I have to do to get ready for the beginning of this week and THE BRUTAL END TO MY 3 DAY WEEKEND…which by the way wasn’t even that awesome.

Thank you for spending your Tuesday morning with me. I hope I’ve given your week a really positive kick start. Your turn. Would you rather have a rabid monkey eat your brain like I saw once on 20/20 or have your 3 day weekend end? This is an obvious answer.

Hearts and swords,

MODG

All I care about right now, is being miserable that my 3 day weekend is over. The joy I…

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I hate everyone, Nursery, pregnant stuff

I puke on the baby industry. And you know what? My baby pukes on you too. He will.

August 24, 2010

Have you noticed my Monday trend of disappearing? I bet some of you thought it’s because it took me 72 hours to go through every comment on the baby name post and that’s partially correct. However in real life I AM TOTALLY OVERWHELMED WITH BABY CRAP. LIKE WOAH.

So next week is my 6 month mark. Most people see this and are like, woohoo, 6 months that’s great! And they make a really smiley face about it. Not me. I see this and say, SHIT how can I get all the crap I need, which takes 8-10 weeks to deliver for the nursery? Well? Answer me?

This gem is 1600 dollars. And babies puke on it. Rightfully so.

Baby furniture is bullshit. If you’re at home all poor in the pants saying, “man I want to make money today,” go start a company that makes rocking chairs for non senior citizens and don’t charge a mortgage payment for them. I promise you every preg under the age of 40 will scoop that up. Think like Forever21 for gliders. And what on earth are they actually DOING for 8-10 weeks anyway? I can buy a pair of shoes that costs more than your dumb glider and have them in my hands tomorrow. But try and buy a chair for a baby and the baby people are all, we’re going to realllly drag this out because it’s not like having a baby is TIME SENSITIVE or anything.

Breathe. Breathing. I’m not supposed to get worked up, it’s bad for Plankton.

Here’s what else is on my agenda as of late:
•    Breastfeeding class WITH B. I’m hoping if I bring him, his milk will come in too and we can work in shifts.
•    Prenatal Yoga on Sundays. Which I haven’t started yet because it’s in this like shack above the place where they spray tan me and I can’t see inside and I’m afraid of the hippies doing weird things to me and not being able to call for help because there are no windows.
•    Hypnobirth home classes. Now this is a whole post for another day. But I ordered the teachyourselfathome stuff from Hypnobabies which is comprised of 6 CD’s and a book and you teach yourself how to hypnotize yourself during birth. You picture special places and special things and shoot glitter and unicorns out of your vagina and feel no pain. It’s a whole thing.
•    Supplemental childbirth class. This basically is mandatory at the birth center. I don’t have to take the 4 week one because I’m teaching my self hypnoshit. But this class is like, well we KIND of trust you to teach yourself stuff but not really so you have to come to this anyway. Awesome.
•    Decorating the GD nursery. I can’t. even.
•    The baby shower. Ok most people aren’t involved in their own baby shower. I am. But it’s for good reasons I promise. The economy has been rough to many of my friends and family and I don’t want this burden on anyone else. So B and I are having a co-ed shower at our house that is actually a keg party. I know. But add this to my list of brain hurts.

And then I also have like a regular job still and I try to go to the gym and I try to make dinner for B and I try to clean my house. And I try to tell you all about it.

And I cried about all of this to B on Friday and said I quit. Apparently I can’t do that.

I’m guessing this gets harder when Plankface is actually here. F.
PS no name yet. Still leaning towards Wolverine Thundercat Asianface.

Send me peaceful special places thoughts.
MODG

PS. Here’s how you can help. Want to design my nursery and do it awesomely? I’ll let you. Want to give me your cool baby stuff that you sell to for a million dollars but cheap to me? I’ll take it. Want to give me stuff and in exchange I’ll pimp you out on my blog? Ok, I can be bought. Word.

Have you noticed my Monday trend of disappearing? I bet some of you thought it’s because it took me…

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breastfeeding, I hate everyone, Not Pleased, pregnant stuff

If you have small boobs, back away from this post. Slowly. BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT.

August 2, 2010

accurate visual aid.

Picture me in your head pre-preg. I am 5’2’’, I’m about 110lbs. I have a sparkling way about me.  Please see the visual aid <——–. This will be  important information to retain for the following post.

B takes me. No, scratch that. I drag B to Pea in the Pants…or pot. Pee in the Pot for a bra. He was subjected to this trip as a result of subjecting me to the constant sound of buzzing bees in our house and then also on our special date. If you don’t instantly know what I’m talking about, you are a lucky woman whose husband wasn’t watching the world cup. And what a coincidence to be taken to a Mexican restaurant for your special date, the day of the Mexican soccer game, in front of the Mexican TV. And bees in Spanish? Still sound just as goddamn annoying.

ANYWAY. B owed me. So off to Pee in the Pot, the most overpriced stupid store on earth. I should open a maternity clothing store and be like, see this Forever21 dress? You need it because you’re fat and it’s the only thing that will make you look even somewhat like a regular human and I’m going to charge you 200 dollars. Cool? And you’d be like, give me 4. Now.

So I needed 3 things. A boppy pillow is one. If you don’t know what this shit it. You are missing out. You NEED IT TO LIVE YOUR LIFE. It takes sleeping to a whole new level. If I had this when I was single I MAY not have gotten married.

Next maternity pants. But their sizes are all wonked. I was swimming in an extra small. I get that they are trying to boost my ego but the spillover on my Jcrew Minnie’s is no long acceptable. So no pants = pants crisis.

Finally I need a brar, as Jill Zarin would say. Here’s a tip ladies. When you get preg, your boobs blow up within 24 hours. Don’t buy an expensive bra. Pick up some seashells and string or maybe just some masking tape or something else cheap because your fat cow boobs grow WEEKLY. I’m on my 3rd brar trip.

(For those of you who don’t remember this picture is from the oil cleanse post. Many of you have asked about this and if it worked. I can’t speak to it’s effectiveness because Plankton rules my skin. That baby scoffs at any and all skin remedies. It’s all, please bitch, don’t even bother. I run this show)

 

So I’m like, Pee Pot girl, please measure me. She does (in the middle of the store) B tries to look away. She gets quiet and whispers. “you’ll need an E”
what did you say pee pot? WHAT DID YOU SAY PEE POT GIRL? AN E? FOR ELAFANTITIS ENORMOUS?
oh. my.god. an E. an E and E. My boobs are going to keep growing and the eat my face and people will think I’m a two headed monster with a tiny hat on and that tiny hat will actually be my real head.

Let’s revisit the point I made early on in this post. I’m 5’2’’ and 110lbs with E boobs. And I was all, hmm I wonder why all the boys have been staring lately. I wonder why the guy at Panera asked me where I got my shirt?

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

*Note to small boobed girls. I don’t want to hear it.
Sympathy only please.

xoxo
E.

PS I’m getting the ultrasound as we speak. Or as you read. I will let you know the results tomorrow. Although I’m not sure why I am even bothering. The final results of the vote were 64 to 30: BOY. And this will forever determine my level of trust in internet strangers.

PPS I actually am now paying real live money to have a P.O Box.  So I hope you send me some 1) weird shit I can talk about on the blog 2) but not too weird that I get arrested for having it shipped to me 3) Something Planky can actually use. I will have this address linked in the “pay me” section up top.

MODG Blog PO Box 55 Phoenixville, PA 19460

Picture me in your head pre-preg. I am 5’2’’, I’m about 110lbs. I have a sparkling way about me. …

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B, Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, I love cats and if you don't you can bite me., Not Pleased

Hi! I’m not dead. Neat right?

April 12, 2010

Many of your comments from Friday made me think like, woah, I think I went overboard with the last blog post because people straight up think I’m suicidal. Here’s the thing, my hormones right are out of control. I skipped a period last month just because my body was like, I’m too busy for that jazz right now (I did not skip my period because I was pregnant. Doctor science says so). So this month, it’s like I’M GONNA KILL YOU GET READY.  For real. So I blame the dramatics on the hormones. I can accomplish nothing now without crying.

Here’s a list of the things that made me cry since Friday.

  • Running out of chocolate.
  • Glee on Oprah. Within 3 minutes of the opener. Moving.
  • Waking up too late on Saturday. Convinced I was a sloth.
  • Happy Hour at a bar with friends. 3 times.
  • B not understanding anything ever, especially everything important
  • Finding B’s secret stash of chocolate
  • Vampire Diaries. Stephan is back on human blood. It must be so hard.
  • Baby plants. They are so little. 

(Charlie and I are on the same cycle.)


  • Mysterious cow mutilation on the history channel. They blamed aliens. I KNOW it’s not them and I feel sad about it. For the cows and the aliens.
  • Waking up too early on Sunday. I mean, it’s Sunday. Come on.
  • Went to take a picture of the hidden chocolate for the blog and realizing it’s hidden AGAIN in a new spot.
  • Republicans
  • Kat Von D. I wish she could get along better with Corey. He is her rock.
  • Like every comment I received on Friday on the blog. I love you all in such a virtual way.
  • Soy meat. I just don’t know about it. How does it taste so meaty? And I made lasagna with it. I felt conflicted.
  • Thought about it and the chocolate hiding thing means that B thinks I’m fat. Cry.
  • Gimmethatfiletoffish commercial. What IF it was me up on that wall?

You think I’m exaggerating but I’m actually unaggerating because there’s even more cry stuff. B’s thrilled as you can imagine. But B will certainly take cry-ee Amanda over kill Amanda. But I think kill Amanda will be making an appearance soon.

I’m telling you this now because I can’t guarantee what will be delivered to you via MODG over the next week or so. But I can tell you that the new design will be in place some time this week.

If you need me I’ll be in a pile of chocolate and bacon tears.
estrogeny sparkles,
modg

Many of your comments from Friday made me think like, woah, I think I went overboard with the last…

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Awesome things, Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, Not Pleased

Apparently Zumba is not a vacuum or a monster. Closer to a monster though.

January 25, 2010


A month ago, I was all…why is my gym telling me about Zumba? Is this a vacuum? Why is my gym advertising a vacuum. That’s rude and I’m not interested in your cleaning supplies. Wait, is it a monster? I kind of get that more than a vacuum. I mean my gym would want be to be fit enough to run away from a monster so maybe its that? So for a good month, I decided I had no interest in a new vacuum or any sort of monster activity. Then I poked my head into monster class and I saw that the old ladies were dancing around like they had beans and tacos in their pants and a bitch smirk on their face. I wanted that. So that’s when I learned that Zumba was actually spicy taco dancing for oldies at the gym. Coolness. I think I want in.

I convinced K, my kooky work friend (also winner of Ms. Nude Trailer Park and could take your ass down in a whiskey drinking contest) to try Zumba with me. We are spinning buddies and frankly we’ve become so amazeballs at it that we needed a new challenge. Ok that’s not true at all. We both hate the gym and need to distract ourselves from our own hatred. So K and I show up to Zumba for the first time and it’s packed from wall to wall with MainLine Moms. For those of you not from the Philadelphia area, a main line mom means rich soccer mom in Tory Burch with boobs that seem juuust a smidge too perky for 50. They also have the entire MAC store caked on their face for the gym. So they were there.

The teacher turns on the latin flared music and she is MOVING. She just is dancing and everyone is just kind of following. No cues, no words, just moves. K and I are all…the F??? We both looked like 14 year old girls whose limbs have outgrown their torsos. Similar to orangoutangs in some jazzy mating ritual. The teacher is shimmying left and shaking right and slowly SLOWLY I’m getting it. K I’m not so sure about. I was really only concerned with myself. And by concerned I mean FREAKING out that I was not able to look awesome immediately.
I’ve always considered myself to be an above average dancer. I was in dance class a lot as a kid and I was down with MTV’s The Grind with Eric Neice, like no one’s business. So when I looked around Zumba room and Grandma Molly Mae is shaking her ass like woah and Aunt Teddy Lynn is shimmying her boobs in the mirror like what, and I’m all awkward farm animal, there was a serious problem.
I tried tying up my shirt a little to look more like ‘cool sweaty dancer’ and that didn’t work. I just looked 3 months preg. Then I tried taking my hair down. That’s what real dancers do. They do not care about sweat or hair in their eyes. They care about the BEAT and the GROOVE. Sadly the hair in my eyes made me trip on Molly in front of me. She gave me the zumba stank eye from there on out.
So the gist of zumba is a “simple” routine for each song that is repetitive…kind of…so you can learn it and not need cues. My brain doesn’t work like this. I’m at 75% capacity…similar to my dvr. So I just kind of follow along. So zumba teacher is shimmying front and random cute girl who is soooo good at everything in the front of the class shimmies BACK. I’m all HA, you ass, pay attention, didn’t you see the teacher shimmy FRONT. Then the teach is like, OMG you were totally right, awesome girl, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You’re so amazing for knowing the moves. Next move, teacher messes it up again! But super great cute girl gets it right. Teacher is all, Why don’t you teach the class, you’re great….
a;slkdfjalknxcv.msdnrotihe’ogijas;ldk!!!! I don’t like not being noticed for being the best at everything I do or at least kind of the best because everyone else sucks. So of course I hate her now. Of course she loves K and they are all being surrogates for each other’s future babies in 5 years. Whateves. I must beat this zumba genius at her own game.
After the class I was like, that was kind of fun but I am so tough and in such good shape, I need a WAY harder workout. Fast forward 24 hours later and my shoulders hurt, like BAD. B says the spot that hurts is from when you lift your arms in the air with weights and stuff. But wait. I didn’t have weights. I just raised my arms over my head in a shakey shakey motion off and on for an hour. THAT SHIT SHOULD NOT MAKE ME SORE. I AM WAY FITTER THAN THAT AND I’M NOT SURE IF FITTER IS A WORD BUT I AM IT. But apparently not. Yes, that’s right. I was sore from simply raising my arms over my head. I’m doomed.
F. So monster class has made me realize, I don’t dance like the cool kids anymore. I am old people out of shape. I am a bitter jealous person. And I’m overall not that smart.
I’ll be back next week Zumba. This time I’m bringing the blue hair. Try and tell me I’m not cool then.

PS. This was a long post. For those of you who skimmed, check this out. Thanks.

A month ago, I was all…why is my gym telling me about Zumba? Is this a vacuum? Why is…

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Awesome things, Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone

MODG: Slowly and effectively insulting one reader at a time.

January 19, 2010

Apparently a lot of you don’t know what a brisket is.

9:28am Secret Commenter who I’ll call MeatWizard has left a new comment on your post:  
What’s a brisket?

9:29am MODG to Secret Commenter who I’ll call MeatWizard:  
I think it’s your mom???  

9:30am MODG loses one follower 

Here’s the deal. I can not physically control the yourmom jokes that come from my being. B will say something like “So what’s for dinner” and I can not control the “your mom” answer that comes out of my mouth. B gives me the ‘really??’ look and I pee a little. Its never NOT funny and it’s always awesome.

So after this comment exchange, I realized that not everyone really gets my awesome yourmom humor.  So I responded to MeatWizard and said I was only kidding and I just really love a good yourmom joke 24 hours a day. MeatWizard did not respond. Apparently MeatWizard’s mom is definitely not a brisket.

I’m telling you all of this as a warning. I’m probably going to insult you at one point or another. My sensitivity levels are really low for a female. So consider this my catch all apology. I’m sorry for saying your picture looks like a dog peiner. Or whatever. Sorrs.

PS. If you’d also like to engage in deep and emotional email exchanges with me, please be sure that the “show email address” box is checked in your blogger profile. Then I can respond to your witty comments with personal insults straight to your email.

Love you millions.  …and your mom.

Apparently a lot of you don’t know what a brisket is. 9:28am Secret Commenter who I’ll call MeatWizard has…

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babies, Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, I should be famous

Keep your babies out of my sanctuary and their juice away from my shoes.

January 11, 2010
In addition to the 38 hot things I did this weekend listed in the previous post, I also did my most favorite lovey heart song rainbow thing. I went to the mall. I went with box and you need to know that box is 26 and wants a baby like 4 days ago. I’m all…re-f-ing-lax sister. You are a tiny childwoman and you have plenty of time. She does not agree. I’m like medium ok with it though because she wants us to have a baby at the same time. Like, not within a few months, the same DAY. The coordination of something like that concerns me for privacy and boundary issues as friends, but whatever. I could use a bitching partner when I’m ready.
So I think we were on some sort of reality show (which we’d be TOTES ok with reality show universe!) because there were babies EVERYWHERE at the mall. I mean everywhere. In my dressing room, trying on skorts, drinking mojitos at cheesecake factory, giving me the stank face, pooping in the bathroom so I have to smell it, getting pedicures next to me. Like everywhere. One was even noshing on a cheesesteak. I get that though, it is Philadelphia.
We both were like..what IS this? Some sort of mall type baby parade? So we’re at lunch next to 2 young girlfriends…not too different from us. (we were better dressed but whatever) EXCEPT they have 2, crazy hyperactive dirty children. It’s one of those boothy type tables where you are really uncomfortably close to the people next to you. So baby 1 is pretty cool and chilling. Baby 2 is another story.
Baby 2 is up on the booth, down on the floor, up on the booth, down on the floor. And then knocks over a cup of juice. On my bag. On boxes shoes. I KNOW. I get that kids are freaks but parents should not just sit there and watch their child’s backwash juice flow all over my awesome shit! They were all…Ooops, did the waitress see that? She should clean it up. We’ll just watch it flow everywhere all disgusting like. laksjdf[oiqwur[09ishdf;gkjas;dlfjkha;sldkjf;alskd!!!!
Then as the kid sat there in old juice on the floor, it proceeds to climb up the booth, down on the floor, up on the booth, down on the floor. She’s basically in boxes lap at this point covered in juice. Box is pretty nice but she’s a feisty italian and you DO NOT cross her. She almost cut that child. Parents are very busy with their Chris Brown Rihanna conversation. (apparently Rihanna deserved it)
The only reason I did not spit my guac on their table was because they told us we looked like we just got out of a Bentley. I don’t really even know what that means but I think it’s good and somewhat famie type stuff. She knew that would get me.
After that meal, box and I were like, enough with the babies. So the question became: Do you really only hate other people’s ignorant kids and ignorance as stupid parents/people? I mean I’m pretty sure if my kid did that it wouldn’t even drink juice again until it was 38 for fear of my wrath.
Urban Outfitters healed my soul from there but let me tell you, MODG is all martinis all the time right now.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

In addition to the 38 hot things I did this weekend listed in the previous post, I also did…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, sarah

Take your holidays and place them in your asshole. Hearts forever.

December 23, 2009

F. I’m old. How do I know? For one, my skin care regimen has more steps than my “stop drinking regimen”. Yeah I’m not stopping, but someone is trying to stop drinking and I hear there are a lot of steps. But ALSO I have the f-ing holiday blues. I KNOW! What is that? I’ll tell you what it is. It’s what sad old people get and now I’m in the club.

Guess what’s even worse? B is ALL festive in my face. He’s like dotting his I’s with santa faces and whistling that song detailing every last day of Christmas (which I don’t get but whatever). I’m like, dude, you are OLDER than me. You have to be sad too! That’s what we do. He’s all …. falalalalalala in.my.face.

So I’m going to try to figure out why I am more blue and less redwhiteandgreen.

  1. Blue is a Hanukah color and everyone who knows me knows I should have been a jew. This is where I really feel at peace. So there’s that going on.
  2. I know I said I wouldn’t mention it on the internets again, but my foot is still F’d. I don’t even know… I’m fully protesting this and wearing the highest heels I can get my hands on in complete denial mode. Whatever, heels are life.
  3. I haven’t been to the gym since my foot thing happened. Or what I like to call, the greatest excuse of the century. So my friend Fat has come to visit and has overstayed his welcome. Much like a sparkle party guest. I wish I could drive it’s ass in a jeep to Great Falls but I can’t.
  4. I’ll be doing the family thing obv. Family. Love em. But they are bat shit off the wall crazy. I’m all sorts of crazy type, Sicilian, Regular strength Italian, Polish….all the crazies rolled into one family. Let me tell you, no one is very subtle in this family. There will be yelling, dirty looks and possibly throw downs. You may be thinking…MODG this sounds right up your alley! Normally yes, but at Grandma’s after 29 years of this shit, I just don’t have it in me anymore. The fights started like a month before actual Christmas. Be nice, be regular. PLEASE.
  5. My vodka infusion tastes like old balls. Yeah every year B and I do a vodka infusion, bottle it and give it as gifts. Cheaper than wine and kind of farmtowngirl bottling her own shit, which I’m down with. This year I went for gingerbread flavor. It tastes like robotussin with a shot of santa backwash. Want one?
  6. The economy. Everyone is poor and sad. Festive.
  7. My skin is really dry from the winter. I tried to shave a layer off with a razor hoping to get to the non wrinkled layer. It did not work and added to my sads.

Alright I’m not bringing anyone else down with me. But I do want to as I could use some company in the pits of hell.

Love you internet friends. You’re my only true friends. Maybe I should make that reason 8.

PS L sent me this picture to cheer me up. It’s called Elegant Christmas Eyes. Do with that what you will.

PPS Me and Sarah are guest posting at Bon Bon Rose today. I think she picked a holiday time when no one reads blogs because we’re mediocre at best.

F. I’m old. How do I know? For one, my skin care regimen has more steps than my “stop…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, Sharing, Sorostitute Days, Stories

B said it was a FAKE Blizzard. Part 1.

December 21, 2009

This story that I’m about to tell you involves poor decision making, sparkles, danger, tom cruise and the apocalypse. This is the true story of my weekend and that picture is me in a major road and the rest of these pictures are real stuff. You may or may not have heard of a small blizzard that hit the northeast this weekend. And by small I mean the universe dump trucking 28 inches all over my face.
2 things were happening in DC that required our attention. First we had non-negotiable family responsibilities and also a sparkle party. But I was really really afraid to drive to DC in a blizzard. I should tell you that I cried when he told me we were going and driving. I said to B that we would 100% end up in our car in a snow bank on a mountain rationing m&m’s and tic tacs, finally resorting to eating minimally important fleshy areas of our own bodies. Crying. Tears. B says that the blizzard is fake and made up by the news people. A FAKE BLIZZARD HE SAYS.
We had house guests at this point watching this all unfold, Amy and Josh were pretty much just sitting back with popcorn enjoying the show that was our decision making skills. After a good 4 hours of this, I changed my mind and I NOW wanted to go. I didn’t want to sit home like a person with a baby who doesn’t even have a baby. I am a snow sparkle warrior and nothing can stop me! NOW B doesn’t want to go. I swear it’s amazing we get anything done in the MODG house. This went back and forth for maybe 6 hours. Finally I make B book a train ticket instead of driving like fools, and I dance around the kitchen counter in delight that we are taking an ADVENTURE . Crying to dancing in 3 hours. JS.

Things start out pretty great. We don’t die on the way to the train station, we even get on an earlier train! We drink booz, we laugh we do our nails in sparkle polish and are such fancy jet setters…on discount train tickets. SNOW CAN NOT STOP US. Then we get to DC <——–.
Did you know that DC stood for the Damn Carribean? You didn’t know that? I didn’t either. But apparently it’s so warm and sunny that there is no need to plow streets and prepare public transportation to actually transport. NEWS: Virgina, DC, Obama, you are not Cancun. Get it together. And please tell your “cab drivers” (read: men standing by random cars) that ONE HUNDRED dollars is not an appropriate fare to take us to our sparkle party that was 10 minutes away. I even offered to sing and have good holiday times in the cab but no discount was I given.
So there we are in some Day After Tomorrow Apocolypse shit. Using our WALKING GPS on B’s phone, walking through the center of major roads because cars have given up. I expected at any minute to see Tom Cruise with a laser gun trying to shoot some ice alien. Things were weird. But we did get to our sparkle party- see below… and slept in a closet as we were now blizzard trapped. B protested this fact by sleeping in his full cocktail attire, flat on his back, in a closet. He wanted to drag me and S in a cardboard box to her house. This was his solution to things. Obviously I put him in a closet…

Ok, 24 hours done. Morning is here. Snow has stopped. Streets are plowed right? Wrong Philadelphians, you forget this is the “South”. The world has shut down. This may have been the first time I ever appreciated Philadelphia. Their shit is PLOWED before it hits the ground. They even wipe it clean so it’s dry and nice. Here? The Mexican diner? shut down. The sidewalks? Shut down. The GOVERNMENT? Shut DOWN. We need to get to family stuff and we have no car, no metro, no cab, no family who loves us enough to pick us up. Instead we have become those sparkle party house guests that do not leave. It’s Sunday and we need to get home.
This is part 1. Part 2 involves more death danger, the wonder that is Amtrak, the number of stimulants and depressants currently in my blood stream and how/IF we got home. I’ll also show you more real pictures because you love that weird stalker stuff.

This story that I’m about to tell you involves poor decision making, sparkles, danger, tom cruise and the apocalypse.…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, sarah, Vom stuff

I don’t have PMS I really do hate you. And I have PMS.

December 16, 2009
Since we’re already talking about vaginas, ovaries and uterusesss, it’s time for what I like to call:

An Unnecessary Update

To the 3 men who read MODG: Apologies up front. My bloggie bestie asked me what the F was the matter with me. Even people in Texas know I’m off. Answer? GD F-ing period devil is ALMOST here. Therefor, my body in all ways is about to burst. How you ask? Let me detail this for you.

If you point to a hole on my body, it’s about to explode volcano style. Gross right? Totes. I’m talking down to my pores. I can feel a build up of pimple pain under my whole face skin layer. My boobs feel like someone pumped them full of air-pain, my eyes have some sort of sty growing in it and to top off the bloat of the century, I’m in flats. If that recipe of misery doesn’t birth the frowns, I don’t know what would.
So instead of just bitching my hormones away, I thought I would share with you some of my remedies that I discovered on my own that actually have made things better. Note* I do not trust any doctors ever they have F’d up my life too many times*. This stuff has been the only stuff to help me. Literally I’ve been in the hospital 5 times for period related death feelings. I can handle this pms bullshit, but the actual cramping period wave of hell is where I draw the line. The following has helped that “situation”. *One important note: I have taken the pill. I have taken many different kids of the pill. I will never again take the pill. You think I’m evil and crazy now….you don’t even know.
  • First, calcium chews. I know what you’re thinking. This is BS. Just stay with me. If you take these consistently throughout the month your cramping will be less. Promise. Like 2 a day.
  • But you also have to take these like twice a day. Chaste Berry is an herbal supplement that if taken consistently will 1) regular out your whacko jacko period and 2) make it lighter and easier. Working so far for me. Stay with me….
Now that’s the preventative stuff. Here’s the you’reabouttodiefromcramps remedies.
  • Advil, obv. Avoid the lame women meds that are pink and have women on them. They don’t work. Advil often and early. Like before the cramps even start. You have to be like 30% psychic though. So work on that first.
  • These are homeopathic remedies. I did lots of my own research and they work for me. Nux Vomica and Chamomilla Take them when you are about to die. It will make you not die. If you’re curious about this route, I recommend reading this. It looks shady but its full of smart stuff.
  • Last but not least, deep breaths. Like you’re in labor. Seriously. When you’re in pain you unconsciously take short breathes which makes pain worse.
Now I know you’re thinking, MODG is a crackhead hippie witch doctor. My response is yes, yes I am. And I back all of this up with my medical science degree from myself. Same place I got my Reverend license.
PS my cramps are also from endometriosis…they are that bad. But if you have rough vagina probs like me, I hope I’ve helped.
witch doctor love,
MODG
PPS There’s always this
<-------------
Also, in the spirit of hating stuff and pms, I want all of you moms to avoid this company. I’m all about revealing shady evil people and this company is definitely one of them. They take your money and run. I have this on good referral. Feel free to prank call them as well.

Since we’re already talking about vaginas, ovaries and uterusesss, it’s time for what I like to call: An Unnecessary…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, Style

Take my life, but not my ability to wear 4” heels.

December 14, 2009

Let’s kick this winner of a Monday off with a tale of a foot, a louboutain and a holiday party. Close your eyes real tight and remember back to my bragging all over the internet about the new Louboutains I got for my birthday….Remember those 29 posts? Remember what I selfish bitch I was about it? Maybe I should have donated my birthday shoes to children living under bridges. They could have made a tent with them or something. Anyway, let’s talk about something called KARMA.

What I didn’t tell all of you was that I was on my THIRD pair of returned Louboutains. That’s right, every pair just wasn’t fitting right I could NOT figure it out but man was I pissy about it.

On pair three, I cried. I couldn’t even bring myself to blog about it. I said to myself:

MY FEET AREN’T MADE FOR SHOE COUTURE. I HAVE WHITE TRASH FEET.

Which was clearly quite upsetting. I decided to just put this Loub thing on hold indefinitely. These shoes cost a lot of money and no we are not Britney Spears rich. So I wake up Friday morning, ready to table scape and I. can’t. walk. WHAT?!

A: B! B! B! IT’S HURTS TO WALK I CAN’T WALK I’M DYING I’M DYING I’M LOSING MY FEET.

B: You are not dying, if it’s that bad call the doctor

A: I can’t waste my energy on a phone call, I need to conserve my dying strength

B: *rolls eyes walks away*

A: HUFF PUFF UGH PAIN AAAH ….FINE B I’LLCALL THE GD DOCTOR I HATE YOU.

After much begging and doctor negotiating, the podiatrist agrees to see me at 3pm. Mind you my party starts at 8 and I had my day planned down to the minute in preparations so this was not a good addition to my day.

After waiting in the lobby of the doctor’s office for AN HOUR…. Ok hold a moment….WHAT IS THAT?! How does every Dr’s office in America get away with scheduling “appointments” at a time and then just honoring that “appointment” whenever they feel like it? As I sit and listen to the receptionists talk about her 23rd failed match.com date and the south philly truck driver is breathing all over me, I am getting closer and closer to punching someone. I HATE OUR MEDICAL SYSTEM. Moving on.

Finally see the doc. Here’s how it goes down:

Doc: Do you wear high heels?

Me: I’m 5’2’’ what do you think? (NOTE I’m in a horrible mood from waiting this long now to be bothered with questions)

Doc: Well it looks like you have a stress fracture from heels and your foot is very swollen

(THIS is why none of the Loubs fit me!)

Me: Awesome. I’m not NOT wearing heels so let’s save both of our time and move on to plan B.

Doc: I can give you a cortisone injection

Me: I have a party tonight and I’m wearing my gladiator platforms.

Doc: Can you wear something else

Me: Unless you can show me next month’s Vogue featuring orthodics, NO.

So as you can see, that went well. I left, displeased as you can imagine. I spend a good month trying to find the perfect 4 ¾’’ million dollar shoe for my birthday present and now I’m in awful flats like forever for my whole life (like a week). Also, I can’t run at the gym or away from people I hate. This spells F.A.T. And this whole tale of terror spells karma.

Shoes are important to me. Not being 5’2’’ is important to me. So why why why do I have to have this particular issue. Breathing? I’m like eh about. I’d take a minor lung problem. Seeing stuff? It’s ok I guess. I’d wear an eye patch. But not my heel wearing feet. NOT MY FEET.

The universe hates me and my blog.

Happy Monday.

PS Come back later today for detailed tablescape pictures. Warning, my camera is not nice. It looks like I drew the pictures with pencils and oils.

Let’s kick this winner of a Monday off with a tale of a foot, a louboutain and a holiday…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, sarah

Get out of my way. I am not playing. Move.

December 4, 2009

Before we move on to today’s amazing and inspiring post, I must direct you to my blogger bestie’s blog, ALME. She has a re-design and it is AMAZE BALLS. Check it out and for the love of loubs FOLLOW HER. You’re a fools fool if you don’t. Moving on.

Today we’re going to discuss something that I hate, you hate and probably everyone else hates outside of B, the elderly, donkeys and Chester County, PA. Before we discuss my hate of the day, you should know the following:
I don’t have to explain this photo. It is what it is.
1) I got my driver’s license when I was 21 (this is a story for another day)
2) Some of my first real driving years were in center city Philadelphia, home of the bitch.
3) I have the patience of a cracked out 4 year old in need of an oreo
Yes, I’m talking about slow awful killyourself drivers. My daily commute does not involve highways. I live close to work so I have an adorable commute. I drive through pretty parks with trees and deer and bunnies and rainbows. But make no mistake friend, this is not It’s a Small World and I’m not here to see the sights. Let’s get where we need to be and be quick about it.

Literally, every single day of my life I drive behind someone driving UNDER the speed limit. This is what happens. I look at the speed barometer, 25 miles an hour? F F F F F. You have got to be kidding me. HUFF PUFF ROLL EYES SIGH. Lean my elbow on the window and basically lay down in boredom like this sister to my left <-------. And yes, then I ride their ass. One important fact to note is that due to my adorable commute, the WHOLE ride is one lane. No passing, no fasties lane. Just one. slow. terrible. lane.
Listen, if you’re one of these jackassholes, I’m sorry but let’s move things along. I do not have time for you and if you see me on your ass, go AT LEAST the speed limit or get out of the way. I have places to be and blogs to write.
The worst part of this whole to do is that B is one of these people. B sometimes acts like an old man via his napping, bowl movements, complaining of audio volumes and driving slow. I do love him so he gets a free pass SOMETIMES. But when I’m in the car MOST of the time I’m like, really? You too?
So by getting my license and moving to a major city like Philadelphia where 99% of the population has the personality and manners of Lucifer, I learned to drive aggressively. I toned it down for suburb life, I promise, but I just really really really want these awful slow drivers to move to a commune in Texas, far away from me and Sarah can deal with them. Yes Texas, home of the cult.
Ok I’m sure you enjoyed my bitch of the day. Back to our regular lives. I had to make up for my nice time yesterday with a little nasty.
PS This warms even my heart of ice. I’ve watched it maybe 765 times….today.
Love you bitches.

Before we move on to today’s amazing and inspiring post, I must direct you to my blogger bestie’s blog,…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, I heart TV

A Difficult Day for Us All.

November 20, 2009

In honor of the recent Oprah news, we’ll be having a morning of silence. That means you can’t talk to anyone until 12pm.
“Tomorrow, Oprah will announce live on ‘The Oprah Winfrey Show’ that she has decided to end what is arguably one of the most popular, influential and enduring programs in television history. The sun will set on the “Oprah” show as its 25th season draws to a close on September 9, 2011.”
It’s interesting though that this came out the day prior
This television star has gained a lot of weight over the past couple of years. Because this has been an ongoing issue, s/he has started seeing a therapist to get to the root of the problem. It turns out that the star’s hypocrisy in living one life in public – and a different one in private – creates anxiety and depression which, in turn, trigger binge eating.

According to the therapist, the issue will not be resolved until our star comes out of the closet. The star is actually considering it, but is worried about the timing of the announcement, and its potential career and financial impact. Will their career wither? Will their finances suffer? While we don’t know for sure, we do know that a competitor who has done so is thriving in a similar career.
Source: Blind Gossip
Discuss.
But silently.
SADS ALL AROUND. Now who will make me famous?

In honor of the recent Oprah news, we’ll be having a morning of silence. That means you can’t talk…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, Style

How to Turn a Weekend from a Fail to a Pass.

November 9, 2009

As Kate Gosselin would say, my weekend was a lame duck close to death. I mean I think she would say that. Anyway, periodevil is within shooting range which has taken all of my niceness energies and flushed them down the toilet. You know those days (years) where you just can’t deal with anyone talking to you or being near you or looking at the air around you? Yeah. To top that chocolate sundae of a weekend off, I woke up on Saturday morning with a swollen face like Britney after too many cheetos. Apparently breathing in 6 months of
dust that has sat in your heating vents, waiting to choke you dead in your sleep, is a bad thing. I had to sit vertically in my bed to let the uglies drain out of my face before I could face the world. So as you can see, things were off to a great start.
Oh did I also mention that all of my friends were at Penn State eating delicious nachos and pokey sticks without me? Guess who else was there? RYAN SEACREST. F. F. F. F. I should have been there. I always imagined that if/when I met Ryan he would hand me a yellow ticket to Hollywood from his back pocket solely based on my sparkling wit and “it factor”. So missing Ryan was yet one more fail of the weekend.
I won’t bore you with anymore highs and lows of the weekend (ok I will). Low: everything, High: watching 2 hours of Cats101 on Animal Planet. Instead, let’s talk about coping methods, which I feel, as a woman, I should share with other women going through a similar weekend crisis.

How did I go from lame duck to champion Silver Persian (I learned a lot during Cats101)? I went to visit my best friend TheMall and our mutual friend, Sephora. A lot of people say they have great friends, but I really mean it. These two are always there for me when I need them. Mall knew I was really down so Mall delivered my spirit to a wonderful necklace sale at JCrew. Mall said, “Amanda, a new slew of accessories makes everything better”. And you know what? Mall was right.
Sometimes you just need your group of friends around you to feel better and Sephora really joined hands with mall to lift me up. When I checked out with my Dior bronze eyeshadow, the cashier says to me:
C: “Amanda, did you know you are a VIP Beauty Insider?”
Me: “Who me”? (blushing)
C: “Yes this means you are a great friend of Sephora’s”
Me: “Aw! You’re my great friend too!” (tearing up)
C: “Here are all of these wonderful gifts from your best friends here”
Me: “Wow. That is so nice of you. No one gets me like you. Bye! I love you”
With that I made my way home with a new skip in my step and sparkle in my eye (thank you bronzey eye shadow). So this post is dedicated to all the true friends in the world who pick you up when you are down. Without friends in our lives, the tough times would be even tougher and our style wouldn’t be half as awesome.
Mall, Sephora….as Kelly, Zack and the gang sang:
“Friends forever…always will be there…will be there!”

As Kate Gosselin would say, my weekend was a lame duck close to death. I mean I think she…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone

Halloween Hates Me.

October 30, 2009

Warning: bitter and pissy today. Yes this is confusing as its Halloween Eve and I should be jumping out of my skin like a 13 year old who had a Robert Pattison sighting (or like J, L and K who are very much not 13). However, I’m not. I’m spitting piss and vinegar like these jokers to my left. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. This happens every year without fail on October 30th. Something, somewhere in the universe wants to ruin my Halloween and this evilkarmacreature will not rest until it happens.

For those of you who are just getting to know me, let me tell you a few things about me and Halloween.
*(PAUSE)*
I am breaking from writing this to let you all know that it was just announced that my office does not have coffee today. Let’s just add that knife to my back among the other halloweenhatesyou knives from the universe. I am leaving to go get coffee. I hate everyone.
*(I’M BACK)*
So we were talking about me and Halloween. Every year I have a backlog of about 2 costumes that I have planned 2 years in advance. I take this shit SERIOUSLY. And like I mentioned before, my costumes are not skankified nurses (did anyone see that on Vampire Diaries last night? Not appropriate for a 17 year old…I’m so crotchety). Anyway, my costumes are awesome creative statements sent from god himself to my brain which I create for the benefit of everyone looking at me and knowing me. I said it.
But without fail, the universe says, “You know what Amanda? We hate you. So we’re going to F with your favorite holiday. How do you like that?”
Answer: I don’t.
So what’s happened this year? 3 things. Swine Flu, major league baseball and annoying boyfriends/husbands really obsessed with MLB. Single guy was coming from DC to celebrate with us but told me today he has SWINIES! No he didn’t catch it from a pair of old granny panties, he travels a lot and probably licked and airplane toilet or something. So he’s out.

Guess what else? I live in Philadelphia. That means last year and now this f-ing year I have to deal with baseball mania. Look, I get that I’m in the minority and I’m ok with everyone being excited about the Phillies and the games and the sports and the balls and the whogivesashitwhatev stuff. But please please please just let Halloween exist. Don’t take this away from me. Baseball occurs, what, like 300 days of the year? I just want one day. Last year there was a “parade” for the win of the world series and by “parade” I mean drunk fatties running around with cheese whiz on their faces and a natty light trying to climb street lights. THIS year, we’re facing game 3 of the world series tonight at 8pm. Turns out the bar we’re going to RESCHEDULED their Halloween to Friday because “It’s more of a Phillies party now” WHAT? Are you kidding me?! It’s Halloween! I have 9 calendars that say so.
I’m trying to plan an awesome night out for about 10 people tomorrow night and let’s just say about half of us really really care about costumes and costume contests. So now what? So I research some other parties/bars that support the paying me in cashdollarbills for my costume when I will obviously win the contest. Then I find out that the boys say:
“we’re not coming unless we go to the non Halloween party that is really a baseball party where we sit and watch baseball and not dress up and scream at the tv”
Awesome.

I talked to L about it who supports my Halloween quest of happiness (**note this contained much more foul language and is censored for you and your mom)
L: are you mad?
me: no, I’m annoyed at the universe…and MLB
L: yeah, the universe is a jerk today
me: I’m writing about it, it usually makes me feel better
i swear to f-ing god every year Halloween has to be catastrophe
L: maybe we put too much pressure on it?
Me: F that. I love Halloween, it just needs to be awesome, and that’s really all there is
L: it will be you hear that universe? it’s going to be awesome
me: F-ING AWESOME HALLOWEEN
L: F YEAH
me: none of this GD bullshit
L: for real
So L brought me back down to earth. L is a big practicer of “the secret” where you say stuff and it happens. But this is really just because she gets a parking space in the city every time she plays a Britney CD. Yeah I don’t know…
So do me a fave…ask your god or universe or breakfast pastry to please grant me a wonderful Halloween. I promise to be nice to the baseball jerks and the swines.
PS. Did I mention that I just drank 9 coffees?

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
PPS this picture was taken on our South Carolina trip at the Children’s Aquarium. Appropriate? Or Megan’s Law worthy?

Warning: bitter and pissy today. Yes this is confusing as its Halloween Eve and I should be jumping out…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, Not Pleased, Sharing

Business Casual Attire is Stupid.

October 15, 2009
…really stupid. But I’ll back up. I work in an office that is 89% men. And I’d say 80% of them have no idea what this fabric is called “clothing” that they put on their body every day. For these men, business casual was invented. Once upon a time a man came to work in a shirt that said “I Shaved My Balls For This” and so that day business casual was brought forth.

But men are dumb. By putting this law in place, they know each day they can walk confidently into work with their uniform of pleated khakis, loafers and button down shirt in one of 2 colors…maybe a polo if things get wild. If they stick to that formula, nothing can go wrong. But guess who business casual was NOT invented for? Me. Me and every other woman in the workplace under the age of 60.

I have cute clothes. I even like clothes, a lot. In fact, I dedicate a good fourth of my life to learning about clothes i.e. my 8 year subscription of InStyle, “reality shows” like the Hills which are solely watched to see what everyone is wearing, fashion blogs that are only pictures of celebrities in street clothes, Rachel Zoe obsessing, and any other leftover free time spent in a mall. In fact, many of my friends were deemed more friend worthy as a result of their cute outfit. Clothes are a hobby of mine and I have quite the collection. But guess what? I can’t utilize over half of it as a result of this business casual nonsense that men have put into place.

Business Casual means 1 thing. Pants or skirts. Ok that’s 2. But who wears pants?

me: I wish I could wear jeans to work, I look way better in jeans

S: meeeeeee toooooooo

me: craptastic PANTS. PANTS are for assholes, Who wears PANTS?

S: dingbats

me: on casual Friday’s I look amazing

Ok so I’m not that modest but as you can see, PANTS are stupid and annoying (it’s important to capitalize it for effect). I wear jeans. And you know what? I look good in jeans and I can put together a pretty good outfit with a pair of jeans. I will even put it out there and say I look even more professional in jeans than in PANTS. I’ll put a pair of cute jeans with a blazer and BAM. Cute professional lady who I would do business with any day. But you’re telling me, because my bottom half of my outfit is made of denim and not made of a poly-cotton blend, that I am unprofessional? BS. My jeans cost 200 dollars and these gag pants cost me 30 dollars from victorias secret. Oh and guess what else? I wear the same 2 pairs of 30 dollar pants every other day…black or navy (that look pretty much the same anyway) Take that job…that’s gross. But business casual requires it. Gross, cheap, ugly legs. That is what business casual means to me.

Give me some credit corporate America. I’m not coming into work in my rippy (supercute) dirty idontcare Serena Vanderwoodsen jeans. I will stick to my pretty dark boot cut or maybe a trouser jean. But if you would just realize that by allowing me to fully express my fashion flare, you will be doing a world of good for myself and your business. Here is why:

1) I will be happier and give way less side eye to everyone who walks by my office

2) I will look better so your customers will be happier just by enjoying my outfit

3) The skeevy guys who stare a little too long at the girls in meetings will be way happier too.

If you ask me happy work place means more money. So please corporate America. Get over yourself. PANTS are stupid, let me wear what I want, and get it together men. It’s because of you we’re in this situation to begin with.

thanks men.

…really stupid. But I’ll back up. I work in an office that is 89% men. And I’d say 80%…

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Drunk Stuff, I hate everyone, Not Pleased, Suri Cruise

Columbus Day is BS. I said it.

October 12, 2009
A few notables on this early morning that happens to be Columbus day, which happens to mean I’m still working, which happens to mean I’m in a foul mood.
1) Did anyone see the new Girl’s Next Door last night? Honestly, kill me in the face. Those girls are such a snooze fest. I would have been more entertained watching 3 dead bodies on Autopsy 9 (a show I did actually watch this weekend).
2) My friend and loyal reader of MODG went to see the Countess this weekend at a book signing and she brought me this! Let it be known that I would punch her square in the gut if given the chance, but reality famie paraphernalia? Yes Please. Thank you Amy!
3) There was a Suri for sale in the window this weekend. You had your choice of :

Step Off Bitch Suri

You Know You Want This Suri

or How Dare You Ignore Me Suri

A few notables on this early morning that happens to be Columbus day, which happens to mean I’m still…

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