Diets are hard because oreos are easy to prepare

As I write this, there is a shitty nutri-system commercial playing in the background with people bragging about how much weight they’ve lost by eating cardboard. Like most people, I’m trying to suck all the fun out of my life by eating more vegetables and exercising. But it’s hard when there is so much pizza to be had. Self control isn’t something I thrive at especially when it comes to the tastiness of high fructose corn syrup. I’m not overweight or anything, but I would love to be strong enough to put up a little bit of a fight if a murderer attacked me.

Me being healthy!

Me being healthy!

My mom’s best friend is a super buff gym rat who literally gets paid to work people out. Let’s call him Chad. To help me stop eating junk food, I asked Chad to follow me around and prevent me from eating bad food. I view this as a small, but helpful step to the self control I hope to attain by letting someone else do the hard work for me.

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I had a banana at around 9AM while I was watching some terrible show about real estate agents in New York. At around 9:30, I felt it was appropriate to start eating my oreos. Chad watched me walk over to the cabinet and started to approach me when he saw that I had two oreos in my hand. I took a bite of the first one and he stopped in front of me and said, “I’m not supposed to let you have those.” He reached out to take the oreos, but my ninja like reflexes were too quick. This is probably the only time I would ever be too quick for anyone – when oreos are at stake.

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I popped the other half of the first oreo in my mouth and flipped my hair in a “haha fuck you” kind of way. That’s when it all went down hill. I started to move away from Chad, but he started to speed up. I began jogging around the kitchen counter, trying to chew the first oreo quickly so I could have the second one before he caught me. Chad began running faster, so I had no choice but to speed up. This is probably the fastest I have ever run, but Chad grabbed me by the arm.

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Luckily that arm wasn’t holding the oreo, so I shoved the second oreo in my mouth. I couldn’t let him win; I bit into it so that he would only be able to take about 25% of it out of my mouth. Chad shook his head as he walked away with my quarter of an oreo, but probably in a “wow you’re so determined” kind of way. Obviously I shouldn’t have had oreos for breakfast, but I feel like running away from Chad burned a few calories, so it evens out right?

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Targeted Advertising Strikes Again

I’m sure most of you, if not all of you have a Facebook and have seen the advertisements that pop up in your feed and on the sides of the page. Even if you only use Google, advertisements will follow you like that stalker-ish ex you had in college. Normally, if I ever click on advertisements it’s by accident because they’re IN MY WAY, but there have been a few select times where I have fallen victim to targeted advertising. Clearly my impulsivity has nothing to do with it; it is the advertisers’ fault. These are the most recent instances of me succumbing to targeted advertising.

The Cardboard Cut Out of My Mother

The first time it happened was on my mom’s birthday last year, so I was especially vulnerable to any ideas about what to get her. I saw an advertisement about cardboard cut outs and knew that this had to be the solution. I clicked on partystandups.com and was sold by the idea of getting my mom a cardboard cut out of herself that was 4 feet tall. And she loved it because she loves looking at pictures of herself.

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The Wine

So when I’m supposed to be doing work, I like to take Buzzfeed quizzes to see which possible Illuminati member I am. One day, I was on Facebook and a sponsored ad popped up that read something along the lines of “take this quiz to see what kind of wine you would like.” Obviously I needed to take this quiz since I am an avid wine drinker. I knew I liked white wine, BUT WHAT KIND OF WHITE WINE SUITS ME?! There was no avoiding this ad, so I took the quiz and I don’t even remember which wine I got because there was a 60 minute countdown in the righthand corner. If I ordered 3 bottles of wine within the next hour, I could get $20 off my first purchase. I hope I don’t know anyone who would turn down this deal because I got 3 bottles of wine for $26. I chose the wine based on how pretty the labels were.

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The Potato

About a week before mother’s day, I saw one of the most unique ads pop up on my Facebook feed. Here it is with me complaining about it:

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But then curiosity got the best of me and I started to peruse their surprisingly well designed website. Honestly, they market their potatoes very well with examples like these:

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Photo by Potato Parcel

Not sure how I was supposed to resist getting my mom a potato for $9.99 plus shipping and handling that had a custom  message on it. Needless to say, she loved it and probably loves me even more now. This was her reaction to my potato present:

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Bad Cereal & Other Disappointments

I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while. I’ve literally been as busy as Obama since school started. Except, Obama doesn’t have a personal blog, so I’m technically busier.

Update: I’m currently eating a bowl of rice krispie cereal with about 10 spoonfuls of brown sugar, almond milk (to add in a healthy kick), and a glass of wine. I don’t know why anyone eats this cereal. It tastes like a wet couch cushion. There is literally no flavor and nothing to look forward to. At least with lucky charms, you can eat all the fake cheerios and then save the marshmallows for the climax of your meal. The brown sugar helps, but I must add in that I considered having a second bowl of just brown sugar and almond milk to satisfy my drunk belly.

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Update 2: (I’m not complaining, but I’m about to complain). I have a decently full schedule this semester. I have to take five classes, work two jobs, be the head of marketing for some magazine, and teach a class. I’m not sure who let me be in charge of anything, but I’m in charge of a lot of things. Be that as it may, I am taking a creative non-fiction class to satiate the urge to talk and write about myself all day long. I will be posting some of those stories as blog posts until further notice. Definitely give me feedback if you can! I prefer comments like “omg best writer ever!” and “Ernest Hemingway reincarnated as a woman.” If you HAVE to be constructive, please let my ego down easily.

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I was going to run in 2020 as a surprise candidate, but Kanye beat me to it. I wish I could buy you all pumpkin spice lattes and Ugg boots. To be continued…

Strangers with Pamphlets

I have waited my entire life for a Mormon to knock on my door and hand me a pamphlet. I’ve heard countless stories about this happening to other people and always felt left out and neglected, inevitably causing my abandonment issues. I just want to hear the spiel – that’s it. Sure, I have a lot of burning questions I’d like to ask and I’d want to keep them at my door step longer than necessary, but I mainly just want to hear what they have to say and be invited into their club.

I spent three hours this morning preparing for a run and convincing myself it was a good idea. This is always a long and tedious process. I was in the middle of sitting on my couch perusing the Internet to find the perfect pair of eye shades when my door bell rang. I got up and looked into the mini hole in the door. My heart skipped a beat with excitement and my hangover immediately disappeared. My big day had finally arrived – it appeared that there was a Mormon man at my door.

I opened the door and tried to hide my excitement. Even though I knew he was going to ask me to be in his club, I would pretend to be surprised. After he asked, I would give the same speech I say in the shower when I’m accepting my Emmy.

He had a pamphlet in his hand and handed me one.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW THE TRUTH?”

This was the pamphlets opening line. Aggressive. But ok yes, I would like to know the truth. I opened the pamphlet and the man asked me if I had ever wondered about any of the questions. My excitement dissipated as soon as I realized this was not a Mormon packet. He was a Jehova’s Witness.

Photo by giphy.com

Gif by Giphy

I indulged the man in conversation even though this was not the club I wanted to be apart of. He told me to pick a question on the pamphlet that I had wondered about. I chose: “What happens to us when we die?” I’m not very religious despite going to Catholic school for nearly half my life, but I had always held onto some hope that good shit would happen to me after I kicked the bucket. Perhaps an alternate universe where Oreos would make me skinny and Channing Tatum was obsessing over ME, rather than the other way around.

The man ignored the fact that he was in a college neighborhood and that there was a high probability of me being a college student. He proceeded to read me the answer on the pamphlet that I had in my hands. He read:

At death, humans cease to exist…”

I figured.

The dead…are conscious of nothing at all,” states Ecclesiastes 9:5. Since the dead cannot know, feel or experience anything, they cannot harm or help the living. -Psalm 146:3,4. “

What. This man is not only not a mormon like I wanted him to be, he’s calmly explaining to me that there will be no Channing Tatum and Oreos when I die. In fact, there will literally be nothing. He doesn’t seem rattled by this idea at all as I press him with questions like, “But are you sure?” and “Really?”

Gif by rebloggy.com

Gif by Rebloggy

After reading this section to me, I realize he’s trying to leave me. I linger at the door a little longer, but to my disappointment, he does not ask me to be apart of his club either. It felt like a bad breakup and suddenly I needed ice cream and tissues.

“NO! I will not let them do this to me,” I thought. “I’m too good for them!” I went on a run (that’s an extreme overstatement. I jogged a 12 minute mile) to make myself feel better.

As I was approaching my house on the way back, a miracle happened. The man with the pamphlets was walking toward me. As soon as he recognized me, he turned around and tried to walk back the other way. I heard his internal dialogue from a mile away:

Oh crap. This is so awkward. I just wanted to go back to my car. I wonder if she recognizes me. Of course she does. I should’ve just invited her to our club. She seems so cool and has great hair.”

Gif by picslist.com

Gif by Pics List

I considered running up to him and asking why he didn’t ask me to join, but decided to let him walk the wrong way. For now, I’ll continue to fantasize about an after life where people carry me everywhere and beg me to be in their clubs.

 

I Love You Like I Love Bowling

*This one’s a little long and if you really love me you’ll read the whole thing*

Chris and I have been together since February. Since a lot of our friends went home for the summer, we have to keep busy and try not to kill each other. So far, we’ve done a phenomenal job. We go to the movies, attend Yankees games, play connect 4 etc. However, the most exciting experience we’ve had so far (in my opinion) was when we went bowling. We pre-gamed, as you always should before doing something like bowling, brought some liquor with us in a black thermos and much to our delight, they served beer at the bowling alley by the pitcher.

I walked up to the front desk with false drunk confidence and asked for some bowling shoes. I felt bad for the two men working at the bowling alley on a Friday night and considered asking them to bowl with us, but decided against it since they had to keep an eye on the bowling shoes. Someone’s gotta do it. We walked to our bowling station and were ironically placed in between two large families. It was 10PM on a Friday, so we felt that our intoxication was valid and should’ve been foreseen by anyone and everyone in our path.

Photo by pandawhale.com

Photo by Panda Whale

Chris and I began bowling and I started off strong and got some strikes. I might as well have been a middle aged man with a balding head and a beer belly judging by how well I was doing. But as I continued drinking, my strikes decreased in likelihood since we were bowling without bumpers, like real adults. I had forgotten how greasy bowling lanes can be and part of my clown shoe slipped at the beginning of the lane and my feet flew out from under me. Clearly, not my fault. Before I knew it, I was on the floor and chose to sit there helplessly until Chris stopped laughing to come pick me up. This took a while; Chris was laughing so hard, I thought he was going to have a hernia. The families on each side of us glared at me and no doubt expressed internal thanks that I was not their daughter.  We continued to bowl in between spurts of drinking as my bowling skills, or lack thereof, continued to diminish.

Photo by jokideo.com

Photo by Jokideo

Chris has a lot of amazing qualities. He’s smart, funny, has a beard etc. But he has the emotional intelligence of a chimpanzee. He is repulsed by emotions and believes everyone is simply too sensitive. He says he loves that I don’t “cry all the time.” It seems as though his real soul mate could be Hannibal Lector or any other notorious serial killer. If we ever break up, he’ll have a lot of trouble dating anyone else for the rest of his life. But at least I’ll be the best girlfriend he’ll ever have, which is always my primary goal. I aim to be everyone’s favorite person.

I stumbled up to the bowling lane and threw the ball. It went immediately into the gutter as if I had been aiming for it. I walked back to Chris, defeated, and after he stopped laughing, he said:

I love you.”

I was stunned. He had never said it before and for whatever reason he chose to say it in a bowling alley with strobe lights while we were both wearing shoes that would no doubt give us the bubonic plague. I didn’t know what to say. Of course I loved him, but it seemed to be taking my brain 8 years to process what he had said. I’m sure my facial expression looked as if he had told me he took a dump on the floor. So I didn’t say anything and we continued to bowl.

By the end of the game, my score was so low, you would’ve thought he had been playing a coma patient. So I can rule out professional bowling as far as careers go. Chris went to return his shoes while I was taking mine off and he called me to meet him outside. After returning the plague shoes, I met him in the parking lot and was pleasantly surprised when I saw that he had taken his plague shoes with him. I asked him why he took the bowling shoes, seeing to the fact that we didn’t make it a habit to bowl regularly. He said he didn’t know and that he just walked out with them. I love this about Chris. He does stupid things for no reason all the time and to me, it’s adorable and hilarious. Plus now he doesn’t have to pay for bowling shoes next time we bowl.

We sat down on a curb in the bowling alley parking lot as we waited for our Uber driver to take us home. I looked at him and said:

So you love me?”

Yeah.” he said, defeated by his own feelings.

I love you too.” I said.

He seemed excited and relieved as if I had told him he didn’t have to clean the dishes that night. We continued to talk about his new 5-finger-discount habit after stealing the bowling shoes. The Uber picked us up and we went home.

It was around 1am and I asked him if he wanted me to make cookies. He said yes (he never says no to food even if he’s not hungry, but honestly I’ve never viewed being hungry as a requirement before eating food). After proceeding to severely under-cook the cookies due to intoxication and my overpowering desire to just eat the dough without it being cooked, I went to my room to give Chris one.  He wasn’t there, so I went upstairs to look for him. To my amusement, I found my 6 foot tall, drunken mess of a boyfriend laying on the floor with a toilet paper roll as his pillow. I sat down next to him eating a cookie and offered him one.

I don’t want it,” he mumbled.

But you asked me to make these. Asshole. Why are you on the floor?”

I don’t feel good,” he replied.

So I sat with him, getting cookie crumbs everywhere while he made a rather large dent with his head in my toilet paper. When he was done taking a nap on the floor, we went to bed and he reminded me that he loved me over and over and over again. And now he won’t leave me alone:

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Photo by www.oystermag.com

Photo by Oyster Mag

Becoming President Is Like Really Easy

Since Donald Trump was all “I’m running for President,” and it didn’t turn out to be a joke like I had originally thought, I decided I needed to see what the application process is like when you run for President of the United States.

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Photo by Daily News

Since I happen to be a champion googler (is that really not considered a word yet?) in two states, I found what I was looking for with ease. I googled phrases like:

How to become president of the United States

Can you run for President if you have a record

If you win the whole president thing, can you paint the white house a different color?

If you become president, do they give you a chef?

Does someone bring you breakfast in bed?

Do you get to do the grocery shopping or does someone do that for you? I prefer to grocery shop on my own.

How many bathrooms do you get?”

As you can see, I got a little off topic from what I was originally researching, but I consider all of these top notch, significant questions. On my google magic carpet ride through the inter-web, I discovered a wikihow (complete with photos) regarding how to become President. I also read the SparkNotes version and briefly reminisced about how the site got me through AP English in high school. So here’s the gist of it:

1) Be a natural born citizen.

As long as your mother birthed you in America, you’re good to go. Say thank you to your mom for birthing you. That shit’s painful and messy.

2) Be at least 35 years old.

Realistically, I’ll never be an actual adult, but if I ever were to morph into one, it would probably be at around age 35, so this rule makes sense. I feel like 35 years old is the age when you remember to buy toilet paper BEFORE you run out.

3) Live in the US for at least 14 consecutive years before running.

14 is an odd number and I’m not sure why that’s the rule. I picture a bunch of congress people picking different numbers out of Uncle Sam’s large hat at random.

Photo by funnyordie.com

Photo by Funny or Die

There you have it folks. The criteria is pretty straightforward, granted I’m sure you have to do a lot of other political shit before you run. I was expecting a lengthier list with requirements like: must have wrinkles, must be able to buy toilet paper on time or must be able to distinguish your and you’re. I assume the position can only be filled by humans although it’s not clearly stated in the wikihow. I chose not to run for President because I like keeping my weekends free and I don’t want my hair color to change so dramatically.

 

I Hate Going to the Dentist

…and it’s not just because they get entirely too close to my face. Did I invite you to my barbecue? (no) Then why are you all up in my grill?

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I’ve been having temperature sensitivity pain with one of my teeth and my go-to strategy of hoping it would go away wasn’t working. So, I made the executive decision to make an appointment with a random dentist I found online. Also, chewing on the left side of your mouth makes eating so much less enjoyable. (On the bright side, I totally lost a pound). My first mistake was not checking this man’s yelp review:

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If you got a one star review from doing YOUR JOB, that’s probably a bad sign.

I arrived five minutes early for my appointment and immediately felt uncomfortable because the office appeared to be someone’s home from the outside. I walked in apprehensively and presented myself to the receptionist. She handed me some papers to fill out while I waited. I sat down and noticed a few magazines and toys for children. I promptly filled out the paperwork and handed them to the receptionist. She was older and married; and was probably oblivious to the yelp review I just found.

Whatever

A small man with gray hair and creepy eyes walked out to greet me and asked me to follow him into a room. He was nothing short of  an oompa-loompa minus the green hair. I wish he had had green hair; it would have been a more enjoyable visit. I greeted his dental assistant and sat down in an ugly green dental chair. The equipment seemed old and outdated. I peered around the room and couldn’t help but notice the uncanny resemblance to a serial killer’s torture basement. While I waited for Patrick Bateman to pop out with an ax or chain saw, the dentist (let’s call him Eugene) made small talk with me. I told Eugene that I major in Journalism and that I currently have an internship working for a small tech-start up in NYC. I briefly explained that I was the Content and Marketing intern for the founder of an iPhone app.

Everyone’s trying to make the next app…or whatever.”

Eugene was clearly jealous that my job is more fun than his, so I ignored his condescending tone and generally arrogant demeanor.

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So anyway, I got a cavity filled like three weeks ago and ever since then, my tooth has been really sensitive to cold and hot food and drinks.”

…I said, changing the subject back to why I was there in the first place. He poked around in my mouth and would continue to do this several times during the 25 minutes I was there. He asked me a few more general questions before deciding to take an x-ray. He came back while we waited for the x-ray and I asked him what he thought could be the problem.

Well worst case scenario, you’ll need a root canal.”

I nearly shit my pants. Who says ‘root canal’ that casually?

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He came back with the x-ray and spent 5 minutes looking at it before I asked if he saw anything odd. He didn’t see anything and came back to stick sharp objects in my mouth and tap the problem tooth. Eugene explained that I MIGHT need a root canal. Since he came to that conclusion so quickly, I asked why he thought this and if it could be something else. In so many words, he essentially said:

I don’t know, but you might need one.”

I felt like I knew less than I did before making this mistake of an appointment. He asked me if I wanted to see what the process of a root canal looked like with his superior-I’m-smarter-than-you-because-I-supposedly-have-a-dental-degree tone. He pulled out a picture book and explained the procedure to me, but I was too busy trying not to vomit and planning my escape.

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It could be from the filling that was put in to your tooth. So we can take that filling out, then put a different one in and see what happens. There’s no guarantee it’ll work though.”

I did not trust Eugene with a drill this early in our relationship that was quickly going downhill in my mind.

I don’t understand why the tooth in front of the one that got the filling hurts if the filling is the issue. Can you explain that to me?”

Eugene seemed puzzled when I threw this curve ball at him. I assumed he could tell the tooth that had the filling was different than the one I had pointed to. He poked around in my mouth some more and I finally decided he didn’t have a real D.D.S. Perhaps his career as a ventriloquist did not work out and he was left with dentistry. Either way, I needed to get out of this horrible office. I implied that I wanted a second opinion and got out of the chair quickly and narrowly avoiding ramming the top of my head into the light that was positioned above my face. Farewell, Eugene and may the Yelp reviews be ever in your favor (NOT).

Actual photo of me running away from Eugene.

Actual photo of me running away from Eugene.