I never claimed it was a GOOD blog post.

Wait a minute . . .

. . . what’s this?

Is it . . . could it . . . be?

A BLOG?

From LRC?

Yeah, don’t ask me what I just did there with that POKE thing. I don’t know, either. I guess I was trying to like conjure up images of poking something unrecognizable (like a blog post from moi). Because THAT’S the smartest thing to do. Why do we do that? Why do we poke stuff when we don’t know what it is? We (and when I say we I mean people. Sorry if you’re not a person) are fucking strange.

Bee Tee Dubs, while I was Google Image-ing pictures of poking (TWSS), I came across this:

Isn’t that horrifying? And the kid is all nonchalant, like, “Yeah, I just shoved a freshly sharpened pencil like, way far in my ear. What’s the big effing deal? Gimme a 40 and let’s superman some hoes.”

Aaaaanyhearingloss, yes. Your eyes are not deceiving you. I am blogging.

Why, you may ask?

Because LAWYERMAN IS AWAY.

And when Lawyerman is away, LRC PLAYS!

And by “play,” I mean blog, be a douche on twitter, reload tumblr every five minutes, and wait for someone to get online and talk to me while I drink Coors Light out of a can while getonmyhorse plays in the background on loop.

Obviously.

With my weekend to myself, I can’t decide if I’d rather

1. take advantage of the fact that I don’t have to cook a five course meal all weekend and eat like a bird… like I ate when I was 10 pounds lighter, pre-Lawyerman, and not feel like a fucking cow, OR
2. eat as much cheese as possible, just ’cause I fucking CAN. Not that Lawyerman would ever try to prevent me from inhaling a fortnight’s worth of sharp cheddar in two days (I just wanted to say fortnight), but because I equate cheese consumption with rebelliousness. Don’t ever say I didn’t live on the EDGE.

Both options sound lovely, but my guess is that option number two (huh. huh.) will reign supreme because CHEESE NEVER LOSES.

Plus I’ve already eaten like eleven slices of cheese.

So yeah.

I guess option number one is out.

While As Much Nothing As Possible is the only thing I’ll likely cross of my list this weekend, in two weeks I will be skidding into Philly international to visit THIS LADY.

Someone is going to have to invent a new word for epic after all that awesomeness happens.

I made a graphic to commemorate the occasion, but I can’t post it here because of that whole semi-anonymity thing, and it has our beautiful faces on it. But trust me. It’s beautiful. And tie-dyed.

Also, if you haven’t clicked the getonmyhorse link yet, I suggest you do that now.

SHUT UP WOMAN GET ON MY HORSE

So there you have it, I have spoken. To be honest, I mainly blogged because I wanted to post a comment on my future husband Jason Isbell’s blog and in the off chance he were to click forward to my blog, I didn’t want the first post he saw to be a post about my horrible asparagus farts.

Crazy Girlfriend Behavior

In every new relationship, I think every woman should be allowed a small amount of Crazy Girlfriend Behavior.

Now, by “behavior,” I don’t mean Facebook stalking his ex and Fed-Exing her a dead rabbit with the phrase STAY AWAY FROM MY MAN YOU LOOSE, FELLATIOUS WHORE stained in blood into its fur.

Rabbits are small. You can’t fit that whole sentence on a rabbit carcass.

Common sense, people.

I don’t even mean Facebook stalking any of his exes, like, at all. Festering rabbit carcass notwithstanding.

Trust me, girls. Don’t do it. You won’t like what you see.

The type of Crazy Girlfriend Behavior I fully endorse is this:

Writing A Passive-Aggressive Blog Post Shit-Talking His Ex-Girlfriend That May Or May Not Include A Fun Diagram That Took Twenty Minutes To Make In Photoshop!

Duh.

That was so obvious.

(Not only does this method work for current boyfriends’ exes, it ALSO works for ex’s current girlfriends [see last few sentences of this post]. Bonus!)

Here’s the thing.

The Lawyer?

Lives next door to his ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you read that right.

The Lawyer could fart on his back porch and his ex could probably smell it ten seconds later.

I’m sure you can imagine just HOW FUN this is for me.

Let’s go in depth, shall we?

The way The Lawyer’s house is set up is like this (click to embiggen):

*Map not to scale and probably completely inaccurate. Oh look, trees!

(Oh yeah, I’m calling her Skinny McSkanky, because she’s 1) skinnier than I [also acceptable Crazy Girlfriend Behavior: being jealous of his ex because she is skinnier than you and giving her a moniker like Skinny McSkanky] and 2) duh, skanky.)

So The Lawyer and his ex-step-uncle live on a lakefront property together with a third house, the one that Skinny McSkanky rents from Lawyerman’s G-Pa. I guess The Lawyer and Skinny McSkanky started dating out of convenience. That, and they are both young, attractive individuals. ANYHOOSITS. Lawyerman told me things with him and S.McS didn’t end well. I didn’t ask for deets because 1) it’s none of my business and 2) if it had anything to do with anything sexual my brain would asplode right there and well, I just don’t want that happening.

Now, I must say this. S.McS has never been anything but nice to me and I am probably a major bitch for writing this post.

BUT.

I am allowed to be somewhat completely irrational because of:

Crazy Girlfriend Behavior.

Enough said.

ANYWAY. As you can see by that lovely map I made, the pool is adjacent to S.McS’s house. Despite this fact, the pool is shared by her, The Lawyer, and the Lawyer’s ex-step-uncle.

SO. Whenever The Lawyer and I want to go swimming, we have to be all up in S.McS’s backyard and shit.

It’s really not as bad as it sounds, but still. It’s not THE most comfortable thing to do.

I should mention here that this pool is not an ordinary chlorinated pool. It is filled and drained on a regular basis with spring water that is FREAKING FREEZING COLD. This makes it good for taking baths in. Which The Lawyer does from time to time, and apparently others use it for this purpose, too.

Because, next to the pool, on the edge of S.McS’s porch . . .

I found this:

And thought to myself:

AHAHAAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHha!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HAAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!

BITCH HAS GOT EMBARRASSING DANDRUFF!!!!!!!!!

And immediately I felt better about myself.

I never mentioned it to The Lawyer.

Because these thoughts are allowed to exist in my head only.

And also apparently, on this blog.

(SHE EVEN GOT THE WAL-MART BRAND. BITCH DIDN’T EVEN SPRING FOR SELSUN BLUE)

Romance is not dead

Things with The Lawyer are going swimmingly, thank you all for your concern. There’s not really much else I can say on the whole situation right now. You’ll forgive me, yes?

For just over two months now, I’ve been enjoying the best sex of my life. No lie! We do it probably 7 or 8 times per week. And it is glorious.

Sometimes, when you’re as horny as we both are, however, the art of seduction gets lost.

“Let’s make love” (ok, I never say this, and neither does he, but let’s just use this as an example of something “romantic” people say to let their SO’s know they want to touch dirty parts together repeatedly) becomes “you wanna do the sex now?”

Post-sex phrases like “that was fantastic” and “was it good for you?” turn to “good fuckin’, baby” with an ass slap.

I realized that maybe we needed to slow down a bit. Be a little more . . . romantic.

So when we were lounging at his pool yesterday, I said to my Lawyerman while giving the flirty eyes, “Come here.”

He came over to where I was sitting on the edge of the pool and put his hands on the small of my back. I kissed him softly and then turned his ear toward my lips.

“Baby, tonight, when we’re fucking . . .” I whispered softly.

“Mmmhm?”

“I’m gonna fart so hard it makes your balls vibrate.”

Open letters to asshats everywhere

Dear Guy Who Feels The Need To Yell At Me From Inside His Dodge Pickup Truck With The Trailer Hitch Ballsack As He Drives By Me, And Also To Men Everywhere Who Think Catcalling Is An Acceptable Way To Pick Up A Woman And Holy Hell I Am Six Hundred Millionty Years Old Because I Just Used The Term “Catcalling”:

Look. I realize I am one hot piece of ass. You should be so lucky to get a bite of all this deliciousness.

(Apparently, not only am I elderly, I am also a Choco Taco.)

(I know what you’re thinking, and you have a dirty mind.)

(Pervert.)

(PS: I like you.)

Ever since I grew a badonkadonk (yep, I’m a white girl with an ass—and by the way, I am loving the way Urban Dictionary defines “badonkadonk”: Women who possess this feature usually have a small waist that violently explodes into a round and juicy posterior) and shed my braces, you have made a semi-regular appearance in my life. And ever since, I have been completely and utterly baffled.

What, exactly, are you trying to accomplish?

Do you want me to run after you, screaming, “Wait! Come back, dream man of mine! I can’t wait to run away to the trailer park with you and get started on becoming barefoot, pregnant, and domestically abused!”

Do you want me to return the favor and yell “right back atcha, hot stuff!”?

Or do you just want to pay me a compliment?

I will give it to you. Your efforts don’t go unnoticed.

But I don’t think you’re going to be pulling any broads with your method.

Still?

Don’t stop doing it.

The ego boost is nice.

Shakin’ that ass just for you,
LRC

——

Dear My Best Friend Claire’s Boyfriend Who Won’t Actually Admit To Being Claire’s Boyfriend Even Though Y’all Have Been Dating Oh Around Six Years Now And I’ve Told Her A Bajillion Times To Dump Your Ass Because You Two Are In A Go Nowhere Relationship And Claire Does Actually Want To Be Happy At Some Point In Her Life:

Facebook messaging me that the pair of pants I wore the other day looked good on me was completely inappropriate and a little bit creepy. I will now feel uncomfortable around you pretty much every time I see you.

Keep your eyes to yourself,
LRC

—–

Dear Guy Who Randomly Started Calling Me On The Phone In Middle School And Asked Me Out On A Date Which Never Came To Fruition Because Supposedly He Was Trying To Play A Cruel Joke On Me But How Do You Play A Joke Like That On Someone Who Doesn’t Even Like You Like That And Obviously This Was A Poorly Executed Joke Because Seriously What The Hell Dude You Can’t Even Do That Right And You’re Not Even Cute, To Boot?:

I saw you the other day. Nice double chin.

Karma’s a bitch,
LRC

This is The Final Countdown . . . until I blow grey matter all over the wall

So, you want to hear about my date?

Fine.

If you must.

It wasn’t a terrible date. It wasn’t even a bad date. It was . . . unimpressive.

He was the same height as me. I was wearing 4″ heels, but still. I knew this going into the date, but actually being eyeball to eyeball with a guy was a little weird for me. I prefer to look up at my guy and be able to tell if he needs to trim his nose hairs.

The sushi was good. Conversation was good. After getting past the whole “what do you do for a living / where are you from / what’s your favorite color” bullshit, we started just talking like normal people. He was really impressed with me and how I was “different” from how he’d originally perceived me to be. I thought I was enjoying the conversation greatly until I realized why I was enjoying the conversation.

Because he was kissing my ass.

I haven’t been the recipient of a good ass-kissing in a while, and it felt good. I’m accustomed to my friends being used to the extreme dryness and unapologetic “ME-ness” of yours truly, so while on the date with Smartass Engineer I was just being my (un)normal self. Instead of my quips being met with silence, indifference, or disgust, as they usually are with those who know me, instead I was hearing scores of laughter and praise.

Basically, he was more into me than I was into him.

Once we were properly sushi-ed, we got in his car and decided to go to a bar for a drink.

He put in a burned CD.

And Nickelback permeated the speakers.

You have GOT to be fucking kidding me, I thought.

Then, he asked the dreaded question.

“So, do you like Nickelback?”

Blink.

Blink.

“To be completely honest with you, no. I do not.”

I figured “Actually, I would rather eat Rosie O’Donnell’s toe jam while being photographed in a nylon, camelt0e-highlighting pantsuit and being run over repeatedly by a  half-ton pickup truck, all the while watching baby bunny rabbits get curb stomped by Ann Coulter than ever hear another Nickelback song again” was a little harsh for the first 90 minutes of a date.

NICKELBACK.

Let me repeat that.

NICKELBACK.

His. Favorite. Band. Is. Nickelback.

Normally, music taste does not fall into the category of Things That Matter Greatly to Me in another human being. But when your favorite band is NICKELBACK?

I have to question your intelligence.

Nee, your sanity.

I think irony is fucking with me because THE DAY BEFORE THE DATE, I tweeted this.

If I had to describe my personal hell, it would involve Nickelback, inaccessibility to alcohol, and ironing.

So there you go. This band belongs in my personal hell, and my potential suitor is on Ticketmaster buying presale tickets for the concert.

Also, I had to iron my shirt for the date. So we’re batting .667 for LRC’s Personal Hell components.

(Of course alcohol was involved. His favorite band is Nickelback. How else was I supposed to enjoy myself after that?)

Don’t worry, it gets worse.

After the Nickelback fiasco, AS IF THAT WEREN’T BAD ENOUGH, the worst song ever recorded ever in the history of mankind, ever, came through the speakers. And SaE then told me a lovely anecdote about how his neighbors used to complain to him because he listened to this particular “song” on repeat.

The Final Countdown.

Hold me.

I had driven a whole hour to get to this particular date, so I tried not to let his horrible, atrocious, unforgivable taste in music ruin it. We had a few drinks at a cheesily-named bar, and at nearly 1am it was time for me to go home. He was nice enough to drive me around until we found a place that was open and served coffee since I had to drive another hour home and I was getting sleepy, but by the time we got back to his house (where I’d left my car) I found myself reciting the chant “pleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissmepleasedontlethimkissme” over and over in my head.

When I got out of the car, I tried to maneuver my body in such a way that I could slip around and get into the driver’s side of my car unscathed and dry-lipped.

No such luck.

He appeared seemingly out of nowhere with his arm hooked around my waist and a grip that said he wasn’t letting go. He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, where I let them rest for about .00000000042 seconds before I pulled away, thanked him for dinner and drinks, got in my car, and dipped the fuck out.

He left me a message yesterday about how he wanted a second date and this time he would come to my neck of the woods. I just frowned. He was very nice. Very funny. But I’m just not that into him. And he has vomit-inducing taste in music.

And I didn’t like his shoes.

I’ve put my profile on the dating website on private for the time being. I’m starting to get over New York and I’m realizing that I can be comfortable being alone again. I don’t always have to be surrounded by people or get approval from guys to be happy. It always seems that they come along when you’re not looking, anyway.

And whenever I start to miss NY?

I just think about how I used to cringe when he would bend over and have Plumber’s Crack, and he has an extremely hairy ass.

That makes me feel a little better.

I gotta P

The lovely, hilarious, and beautiful brookem over at Skrinkering Hearts did one of those posts where you are assigned a letter of the alphabet and then you have to blog about ten things you love starting with that letter. I wanted to participate, so brookem assigned me with the letter P. If you want to participate, leave me a note in the comments and I’ll assign a letter to you. Fun fun!

10 Things That Make LRC’s Life That Much More Enjoyable, Beginning With The Letter P

1. Purring. Those of you who are cat lovers can attest to this—there is nothing more soothing than the sound of a cat purring in your ear. Especially when kitty has that look of contentment on her face, eyes closed and an expression that you’d swear was a smile, if only cats could smile (pictured below). My kitty, Pepper (yep, that’s her in the picture!) is the BEST at purring and snuggling. She has it down to a fine art. I’m one who has to have a low, constant buzzing noise to go to sleep (box fan, let’s elope) and Pepper’s purring soothes me to sleep almost immediately.
2. Photography. This has become a hobby of mine over the past year, since I got my current job and hence inherited the task of handling a big, fancy DSLR camera. The one I use is pictured below. I want to purchase one of my own someday (D90, I’m looking at you), but right now it’s just not in the budget. Thanks, Murray, for leaving me with a mortgage I can’t afford. You’re super! I recently went to a photography class so I could figure out how the eff to use the damn thing. I’m still pretty green at this, but one day I hope to improve and who knows, maybe I can make a side job out of it, photographing events and such. Right now, though? It’s just a hobby.
3. Pearls. They’re just so classy and timeless to me. I love them in any size or color. I’ve begun my own collection; I just can’t stop. My attire can seem a bit stuffy sometimes, what with the cardigans and argyle that can be found in abundance in my wardrobe, but I just love the classic look. Pearls just seem to complement my clothes nicely. Boys: no pearl necklace jokes here, mmkay?
4. Pretzels. Almost every time I go to the mall I get one of those gigantic, greasy, salt-covered pretzels from Auntie Anne’s and devour it in one sitting with a little tub of cream cheese. I don’t care how many calories these things pack. They’re just too damned good for it to matter. And none of that sugary shit. I want my pretzel with big ol’ fat grains of salt all over it. Bring it.
5. Photoshop. I use this on a daily basis, for work and personal use alike. I’m no expert, but I’ve done my fair share of photo editing and illustration in my day. Those of you who use it know exactly why I’m singing its praises. Shit is AWESOME. You can take a totally crappy picture and fix it up. I always make sure to cover up blemishes and shine on people’s faces in photos. I never go too overboard with it (you don’t want the person to look freakish or not like themselves), but it’s great to be able to fix those little imperfections so you have a nice looking photograph. Also, the Pioneer Woman has some SUH-WEET Photoshop actions you can download. “Boost” is a gift from heaven.
6. Puppies. If you don’t like puppies, you have no soul and should probably leave my blog now. I don’t think I want to know you.(from CuteOverload.com)
7. Pulp Fiction. This is one of my favorite movies of all time. It’s so quotable. Most memorable scenes include: Vincent (John Travolta) accidentally shooting that guy’s head off, the infamous dance scene (I can’t check to see if that is a good video or not since I’m at work and YouTube is blocked, so I’m just gonna trust Google), the scene where Jules (Samuel L. Jackson) has the wallet that says “Bad Mother Fucker” on it, the Christopher Walken watch-stuck-up-my ass scene, Jules’ monologue about “laying vengeance upon thee”, the Mia Wallace drug overdose scene . . . I mean, I could go on and on. But I won’t. But I do watch Pulp Fiction pretty much every time it comes on television.
8. Playlists. I love making playlists for EVERYTHING. When I’m working out, when I’m cooking, when I feel like singing, when I feel like DANCING, when I feel like hating men, when I’m feeling sullen, when I feel like chicken tonight (again, at work—can’t check the link) . . . I just love having music to fit my mood. Life’s better with music. Try to disagree with me. (Yes, I actually do have a playlist called “I Feel Like Chicken Tonight.”)
9. Porch Sittin’. In my area of the South, it’s sunny and warm about 632 days of the year (I might be making that figure up) and I love sittin’ (not sitting) on the porch and knocking back a few twelve ouncers while the sun sets and that gentle breeze brushes my skin. Relaxation at its finest.
10. Peen. Duh. I’ve you’ve been reading this blog for more than five minutes you know what a nymphomaniac I am. I can’t get enough of the sausage. You know what I’m talking about—that sweet man meat.

All images were stolen from various sources, so sorry if I stole one of yours. Remember, if you want to participate, tell me in the comments and I’ll assign you a letter.

I’d love to see my Google Analytics after this one

Topics of discussion on gchat with Andy today:

• Steve Jobs
• The Dark Knight
• Blue balls vs. pooping in terms of importance (not as in, which should I take care of first—no, no. We discussed which was more newsworthy)
• Trans fats
• Jennifer Aniston
• Naked teens
• Robot sex
• Throwing away Christmas gifts from relatives
• PMS/Bloating
• Wagering on someone’s death (Andy’s co-workers actually do this)
• The abstract nature of happiness and love and how our perspective distorts our hopes for both
• Pooping in the river
• Purses made out of cat fur
• Medicaid reimbursement rates for rural hospitals
• E-Penis
• Dog farts
• Analog to digital conversion
• What does Edward do when Bella is on the rag (Related topic: Oxygen content of period blood)
• Actual topics of relevancy

OK, that last one was a lie.

We clearly have too much time on our hands. Although, we did manage to cover a myriad of topics in a relatively short period of time. You know what that means—we got SKILLS.

Either that, or we’re slightly retarded.