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how jack wakes me up.

So, this morning I was deep in dream (something about living in a tropical location with plastic drums and a hot next door neighbor) when something snapped me right out of my peaceful slumber. Yup. It was freezing cold water. In my face. I immediately thought, WTF Lauren? Use your words! Then I looked up to my nightstand to see the guilty little man. Jack Bauer was sitting there, after somehow knocking my glass of water over perfectly enough to splash it directly in my face. Whatta bastard!

Oh, and now he’s trying to act all cute and stuff by snuggling because I threatened to put him up for adoption. Sly, sly guy.


oh what a night

Almost december. 2008. Actually Saturday, October 15th to be exact- I’ll paint the picture and this particular picture is gonna start at the 24 hour pharmacy, 2:30am.

Hello? You good sir? This here is my red haired roommate (who shall remain nameless) and she appears to have lice. (Yes, yes. You heard me. Lice. And, yes again, she is 23. She escaped her entire youth and teenage years without a bug in her hair, and now this happens.) You want to have a looksie?

rid that shit.

Oh. Well. Maybe you could just explain what you saw.

See that’s the thing… there weren’t that many, but they appear to be small and dark and they also seem to have legs, or that is how they get around? What do you think we should do here? Should I wash my hair with this stuff as well even though I don’t have them? Yadda yadda more quasi-medical talk here.

Yes. Yes you should. What is that you say? You have cats? Two of them?

And thus began the long night. Flash forward to every man’s fantasy. Or, many men’s fantasy at the very least. Two girls mostly naked jus washin’ each other’s hair. All I’ve got to say, is Oh What a Night (and it just so happens that we played it on repeat). Also, it might have been nice if I had remembered it was Saturday night and not walked out of the house in a sweat suit. Or whatever.

Just your typical Saturday night at the Spencer/Remaining Nameless household.oh what a night

hot mess

So I have recently gotten into this little show called 30 Rock. I say “little show” because this always seems to happen to me… Perhaps it’s that I don’t actually have a TV, or maybe it’s just that I’m no pro at keeping up on current events but, I always seem to hop on board late, read, 30 Rock is now on it’s third season, in case you didn’t get the memo yet either. If you haven’t seen the show, you should invest at least as many hours as I have, because it’s pretty dang funny.

Back on point, there is one episode in season one (remember, I’m catching up) where Liz Lemon, played by Tina Fey, showcases her disorganized, somewhat pathetic lifestyle. It’s one of these things where the viewer is supposed to watch on and think, ooo maybe a bit endearing, no?, but also ERM! I’m quite glad I’m not in her shoes! Tina Fey (who I incidentally respect highly as a person and dare I say role model?, but not always as a character) is probably not nearly this much of a mess in her real life, but it’s fun to watch her play Lemon in a very Meet The Parents-painful kind of way. In this particular episode, she gets lettuce in her hair. Twice. I laughed and thought to myself, well! at least I’m doing better than that! Or not. Two days later, I was drying off in the shower, looking down at the drain, and there it was. A tender piece of arugula sitting over the strainer. Oh My God. Am I a hot mess? Don’t answer that.

the cube

All I have to say right now, is GD this thing is, like, way harder than I remember it ever being.

hardest thing i've done today

rags to riches

Today, I think I may have stumbled upon an untapped male source.  Perhaps I should just say, untapped to me.  What I’m about to say may surprise you, but I feel like it could be a stroke of genius.

Homeless people.  Hear me out.
I was in a deli/convenience store just off of Tompkin’s Square Park when I saw him.  He was tall, dark, and handsome.  His eyes were deep and mysterious.  He was just the right amount of scruffy.  And he had dreadlocks.  Probably anyone who knows me well will say, “she feels pretty good about dreadlocks.”  Maybe even “excellent.”  I had a Jamaican boyfriend for three days who had amazing dreadlocks, which he stored in an oversized hat.  Ever since then, or maybe it was ever since camp, I’ve had a bit of a thing for dreads.
Now, this attractive man, who I would only consider to be mildly homeless (Mom, don’t worry!), was checking me out, probably thinking something like, oooo, she looks clean.

Now, let me describe what I mean by mildly homeless.  He looked like the kind of guy who was a bit down on his luck, perhaps, he crashes a lot of nights on friends’ floors.  Maybe a night here or there in a shelter.  But, let’s not go on and on, it appeared to me there was no street sleeping involved.  He looked like he had showered more recently than not.  And dare I say, he definitely looked like he had graduated high school.  Maybe even college.  Or maybe he just had a library card, how very Good Will Hunting. When I saw him, he was talking to another man, who appeared to take his homeless lifestyle a little more seriously.  They were taking a stroll to the nearest church, perhaps to grab a bowl of soup.

Anyway, back to my argument, I could help this attractive man out.  Provide him with a stylish pair of jeans and some white shirts.  Maybe some Chucks, even.  Give him a shower.  And perhaps a hat.  He wouldn’t look homeless then, would he?  His teeth were still in great shape, and I don’t think he was on heroin.
Here is the most important part: after I got him spruced up, he would have to love me.  WOULDN’T HE?  And I would love him because, yay!  Project!  Also, I’d be proud… like, doesn’t he look just amazing?  Think comparatively!  This is not to say I would tell him where my piggy bank is.  Or really even trust him alone in my apartment.  I might even be scared he would make off with my laptop through the window and down the fire escape while we were supposed to be sleeping.
But this might just really be about the small things.  I could probably get away with less shaving of my legs.  I’m sure sweatpants wouldn’t bother him.  Or really even my hair-with-a-mind-of-it’s-own.  Also, I wouldn’t have too much competition, except really for other homeless women.  And I’m pretty sure I’m hotter than most of them.  Also, I wouldn’t have to worry so much about looking crazy.  Because a lot of the crazy people in the city are homeless.  So, my crazy would seem a lot less crazy.  It might even be adorable to a homeless guy.

It worked in Curly Sue, so why not in real life, too?

fuck up my hairdo

There is no bonding quite like the bonding done on the New York City subway.  Stalled trains, waiting for lines that never come, the entertainers who amuse us, and the entertainers who don’t.  But, the ride home from Caitlin’s open house party (I’ll address the party itself later) was really something else.
When I boarded the train, a smell overcame me.  I’m not sure how to describe it other than a bunch of bad smells that died.  It was like urine died.  And poop died.  And vomit died.  And maybe one of the sleeping homeless people had died, too.  And all these dead smells were trapped in the train together making everyone’s skin crawl.  Anyone who boarded with me made disgusted faces, plugging their noses, pulling shirts over their faces.  No one could get off the train fast enough.  It was the first (and to this day only) time I used the passageway to move cars while the train was in motion.
The only people who stayed in the car were sleeping.  And maybe one of them was dead.  I’m just not sure.  All I know is that car was rank.  As I sat in the other car, it began to fill up with more and more people.  In fact, it was unusually crowded for it being 2 am.  I watched as people came through the door horrified about, “WHAT WAS THAT SMELL?!?”  Every person that passed through the transfer doors made a stab at pin-pointing the scent.  “It was like B.O. and feet mixed together.”
“It smells like… like doody!”
“Oh my god!  Something died in that train!”
And my personal favorite response came from a larger black woman who came bursting through the doors grabbing her locks.  “Ooooooooooohweeeeeeeee!  Fuck up my hairdo!”  The train all laughed together as everyone was well aware of the stench.  Just another NYC war story.
When I got home later, I smelled it a few more times.  So terrified it had gotten stuck on me, I jumped into the shower despite the big effort I had made to blow out my hair.  Probably this scent will haunt me for the rest of my life.  Just in the same way the smell from the Alcatraz outhouse haunts my roommate to this day.

two black eyes and a swollen throat…

If you could only see me now.  I just finished up with my tonsillectomy, etc. yesterday… you know where they go in and scoop out your tonsils.  It’s just that, typically you want to be about three years old when you go through this surgery.  They say kids go home after the surgery and are eating toast by nightfall.  I’m still at the point, the day after, where the very thought of toast makes me cringe.

That being said, in addition to taking my tonsils, they also “reduced” some stuff in my nose, cleaned some stuff out of my ears, and took something that sounds like androids out of my throat.  I guess you could call it a quadruple whammy.  Today I’m left with a throat so sore it gives swallowing a whole new meaning, not to mention my now-huge, swollen nose with what the industry calls a mustache bib (gauze taped under my nose) and two slightly black eyes.  Did I leave out the little trail of blood that dried oozing out of my ear?

Scrumptious, right?  Well, here’s the thing for those of you looking to have the procedure done.  It’s not all bad.  First, there are drugs, and the drugs are good.  What doesn’t make you sick to your stomach is all first class stuff.  Then, there is the attention.  You get to soak it all up for three days at least.  And of course, by three, I clearly mean eleven.  My family has been the best, and I got to skip a few things I didn’t want to go to.  I have the perfect excuse to lay around all day long and watch movies and read.  And now, I have no excuse not to start this blog here.  Last of all, there is the weight loss.  You could say this is the perfect jump-start diet.  No food.  Ten days.  Skinny jeans beware.