sex, drugs and alcohol all rolled into one

Tonight roomz and I finished the first season of Mad Men. GOD I love that show. Add it to the list of non-breathing entities that I have SURRRIOUS boners for. Although I’m a short 2 (3?) seasons behind schedg, I can whole-heartedly say that I will with haste catch up. Let’s explore why this show (thus far) is such cinematic genius:

1. Jon Hamm is a hottie with a body.

2. January Jones’ first name is a month. And not one of those old people months like June or April. To me it screams porn star. And I liked it.

3. The show treats women with the dignity and respect they deserve. I mean…. sure there are plenty of feminists out there who *probably* find this show incredibly offensive, and are probably in denial that they don’t have testicles. I’m sure it probably sucked living through it, but if we can’t make movies about things other people lived through so as to see what the world used to be like we would be stuck with movies like Avatar and Inception. a) I didn’t see Avatar – I don’t really like the color blue, anytime I wear it I get mistaken for a Mets fan and b) Inception went straaaaight over my head, and now I just have dreams about Ellen Page being a lesbian. Last time I pregame a 2.5-hour movie, uhh-thank you very much.

4. If you could live in a time where not only was it acceptable but it was g.d. encouraged to smoke boges and drink hard liquor like its 1999 ALL.DAY.LONG without any of the physical, emotional, or moral hangovers that exist nowadays wouldn’t you? I believe the answer is a-hell yes sir.

5. POLYGAMY. Not only can you have one husband with one home and one cute little Stepford family, but you can have TWO, or THREE or TWENTY, as long as they don’t find out about each other! If I could have as many husbands slash walk-in closets and joint checking accounts as I wanted I wouldn’t be so averse to the idea of bearing children (only if they come up with a technology where you don’t actually have to go through the child-birth process).

Basically, Mad Men is saving me from not having HBO (reason 1 of 32409234 why living with Madge and Chas in Pdubs is climbing higher and higher on my to do list) and every other Sunday woe. I highly encourage you to watch it!

Have a great weekend, all 2 of you

Dear Mark….

Mark. It’s me, Stef. We have a few things to discuss, numbered in priority below. Please read and holler back [orangechuglad@gmail.com].

1. It’s no surprise to me that with 4 zazillion dollars to your name that you’ve managed to stay single. Why? Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you enabled crazy girls to dare I say, get crazier. Facebook has its list of accolades when it comes to connecting people and bringing together estranged family and friends (which most people would probably complain about to begin with, but more on that later) but you allow people to delete wall posts? Have you swallowed your brain along with your dick Mark?

Now, writing on someone’s wall yield a plethora of emotions, including embarrassment if they don’t respond, embarrassment if they do respond, yada yada yada… however, when the other person flat out DELETES your wall post how else could you possibly respond except this way:

A letter to Mark. I mean honestly? WHO DELETES WALL POSTS.

And THEN, Mark has the audacity to email me back asking for “a screenshot of the problem.” UM HELLO MARK, IF I HAD A SCREENSHOT OF THE WALL POST, IT WOULDN’T BE DELETED.

iiiiiijiots.

Ugh, not revisiting that trauma, but thanks Mark, really, thanks. I blame you entirely for the demise of this relationship.

Yust yoshin. Kind of.

[side note: in attempting to undo and redo text, I just figured out the option and z keys equal this Ω. wahooo! Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω Ω. What is this? No but seriously, how do you undo slash redo something? Ω? Anyone? Ω Ω. Welp.]

[side note 2: if the above sentence isn't a direct prerequisite for an Adderall prescription, I'm moving to Harlem and selling my body to science.]

2. Why on God’s not-so-green earth would you ever in a zazillion years recommend people to be friends with? And don’t blab on about how Facebook connects people. You of all people know that it is the number one stalking tool in the universe and whoever says otherwise is probably the genius behind deleting wall posts. But Lord knows we don’t need to get back into that.

The fact that Facebook recommends that you become friends with people who have a few mutual friends with you is preposterous. No I don’t want to be any further connected than I already am to my ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend, regardless of how many friends in common we may have. Dagger to the heart, Mark.

However, if you could point out the guy I woke up next to on Sunday afternoon, that’d be great. I have quite a fuzzy memory about anything and everything other than the fact that he lives dangerously close to an Anthropologie. Sorry Florence, I guess the dog days aren’t quite over.

3. When does it become appropriate to defriend people on facebook? I’m not particularly well versed in getting rid of people being that every boy I’ve so much as kissed is still an active entry in my address book and is subject to a drunk text every once in a while (except that boy from the Bahamas senior year…what was his name? yikes 2005 was quite the year). But when people start facebooking their families on Farmville…adios. We ALL know how I feel about assinine bloggers. And correctly spelling the word asinine.

Well Mark, I’d say you have a lot to think about before I get diarrhea of the keyboard and decide to write you a novel.

xoxoxo,
Concerned

Vassup from the nj turnpike

I’ve never done this sort of mobile blogging before, but being that I’ve created enough iTunes playlists to withstand a cross country roadtrip all of my current words with friends games are awaiting other people, I figured why not check out the wordpress app I mindlessly downloaded back in March and have yet to open.

Reality check: its July 30th. I know I haven’t updated the blog in what will be 3 months on Tuesday (which rivals it’s entire lifespan) and for that I do apologize, to Bean, who I’m fairly certain is the only person who reads this (other than Steve Jobs, but we probably lost him along the way).

So where were we? Oh right, exit 99 on I-95, so forgive my probable style and spelling errors. I’m headed down to Baltimore to visit some of my college friends and just plain rage. I said to someone I work with the other day that whenever I go visit, it seems like I always take 10 steps back in life from wherever I am before I go. For example, during my blog hiatus, I stopped smoking cigarettes and currently in my bag is a full pack of Marlboro Lights. But, who’s counting.

I seriously need a weekend of good old-fashioned blacking out. One sup dude need you might say, but in the past month or so I have spent more time on the long island rail road than in my apartment or cubicle combined. Commuting to and from the beach is just OH SO HARD!

Just joshin. I have gone to the beach although most of my commuting trips have been back to pdubs to hang out with Chas while my mom is visiting her side of the family on the west coast.

Other than quality Chas time, let’s review my life since early May:

-job wise: still employed! Points: 1

-apartment wise: it still stands! Addition: one couch, a few pieces of art (that are currently in the upstairs hallway of my parents house. Points: 1 and a half

-boy wise: skip

-come on Stef. Ok boy wise: ditched man-friend. Realized dating someone who graduated elementary school before you were conceived was only fun if he didn’t have the maturity level of a 12 year old to offer. Much love J, you were fun. Points: 1

-boy wise again: I finally learned how to cut people out of my life. Criteria for getting the boot: bringing absolutely nothing to the table other than a gin and tonic ice cube tray. You know who you are and please for the love of God, stop. Points: 2,000

-boy wise again: I went on a date. Hopefully he doesn’t read this because there won’t be a second one and in the fashion of a middle school girl I will not acknowledge the missed call slash voicemail that is asking for one and pretend (should our paths ever cross again) that I never got it. Points: 1.

Sadly, I think that’s about my life right now. Im getting a headache and have absolutely no idea where I am except for the saving grace that is google maps and apparently we’re somewhere near exit 77. I rescind all previous infatuation with the bolt bus, save for the fact that my phone is completely charged.

Anyway, adios for now. More to come later on, and on a regular basis too!

ughhhh Monday

Thanks to the one and only time we will ever hang out with ex-boyfriend A again, he kindly pointed out my repetitive alcoholism, and told me that I’m no longer allowed to blog it. What a God Amongst Men. So, dare I ask: WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO WRITE ABOUT?!

Good thing I stopped taking what he said surriously in 2009. ANYWAY. Sorry about the lack of posting. Big things have been happening, and in the arena of doing them versus writing about them, doing it always wins.

Since we spoke last, I’ve been broken up with, gotten back together with, fell asleep on a wooden bench in the Financial District, epically embarrassed myself on the beer pong table, regained a bit of beer pong dignity with each subsequent pitcher, left my phone in a cab, retrieved said phone, re-burned an already incinerated bridge, gotten 12 hours of sleep for the first time since 1999 and celebrated Chas’ 80th birthday!

Try saying that 10 times fast, Peter Piper!

In this long stream of events of the past week or so, I’ve had quite an opportunity to reflect on what’s truly important in life. Channeling Mr. Stratford, I’m pretty sure I don’t know what’s actually important and won’t know til I’m 45, and by then I’ll be too old to use it, but bare with me. This will be fun.

I’m no longer upset about not being in college anymore. Sure, it’d be fun to rage all day and all night without caring when your hangover would end (Saturday? Is that you?), or sleep through work like it was Dr. Harris’ Congressional Politics class. If all of life was like college, sew me a pair of plaid shorts and call me Asher Roth…I’d be in love.

Sadly, however, one must move on. To the real world. Neither Mommy, your roommates, nor the waitress at Swallows (sup KATH) can hold your hand forever.

At first this growing up scenario used to make me scream bloody murder and duck for cover. But I think that’s the key ingredient of growing up: realizing that it’s an okay thing to do. Don’t get me wrong, I’m only 22, and I will be for another 3 months and 21 days (who’s counting?). But 22 isn’t 17, and we’re slowly learning that.

Happy Monday! Go get some cocktails on my seemingly never-ending tab

dating, shmating and other ridiculous stories: vol. 2

Hola amigos! Sorry for the lack of blogging, I’m not quite sure if its because I’ve been too busy living my life to write about it, or because I haven’t really done anything important enough to write about. Although I’m sure it can and has been said that nothing that I do ever really warrants writing about…..except Claude, but we’ll get to that later.

As a trade-off I give you music: I can’t stop listening to this thanks to Molly of the fabulous Smart Pretty and (less) Awkward, highly, highly suggested blog reading with great tips on the reg.

Anyway, being that it’s Wednesday, I figured why not awaken old tradition and write the second installment of dating, shmating and other ridiculous stories. The first chapter in this series was about my best friend D and my dating life is fairly uneventful with the exception of a little cradle robbing, so of course, we look elsewhere for entertainment and this week my friends, we have struck gold.

Any of you within a stone’s throw or a mouse click away from me yesterday have undoubtedly heard of Loyola’s latest scandal. Without shedding too much light on the no longer hush hush situation (thanks to yours truly), I bring you K. K is a student at the prestigious and very concerned with its reputation Loyola University Maryland, LUM if you will. (insert Chas tone: When I graduated…. [last May] it was still called College…) which also happens to be my alma mater, further driving this story really home.

Anyway, Loyola does a nice job of taking care of its graduating seniors, by throwing parties every 50 days until graduation, starting with 250…200…you can count. At the latest installment of this long-standing tradition, none other than the president of the senior class, who simultaneously also happens to be the editor-in-chief of the newspaper was caught doing the dirty in the third floor reading room of our student center.

NOW before you all give up and say whatever, I did that like freshman year, on the 50-yard line of the lacrosse field and then again in the bathroom of Swallows, each year til I graduated, then did it again on alumni weekend…twice, keep in mind that this young student is the POSTER CHILD for Loyola, and up until about two weeks ago, was delivering a keynote speech at GRADUATION. Can you say OOPS?!

Imagine explaining to your parents that, sadly, no, the day they have been looking forward since you were born, and the announcements they have been ordering exclaiming to proud relatives that in fact you had not only graduated, but had been so important enough to SPEAK in front of your entire graduating class and all of their families, is no longer happening. I’m pretty sure the term worst nightmare comes to my mind, how about you?

Now I am not sitting on my high horse judging at ALL…lies, I’m totally judging, and refuse to sit in the reading room ever again…but in all honesty, who can say they graduated from college with an entirely unscathed reputation (or kneecap?)

I can’t. On both accounts. But for right now, let’s focus on the latter.

Rewind to April 25, 2009. Other than Cara’s birthday, this annual holiday is known as the spring Craigsfest. Craigsfest is when Jevans, the creepy yet much respected except by his girlfriend and the entire female population of Loyola owner of our Favorite Pub, Craigs, turns the back parking lot into a zoo, complete with jousting and/or a mechanical bull, and trucks filled with kegs. Its wildly known as the drunkest day of the year, and being that until now you only had to be 18 to attend, the scene was amazing.

Last year, making any and all attempts to go out with a bang, instead of opting to use the front door of the bar to escape to Wendy’s for some sustenance, I decided to hop, skip and jump over the deck only to land directly on my left kneecap. Mind you, the deck is a mere 2.5 feet off the ground. Does the phrase “it seemed like a good at the time” pop into your head, too?

After a brief stint at Wendy’s, a few band-aids, leaving a trail of blood back to Craigs, and Callie exclaiming in fact that she could see my BONE, we jumped in Cameron’s car and were off to GBMC. While sitting in the ER cursing all things Callie for making me leave Craigs (in hindsight, love you mean it and sorry for being such a bitch that night, xoxo), she’s holding my then blackberry, RIP as I’m holding my kneecap, wrapped horrendously in a roll of toilet paper that I stielsted from Wendy’s.

She asks, innocently, “Stef, what do ‘D and R’ mean?” and I’m sitting there wondering if drug tests are a mandatory prerequisite for any and all hospital visits and whether or not I would pass one, when some woman sitting near us answers “do not resuscitate.”  I. nearly. died. Fitting that I was in a hospital emergency room, but REALLY?! It went a little like this:

CALLIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! over and over and over and over again until she calmed me down and realized that in fact she had been referring to the “D’s” and “R’s” next to each of my BBM conversations, indicating, respecitively delivered and read. Dear woman sitting next to us: If I ever see you again I will sue you for 99% heart failure.

Anyway, 6 stitches,  a knee immobilizer (“I thought it was some sort of band aid!”), and an incredibly judgmental doctor later, we were back at Craigs raging like the best of them, with the newest addition to our wardrobe:

Claude

Ohhhh college, I miss thee.

In the scandalous world of Manhattan’s elite…

Dear fellow Upper East Siders,

I’m sure most of you spent the night and early morning clutching to the CNN app on your Blackberry for the latest news updates regarding the impending apocalypse also known as the doorman strike. Ohhh the throes of getting your own mail and walking your own dogs! THIS IS ALMOST AS HORRENDOUS AS WHEN THEY TRIED TO INTEGRATE THE SCHOOLS! BLASPHEMY!

Well, seeing as you’re a) definitely old and b) probably exhausted from worrying yourself nearly to death (jinx? oops), I thought it would be quite a nice service to alert you all that you can breathe easier: they settled. crisis averted. You can unpack your hearing aids and take your Chihuahuas out of their Louis Vuitton travel cases, return your Holocaust rings to the jewelry box. (I didn’t know they gave out rings at the Holocaust!) All is well.

For everyone else outside this bubble, there was quite a scare in the past couple of weeks, with whispers of actually pressing the elevator button and rumors of throwing your own garbage out. You know, the usual murmur that probably sent many a resident north of 59th street and east of the Park into cardiac arrest. (jinx number 2? oops.)

Yes, we’re talking about the much anticipated and slightly disappointing doorman strike. According to a few of my neighbs, the last strike that took place in our building was in ’91 and was probably as cool as Vietnam…which, from what I hear wasn’t all that awesome. So I guess its a good thing we have our doormen and delivery services back.

Now, while you’re sipping your afternoon g and t’s, safely back inside your cozy apartments, fully guarded, I thought I’d share a little tale about how I once went on strike…in high school…with the rest of my class…because they threatened to cancel our senior prank….

You can stop laughing at my awkwardness whenever you want. Or, continue, because I am.

Rewind to June of 2005: its a chilly 85 degrees, we’re stuck in school dreading slash counting down on our AOL profiles how many hours until we graduate, and we our parents get a letter in the mail stating that the day that was supposed to be our senior prank day, was in fact canceled. No school. The last day of school was effectively the day before, and we were left to graduate without putting our principal’s car on the roof of the school a la DJ Tanner.

Now looking back, a day off school would have been juuuuuust fine. In fact, maybe if me and the other new people plan a new people prank, we’ll get the day off work, but let’s not let that idea fly too high. However, in our 17-year-old invincible minds, the eradication of this annual rite of passage (that had previously included live chickens, water balloons full of beer, and my personal fave…a bake sale filled with laxatives a year before our class arrived) was about as acceptable as not going to college, and we were putting our angsty little feet down!

Basically, there were tee shirts made, there was a video camera, and we….sat around and tanned on the front steps slash lawn for a couple of hours, the Pdubs police came, ate some donuts, drank some coffee, and we called it a day. After the strike I went to Haven Diner with 5 friends, proceeded to tell Madge I was in jail for striking and giggle, so she hung up on me and didn’t speak to me for 4 days. Which is a long time when you live with someone and you’re trying to decide whether you want this dress or that dress to wear at graduation and you need her credit card to buy it.

So, when I go stroll into my building next, I’ll be sure to give an extra hay sup to my doormen, not only because I totes appreciate their services, but because now we both belong to a secret society of pseudo-strikers, and daz coo.

xoxo…you know I hate you,

S

twenny fo? fooo twenny.

Today is quite an important day on two accounts. First, it’s Tuesday, which means we survived Monday, and deserve a prize. (Especially a Monday following the weekend that just passed…screw prize, I want a GD monument). And secondly, it’s 4/20. For all those who enjoy the occasional smoke now and then, happy holidaze! For everyone else, happy Tuesday.

4/20 always reminds me of those high school days when I actually knew nothing other than Coors Light and blunt rides. I owe many thanks to these particular blunt rides, because if high school hadn’t been filled with such great experiences I’d probably still be smoking weed on a regular basis and would have that to add to my repertoire of vices and probably a far more interesting blog.

However, life did get the better of me, and by life I mean Ms. Ezratty my AP biology teacher and not wanting to turn out like her (although her stories of snorting coke off of some random guy’s dick did sound interesting to my 17 year old mind), my smoking days became a thing of the past.

But, whenever I’m feeling particularly sober or in need of a funny laugh at some drug’s expense I click here, and think of how much fun this guy slash lizzard is having. STIELST.

Anyway, weekend. Right. So Saturday I woke up rather early considering what I did on Friday (which I can’t put my finger on…ohhh right Val’s birthday!) and hopped on a bus to Baltimore. The last time I was on a bus, I wanted to LITERALLY (…literally) kill myself because it was my senior year of high school and I went up to Cornell to look at the school get drunk with my friends, and the seven hours of hungover torture also known as bus ride back is the primary reason I gave up smoking weed.

ANYWAY. Where was I? The Bolt Bus. I. am. in. love. I want to get married on it. There’s wifi AND electrical outlets! WHOA. What else could you possibly need?! Speaking as someone who brings her cell phone charger with her to sleep in case she wakes up in the middle of the night and her phone is less than 75% charged, this is quite an attractive feature. I am all for buses now, just lock me up and call me Rosa Parks. In fact, I’m gonna look up how to take the bus home tonight because I am in a middle-school-my-best-friend-has-a-crush-on-my-crush fight with the 6 train, but more on that later.

So I get to Salty Balt and Nico is all “I need a cocktail“ and I’m all “I knew we were best friends for a reason” so we hop skip and jump on down to Fed Hill and learn all about how the life of an oyster (ewwww) and the cute oyster shucker (oh hayyy). Keeping our orange crush buzz going with some white vino, we were en route to Little Havana for a nice little outrageously drunken birthday dinner.

Sidenote: Other than one unimportant trip to Bmore in November, I haven’t been to Little Havana since the Rugby Christmas Formal. For those of you underprivileged miscreants that go to this school that didn’t get a chance to attend heaven on Earth otherwise known as Loyola University College, the Christmas Formal is an annual event thrown by the rugby team that pretty much puts the show in shitshow. So, obviously, Little Havana holds a special place in my heart.

We got to Powerplant, chugged a few champagne bottles on fire courtesy of our best friend D:

The birthday girl with an enflamed bottle of champagne

and subsequently tried to put out the fire in a cup of vodka (cough, BEAN, cough) ate some McDonalds and the night was over. Sidenote again: I’m sure there are plenty more details about this night, and if anyone remembers enough to share them, please feel free to comment.

Another fairly typical trip to Baltimore under my belt but, nonetheless, since I couldn’t tell you one thing about Nico’s 22nd birthday, at least I have my dignity leftover from her 23rd. Or at least the shreds I picked up off the floor of Luckie’s. Preakness anyone?

Anyway, how was everyone else’s weekend? April 25, while also being Cara’s birthday, happens to be the one-year anniversary of Claude: my 6-stitched left kneecap, so expect a detailed post on him later this week. Anyway, happy Tuesday, happy 4/20, happy almost no more LOST, and…chyeah, peaceeeee out.

things that make me laugh:

Being that it’s Friday and I don’t have too much to post about since other than feed my growing alcoholism, I don’t really do much (and I can only devote so many posts per week to g and t’s), I’ve decided to compile a list of things that have made me fall over laughing in the past week. This amalgamation of youtube videos and the like has most likely been viewed by you guys more than once, but I promise there are quite a few gems in here.

Aww, poor Eliot.

* if you look carefully enough at the comments under this one you’ll notice one that asks how much for his adoption. not even kidding. if this was my kid i’d increase his allowance with the number of hits this video gets. muahaha this is why i’m never having kids.

This just brings me back to my days of living off of York Rd and the numerous Bon’Qui Qui’s we would encounter on a daily basis. Oh Loyola….I miss chu.

You remember this little nug from his hilarious rant about things he hates? Well he’s back, and talking in-depth about birds.

Comedy skit about boys acting like girls.

If you hate everything a la the little nug from #4, you will also love this guy hating nature.

This lil puss in boots!

This wittle nug upset about not being a Single Lady

Daz all fo now. Hope chu enjoy! Happy Friday morning womp wompppp

budgeting shmudgeting

So today begins the period of time in my life we’ll call Hell. Everyone: sigh at once. That’s right, it’s payday. Now, while most of you may rejoice at getting paid (and don’t get me wrong, I do too) this marks the beginning of, how do you say it? Oh right. Budgeting.

Ugh, that just sent chills down my spine. Budgeting and I are about as close as two seventh graders at their first homecoming dance. (Well maybe not the impregnated coke-dealing seventh graders of today’s world, but back in ’99..) Anyway, we don’t get along. Of the 12 browser tabs I currently have open, 7 are relating to clothes and/or shoes and/or ways to buy these clothes and/or shoes.

Last night is a perfect example of how my flagrant habits and love of all things alcohol tend to repeatedly and without fail rape my wallet and immune system simultaneously with a final score of life: 1, Stef: 0. So Cameron comes to the city for a little bit of work training and a lot of Stef time and after the epic confusion that was 1575 Broadway versus 1585 Broadway and someone not having a cell phone because he took too many videos of the Yankees home opener we were fast on our way to Blockheads. Three of these margarita/tequila/corona nug bottle combinations later and I was on my way to black out city. No literally. I have never blacked out so fast in my life. ANYWAY. I went homeish, around 9:45, started watching Lost, and passed out at 9:47 on.the.dot.

Mexican Bulldogs

Last week, same story, different cast. Monday I went to dinner in TriBeCa, Tuesday I blacked out in the East Village slash Lower East Side, Wednesday was Pinot Noir overkill, Thursday we went to the Frying Pan and had a bucket of Coronas, and Friday was death via g and t’s at an old SoHo stomping ground. Nothing compared to the weekend, however, when we decided to go to Bostimore turned Bostiyork technically known as Boston to the rest of the English-speaking world. Being that I usually don’t sleep under normal conditions, my expectations were drastically sub-par when it came to my health and well-being after Saturday. However, it was an awesome trip, complete with some of the hardest laughing I’ve ever done. For example, would you or would you not burst out laughing if a random 40 year old man sent you a facebook message entitled “blissfully ignorant” saying that he stumbled upon your picture and that it took his breath away …literally, and that the only things to have taken his breath away thus far included the Grand Canyon and the birth of his niece? If this doesn’t make you want to reply with a/s/l/bbm pin I don’t know what would. (PS: this minute recap does not do the scenario justice at ALL but we were laughing at cmb’s expense since, you know, she is the 8th wonder of the world and everything).

Anywho, back to budgeting. Does anyone have any tips? I’m scareddd. What if I have to give up trivia? Or Brother Jimmys? Or DORRIANS?! Good God. HALP.

chicken fried steak and purple drank

In an attempt to reduce the redonkulous amount of cheese in my current diet, I went to the grocery store last night. Grocery shopping is by far one of my favorite activities, although as is drinking and going out to dinner. So you know, they battle constantly for my undivided attention, and drinking usually wins. As does eating macaroni and cheese at the bar. ANYWAY. Point. Grocery store. Right. So, last night, I bought enough vegetables to feed a small African nation, and with my ever-green (EVERGREEN!) mindset, I plan on eating every last one of those broccoli florets. So, with a red pepper, some broc, and a few other vegetables I haven’t seen since Madge used to place a glass of MILK (gross) in front of me and not excuse me from the dinner table until it was all gone (oh HAY 1993), I decided to google stir fry recipes. Now, on the food network, which is probably my 2nd favorite channel other than HGTV, the first recipes that came up were:

1. Chicken Fried Steak
2. Chicken Fried Steak and Gravy
3. Deep-Fried Stuffing on a Stick

Aside from the many inappropriate that’s what she said jokes associated with anything including the words “stuffing” and “stick” what the F is going on here? Do they suggest purple drink as a “serve with” recommendation? I really don’t understand the concept of “chicken fried steak.” a) how do you “chicken-fry” anything and b) is it chicken or is it steak? If J. Simpson wasn’t too busy making an ass out of herself and portraying America as the deeply cultured society it’s internationally known and respected for, I’d have to ask her to weigh in.

Now, I for one obviously eat a lot of cheese, no refuting that. But the other contributor to my impending doom via bad cholesterol is fried food. Obviously anyone who’s been to a single Brother Jimmy’s has heard of their frickles (fried pickles..come on people!) and I for one eat them every single time I go there. Which, unlike Dorrian’s has proven to be usually only once a week. This presents quite an interesting point, as I for one do not have a huge boner for pickles, or any other dried sometimes vegetable all the time phallic symbol floating around in a jar full of weird yellowy-greenish liquid. However, you fry it, my taste buds start to dance around like the cast of The Gods Must Be Crazy when coke bottles start falling from the sky. You could fry anything and I’d eat it. You could probably fry Oreo and I’d have a bite. Ew. I immediately retract that statement. But, if you add horseradish….

Anyway, point of blog post (is there one? nahh). I decided this past weekend to stop force-feeding (and by force I mean completely by choice) myself cheese, in all capacity. Now, hold your horses, I don’t mean I’m going to entirely live my life without cheese forever, I simply mean that in the mean time a little Draino for my arteries via veggies and fruit might not be the worst idea. Also, even though eating healthy might be about as fun as having your ex-girlfriend featured on Barstool Sports as smokeshow of the day, it might be a little more wallet-friendly. Although that macaroni and cheese at the bar idea is going nowhere…fast.