Craigslist Fridays: Vol 2

Capture

Many of us can relate to being piss poor at some point in our adult lives. Perhaps it was during the ages of 19-22, when college, bars and Forever 21 sucked every last penny you earned out of that shitty Roxy wallet that your high school boyfriend got you for your 6 month anniversary.

Perhaps it was because Daddy finally refused to fund your seventh set of acting headshots, forcing you to go to work at that new organic-vegan-gluten free joint that just opened up in Culver City.

Whatever the reason, many of us have been there and as a result, many of us have become far too familiar with surfing Craigslist for free shit.

Like this free couch, for example. Not only will this 70s chic gem put you out ZERO dollars, it’s been conveniently placed in a dumpster for you. Don’t mind the bed bugs and human feces it’s come in contact with at its new home, it looks good, and that’s what truly matters. So come pick it, and a free case of head lice, up today!

Craigslist Fridays: Vol 2

The Stages of Dieting

My sister recently had her second baby. Being that she’s 5’4 and was a whopping 113 lbs prior to baby #2, she has been determined to lose the baby fat. So, being the wonderful, supportive sister I am, I decided to help her get back down to her goal weight by agreeing to partake in body fat loss competition with her for a month.

Fun fact about my gem of a sister, she is a ruthless bitch when it comes to competition. I thought I was competitive. This bitch ate chicken and brown rice for every meal for a month just so she could say that she beat me. Every meal. EVERY meal. The intensity in her desire to destroy me in every competitive and non-competitive task in life makes me realize she needs some major therapy, or a swift kick in the ass by yours truly. But let’s be real, she could probably kick my ass as well 😦

Long story short, I lost. My punishment was to post my results on all social media for the world to see:

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While my sister’s diet regimen was met with the tenacity and willpower of that a Buddhist monk, mine went more like this:

  • Day 1: Screw this bitch, sitting here all smug, thinking she’s gonna beat me. Bitch is going down. *Goes to store and buys 5 lbs of kale and 60 cans of tuna.*
  • Day 2: Kale shakes for breakfast and lunch, tuna for dinner. I am healthy AF, the poster child for “clean eating”. Why can’t everyone else in the world be as healthy as I am?
  • Day 3: DAMN I am looking FINE. I should audition to be a Victoria’s Secret model.
  • Day 4: Live Fantasy Football Draft with unlimited beer? I got this, willpower baby! Oh, someone told me I age well? My life is over. *Shotguns five beers then calls Taco Bell to make as many Chalupas as they can in the amount of time it takes to run there.*
  • Day 5: Whoops. Fell off the wagon, nothing a little morning jog can’t fix. Oh wait no I still feel like shit and am going to lay in bed and eat Red Vines all day. Tomorrow…we’ll get back on it tomorrow.
  • Day 6: The kale is starting to smell like sewage, but I can’t not eat. How else is my metabolism going to burn all this fat? Guess these Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and Twinkies I forgot I had in my cupboard will have to do. Also red wine has antioxidants which I hear are good for you, sooooooo cheers to metabolism!
  • Day 7 through Day 28: Forgot I was on diet.
  • Day 29: Sister texts in the morning, “Weigh in first thing tomorrow morning!” *Realizes been on diet for the past month. Eats nothing all day, and drinks a gallon of coffee before bed to try to poop out the poor choices of the past 29 days. Googles: “Does lack of sleep help with weight loss?”  Fuck you WebMD, you don’t know what you’re talking about.*
  • Day 30: Weigh in. Might as well die, will never beat sister at anything.

I learned the hard way that starving yourself the day before a weigh in clearly will not work in your favor when you’re up against the fucking Dalai Lama of willpower also know as my sister. So fuck you, Maddi. You beat me again. ARE YOU HAPPY? You can find me in the fetal position in the kitchen with a jar of peanut butter and a spoon, trying to cry my body fat away.

In the end, after your sister is done shoving you down to rock bottom and making you feel like the worthless scum you are, she’ll always be there to show you the silver lining:
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Thanks, Maddog 🙂

The Stages of Dieting

5 O’Clock Frost Bite

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As I sit in my frigidly-cold office with a horrendous but cozy hoodie, my space heater on full blast, and my zebra-print Snuggie draped over my legs, I can’t help but daydream about the sun’s rays kissing my skin, warming my body to feel like I’m sunbathing in a tropical paradise.

Then I remember that I live in a fucking desert and it’s literally 107 degrees outside and someone in this godforsaken office doesn’t know how to properly work a thermostat. It is fucking freezing.

So here I am, debating whether to contribute to the demise of the environment by wasting all this excess energy, or whether I want to suffer a long, slow painful death that turns the sexy toned legs I’ve been working so hard for into shriveled up, frost-bitten nubs. I didn’t finally squat 135 lbs last weekend for nothing. The space heater stays.

According to the internet, men are apparently the ones to blame for cold workplaces (as with most things in life – golf, the toupee, children, etc.). So, what can you do to make your environment slightly more comfortable than the inside of a penguin’s asshole?

  1. Don’t be a woman under the age of 50. If you are, you’re probably shit out of luck. If you’re not, you’re probably not reading this.
  2. Dress like Michelle Duggar. No man’s hands are reaching those ta-tas, and neither is that frigid office air. Strap on your full-body underwear and your best button up polo, and you might actually be golden.
  3. Get pregnant. I hear pregnant women get hot easily. That will probably help.
  4. Quit your job. You didn’t like it anyway, and at your shitty roach-infested LA apartment, you’re the queen of the castle and can set the thermostat to whatever your heart desires. Until your roommate from hell gets home with her awful boyfriend who is constantly sweating a smell that can only be described as Axe and Jägerbombs. You’re better off being homeless anyway.
  5. Set all the thermostats in the office to 78 degrees, and leave sticky notes on each one that reads, “Whoever changes this, I will fucking murder you” I can’t confirm that this will actually work nor can I confirm that this will not get you fired, but it might release some pent up anger caused by Deborah and her awful fucking face. No, Deborah, I don’t want to hear you tell me “Good morning, sunshine!” at 8:30 in the morning before I’ve had my 5th cup of coffee. Don’t fucking look at me.
  6. Ask. Maybe you’ll get lucky and your boss will take care of the situation for you. Chances are they will give you some bullshit answer alluding to the fact that the world, the office included, does not revolve around your needs. Bitch, please.
  7. Cry. When asking doesn’t work, resort to crying. Especially in work places, this usually makes people so uncomfortable that they will give you whatever it is that you’re crying for just to get the fuck away from you STAT. Ask for a raise while you’re at it. You’ve put up with way too much of Deborah’s shit not to.
5 O’Clock Frost Bite

Craigslist Fridays: Vol 1

Every Saturday night while you’re at your grandmother’s house petting her cats and playing her in several heated games of cribbage, do you ever think, this is getting boring? What am I doing with my life?

Then your mind wanders further…I know what would liven this night up! Why the hell are we not playing this game on an antique toilet seat that has been home to countless sweaty asscheeks for the past 75 years!?

Today is your lucky day. Here, an ingenious innovator has combined two of everyone’s favorite pastimes: cribbage and shitting. What’s more unbelievable about this deal is that it’s all yours for only $20! Make grandma proud and get yours today!
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Craigslist Fridays: Vol 1

Over-analyzing Compliments: You Age So Well!

I recently turned 27. And when I say recently, I mean barely over a month ago so it doesn’t even technically count. However, being the pessimist I am, I began preparing myself for being one year older six months in advance.

Six months after my 26th birthday, I began telling myself, “Holy shit you’re basically 27.” I told myself this so many times, that I often forgot I was actually 26, so once I remembered, it was like taking a time machine six months into the past! (The key to happiness is always denial)

By the time I actually turned 27, the sting was a little easier to bear. I had accepted the fact that I was no longer in my mid-twenties, and I was six months away from being 28 (again, denial = happiness). I enjoyed living my pitiful life through these rose-colored glasses. Until a young whippersnapper ripped those glasses off my face and crushed my soul with four seemingly innocent words upon hearing my age, “You age so well!”

I froze, unsure of whether I was supposed to say “Thank you” or “What the fuck is your problem!?” Thankfully, I was on a diet and not drinking (yet). I graciously accepted his compliment and died a little on the inside.

My mind began racing. When the fuck did I start aging, and doing it well for that matter?! I get it, I know, we all have birthdays once a year, we all get older. But at what point do you go from getting responses like “oh you’re just a baby” to “you age really well!” WHY THE FUCK WAS THIS TRANSITION NOT COVERED IN SEVENTH GRADE HEALTH CLASS!?

I did what any well-adjusted adult would do to remedy the situation, I began pounding Michelob Ultras with friends from high school in a game called Ride the Bus, jumping on the table after the fourth round and yelling “CHALUPAS ALL AROUND!” It was beautiful, for an evening I felt 18 again. Until I woke up in a hungover haze the next morning after being hauled home by my sober boyfriend the night before.

5am. What happened? Where am I? Am I still 18? No, you’re 3 years out from 30 you dumb piece of shit. Now get up and act your age.

I was determined to erase the night before by committing a few adult-like deeds. Since I didn’t drive myself home, I needed to get my car. I strapped on my Nike’s and workout gear and headed out the door into the darkness with a fork in hand, because I had too big of a headache to look for my mace.

I ran the two miles to my car, only stopping to dry-heave into the bushes three times (take THAT college Cass!) By the time I got to my car, the sun was rising. I posted a pic of the beautiful smog-filled sunrise in front of my friend’s frat-like-but-less-rapey home to instagram, so the world could see that I was a goddamned responsible adult.

I drove home with the windows down and the wind blowing through my alcohol infused sweaty hair. I jumped in the shower, put on my Sunday best, and headed to church, something I couldn’t remember the last time I did. The pain ringing in my head from my poor Saturday night decisions made it impossible to focus. I left before communion, the thought of drinking wine and crackers triggering images from the night before of shoving my face with beer and far too much Taco Bell than one person should ever consume.

The attempt to be an adult was there, but I was kidding nobody except maybe a few Instagram followers. I finally accepted my hungover Sunday fate, changed into my glow-in-the-dark onesie from Target, crawled into bed with a bucket of Red Vines and watched BoJack Horseman on Netflix the rest of the day. Monday would be the perfect day to start acting like an adult!

There are a couple morals to this story. The aforementioned true happiness cannot be obtained without extreme amounts of denial (ok, perhaps that may not work all the time). The second moral to this story is just avoid complimenting women at all costs. Chances are some of us ladies will figure out a way to over-analyze your compliment based on our own insecurities, turning you into a giant asshole. Juuuuuust kidddddding 🙂

Over-analyzing Compliments: You Age So Well!

How Long to Wait Until Your Boyfriend Discovers You Are Batshit Insane

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You’ve been watching him at work for 2 months. You know he goes to the gym after work, and suddenly you do too. You tell him he hasn’t seen you there before because you’ve been working out at the ass crack of dawn, total gym rat.

Except what you’ve really been doing at the ass crack of dawn is being passed out with a half-empty 1.5 liter bottle of Costco Cabernet sitting on your nightstand, Flamin’ Hot Cheeto crumbs all over your sheets and Netflix asking you if you really intended to watch three hours straight of Bob’s Burgers. (When would that answer ever be no?)

You’ve done the necessary investigative research via google to know that 10 years ago he averaged 3.1 points per basketball game in high school and that his address is 4565 Cxxxxx Wxx Los Angeles, California (Thanks for nothing, Intelius. You’ll crack that address code later).

You’ve researched his favorite bands and wear a vintage “Everclear” shirt on Casual Fridays. You’ve tracked down his Twitter and know that he live tweeted the 2012 presidential debate to his 3 followers. You choose to pretend like you didn’t see that. He has no Instagram, is he a serial killer? You’ll worry about that later. You’ve got bigger problems right now, and that’s hiding the fact that you are batshit insane.

Between the concerts of bands you’ve never fucking heard of and taking private lessons from a basketball trainer, you’ve managed to weasel your way into his life. This poor son of a bitch is actually starting to fall for you. So at what point do you clue him into your dark secret?

Is it the first time he tries to get intimate with you?

Him: “Baby, I’ve wanted this for so long.”

You: “Me too, I Facebook stalked your ex-girlfriend and she seems like a freak, so I’m guessing you are too. Mama like.”

But that’s no time for talking, you’ll wait.

Is it the first time he tells you he loves you?

Him: “Baby, I love you with all my heart.”

You: “I know your social security number and have the paint colors of our children’s rooms picked out.”

You don’t want to change the subject, so maybe you’ll hold out just a little longer.


Suddenly you’re married with five children and going out for a fancy Friday night date at the Olive Garden.

You’ve had three glasses of their cheapest Merlot and by the fourth you’ve asked for them to add ice, because it’s summer. When your iced Merlot arrives (you will make it a thing), there’s a black fly sitting complacently on an ice cube. This may be no chardonnay, but all you can hear in your head is Alanis Morissette’s Ironic, and all you can see is that smug black fly staring back at you. And suddenly, it’s time.

Your eyes grow wide, your veins pulsing with alfredo sauce and adrenaline. You channel Teresa Giudice and flip the table (obviously not before grabbing one last breadstick), before somewhat coherently screaming that you just want to be able to take a shit in peace. You storm off, and that was all she wrote. Until next week’s date at Red Lobster.


So when you ask yourself how long you should wait until you clue your boyfriend in that you are, in fact, batshit insane, I leave you with this piece of advice: keep that skeleton locked tight in your closet next to the bags of Oreo’s and handkerchiefs soaked in the tears of your failed relationships, because chances are you didn’t hide it all that well anyway before your midlife, wine induced meltdown in the middle of an Olive Garden. And know this: you do deserve to take a shit in peace every once in a while.

How Long to Wait Until Your Boyfriend Discovers You Are Batshit Insane

What’s Cookin, Good Lookin?

Hello, and welcome!

Let’s chat, shall we? I read wonderfully written articles and blogs by women and men alike who are always dressed to the nines, workout at 5am everyday like robots, and can hack the shit out of that $9.99 IKEA side table that nobody likes. Saying these people have their shit together is an understatement.

Don’t get me wrong, I love these people, I need these people. When I’m feeling really good about myself, I need these people to bring me down a notch and remind me that buying store-bought cookie dough and eating the entire log raw does not, in fact, count as baking.

For years, I’ve aspired to be like this subspecies of human. I will forever try to get on their level, but let’s be real, someone who has, more than once, waxed their own eyebrow off while “shaping” will never be on their level.

I’m here to represent the little folks, and let you know that here you’re not judged by how shitty your DIY sliding barn door you found on Pinterest turned out.

Instead, we’ll chat about the important things, like the necessary amount of time to wait when dating someone new before you clue them in to the fact that you’re batshit insane. We’ll test out and review that forty of Olde English 800 your grandpa always had stocked in the fridge next to the Popov and the half-eaten mayonnaise sandwich. We’ll plan that Sunday morning  afternoon workout around your bad decisions from the night before. And we’ll even occasionally show you how to keep your life from falling apart, like how to keep your home spotless and tidy all the time (spoiler alert, you fucking don’t).

But mostly, you’ll get a look into my daily world, complete with all my shortcomings and questionable decision-making abilities.

So sit back, crack open a beer, and leave all your guilt at the front door. Welcome to my world!

Cassi

What’s Cookin, Good Lookin?