Dork Moment

Last night the sexiest man came into my job. I’m talking tall, dark and I-wanted-to-f*ck-the-sh*t-out-of-him, handsome. Homeboy was fo-ine!

Once I noticed him I spent the next 45 minutes stalk watching him. I imagined him coming over to me to tell me how beautiful I was. Then asking me for my phone number, so he could take me out to dinner and buy me flowers. When everything worked out we would eventually get married and make babies. (Yes, I said babies. That's how hot he was).

As my little fantasy bubble floated over my head, I noticed him walking towards me.

“Oh sh*t!” I thought. He is coming over here to tell me how hot I am! I quickly whipped out my berry flavored Victoria Secret’s lip-gloss and smeared it over my lips. The whole building shifted into slow motion as sexy man strutted over to me. I’m not kidding when I say sexy man even had his own theme music. I don’t know what it was, but it was something cool and sexy.

As his stride brought him closer, I started going over in my head how I would react when he told me he’d been watching me all night and it was love at first sight. I stood up a little straighter and flashed him my award winning smile. This was it...

Sexy man strutted right up to me and asked, “um excuse me, where’s the bathroom?”

“Oh, it’s ah, um, it’s (stutter, stutter, stutter) it’s over there,” I said and pointed to the back of the building.

“Thanks,” he said, walking off, leaving me with my glossy mouth hanging open.

I walked around the rest of the night with a big "L" stamped on my forehead. Man, I got to get up on my A-game...

I slept in today...

...because I felt like this...


I'm on work overload. Be back later, or tomorrow, or Monday...

*please note* no animals were harmed in the making of this post.

Material Girl?

“Hello lover.” -Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City, window shopping.

I wouldn’t consider myself to be a materialistic person. I wear the same jeans religiously throughout the week, if my hair gets done it’s either a) on accident or b) someone else took it upon themselves to fix it out of frustration and as long as my bucket car gets me from point A to point B, then I’m all good. I did have a sugar daddy once, but that was a circumstantial situation. Seriously, he came to me and basically forced me into letting him buy me things. How could I say no? Who me? Gold digger? Never!

Anyway, since college, my need for materialistic things has significantly deteriorated. I went from buying make-up and purses to splurging on alcohol, Gatorade and Tylenol.

However, when it comes to shoes I have a serious problem. I always have to have the latest and the greatest. I remember in high school, my mom got me this credit card for emergencies. Those “emergencies” often transformed into a new pair of pumps or tennis shoes.

“But it was an emergency mom,” I said. “They were on sale and will go perfect with this one outfit I have.”

Justification approved. Ha ha mom! You sucka! I’m just kidding. No really, I am. (Oh sh*t, mom if you’re reading this, please still buy me things)…

Anyway, back to my point, shoes. I love shoes. The first things I notice on other people are their shoes. I have a prejudice against people who wear bad shoes. It kills me walking down the street to see someone wearing these…

I don’t care how comfortable they are…

Or these...

Nope, don’t know what someone killed to make those, but I’m not feeling it…

Those are what I would call a fashion, “oh hell no!” or “oh no she didn’t!”

Right now I have my eyes on these...

Hypothetical Situation

Would you rather have Amy Winehouse’s dental work…

Dolly Parton’s reconstructive surgery…

or Britney Spears' legal problems???

Speaking of being racist, crazy and sniffing way too much coke during happy hour…

Remember that one girl Adrianne Curry, who won the first season of “America’s Next Top Model," then later went on to be a reality TV whore and married that one guy from the Brady Bunch, Chris Knight?

Well apparently she blogs. Curry is boycotting BET because she thinks the network is “racist”. In a crazy-reality-TV-whore-nutshell, she wrote on her blog that celebrating Black History Month is racist, something about Native Americans should have their own month and television show, the gracious “Jews” and her being called a “n*gger lover”.

“Yes, I get it. Black people were slaves here once. You know what? That does suck some major balls, however, it is time to move the fuck on. Do we hear the Jews crying that they were made slaves for thousands of years?”

(Yeah exactly what I was thinking… I think Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. just rolled over twice in his grave)…

-Wait, I’m sorry Mrs. Curry, um err Knight? Can I call you Adrianne? I’m not sure how slavery can be considered to, “suck major balls.” I mean I agree with the idea that slavery does indeed suck something, because of slavery and racism the system is kind of f*cked. When minorities aren’t dealing with institutionalized racism, racial profiling and the self-fulfilling prophecy of our society, I would say they are sucking more than just balls.

Hold up. Why am I explaining this to you? Don’t you get paid to model? And when you aren’t modeling, doesn’t VH1 pay you to burp, fart and get drunk in front of billions of people? I’m just curious. I mean your good at it and I think you should stick to it, because comments like, “How dare we have Black History Month!” or “So, I will no longer tune into BET. This is going to suck, but I do NOT like the idea of having a channel for only 1 race,” are not gonna fly…

Although I’m sorry you got called a “n*gger lover” for f*cking a black guy back in the 12th grade, I don’t think Jewish people will appreciate you calling them Jews or confusing an entire race with a religion. However, I do think that giving the Natives Americans their own television network is a great idea! What should we call it, NET? Or would you boycott that as well?-

I don’t know but personally I think that over 400 years of slavery and oppression deserves at least one month of recognition and a television network. That is part of being an American, celebrating, reminiscing, and learning our nation’s history. Besides, there are more people who get their fifteen minutes of recognition, not just black people...

*please note*: I do not have any proof whatsoever of Adrianne Curry sniffing coke during happy hour. I also don’t have any clinical or medical records of Curry being diagnosed as crazy. And according to her blog, Curry is not, I repeat NOT, racist. However, from her description of racism I have come to the conclusion she is misinformed of the definition and concept of racism, which might in fact mean she is racist. Although Curry did shed some light on some important issues in her blog, her endeavor to express her opinion was displayed in a very tactless manner...

Thoughts???

Ms Puddin’ Gets Racist

So I have to ask, since when did BP time (Black People Time) turn into two hours late? And if black people show up two hours late, does that mean Asians show up an hour early, while white people are right on time?

I’m not racist. Just throwing that out there.

As matter of fact, I do have a lot of black friends, one Asian friend and I know a bunch of white people. I don't even qualitfy to be racist, because I’m biracial. Me hating someone because of their ethnic description would be like committing suicide.

I’m just curious about this whole timing thing, because last night I tried to coordinate a get together with a bunch of my friends. Nothing over the top, just something chill and relaxed to kick off the weekend early. Never again will I play party planner. With the exception of people who told me they couldn’t make it, the people who did show up were two hours late! I told people 8pm and I figured they wouldn’t get there until 8:30pm or 9pm, but people didn’t show up until 11pm! Wtf.

One of my guy friends said, “I’m just in time for the after party!”

No. No, you’re not. There is no after party. This is the party, you’re late and it is almost over.

One of my other friends (yes I have more than one friend) said that I should have told people to be there at 4pm and then people would have been right on time. Forget that! I’m going to start hanging out with my one Asian friend. If we get to the party early, then we can get drunk before everyone gets there and we won't even notice how late they are...

Anyway, have a great weekend people! Unless I get abducted by my illegitimate child or some other creepy person I will be back on Monday with more Puddin’ recipes.

Getting old sucks because…

1). The most exciting thing I’m doing this month is paying off an old credit card bill.

2). The only time I took off work next month is for a baby shower.

3). I have to learn new words like, responsibility, practical and budget.

4). I actually care if I spill something on my clothes.

5). Calling my mother is becoming a chore.

...and the worst part is I can’t even do this!?

A Good Investment

I recently read an article in ELLE magazine about two guys who started up MyFreeImplants.com. It's a Web site where women can get men to buy her fake boobs.

Literally she creates a profile, pasting up slutty pictures of herself, kisses a bunch of ass and men donate money into her boob account. If a woman makes enough money for her implants, the money goes straight to the surgeon. If she doesn’t use it, the money goes back to the donor. Kind of like MySpace, but the creepy guy that wants to add you as a friend, is a good thing.

I made a profile. I’ve had it for about a week and I’ve made $0. No donations, no messages, no feedback. *Sigh* I guess Fresh Banana Puddin’ isn’t so popular after all.

Does anyone have any suggestions to make my profile more appealing (whorish)? Or would anyone care to donate $$$? I work for quarters…

*Disclaimer* I don’t know if I honestly want the boobs, just more curious to see if this thing works…

Not my used condom, not my problem

My friend called me yesterday to tell me that she had a story for my blog.

“It better be good,” I said. “Because I only put top notch stories on my blog.” Unless someone is getting hollered at by the human projectile sprinkler or locking their keys in the car, in the ignition with the car still running, then it just isn’t up to Puddin’ par. I feel her story passed the Puddin’ taste test, so today I steal her story…

My friend E* (no not the drug) has six male roommates. One of the guys she lives with is this close to me sending his picture to Hot Chicks With Douchebags. His friends have even suggested the only two things in life this guy cares about are pussi and money. Not necessarily in that order. Douche actually has a girlfriend. Well not really. It’s this one girl he hangs out with all the time and they do everything a couple would do together, but I have gotten into plenty of heated debates with him denying her status.

“D* is not my girlfriend,” he will say, until he is blue in the (balls) face.

“Ok, ok she is not your girlfriend,” I reply. “You guys just cook, shop, eat, sex, go on trips, and spend every waking hour together. Makes perfect sense.”

I guess it isn’t entirely his fault either, because his not girlfriend thinks she is going to be the one to "change" his douchebagness. Not going to happen. Men don’t change. The only drastic transition I’ve ever seen in a man was Michael Jackson’s skin color. And I’m not even sure MJ is still a man or if that transition counts.

So back to the story, on Saturday, (when I was at work), they had a party for one of the roommates at a bar (go figure). Douche of course gets drunk and ends up bringing this hot Australian chick home from the bar and has sex with her. The next day at work, he calls my friend E* and asks her for a favor. This douche asks E* to go in his room and get rid of the used condom, because he forgot his not girlfriend is going to stop by.

First of all, if it’s not his girlfriend, what is he so worried about? And second, who asks someone else to deal with their used condom? (My posts are starting to get really gross, aren't they?)

“You didn’t do it, did you?” I asked E*. “Oh sh*t you did.”

“Yeah, I went in there with some chicken tongs,” E* said laughing. “It smelled like a boys locker room in there too.”

*memo* If I ever had to write a list of top ten things I would never do, going into my roommates room to remove the evidence of a used condom would be at the top of the list.

Homie's Breath Was Kickin'

This weekend I worked three eight-hour shifts at my serving job, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Boo! How is a girl supposed to go to bars, pick up strange men and get laid when she is always at work making money and being responsible?

A few guys came into my job and hit on me. Trust me I’m not bragging. There was no potential whatsoever. Not even a sugar daddy or a boy toy. Nothing.

There was one guy on Friday night, who looked like he was straight out of the movie, “Carlito’s Way” or “Blood In Blood Out”. He was as drunk as an alcoholic after an AA meeting. When he talked to me I prayed no one lit up a cigarette, because the fumes of Hennessy on his breath would have set the place on fire.

I politely turned down his offer to go over to his house after work, where him and some of the “homies”, were going to get a few bottles and continue their partaying.

“I’m not drinking tonight,” I said.

“Oh, well you don’t have to drink,” he said. “Just come and bring some of your friends who do want to drink.”

“No thanks,” I said.

By the end of the night I was ready to go home and go to bed. I was tired of dealing with drunk people. Drunk people who kept opening tabs with the bartender and then asking me to fetch their drinks. Either you sit your drunk ass at the bar or you sit in my section. You can’t do both. I don’t care what the name is on your card. A tab is a tab.

Anyway, I’m on my way out the door when I see out of the corner of my eye drunk homeboy and his homies also on their way out. I was going to get a security guard to walk me to my car, but I wasn’t parked in the “employee parking”. I figured if I walked quickly the homies wouldn’t catch up with me.

I’m halfway across the parking lot when I look over my shoulder and see three guys come stumbling out of my job. “Oh sh*t” I think to myself and I started to add some more pep in my step. However, they are covering tracks. These guys are making a scene behind me, trying to get my attention, when all of a sudden all I can hear is “BLEH! BLEH! BLEH!”

Not just runny liquor barf, but a chunky soup barf. Sorry for that visual, but homeboy was doing some serious dry heaving. It's quite possible he lost his liver. I don’t know why but him throwing up scared the sh*t out me. I could imagine him trying to get my number and throwing up on me.

So I started speed walking (running) to my car. In the background I could hear his homies cracking up with laughter. I got to my car and I heard it again, “BLEH! BLEH! BLEH!" Omg, by now I think I’m going to be sick. His friends are rolling with laughter and in the midst of wiping his face with his white T, this fool starts calling after me again.

Seriously? Ugh. See what I meant when I said I wasn't bragging? Throwing up is just as attractive to me as Condoleezza Rice is to guys. I hopped into my car and peeled out of the parking lot like a high school kid going for a joy ride.

Going home and going to bed on a Friday night never felt so good.

Quote For Today

Has anyone seen my sunglasses? I misplaced them along with my short-term memory. -J*

There's No Crying in Pop Culture

I'm sure everyone has seen the Chris Cocker video, Britney Spear's "performance" at the VMAs and Kanye West's hissy fit. Here's a video in Kanye's defense...



and why I think Perez is so awesome...

Men: Can’t live with them. Can’t leave them bruised and beaten under an overpass…

I used to have a male hairdresser. (I guess that’s what the title would be for a man who did my hair)? He was an attractive, middle-aged, straight, man who was exceptional with his hands. Literally, this man could wash and whip up my hair something fierce. I used to lye back in his chair letting his strong arms and hands stroke and caress my scalp. I went to him once a month for about a year and received a wash, a head massage, a cut and some good conversation.

Then one day he called me and started to describe some sexual fantasies he’d been having about me. (Yes, more than one). Something about me naked, in his bed, with some heels on and him giving me oral pleasure. Normally, this type of flattery would have been awesome. Especially since I haven’t gotten laid since the Raiders won the Super Bowl. But for some reason him telling me this was a complete turnoff and after that I didn’t want him anywhere near my hair or me. Who knows where those hands had been or what thoughts flashed through his mind while he was caressing my head. So I stopped “seeing” him and it’s been almost a year since he’s done my hair.

So, imagine my surprise yesterday, when I’m at work and I get a random phone call from him. Apparently his car broke down and for some logical reason he had decided to call me? for a ride. I told him I was at work, but I would try to find someone who might be able to help him out. (Just because he’s a pervert doesn’t necessarily mean that I should leave him stranded, right)? He calls me back a few minutes later and says never mind, because he’s already worked it out. He thanks me for being such a, “down ass female” (something, something, blah, blah, blah) and that he appreciates my effort.

Ok great. I’m thinking, “Now I can get back to my day.” But oh no, then he goes ahead and asks me something stupid.

What is it with guys? These so called "simple" creatures, who like to eat, sleep, fart and piss off women. I know I am becoming the queen of deteriorating the male ego, but man the guys I meet sure say and do some stupid sh*t. Anyway, this fool proceeds to ask me, “Do you remember that thick (fat) Asian chick from your job? Because I was wondering if you could hook me up with her?” He also adds something about how since I haven’t showed any interest in dating him, maybe she will.

First of all, has anyone else ever picked up the phone and then wished they had let it go to voicemail?

Second, I want to make it clear that I am not a hater. My guy friends can vouch that I am quick to try and get them some booty. However, I am nobody’s pimp and I don’t know who the f*ck-the-fat-Asian-girl-at-my-old-job he was talking about!?



Guys. Answers. Please. I just don’t get the logic behind this whole scenario...

Day 3

Not much going on today. I’m just trying to lay low so I can recuperate from all the happenings that is my life.

I think I’m addicted to blogging. Weird.

Anyway, today I thought I’d just share a music video. (Yes they still make those)... I’m so glad to see that there are still some real artists out in the world, making a comeback right now. (No not Britney Spears). I’m talking about the musicians with soul baby! The artists who have substance to their music and aren’t just a product. Artists like Common, Alicia Keys, Talib Kweli, Jill Scott, Andre 3000, etc. all have new singles out. (Kanye West too, if he would quit crying like a little b*tch). Here’s my favorite…




Happy Hump Day…

NFL Bound With Bad Car-ma

First of all,

(Yes, I said it).

Second of all, I love football. It is the only sport I understand. I know that when a team scores, it’s a touchdown. When the guys bend over in their tight spandex, there’s going to be some good action. Thanks to Just A Girl, I know a touchdown is six points, a field goal is three (one) point(s) and at the Super Bowl there used to be a great halftime show. (That was until Janet Jackson showed her nippleage).

The only problem is my favorite team sucks.

Hi, my name is Ms Puddin’ and I am a Raiders fan. (The first step is admitting you like a sucky team). If anyone follows this sport, they know that my team has sucked for a little over five years now. (Ok maybe longer). Instead of betting on whether or not the Raiders will make it to the Super Bowl, fans bet on whether or not they will actually win a game each season. I should rep my team with more pride, but it’s starting to hurt how much they suck. They're good at sucking. They suck like College Call Girl at a Player's Ball.

My boy, however, is a die-hard 49er’s fan and he had some extra tickets for the game last night. The game was close enough to home, so I said why not? A football game is a football game. What girl is going to pass up an opportunity of a night of beer, boys, boys in spandex and more beer? Not Ms Puddin’.

Although going to a 49er’s game when you’re a Raiders fan, is not smart. I should have known bad things were going to happen. I’m already accident-prone. It also didn’t help that I wore all black.

So we get to the stadium (after four hours of traffic) to meet up with my boy, who has been tailgating all day. He is already done, smashed, hammered, three sheets to the wind. On his way to hand us our tickets in the parking lot he starts puking. Mind you he has on all his 49er’s gear to the niner. I’m talking a 49er’s jersey, head shaved into a Mohawk, painted red and gold like an official 49er helmet. After puking he yells at us for being late, because the game is already into the first quarter.

We get into the stadium and after spending $71.75 on beer, we go find our seats. This fool ends up passing out for the whole second and third quarter of the game! (Great game by the way). By the fourth quarter, we decide to take his drunk ass home. The whole way to the car his drunk ass is like why are we leaving we’re missing the game. I’m like, “you slept through half of it!” Reluctant to leave, we end up leaving him at his truck and call some of his buddies (who are still at the game and have his keys) to remember to pick him up.

My girl and I head home. On the way out the parking lot, she notices that her gas light is on. We can’t find a gas station, so we decide to just stop off on the first exit. On the ramp heading home, her car runs out of gas. Now let me tell you I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, call road side assistance in the city again.

First my girl calls her AAA and they tell her she owes a payment before they can come out to help us. Then I call my AAA, who tell me the wait will be up to an hour to bring us some f*cking gas! So I call 911, because we are halfway almost in the middle of an on ramp onto the freeway. I figured at least someone can help give us a push into a safer spot. But oh no, the dispatcher lady has the nerve to have an attitude. She tries to tell me I’m in a whole other city than I’m in.

B*tch I am not retarded, I just ran out of gas! (Ok probably bad idea to say, “ran out of gas” and “not retarded” in the same sentence).

My girl ended up having to walk to the nearest Shell station to get gas. According to her she got into a fight with the gas station attendant, who wouldn’t help her figure out how to get the gas into the canister and she squirted gasoline in her face. When she finally got back to the car, the damn spicket they gave us at the gas station wouldn’t work, so we had to pour the gas into a water bottle and then into the car. (Well she did). By the time she got enough gasoline in the car to get us to a gas station, she was covered in gasoline and the car smelled like an atomic bomb.

Then covered in gasoline this b*tch trys to light a cigarette! I had to yell at her, "you are just as crazy as the dispatcher!" We finally made it home by 1 am. SH*T happens, but I think that experience was my punishment for going to a 49er’s game.

49er's 20. Cardinals 17. Ms Puddin' 0.

Doing a little back to school shopping...

I was doing some online browsing over the weekend and I picked up on some of the latest Hollywood trends...

Sporting the Baby Bump (Serena Williams and Halle Berry are also knocked up)...

Rockin' the Anklet (So cool! So exclusive! Only comes in black, but how convenient)...

Tacky Hair Extensions (looks even better when the tracks are showing, yum!)...

Happy shopping children! Don't spend all of mommy and daddy's money on one bottle of liquor and one line of coke. Splurge!!!

Working Girl

I have been broke since I went to Las Vegas back in February. If I had played my cards right (no pun intended) I should have came back from Vegas better off than I’d started. Strapped for cash, how I spent my summer drunk is beyond me. I guess it must be the benefit of having boobs and a vagina. Those two sure do come in handy when I’m sober and in a bar.

But now I really need to take life more seriously, buckle down, get a REAL job and make some REAL money. So I've recently decided to get a second job as a server, in order to make some extra cash. The new spot I’m working, ( not that I'm their spokesperson or anything), is a cross between a club, a crack house and Paris Hilton’s apartment (I’m guessing). Whoever came up with the idea for this place was smoking some serious sh*t and since it’s a chain, I know they’re making some serious money.

Allow me to describe this place…

It has 32 bowling lanes, with theatre style flat screen TV’s at the end of each lane, tuned into every single ESPN sports channel that ever existed or will be invented. There is a full bar, (minus Pacifico & Casadores Blanco, boo) a restaurant, a pool hall, an arcade, a DJ and it’s located inside a shopping mall.

The only downside is our uniforms. I have to wear this…

(Except imagine mine in hot pink). Bleh.

Apparently at work I go by the name, “hey sexy” or “damn baby”. So most of the guys that come in there are known as, “hi d*ckhead” or “f*ck off asshole.” How else am I supposed to respond to that? The funniest thing is that when I’m working and I lean over guys really try to look up my dress. If you think I got nothing under this, you got another thing coming, as if would leave my house without my spanky pants.
Other than the perverts, I'm enjoying my new job. I will see if the long hours even out with the tips...

Signature Move

As a writer (blogger?) I know I'm having a bad day when I have to entertain people by posting pictures of myself. It never was my intention to do such things, but I’ve started to notice there is something wrong with my arm. In every picture I've taken lately it is UP.

50% of these pictures were taken sober too. I hope it doesn't get stuck this way...

If I only had a brain...

I could really use all those brain cells I killed back in high school right about now. Who knew smoking so much weed would have such a long-term effect. I mean it is one thing to be absentminded and do something stupid once, maybe even twice, but the third time is not a charm in my case. The things I do should be videotaped. I could be making a lot of serious money through some television network off of Puddin’ bloopers...

So last spring I went out to lunch at BJ’s with a friend of mine and we spent about two hours hanging out. On our way out the door as I’m digging through my purse I realized I didn't have my keys. I don’t remember leaving them in the restaurant, so I already knew that meant one thing, “aw sh*t I think I locked my keys in the car,” I said. We get to my car and sure enough the keys are in my car. However, not only had I locked my keys in the car, but they were still in the ignition and the car was still running. For two hours my car was in the parking lot pumping away. Nice. We ended up having to call a tow truck to come and break into my car.

Ok not so bad. Stupid move ha ha laugh about it and move on, right? Wrong. Not even a month later I do the EXACT same thing. I’m on my way to drop off some paperwork on campus and lock my keys in my car, in the ignition. I called my roommate who happened to be home to come and bring me the spare key.

Which brings me up to yesterday, when (yup) once again I locked my keys in the car, in the ignition. I was so busy text messaging after I pulled into the garage, I thought they were in my hand when I got out the car. The f*cked up part is I popped the trunk and then shut my door. WTF?! I’m so brilliant I figured I could break into my house and get the spare car key. Wrong again. The only door I thought I might be able to break into was the sliding glass door on the balcony.

I climbed up on the balcony, but then my dumbass got stuck up there, because a) I couldn't get inside my house and b) I couldn't for the life of me figure out how I got up there to get back down. (Good to know I can't break into my house). I ended up calling my friend who talked me down and took me to my roommate’s job to get the house key.

Of course, the house key is the ONLY key I grabbed and by the time I got back to the house someone has shut the door to the garage! My car is still running and I can’t get in there to turn it off. A good thirty minutes later my neighbor answers her door (she hates us) and lets me into the garage.

The funniest thing to me about that whole situation was, I called my mom to tell her what happened and the first thing she asked me was, “are you pregnant?”

“No,” I said. Is that something that pregnant people (women) do? Lock their keys in the car and then try and break into their own house? I don’t know. *shrug*

What I do know is that I really need a car with an alarm on it, to protect myself from being such an idiot.

The French Got Talent Too!

Being a silly American who can’t read maps, I didn’t know that they had reality TV, talent, act-like-an-ass-in-front-of-millions of people, contest, shows in other countries. My cousin sent me this audition from France. It's in french (duh), but wait until the guy performs, he’s got skills…