I’m All Shook Up

I was lying in bed last night, doing a little bit of nothing and a whole lot of spacing out, when an earthquake hit (5.6 to be exact). I had just finished eaves dropping on my neighbor’s routine of yelling at their 3-year-old daughter and was in the process of returning a friend's phone call, when the room began to sway.

“Damn,” I thought. “I know they mad at that little girl, but do they have to shake the whole damn building.”

“Hello,” my girl said on the other end of the line, the exact same time the whole apartment building vibrated harder, (ha ha, okay get mind out of the gutter) knocking a few pictures off the shelves.

“Oh sh*t! It’s an earthquake,” I said into the phone, finally putting two and two together.

I could hear my roommate yelling from the doorway of her bedroom for me to get my lazy ass up. It was weird too, because the friend I was on the phone with, lives about 45 minutes away. After the quake was over for me (and I had finally sauntered into the doorway) the quake was just then hitting her house. Creepy.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Anyone wanna party with this guy?

I've Been Attacked!

I’ve never done this before, but Don has tagged me…

The rules of the game are:

A). Link to the person that tagged you and post the rules on your blog...

B). Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself...

C). Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs...

D). Let each person know that they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1) When I was a baby I was born with Jaundice, because I had my daddy’s blood type instead of my mother’s. It basically meant I turned yellow and had to be kept in a baby tanning bed until I turned regular baby color. Which is kind of ironic, now that I am older, people often call me “high yella,” because I’m so light skinned.

2) I like to air dry. And I still dance in front of the mirror when I am getting ready to go out. Not that I really go out that much, so basically I just like to dance in front of my mirror, in my underwear. (Man I need some new hobbies).

3) I hate talking on the phone. And I don’t see the problem with holding a decent conversation through text messaging.

4) I peel the skin off my lip when I am nervous or in deep thought. My ex once told me, "Wow, I'm surprised you have any lip left."

5) My first kiss tasted like pizza and cigarettes.

6) I grew up celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah at the same time.

7) I have bad luck with cars. My first car was stolen, my second was totaled and I can’t seem to stop locking my keys in the third. (I’ve only been driving for eight years).

I am taggin' Bella, Natural Muze, NYC Ponderings, So@24, On the Virg, G-Sweet and Cunning Linguist.

It's just my luck I would…

bump into a guy after giving him the wrong number…

bump into the girl, at the club, who was sleeping with my man in high school…

walk into a wall at work (literally) and my hand would swell up the size of an Easter egg…Easter egg swelling + hand = not hot :( ...not that I’m complaining, but wtf?

I can’t quite put into words what my weekend was like. There was a little bit of this…

...a little bit of that…

and definitely some of this...


It's Monday. Ugh.

Meet the Puddin' Folk

I got a request from UBERMOUTH, who will be leaving the blog world, to write more about my mother. So as a tribute to her, I thought why not write about where I get my good looks, charm and all around awesomeness? (I’m so humble, I know). I love making fun of mom and dad. Although I see less and less of them these days, they are still very much a part of my life…

My mom is great. I have a very Jewish mother, who every year sends me my birthday cake in the mail, with candles. Surprisingly enough, she would be the first person I would call to bail me out of jail. Not only because I know she would do it, but she would probably show up with a fresh pair of underwear and something to eat.

Growing up I think she had everything anyone could think of in her purse. Brush? Check. Spoon? Check. Toothbrush? Check. A midget? Check.

She is my inspiration.

Now my dad is the most laid back and easygoing guy anyone will ever meet. However, he is not afraid to play “dad” when it comes to the boyfriend department. I remember one time in high school, bringing a boyfriend home for dinner. My dad looked the kid straight in the eye and said, “how about we go outside with a baseball bat and play a game of you lose?” He was kidding of course, but that is one example of the kind of comedic sense I grew up with.

We all (I grew up with my two younger brothers) loved cracking jokes at my mother’s expense. I don’t know why, maybe because she is such an easy target. I remember when she lost a majority of her hearing while we were growing up. I think she basically had what I would call “selective hearing,” because sometimes I think she just tuned us out. But most of the time she couldn’t hear because of her disability.

My siblings and I would drive her crazy by mouthing words without sound and she would become frantic trying to figure out what we were saying. Then other times we would just yell things at her like, “Mom I’m going to the store!” Which she would either interpret as, “Mom, I’m a dirty whore!” or she would tell us to stop yelling at her.

My dad was the person my brothers and I would go to if we wanted our way. A night home with dad without mom meant unlimited hot dogs and macaroni and cheese! Score! A little batting of the eyelashes, followed by a very sweet, “daddy, please can I?” was usually followed by a solid, “yes”.

However, my mother had a habit of saying, “NO!” before the words were even out of our mouth. NO! soda. NO! chips. NO! sugar. Since my dad was diabetic, the whole family was diabetic. My mom put fructose in everything. And tofu. I grew up eating sweetened tofu. It’s no wonder I got to college and gained 40 pounds. My body went into shock. McDonalds? What? This stuff exists?

So anyway, I got carried away talking about the folks. UBERMOUTH you will be missed!

Movin’ On Up?

I’m really overwhelmed. I don’t even have a speech prepared. There is so much going on in my life right now, I don’t know where to begin. No, I didn’t get laid. I got another job and it sounds like I might get a promotion at one of my other jobs. Yes ladies and gentlemen, I am now officially, Jamaican.

I kind of don’t want to talk about it, because I don’t want to jinx it. Good things are happening to me and I’m afraid if I talk about them, they will disappear. I feel like that creepy old guy in the kidnapping van has offered me a lollipop. Should I take it?

When things settle down and become more official, I will open up and talk about my feelings. I will start at the beginning about the greatness that is becoming my life. I might cry a little bit and wipe my nose on your sleeve. But I'm just not ready yet...

The question on everyone's mind is...

Who's next??? Tell me Johnny, what's behind door #1?

Well for $200 we have Scout Willis...so young, so sweet and tender. How can one resist the urge to offer her some marijuana? Her sister Rumer perhaps?

Behind door #2, for $500, we have the super innocent and however unexpected, a very normal, Jamie Lynn Spears. Is an unplanned pregnancy in her near future? I wonder if she gets love advice from her older sister, Britney Spears?


And now, for the grand prize, drum roll please. Behind door #3, for a whopping $1,000,000,000, is none other than Ali Lohan! Yes ladies and gentlemen, this young pre-teen once said in an interview how much she looks up to older sister, Lindsay Lohan. Don't cross your fingers folks, she will let you down...


I know, I know, I'm going to hell. I wonder if the devil really does wear Prada?

Men are from Mars and other thoughts about the penis...

Lately I’ve noticed I have, give-my-number-out-to-any-guy-who-asks-for-it, syndrome. I mean I’ve always done this, but never sober. Tasting Fresh Banana Puddin’ shouldn’t be this easy (desperate). I don’t know what has happened to me.

Ever since my perfect boyfriend in high school, things seemed to have gone down hill in the dating department. If my man wasn’t busy sticking his shaboinka in foreign vaginas while we are supposed to be in love, he’s turned out to be a pothead or has a bad case of frugalitis. (Can a sista get a happy meal)!?

There has been an interesting cast of characters over the years…

I've had from, bad kissers to bad tippers, guys with no cars and guys with crazy sisters...

I once dated a guy who told me that he hadn’t brushed his teeth in a week, because he used his toothbrush to clean his watch. Then there was the guy who complimented my nice big white teeth and the way my eyebrows arched. (Gee, thanks buddy, you forgot to mention my sexy fingernail beds and bendy elbows).

One time I called my ex to tell him I was thinking about him and I hoped he was thinking of me too. (I was having a girl moment. Sue me). In response he told me he wasn't thinking about me, because he was too busy playing video games. Go ahead and laugh because I did. I was like, damn, what a waste. I gave this guy my number and was nice to him, for nothing.

Maybe I should lower my standards. I might be too picky. When I give out my number I’m going to start giving a quick, are-your-standards-low-enough-to-taste-Puddin’, test:

1. Do you brush your teeth and shower on a daily basis? Weekly?
2. If you had to choose between an ice-cold beer and having sex with me, which one would you choose?
3. What are your hobbies? Could rubbing my feet become one of them?
4. Do you have a GED? College degree? A job?
5. Are you married?
6. If you have a kid, is he/she a snot nosed brat or could you see us watching Saturday morning cartoons together?
7. Name three women body parts that don’t start with the letter B…
8. Stick out your tongue and say, “I like Fresh Banana Puddin.’
9. Is your bank account negative, with a note attached that says, “You will never catch up”?
10.Do you watch, “A Shot At Love: Tila Tequila,” on MTV? “The Bachelor”? “Extreme Make Over: Home Edition”? (Please say no).

My next step, lesbianism…

Spicing Things Up

I have a confession. When I was twelve I loved the Spice Girls. Ok maybe I was thirteen.

I remember listening to their music with my friends. We would each dress up as our favorite group member, (I was always Scary Spice), and we would blast their music singing, “Yo! I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want.” We knew who sang what and would point at each other when our Spice Girl’s verse was on. (We could only sing when it was our girl’s turn).

This was before that horrible “Spiceworld” movie and their second album in the U.S. I sort of lost interest after a while, but there was a short fifteen minutes, “when 2 became 1.” Honestly, my Spice Girl moment was short and sweet. No sooner had I fallen in love with the Spice Girls, I was selling their CD back to the store, because it wasn’t “cool” enough to be a fan. The Spice Girl era was over.

Or was it?

Over the summer, the Spice Girls announced their around the world reunion tour. And someone would have to be living in a cave to not know. I was excited, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Until, some guy at my job got me an extra ticket! I’m pumped! I was already planning on being Scary Spice for Halloween. So I think I will also wear the costume to the concert…

Excuse Me, I Have to Fart

Ever since Bottle Blonde told her story about blowing a fuse at the gym, I got to thinking...

It's 2007; women are thriving in their professional and personal lives. Women are no longer destined to live a long life pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen. (Unless they want to, of course). Women have options, important jobs and such. Women are making their own decisions and sometimes even wear the pants in a relationship. Sh*t women can wear pants!

So my question is this, when is it going to be socially acceptable for women to fart? When will society accept a woman's flatulence along with her demeanor?

I heard that the average person farts about seventeen times a day. However, I'm pretty sure the average woman farts about three times a day. I know, because I've been pinching my butt cheeks since 1998. Which isn't healthy. I'm surprised I haven't popped a blood vessel in my eye from trying not to break wind in front of a boyfriend or potential employer.

Guys, I know you sometimes think your girl is PMSing, but she might just have to fart. Sh*t, she might have had to fart all week. She might have a really bad case of the BGs (bubble guts) and since it is socially unacceptable for women to let it out, she's in a bad mood.

There is a rule of thumb in dating: IF YOUR MAN FARTS FIRST, THEN IT IS OK FOR YOU TO FART. IF HE NEVER FARTS, YOU'RE ASSED OUT, LITERALLY.

I want to put an end to this. It's not fair. We need to unite and open up the butt cheeks of women everywhere. It's just air, it will evaporate. I propose the right to allow women to fart whenever and wherever they have to. And until justice is released, ladies, here are some places and times you cannot fart: in church, on a first date, meeting the parents, while he's going down on you, at a job interview, at a meeting, any public place i.e. mall, grocery store, bank, post office, restaurant, nightclub, etc, ever,....

Here is A place you can fart: at home, in your room, with the door shut, when no one is home...

*My computer hates me. So I will stalk other blogs when it lets me...

This blog was in desperate need of some debauchery…

The best part about a new job is going out with your fellow coworkers and getting drunk with them for the first time. Then showing up to work the next day to see who has the best debauchery story.

Not to brag or anything, but I think I won…

I came into work yesterday morning with coffee, OJ, a bottle of water, and a “f*ck off” attitude. Yes, I, Ms Puddin,’ actually got a chance to go out and enjoy myself. Hallelujah!

Saturday night started off at J*’s house taking vodka shots and snapping MySpace pictures. By 12:00 a.m. we were downtown and I was poppin’ a squat in the parking garage. I was wearing a dress and trying not to pee on my new $200 boots. (Yes I paid $200 for a pair of boots and then wore them, drunk, to a bar). Classy!!!

We get up to the front of the bar and I see my boy. He works security at the door, so we cut the line. Four girls and one guy head inside. I mean, four drunk girls and one drunk guy stumble inside.

Since I had on my f*ck-me-now boots, a dress and the other girls didn’t look so bad themselves. We end up getting, oh, I don’t know, more drinks than a hooker in Vegas. We party it up inside doing the usual, dancing like sluts and running to the bathroom every five minutes because we “broke the seal.” (And yes, occasionally that arm did go up).

The next thing I know, some guy in a black shirt that reads “STAFF,” (I guess that makes him important?) is telling me last call for alcohol. Which is cool, because I think I’ve reached the legal limit for alcohol poisoning. By that point, I started to get that feeling where I know I need to either go somewhere, anywhere and lie down or throw up. Without telling anyone, I stumble out of the bar and hail a cab. I tell the driver to take to me to the first place that comes to mind, my ex boyfriend’s house. I know, I know, I blame it on the liquor. Period.

For the, oh, I don't know, 6,732 time, I hop the fence to his apartment complex and stumble up the stairs. I start banging on the door and ringing the doorbell. I’m just about to give up and start throwing rocks at his window, when the front door swings open. A very irritated and groggy ex boyfriend is standing in the doorway peering down at me in his briefs.

“Um, I’m drunk can I crash over here,” I slurred. Actually it sounded more like, “I stunk man I had beer over here.”

He turns around heading back to bed. The only thing he says over his shoulder is, “take off your shoes.”

I laid down, but his room was spinning and I would have paid anything to get off that ride. I had to keep my eyes half open to prevent projectile vomiting vodka everywhere. I eventually passed out. I woke up about 4 hours later, which is where I get back to the part about me coming to work with a lot of liquids and a messed up attitude…so how was your weekend???

P.S.- If you haven't, checked out this clipping below, you might as well since you've already read this far…it's shorter, I promise…

The reason why I would never work at Hooters...

I meant to post this last week, but I never got around to it. Thanks to anonymousnupe I now have one more reason to continue my ed-u-ma-cation…

The Moral of Porn

I was chatting with my guy friend today. He was informing me on how his new porn collection had just come in the mail.

“Porn is like a good action movie,” he said. “You can only watch it a couple of times, because once you know what’s going to happen, it’s not exciting anymore.”

I asked him if I could borrow a copy of his new porn.
“Not until I watch them first,” he said. “I get the first date with my new porn.” Um, ok. Fair enough.

I read in Cosmopolitan that guys masturbate A LOT. I mean women flick their bean occasionally, but guys jack off like their penis signed up for an intensive aerobics class.

I personally don’t mind porn. I watch it sometimes, but I am THE worst person to watch it with. I once dated a guy and we would watch porn together. I remember watching a porno with him one night, which killed any future opportunity of us watching it together again. I forgot what the porn was titled, but I'll make something up to help paint the picture. I'll call it, "The Punani Party."

The “storyline” of the poon, was about a couple of hot (airbrushed and plastic) chicks who get invited to a house "party". When they get to this party they end up being the only two chicks who show up. (How original). So the two hot chicks are chillin' at this so called party with the two guys who threw the party. Eventually one guys leads one chick onto the couch, while the other guy takes the other girl upstairs. (Didn't see that one coming). One thing leads to another and well, um, yeah, soon everyone is doing the nasty.

However, the whole time we are watching the porn I’m lying in the bed asking a million questions like, “didn’t she have a purse when she first walked in? Where did her purse go? Why are they the only ones who showed up anyway, shouldn’t there be more people if it’s a party?”

Meanwhile, the guy I’m dating is getting frustrated, because I'm totally killing the mood. And starts yelling at me, (well not literally yelling, because he still wants to get laid).

“It’s a porn!" he said. "The point is they have sex! Stop over analyzing it. They are at the party to have sex!”

Oooooooh, that’s right. They are at the party to have sex. Ah that makes so much more sense now. Not only is this film low budget, but it was directed by another man’s penis. Gotcha.

The moral of the story? I shouldn't watch porn.

The End.

It’s hard having nappy hair in a white man’s world…

I’ve never been the girl to complain much about her body. I don’t talk about my thighs being fat, my butt being too big or my stomach looking like a tub of Crisco that could be mixed up into a nice batch of biscuits. (Not that it could). I have mentioned on this blog an interest in implants, but if I ever get the money for plastic titties, I might end up buying a car instead. I’m naturally practical. * wink *

However, the one thing on my body that I am most self-conscious about, is my hair. Weird? Right? Well, I am mixed and apparently my black side didn’t get the memo that my white side sucks at hair care. I have what my friends’ would call, “nigga hair.” I mean I’ve seen worse, don’t get it twisted, my sh*t is not as bad as it could be...

but things could always be better…

I give props to sistas like Natural Muze, who wear their hair natural without hesitation. I couldn’t do it. I would be stressed out in the mirror all day, wondering if I looked okay. I mean there are a lot of hair care products available today. Everywhere I look, women have their hair whipped up nice. I just don't have the time or the energy to deal with my hair and then I end up in situations like these-----> for example ... I got really irritated at work last night, because of some guy I work with. He had the nerve to say to me, “make sure that you get your hair done by Wednesday, because um yeah...” (And he made a face).

Ok first of all, nobody asked you. Second, I was actually planning on getting it done today, but he didn’t need to know that. No, this guy wasn’t my boss. It was just some guy that I work with. And I’m not going to lie, my hair was looking rough last night at work, lol, but I don’t have time to get it done all the time.

The thing that got to me the most, is that this guy is black. Black guys should know better than to tell a sista about her hair. If she don’t already know, which she usually does, she still doesn’t need to hear it...

I Get Money

What happened to me? I decided to write something of substance. Something with meaning and stuff.

Unfortunately, the only thing I could think of is, I have yet another job! (Technically the third one only makes two and a half). I know, I know, why don’t I get a sugar daddy already? Well, I’m really enjoying building character and learning to work well with others. And when I buy my own sh*t, like a $200 pair of shoes, I don’t feel guilty.

What is my half job?
I‘ve taken up go-go dancing. Yes, Ms Puddin’ has been shakin’ her ass in her underwear, in the club, on a Saturday night. I’m a hustla baby! Go-go dancing is kind of like killing three birds with one stone. 1). I get paid to do it. 2). I don’t have to go to the gym. 3). I get to go to the club for free! The best part about that last point is that I don’t have to deal with all the lame guys in the club, because the dancers have security all to themselves. I also don’t get drinks spilled down my shirt, because I don’t even have to wear a shirt. (I wear a bra, booty shorts and some go-go boots).

If I had a man, he would appreciate this sweet piece of ass. Matter of fact, bottle blonde said it best when she listed the qualities in a man who she would get on her knees for. Someone who showers and who thinks I’m funny. Not funny looking.

So anyway, back to shakin’ my ass. Can someone please tell me why only females hit on me Saturday night? (That was a rhetorical question. Please refrain from actually responding). Yes, while I was dancing one girl slapped my ass, another insisted I let her buy me a drink, while their other friend kept pointing out my dancing skills to people unknown. Between stares she would snap pictures of me on her digital.

I did say I was thinking about crossing over to the other side, but when the opportunity presented itself I sort of froze up. I wasn’t prepared for it to be so easy. Well, drunk girls in the club are potentially easy…It was just so sudden I wasn't prepared.

I would also like to add my body feels like I got beat up by Hulk Hogan in a WWF showdown. I am really, really sore. I should have stretched, before dancing. However, I don't stretch before sex, so I don't see how this would be any different?

So much for writing a post of substance. Somehow in the last few hundred words I managed to write about sex, dancing half naked and (unintentional) lesbianism. Oh well, how was your weekend?

Every Little Girl’s Dream

If and/or when ? I get married, I have it all planned out…

The Location:

The Priest: (btw, I didn't know it was possible for guys to have a camel toe)...

The Witness:

The Guests:

The Reception:

The Honeymoon:
(I don't really have a place in mind as far as location. Might as well stay in Vegas since we're already here. Just somewhere with really strong drinks)...

Please don’t RSVP until I find a man…

Touché!

I wrote my parents a letter, (which is posted below), to tell them the consequences of reading my blog. Here is the response I got…

Dear Daughter,

When did we say we would buy you a Cadillac? I don't remember that. Dad's new antidepressant is really good, he thinks by hooking you mean you've taken up fishing. I don't want to disillusion him. But I am begging you to stop spending your hooking money on drugs. Your tuition is killing us and if you can make enough money for drugs by turning tricks then you can certainly manage to pay for your own books. Or at least your own shoes. If people don't have kids to entertain themselves then what is the purpose? I don't see why we can't read your blog. We know you're a good girl and just making up all this sh*t.

Love,
Mama

P.S. You don't have to call around to find your underwear, we'll buy you a new pair. Just make sure it covers something.
P.P.S. Did you say you have a hook-up for erectile stimulants?

By the way, my mom doesn't cuss, so that last sh*t at the end came from the heart...

A Fair Warning

Dear mom and dad,

If you continue to read this blog we are going to have a problem.

I can’t write and get things off my chest when you two are constantly reading over my shoulder. I will lose readers and inspiration if I can’t write about the things I want to write about in fear of you disowning me or having me committed.

Like for example, I can’t write about the time I got drunk, woke up in the park three days later, in a puddle of my own vomit and couldn’t find my underwear. (For the record I did eventually find them, them being my underwear, I just had to make a few phone calls first).

If you continue to read this blog, I will have to think twice before admitting that I’ve turned to selling drugs ever since you two stopped paying for things. I mean I probably shouldn’t be telling you two about this, but I have to admit being a drug dealer actually wasn’t that bad. Everything was great, until I tried some of my stash and got a slight addiction problem and smoked up my entire supply.

So since I couldn’t afford to pay back my dealer, I decided to start hooking for money. Hooking is awesome, by the way, because I like having sex with strangers and the “no strings attached” factor is also a plus. I’ve only caught a couple STDs, but it’s actually worth it because I have enough cash now to support my drug habit. In fact I liked hooking so much, I went ahead and let the local college football team run a train on me and take pictures, you can find them at mspuddinsohorny.com.

So now you can see why it is very important that you two stop reading my blog. I know I’m cool and we go back like four flats on a Cadillac, but I just think for everyone’s sanity it would be best to slow down on the Puddin’ entertainment. There are more exciting things you two can do on a Saturday night. Like have sex! (Yes, I figured out where babies come from).

I guess this letter is more of a disclaimer than anything. This blog is rated NP for No Parents! Parents with daughters should never, ever read their daughters blog, unless they are under the influence of alcohol or highly medicated.

Thank you for having me and call me if you need any erectile stimulants. I got the hook up.

Love,

Your one and only daughter,
Ms Fresh Banana Puddin’