Context

My sister Heidi and I are watching a show called Shark Tank, in which inventors present their ideas to a group of investors in order to obtain their financial support. These investors, called "Sharks" are various CEOs, presidents, etc. Heidi came into the room about halfway into the show and is trying to catch up.

Heidi: "Have any of [the investors] gone for an idea yet?"
Me: "Yeah, the FUBU guy did."
Heidi: (shocked) "Molly! That's racist!"

Confused silence.

Me: "No, Heidi, he owns FUBU. He is literally the FUBU guy."

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The Great Brownie Debacle

Today, February 6th, is my dad's birthday.

I decided it would be nice to overnight him his favorite treat- brownies. My sister elected to be a jerk and buy him a Kindle.

Thanks, thank you for making my present look like crap.

I had planned on ornately decorating them with icing. They were going to be beautiful. True, you can't read a book on brownies, but guess what? Kindles don't taste delicious with milk.

Suck it, sister.

Unfortunately, I completely forgot to buy the special decorating icing-pens at the grocery store. My sister refused to go out and get them for me, and the great Poker Night/Blackjack Experiment was about to begin so I couldn't leave and make it back in time.

With great disappointment and reluctance I decided to forgo the icing.

Several glasses of wine later, I was up $235 ($230 of which I had to give back. It was dirty money)(If you did the math, yes, I'm a terrible poker player).

Of the many effects of alcohol, perhaps the most aggressive and unavoidable are Hungryness and CoolWhateverNess. Besides becoming super handsy (arguably, obnoxiously so), I tend to get very, very hungry and very, very go-with-the-flow. These of course add up to consenting to letting everyone dig into my very special Birthday Treat for my dad.

I'm an awful person.

So, for what might be the Worst Birthday Present Ever, I'm sending my dad the picture above- taken moments after I took the brownies out of the oven- to which I've added the appropriate modifications.

After all, if I can't send him an actual gift, the best alternative is a doctored virtual pan of brownies.

And maybe my $5 profit.

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21

I'm bored. I'm so bored. I have nothing to do but lie in bed and wait for my spine to fuse back together.

As such, I have been entertaining myself with various distractions and activities. I have a running chess game with my dad, a few Scrabble games here and there, several television series on DVD, and a game I made up called "Fling n' Catch" in which I fling a hair tie at the ceiling and then attempt to catch it.

Three weeks ago, however, I found a new way to keep my brain from mush-ifying:

Learning to count cards in blackjack.

Are there perhaps better, more ethical, moral, grown-up ways of entertaining myself? Absolutely. Should I instead be reading the classics or educating myself in theology, mathematics, literature, history, or how to use the universal remote control? Definitely.

Are those things as fun as indulging my penchant for memorization and algebra?

Not a chance.

Now, it is said that in order for one to be a successful card-counter, one must, among other things, be able to count down the deck in 20 seconds flat. I'm currently averaging an embarrassing 39-42 seconds in total silence and 47-50 seconds with distractions such as television, radio, the yappy dog next door, etc. I plan to decrease this to at least 30-35 seconds within the next week- assuming I haven't found a more satisfying hobby by then, of course.

Tonight is sort of my midterm. My sister is having friends over for poker night, and I plan on innocently suggesting a quick, casual game of Blackjack.

Now, before you get all Moral Orel on me, I am only using this as an opportunity to test my skills and see if this whole thing actually works. If I actually win anything, I plan on giving it right back and explaining the terrible thing I've done. I would never intentionally cheat my sister's friends.

Except for the mustached one.

Never trust a mustached Norwegian.

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Why People Lie To Doctors

Doctor: So, it looks like you're recovering from a fall, huh? Two fractured vertebrae and a slipped disc?

Me: That's correct.

Doctor: And you're here because you've been experiencing a severe spike in your pain level?

Me: Yes.

Doctor: And you've been sticking to your bedrest? You haven't been walking or lifting or moving around excessively?

Me: Er...no. No, no. Nope. Not at all.

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The Latest Research

We all know and love Cosmo. While other publications bore us with current events and scientific breakthroughs, we can always count on Cosmo to tell us how to drop five pounds in a week and 99 ways to please our man.

This month's Cosmo features a prolific article written by the always-insightful Mina Azodi- who, after some fervent googling, I discovered graduated magna cum laude from the prestigious Washington and Lee University, where she got her foot in the journalism door writing such groundbreaking articles as "Student Noise Angers Neighbors" and "Ebay To Launch New Website". Her latest gem is titled "His Bedtime Body Language".

"His Bedtime Body Language" clues us in on our man's inner persona, as revealed by how he positions his body during sleep, and, correspondingly, the type of sex he craves.

In case you're wondering, Face down= control freak/traditional, On His Back= confident and optimistic/energetic and intense, Thrashing Around= he's stressed/"quickie", On His Side= laid back and sensitive/90% foreplay, 10% sex.

Scintillating stuff.

I shouldn't really be throwing stones at Cosmo- after all, they get about a billion times more readers than I do. So, in an effort to increase my readership, I've decided to take a leaf out of the astute Mina Azodi's book. I'm calling it:

"Your Man's Secret Dreams and Desires: What His Pasta Preference Says About Him"

by Molly Lobed

Does your man crave affection? Does he long to be bubble-bathed and babied, or is his inner Bear Grylls aching to break through and shove you up against a wall? According to scientific studies conducted at the Institute de Cosmopolitan, the shape of pasta he instinctively reaches for can tell you all this and more.

Spaghetti. Your guy is traditional and un-wavering in his insistence on uniformity. Satisfy his desires by donning your starchy-est cardigan and cleanest chinos. Turn the lights off and engage in a little closed-mouth kissing and awkward, uncomfortable teenage-style copulation. You go, girl.

Farfalle. Your dude likes dudes. Sorry.

Rotini. Your man's as tightly wound as this noodle and is longing to release the tension. Break out your saltiest bath salts and smelliest candles for a steamy bubble bath and fifteen minutes of "How Can We Sit So My Butt's Not All Up In Your Business" and "That Was Just An Air Bubble, I Swear" and "I'm Kind Of Pruny; This Was A Nice Idea But Can We Get Out Now?".

Penne. That fun, intelligent, sensitive guy you met six months ago is now as hollow and empty as these noodles. Anchor yourself in the northernmost corner of the kitchen and settle in for a long, redundant Kitchen Fight. Highlight his inability to communicate, his failure to do anything romantic for you in, like, six weeks, and his habit of leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor.

Rigatoni. If the first thing your fella reaches for is Rigatoni, chances are that's not all he's reachin' for. Leave him alone for a few hours. Leave your computer unlocked. He'll most likely completely ignore even your most aggressive advances when you get home, but inside he's thanking you. Trust.

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Stupidity, plain and simple.

Stop mocking me, hot tomato girl.

I did something very, very stupid yesterday.

I've been debating as to whether or not I want to send this story out into the world, but seeing as how my parents cannot look at me without laughing or making some sort of humiliating, self-esteem-degrading joke, I figured you guys would get a laugh out of it as well.

It started out innocently. I went for a drive, something I love doing but haven't been able to do until lately. Bob Dylan was singing his little heart out, there was a Tim Hortons french vanilla cappuccino in my cup holder, and I was happy.

And then I went tanning.

Okay: I do not, and have not ever, advocated tanning beds. I think they're horrible. Awful. I take great pleasure in ridiculing regular tanners about their conscious decision to laser off their skin and willingly turn their faces into footballs. I hate tanning beds.

I don't know why I did it. I stopped in the parking lot of a strip mall to grab a cd out of the back seat and when I looked up, I saw the Cancer Store. Whether it was out of vanity, curiosity, or boredom, before I knew it I had paid $12.95 for nine minutes in a stand-up style jet-engine Melanomamachine.

The bronzed, tank-topped girl at the front desk took one long look at my delightfully pale Scottish-Irish cocktail of skin and asked,

"Um... are you sure you don't want to split those minutes up? It gets pretty hot in there."

Because I'm stupid, I laughed and said,

"Oh, no, I can handle it."

So there I was, completely nude (that's how you do it, right? I'm not some sort of perverted weirdo, right?) inside this loud, hot, vertical coffin, counting the seconds down. It took everything in me to not jump out every time I heard a crackle- I've seen Final Destination.

When I got back to my house, everything was fine. I was still pale. I smelled awful, but I had no other unpleasant symptoms.

Eight hours later, I was a tomato.

Everything on me is painful. Additionally, I am itching like crazy but I can't itch because the act of itching causes more pain than the itch itself.

I've learned my lesson. I will spend the next 3-5 days slathering myself in aloe and dredging my pride around in the gutter. True, in about a week or so, I will be a nice golden brown, but this is in no way worth the present pain.

For you tanning idiots out there, I do have one question: is it common practice to apply some sort of...ahem... pasty apparatuses to one's you-know-whats? Surely this dry, itchy, discoloration is not desirable.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go Solarcaine my kneecaps.

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There are certain things my dad and I do have in common, I guess:

My mother: "You know what they say. A watched pot..."

Silence.

Dad: "...never... cleans itself?"

Me: "...doesn't... catch on fire?"

Silence.

Mom: "Are you guys serious right now?"

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