We Smell Like Baked Goods and Other Reasons you Need a Girl Best Friend.

My best friend is a real trooper, y'all.

Just the other day we were discussing how I can get blogger rich by writing about scrotums and reality TV and she did the nicest thing ever!

Offered to do webcam porn with my blog address written across her lovely lady lumps.

Good looking out, girl!

That's why when I decide I'm done with dudes because they smell weird and care way too much about guys who play catch for a living, we're going to get all kinds of gay married and live in a log cabin in the mountains and stop shaving our legs. I just can't wait! 

Of course, we can have an open relationship, because the most intimate thing we're ever going to do is snuggle under a cashmere throw and watch every episode of Dawson's Creek ever made. Dawson and Joey? Pacey and Joey? You better pick a team! But don't get me wrong, I think you're beautiful, it's mainly because I think of you like a sister. Except for that one time in high school. Whoops! Sorry dad, I told you to stop reading my blog.

Our love will be one that stands the test of time. And honestly, it already has.

It's lasted through: Random dudes. Breakups. Makeups. Babies. Dudes we met on the internet. Those awkward middle school years. Those awkward high school years. Bangs. We can endure anything! We're going to be like the Will and Jada of best friend marriages.

Nicky&Allie- To Duckface and Beyond

I couldn't live without my girls.

Which is why every time some chick wearing pigtails and a toddler-sized football jersey laments about how much she hates girls and feels more comfortable with guys, I die a little bit inside.

Doesn't she know that we are the best?!

If you're a girl, who thinks you can't be friends with other girls, then you've been hanging out with the wrong vagina-havers. Come sit at my lunch table, pumpkin nose.

First and foremost, we smell awesome, and we'll totally let you borrow whatever delicious thing we have expertly placed behind our ears and inside our wrists. We will never try to fingerbang you in a booth at Applebee's after your fourth mudslide. We will escort you to the ladies' room, hold your hair while you vomit up your alcohol milkshake, and give you a ride home. We understand how you both love and want to kill your mother. We will let you borrow our copy of 50 Shades of Grey with the good parts highlighted, so you don't have to pretend it's not porn. You know your ex's new girlfriend that you hate? We hate her too. We can talk about the Kardashians and the government shutdown, we're versatile like that.

Did I mention we smell like oatmeal cookies? What else do you need to know?

If any of my lovely female readers are currently in the "I can't be friends with girls" category, I want you to go back to the beginning of this blog. My best friend offered to pimp herself out because she loves me. And because she's kind of an exhibitionist. That is what girl-on-girl-best-friend love looks like, and you need to get yourself some of that.

If you don't know where to start, then let me be of assistance. Get at me on Twitter (@AllieOopsie). We're about to be internet BFFFs!

And I already hate your ex's new girlfriend. She's a major bitch, and I heard she has herpes.

What to do When Someone with the IQ of Asparagus Pities Your Career Choices.

I've spoken about a girl I work with before on this blog, you may remember her, my slightly racist, orange co-worker whose long-term goal is to be an import car model. You can read posts about her, here and here.

She has proven to be an exercise in acceptance and humility. I've learned to tolerate, and occasionally even like, this former cheerleader who is the color of a dirty penny. I've learned that I can literally make friends with anyone.

If Charles Manson and I were forced to make lattes together, I would eventually find common ground with him. I would even learn to overlook that swastika he carved into his forehead. I mean, I have a hella embarrassing tribal tattoo. Youth, right?

Also, whenever I start to feel good about myself and my life decisions, I'm quickly reminded that I am career peers with a girl who doesn't know how to pronounce photography. PHOTO-GRAPH-EE. I wish I was kidding.

A few days ago, I was feeling particularly great. I just landed my first freelance gig. It paid nothing, but I'd be writing about a topic I love for a popular local publication. Cloud nine and shit! That was until this happened.

Spawn of Tan Mom: Allie, when do you graduate from school? 

Yours Truly: Oh sweetie, I graduated two years ago. 

Snooki's Oranger Cousin: Oh. You haven't been able to find a job? 

YT: No, I mean I have some work lined up, but I'm still trying to figure things out. 

Bronze Forrest Gump: Awwwwww, I'm sorry.

You don't really know what humility is until someone whose life ambition is to pose semi-nude on a neon green Honda Civic pities your career choices. It's like having the guy who pisses on himself outside of 7/11 refusing your change, because you look like you need it more.

It's kinda like this.

   

But mainly this.

So what do you do when someone with the IQ of asparagus pities your life choices? You cry and eat all of your feelings. And remember that at least you can pronounce the word photography! 

Which will not help you in the least when you are a 45-year-old barista. I'm going to make cookies.

I Have Shoulder Leprosy, but at Least I can Still Give HJs.

As most of you know, and by most I mean the 10-15 people who read this blog/stumble upon this blog while searching for barista porn, I hurt my shoulder while reaching out of my store's drive-thru window. Yes, I'm quite aware that this is easily the least badass way a person could injure him/herself.

Anyway, I'm in a sling and banished to taking money, misspelling people's names on cups and getting harassed by people asking, "What'd ya do to your arm?" It's almost endearing that people feign concern over my injury. I say feign because most of the exchanges go a little something like this.

Concerned Customer: What's wrong with your arm? 

Yours truly: I'm not sure exactly. I get my MRI results.. 

Not-So-Concerned Customer: That's too bad. Make sure I get my whip cream on that Pumpkin Spice Latte.

But not everyone is more concerned with their coffee milkshake than my overall well-being. Just today, I had a man who resembled ZZ Top remind me that at least I can still give handjobs with my other arm. You sir, are making lemons into lemonade. Thank you!

Speaking of handjobs, I asked my boss if I could tell people that I hurt my arm because I'm an over-zealous masturbator. She told me only if I wanted to lose my job--so I'm still debating that one. But I've been thinking about alternative stories to explain why I'm in a sling, so far I've come up with the following:

1. I have shoulder leprosy. Don't worry, I don't think it's contagious. 

2. I bought Bud Light instead of Budweiser. Please help me. 

3. It's a lot more strenuous to give yourself an abortion than one would think. 

4. I was trying to copy Miley Cyrus and fell off of a wrecking ball. 

5. Arm wrestled a shark. Don't ask. 

6. Sometimes the voices get so loud. And I didn't mean to cut off his entire penis. It just happened. 

7. They tried to take my guns. 

8. What arm? 

9. Have you ever read 50 Shades of Grey? 

10. I hyperextended my shoulder handing out a drink to a customer who didn't understand that my ass is not Inspector fucking Gadget, but don't worry I can still give handjobs.

That should get me through about 4 minutes.

Any of you deviants have some more suggestions for me? Now remember I work in a small, extremely conservative town--so the more offensive the better. If you can somehow incorporate Ronald Reagan's ghost personally injuring me, you get bonus points.

Get in the Kitchen and Make Me 300 Sandwiches

Have you heard some woman is making 300 sandwiches for her boyfriend so that he'll propose to her?

I'm assuming you have, because I've seen nothing else on social media since this morning. Ted Cruz talked for 21 hours, and this chick is making sammiches upon sammiches upon sammiches.

A lot of folks are pissed. And a part of me gets it, the woman behind 300 Sandwiches, Stephanie Smith, a senior reporter for Page Six, is trying to make herself known for giving breath to every douchebag who thinks "make me a sandwich" jokes are funny. For the record, they're not. And never were.

To them, she's the Patron Saint of Domesticity. A beautiful woman whose boyfriend gets to say the following without the fear of castration:

“Honey, how long you have been awake?” 

“About 15 minutes,” I’d reply. 

“You’ve been up for 15 minutes and you haven’t made me a sandwich?”

For real, sweetheart? I completely understand that some things said in the confines of a relationship may not translate to the outside world, which is why you don't blog about those things. Because now everyone hates your boyfriend. He looks like a mega-tool. And I'm sure he's not, he just really loves sandwiches.

It's the same reason I don't blog about my boyfriend calling me a gutter slut, because people wouldn't understand that it comes from a place of love. (By the way, I'm pretty sure my dad's reading my blog now. So have fun crying that one out, Pops.)

But she put this all out in the open--every slightly disheartening comment.

As he finished that last bite, he made an unexpected declaration of how much he loved me and that sandwich: “Honey, you’re 300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring!” 

I paused. … Maybe I needed to show him I could cook to prove that I am wife material. If he wanted 300 sandwiches, I’d give him 300 sandwiches — and I’d blog about it.

Now don't get me wrong I make my boyfriend sandwiches all the time. I cook. I bake. I clean. I do all kinds of things that would make June Cleaver proud. But none of the aforementioned duties are performed with hopes of proving that I am "wife material". What does that even mean, anyway?

And how long after the 300 sandwiches are made does he have to propose? Is there a window of time or will he dropping to one knee while wiping dijon off his face? What if on sandwich 298 she finds him balls deep in her best friend? Is the agreement then void?

It just seems bizarre to be so attached to a proposal that you're willing to barter like you're buying matrimony on Craigslist.

I don't know Stephanie Smith so I don't want to judge her too harshly, but I do question how it feels to compromise the natural course of a relationship with a deli item? Will she feel a slight pang of regret when he does propose, because it was based on a sandwich quota? Is the thrill still there? Or is it like a modern day dowry? I'll give you 2 goats, an acre of land and 300 sandwiches.

But maybe we're all bartering in relationships. Look how funny I am. How good in bed. How many goats I have.

Maybe Stephanie Smith is on to something. Something really fucking weird.

Now I wonder if she'll make me a sandwich? No mayo, babycakes.

TLC Presents: How did this Dude Trick Five Women into Marrying Him?

TLC, the channel responsible for all your learning needs, is debuting a one-hour special that has 'hot new series' written all over it.

My Five Wives follows the life of Brady Williams, a Utah polygamist, his five wives, and his 24 children. Williams and his wives practice polygamy, despite being shunned by their church and community.

Yep, even the Mormons thinks this shit is a little excessive.

The premise sounds a whole lot like Sister Wives, which if you're not familiar with Sister Wives click here (you probably also have a worthwhile life and don't need terrible reality television to fill the hole inside of you). But it's better, because instead of four wives--there's FIVE!

Ohhhh, scandalous.

Every time I see a show about some dude with, like, 10 wives, I can't help but wonder what kinda voodoo, black magic is this bastard dappling in? It's the only explanation, because it's always some man who you're pretty shocked has one wife.

How did he pull this shit off? What did the conversation sound like?

Okay ladies, I understand I'm a slightly balding Mormon of average wealth and body type, but I think y'all should let me routinely bang each and every one of you. In return, you'll get to bare and raise about two dozen of my children

Oh, and there might be a TLC show.

Do these bitches not know how to negotiate?

I mean, Honey Boo Boo got her own show and all she had to do was represent a cultural stereotype and say stuff like "a dolla make me holla".

Shit, girl, a dollar makes me holler, too. You have a valid point.

I just don't understand. I can think of no man that is awesome enough to make me live with four other women and blow out my vagina. It's like a really fucked-up sorority.

Oh, and have you never heard of birth control, Brady? You're not in the Mormon church anymore, can you not pull out? Even that '19 Kids and Counting'
woman thinks you're being a bit ridiculous. When the Earth is overpopulated to the point where I can't get quality kale for my green smoothies, I'm coming to your motherfucking house. Believe that.

Here's hoping, that TLC decides that My Five Wives is not a good fit amongst its high-brow programming. Mainly, because I don't want my boyfriend to get any ideas.

My Five Wives airs tonight at 9/8c. And Breaking Bad airs on AMC at the same time.

Somehow the show about Meth seems less detrimental to society. Your call.

Rorie Gilmore: The Only Thing That Could Make Me Watch 50 Shades of Grey.

I don't give a shit about 50 Shades of Grey. I just don't care about some hot ass billionaire beating the hell out of his virgin assistant.

If someone gave me dental insurance and I didn't have to make coffee anymore, they could do whatever they wanted to me. That's not called BDSM. That's called being a college graduate in the year 2013.

But moving on. I know the whole entire internet exploded because they picked the characters for the 50 Shades movie and they weren't attractive/homely/brooding/brunette/fictional enough for the fans of the series. There's even a petition.

These sex-starved soccer moms sure are picky, y'all.

I thought the actors cast looked just fine for a movie that will undoubtedly rake in millions and make PeeWee Herman feel less weird about masturbating in a theater that one time.

That was until I realized who exactly fans were petitioning to get cast in the film.

Wait!!! They want to cast Rorie Gilmore in the horrible sex movie?

Sold!

If you don't know about Gilmore Girls you can escort yourself off this post now, there's a post about twerking a couple days back that might interest you.

Oh Em Gee! Where can I sign this petition? The only thing that might get me to watch this awful shit storm of a movie is the hope that I can watch Stars Hollow's own Rorie Gilmore getting paddled by the stripper from Magic Mike.

Hell, if they got Jess to play Christian Grey, I would fund this fucking movie myself. It's like my high school wet dream. 

For those of you that can't tell, I have an unhealthy obsession with the show Gilmore Girls, and it would make my whole entire life to have this fantasy realized.

I know some of you are thinking, if you love the show and one of it's main actresses so much why would you want her subjected to a movie that would more than likely be this decade's Showgirls?

Well, I might say, Ms. Bledel's Gilmore money may be drying up, and horny middle-aged women's money is still green.

However, that would be a lie.

I'm actually just a pervert, who loves the idea of my favorite TV character having semi-kinky sex on screen. And if that makes me wrong, then I just don't want to be right.

I know I can't be alone. Who would reconsider watching this full-length porn movie if their favorite TV character was cast in the lead? 

Michael Scott as Christian Grey, anyone?

Walter White Should Make Pumpkin Spice Lattes.

At the certain unnamed coffee establishment that employs me, people lose their freaking minds come September.

Why, you ask? Oh, because pumpkin-flavored everything makes a much anticipated appearance.

You didn't know that pumpkin lattes are like crystal meth to suburban housewives? Well, they are. Ann Taylor wearing ladies in pearls come in offering up their kids' college funds for an early taste.

It's the closest I'll ever get to being a drug dealer.

Here's an example.

Customer: Do you guys have Pumpkin Spice lattes yet?

Barista: No, not yet. But we'll have it in a couple of weeks.

Customer: Come on, I know you have it in there. 

Barista: I'm sorry, ma'am. Unfortunately, I can't sell it, yet.

Customer: Listen, you little bitch. You will sell me that latte!

 What do I have to do? You into girls? You want my wedding ring? 

Okay, that might be a little bit of an exaggeration, but I have been offered money before. And I'm pretty sure one of my co-workers could have gotten a blowjob if he gave in.

I'm not entirely sure what makes people so obsessed with pumpkin products. Maybe people are eager for a small taste of Fall after a brutally hot Summer. Maybe the manufactures mix whatever drug Miley Cyrus is on in it.

But whatever it is, I wish anything could make me as happy as the first week of September makes my customers.

It's like swing sets to kids. Or crack to Tyrone Biggums.

Are any of my readers addicted to pumpkin lattes? Tell me why (or why not) in the comments!