Thanks, sis! Meg and Dee went to Art Chicago last week and sent me some digital missives of the complex carbohydrates they thought would really REACH me.

“Heyyyy! Welcome to DR!”

Ugh. I miss Steak ‘n’ Shake.

Life’s eternal questions, embodied just as they should be in Wonka-bar form.

Here’s a still life featuring butter (a.k.a. my life).

These cupcakes actually do look dangerous. Did the icing factory run out of color OR WHAT?

Says Meg: “yes - those balloons are attached to that girls hair… hehe”

Dee Barrett, who was consulted for permission to post these photos merely as a courtesy (because I was going to post them anyway), gave the OK:

NO PROBLEMS HERE.

And in the spirit of indulgence….indulge me and watch these!

May 2, 2008 — ‘DWTS Talk’: Bye bye, Shannequin
May 5, 2008 — ‘Survivor Talk’ cameo! I’m a medic. Of course.

If I believed in New Year’s Resolutions, mine would be to somehow look that awesome (see above) all year. That’s a relic from August ‘07. My friends — The Team — and I were in Michigan for New Buffalo’s illustrious Ship ‘n’ Shore Festival (holla!). A somewhat drunken but TOTALLY CHILL dance party to a playlist I’d created called “It Couldn’t Be Lamer: Dance Hits from the Mid-to-Late ’90s” ensued. We’d already eaten our weight in cheeseburgers, but dancing is tough, and being the motherly provider I am, I decided to root around in the laundry room fridge for something — anything — to replenish our calorie count. By some miraculous intervention a.k.a. “Dee Barrett being awesome,” there happened to be a spare cherry pie just sitting in there on a dish towel. Heavens!

Anyway, I could never do it on this blog because my name’s all the F over it and I would never want people to think I’m even slightly self-absorbed (ha!), but I kind of want someone to do a “Looking Great in ‘08″ series. It’d just be a pic of that person every day and then she’d scathingly critique her own appearance because half the time she’d be unshowered in a college hoodie. It’s only January 2nd and therefore still doable. She’d just have to fake a photo and say it happened yesterday. Maybe I should start an anonymous blog and just go for it. Hmm. Look for this anonymous blog around May when PopWatch mysteriously links to it. You think I’m kidding.

What’s this?

Hmmm.

Maybe it will help to get some “perspective” on the sitch.

Nice.

I was really thrilled that my new carton of Baskin Robbins Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream did this little sampler-scoop-right-in-the-lid trick. The first few bites are conveniently right there for you, in a smaller container so you don’t feel like such a hoss. You can easily ignore the fact that there’s a gaping hole the exact shape of the lid portion in the main cargo space of the carton, because it’s fun to pretend you’re a really light eater if only for seven seconds.

Eating the bonus (except not) lid portion is like asking to try a flavor at the ice cream counter, except there is a larger quantity to taste, AND, either way, you’re not going home with less than a whole carton of ice cream. You already are home and have purchased a carton of ice cream you know you like. It’s so much more fun for everyone involved, which probably amounts to Just You.

P.S. Whenever I ask to sample an ice cream flavor in a store, I already know I like the flavor. I like it THAT MUCH. I’m thrifty and cool.

I totally “did” this Entenmann’s chocolate cake. Looks a lot different now!

I thought the glass of milk visible through the window was “artistic” until I realized the “glass” was a Solo cup, and the “window” a pane of greasy plastic.

It’s weird that I prefer eating these cakes in bite-size horizontal rows, and yet I enjoy attacking another DR fave — corn on the cob — in a vertical-rows, pencil-sharpening-esque method. Seems like it should be the other way around.

Livin’ large!

My mom, Dee, and I got this cookie last week at the Jersey Sub Shop, which is obviously located in Michigan.

The JSS is amazing on all levels including “has giant Shrek outside for no reason” (see much less ambitious post, below). But come on. WHAT is this design?

We didn’t quite grasp the extent of its mind-numbing quandary when we first ordered it. At point of sale, it was basically like “We need to get a big-ass cookie, end of story.” Then we got home and, post-subs, just kept staring at the cookie for entire minutes. We checked out different angles, adjusted the lighting… at one point I deliberately walked off in a huff, like “I’ve HAD it with that cookie” and then of course walked right back to see if a whiplashed, fake-first impression would do the trick. It totally did not.

We flat-out refused to eat the cookie until we figured out what was supposed to be on top of it, then gave up and ate it anyway. Among our guesses: Snowflake (all me), [confused look] (Dee), simulation of Spirograph (all me), [exasperated look] (Dee), variation on the Burger King crown featuring squiggly lines representative of what happens inside after you eat Burger King (all me). I thought snowflake was pretty spot-on, but Dee gave a final [ENRAGED LOOK] that ran a close second.

You will note that this cookie is roughly four times the circumference of a modestly sized glass of Diet Dr. Pepper. I’m all about the SCALE these days.

I had one more guess and basically nothing to do for the rest of the day, so I drove back to the JSS to confront the guy at the counter head-on about the puzzling design. It was weird.

ANNIE: Hi.

DECORATOR: Oh, hello!

ANNIE: (awkwardly, unnecessarily) I’m back!

DECORATOR: [blank stare]

ANNIE: Did you, like, decorate those cookies? [points at others]

DECORATOR: Yeah! I decided to give it a shot today.

ANNIE: Was the usual decorator not around?

DECORATOR: Right.

ANNIE: Oh, that’s really cool of you. [?!] I have to ask. What exactly were you going for, here? My mom and I have been debating it for half an hour. We’re so confused. I mean, I’m all about artistic expression and doing your own thing [?!], and since this is clearly “your own thing,” [air quotes] I love it just for being itself and… existing. But… what did you have in mind when you set out to do these? TELL ME YOUR FUCKING VISION, MAN.

DECORATOR: [thinks for a long time]

ANNIE: [thinks about leaving because this is SO AWFUL]

DECORATOR: You know what? I have no idea.

ANNIE: I think I know what it was. [gingerly extends a printout of the following image]

ANNIE: It was Queen Frostine’s wand from Candy Land. It’s been on your mind for decades and you’re just now coming to terms with it.

DECORATOR: Holy shit.

ANNIE: [smirks]

DECORATOR: I think you’re RIGHT!

ANNIE: You… like… Candy Land?

STEVE HOLT: No. … I LOVE it!

—

True or false: The above did not actually happen, because I’m way too lazy to re-leave the house.

Click here to watch possibly the greatest thing to ever occur in the Great Lake State, and that’s including Dee Barrett’s summer ‘05 purchase of this cake in the shape of a hot dog.

The one thing that makes it truly awesome is that while most of the stupid, mindless, “funny” viral videos I have to watch for work daily are contrived to the point of being completely fake and pointless, this dispatch is actually real. I can’t see how one could screen-write anything better. WHY DO WE EVEN TRY.

I also dig the giant pot leaf emblazoned onto the transcript. Stay classy, Michigan!

From EW.com: Glamorous entertainment writer Annie Barrett drools in the shape of a smiley face onto a plate of Oscar-nomintated desserts. (Close enough.)

Big Decision Alert!

Liz Lemon is the greatest TV character ever.

I’m probably only saying that because she’s a lot like me and I’m all I ever think about. Whatever. Liz Lemon of 30 Rock (Tina Fey) is my hero for plenty of reasons, the most obvious of which is her unabashed obsession with junk food. Observe:

Liz gets a cookie after donating blood. Would you look at that SMIRK? This might be the best photo I’ve ever taken of my own television, and if you don’t know me that well, that is saying so much more than you think. Observe:

Liz is in the middle of an important, entire-episode-consuming office crisis, yet she hesitates when a catering cart wheels by. She actually CHANGES DIRECTION. I believe a pivot was involved, just like in high school girls basketball. (Me!) Again, note the fierce longing in her face. I just don’t understand how this could get any better. Observe:

Liz falls asleep after the same long day at work, but manages to keep a firm grip on a cheeseburger so weak and floppy it is obviously from McDonald’s, despite a lack of visible wrapper logos. Don’t you just want to eat her up? The burger.

Those pics were from last Thursday’s episode. Last night, Liz Lemon admitted the only times she remotely enjoyed her vile boyfriend’s company was when his actions involved food — first doughnuts, then chili, then cheesesteaks. I am seriously confounded at the brilliance of these snack selections. A few weeks ago, the reason I got going on this in the first place was Liz’s insistence that there’s nothing wrong with eating a turkey sub for lunch, and that she likes going to the “crappy” midtown deli because it’s dependable and you know what you’re getting. I couldn’t have said it better myself — god knows I’ve tried, but I’m not good at scripting myself in catchy, succinct TV sentences. When I get to talking about area delis, I can last for whole minutes. I try really hard to convince whomever I’m arguing with (who was never arguing with me, and who doesn’t care) that turkey subs go best when mouth-swished with regular cola, and don’t forget the mayo. The point is: I love Tina Fey.

And on top of all of that… She’s a lefty!

By the way, I’d like to start a Justin Timberlake-esque campaign to bring the spelling “doughnuts” back. Krispy Kreme spells the word that way, but the more pervasive Dunkin’ Donuts, and most people, do not. Are we that busy and low-class that we need to snub those two arguably negligible letters? I’m bringin’ DoughnutsBack. Owww! Sing it with me:

I’m bringin’ “doughnuts” back
Them other peeps they don’t know how to spell
I think it’s special… what’s it filled with, yo
So put it down and I’ll suck out the jelly

I’m really big on catching killer digital photos (which are apparently more important than my life) while driving on major highways in Illinois.

I love how, in addition to legitimately cool flavors like Moose Tracks and Turtle Tracks, they threw in Vanilla and Butter Pecan. Ha, I scoffed. Vanilla? Yeah right! The term “really cool flavor” must have lost its sacredness!

But no, think about it. Vanilla ice cream is delicious. Visualize yourself taking a bite. Good, now let it sit there on your tongue. Don’t corrupt it. Just let the trickle-down effect kick in. You’re in heaven. Look, there’s some wireless Internet.

I favor Haagen Dazs and Dairy Queen’s vanillas, but Dean might be okay too. The truck art is a really smart ad. People might not order straight-up vanilla at an ice cream shop because their friends would think they were boring. But vanilla is the perfect flavor to buy for at home, where you can be as boring as you want.

Still, ix-nay on the Butter Pecan.

Believe me, I could do it in one.

By the way, these things are amazing. I just wish the word “chunk” appeared somewhere in the description. Brownies, cookies, and ice cream are always better if they give good chunk. It really breaks up the monotony.

I’ve been sitting here obsessing about the concept of chunk for 20 minutes now. It’s also just a great word.

Note to bakers: Any dessert product more than an inch thick and consisting largely of yellow cake… is not a cookie. It can’t be, because it has already committed itself to being cake. No take-backs! You can’t be a cookie once you are a cake. I’m sorry.

I understand that it’s fun for people to write, sell, order, or just say out loud the name “black and white cookie,” because the dessert is a longstanding New York City/Seinfeld fetish object and, in theory, delicious. Like any other hack, I started ordering them in every deli I entered as soon as I moved here three years ago. They never tasted as good as Jerry made them sound, but I thought if I got different ones from better places, the problem would work itself out. I never found a perfect one — in fact, since I started eating them again a few weeks ago, I’ve been mostly shocked and disappointed.

My main problem is the thickness. The B&W C is different at most delis/bakeries, so you never know how thick yours will come out. You usually have to order it having only seen it lying face-up behind glass. That thing could be anything! ANYTHING! Usually it’s a black and white cake. Once I got a black and white cake and a spider. (This did not deter me from returning, because I really liked, and still like, that place’s bagel sandwiches.)

In college, my friend Kate used to lower her voice whenever she ordered the Boston Beef panini sandwich, one of the finer offerings at our esteemed “Hillside Cafe” dining hall. She confided in me (which turned out to be a not-so-hot idea, as I’m in the process of outing her) that she’d always start the order off in her usual boisterous, upbeat voice and then self-consciously taper off when she got to the part about the meat: “I’LL HAVE A boston beef.” This delighted me to no end, and I’d constantly ask her to repeat it for me. Sometimes she’d even type it out like that over IM, which wasn’t as awesome but still pretty funny. What a good friend.

Likewise, in the delis, I’ve taken to saying “I’LL HAVE A BLACK AND WHITE cookie,” not really wanting to say the word “cookie” but knowing that the person will be confused or think I’m a smartass if I call it anything else. I’d love to, but I’d probably not have the energy to request “that thing that everyone calls a cookie but is totally a cake… I mean, do you know what I mean? Don’t you ever just want to scream at customers that it’s actually cake? DON’T YOU?” I never say this — because I’m guessing they really don’t.

I just think if they’re going to sell black and white cake, they should call it that. And they should also make a real black and white cookie that’s half an inch thick or less and chewy instead of crumbly and flaky. Cookies are chewy. I don’t know if you guys got the memo.

Right? If they sold both, everyone would be satisfied, and people like me who are thrilled by the black and white dessert’s general existence would be in heaven. We’d get to choose! Because maybe you’re in the mood for cake. I don’t know, and I don’t judge. You can have your cake, and I can eat my cookie, too.

Just so you don’t think this post is unfounded and completely pointless (too late for that), here is pictorial evidence of a different and deeper B&W C than the one at the top. This one had to be at least three inches thick. Its physical properties were approaching the spherical. I kept thinking that if I wanted a black and white cake shaped like a mini-basketball, I would have asked for that. I was so annoyed by the cake’s depth that I ended up just eating the part I wanted (the icing) and not much else. This wouldn’t have happened if it had truly been a cookie. Think about it!

This dessert should know that I only criticize it because I love it so much and think it has so much potential, but…

I Call Bullshit on the black and white cookie!

P.S. I’ve already read the scads of Web pages about the history of the B&W C. I’m well aware that the cookie-as-cake phenomenon is common knowledge and that its original form is beloved by many just as it is. I’m simply suggesting that history be rewritten and improved upon according to my whimsy. It’s no big deal.

I’ve been avoiding my first post from Brooklyn for awhile now. What if I was changed? What if this site became much worse…. OR BETTER? The thought was more than I could bear.

No, I’m just lazy.

So here I am! This neighborhood is called Park Slope and I love it. Like OMG it is so cool and original of me to move to Park Slope! I am a Slopester. Watch me blog about it!

But first: last photos of the Village.

Here I am in the Pink Palace, just moments after the three movers lugged out all of my crap from it… and just before I got stuck in a 90-minute traffic jam in a cab because I was too shy and rejection-fearing to bum a ride in the moving van. (The woman on the phone said it was illegal for them to drive me… I’m not sure why I listened to her. I think it was so that I’d have a good excuse to not ask for a ride, even though it was all I wanted/needed in my life at that point. So basically, the prospect of saving up to $95 (the extra hour on the move + $20 for a cab) was not worth the effort of a few lines of awkward conversation between me and strangers. I need to develop some new priorities. Hence, the move to Brooklyn.)

Speaking of awkward, I certainly played my part in making the scene between me and the movers as uncomfortable as possible. It took them maybe 30 minutes to haul everything out of the place, but I still kind of had to be in there to answer questions and generally get in the way. So I pretended to busy myself with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Tilex Shower Fresh cleanser. When they’d leave the room, I’d relax and put both items down; when they returned, I’d be furiously scrubbing the oven top for the fifth time. I also did a number on the closet and bathroom floors. None of this was necessary. All I really wanted to do was clean behind the bed, where I knew would be an assortment of sugary cereals, hair things, and broken glass. Finally the bed was gone, and I was right. The broken glass was more like a broken goblet. It was this huge beer chalice from Munich, and I loved it. I almost didn’t want the guys to move the bed so I wouldn’t have to bear the sight of its pieces. (Keep in mind the glass broke over a year ago and I just never bothered to pick it up. I’m cool.)

The most awkward few minutes occurred after I realized there were still some popsicles in my freezer, and decided to start gnawing on one while the movers were still in the thick of things. It was an Edy’s Whole Fruit strawberry bar and it was absolutely heavenly. So good, in fact, that I started feeling extremely guilty about eating the treat in front of the mover men. Here they were hustling and sweating their asses off, and there I was gingerly sinking my teeth into each bite so as not to incur brain freeze.

A few bites in, the scene became too traumatic to handle, so I started rushing and developed brain freeze anyway. The whole time, I wondered if it would be appropriate to ask the guys if they wanted one. It would have been so weird. We were barely speaking, but they had to notice how delighted I was by the popsicle. I’m positive I was swaying around in a deep swoon, trying to catch my balance on the countertop. I was pissed I never got to enjoy the other bars in the package. I ended up leaving them for new tenant Kate, but first I had a fleeting notion of asking the guys if they wanted one. I wonder how I would have phrased it, because their English wasn’t so hot.

“Want a popsicle?”

“Would you like a delicious popsicle in a strawberry flavor?”

“Here.” [shoves it]

Either way, it would have been weird. Think about it. I’m paying them to carry crap downstairs at 10 in the morning and suddenly I’d be like “No, stop and have dessert with me.” I’m positive they’d have said no, so I never asked, Plus, I knew I’d be offended if they declined. When people say no to things I suggest, I get really mad. Not because I want to win, but because I really want others to enjoy what I’m obsessing over at that moment. It makes me feel less insane and selfish. So seriously. Humor me.

My my, check out how much more pink and loserish the Palace looks when it’s empty! It also seems smaller, if that’s possible. Did I really live in that thing for two years? (A: Yes, and you adored it, so stop that right now, young lady. I mean it!)

I expected to be teary-eyed and blubbery during these moments; instead I was thrilled (see above photo, in which I swear I wasn’t trying to look that excited on purpose). I think the most appropriate term is “giddy.” I like that one because when I say it, I seem to feel the need to add an extra syllable, a sort of “ehn” sound before the g. It comes out like “nnngiddy.” People have mocked this. They’re like, “Say giddy again.” But I don’t. I’m not their clown.

Yes! I enjoy often Phish. Shoot me. I also enjoy tropical fish, courtesy of Dee Barrett’s shiny spandex aerobics pants from the ’80s. Dee, seriously… WTF? (Editor’s note: The same could be asked of Annie, who has carried these pants around with her “for special occasions” since she found them in her bathroom closet at age 17.) Editor, shut up. In any case, that pic’ll have to replace the other futon pic during National Tropical Fish Spandex Month. Or, “May.”

I’m glad The Apprentice has resorted to sexual-favors-in-the-cabs gimmicks in order to draw in viewers (left). Just kidding — silly British Sean and mini Daisy Duck Allie are only cracking up at something their project manager said, because project managers are always a barrel of laughs. I think this one was asking them what color paint they should use on the pipes on a ceiling. Ha ha ha! I’d definitely need to bury my face into the guy next to me’s lap if I heard something so outrageous.

I propose a new, and this time meaningful, task for The Apprentice: Which team can bake the bigger brownie?

Last night I watched the most amazing show in the world: The Secret Life of… Brownies on the Food Network (right). I can’t even focus on that photo for longer than a second without losing my breath. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I could live without the possibly styrofoam Michigan State-related atrocity in the middle, but oh my god, look at the lush landscape of plain brown to its right. I just want to shrink down, do a cool track-start dive, and go swimming in there for a while. I don’t think anything could make me more happy.

So it’s settled. Before I die, this is what I want to do. If you love me, make it happen.

I went to Boston this weekend and apparently forgot I owned a camera about an hour in. Our takeout food must have arrived and completely clouded my brain with its deliciousness and low cost. My friends also had an on-demand karaoke channel. That threw me a little off.

I was most excited to be able to order frozen yogurt with “mix-ins” again. This trend seems to be everywhere in the city, not just the neighborhood I went to school in. I’m not talking about that shit you can find at Coldstone Creamery, an establishment which is steadily winning the war it recently waged against all the cool neighborhoods in Manhattan. No, in Boston, certain delis and pizzerias offer about a pint of frozen yogurt or ice cream infiltrated with slivers of your snacks of choice (my favorite combo as an undergrad was York peppermint patty + Oreo) for $3.50… for no specific reason.

The yogurt and mix-ins list, usually on the back page of a fold-out menu, makes me so happy. It’s something so random and unnecessarily gratuitous, but whose existence I appreciate so much. Like olive oil on the table right when you sit down, or the movie Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead. This yogurt/mix-in phenomenon comprises a significant portion of my affection for Boston. I love Boston! So I must like the yogurt a whole lot.

Anyway, I did take two photos and found them both worth sharing.

My friend E. Barrett (no relation) and I hit yet another notch in the “we have to be related” game. It turns out we both keep our digital cameras not in practical, reasonably priced camera cases, but in single pieces of winter handwear. Hers is a colorful mitten that would be well-suited for a giant. Mine is a stretchy purple glove that, as I’m demonstrating in the photo, “expands and contracts with the gadget.” That sounds gross.

Because I’ve received countless taunts from various “friends” about my gloved camera, I had previously assumed that the stashing of expensive electronics in handwear was so delightfully nuts that only I could think of it. I was incredibly psyched to be wrong. Look at us. We’re so proud. We actually look like we’re imploring you to find us quirky and cute. “Hey, guys, check us out! You can’t make shit like this up!”

Another reason we might be related: E.’s mom sends her a lot of ridiculous stuff in the mail. E. and M. were kind enough to pose with two such items: a gigantic calendar and a tiny red computer button that says “PANIC.” These roommates have actually had discussions about how the other Mrs. Barrett only sends her daughter objects that fall into the categories of “oversized” or “miniature.” I find this amazing.

Something else is amazing. Look at the three letters in between my two friends. Indeed.

On last night’s ABC Nightly News, fat people were shown eating fast food, while a voiceover screamed threateningly that Something else in your diet may be responsible for obesity!

That outburst is wrong for a lot of reasons, including
1) it implies that everyone watching is already obese
2) it references “something else” as the “other” to a subject that was never established
3) it’s true

No matter what your diet is, there will always be “something else” that may be responsible for obesity — yours or anyone else’s. You don’t even have to be eating it at the time. But it definitely couldn’t hurt.

The really crappy part of this promo, for me, was that I was eating my way through a giant box of Kirschbaum’s tea cookies (translation: “cookies with frosting”) when I heard it. I was actually so focused on the cookies that I wasn’t even watching the screen. I started laughing just from hearing the words, and little crumbs (of the cold hard truth) scattered all around me in my bed. It was sexy. This was at 8 in the morning. I’d been up all night, and now a commercial on ABC was telling me that something else in my diet — give or take the box of cookies perched on my right knee — may be responsible for my obesity.

Appreciate it!

Apologies in advance: I don’t get to write about The O.C. anymore (I’ve moved on to covering a far more ridiculous show), so I’m gonna do it right here. Instead of covering the entire episode, I’ll just be focusing on something really small (annoying, even!) and apply it to my own life because HELLO! It’s what I do. I’m cool.

Last night on The O.C., Marissa and her on-again/off-again sister Kaitlin were chillin’ out by the pier, because that’s what all cool girls do in Newport Beach mid-morning, and Kaitlin told some long-winded story — that was actually a lot like this sentence — about how when they were younger, Marissa could never decide on which flavor of ice cream to order at Baskin Robbins.

I was immediately intrigued, for many reasons. 1) These two actresses probably haven’t even eaten ice cream since they were around six. 2) That’s a really funny product placement, even if it’s only a Mention. And 3) Baskin Robbins was my favorite ice cream store when I was younger, and the more things on TV that can relate to Annie Barrett’s Own Life, the better! Also 4) Baskin Robbins made the Clown Cones I’ve written about before. You remember, right? (I’m basically talking to myself here, so yes, Annie, I totally remember that! It was such an awesome entry.)

Anyway, the story 14 year-old Kaitlin told was funny because I can totally picture someone as annoying as Marissa wanting to sample all 31 of the flavors before making her final decision. Imagine my shock and awe when I realized that Kaitlin was actually describing my life! See, Kaitlin, who bragged that she always got Gold Medal Ribbon because she “knew” that she “loved it,” is like my friend Kara, who in the hundreds of times we must have gone to Baskin Robbins NEVER ordered anything except Gold Medal Ribbon. She knew about it from day one, even before I’d ever been to the store with her. It was like she’d claimed that territory as part of her America. I’d always be a little jealous, becuase I too liked GMR. She was right — it never disappointed. It was just something you could count on, like running water or Ryan Atwood.

So Kara would choose Gold Medal Ribbon. They’d give it to her and she’d stand there all smug, totally happy with her decision. Smart as a whip, that Kara. Such conviction at such a young age. Meanwhile, I’d be sweating (literally… I wasn’t even fat, but I did sweat a lot as a preteen) while touring the rest of the flavors. If I got Gold Medal Ribbon, I’d be a copycat, but if I got something I didn’t like as much, I’d hate Kara and myself for the rest of that day. Sometimes I went with rainbow sherbet or a Clown Cone or even this other flavor they had called World Class Chocolate that always always always sat right on top of GMR. It was brutal. Sure, I liked World Class Chocolate, but I never once got to order GMR if Kara was there because I thought she’d get mad at me. Why didn’t I just order it first, or pretend like I didin’t remember that it was her favorite flavor? Nah, she’d be onto me in a second. Smart as a whip, like I said.

Wow, Annie, another killer graphic.

What the F is the point of this? It’s right here: I hate Marissa. And now I’m LIKE Marissa. It follows that I now hate myself. Great! Time for this week’s Query Chart, or what people searched online that made them find this site.

Yesssss. larry king’s chili and i hate oprah are welcome additions to the list, which 100% of the time includes the query “butt crack.” I am an amazing writer and a prominent thinker of my time.

Speaking of phrases like “of my time,” how absolutely offensive is it that in this year’s Survivor, they broke up the women and men into older and younger groups? One of the women, Cirie, was like “I thought I was young!” while the graphic below her name said she belonged to the OLDER WOMEN group. Yikes. I also think producers planted that fish in the rocks so Tina could find it, bring it back to camp, be seen as even more of a threat, and get BOOTED!

The Office was really good last night, too.

But I don’t really like TV.

Does anyone remember a cookie manufactured during the ’80s called Giggles? I asked Dee last month but she didn’t know what I was talking about. Look, Dee! I loved these cookies and thought they were both adorable and my special friends when I was really little. I’d carry them around in the box and occasionally eat one, but there were about six different varieties of faces in the box so I’d be sure to leave one of each face in the box. Then I’d lay them all out on the counter and study them quizzically, trying to decide which one I liked the least and therefore deserved to be the first casualty of my final round. I did this until all that was left were crumbs. < --- Kind of Cute or Sick and Pathological? You make the call. I already know my vote.

Besides, it’s not like I walked around giggling like that doofus in the commercial. I wonder if he turned out screwed up. That was insane. Rather, I was very methodical about the whole process. It was almost as if carrying around the box of Giggles was my full-time job for that day. I was so intent on executing the job correctly and fairly. Wow, my professionalism shone through at such a young age. I wonder what happened to it.

The offending item:

First, these are all shitty choices. Dairy Queen can be good if it’s July, you’re in the Midwest, and you’re resigned to being fat and happy for the next seven days. Baskin Robbins gives shoddy portions, and Coldstone Creamery employees make me want to shoot myself. It was suggested by someone I thought cared about me that I apply for a job and work there for a few weeks for research purposes, singing to the customers and shouting out my name in cheer form with key anecdotes about myself. Dude, I have a blog for that.

Yes, it would be hilarious and I might even get to write a bestselling novel about it, but who needs millions of dollars when you can have, instead, ice cream dignity and $14 an hour to watch for product placement in television? Not me, that’s who! Besides, I’m still planning on getting a job at Starbucks for a few months, just long enough to pen my debut novel, Lots of Lattes. Or maybe even Latts o’ Lattes. It’s gonna be about, like, espresso and stuff.

Secondly, I don’t appreciate the way “Rob Jefferson” has preselected Baskin Robbins for me. I remember those “Clown Cones” from Baskin Robbins. Did every store have those, or was it just the one at the Garden Market shopping center in Western Springs, IL? This was an ice cream cone with — again — a severely low amount of ice cream in the actual cone and (here comes the “clown” part) little florets of thick, multicolored buttercream icing dotting the cone and the ice cream itself to form a “clown face” that never looked anything like a real clown but tasted really, really sugary. Most of my naive little playmates would eat all the florets at once because they were all anyone cared about. I was all “WTF?” to such children because I preferred to eat my florets gradually, with a balanced ratio of ice cream to icing in each bite. I’d feel sorry for one part if I favored the other unfairly. The textures of both clashed so violently that it was just a tumultuous experience in general. In fact, I’d really rather not repeat it or even think about it ever again. And yet I’m writing about it. You can tell it’s almost six in the morning. Maybe you can’t, and I’ve just outed myself. Whatever. Look, I just found an article which mentions the Clown Cone. The writer seems to think the CC was a once-a-year birthday treat. Wow. Either they became too popular for that rule to hold, or the Garden Market chain’s employees just got way too overzealous with all the floret fun. I’d like to bet on the latter, but again, with the shoddy portions… those employees (always the same man, woman, and teenage daughter — it’s like they slept behind the counter) didn’t seem like so much fun at all. What am I talking about? Look how long this paragraph about florets is! Am I really going to post this?

Guess so.

I wrote the TV Watch for LOST on EW.com today. That’s why I am awake. It’s not my fault, except it really is.

Just realized the date is 05/05/05. DUDE.

I confessed to Meghan my psychological problems involving Magnolia cupcakes, and instead of empathizing with me like I thought she would, she laughed in my face. Here’s the problem: When there’s a food product I really value - and this is not limited to junk food like 99% of this site - I need to have a backup if I’m going to indulge.

This means that if I decide I want my last orange, I need to go out and buy another orange (or six) before I eat the first. The supply must be replenished before it depletes, or “diminishes,” if I want to be cute about it.

This isn’t funny. I have a serious problem. Late at night, I’ll decide I want to cook penne pasta, and unless there’s another box somewhere in apartment, I can’t bring myself to do it because then I wouldn’t have any more penne.

What?! I am insane! I know this. Just let me get it out, because you’re already here and probably not about to leave (although now would be a great time).

I do this with mini Twix, mac ‘n’ cheese, lime Tostitos, and eggs, to name a few. I will even let rotting flowers sit on my coffee table while I procrastinate buying new ones, instead of just throwing them out as soon as they start to flake out.

I’ve thought about it for a few hours now (I have a really fulfilling life) and have concluded that it’s only store-bought items that I need immediately replenished. If I cook eggplant parm or make tuna salad, it’s not like I’m going to whip up another tray of it just because I’m almost done with the leftovers. That would be crazy! And when I have restaruant leftovers, I don’t feel a strong urge to run back and order the same thing right away. Unless it was, you know, really good. No, the OCD seems to be limited to single items that are sold as small wholes unto themselves.

Case in point: Magnolia cupcakes. Meghan and I decided to split a box of four. I assumed this would provide a pretty good buffer zone for me, because she would only eat one (to my one) and leave me with two extra when she left. Then, I could safely eat the third while planning another trip to the bakery for more.

This is just wrong. I would apparently rather let the fourth innocent cupcake become stale and possibly never eaten than just eat all my purchased servings at once and live without the presence of cupcakes in my apartment for one whole day. I need some help.

When it was clear that Meghan was going to eat her second, I became despondent and confided this particular food-related OCD to her, to no avail. She thought I was nuts when I suggested that before we eat the second pair, we should walk over and get two more because the bakery wasn’t closed yet!

When I type it out, it doesn’t seem logical to me either. But at the time, the feeling was so intense, so certain. Look at those colors. Would you want to part with all of them without backup? Think about it. :(