(If you can’t see the video on your phone, here is the link.)
That’s my swan song, folks.
ie There will be no more posts on this blog.
But! You can catch me every week at my Youtube channel.
Please subscribe to my YouTube channel. I upload comedy videos every week!
Hope you guys have a wonderful weekend.
Love,
~L
Hey Guys,
The results of the poll were 50/50 if you, my awesome readers, would like me to share my YouTube videos here…which basically meant that I had to pull the trigger. Oh, the irony.
It’s been a hard decision, but my heart isn’t into food blogging anymore. I love writing comedy and I love cooking, but I absolutely loathe food photography. It was always hard for me to see these “famous” food blogs get so much press when yes, they had great photos, but what they basically wrote was dribble. “I love oatmeal. Oatmeal is so great. Don’t you love oatmeal?” It made me want to punch someone in the mouth. Over time I realized that the majority of the food blogging audience just wanted to see a pretty photo and scroll down to the recipe because it looked good.
Just…no.
I cannot thank you enough for following LLN. I got to know a few of you through Twitter and your comments and am so happy that we were able to connect. Overall the internets is a lovely thing.
I hope you will subscribe to my YouTube channel, as it’s the same style of comedy writing that I’ve been doing over here.
So for today, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite episodes, “How Girls Get Ready for A Date.”
Tomorrow I will post “The Time My Mother Met My Boyfriend,” which I think is my funniest episode to date. With these two episodes, I hope I can end LLN on a high note. Getting you guys to laugh has been the main reason I’ve loved this blog so much.
Love you guys. Please keep in touch.
xo
~L
Hey guys!
I’ve been updating my YouTube channel more frequently than this space. I’d love to share the comedy videos here, but that means the direction of the blog would change a bit, ie no recipes.
Would you mind responding to this poll to let me know if you’d like to see the videos here
or not.
Thank you so much!
.
Heya,
I wanted to try something new this month. Hopefully you’ll like what I would have written, but instead filmed.
I’m going to try to film every week, so if you liked it, please subscribe to my YouTube channel! Or not, that’s cool.
Love you guys. You’re what keeps me writing everyday. And um, posting nearly every month. 🙂
P.S. If my voice is way deeper than you thought it was, glad to have freaked you out. xx
.
I’m an asshole to sleep with.
I steal the sheets. Sometimes I snore. I drool. Excessively. And I totally hog the bed.
On several occasions Roo has found me in…
the “diagonal,”
the “L,”
the “Vitruvian Man,”
and what Roo likes to call, “the Captain Morgan.”
Did I mention that I’m notorious for shoving people out of “my space?” Like, onto the floor?
Yup, Roo is lucky to be with me.
And by lucky, I mean I bribe him with waffles for breakfast. Waffles totally make up for being pushed out of the bed, right?
Roo turned down the car radio. “Do rappers realize that some of their lyrics make no sense?”
“You mean when Chingy raps that he likes, ‘black, white, Puerto Rican or Haitian, like Japanese, Chinese or even Asian?”
“Even Asian?”
I opened my purse and pulled out a ziploc bag. “But that’s not even close to Mase rapping, ‘Young, black and famous, with money hanging out the anus.”
“No. The best is Dre’s ‘Never let me slip, cause if I slip, then I’m slippin.'”
I laughed, tearing the soda bread bun in two and handing a half to Roo. “What does that even mean?!”
Roo grabbed the bun and shrugged, “At least they’re direct, even if it doesn’t make sense. Like Chris Brown singing, ‘I’m gonna make you wet the bed.’ Class act.”
“Ugh, who says stuff like that!?” I groaned, “I still can’t believe Rihanna’s back with He Who Must Not Be Named.”
“Did you just compare Chris Brown to Voldemort?”
“I’m convinced he appears like Beetlejuice if you say his name three times.”
“That’s how I feel about Kesha.”
“You mean you don’t like to feel ‘like a sabertooth tiger, sipping on a warm Budweiser?'”
Roo turned the radio back up. “I want my ring back.”
“What’s going on with your…” Roo started, waving a fork towards the vicinity of my face.
“You mean this?” I asked, pointing at my eyes.
“Did you…are you trying something new?”
“What, you don’t appreciate the Clockwork Orange look?”
“It’s just,” he paused, “different.”
I looked down, pushing the polenta onto my fork. “It’s what happens when your eyeliner pencil breaks mid-application at work. I got my left eye done and then the tip broke off when I was starting on the right.”
“Why didn’t you just wash it off?”
I sighed. “Well, that would have been the obvious thing to do.”
Roo furrowed his brow.
“You know how I am in a panic.” I said, between bites, “I ran back into the office and tried to sharpen the pencil.”
“With a pencil sharpener?”
“With a blunt pair of scissors.”
“It looks fine.” Roo replied, turning his head slightly, trying to hide a smile.
I sighed, grabbing a napkin and dipping it into my water glass.
“What are you doing?”
I started wiping off the botched makeup job on my right eye, “Trying to fix it.”
“Babe, I don’t even know why you put on makeup.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s like,” he paused, “you’re like Beyonce. She looks even better without makeup. Unlike Nicki Minaj who just needs more and more piled on.”
“I don’t know whether to be more surprised about the Beyonce or the Nicki Minaj reference you just made.”
“Fine. It’s like this dish,” he said, tilting his plate of mushrooms and polenta forward. “It doesn’t need a whole bunch of stuff piled on top of it to make it better. It’s just great the way it is.”
I smiled. “You know I would have preferred Rihanna, right?”
Taking classes at night is a whole other animal compared to my glory days of undergrad. After a long day I have no patience for students who only like to hear the sound of their voice. Perhaps that makes me the worst kind of classmate, especially after muttering, “I kill you” when one of my peers asks his eighth non-question.
Nighttime lecture-hall manners are kind of an anomaly: like getting stared at while I licked the lid of my yogurt clean. It was as if my row-mates were accusing me of reenacting a very (very) awkward porno scene; although it was a lid to a 32 ounce container (about the size of my head).
The worst is when you’re seated next to an incessant desk tapper,
a Red-Bull-drinking-open-mouth-breather
or God forbid, the I’m-kicking-the-back-of-your-seat-because-I-want-to-see-you-turn-into-my-very-own-fun-sized-Hulk.
But there’s hope.
Sharing snacks in class is kind of an icebreaker.
And when you break bread with your classmates, they totally will join you, hating on that guy that won’t stop clicking his pen.
Just stop, guy. Seriously.
I’m convinced I’m going to be found in our apartment trapped under three years of Rachael Ray magazines. They’re stacked high on top of our bookcase, next to the back issues of Martha Stewart Living, unread.
I can’t bring myself to throw them away. Who tosses out the secrets to an amazing souffle or how to make a ribbon wreath just in time for the holidays? I’m obviously assuming what’s in those magazines as I have yet to open a single issue.
I blame Costco. They’re the gateway to buying things you don’t really need. Where else would I gain the mindset that I need to buy three years of Rachael Ray Magazine?
There are, of course, worse things you could buy in bulk. Like three hundred rolls of toilet paper. Who needs three hundred rolls of toilet paper? Or rather, where would you store them without it becoming a hazard in your home? Being found under a year supply of toilet paper is far worse than a bunch of magazines. It leads to questions like, “Why did you need all of this? Are you feeling alright?” as the person eyes your bathroom.
It was at Costco where I stumbled upon a case of tofu. Ok, stumbled is a stretch. I practically ran into the place, glass eyed and salivating. With my mother’s club card in hand, I was ready to spend some money. I mean, save money. That’s the purpose of a wholesale club, right?
An hour later I came home with a full trunk and a receipt that took about a minute to print out at the register. (And maybe a “possible fraudulent alert” sent to my Gmail from my credit card company.)
“No one needs a case of tofu,” Roo said, as he helped me lift the bags out of the trunk.
“I’m half Asian. Of course I need a case of tofu.”
No one needs a case of tofu.
A pan fried tofu recipe with a spicy and sweet sauce however, is something of a necessity. Just don’t buy a case worth of ingredients, ok?
I hate pedestrian crosswalks.
Not the ones you can cross by your own free will, but those that require you to press a button.
I just…can’t.
When I look at it, I see the man who didn’t wash his hands, the child who just wiped their nose, or the woman who picked up after her dog.
I see a germ here,
here,
and here.
And then exponentially increased because we all know there’s an epidemic of gross going on down there.
So I adapt.
I cover my hand with my shirtsleeve. Sometimes I use my purse. I’ve even used my hip to press that damn button.
And yet.
If I’m at party, and there are communal snacks, I’m ok with it.
Hands diving into a bag of chips? No big.
Only want half of that cookie? That’s cool, break it in half and we’ll share.
Grab a handful of granola? Just make sure you have it with some coconut yogurt too.
Just don’t ask me to hit the crosswalk button on our walk home.
Liz Lemon Nights 
