America's Next Top House MD

This week, good tv finally started airing. Okay, so America's Next Top Model had already premiered, but this week we got a look at the girls actually living in the house (and unfortunately we were forced to look several times) - and House premiered, which meant I finally felt complete.

Unfortunately, when attempting to come up with some sort of image to commemorate the reappearance of my two fabulously guilty pleasures, I accidentally created this monstrosity:

Smile wit' yo EYES

Okay, so clearly in this picture, it's the final showdown between the final two ANTM contestants, and Tyra is rightfully pissed; first of all, Chase isn't being *~fierce~* enough, and second of all, Tyra specifically told House not to wear the Jeeves and Wooster era outfit, since his weave is now better than hers.

You can also clearly tell that it is Friday, and I have had a very long week, and if you were to open up my head, all you'd find is a BRB sign where my brain should be. Today I actually got to do some work (in addition to a gleeful hour spent digging through our new order of office supplies, proudly waving around the new hot pink super sticky post-it notes with my boss) and after my first full week at my new job, I feel my head needs a much deserved break. I mean, I practically perform brain surgery - of course I need a break from my very demanding schedule.

This weekend will be quite a nice one; while Erin and Kristyn are taking the LSAT tomorrow, and while Becca is at the mercy of a horde of rabid, salivating mutants that are attempting to suck the souls out of poor unsuspecting victims (she'll be at a recruitment retreat), I'll be sleeping until noon or so, as long as the cat doesn't kill me. At the moment, she's sitting on the couch and staring intently at me, and I don't believe she's blinked in... oh, 20 full minutes?

Provided that I survive to see Sunday, Erin and I will be venturing out to Maryland to pick up my bed and some furniture from Ikea. I have yet to decide if I want to pick up Catzilla the Dwarf Hamster yet - I suppose I'll be deliciously free spirited and decide at the do-or-die moment if I want to purchase a small freakish rodent or not. Hm.

Since this post has clearly not made any sense whatsoever, I feel it's best just to stop myself before I fail utterly - like Mila, another rabid mutant that proved once again that ANTM conveniently forgets, season after season, that they're supposed to be a modeling competition, and not a search for the most horrifying circus sideshow freak in the country. This post, and Mila, are made of fail:

The Other Boleyn Girl: Transition Boleyn, the One that was Edited Out

While I'm a fan of period pieces (and have a special obsession with the Tudors and Henry VIII and everything even remotely related to them) and a big fan of that whole 'literature' thing in general (thank you, BA in English), I'm often wary of reading those massively popular best sellers that everyone's always crowing about 'round the proverbial water cooler, even if the book in question is dangling delicious Tudors, sex, and drama in front of my face.

I tend to always hate those books that everyone and their grandmother raves about; take for instance, The DaVinci Code. I thought The DaVinci Code was the biggest piece of crap I have ever read in my entire life. Since most of you have heard me rant (on multiple occasions) about my loathing of the book, I'll sum it up for you:

The book professes women are supposed to be the strong leaders that have been squashed by historians and The Man, yet the ONE female character in the book is so spineless and stupid (seriously, they keep mentioning how much smarter the male lead is, it's rather off-putting) and can't do anything. Oh, but she's the kid of Jesus, cause you never saw that one coming, even though SHE IS CONSTANTLY THINKING ABOUT THAT TERRIBLE SECRET THAT MAYBE SHE'LL EXPLAIN ON THE NEXT PAGE BUT SHE WON'T BECAUSE SHE JUST WANTS TO KEEP MENTIONING THAT TERRIBLE SECRET THAT SHE WON'T EXPLAIN. There are other things I hate about the book, but if I don't stop myself now, I won't be able to control myself.

Hold me, I'm the weaker sex

This explains why I had - until today - put off reading The Other Boleyn Girl. I really wanted to read it, and more importantly, I really wanted to like it. I've heard nothing but good things - oh it's so dramatic, and full of sex and betrayals and plotting and all those other layers of awesomeness that come inevitably with a book on the subject. Yet I was afraid. Everyone liked it so much, and that meant I'd hate it. Could I do that to myself? Could I set myself up, feeling hopeful and fragile, only to sink into a pit of despair when I ended up throwing the book across the room and cursing out my friends for encouraging me to read it?

Turns out yep, I could. And in true Chelsea fashion, I found it to be a heinously written monstrosity, one that turned out to be all hype and absolutely nothing substantial within. Why does this always happen? Am I too critical? Too judgmental? Or just smarter than everyone else? I mean, I know I'm all three, but seriously people. This is getting ridiculous.

The problem with The Other Boleyn Girl is that the author's not actually a college educated adult - University of Sussex, I challenge you to procure Ms. Gregory's transcripts and "prove" she was ever there. See, Philippa Gregory is actually a twelve year old girl, clutching a bright pink feather pen in her hand and wearing a princess-style dress her mother sewed for her, yearning for freedom and understanding and for Billy Smith, the hottest, most smartest, most excellentest boy in the entire sixth grade, to stop noticing her more attractive sister and start dating her instead.

Most authors understand the basic concept of plot flow, of continuity, and of reasonable and sensible transitions. Philippa, on the other hand, seemed to have missed that particular lesson (perhaps she was writing dark poetry and painting her nails black under the bleachers on the football field) and seems to think there's no such thing as "physics" or "time and space" or "logicality." A scene will proceed like this:

Mary was gazing out the window of her living room, while her father was leaving for France to collect Anne. They were delayed. "Hey, Anne, how are you?" asked Mary. Their father stepped up beside them in the Queen's chambers. "Hi, your majesty." Catherine of Aragon didn't like her. George walked with them under the bright sun. Henry laughed with Mary.

And there you have chapter two. I kept pausing, wrinkling my brow, and re-reading the paragraph because I couldn't understand how Mary had been in her house then suddenly Anne was there but they were at the castle and then there was Catherine and wait, what? Where am I again, and what the hell am I reading?

I'm hiding my face because I'm ashamed of this book

It also doesn't help that the characters are completely lifeless. Last time I checked, Henry, Catherine, Anne & Co. were vivid, fascinating characters, caught up in history's most decadent soap opera. Here, however, they are flat and dull; rather than coming to life, they are just words on a page (and uninteresting ones, at that.) Anne is annoying and bland, Mary is snore-inducing, and George is, I believe, a piece of paper that they carry around with them because they don't actually have a brother, but really wish they do (and by "really" I mean they're "mildly interested" because they're incapable of more emotion, even with a few saucier words tossed here and there.)

Henry himself is beyond bland, appearing every so often in awkward ways (like when Mary was talking to Anne, but then in the next sentence was dancing with Henry, even though Henry was still sitting on his throne and Mary was still in the corner because there had been no indication of movement on either's part) and you really have to ask this is supposed to be Henry VIII? Boring! How one makes a tyrannical king that gleefully chopped the heads off his wives, plotted against everyone and everything, and generally had a grand old time oppressing everyone that questioned him, into a boring bland character that one could skip right over reading, baffles me.

So, basically, the book sucks. Terrible writing, uneventful plot (even during the "good" moments), heinously boring characters, and no continuity or transitions whatsoever. The only good thing about this book is that when you start reading, you fall asleep about five minutes later, give or take. Next time I'm suffering from insomnia, I'll break this book out, and start reading. That should give me ten solid hours of unconsciousness.

CATZILLA

Since Erin won't let me name Cleo (the fugitive cat) Catzilla, and since I have a dark void of despair in my soul from Jazz's absence (because my goddamn building won't let me have dogs), I have decided to make myself feel better by adopting a Roborovski dwarf hamster and naming all 4.5 centimeters of him Catzilla. Ignore that he is neither a cat, nor a godzilla, and ignore the fact that I will probably end up stepping on him and squashing him before I even get him home, and focus on the fact that I can tell my off-beat biological clock to stop weeping because I have something ridiculously small and fragile that I can love like it is from my own womb.

I represent your insanity

My god, that was a horrifying sentence. I forgot I don't actually want kids or yearn to have something burst from my womb - I was reading my Cosmo article again. Damn you, Cosmo!

Anyway, I'm going to get Catzilla a giant rolling ball so that he may roll around to his heart's content (and so I wont inadvertently kill him by stepping on him.) I also want to get him a baby sling, so I can carry him around with me. And get him a designer uh... scrap of cloth or something so I can fashion him an outfit. And maybe stick his head through a ring so he can have a shiny collar. And put him in my Louis Vuitton makeup case and tote him around with all of the men in Dupont Circle that are carrying around their Yorkies in their Louis baby carriers. Gay men, eat your heart out - my animal is small enough to hide in that weird little pocket on your jeans that nothing actually fits in. Oh yeah, that's right, I said it.

Speaking of lost and endangered animals, there is a girl outside my office who keeps pacing up and down the hallway, looking in vast confusion at a resume of some sort, and peering curiously at the office doors. Now, there are only two offices on this floor, and they are both clearly labeled, so I'm pretty sure if you're not applying to either company, you should be pretty damn sure that you're in the wrong place.

And speaking of lost, endangered animals in the wrong place, there was a man outside earlier today, walking through Farragut Square wearing a chicken costume. While there are always odd sights in the Square (the homeless, college students wandering out of Foggy Bottom and having heart attacks, Republicans, etc) this was perhaps the strangest, especially because I'm pretty sure he was carrying around a chicken sandwich. I'm not entirely sure what point he was trying to make, other than cannibalism is good. If that's the case, power to the chicken. Just don't take off that costume and start eating people instead.

Denial: The Ahmadinejad Approach to Life

You know, in between my ramblings of Verizon Demon Children and Monstrous Flesh-Eating Puppets, I've decided to adopt a new outlook on life. I wasn't sure where to go; should I try (more extensive) therapy? Accept other people and children and puppets? Be more optimistic?

Well, my problem was solved with all the recent buzz about Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad coming to the US. I realized that, rather than accepting people and seeing the obvious, I should just try Denial - brilliant!

I see what you did right there

First things first, I'm going to pretend like homosexuals don't exist. Homosexuals? We don't have that problem! No one's gay (because we sent them to prison and executed them! Yeah!) You crazy Americans and your acceptance of "alternative lifestyles" - you know what I say to alternative lifestyles? There aren't any because we end your life first!

Secondly, I'm going to pretend like the Holocaust didn't happen, cause c'mon - we all know the Jews made that up in order to evoke sympathy and prompt the gullible to give them all their money, because all Jews are money hungry attorneys and lawyers and doctors. Except for Sarah Silverman, no one will take any responsibility for that one.

I agree, I prefer blonds too

Speaking of the onslaught of the Jews, I'm going to go ahead and agree with Ahmadinejad and say we just wipe Israel off the map. I mean, it's clear that the entire state of Israel is just one giant occupying regime, dedicated to marring the spotless reputation of the Middle East (to put it more eloquently, there are a "disgraceful stain on the Islamic world," says Ahmadinejad.) Out, damn spot!

Let's see, what else is there to be in denial over... Oh yes, let's make the universities have a 50% quota for male students, and a 50% quota for female students in acceptance numbers. We have got to stop the growing number of females in areas of higher education! Cause uh... they don't have enough dorms. And uh... transportation's hard. Or something.

Actually, I think I'm just going to ignore any and all human rights, to be on the safe side. It's so much easier to entirely disregard the welfare, feelings, and wellbeing of the masses. I mean, it's the masses, for Christ's sake - that implies many! I don't have the time or inclination to really put any effort into it. It's a very trying job, hating everyone and refusing to tolerate their differences. I'm just gonna go ahead and work on my hobby: a nuclear program. Awesome!

Verizon FiOS: Demonic Edition

Okay, seriously, what is up with the kid in the Verizon FiOS commercials? Is he, or is he not, the demon sibling of that horrifyingly frightening child from the remake of The Omen? Every time I see those commercials I feel compelled to dump Holy Water over my left shoulder, or whatever it is that crazy Catholic people do to ward off evil child spirits or stuff.

Take us to your leader

It's just not worth it. And it's very bad marketing because I'm too busy screaming in fear and fleeing the room to figure out just what the hell this FiOS nonsense actually is. (Not that paying attention would answer any questions, because I'm pretty sure FiOS is some sort of alien Light Bright system that hides in your closets and blinds you when you open the door.)

(Also, what the fuck is up with Fox News tonight? Not that Fox News ever makes any sense, but tonight they're playing the most ridiculous music in the background of their stories. It's a little hard to take a segment on Americans being denied care from doctors even with health insurance seriously when some happy little ditty is merrily playing away in the background.

Also also, the puns? The cutesy alliteration? The heinous play on words? Just stop yourself. No one wants to hear a story about grave robbers peppered with "devious diggers!" and "grave problems!" It's... tacky. Very tacky.

Stop smoking crack, Fox News - we already know, it's okay. Just accept your problems, and move on. And, for the love of god, stop showing those damn Verizon commercials - are you trying to scare your viewers to death?

Travels, Jobs, and the Great Cat Rescue

So I once again have survived an 8+ hour Amtrak trip, although this last trip wasn't an over night, which meant that they didn't blast the cold air (so I didn't have to wear two jackets and fourteen sweaters under them), but no one was sleeping so there were people talking constantly and believing (incorrectly) that their lives were interesting enough to share them with me.

When I travel, I don't particularly like making small talk. (When I fly, I'm too busy screaming to manage an actual conversation, but that's another point entirely.) I like to put my ipod on, maybe do a few rousing crosswords, and spend the rest of the time staring out the window and making myself dizzy, or attempting to nap in between people moving around and poking my seat and letting their child scream directly into my ear.

On this trip I had several chatty seat mates, although the strangest of them all happened to be the one that mercifully didn't speak as much. He sat down beside me, and I noticed he was pretty good looking. I gave him a curious once-over, he made some polite small talk, and then he was mercifully quiet. But not long after sitting down, he took a shirt out of his suitcase and put it on - normally this would be of no interest whatsoever, but the shirt was a pale yellow with little cherries and flower blossoms all over it. It was something straight men should run screaming from, and someone gay men should burn immediately. He then proceeded to put on the most heinous pair of horn rimmed glasses I have ever seen, and then he topped off the horrific transformation by pulling out a Star Wars series book and reading heartily.

Seriously, wtf? If you're a good looking guy, why ruin yourself by gleefully reading a book about Star Wars, and dressing yourself like a gender-confused outcast with terrible taste in clothing? I just can't take anyone reading Star Wars books seriously, because 1) the movies were enough, for the love of god!, and 2) I just can't take Darth Vader seriously. Anyone that's part robot, speaks through a water filter, and calls himself Darth just isn't scary. And I tend to associate Darth with Garth from Wayne's world.

Dude! I am your father!

Anyway, I made it through the rest of the trip without further incident, and started my first day as a Grown Up that Works All Day and Goes to Bed Around 10pm After Bitching About Children These Days and How I Was So Much More Mature When I Was Their Age. Seriously though, was I that annoying when I was 18??

My new job is pretty much totally schwing, to borrow some lingo from Mr. Garth. My bosses are relaxed and have good senses of humor, I'll have some projects between my text twist and celebrity blog time, and I generally get to relax and do as I please. Not bad for a first job. Only problem is that I have to go to Omaha next week. OMAHA. Do you know what's in Omaha? Corn. And fields. And people that burst out of cornfields with chainsaws. That's pretty much it. However, our corporate headquarters are in Omaha, and I have to go meet the staff, so I get to go on a trip with my bosses. To Omaha. In a plane. A PLANE. I might get fired before I even get there, as I tend to claw at the person sitting next to me when I fly, and my bosses might not appreciate me peeling the skin from their hands because I'm a giant, giant pussy and am convinced that the plane is going to plummet from the sky at any moment. With my luck, we'll take one of those tiny planes with two rows of seats on one side, and only one on the other - you know, where the stewardess has to move the very fat man on board to the other side of the plane, just so you'll stay in balance and not go careening across the sky.

Next stop, Omaha!

In more friendly and less deadly news (until her parents find out), Erin and I have adopted a giant, fluffy cat named Cleo (or Catzilla for short, per my own twisted mind.) She is the coolest cat ever; very relaxed, very chill, very much a stoner, I think. She seemed a little perturbed at being scooped up and sped away from her home (especially because she's spending two nights as a fugitive in Kristyn and Becca's dorm room), but I think she'll adjust nicely. She played with her toys last night, hunted through the closet, and gave lots of those looks that cats give you which clearly say I'm going to kill you in your sleep. Because cats are intelligent and viciously evil creatures, and all they want to do is murder you and dispose of the body, in order to have full reign over their surroundings.

Courtesy of ICanHasCheezburger.com, perhaps the most frightening site on the entire internet

Travels, Furniture, and Child Pornography

First of all, let me start by saying that she swore she was 18. She swore!! Unfortunately, it turns out that Vanessa Hudgens was maybe 15 when she took all those hysterically bad naked photos which were recently posted far and wide on the internet. At first it was funny, but now I feel like a total child pedophile for looking at them. And of course I looked, don't seem so shocked - do you have any idea how many celebrity va jay jays I've seen?

It's always the NSFW that gets me. Or, if they're particularly juicy (my god does that sound wrong), the NSFL tags, which mean Not Safe For Life. Those are generally reserved for Britney Spears' snatch, and while if you've seen one, you've seen 'em all, Britney doesn't fit into that category. It's like a giant gaping wind tunnel that's trying to suck you in, whether you like it or not - and let me assure you, no one goes in there willingly. Not even K-Fed, anymore.

In other news not pertaining to vaginas, I safely arrived in Boston after my trip, but that wasn't before being serenaded by an off tune cabbie who insisted on singing along with both Whitney Houston and Sarah McLaughlin. Imagine one of your worst fears, magnified by 100000x because you're at the mercy of a cabbie who drives on the left hand side of the road and sounds like a cat being repeatedly run over with an 18-wheeler.

I wanna dance with somebody!

In between belting out the Best of the Divas, my new friend helped beat some friendly sense into lost and confused women via the Delilah PM Show (who's theme song included a catchy verse about women of all ages ditching men and getting together with their gals for some much needed estrogen time.) He was particularly concerned about Joanne, a woman who had spent the past 8 years of her life talking online to the love of her life - a man that refused to meet her face-to-face. But he's been having problems! Joanne insisted tearfully. BFF Cabbie's advice:

Cabbie: Bitch please! He's using your ass! If he was into you, he would've met you by now!

How is it that even middle-aged male cab drivers can grasp this concept, and yet millions of women are agonizing and rationalizing and doing all sorts of crazy -izing things that we do in order to attempt to placate ourselves in the epic battle of Men Vs. Women?

Once my joint serenading and relationship counseling session was over, it was time for an extremely exciting and challenging 8 hour Amtrak ride to Boston. While I don't usually mind the train, this time I was in for a most unwanted surprise - I was on Survivor!Amtrak! In order to test their passengers' mettle and will to survive, the train conductors cranked the AC up from "Moderately Chilly" to "Siberian Winter" and watched eagerly. I spent 8 hours freezing solid, and suddenly gained a new sense of empathy for poor Mr. Torrence at the end of The Shining.

That's it, next time I'm flying

I slept fitfully, at best, but managed to thaw out once finally arriving in Boston and getting out of the meat freezer. My mother took pity on me and took me out for breakfast, and then we had a fun filled day of mowing down slow elderly shoppers with our cart at Ikea (only partially by accident, as the floors were very slippery) and driving Sleep Technicians out of their minds at Jordan's Furniture. In the end, I made out with a bed, a mattress and box spring set, and the vast majority of dishes and plates and other things I needed for the kitchen. Next weekend I'll go pick up the bed frame and the table I ordered, and I will be that much closer to being a real adult. Well, being a 'real' adult is debatable, but I'll definitely be one step closer away from being a homeless money-sponge, as my mother so fondly calls me.

Not to Worry, I am Alive

Or perhaps you have reason to worry, but never mind that.

I have survived my trip from DC to Boston, although not without meeting one of the strangest cabbies in the world, almost freezing to death on the train, and very nearly mowing down an elderly woman with my giant suitcase. I shall explain later. For now, I leave you mysteriously, craving more.

Dogs, Hamsters, and Snake Skins

Logically, when one gets a sunburn, one's skin begins to peel. Hopefully this is a quick and relatively unnoticeable process, in which you peel a little in an area hidden beneath your clothing (say on your stomach or on your lower back) and while you wrinkle your nose and make a face as it happens, you generally forget about it and it goes away in a day or two.

On the other hand, when you're British and freckled and have very pale skin, your sunburns tend to be much redder and far more lobster-y, and the peeling process is a long and complex issue. After getting burnt to a fiery red crisp at the Anti War Protest the other day, I am in the process of molting and I'll probably end up leaving some sort of husk in the middle of the hallway. Luckily, this is my last day with the feminists, so I can hide myself away in shame and never have to see any of these people again.

I am so sexy, it hurts. Literally.

But alas, yes, today is the last day of my temp work with the Feminist Majority. After this weekend at home, I'll be starting my new job on Monday morning. That Monday also marks my last 2 weeks with Erin before moving into the new apartment. I'm very bummed that they don't allow dogs or cats because I was hoping to bring Jazz, my retarded yet adorable Lhasa Poo down to DC with me. At the very least, I was hoping they'd allow cats, since Jazz is roughly 17 pounds and is smaller than both of my dad's cats, and I was thinking I could just smuggle her in as a cat imposter.

This brings up an interesting question, and I saw something about it on Move.com - what about getting a hamster, or a guinea pig, or some other kind of giant, mutant rodent?

Love me

The problem with glorified rodents is that they're boring. And smelly and nocturnal and they always look like they're plotting the best way to murder you in your sleep (as opposed to cats, which actually do attempt to murder you in your sleep.) They don't really do much of anything besides eat and sleep and putter around, and while it's perfectly acceptable for me to spend all of my days doing that, I would like a pet that's a better source of entertainment.

It also doesn't help that I pretty much only like dogs. Guinea pigs terrify me; bunnies make me homicidal; rats gross me out; hamsters remind me of MC Hamster (or Mac, for short) the hamster I had for about 6 months when I was 10 or so, that died in a mess of its own filth on the day that Rory was supposed to inherit him.

And amphibians and other aquatic animals? No better track record there. I killed my first goldfish, Ariel (inspired, I know) when I tried to take her tanning outside with me; Elvis, our turtle, smelled so badly my mother made us give him away. Birds? Tweety and Tweety Pie, our canaries (clearly Rory and I were geniuses in the naming department) were so loud and obnoxious that I gave them to my 3rd grade science teacher.

Which leaves me with... well, nothing. I'll have Becca over several days a week, which reminds me of having a cat for a variety of reasons, but otherwise I think it's probably best if I did my year in my new place, kidnapped Erin from her apartment when the lease is up and ran away to a two bedroom somewhere (or relocated to Boston with everyone for one big giant sleepover in those lofts we were looking at) and finally reunite myself with Jazz. Then everything will be perfect in my world.

The Imminent Threat of Small People

While I'm afraid of puppets, I'm not afraid of small people. Well, not all small people. But I am wary of them, especially ones that lurk and turn up in odd places, like behind you, or in the corner, or beneath your desk. There's a very small woman I work with who always seems to be lurking in the shadows, as though at any moment she'll spring and gnaw my ankles off with her tiny, razor sharp teeth. It's very disconcerting, especially because I have a tall desk, and most of the time, I can't actually see the top of her head over it, so I don't know where she is. She could be anywhere. Anywhere.

I'm hiding beneath your couch right now

Speaking of small evil people, Erin's mother is here for the weekend so it looks like I'll be going to Boston a week early. It's not that I don't want to be here to support Erin in her time of need, it's just that I'm afraid her mother might murder me and throw my body in the Potomac because I didn't vacuum well enough. Since I barely even know how to vacuum, I think it's going to be a problem. It's all very trying. Luckily we have hardwood floors at home, so I don't have to worry about things like that.

Another one of my neurotic fears is flying (although personally I think anyone that trusts planes not to blow up in midair or plummet from the sky is insane) so I'll be taking Amtrak for a leisurely, relaxing 8 hour trip. And, exciting enough, I'm taking an overnight train! So I get into Boston at 8am, and then start a very long two days of lots of shopping for pots and pans and bedding and furniture and whatever else it is that one needs to create a functioning apartment. Which is great, since if I was left to my own devices, I'd have enough money saved to buy a beanbag chair, a used pillow, and maybe a box of Ramen, if I panhandled a little bit outside of the closest Safeway.

My mother is very excited for me to come home so we can buy our new household goods and layout the apartment and do all those fun things. I think she's just so happy that I'm finally moving out for good, she's willing to do just about anything.

Homosexuals, X-Files Characters, and Jaslene

You know what's funny? When animals are made up to look or act like humans. Like when dogs have sunglasses and Hawaiian shirts on, or when monkeys sit at tables and eat their meals with forks. Oh, or when homosexuals try to get married. Precious! It's like... god they're just so cute trying to do normal, human things, but you know in the end they're just animals.

You're not fooling anyone

Well, I guess homosexuals have more in common with humans than dogs or apes; they sort of look like us, and I suppose they have some feelings, but the fundamental difference between us and them - unless you live in Massachusetts (yeah home state!) - is that we, as superior heterosexual beings, have civil rights and are allowed to get legally married, and our spouses get rights, and our kids get rights, and all those fun things.

In a news item I got to write at work today, I found a touching quote from the Family Research Council, a conservative group that are working hard to keep the animals out of the house. Take this steadfast quote, about Maryland's Court of Appeals ruling 4-3 to uphold the state's same-sex marriage ban:

"We commend the court for upholding the law rather than imposing the views of a persistent minority. This is an outright rejection of judicial activism and strengthens the legal battle against same-sex 'marriage'.".

Brilliant. Especially in the adorably condescending way that they use the 'quotes' around 'marriage.' Those crazy same-sex couples. Marriage? My god. Next thing you know, they'll want to vote, and work in major corporations, and not be ridiculed and outcast and have their rights stomped on. So cute. And I love the 'persistant minority' quote. Like those annoying gnats that won't stop biting you!

Anyway, Erin and I have decided to take a self-defense class. (No, not for protection against same-sex couples, but that is a good idea now that I think about it.) After her LSAT class is over, and after I'm up for a good workout again, we're going to see what's out there (and actually affordable). This lead to an interesting question - with my new apartment on the first floor - not the ground floor, but the floor above it - would someone hypothetically be able to get in through my window? And not like Spiderman, cause it's not all that high up.

I pointed out that of the three windows I have, only the two small side windows open, and they only open a crack.

Me: So really, no one could get in unless they were Gumby, or that guy on the X-Files that ate human livers and could squash himself and slither under doors.

Erin: Oooh, or Jaslene!

Good point, Erin. I got to meet Jaslene (last America's Next Top Model winner) in NYC in July - she was thin enough to crawl through that window. Actually, she's probably small enough to fit through those little drain holes in the shower. That must be a scary existence, trying constantly not to accidentally fall through a sewer grate or a crack in the sidewalk.

No one wants to wake up to this in the middle of the night

I'm not entirely sure which would be scarier to find in the middle of the night in my apartment - Jaslene or liver-eating-flattening man. Both are equally frightening.

Jews, Pro-Choicers, Abort Jesus

Working for the feminists gives me all sorts of exciting experiences: I get to play text twist, I get to read celebrity blogs, and sometimes I even get to do crosswords. Fortunately, when I actually have to do some work, the content is always equally lighthearted and amusing. Take today, for instance: I got to write a news brief about a Planned Parenthood clinic in Illinois that was facing some amusing resistance from the more 'conservative' members of the Aurora area.

Says the Reverend Martin Heinz, of the ever inspiring Holy Angels Catholic Church, "Satan has been able to creep into our gospel. Jesus said that this is my body, take and eat from it. Now, we hear people say that this is my body, I can do what I want with it."

Hilarity! I wish Satan was creeping into my belongings, it would certainly make things a lot more interesting. Although I have to wonder, if we're only Jesus' corporeal body, if Satan were to appear would we be immediately locked in an epic battle? How do those things work, anyway? You'll have to excuse me, I'm Jewish, and since my people killed Jesus, we're not privy to that kind of sensitive information. Although maybe I plucked it right out of me when I had that abortion - Jesus? Did I get you, too?

Okay, so I didn't have an abortion. But I would if I needed to, and I support a woman's right to choose. If I didn't - well, then I guess I'd be one of those super cool anti-abortion protesters. You know, the super bad ass ones, that like to blow up clinics and shoot doctors with snipers from ledges. After all, the best way to stop the murder of an innocent fetus is to mow down the living, breathing, out-of-the-womb doctor prepping for the OR! Yeah!

Jobs and Puppets and What-Have-You

First of all, let me say this: Jeff Dunham - no matter what Comedy Central says - is not a stand up comedian. No sane, amusing person plays with a horrifying gaggle of ventriloquist dolls. That is a profession purely taken up by serial killers, mass murderers, and people that eat human flesh.

Now you have seen the face of evil

That said, thankfully my day didn't consist of a madman sharing my flesh with his freakishly disproportioned puppets. I woke up this morning feeling particularly refreshed and happy, and sauntered over to the new apartment building to take a giant leap of faith and purchase an apartment without actually being gainfully employed (besides working temp for the feminists.) I think it was my new skirt, because it made my junk-in-the-trunk butt look great. Who says weight gain has to be a bad thing?

Anyway, I foolishly signed a lease, but in a freakish twist of luck - cause, you know, I've been a homeless, broke nomad without a job for most of the summer without any luck in sight - I ended up not only getting the lease approved immediately, but I got a job. Like, a real, full time, paying job (!)

I think my official title is something like Marketing and Legal Bitch, but who knows. I have a fabulous desk and since I am literally the only female in the office at the moment, I get to decorate with frames and plants and whatever it is that will keep all the men staring in confusion and wondering why women are so weird.

Whatever, as long as they're not bringing puppets to work, I'm good.

Let's Rally for Whatever We Deem Relevant

Today, being the good feminists that we are, Erin and I went voluntarily to the Peace Rally down at the White House. (Well, Erin went voluntarily, and I went since I'm afraid of our boss and she wanted us to go, so...)

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big supporter of getting our troops out of Iraq, and I definitely think that we're fighting a losing battle (figuratively and literally). It was just early in the morning, and it's hard for me to even be aware of what we're rallying for before noon on a Saturday, let alone to be enthusiastic.

We left with the best of intentions (although we got lost somewhere around 14th and New York and ended up missing the women's rally in favor of Cosi) and eventually made our way down to the main Rally, which began at the White House.

Now, if I were in charge of a rally with thousands of people, I would make sure I paced (and kept a number on) the speakers, read speeches beforehand, kept the crowd engaged, and made sure everything ran smoothly. Unfortunately, whoever was in charge wasn't a college educated individual. I'm pretty sure, now that I think about it, that the person in charge wasn't a person at all, but a monkey wearing a suit and a jaunty pair of coke-bottle glasses. I guess they can't be blamed for being deceived.

The speakers wanted to talk about everything, sometimes remembering that we were there to protest the war and shouting out a few "Power to the People!'s" but that was only between rantings about the environment, Palestine, Iran, civil rights, and whatever else particular speakers felt a burning desire to talk about.

This also included an 8 year old speaking in tongues and screaming for "Black Power!" and someone from the Washington Wizards who gave a 25 minute rant about... actually, I don't know what he was talking about, because it was just 25 minutes of beat poetry and lots of interpretive dance. But power to the people! Let's get out of Vietnam. Wait a second... where are we again? No one seems to know, since we've covered every country in the Middle East. For 2.5 hours. In the hot sun. And I got a sunburn, with horrifically tacky tan lines.

Then we started marching, but that was only after everyone had already gone hoarse yelling at the speakers to stop fucking talking and start marching already. The only really good thing about that part was that we watched an elderly woman almost have a massive coronary when she was screaming that no one cares about Israel. I'm not sure why someone was talking about Israel, but I'm sure it was a very relevant topic. They were probably discussing fashion, or entertainment, or discotheques, whatever it is you crazy young people talk about these days.

There was a die in afterwards, in which everyone "died" at the sound of an air raid and threw themselves onto the ground outside the Capitol. We didn't actually make it that far, but I'm sure it was impressive. And totally got the point across about getting us out of Thailand and stopping the threat of Crab Catchers in the Siberian Sea. Damn you, Most Dangerous Catch.

The Almosts

I'm watching Mission:Impossible III and finding it very difficult to take Tom Cruise seriously. It's like he almost pulls it off, since the first one was good and he was considered sane back in those days, and it's almost a real thriller even though a good deal of the acting is hilariously painful, and it's almost believable that Tom Cruise can run and leap and act like a real bad ass, even though I'm 2 inches taller than him and could probably bench press him, and it's almost worth it to see the scene in which he's picked up by the Secret Service or whatever and bound and gagged, cause really, who doesn't want to just silence Tom Cruise and leave him bound in a basement somewhere?

Then I realized that today has been a day of almosts in many ways: I almost went to a real job, I almost worked, I almost ate my body weight in Chipotle burritos, Erin and I were almost attacked by a giant wasp, and I almost have an apartment.

(See what I did there? I just used a witty intro by using a movie to draw comparisons to my life. Not that I'm a 5'7" scientologist that can't really act, and if you think that then you're missing the point. I'm way taller and way more bad ass.)

Anyway, the Feminists said I was welcomed to stay on with them until I started a full time job, and I found an apartment my parents finally agreed to let me get, which I get to see tomorrow morning, and I have a second round interview directly after seeing said apartment, which is good news since they said they'd probably only bring back the candidate that they were going to hire for that interview.

That being said, I'll probably miss out on the job and the apartment, since my luck has been terrifically bad lately, and end up permanently fused to Erin's couch. Luckily, we just ordered Chinese (my second dinner of the night, because, you know, I'm anorexic) and that always puts me in a good mood.

Cali or Bust

Whoever thought it was a good idea to have the workday last from 9am until 6pm was clearly a raging psychopath. Something like 12-4 I can totally see, but 9 hours? Of working? How does anything get done? How do people get up that early and manage to stay awake for the entire day?

I was so tired I nearly fell asleep at the front desk. Then during dinner. Actually, I'm sleeping right now.

I'm a big supporter of never working again, and finding ingenious ways to survive. My mother isn't so keen on this idea, so to be responsible I made a list of possible life styles I could have, complete with pros and cons, so she knows I put some real thought into this.

1. Become a professional vagrant and never work again. I could grab me a sleeping bag and a shopping cart full of cans, plastic bags and kitty litter, and join the ranks of the homeless at McPherson Square.

- Pros: I get to go camping every night; I'll make lots of new friends; I'll never worry about not getting enough fresh air; I'll get to use soiled rags and pieces of pigeons for currency; I'll boost my fundraising skills by asking for change

- Cons: I'll be sleeping in a camping bag on the damp ground with a bunch of people that chew on their own flesh and rant about alien invasions (of the terrestrial and extraterrestrial kinds, because let's face it, we're in DC and everyone talks about politics)


2. Move back home and take up permanent residence in my childhood room. Between my dog, my mother's kindergarten class, and my 18 year old brother, I'll have an endless source of vexation and amusement - just like working a job. Sort of.

- Pros: I already have a bedroom and a big house and yard, so it's not like I'll have to move my belongings; my mom gives me lots of food to eat, and even more wine to drink; my fluffy, retarded dog is there; every single person I went to high school with, even those people that were seniors when I was a freshman, are still there and ready to par-tay!

-Cons: I'd be that creepy 20-something still living at home with my parents, talking about my dog like it's my child, and I'd become an anti-social freak that spends her days drinking entire wine racks of white wine and ranting at the furniture. And I'd probably become a serial killer, cause isn't it a rule that anyone above the age of 18 that moves home permanently ends up hiding bodies in the wall of the family house?


3. Run away to California and become a hippie. I'd smoke weed all day long, grow my hair out so I wouldn't have to buy clothes, and wouldn't have a care in the world.

- Pros: Smoking weed all day, growing my hair out so I wouldn't have to buy clothes, and not having a care in the world; palm trees and the ocean always make me giddy; everyone's relaxed and carefree, unlike the East coast; there's no winter so I wouldn't have to worry about freezing to death in an awkward position in public.

- Cons:Uh...

Okay, so it's LA or bust! I'll find a dealer and a sleeping bag once I get out there, and I guess I could attempt wearing my hair as clothes, although currently it's shoulder length so that might cause a bit of a commotion, but hey - I'm a hippie. I don't care about commotions. Just relax, man, and take a hit of this. Good shit.

Down with Feminists

Since I'm still in the interview process (meaning I have no job and no apartment and live off Erin's extra Digorno pizzas, while watching a guy on LA Ink announce that his cat is his soul mate), Erin decided to take pity on me. She was recently promoted from Front Desk Bitch to President's Assistant Bitch, and accordingly the Feminist Majority needed someone to come in and temp for them while they looked for a permanent replacement.

I know, I know. The Feminist Majority has a bit of a reputation: men hating, revolutionary bi-curious women that forgo shaving and get thrills from wearing tank tops and mini skirts, while shouting derogatory slurs at men for their past crimes. They beat up pro-lifers with their own posters of half-aborted babies (which look alarmingly like raw chicken breasts), they constantly find new and inventive ways to talk about vaginas and then bring the hate if you get uncomfortable, and when it gets cold they don't wear jackets, they wear layers of plaid flannel button-downs and pretend to be lumberjacks.

I was so pumped. I like hating on men, shaving sucks, plaid flannel brings out the green in my eyes, and if Angelina Jolie propositioned me I'd totally hit that. And I have ALWAYS wanted to beat the crap out of a pro-lifer.

Unfortunately, when I went in I only met super nice women of varying ages, all of whom appeared to shave on a regular basis, liked the majority of men, were even-tempered and polite, and more than happy to help. There was no screaming, no vagina comments, and not a single flannel shirt to be found in the entire office. Not even a hint of plaid anywhere.

This is gonna suck.

Britney, MTV Crash and Burn

How to Ruin an Awards Show in a Spectacularly Embarrassing Fashion:

1. Let Britney Spears open your show. Sure, she's an alcoholic and drug abuser, probably has some massive mental issues going on, is under investigation for child abuse, and goes out in public without her pants, but clearly she's the person that should be opening MTV's biggest show of the year! Seriously, what the fuck was that? She lip synced, walked around like she had no idea where she was, kept stumbling, forgot she was supposed to be lip syncing and just stood there like an idiot, and tried to squeeze herself into a bikini... thing that was far too small and far too revealing.

2. Tell Sarah Silverman she's actually funny, and encourage her to follow Britney with painfully embarrassing stand up (despite it being a music awards show), and to go on the attack. Britney's probably already hung herself backstage - course she did it with an overly long rope and is standing on the ground looking confused, but that's beside the point.

3. Turn the teleprompters off/Put the prompts in Swedish/Book a bunch of fucking morons to announce the categories and winners. Why couldn't anyone read the prompts? And furthermore, why was everyone stuttering and making awkward jokes and looking like they had no idea why there were on stage, and even getting the winners' names wrong? (Gym Class Fall Out, anyone?) It's not like these people were kidnapped and released blindly - they knew where they were, and knew what they were supposed to be doing. Well, besides Britney.

4. Film the show from 50 venues and mash it all together. That way, people will be so busy wondering where the hell the singers are, and what the hell is going on, that they won't realize that people can't sing and are struggling (I'm onto you, Fall Out Boy, I heard your screechy singing of Thnx 4 da Mem'ries, or whatever the hell it is you call that poor, butchered song.)

5. Have the artists sing uncensored versions, so that all the rich and famous and talented individuals in the audience get to enjoy the songs, while all the suckers at home have to listen to those awful censor beeps that totally ruin the appeal of the songs to the people that are supposed to actually be wanting to tune in and give MTV their ratings.

6. Get everyone drunk beforehand. Seriously, Erin and I have reached a final agreement, and that agreement is that everyone* is completely shifacted: singers, producers, staff, sound and audio crews, executives, everyone is totally wasted, and that's why this is such a massive piece of crap.

*Everyone except Rhianna and Shia LeBouf, that is. Rhianna is the only one sober and talented enough to keep performing and winning, which is why they keep bringing her up, and Shia is the only presenter to have turned a totally awkward situation into a funny one. Ludacris, I'm talking to you - WHY, if you AGREED to pick up an award for Fergie, would you refuse and wave from the audience, and leave poor Shia hanging? Luckily Shia made off with that statue, and you know he's sure as hell not gonna give it back. Why? Bitch is smart. Way smarter than MTV.

The Art of Seduction

I've been lucky enough in my time to have been seduced by some of the masters. My sex life is a tapestry, woven together with steamy nights, hot tub thrills, and multiple orgasms, the kind that comes from Cosmo articles claiming "Crazy ass moves he wants you to do to him there!" (No, seriously, that's on the cover of October's issue.) Take, for instance, a text message I received last night from a guy I've known for awhile now:

Hey, where did you guys go?
Girl i want to give you some sex
that will put me on the wall of fame!
I have always had a crush on you. Ha.

How am I supposed to resist this? I want to be given some sex by such a stud (ignore the question of "how does one give sex?") Ladies, this is what we've been looking for all along: someone that knows how to speak to us, with the right amount of charm, bravado, and sincerity.

What it all comes down to is that I've realized I am a magnet for these paragons of virtue and manliness. I must give off some kind of light - perhaps I am a beacon in the darkness, calling out to these men. I know you're all very jealous, and will try to prove that, in fact, I do not get all the good ones, but don't you worry - I've compiled a list of some questions I usually get from girls seething with jealousy, so have a look here now and stop yourself before you get too embarrassed:

"Hey, have you ever hooked up with a guy with a receding hairline in a bathroom after a hoe-down?" Yes, and it was so romantic.

"Hey, were you ever mauled by a Mormon who did lines of coke during a party you threw and kept asking if there were onomatopoeias in the stuffed shells he ate off your roommate's lap, before proceeding to fall asleep in said roommate's lap?" I was, indeed, lucky enough to have such a gentleman try to impress me in so many ways!

"Hey, have you ever had a Marine pee in your bed and then not remember the next morning, even though he woke up naked, wrapped in a pee-stained sheet in the hallway, then tried to convince you to go to ihop with him?" Oh, Sorbie...

As you can see, there's just nothing I can do to stop the onslaught. I mean the steady, happy stream of suitors. Who knows? Maybe next time I'll get lucky enough to get involved in a serious relationship with a guy that falls down every time he drinks, writes poetry on the starlight cafe, and cries like a baby over every little thing. Oh wait, I already did that! Man, am I on fire!"

My Fertility is Uneasy

So the Cosmo article came out today, as I discovered when I got a call around 10:30am from one of my redheaded friends (as usual, I was hard at work attempting to sleep for 24 hours straight).

I figured I'd check out the damage by picking up a copy at the CVS off 15th and P. Or the CVS on 17th and P. Or the one on 15th and K. Apparently CVS just keeps their stock boxes on the floor, infuriatingly closed so someone in dire need of a magazine fix can't root through them and put their mind at ease.

I finally found two copies (literally just two) at a small news and magazine shop somewhere along K Street. Fortunately the guy was in the process of actually unloading the boxes - unfortunately he was taking his sweet time, and I made several people nervous by practically jumping on his back so I could watch his progression as he literally stocked every single magazine that has ever been published... before he walked out for a smoke break. Luckily for me, this particular store actually opens their boxes before leaving them on the ground, so I was free to tear through it, pay quickly, and then run out the door when an odd feeling of embarrassment took over.

If you flip to page 154, this is what you'll see (please take note of the hilariously embarrassing headline) under the eerie "It Could Happen To You" section:

THE DISEASE THAT THREATENED HER FERTILITY

At 20 years old, Chelsea was starting her junior year at George Washington University. But on her first day back, she had such severe stomach pains that she went to the ER. Twelve hours and a batter of tests later, she was told that a benign ovarian cyst must have ruptured, and was sent home.

But the pain didn't go away. "At times, I was bedridden for days," recalls Chelsea. "No one could tell me what was wrong!" After about four months, she was finally diagnosed with endometriosis, a condition in which endometrial tissue, which line the uterus, grows outside the uterus and can lead to infertility. "I was so freaked out about the possibility of never having kids," she says.

Chelsea needed surgery, but her doctor wanted to wait until the school years was over. So she induced menopause with shots of a drug called Lupron Depot to stop the production of endometrial tissue.

The shots eased the pain, but "I had intense hot flashes and night sweats," says Chelsea. To ease those symptoms, she was given hormone replacement therapy, but "that gave me such psychotic mood swings, I went off it," she says. In June 2006, Chelsea had minimally invasive surgery to remove endometrial tissue from her nerve endings and bladder. To prevent further build up of tissue, she was advised to stay on Lupron Dept. Yet, she's lucky. For many women, the wayward tissue connects to the fallopian tubes or ovaries, which can cause infertility. Chelsea will start menstruating and likely can have children if she goes off the drugs, but the endometriosis will probably return too. Still, she remains upbeat. "I'm fit and healthy, and I have some dramatic stories to tell."

Now, once you've either finished squirming uncomfortably in your seats after reading such titillating words as "uterus" and "bladder", or you've stopped laughing hysterically, I would like to point out that I had the original idea for this story, and believe-you-me, it was nothing like this. They happily yoinked my idea and wrote this blabber themselves, and cheerfully inserted ridiculous quotes, while happily ignoring many of the key facts of the story. And managed to not really fact check at all, despite my constant harassment by some fact checker with one of those painfully trendy names like Ciara or Lissandra or whatever the hell it was.

First of all, it's THE George Washington University. Normally people mess that up all the time, but I corrected them no less than 10 times, and they'd JUST posted something about GW (and gotten it right) in the September issue, so you'd think this wouldn't be too difficult a concept to grasp.

Second of all, anyone that knows me knows that there is no way in hell I'd ever say anything like "I was freaked out about the possibility of never having kids!" That was, by far, the least of my concerns, and I expressed that several times (saying something instead like "well I'd like the option open to have it, but I was more concerned with the crushing pain and homicidal tendencies that many times I very nearly acted on.") Cosmo, I know you want to connect with women, but my god please save the baby love for your other articles, and not the ones where the person in question clearly said it was an afterthought.

To top it off, the writing is truly terrible. There are tons of fragmented sentences, way too many thoughts starting with "But!" and the kind of plodding writing that any fifth grader could have mastered.

Don't get me wrong, it's super cool to be in a magazine (and my picture's in there too, right with a happy little quote - a mostly real one! which I'm sure you've realized - that says in awkwardly incorrect English "Roommates would find me with my head in the freezer"), and I kind of feel like a celebrity - you know, I get to bitch because I was misquoted in this major women's magazine, and woe is me and all that crap.

But still! Cosmo, the next time you want to steal my pitch, at least... either make it hard-hitting and dramatic, or if you're going to sensationalize it and make it something it's not, do something cool and say that it wasn't a benign cyst at all, it was an alien life form that burst from my stomach and went on a killing rampage through the hospital, and the picture on the article isn't really one of me because I'm hiding in the Appalachians, beginning a new life as goat herder away from all the publicity of Hollywood.