The Tale of the Fax Machine

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!!!!

Halloween is finally today! It is the greatest day of the entire year, a day in which people can wear witches hats and orange socks and scarves with dancing ghosts, and only some of the people on the sidewalk give them a wide berth. It is a day of greedily shoving fistfuls of candy down your throat, a day of watching horrifically terrible horror movies that were put together with a couple of red necks and a hand held camera, and a day of drinking yourself into a coma because hey, it's okay, you're not an alcoholic if you're celebrating the day when the dead supposedly walk the earth. You're only an alcoholic if you actually see the dead walking the earth.

Which brings up an interesting question, since I saw Smoking Santa lurking outside the front doors again at 1am and then again at 7:30am this morning. Hm.

But I digress. Before I launch into my daily ramblings, I'd like to launch into an equally as long winded - but scarier, if you can imagine - ghost story. Another true ghost story. Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story...

The Tale of the Fax Machine

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Chelsea, and she was beloved by all in the... uh, kingdom. She had glossy, rich chestnut colored hair, a sprinkling of delicate love kissed freckles across her snow white skin, and perfectly sized, perfectly round, voluptuous, heaving... eyeballs. Nice green color, sometimes hazel if she wore gray, really complimented her skin tone. Yeah, she was good at dressing herself.

So Chelsea was a street savvy girl with hope in her heart and a shockingly above average brain in her head, dedicated to working as hard as she could on various important social issues like "why doesn't online yahtzee want to ever give me four-of-a-kind," and "which Hollywood starlet is in jail today for her 5th DUI." She had no way of knowing that on a cold, crisp autumn day in October, her life would be forever changed by the forces of evil.

It was an ordinary day, photocopying, scanning, drinking 17 Coke Zeros from the office fridge - no blanket of darkness, no foggy mist, no ominous background music to suggest the horrors that awaited her. At the ungodly hour of 9:30am, it happened - the phone rang.

Ring. (dramatic recreation of actual events)

"Hello?"

BEEP. BEEP. GURGLE. FAX SOUNDS. ZZZZZZZ. BEEP.

Chelsea warily hung up the receiver, convinced it was merely children playing a prank. The Halloween spirit was in the air (never mind this started in September) and kids will be kids. Imagine her surprise when, minutes later, the phone rang again.

"Hello?"

But all that answered was the deadly, droning robotic noises of the persistent, murderous fax machine.

Chelsea screamed and hung up the receiver once more, her heart pounding, fear beginning to beat through her veins. Why was a fax machine calling? Was it a self-aware fax machine? Was someone programming the dastardly thing to call? And why was this such a big deal?

This horrifying event happened several times throughout the days, stretching on into weeks, months even, if you can count the end of September through October as technically "months." Chelsea was reaching her breaking point when suddenly, everything changed.

Ring.

No! Chelsea thought in horror, her hand shaking as she reached for the phone. Much to her shock, it wasn't the dastardly fax - but the police.

"Chelsea, we've tracked the calls - they're coming from inside your office!"

Chelsea dropped the receiver in one of those slo-mo movements in horror movies, and ran in the same slow motion manner around her desk, but what she saw next made her freeze, her blood turning to ice in her veins.

It was the fax machine.

Waiting for her, a knife in it's... uh, dangling from it's phone cord. It hopped closer, and closer, Chelsea could hear it's digital, heaving breath, the way it scratched against the carpet as it lunged for her, she could see the way the dials reached out for her throat, the way the incessant red ERROR light had it's sick, twisted gaze locked right on her-

And that's the end of my story. I'm like Stephen King, baby, I leave you hanging, wanting more. Or it could be because the fucking fax machine just called yet again. Seriously, how does a fax machine place calls? Especially from different points of origin? There are like, 6 separate phone numbers that call with a fax machine, it doesn't make any sense. I'm gonna start throwing punches as soon as I find out who is behind this wicked deed. Or maybe I'll just keep making hot chocolate, cause we have some in the office, and damn but that shit is good.

In a surprisingly mostly-horror-free twist of fate, Erin and I watched Marie Antoinette yesterday, and shockingly I didn't hate it. I was a bit baffled by some of the additions/omissions (such as the fact that it's Marie-Antoinette with a hyphen, the fact that Sophia Coppola chose modern day music ["I Want Candy" anyone?] and the fact that they glossed over many things, like yes indeed Marie-Antoinette and Louis XVI were killed, and oh yeah, the Princess of Lamballe didn't actually make it to Switzerland, she instead chose not to swear against the monarchy, and accordingly was gang raped by a mob, had various womanly body parts cut off, most likely had her heart ripped out and then eaten, and, to spice things up even further, had her head put on a spike which was then paraded past the Queen's prison windows. Yeah overkill!) but otherwise actually liked the movie. I did feel like I'd taken a hit of acid, especially because it kept jumping years at a time, but I guess if you want to cover an entire lifetime in the span of 2 or so hours, certain sacrifices must be made.

I want all the gambling, frivolity, and partying of her life... just without the beheading, thanks

I think it was a combination of several things:

1) Kirsten Dunst was regularly bathed during the production of this film. That in-and-of itself is huge. She's pretty, but the girl always looks like she just crawled out of a particularly greasy fryalater. Showered is a good look for you, bb!

2) Kirsten Dunst can actually act, unlike most young, blond Hollywood actresses. I have to admit that she did a really good job of portraying what it must've been like to have been Marie-Antoinette. She had her fun (and lots of it), but she was good at the close ups and quiet moments. And I have to further admit that they did a great job with aging her at the end, so that she looked older and weary and frightened, but had that same sense of innocence that really made you feel badly for her. Considering Marie-Antoinette and Louis were teenagers when put on the throne, and neither really understood the mechanics of it (ahem, among other things), you really just have to feel badly for them - they were in so over their heads.

3) I love Jason Schwartzman. And I love period dresses. Yep, that about wraps it up!

See, this is my pattern. When everyone hates something, I like it, but when everyone's raving about something, I detest it. I guess I just go against the masses - I'm a rebel. What can I say? I ooze sex appeal and a flagrant disregard for society and authority.

Smoking Santa

Days till Halloween: TOMORROW

Tis the season and all, so I thought I would regale you with a true ghost story that takes place in an eerie little town that I like to call the District of Columbia. Now let me give you some background on the area, because apparently there has been some confusion: this spooky little ghost haven is not, contrary to popular belief, in either Virginia or Maryland. The district is actually just that - an independent district located between two states, which lacks Congressional representation but makes up for that with a mayor that gets reelected riding on the coattails of his previous cocaine and prostitute benders. See, we all just learned something there - and they say ghost stories aren't educational!

Anyway.

In the district, there is a derelict building full of bloodthirsty murderers, deranged psychopaths, and foreigners of indeterminable scent: this is my apartment complex. One would imagine any spectral beings lurking around the property to be missing several limbs and quite possibly be covered in a splattered array of blood. However, I believe I have finally come in contact with a spirit, and to my great surprise, he is a peaceful, kind spirit, who is unable to enter the front door; he spends his dreary days wandering the grounds, gazing speculatively at the sky without really seeing it at all. And chain smoking close to 40 packs of cigarettes a day. This ghost is Smoking Santa.

Anyone got a light?

Smoking Santa keeps a steady guard over the front doors, almost as if protecting his beloved inhabitants from the ever-present threat of hobos, anti-abortion protesters, and Republicans. When he doesn't suspect a threat, he wanders into the bushes, his tiny, rotund body poking out from beneath a sprout of Chimonanthus, the lively wintersweet horticultural specimen (not to be confused with the bastard Chionanthus, whose fringe-tree shrub is the work of the devil.) It always gives him the appearance of an exceptionally fat elf, with the top of the bush looming like a jaunty green cap, blending nicely with his long white beard.

Okay, so he might not actually be dead. He could live inside the building, or he could even be a wandering hobo, but the man is out there close to 20 hours a day, as far as I can surmise. He is out there in the early morning when I poke my head out the window to see if it's magically snowed so that work might be canceled; he is out there when I depart at 8:30am; he is there at 6:15pm when I arrive home; he is there at 7:00pm when I go to watch tv at Erin's because I cannot function on my own for extended periods of time; he is there at 12:30am when I return home despite the fact that the temperature has taken a nosedive; and he is there at 2:00am when I go to bed, still merrily puffing away at his cigarettes, the red tip a burning beacon in the burgeoning darkness.

(Not that the darkness is technically burgeoning at 2:00am, but I really like alliteration.)

And that is my story. There is a fat old man outside my building at all hours, who resembles a squashed-looking Santa, and he smokes so many cigarettes that I'm amazed his lungs haven't violently repelled themselves in a giant fit of dry heaves. Give me a freaking break, it's the day before Halloween, my brain is hardly in top form.

In other news, since tomorrow is 1) Halloween and 2) we are old ladies that cannot handle going out and drinking when we have to work in the morning, we are having a Horror Movie Marathon! I present to you three movies we will be watching, and one we will not be watching:




Hocus Pocus: We begin with the Halloween staple; the hijinx, gleeful mayhem, and child aura absorbing that makes Hocus Pocus a Halloween classic. I used to be in love with Thackery Binx, and I wanted to grow up to be Sarah Jessica Parker's character. While I still strive to be just like a fictional portrayal of SJP's, her ditzy flirt persona has been replaced with her hard drinking, pessimistic, sarcastic journalist persona, and that fits me better. ILU, Carrie Bradshaw!



28 Days Later: I went into this movie with my ex, thinking I'd have a thrilling time, scream a little, laugh it off, enjoy getting spooked. What actually happened was I screamed so loudly for so long that I gave myself laryngitis, instead of laughing I clawed all the skin off the back of the poor guy's hand, and instead of getting "spooked" I spent the next four years sleeping with the light on, convinced that an Infected person would come bursting through my window and chew me into a bloody, unrecognizable pulp. Actually, I'm still scared of it.



Flight of the Living Dead: Well, Erin and I just watched Children of the Living Dead (the bastard younger brother of the Romero trilogy) in which the most frightening thing in the entire movie was the acting, and a rogue chicken that some PA kept flinging across the screen. I'm just hoping that there's a Samuel L. Jackson look-a-like that bursts onto the screen and screams "Let's get these mother fucking zombies off this mother fucking plane!" Zombies + Planes = my greatest fear. Seriously, that shit is just too fucked up for me.



Erotic Nights of the Living Dead: Yeah, this'd be the movie that we're not going to watch. Because as thrilling as it would be to watch a porno comprised entirely of rotting corpses rutting each other like there's no tomorrow (ah ha, maybe that is the point!) I just can't handle it. I lied before: planes + zombies aren't my biggest fear, it's pornographic necrophilia made by a fat 47 year old man that lives in his mother's basement and will never lose his virginity no matter how hard he tries. Now that is truly frightening.

Nightmare on M Street (and Oh Yeah, the SOX ARE WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS...AGAIN!)

Days till Halloween: 2 (!!!!!!!)

CONGRATULATIONS TO THE RED SOX, THE 2007 WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Second Series Sweep - "We Will Fuck Your Shit Up"

In case you weren't aware, because you're an antisocial freak or are locked in an epic battle of D&D (okay, same thing) the Red Sox are fucking WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS! We swept our second series since 2004, proving that we have the biggest, most succulent balls in the entire MLB franchise. We're like the Chuck Norris of baseball: The Red Sox do not wear condoms. Because there is no such thing as protection from The Red Sox.

Sox babies aside, the final game was a great one (though I nearly had an aneurysm when Atkins hit that 2 run homer), with Papelbon brought in to spank the Rockies within an inch of their lives, and clinch the series for us. The things that I would do to that man are far too graphic to be printed in this public blog (which, knowing the things I usually say, is really saying something.)

Merry Fucking Christmas, Bitches

The rest of the weekend was just as magical, as it was the famed Nightmare on M Street (as you can tell, I've found the color button) on Saturday night. The great thing about Halloween weekend is that as adults, we are completely entitled to go outside in as little clothing as possible, and no one is allowed to even blink an eye. It is the one night of the year (or several nights, depending on how many parties you go to) where you can saunter out your front door in a bra, garters and booty shorts, and you're not considered a complete maniac. Or Paris Hilton.

I decided to put a shirt on with that ensemble, but pretty much left very little to the imagination. And you can't say shit, cause it's a holiday. At least I don't do it on Christmas, though Red Sox Santa up there might approve. Being the original and creative genius that I am, I went as a "pirate" with - get this! - a belt, some knee high black leather boots, some gold hoop earrings, and a sash tied around my head. Genius! If that's not forging a new path, then I just don't know what is.

The crawl hit a number of big DC bars, including Rumors, The Madhatter, McFadden's, The Front Page, Ozio, Porters, and several others that I forget and don't feel like looking up. It probably should've been called a bar stop, however, as it took close to 45 minutes to actually get inside a bar, and at that point you were stone cold sober again and so in need of a plethora of alcohol that you couldn't bear to even think about leaving for another place.

I have no witty caption for this flyer

We ended up at Madhatter's, a place usually described as a "meat market" for the single-and-twenty crowd. I really hate the term "meat market," because it makes me think first of movies like Hostel, in which people are butchered for the sole joy of human butchering (much like my upstairs neighbor's nightly activities), and then of gay porn. Because seriously, when else do you use the term "meat" besides in those two genres?

During our wait in line, we were privileged to see a wide variety of fascinating costumes, including - but not limited to - these following gems:

Used Tampon: A guy wore a white one-piece long underwear suit, stuck some rope on his ass, put on a red swimming cap, and voila! Soiled female sanitary object! If that doesn't rake the ladies in, then there's no hope for mankind.

Chlamydia-Riddled Vagina: In keeping up with the night's female reproductive organ theme, a girl literally wore a giant vagina strapped to her chest, with an overflow of white, cheesy-looking discharge spewing forth from the fake orifice. She took particular pleasure in shaking it around at us, while joined - no lie - by Crabs, and her other diseased friends.

Legends of the Hidden Temple Teams: Thankfully, not everyone indulged in disgusting shows of the female form. We actually saw several people (mostly in teams), dressed up as the duos from The Legends of the Hidden Temple, complete with pendants and everything. It rocked so hard, I can't even explain.

Okay, so everything after that was pretty standard fare: naughty nurses abounded, cops and robbers walked hand-in-hand, carrots and bananas roamed the streets, and pimps and their hos made the rounds. It really was a magical night.

Where the magic happens, baby

After learning my lesson from last week, I decided it would be smarter to drink less (5 beers as opposed to 10 mixed drinks - man, am I evolving or something?) and hooch myself out more. Wait. Fuck. Bad decisions were made, pictures were taken, and I had the most romantic thing whispered in my ear: "Don't worry, baby, I won't tag you in these on Facebook." So now I'm certain that if you visit www.DumbCostumedWhores.com you'll probably find my head photoshopped onto a naked body. Or several naked bodies, 'cause some of those sites are outta control. Let's just say that I still have a long road ahead of me, loyal readers.

I did not, however, leave with anyone besides Erin, which in-and-of itself puts me light years ahead of the rest of the gyrating crowd. I made her switch shoes with me on the walk home, as I was both too sore from wearing the boots to continue the trek, and too drunk to properly put one foot in front of the other, and not break an ankle in the process. Those boots have like, 4 inch heels. They're dangerous.

We were stopped by a seemingly normal looking man (this was after 3:00am, mind you), who first tried to pick our brains about bars in the area ("No, they're closed, it's 3am and that's last call), then about packies in the area ("No, they're closed, it's 3am"), and then tried to see if we had any beer that we might graciously bestow upon them ("No, it's 3am, and if you touch my beer I'll fucking rip your jugular out.") Always classy, DC. Always classy.

Sunday was spent recuperating, eating giant servings of lasagna and fettuccine alfredo (and chocolate frosted donuts, the awesomely tasty ones that come in those boxes and are about $1.50 at 7-11), watching a Supernatural marathon, and then cheering on the Sox as they steamrolled over the pitiful pussies that are the Rockies.

All-in-all, a fabulous weekend. Even if I did return a Zipcar late and got charged $50, but that's okay: I can put on my pirate costume and work the corner to get the money back. Like I said, always classy.

Not Again!

Good GOD, I should never be allowed to have another drink, and I should never be allowed to make decisions for myself.

Fail.

LSAT Logic Games: The Equivalent of Chinese Water Torture

After attempting a practice LSAT (partially because yes, I was feeling particularly masochistic today, and partially because I like pretending I have an actual future), I feel I must issue a blanket statement to anyone that has taken the actual LSAT, and anyone that will be taking the actual LSAT:

Good lord, I am so sorry. If you have triumphed and survived the logic games, then you are a brilliant, determined and sharply adept individual; if you died in the process, then you went down valiantly. If you're going to take it, either way, you're a brave person.

I figured that the LSAT was a bunch of people sitting in a room and arguing between swigs of their two olive'd dry martinis and puffs off their cigarettes, but I guess it actually takes some semblance of brain power to tackle. While the GRE seemed easy at the time, I now realize how lucky I actually was. Take a look at the difference between the two exams:


LSAT: A university library budget committee must reduce exactly five of eight areas of expenditures - Gargamel, Isosceles, Onomatopoeia, Spoonerism, Menigococcus, Palaeoanthropic, Witenagemot, and Fandango - in accordance with the following conditions:

- If both Witenagemot and Fandango are perpendicular vehicular misanthropes, then Gargamel has a penance for humdingery
- If Iscosceles is reduced, then Spoonerism obtenebrates
- If Onomatopoeia is reduced, then Bees no longer have a produced sound
- If you understand this, you're Stephen Hawking

Which is not reduced:

(A) Valetudinarian
(B) Habeas Corpus
(C) Dactylogram
(D) Electroencephalograph
(E) Baguette


GRE: If you have two apples, and you take one away, how many apples are left?

(A) One
(B) Ten
(C) Frog


Clearly, there is something going on here.


I did manage to pull off a 157, after tearing my hair out and screaming at the logic section (note to self: stop doing that when people are conducting meetings in the other room), although my score was deplorable in that section and I either crumpled a few pages up and threw them away, or just skipped right over them because I wasn't in the mood to think that much. If I had scored as well on that section as I did on the others, I would've pulled off a 163. I think my chances of improvement are nonexistent. Thank god I was an English major! I won't have to think, and I can die poor after spending my golden years in a cardboard box on a metro grate!

Wait a second. Damnit.



Days till Halloween: 5

I Am The Meaning of Awesomest

True story: if you search "the meaning of awesomest" on google, my page will appear. Why is that? Obviously because I am the meaning of awesomest. And speaking of awesomest, I would like to pen an open letter to the Colorado Rockies, after the Red Sox - clearly the second most awesomest thing to have ever come out of Boston, besides myself - pounded their asses so hard they now keep spouting off odd things like "I wish I knew how to quit you" and "Jake, stop touching me there."

Dear Rockies,

Your team name is supposed to evoke images of the grand Rocky Mountains, the formidable range of jutting peaks that separate you from your unfortunate positioning between the polygamy enthusiasts of Utah and the banjo-twanging incestuous denizens of Oklahoma. You are a mecca for the rich and famous, boasting awe inspiring mountainous peaks, Olympics-worthy ski trails, and enough high end boutiques to keep Hollywood starlets gleefully shopping for weeks on end. You stand proudly among your Rocky Mountain home, glaring fiercely at anyone that may question your authority, feeling empowered and emboldened by your National League pennant win, and yet there is one chink in your armor, one crack in your dam of mountain-y authority:

You are a bunch of pussies.

Yes, that's right, I said it. While you were off getting mani-pedis and sipping frappuccinos during your week hiatus, the Red Sox were gearing up to smash your skulls into the ground with the force of their awesomeness. They were toying with the Indians, and then crushing them into a bloody pulp, all the while shaking out their long hair, stroking their manly beards, and fitting in time for a breathtaking jig to the sounds of The Dropkick Murphys.

Josh Beckett was hurling 95+ mph fast balls and reducing your teammates to teary, frightened bitches, while your own pitchers (all 40 of them that had to come out and weakly attempt to not get entirely slaughtered) fell before his greatness, granting us 13 runs to your pathetic 1. Perhaps you should've allowed time for Jeff Francis' balls to drop before letting him open the series.

You threw yourselves at our hits like epileptic children having fits (oh, that's good, very poetic, I should write that one down), missing outrageously and spasming on the way down to your bone-crunching collision with our turf. You should've remained on the ground, dirtied and defeated, and waved an ACME white flag just to stop the pain.

Tonight I see no change in the dynamics. You shall continue to pull your pants down, bend over, and bite your lip, and we shall hover like the gods we are, laughing heartily, and enjoying the ensuing pounding.

XOXO,
Chelsea

God has spoken

Days till Halloween: 6

Hostel III: DC and Dating Edition

Days till Halloween: 7

At about 4am this morning I was woken up by what I can only assume was my upstairs neighbor brutally murdering another inhabitant of our building. This is par for the course, and I had no broom with which to bang against the ceiling, so I sighed and rolled over and attempted sleep, hoping that the flimsy floors wouldn't start dripping blood onto my very nice, very clean bedding.

I am entirely convinced that I do indeed live in the American version of Hostel, only there's no price to be paid for cutting off some pretty blond American's arms, or blowtorching out some attractive Asian's eyeballs; oh no, this is purely for the love of the game. The hallways smell particularly pungent this week - fresh urine, I assume - either from someone wetting themselves in fear, or from being killed right outside my door and losing control of their bowels, as the freshly dead are so apt to do.

Oh, hey 15B. Do you mind not doing that right outside my door? Thanks!

No one has attempted to break my door down with a chainsaw yet, though I don't really anticipate much of a problem with that - there are enough vagrants and spoiled college students in this city to keep the hoards busy for years. It's a never ending stream, really. I just wish that the guy above me would stop throwing his victims around, and be a little more considerate in the wee hours of the morning.

Well, at least I assume he's throwing his victims around, as there are always a lot of crashes coming from above, and a plethora of pained moaning. In all fairness, perhaps he has some bizarre sexual fetish and is enjoying a good time with a consenting partner (or he's having one hell of a good time on his own), but I'm just not sure. There are too many suspicious stains in the hallways, and too many "damn was that yet another shriek of pain?"s to rule out foul play.

To add insult to injury (perhaps literally?) it's pouring out this morning, which means I tromped to work in jaunty galoshes and tucked my hair into my collar like a... well, I suppose like a crazy person. It's unfortunate that whenever any sort of moisture comes into contact with my hair, it puffs up and then rapidly expands, often accidentally suffocating small children that get caught up in it. Since I didn't want to look like a party girl circa 1985 (nor have the blood of the innocent on my hands, that's my neighbor's job thankyouverymuch) I let myself look like a total idiot - and a semi-bald one at that. Then I proceeded to actually take the metro this morning, which meant that I spent $1.35 to go a grand total of 3 blocks, since I was tired of being wet. That's very sad.

Luckily, a strapping young man came and picked me up, and carried me across the street to my office so that I wouldn't have to endure the pouring rain any longer.

Apparently I'm a very pasty blond that works in the tropics

Who am I kidding? Men don't come and scoop me up and make sure that my expensive shoes don't get drowned in a puddle - they use me as their bridge and squash me into the mud so they don't have to get their expensive loafers ruined by the weather.

Since I took two poetry classes I'm an expert poet, and can express my crash-and-burn dating experience through the creative outlet of flowery language. I've written you all a haiku to explain, in detail, this phenomenon:

In between girlfriends
Fill the void like Julia
But without the perks

I know, I know, I just blew all of your minds, and most of you are still valiantly struggling to understand the meaning behind these poignant, evocative words. Let me explain:

Basically, I'm like a cheap whore. Yes, that is the hidden, sensuous meaning behind my brilliant language. Why do I say this? Because more often than not I end up with guys that imagine themselves to be high rollers, and while I put up with all the usual rigamarole, I don't paid at the end of the day. I wish I did, considering some of the things I've put up with, but unfortunately I do not. In fact, we come to the other meaning behind my poems: I rarely get any compensation whatsoever for my good deeds (or whatever you want to call them. Say what you will, I'm good at what I do.) I am in the "in-between girlfriend."

What, pray tell, is an IBG? Well, let me use an example to explain. Say you're dating this guy, and you know some of his history; he and his last girlfriend went on a few big vacations, had some fun doing trips, planned some rather extravagant outings, etc etc. Perhaps he lavished her with jewelery, out of the kindness of his heart. Who knows. Point is, he and his ex had a great time, and she was a happy girl. Now, skip your relationship part for a moment, and focus on the after - you've broken up, and he's moved on. He and his new girlfriend go on some great trips, they make big plans, he gets her heartfelt gifts, etc. Sounds good, right?

No. Why? Because as the IBG, you were granted none of these things. Okay, okay, call me a giant, materialistic bitch all you want, but then you'd (mostly) be missing the point. It's not so much taking vacations or getting pretty, shiny things (no matter how exciting those may be), it's more along the lines of as the IBG, you were expected to merely sit there and deal with all the guy's neuroses and panic attacks and crazy antics, and fight for 20 hours of the day, and then get a bit dumped on. Not literally, because that would open up whole new doors of bitterness.

But you put up with a madman, and any plans you may have made were conditional, or often times just plain out ruined entirely, like a giant A Bomb exploding on poor, unsuspecting villagers that just wanted a little consideration, damnit. While it seems the relationships before and after yours were thoughtful, considerate, and full of mutual appreciation, yours was full of towels, and jewelery initially bought for other people, and your crazy friends getting nicer presents for the same damn holiday. No lie. Or, at the very least, anything you were granted was along the lines of "well you deserved this but not that" or "whatever just shut up already."

See? Such is the plight of the IBG. I think it could be due to getting into a relationship with someone that just ended something long term, whose not ready yet for a real commitment. Or it just could be dating an asshole, but I'm trying for the benefit of the doubt here, people. At any rate, most of my dating life has been spent as the IBG, where someone just ended a loving, dedicated relationship, and needs someone easy on the eyes and cold in the heart to have a rebound with before moving onto the next loving, dedicated relationship. I guess I only have my fantastic genes and icy demeanor to blame.

Or the guys. Yeah, I'm really good at blaming others.

Best Random Tidbits of The Week

Most Amusing Google Search That Leads to This Blog:
Vagina smiley faces

Because we all know that vaginas are only happy when they're smiling


Dumbest Question of The Week:
"Is this a Subway?" -Man standing in the Subway, looking at the menu board with Subway written all over it, to the Subway worker with the Subway logo apron on.

Wherein the obvious is entirely hidden behind a mask of painful stupidity and ineptitude


My Vote for a "Darwin Awards" Submission:
The Deputy Mayor of Delhi, India was killed by wild monkeys that attacked him on his terrace; he fell from the first-floor terrace when trying to fight off the monkeys and died the next day.

So not only was he attacked hilariously by monkeys, but he only fell one story and still managed to die? Awkward!


Awesomest GMail Headline of The Week:
"Beserk Drunk Elephants Get Zapped": Six Asiatic wild elephants were electrocuted as they went berserk after drinking rice beer in India's remote northeast, a wildlife official said Tuesday. (according to CNN: They got drunk, uprooted a utility pole carrying power lines and were electrocuted in Chandan Nukat, a village nearly 150 miles west of Shillong, the capital of Meghalaya state. "There would have been more casualties had the villagers not chased them away," said Dipu Mark, a local conservationist. The elephants are known to have a taste for rice beer brewed by tribal communities in India's northeast.)

Basically it's just like a frat party at Lambda Chi, only in Africa, and with neighbors that protest rather than enter wet t-shirt contests


Best Coming Out Not Orchestrated By Perez Hilton:
JK Rowling explains at a reading in Los Angeles that Dumbledore was not only gay, but was involved with the dark wizard Grindenwald when they were younger - and suffered from unrequited love in an ultimately doomed relationship. A much beloved children's character is openly homosexual, marking a big step forward for gay rights and acceptance.

Preteens and teens everywhere happily embrace this new information, while crazy adults are convinced they're harmed and saddened


Craziest Baby of the Week:
A 14-month-old boy was "sucked out of his home - crib and all - and thrown 40 or 50 feet by a powerful tornado that struck his home in Michigan on Friday night," according to NBC.com. The baby not only survived, but was entirely unharmed in the process of, you know, getting sucked out of his house by a fucking tornado.

Now that's the kind of baby you don't put in a blender - that things fucking invincible. I can smell the future benjamins from here!

The Mooning Gooser, and the Hangover from Hell

Days till Halloween: 9

First things first, CONGRATULATIONS are in order! Erin proved that she is indeed the smartest person I have ever met by pulling a 169 ON THE LSAT!!!! Which means she's pretty much blown everyone else we know entirely out of the water with that one. Delicious!

And more CONGRATULATIONS are in order as the RED SOX ARE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES!!!!! I knew all along that they'd destroy the Indians, they just wanted to make them think they had a fighting chance. It's like a lion playing with its prey; you know, they give them some room to run around, maybe think they're going to actually get out alive, and then surprise! they're in the lion's stomach and oh yeah, they're dead. Go Sox!

Hallelujah!

The rest of this weekend, rather than being a continuation of celebration and accomplishments, was one big alcohol-fueled mistake, beginning with my shockingly brilliant decision to start Friday night out by chugging sangria - knowing full well that I was still sick and alcohol was Not a Wise Course of Action. Erin and I started the night by imagining all the amazing things she could do with her new LSAT score (Harvard! Georgetown! Stanford with their hippies!) while getting ready, which is at least a two hour long process to begin with. Then we made our way over to the Reds' place to start the night off with some wine, where I had a glass of red wine and 3 glasses of sangria.

Drink Tally: 4

As a word of caution, never, ever chug a glass of sangria. Not only does it burn your throat, but it instantly pushes you into Sloppy Drunk, a category that no one in their right minds should ever start the night out in. Believe you me, I'm from a small beach town, I've seen it happen too many times to even count.

Feeling invincible, we made our way to The Big Hunt (not a gay bar as I had previously thought, which was interesting), which The Washington Post describes as:

[The Big Hunt] may be the only bar in the world in which the walls of one room are molded like safari tents. But the real big game in this smoky Dupont Circle bar are eligible men and women in their early twenties. The Big Hunt offers them a variety of settings for mutual pursuit.

Yeah, mutual pursuit my ass. The bar was full of unattractive men and oddly shaped women, crammed into every nook and cranny in the place. Not that it's unexpected, as it is DC which means that for every eligible single woman, there are -500 eligible bachelors, but still. Don't build our hopes up, and then destroy them in one cruel blow, Post. In order to ease the pain, we decided to start off with a round of kamikaze shots, and then I ordered a long island iced tea, figuring I could finish off the night with it and end up roaringly drunk. Of course by the time I finished it, I then decided it would be a brilliant idea to have a vodka cranberry, cause hey, the night was young (1:45am is young, right?) and I wanted to keep my wastedness.

Drink Tally: 7

Our drinks finished, we decided to meet Becca's sister and the Reds' roommates at The Lucky Bar, a place further down on Connecticut Ave to dance a little and enjoy the rest of the night. Upon exiting, we were greeted with someone we have affectionately come to refer to as the Mooning Gooser. Why, you ask, would we refer to someone in such a way? Well that's easy, my friends! It's because this lovely man was weaving his drunken way around the outside of the bar, and introduced himself to us by flipping Kristyn's pony tail around and declaring that we were "cra-zay!" and then promptly sticking his butt in my face and mooning us. If that's not the way right to a woman's heart, I just don't know what is.

Actually, I do know the real way to a woman's heart, and that is in her ass. The Mooner followed us, and proceeded to happily goose Erin - and yes, by "goose" I am referring to "grabbing her ass and pinching merrily." I'm not entirely sure what prompts men to do such ridiculously stupid things, but it was one of those times where everyone just sort of stops and stares. And then Becca and I proceeded to hurl drunken insults at him, until her sister had to tell us to stop screaming because people were starting to stare.

Getting lucky tonight (via goosing)

Since that was clearly a traumatic incident, I knew my only option was to continue drinking! I had a SoCo and lime shot, then a vodka cranberry, and then oh yeah, yet another vodka cranberry.

Drink Tally: 10

For those of you that know me, my normal tolerance level (while healthy) is about 3 drinks. Add in the flu, and I'm drunk just smelling alcohol. I don't entirely remember finishing my last drink, and while I have some vague recollection of stumbling around in the bathroom and talking about shoes with some girl in there (or was I in the men's room?) I don't really remember much else...

...Other than the fact that Erin's fabulous LSAT score meant she was a magnet for all kinds of classy men, and while a guy that followed us home (dude, hailing a cab for us does not mean you then proceed to get in with us) was not a gooser, he was a gigantic pain in the ass. Why? I have no idea. But I clearly remember yelling something at him and being very cranky that he was with us. He followed us into Erin's apartment, but luckily I had to get my keys and made them walk me to my apartment... where I promptly told the follower that Erin had to come upstairs with me and would be right back, and then let her fall asleep on my air mattress while the crazy man wandered around outside my building. We don't actually know how long he was down there for, but I do know he was gone at 8am when Erin left!

I know men like to say we lead them on, but a "get the fuck out of here" should penetrate some skulls and let guys know we're not actually interested. If all else fails, then being left alone in the cold for hours should probably do the trick. I was half convinced he'd still be outside and kidnap Erin when she left, but I was too busy trying to keep my head from spinning that I didn't have the motor skills required to warn her.

An actual picture of me from the morning after

I spent the next 9 or so hours screaming at the toilet bowl and cursing my inability to vomit (since I know you really wanted to know that), in between fitful naps, pounding headaches, and a general desire to just end it all. When I finally crawled out of bed at 5:30pm, I was in the terrible throes of Still Vaguely Drunk But Also Hideously Hungover. I couldn't actually walk straight, yet I met Erin and we trekked like 10 blocks to the Reds' place, so that I could stuff my face with stuffed shells and Kristyn's magical sauce, as I'd only eaten 4 saltines in the past 36 or so hours.

I was hung over until close to 2am, and I only say "until" because that was when I went to bed, and I was still very much delirious, and my head was still convinced it was on a Tilt-a-Whirl. When I woke up the next morning, I decided I'm never, ever going to drink again.

That is, until NIGHTMARE ON M STREET BAR CRAWL THIS SATURDAY! Yeah! Let's get wasted! I can totally handle like, 15 drinks! I am so brilliant!

This should be an interesting couple of days.

Why I Should Never Be Allowed to Drink

I am still hungover from last night's bar hopping extravaganza. I fear I shall be hungover for the rest of my life. Even Hocus Pocus on dvd isn't enough to make my head stop spinning.

The end.

Go (Mid)west, Young (Wo)man!

Days till Halloween: Who cares, I'm back!*

Once again I have proven I am an indestructible force of pure strength and character; I have battled the dangerous, scathing skies, I have overcome the masses of rabid, hate-mongering Midwesterners, and I have triumphed over the consumption of approximately 400,000 calories (per day). And I survived the smell of cow manure in rural Omaha - and let me tell you, that in-and-of itself should warrant at least a purple heart.

Just give me one reason, and I'll turn you into my manure

I got to experience the smell first hand, when a fabulous coworker and I got lost in rural Omaha - which was unexpected, as we were in a business/industrial park area, and we missed our street, and then suddenly Bam! dirt roads and the crossroads from Supernatural and everything. Totally got the whole Midwest experience right in that one moment. Actually, the smell continued over to the center we were visiting, but I wasn't sure if that was really all that strange or not, since I'm so used to the smell of smog and pollution and all the other yummy things that come along with living in the city (or close to the city, per my childhood.) That might actually have been fresh air, as it's common knowledge that anyone that lives in the city too long actually ends up being poisoned by fresh air if they return to rural areas.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I left on Tuesday, feeling particularly brilliant that I got to the airport right at 9:20am for my 10:40 flight, only to realize that my flight was at 11:40am, and I totally could've slept in for another hour, but now I got to spend that hour sitting at the airport sipping coffee and trying to pry my eyeballs open. Super!

I flew Midwest Air, which I'd only even recently found out existed, and was shocked and horrified by the depravity of the crew and the flight experience itself. I should start off by explaining that the pilot was a dog - maybe that will explain some things:

Oddly, this was the third result on Google Images

The plane was a vehicle of death; it had to have been 500 years old (at least), as was evidenced by it's giant leather seats, the ample leg room, and the warm, safe feeling that the death trap provided us. Yeah, like I want to be hurtling through the sky on an airline without any history of crashes or accidents! Give me TWA any day, my friends.

Worst of all, the airline tried to poison me by cramming delicious chicken fajitas down my unwilling throat, and then - worst of all - they gave us warm, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. What the fuck. I just want to be left alone when I fly, I don't want some perfectly nice flight attendant trying to force me to eat delicious, warm, gooey pieces of chocolate-ly chip heaven. No thanks! I'd much rather starve.

The recipe for DEATH

When we finally landed and I could fling myself down on solid ground and curse Midwest Airlines for giving me the most enjoyable flight of my life, I realized to my horror that I was indeed in the Midwest. And the people - the people! They were all like "oh hey, we're the first genuinely nice people you've ever met, can we help you with anything?" and I was all like "what the fuck no, leave me alone, I don't want any of your help," but then they were like "let me help you with your luggage, and let me get the door for you, and let me be super welcoming and introduce you to everyone," and I was like "oh my god, you people are monsters, just let me be!" Seriously, it was a nightmare.

I did the rounds for work, and met the whole team (and a good chunk of other employees) and I have to admit that they were fabulously nice people, and I really had a good time. Everyone was really helpful, very nice, very funny, and more than happy to put up with my naturally retarded nature. Of course when I left, everyone probably thought I was a total moron, but I'll imagine it as the nice, safe, enjoyable little bubble that it was. I was very relieved to see that everyone was as friendly as they seemed via email, as I wasn't entirely sure what to expect; probably some combination of Office Space and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. You know, what anyone would expect of an office in the Midwest.

Omaha itself was... well, Omaha. The downtown and Old Market area was actually bordering on adorable, with its brick streets, cute boutiques, loft apartments and plethora of bars and restaurants (yeah booze!), although the rest of the city was too small for my tastes. After spending the majority of my life traveling between Boston, New York and DC, I start to freak out and get super paranoid if I can't hear horns beeping, people swearing, and drunks hollering at all times of the day.

Old Market/Downtown Omaha... damn you for making me like you

On Tuesday night we went out to Anthony's Steakhouse for authentic Nebraskan steaks. Now let me tell you, I don't know what it is that they sell on the East Coast, but it sure as hell isn't actual cow parts; maybe it's some bastardized combination of knuckles and heads and whatever the hell else is in horrific combination "meats" like hotdogs. The steaks out there are completely different from anything else out here (well, unless it's expensive Nebraskan steaks we order in or order at restaurants, but they're not quite as fresh, considering I think the cows were slaughtered out back as soon as we put our orders in) and were shockingly good. Even my lingering sore throat and flu couldn't stop me from enjoying them. Not that I usually have problems overcoming ailments for the sake of food, but this was saying something, considering how much like ass I felt.

Yes, that is a giant cow on top of the restaurant

I think I put on about 10 pounds just from the past two days alone. There was the meals on the plane, the plethora of warm, gooey, delicious chocolate chip cookies, the steaks, the catered lunches, the additional cookies, the giant fudge cake for my boss' birthday, and everything else I managed to cram down my throat. Oh yeah, and the additional additional cookies that the hotel gave us. What is with the Midwest and delicious cookies, and why don't we have more of them out here on the East coast?

I managed to drag my significantly larger bulk onto the plane on Wednesday, and happily didn't have a complete mental breakdown on the flight, per my usual happening. I still hate takeoff with a deep, fiery passion, but the flights themselves were surprisingly nice. Fucking Midwesterners and their stupid approach to a happy, safe life. I'm not bitter, I swear.

The plane - of course! - got in something like 40 minutes early, so of course I had all this extra time, which meant I could go back to my apartment, change leisurely, take my time and unpack, all before heading over to Erin's to watch Supernatural. Damn you, Midwest Air.

The day ended nicely with an abundance of the Supernatural boys, and a discussion of our plans for today. If you weren't aware (and were a big FREAK OF NATURE), today is the day that 30 Days of Night premieres in theaters. Yeah vampires in Alaska! I've been pumped to see this movie for months now, since I first saw something about it in one of the many weird sites I visit online. We're going to truck out either to Chinatown or Alexandria to see it, depending on whether or not the Reds come with us and feel like carting our asses out to Virginia in the car. I am so super pumped to indulge myself in my Halloween horror movie geekiness.

30 straight days of night? We should've thought of this years ago!

Of course I've started with the horror movie atmosphere already, as I'm listening to the radio at work, and Britney' Gimme More is playing. I keep having horrific, PST-esque flashbacks to her badformance (har har, get it?) at the VMAs in which she jiggled her beer belly at us, tottered around in an outfit 400x too small for her, and generally showed school age children everywhere why drugs really are a bad thing.

*Of course I care, that'd be madness otherwise. Days till Halloween: 12

Fighting the Flu and the Devil's Instruments of Roach Horror

Days till Halloween: 15
Days till Omaha: 1
Chances of Survival: Almost Nonexistent

I have been steam rolled by what I can now confidently say is the flu; body aches, headaches, fever, sore throat, pained stomach, loss of appetite, etc. Once again it gives me a pounding headache to stare at the computer screen, but at least it gives me something to focus on, and keeps me (for now) from falling asleep at my desk. And by falling asleep, I mean passing out deliriously.

I left work around 12:30pm yesterday, figuring I'd suck it up and get half a day in, and then true to my word, I weaved an unsteady path back to my apartment, making even the hobos look at me with distrustful eyes (of course that didn't prevent 40 coffee cups clanging with change from being thrust in my face, but priorities, people.)

I spent most of the day sitting in bed, sleeping, and watching the rest of Supernatural Season 1, which at least helped somewhat to ease the pain. I even got Kristyn to watch an episode with me when she came by to say hello and pick up her frying pan and The Wall of Shame (that's an interesting sentence.) I know this blog is rapidly degenerating into the Supernatural Hot Boy Extravaganza, but can you really blame me? Just take a look at this and tell me you didn't want to throw caution to the wind and uh... jump through your computer screen and paw at them:

You will find resistance to our brooding futile

While the overwhelming woobiness of the Winchester brothers may have temporarily helped make me feel better, something horrific happened that quickly brought everything to a crashing halt: I found a cockroach. On my ceiling, of all places. Now, I'd found a very small one a few days ago, and after much squealing and stomping I killed it, but couldn't be entirely sure what it had been since it was a messy, tiny pulp on my kitchen floor. This thing on the wall though, while still small, was the real deal. To my credit, I resisted the urge to burst into tears and run screaming to the front desk, but I think that was partially because my head was spinning, and I thought it'd be a great idea to whack at it with one of the paddles I have from my days in the sorority.

Things I Figured Out While Hitting a Cockroach With a Sorority Paddle:

1. Cockroaches seriously are impenetrable forces of evil
2. No matter how many times I smooshed it, it just kept on living
3. Sorority paddles do not make good defensive or offensive weapons
4. I need to buy a very big hammer

Since I couldn't actually kill the hell beast, I managed to get it onto the paddle, and dash out to the trash room to throw it away. Erin later asked if I threw it in the trash chute, but I didn't, since we don't actually have one - we have a room with some trash bags in it, that smells vaguely of rotting vegetables and decomposing body parts. It's charming, really. And now it has the cockroach, which will probably start a colony and will carry off unsuspecting tenants when they try to throw their trash away. I think I better start just throwing my trash out the window.

Artist's Rendition

And that was my exciting day! After work today (who knows how long I'll last) I get to go home, pack for Omaha, and then pass out cold on my bed and hopefully sleep all night long (thank you, Nyquil!) I really want to take some Tylenol PM or Nyquil before getting on the plane tomorrow, but somehow I think my boss isn't going to really want to pry my unconscious body off the plane and drag me to the hotel, so I might pass on that. Plus, if I was out cold, I'd miss out on the delicious chocolate chip cookies that Midwest Air offers its passengers. We all have to make sacrifices.

Random Tidbit: BFF Cat

I am at once terrified, enthralled, and disgusted by ICanHasCheezburger, the site in which pictures of cats doing retarded things are superimposed with phrases such as "Im in ur closet, watchin u changez" or "supercat savz day!" But while trying to stay awake at my desk, I was going through the site and found this, perhaps one of the most amazing things ever:

Courtesy of ICanHasCheezburger and Ms. Missy

I don't know what it is about that damn commercial, or this stupidly captioned picture of a damn cat, but for some reason it's like Christmas come early. Every time I see that commercial I can't stop saying "IDK, my BFF Jill?" and I know about 10 other people that have the same affliction. In fact, there's a Facebook group dedicated solely to the awesomeness that is that commercial.

Clearly I have indeed become feverish, and it is time to go. And in all actuality, I actually am afraid of either passing out on my desk, or vomiting at my desk, some awkward combination of the two (I swear I wasn't drinking this morning!), and my boss has agreed to let me go home early, so I think I'll be heading out and weaving an unsteady path back to my apartment. Hurrah.

Fighting off Colds, Quick & Simple

Days till Halloween: 16
Days till Omaha: 2

Chance I'll live to see either: Not Good

I've been fighting off a massive flu-like illness for about a week now, but this weekend it reared its ugly head and fought me in an epic battle for control. Sadly I seem to have lost, as it's taking me about 10 minutes to type each word, seeing as my fingers don't want to cooperate, and my vision is swimming so badly it feels like I'm looking at one of those dot pictures where if you stare hard enough, some picture forms in it while everything else seemingly vibrates. But fuck that, I could never see those hidden pictures anyway - I always felt left out in second grade.

Forget that I don't actually have a fever or male genitalia

In an effort to cheer myself up last night, I cracked open the newest edition of Quick & Simple - no, not a how-to manual for a one woman good time, but the bastardized younger sibling of Good Housekeeping. I bought it since it promised me Quick and Easy Halloween Decorations! and it was a Bargain! at $1.59. I figured it'd have some cutesy Halloween decorations that you could do with some tape, a piece of construction paper and a string of paper clips, maybe some funny costume pictures, and a healthy dollop of menopausal womens' stories so that mothers everywhere could agree together that night sweats are a bitch, and while mood swings provide entertainment, they aren't actually all that fun for others involved. (Believe me Tammy Sue Baker from Drysdale Nebraska, I feel you!)

Instead, it was like I opened a dark portal to the oxymoronic world of 40+ Women meets Cosmopolitan meets Church on Sunday meets Late Night Stand Up on Comedy Central. The magazine heavily urges women to drop obscene amounts of weight in frighteningly short amounts of time - 25 pounds in 2 weeks! - while making fun of children with vision problems, and then forcing Christian gospel down your terrified, unwilling throat.

No one will love you if you're fat, piggy - now who wants to make bunt cake??

Quick & Simple claims that the ideal weight for a woman is now 135 pounds - which would be a good thing, as it's up from around 130 pounds, especially since models keep dropping dead on runways and people are finally starting to open their eyes and say that curves look better than emaciated hip bones that slice and dice passersby - but then they go on to claim it's because obesity rates are up and women are getting fatter. So basically you're ideal at 135, but that's because we're all a bunch of fat asses, and hey, don't you want to lose 25 pounds in 2 weeks, even though it'll put stress on your heart since you're supposed to lose 1-2 pounds a week, max?

After repeatedly ramming us with diet tips and telling us how fat and gross we all are, this devilish pamphlet then goes into all the ways to make fried chicken (yummy, hot oil!), cakes, cookies, and basically anything over 700 calories with enough fat to stop a rhino dead in its tracks. Because nothing says "eating disorder!" better than lavishing poor, starving women with mouthwatering pictures of decadent baked (and fried) goods.

Q&S then goes on to feature a story called "You, Only Better!" It's about (quote) "Super-pastor!" Joel Osteen and his freakish, heavily botoxed wife Victoria, whose face is so horrifically terrifying that it kills children and small puppies right in their tracks. True story.

I'm under your bed at night

My apologies if I just killed any children or small animals that may have been reading this blog along with you. Freakishly distorted butt chin aside, the story goes on to tell you that you can still be you, but rather than the sucky, sinning version of you, you can be the good, Christian, pious version of you, as long as you keep giving the Osteen's all your money. Nothing spells Salvation like M-O-N-E-Y!

Take this tidbit from our Super Pastor:

"God will not change another person's will: 'Too often we wait for others to change,' the pastor explains. 'But sometimes we have to be the first to forgive. would you rather always be right, or have peace in your home?' And if you're always arguing with your spouse, consider this: God may have chosen to put you with a different type of person on purpose, Osteen says.

See, that's what I've been trying to tell everyone all along! It's good to be the first to forgive. Frank and I, we're just too different personalities, and God put us together for a reason: clearly I'm a sinner since I'm supposed to be on a diet but I just followed page 12's instructions on how to make deep fried Coca Cola, so it's only reasonable that Frank smacks me around with his walking stick. I need to be the first to change and forgive - we're here for a reason!

Spousal abuse aside, I hate having religion crammed down my throat, and when I buy something for the Halloween decorating tips, the last thing I want is some Christian bullshit crammed down my throat. Throw in some of Rabbi Steinberg's matza ball recipes and constant suffering tidbits, and maybe we'll be even. Otherwise, no thanks, I don't need the advice.

I finally turned in desperation to the back of the magazine, trying to find more decorating tips and costume ideas, in order to forget all of the scary things I just encountered, only to find the winning costume for a children's costume contest. I was amused to see the winner was a small boy in a Popeye costume, nailing the squinty-eyed look, but that was until I read this charming little tidbit:

When Susan Tinch, 44, a lunch monitor from Indianapolos, observed that her son was squinting (due to a vision problem), she thought of her beloved cartoon character. 'I told Mason that he looked like Popeye!' says Susan."

So... let me get this straight. Her son has vision problems so badly that he's squinting, which means he must have killer, crushing headaches since he clearly can't see two feet in front of him, but golly it reminds his freakish lunch monitoring mother of Popeye! Her most cartoon favoritest character ever! I mean, she's gotta have all the porcelain figurines displayed on her Popeye Porcelain Figurine Stand in the china cabinet, and probably proudly wears her Popeye cartoon t-shirts under her stained lunch woman's apron - she's a true fan! She'll let her son suffer blindly for a few more days cause gosh darn, he just looks so cute having a minor aneurysm like that! Now, if he would only stop walking into the walls and start posing for the camera...

ESPN Zone, Target, and the Failure of Vanity Fair

Days until Halloween: 17
Days until Omaha: 3

As much as I love waking up at 7am on weekdays and spending 9 hours fighting to stay awake and be productive at work, there's something very appealing about the weekend. I'm not sure if it's the fact that I can sleep in until noon, or the fact that I can wear my pajamas all day, or the fact that I an eat a tub of ice cream while watching an SVU Marathon on USA, but some happy combination of the three would probably explain it.

I started the weekend off by going to the ESPN Zone with Kristyn and Erin to watch the Sox game (Yeah Sox!!!!!!!!!!!) and have a few drinks to relax after another week feeling as though I'm pretending to be an adult and sooner or later, someone is going to catch on and send me back to school. I think I had the intention to go get dinner, have one or two drinks, and relax and watch the game, but somehow, 5 drinks, $70 and 4.5 hours later, any and all rational plans had somehow gone out the window. We had a terrifically inept waiter, but it worked out well because he seemed excited to have a bunch of young girls willing to shell out obscene amounts of money for an ever-increasing number of drinks, and he was super slow which meant we literally got to enjoy the entire game without him itching for us to get up and out.

$8 Patron Silver Margaritas = Life is Good

On Saturday, after waking up around noon and dragging ourselves out of bed (and Kristyn out of my air mattress, which she bravely slept on as none of us were in a position to drive her car), we made our way to Target, so I could bravely shell out a vast chunk of my paycheck to purchase several rolling carts, a cable, some mirrors, pillow cases, a bed sham, a brand spankin' new tv. I know, I know, I'm so frivolous with my money.

Upon getting home of course, I realized that the power cord on the tv is shot, which means it doesn't actually turn on. I think it's time to suck it up and purchase an outrageously expensive flat screen tv, telling myself all the while that it'll work much better than the cheaper tv, and trying not to cry myself to sleep when I realize I can't eat for the next two weeks. I guess nothing encourages a diet like having a negative balance in your checking account. Score!

Now you get to lug all 50 pounds of me back to Target!

Speaking of things that destroy tvs, this morning I went to Erin's to lavish her with the trash bags she'd requested, and got to catch the end of Vanity Fair. I can't tell you what the plot of the movie was, because I don't actually know what it was; I spent the entire time going "wait, what just happened?" It would seem that Reese Witherspoon's character liked society more than her family, but then lost her family, but then ended up in India, and all this stuff happened that never would've been allowed in early 19th century London, but happened anyway, because everyone loves Reese and let's just let her go wild, even though she doesn't fit the role at all. The only thing the movie had going for it was Jonathan Rhys Meyers, and he died like a pussy, so that pretty much ended any interest I had in the movie whatsoever.

I can't actually be cunning or manipulative or sexy

And that's pretty much it. The rest of my weekend has been spent puttering around my apartment, decorating and redecorating and then ripping my hair out and doing it all over again. It's been very therapeutic, in the fact that it's driving me into more intensive psychotherapy. I think I'll stay at Erin's for awhile and finish watching Red Dragon, so I can remind myself that there are people with more issues, and less freedom than I.