Unicorn vs. The Ape Man

Days till Christmas: 24

I think I can officially say that I have been having the most bizarre dreams over the past month or so. I've always been one to have vivid and rather acid-trippy dreams, but starting in September or so, I started having on average one bizarre nightmare a month, which would freak me out and make me spend the next few weeks looking behind the shower curtain and underneath the bed before I could safely go to sleep. Beginning in November, I started having maybe one or two a week. Beginning this week, I've had one or two a night.

Last night I had two of the most bizarre dreams I've ever had, and one of the scariest dreams I've ever had. Although when I explain it, anyone that reads this is automatically going to think I'm insane. If you hadn't already, of course.

My first dream was one I'd like to call: Unicorn vs. The Ape Man

Uh....Right. Or something.

So, in the dream I was back at my house in Hull, watching movies with my brother and my mother and someone who was either my father or Christopher Lloyd (work with me, people.) There was something about some creature outside that was deadly/possibly rabid/possibly 28 Days Later-ed, and we could hear it screeching and throwing itself against the sides of the house. I think Erin may have made an appearance at some point. There was a news bulletin that somehow interrupted a VHS movie (??) and we were all very nervous.

I remembered that we had milk from the milk man (mind you, we stopped having the milk man deliver us milk when I was about 8) and I had to go outside to pick it up - of course I was subsequently captured by whatever the creature was, as at that point I hadn't seen it yet. Fast forward some indiscernible time later, and I'm strapped against a rock and held prisoner. But. I was also a dude. Sometimes. Uh. I was quite terrified, especially because all of my friends and family (who had miraculously turned into people I've never actually see in my entire life before) weren't willing to come save me from the now-biting-me creature which was - surprise! - an Ape Man of some sort. They were too "nervous" so I was being turned into ape kibble.

But then something came to rescue me! I heard a rustling in the bushes, and then - just fucking get this - a Unicorn comes out of a tiny bush and proceeds to slay the ape thing. By sticking it's horn into the ape's eye socket. Hurrah, I was rescued!

I woke up tweaking out, and immediately thought there was an ape man in my closet, and I wondered it it was at all possible for the unicorn to squeeze through my window in order to save me. Then I realized I was, quite possibly, completely out of my mind.

Possible Interpretations for The Dream:
(As Discussed by Dream Moods Dictionary)

Unicorn: To see a unicorn in your dream, symbolizes high ideals, hope and insight in a current situation. It also symbolizes power, gentleness, and purity. Alternatively, it may represent your one-sided views.

Abduction: To dream of being abducted, indicates that you are being controlled by your circumstances or by someone.

Apes: To see apes in your dream, indicates deception, mischievous, and falsehood. Alternatively, it may refer that you or someone have gone "ape". You need to calm down. The ape may also refer to you wild inner nature, particularly your sexual nature.

Family: To see your own family in your dream, represents security, warmth and love. Consider also the significance of a particular family member or the relationship you have with them.

Gender Swapping: To dream that you are the opposite sex, suggests that you exhibit or need to incorporate those qualities of the opposite sex. Ask yourself, how do you feel being a man or a woman? In what ways can you incorporate those feelings into your waking life.

Home: To see your home in your dream, signifies security, basic needs, and values. You may feel at home at your new job or you finally feel settled and comfortable in a new environment.

In particular, to see your childhood home or a home that you no longer live in, suggests your own desires for building a family. It also reflects aspects of yourself that were prominent or developed during the time you lived in that home. You may experience some feelings or unfinished expression of emotions that are now being triggered by a waking situation.

Final Outcome: I'm a great and pure and gentle soul, who happens to also be a lying, mischievous, deceitful pain in the ass, with a wild sexual nature, who's being controlled by someone else (despite my ninja-esque ways), but in the end, all I want is to be enveloped in the warmth and love of my family. The ones that wouldn't rescue me. Perhaps I need to calm down before they're willing to risk rabies. I also feel secure and nostalgic about my home, even though there's a killer Ape Thing waiting outside the door to eat me. That inspires me to bring children into the world, but unfortunately, I really need to be more manly, so birthing something at this time seems inappropriate.


The second dream I'd like to call: The Leprechaun (is a Dirty Thief)

No, seriously, they made Leprechaun 5: In the Hood an actual movie. And, I fucking kid you not, they made another sequel called Leprechaun: Back 2 da Hood. I FUCKING SWEAR.

In this dream, I was hanging out with a combination of people I went to high school with, and people I understood to have known, but for the life of me actually had no idea who the hell they were. We were living in a house that conveniently happened to be located right in the beginning of a Metro tunnel (????) and also - surprise! - had a massively obnoxious leprechaun hanging out in the gutters below. I'm pretty sure I knew that the leprechaun could only hurt us if we were outside, as whenever it appeared and bounced around in front of our many windows, we seemed to know it couldn't burst inside and attempt to kidnap us all and then kill us messily. (Note: Since I was roughly about 4 feet taller than the Leprechaun, I'm not entirely sure how it would've been able to overpower us to begin with.)

One of my friends (who was never in a sorority) lost her sorority necklace by the gutter (but then it turned out to be her boyfriend's letter necklace, and her boyfriend ended up being the boyfriend from Scream 2 who sings "I Think I Love You" in the cafeteria to Neve) and we had to warn her not to pick it up. Scintillating, that. Um, in the end, I made out with some guy who was a friend (I think?) after making a Gingerbread House (????) because we were scared of the Leprechaun and realized it was now or never to profess our love. Or something.

Possible Interpretations for The Dream:
(As Discussed by Dream Moods Dictionary)

Friends: To see your friends in your dream, signifies aspects of your personality that you have rejected, but are ready to integrate these rejected part of yourself. The relationships you have with those around you are important in learning about yourself. Additionally, this symbol foretells of happy tidings from them and the arrival of good news.

To see your childhood friend in your dream, signifies regression into your past where you had no responsibilities and things were much simpler and carefree. You may be wanting to escape the the pressures and stresses of adulthood. Consider the relationship you had with this friend and the lessons that were learned. Alternatively, the childhood friend may be suggesting that you have been acting in a childish manner and you need to start acting like an adult.

Gingerbread Houses: a close bond - doing things together (Hmm, that's actually very interesting, given the context of the RANDOMNESS of that dream scene)

Leprechaun: To see a leprechaun in your dream, suggests that you will reap the benefits and rewards of your hard work through perseverance and dedication. Alternatively, you may be trying to take the quick and easy path to success.

Making Out: If you are kissed by a stranger, then your dream is one of self-discovery. You need to get more acquainted with some aspect of yourself. Someone you like and want: wish fulfillment. A faceless person: your basic desire being met.

Rundown/Haunted House: To dream of a haunted house, signifies unfinished emotional business, related to your childhood family, dead relatives, or repressed memories and feelings. The old house may symbolize your need to update you mode of thinking.

Trapped: To dream that you are trapped or caught in a trap, suggests that you are feeling confined and restricted in your job, career, health, or a personal relationship. You may be in a rut or tired of the same daily monotony.

Final Outcome: The path to my inevitable success comes in the form of a small, murderous maniac. Wait a second, that's awfully fitting at the moment... I'm trapped and tired of daily monotony (true!) and have lots of *~repressed emotions~* but at least I'm getting some sexual awareness groove on. So basically I'm realizing I need more fulfillment, but getting all of my fulfillment, and I'll get everything I want as long as I can stop feeling trapped, and stop putting myself in the face of imminent death and destruction. Hmm.


Well, I guess that leads us to:

Your Daily Survival Technique
How to Survive a String of Nightmares

Step 1: Figure out what your subconscious is trying to tell you. Do you need more excitement in your life? Are you stuck in a rut? Do you need more time with your friends? Are you yearning to start a family? Do you really, really need to get laid?

Step 2: Watch a happy, fulfilling movie before bed. Now that you know what you're missing and what you crave, watch a movie that fulfills those desires. Hopefully your dreams will be happier.

Step 3: Stop eating spicy foods before bed. Seriously.

Step 4: Consider the idea that you're completely insane. It'd explain why you're dreaming of murderous Ape Men, dastardly Leprechauns, and a completely random Unicorn that not only hides in bushes, but gorgeous eyeballs. Those aren't repressed desires, that's just what actually goes on in your head during your waking hours.

America's Next Top Unemployed Sears' Catalogue Model

Days till Christmas: 25

Ah, America's Next Top Model. I know we're supposed to hold our breath and truly believe that these girls are all going to be stomping down the runway at Bryant Park come the Fall 2008 shows, but in all reality, 99.99% of the "models" will go right back to their stripping, waitressing, whatever-it-is-people-like-Heather-do ways. ANTM is great tv, but the next crop of super models, it is not.

While people like Heather and Jenah take fabulous pictures, they don't have the runway presence or marketability of someone like Stam or Gemma. They can't effortlessly hawk sunglasses, couture dresses, and Victoria's Secret ensembles. They can't wow the crowd on the runway, then turn right around and blow the photographers away with a photo shoot. To actually stick around in high fashion, they need to be versatile and work well with every angle of the modeling business.

And then there are the Biancas and Saleishas of the world - girls who are pretty, sure, but are nowhere even remotely close to being high fashion. High fashion is all about the "interesting" look - you're not the adorable little girl next door, or the run-of-the-mill attractive girl with a strong jaw. You need to have that "something" that lets you look fierce even if you're wearing a plastic bag. Bianca and Saleisha are, quite possibly, the complete antithesis of high fashion. No one in their right mind would ever hire them for fashion week, or a Vogue spread, or even a damn charity show. They're reserved for the Sears' Catalogue shoots, right beside Jaslene "Leno Chin" Gonzalez.

With Heather gone, I'm torn between Jenah and Chantal. Chantal makes my brain leak out my ears whenever she speaks, but she has more of a "je ne sais quois" than Jenah has. Jenah takes the better pictures (although Chantal's are a lot better than anything Bianca or Saleisha have ever come up with) but Chantal has a better face in person. Although Jenah is growing on me. I'm not entirely sure which one I'm rooting for yet. But in the end, we know that winning ANTM means absolutely nothing. When was the last time you saw Caridee doing anything than getting shitfaced at a CW Premiere party? The only one getting any work is Mollie Sue from Cycle 6, because we all know that anyone with even a hint of potential is booted out in the beginning rounds. Apparently talent does not equal television appeal.


Your Survival Technique of the Day
How to Survive (and Win) America's Next Top Model

Step 1: Come up with a wacky illness or horrific past experience. Claim Lupus, a brain tumor, an abusive step-father, or crabs. Give a sob story while stoically wiping away those few tears. Hint at a crowd-drawing amount of insanity lurking beneath that (um) attractive surface.

Step 2: Be a huge bitch. If you don't have abusive relatives or a convenient wasting disease, then you're angle is to play the bitch card. Everyone loves a manipulative, obnoxious, drama-causing bitch, and we all know that these idiots stay on far after their expiration dates, especially when they're not even remotely high fashion. Points in case: Bianca, Jade, Monique, Robin, etc.

Step 3: Kiss up to the judges as much as possible. No one wants to hear you explain your idea, or defend your pose, or do anything even remotely like a confident model would. Pretend to enjoy Miss J's hair-choice-of-the-week (be it an afro, a long braid, or pigtails); pretend like Tyra totally didn't put on 50 pounds; pretend like you're not sleeping with Nigel.

Step 4: If all else fails, play the blame game. Well, the photo shoot was terrible because so-and-so was snapping their gum too loudly. And you looked like a zombie because she kept you up all night with her obnoxious antics (yes, I'm talking about you, Saleisha). And you totally passed out right in the middle of the shoot because you're totally sick with some kind of convenient food poisoning, and not because you decided it would be a fabulous idea not to eat for 3 days straight. And voila! It's no longer your fault. Next!

2 Girls, 1 Cup, and a Handful of Sex-Crazed Neighbors

Days till Christmas: 26

Today I saw the jauntiest bow tie; it was almost neon-bright, boasting a plethora of retina-burning colors that just screamed for attention. And not only that, but it was easily three times the size of a normal bow tie. Sometimes I swear that life just smiles down on me.

Other times, however, life enjoys seeing just how far it can push me until I snap and end up drooling and screaming in a padded room in an asylum somewhere in the Berkshires. Point in Case: Upstairs Neighbor.


Dear Upstairs Neighbor,

I get it. Your woman is a cheatin', stealin' bitch and it's your duty to put her in her place. I've raised quite a few pimp sticks to hos in my day, so I understand that you just gotta keep them in line sometimes. Instill the fear of God and all that. But could you please refrain from doing so after 1am? I'm all for freedom of domestic violence, but a little consideration goes a long way. Especially if you get particularly riled up during a beating, and decide that the logical follow-up to such physical exertion is a healthy, exciting, ear-splitting romp in the sack. Usually my girls were too weak and bloodied to have a go, but hey, to each their own.

Just please - not after 1am. It somewhat irks me to hear you two throwing furniture at each other (and feeling the shocks of it as it slams against the floor) and screaming obscenities, and then going at it like rabid rabbits moments later. Oh, and word of advice: tighten your bed frame. Not only does it squeak enough to make me dream about giant killer sex-crazed rabbits before I wake up and curse at the ceiling, I'm rather convinced that some day the bed will give out, and it will - along with the two of you - come crashing down on top of me and squash me to death, and that is not my desired course of action for entering the after life.

Much thanks,

Chelsea


Luckily, the deceptively cute and meek female neighbor to my right has started blaring what I can only assume are pornos at all hours of the night (otherwise, she has a hell of a boyfriend, with a delightfully deep baritone voice - who I can only assume is a milkman and electrician by day, depending on his mood) so at least something drowns out the violence. Although I must admit, when the pornos and the upstairs makeup sex is going on, it sort of blends into one nice, soothing harmony of filthy begging and pleadings.


Your Survival Technique of the Day
How to Survive Very Loud, Very Sex-Crazed Neighbors

Step 1: Purchase a set of earplugs. Preferably the squishy, fits-to-your-ear-cavities kind, so that you don't feel like you've jammed an ear of corn into your ear.

Step 2: Invest in a set of heavy, down-filled pillows. These are great for blocking out low to medium noises (and the expensive ones can even block out loud noises) and they give the feeling of sleeping in a cocoon of sorts. Simply press the pillow over your ear, and attempt sleep.

Step 3: Take a page out of the Old Sitcom Book and bang on the ceiling with a broom. Loudly. Stop only when plaster begins to fall and comically shower you in white soot.

Step 4: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Move your laptop out into the hallway, and Google search for 2Girls1Cup. Crank the volume up all the way, then dash back into your apartment. Wait for the sounds to lure your neighbors out of their apartments, and then sit back and enjoy the silence after they all drop dead from witnessing the horrors on screen.

WARNING: Do not, under any circumstance, allow yourself to watch even a moment of 2Girls1Cup. There's a reason that it's a last resort tactic. There are no known survivors of that web video. True story.

How To Survive Reading This Blog

Days till Christmas: 27

So I've been reading a very interesting book, one that's chocked full of ways to triumph over evil, battle for the greater good, and make sure you get your ass out of danger with minimal damage. This book is "How to Survive a Horror Movie."

Trust me, it's essential to human survival. It lays out all of the different genres of horror movies, from vampires to slashers, to ghosts to possessed dolls, and everything in between. It has many valid points and impressive survival techniques, and I do believe that in reading this book, I am yet another step close to defeating some outbreak of evil that will eventually threaten to overwhelm me.

However.

I feel that more elaboration is needed. After all, each genre has a million sub-genres, and there are different ways for dealing with each of them. For instance, your run-of-the-mill Dracula can turn into a bat or wolf at will, while your Lost Boys vampires can apparently only fly while wearing leather jackets and lots of chains. Also, your typical Buffy vampire is a witty conversationalist with a fondness for pop culture - your 30 Days of Night vampire, not so much.

Wait, I don't get it. Why is Lindsay Lohan's lack of undwear so hilarious again?

I've decided to start including Your Survival Technique of the Day to my daily posts. Mostly because my life often teeters on ridiculously boring or frighteningly absurd, and it'd be nice to have... uh, something of interest to discuss every day. But don't fret, I'll make sure to include all kinds of horrifying monsters, like psychotic exes, backstabbing friends, the girl that always asks "does this make my ass look fat?", and random homeless men that try to hit on you on the Metro. Please, sir, take your hand out of your pants, I don't want whatever it is you're selling.

So, without further ado, I welcome you to:

Your Survival Technique of the Day
How to Survive the Beginning of Christmas Shopping

Step 1: Stock up on stupid things head of time. Your dad really wants that vintage toaster that sings Disney songs and toasts a Mickey Head onto each slice of bread? Try Amazon in July (that's what I did) - no one in their right minds wants something like that in July, but come December, it's only the greatest gift ever created, and if people don't get one immediately, some serious blood is going to be shed.

Step 2: Haggle with the EBayers. Since most sellers on EBay are either 12 year old girls or 40 year old obese men that live in their parents' basement and swap Dungeon & Dragon cards all day for fun, it's often times easy to haggle with them to get what you want. Put down a slightly higher bid, then email the seller and plead with them to end the auction ahead of time. If you're dealing with the 12 year old girl, say you know Zac Efron and can send her an autographed picture. If you're dealing with the 40 year old obese mama's boy, tell him you'll send him naked pictures that totally aren't your ex-best friend's head photoshopped onto some random naked body.

Step 3: Pump some serious iron and check your conscience at the door. If you do need to enter the death den known as "the mall," then you'll need to be prepared to fight to the death for the things you want. The best approach is to start getting in shape sometime around the Christmas the year before, so that for this upcoming season, you somewhat resemble Rocky. Yes, even if you're a girl. And you'll need to not feel guilt when you're punching small children and feeble grandmas, because if you give them even one inch of room, they'll be sinking their razor sharp teeth into your ankles, and shoving canes so far up your rectum that when you swallow food, it'll instantly fall out and into your pants.

Step 4: If all else fails, become Jewish. Latkes are really tasty, and Jews have all the money anyway. We're finished with our Hanukkah shopping by the February before, and then spend the rest of the year rolling around in our money, sipping Cristal from golden goblets, and playing drunken driedle. Oh, and making everyone feel guilty about our past. Awesome!

28 Days Later (is Christmas)

Days till Christmas: 28

And so the Christmas season begins! My office building's lobby is wall-to-wall Christmas decorations, including several hung wreaths that could kill a man if they fell from their perches, and one of the largest Christmas trees I've ever seen, complete with baubles the size of my head. I think it's time to break out my Official Christmas Shirt and start getting wild.

Hold on to that feeling

Although I have been debating over whether or not to purchase a second Official Christmas Shirt, since that would give me some variety (and save on washing the same shirt every other day.) I'm looking at a new Johnny Cupcakes shirt, as I'm pretty sure the last one I bought was a limited edition Halloween shirt... two years ago. Oops.

Frosty the Cupcake, or Cupcake Runnings?

Oddly enough, I went to Hebrew School with the girl in the white shirt, but that is another story for another time. Speaking of other stories, I've been getting ahead of myself, and have yet to tell you all about the insanity and frivolity that was my Thanksgiving Break. So, without further ado, I present to you: Chelsea is a Fat Ass with a Drinking Problem!

Tuesday: After landing at Logan around 1am, I head back to good ol' Hull for some much needed gossiping time with my father and Joanie. I show them pictures of my apartment, we chat about law school and the future, and all-in-all it's disturbingly normal. Except that I go to sleep at 5am and wake up the next day at noon.

Wednesday: My mother and I pretend to be townies and indulge ourselves at Schooners, where everyone knows your name, your height and weight, your Social Security Number, and whether or not you're circumcised (the answer to that is: yes.) We drink bloody Marys - and that is pretty much the moment I decide it'll be a fabulous idea to keep it up for the entire weekend.

Thursday: Thanksgiving! I begin drinking at noon. Hilarity ensues. I meet a guy that's moving to Helsinki, and we discuss the lack of sunlight during their winter days. Somehow I polish off a bottle of wine. And a bowl of spinach dip. And a bowl of pumpkin spread. And a huge plate of stuffing. And a turkey. Etc. Etc. Etc. Embarrassing family tales are told, and I believe everyone within a 10 mile radius knows everything awkward and stupid I've ever done in my entire life. More wine is imbibed.

Thursday Night: Some old friends from home and I meet up with some friends from high school I haven't seen in over 4 years now (god fucking damn, I am so old.) At first I'm rather nervous as saying I used to be kind of a douche is like saying that, oh, Heather Mills is kind of the Anti-Christ. And kind of wobbly. A bonfire is witnessed, many more drinks are tossed back, a $210 tab is issued, and I find myself having the most fun I've had in an embarrassingly long time. Drunken apologies are given, Swisher Sweets are smoked, and a weed dealer named Hans somehow ends up in the car and confuses the hell out of everyone. A 2am road trip to Allston takes place, I fall asleep on someone's ass, and sometime around 4am I realize if I don't start drinking water now, I'll be in for quite a horrible surprise the next day.

Friday 6:00am: I step on the dog and somehow 4 mugs of water magically appear, strewn across the floor. I wonder what the hell I was doing from 4-6am.

Friday: I wake up around 8, disoriented and still reaching for a phantom beer. Hangover sets in. My father calls and wants to go shopping, and suddenly I feel better - there's no better remedy for a hangover than shopping. TVs are discussed, more drinks are had, and I begin to wonder why I ever left college. We have dinner at the Italian restaurant I used to work at, and I get the thrill of seeing the owner's son, the same guy that used to hug us and poke us and flirt with us. By the way, we were 14 when we worked there. Hot!

Saturday: We set off an adventure to Plymouth! Plymouth Rock is gawked at, restaurants are decided on, and I have a moment of mind blowing confusion when I see the signs for the 50th Anniversary of the Mayflower II and read it wrong, thinking it's the 50th anniversary of the original Mayflower. I remind myself that my parents were not 2 and 4, respectively, when the original Pilgrims came over to settle the great Americas. Dinner with my aunt and uncle is eaten, more alcohol is consumed, and more family tales are happily told.

Saturday Night: More shopping commences, and a digital camera is bought (although I have to pretend like I didn't see it, so I can pretend to be excited on Christmas morning.) Jen and I meet up and have a lovely dinner, then finally sit down to watch not only Plan 9 from Outer Space, but Plane 9 from Outer Space with commentary from Mike, the guy from MSTK3000. More hilarity ensues. But then Jen is a two-faced liar and I don't eat the food we bought, and sadness overcomes the world.

Sunday: Kristyn and I set off on our DC Road Trip! We leave at 11:30am, make great time and stop in Middletown, CT to meet up with friends for lunch. We explain the usage of the word "quaint" and explore the town. Delicious pizza is eaten. We leave at 4, we hit traffic along Connecticut. 5pm. 6pm. We hit traffic in New York. 7pm. We get lost off the Tappen Zee Bridge, trying to avoid the mass amounts of traffic. 8pm. We get into New Jersey. 9:30pm. New Jersey fucking sucks. 10pm. We get into Delaware. $3.00 is a ridiculously high toll for driving all of .002 miles within the state. 11pm. We pass Baltimore. 11:30pm. 12 hours after we set out, we arrive in DC! I fall asleep.

And there you have it! My awesomely busy, exciting, thrilling, and drunken holiday! I hope you all had similarly wacky Thanksgivings, and are now getting ready to don your festive, bell-covered reindeer sweaters, drink your egg nog, and sing drunken Christmas carols, cause oops, someone spiked the 'nog again!

Merry Turkey Hangover Day!

The amount of food and alcohol that I have consumed in the past 48 hours is so shockingly high that it could feed and water all of the starving children on those "just 10 cents a day!" commercials. All things included, there was turkey, 6 kinds of pie, an entire bowl of spinach and artichoke dip, several drunkenly-devoured deviled eggs, and a $210 bar tab. Oh, and cigars. Yes, we are champs.

I would elaborate, but I'm still trying to polish off this bottle of Coppola Merlot. I'll attempt actual explanations on Monday, when the cold, horrifying shock of going back to work finally sinks in. Until then, enjoy your bottles of wine, have some laughs with your friends and loved ones, and indulge in your glorious, much deserved tryptophan coma.

Greetings from Hull

Days till Thanksgiving: Tomorrow

Save your jokes

Home, sweet home! I made it to Hull mostly intact, although my flight was rather... eventful. We were supposed to leave at 10:50pm, but the flight was delayed half an hour, and then we didn't actually get onto the plane until sometime around 11:40. Once we were seated, we were informed that the fuel truck wasn't working probably, and that the Jet Blue people were as pissed off as we were. Around midnight, the fueling was finally finished, and we were free to take off... right into the Mist of Doom. It was so goddamn turbulent that I was convinced (as usual) that we were going to plummet right out of the sky. Luckily, they fed me lots of cookies and diet coke, and Nirvana's original MTV Unplugged show from 93 was on, so at least if those had been my last moments, I could've died happily.

We landed around 1am at Logan, where I was greeted by my dad, brother, and quasi-step-mother, and the horrific Sounds of New England, some offensive, blaring tape of animal hoots and screams that sound more like feeding time on the Serengeti than a quiet night in the woods of Massachusetts. And the sounds followed you into the elevators, and right over to your car, and continued to ring in your head until you finally managed to get home.

This morning (okay so it was 12:30pm, but I had just woken up, so for all intents and purposes it was morning) my mother picked me up and we enjoyed a fun-filled morning of pretending to be townies: we went to the magnificent Schooners.

Resistance is futile: You are trapped here forever

Now nothing - nothing - screams Hull Townie more than enjoying two bloody marys before 1pm at Schooners on the shore. I was lucky enough not only to watch some 60 year old man literally fall asleep in his food (and then be reprimanded by his wife who walked in, smacked him, and told him to stop drinking before the afternoon), but to also bear witness to my freshman year high school English teacher and Class of 2003 Advisor. This man is somewhat of a legend in Hull because he takes it upon himself to latch onto the "cool" kids of the various grades, and tries his best to make everyone think that he's not a pudge, middle-aged, closeted homosexual, but an awesome, beer chugging, everyone's-favorite-guy. Because nothing says "Awesomely Cool" like trying to pretend like you're a super popular 15 year old. Totally.

My mother almost fell off her chair with excitement, knowing that every time I've talked to this man, I've either called him an idiot, fought with him over his nefarious ways, or called him out for playing favorites and being pathetic.


Mom: I'll pay you $50 if you go over and talk to him.

Me: No way in hell! The last time I talked to him I told him he was unfit to be a teacher!

Mom: Okay, make it $100.

Me: No way!

Mom: I'll make it $200 if you spill your drink on him.


It's so good to be home.

Tomorrow is our annual Thanksgiving Dinner, held at the home of my mother's best friend (and basically my second mother.) We're heading over there at noon, which means I'll be drunk at 12:30, napping by 2pm, awake and drunk again at 4, asleep by 6, and then up and refreshed for us to go shopping with Kristyn and her entourage, because it'll be Black Friday, baby! And nothing is more exciting than blowing your entire paycheck on heavily discounted goods. Pounds of Ralph Lauren sweaters, and hideous holiday decorations from Target, here we come!

Oh, Tuesday

Days till Hull: Tonight!
Days till Thanksgiving: 2


So this morning I awake feeling particularly refreshed and alert. Immediately I begin to worry, because if I ever wake up before my alarm goes off I always feel exhausted and cranky and like I might kill the first person I see. It's very light outside, which also makes me worry, as I set my alarm for 7:15am so I could shower and do my hair, and it's usually still pretty gray out there at that time.

I reach over and grope for my phone (aka: my alarm clock) and when I pick it up, I realize, to my horror, that the screen is dark - and won't turn on. Which means it's dead. I scramble out of bed, trip over the sheet, and dart across the room to hurl my eyeball at the microwave clock (since I don't sleep in my contacts and therefore am blind as a bat) and see, to my horror, that it is 9:35am.

9:35am. For the first time since I was 14 and started working, I've overslept. I've never even overslept my jobs as a hostess, never mind my jobs at the other law firms and publishing agency. Now some people might just shrug and head into work, but since I had no phone to call with, my (stolen) internet never works in the morning, and I'm hardly a normal person, I very nearly have a heart attack. I get all the workings of a panic attack, and proceed to run around like I'm on fire, half-screaming, throwing clothes on, brushing my teeth with far too much toothpaste, and then darting out the door with minimal makeup on. It was like a nightmare come to life.

After huffing and puffing for 8 blocks I realize two things:

1) I am seriously getting out of shape again

2) My endometriosis is seriously the biggest fucking pain in the ass in the entire world.

2.5) Oops forgot one more thing - I can't wait for menopause in January. I'm going to throw a menopause party, then run to work and enjoy the brisk air, and then pump my fists victoriously when I am pain free (and 20 minutes early, to boot.)

So that's the way I start my crazy Tuesday (Wordsworth, eat your heart out.) Right after work I have to bolt home and make sure I've packed everything I need for Thanksgiving Break, because Super Shuttle is picking me up between 7:25-7:40pm and I need to be ready; otherwise the permanently pissed off driver will probably take off and leave me stranded on the sidewalk. And Dulles is so very far away.

Tonight I take the red eye flight back to Boston, and thus begins the insanity known as Thanksgiving Break. My family will be my family, which will mean we'll drink, we'll fight, Turkey will be thrown, and maybe - just maybe - miracles will happen. It's such a special, magical time of the year. Now where's my bottle of Pinot Noir, I need to get this party started now; there's no way in hell I can get on the plane and arrive in Hull without having been thoroughly soused for a good 9 or so hours.

"C" is for "Doomed to a Life of Mediocrity"

Days till Hull: Tomorrow!

Days till Thanksgiving: 3

According to the glorious Hypocondriacal Pit that is WebMD, your name may tweak your destiny." This article proposes such insightful hypotheses like:

- MBA students whose first or last names start with the letters A or B tend to make better grades than those whose names start with C or D

- Major League baseball players whose names begin with the letter K strike out more often than those whose names don't start with letter K (obviously the letter used to record strikeouts)

- Law school applicants whose names began with A or B were more likely to get into top-ranked law schools than those with other initials

- That hideous "My name is Chelsea, my husband's name is Charles, we live in Chicago and we sell Chihuahuas" game could be a chilling indication of your future: People have a subtle bias toward the letters in their monogram. "For example," they write, "Toby is more likely to buy a Toyota, move to Toronto, and marry Tonya than is Jack, who is more likely to buy a Jaguar, move to Jacksonville, and marry Jackie."

- Christine may not find a C grade quite so bad as Anna


Do you know what this is? This is the dumbest proposal I have ever heard in my entire life, and I once spent a poli sci class listening to someone propose that we go to Iraq and murder all of the children whose parents were killed in the war, because that was the best way to stop the violence and make sure that our future generations (if there were any over there) would get along and not want to wage war on each other.

Do you really mean to tell me that law schools and MBA programs are teeming with Amandas, Annas, Alberts and Brians? And that the Zacks, Zoeys, Wills and Victorias of the world are doomed to spend their time as janitors in Taco Bells or gas station attendants at the local Pump 'n Go? What about the Williams that go by Bill - are they simultaneously retarded and rejected from law school, but gaining admittance to top tier MBA programs? What about the Bob Whites of the world - are they just as confused? And are the Kates and Johns of the world forever doomed to a life of blue collar mediocrity?

Exhibit A: Victor Exhibit B: Arnold

And for the whole "inclination towards your initial" business, let me tell you that that is one big heap of stupidity. Sure, I like the letter C because my name starts with it, but I have no inclination towards surrounding myself with things solely because they start with the same letter that my name does. I dated a Charlie once, but I've never dated another C person before; I want to live in DC, or Boston, or New York, or London, or LA - Chicago doesn't even really register because it's too damn cold (and away from ocean coastlines); My dream car is a Lexus RX, not a... what the hell kind of car starts with a C anyway? A Camry? No thanks.

I do have to agree with the assumption that a "Christine" would be content with a "C" grade, but only if the following conditions apply:

- "Christine" is named "Chelsea"
- "Chelsea" really, really hates studying
- "Chelsea" is a slacker that likes drinking and watching tv too much
- "Chelsea" is super glad she pulled off that "C" in bio, rather than the "F" she was expecting

Otherwise, I just can't buy the idea. And due to the sheer number of Jennifers, Saras, Steves, and Kellys, statistically speaking it would be impossible for all of them to be middle-of-the-road schlubs. So, WebMD, please go back to making me think I have brain cancer, or encephalitis, or a dangerously enlarged prostate, and stop trying to tackle these off-the-wall topics. Thanks.

Turkeys, Chocolate, and Delicious Babies

Days till Hull: 4
Days till Thanksgiving: 6

Today is a wondrous day indeed, because it is Friday, which means that not only is the weekend nearly upon us (and pay day), but in 4 days I will be jetting off to fabulous Hull so that I may spend the following 3 days systematically devouring several large turkeys. Coincidentally, this morning when I logged into my gmail, this was the headline on my news bar:

Turkeys are social, playful birds who enjoy the company of others.

Know what else is awesome about turkeys? How delicious they are. They taste like moist, succulent strips of farm fresh baby, and everyone knows you can't get fresher than babies. In true dysfunctional family style, Thursday we will celebrate the gluttonous feast with my mother, Friday we will make our way into Boston to celebrate "Jewish" style (i.e. go out to eat) with my father (never minding he's not the Jewish parent), and on Saturday we will be throwing caution to the wind and braving a trek down to the windy wasteland that is Cape Cod in the winter for our final celebratory dinner with my aunt and uncle. All-in-all, I expect to put about 50 pounds on, and I'm already planning on how to let the waists out of all my pants.

You're planning to do what??

Thanksgiving aside, I am already ready to pack up my things and head right back to my apartment; my bed is beckoning to me, even from here. It was one of those mornings, the kind where you wake up and instantly start sobbing, because your bed is so very warm, and outside is so very cold, and the last goddamn thing you want to do is get up, shower, get dressed (get dressed in matching garments, no less), hike the 8 blocks to work, and then attempt maintaining your sanity and lucidity for the duration of the day. Hard stuff.

I woke up late, as I usually do at the end of the week, even when resistance seems futile, took too long eating my morning oatmeal (and burnt half of it to the bowl, which was fun to clean off), couldn't get my hair to cooperate, and made poor decisions with clothing until I realized I had -10 minutes until I had to leave and I better put some damn pants on because it's too cold to go outside pantless, and I don't particularly feel like losing my job.

I also decided it would be a brilliant idea to wear my heels to the office, rather than wearing something tasteful and comfortable like my gigantic UGGs or my pink Crocs, because I thought they would look classy with my gray skirt and new jacket (which they did), and that they'd make my legs look fabulous (which of course they did), and that my poor broken toe wouldn't hurt all that badly (which... yes, yes it did.)

After limping for 2 blocks I decided to be a pussy and take the Metro, which meant more waiting, then a mad dash to get on, and then nearly having a heart attack when the idiot conductor announced we were going straight from McPherson Square to GW/Foggy Bottom, and I thought that somehow we'd completely bypass Farragut West and I would be doomed to ride the Metro aimlessly back and forth forever, like a ghost with no direction and unfinished business.

To cheer myself up, I indulged in a brownie and some hot chocolate, so even though my skirt feels kinda tight, hey, at least I had that delicious snack to further encourage me to associate unhealthy foods with feelings of emotional happiness.

Man, I can't wait for Thanksgiving.

Rain, Awkward Killers' Names, and The Magic of Tim Gunn

Days till Hull: 5

Days till Thanksgiving: 7
Days till the Ark Needs to Be Built: Yesterday

It is pouring out. Pouring. I woke up sometime around 4am because the rain was pounding against my window, and since I've been reading Kristyn's Bed Time Collection of the World's Worst Murderers, I was convinced that it was some psychotic maniac coming to break in and strangle me with my very own control top nylons. Oh, the horror.

The rain inspires us to sporadically break into musical dance numbers

Rain aside, I've been fascinated with this book of murderous individuals (spanning from the glory days of Vlad the Impaler, all the way to the heartwarming tales of John Wayne Gacy and his delightful clown paraphernalia [see: Intense fears: Clowns]) and their depraved stories of nylons, acid baths, and the occasional tasty snack of human remains. What really fascinates me, though, are some of the names that people have come up with for various murdering psychopaths.

Take, for instance, "The Sex Beast" - or, should that not tickle your fancy, "Jack the Stripper." Seriously, what kinds of names are these? The Sex Beast? Really? Can you imagine the local news:

Anchor: And tonight, there's been a new development in The Sex Beast's Killings. Cindy?
Cindy: Thank you, Tom. I'm here with Susie Neighbor, who just this afternoon was lucky enough to escape the depravity of The Sex Beast. Susie, what did The Sex Beast look like?
Susie: Well, Cindy, he was very sexy, a very sexy beast. And he was very animal like, lots of hair. Lots of sexy hair. He truly was The Sex Beast.
Cindy: Thank you, Susie, for that fascinating lead. Back to you, Tom.

Or:

Reporter: So you actually witnessed Jack the Stripper's the mayhem?
Frat Boy Joe: Yeah! It was insane man!
Reporter: Can you describe to us exactly what happened?
Frat Boy Joe: Well we were all at The Golden Showers when it happened; this dude comes on stage in a g-string and tassels, and then bam! he's throwing himself at other dudes left and right, tassels' swinging, everyone's trying to run but Jack the Stripper is spinning around the pole and then launching himself into the crowd! I lost Billy, man, my bro's are gonna kill me!

Seriously, what else can these names possibly bring to mind?

In other, slightly less gruesome and less ridiculous news, last night was the premiere of Project Runway! I went to the Reds' to watch ANTM and then we settled in for our much-needed dose of Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn.

We are hotter than you will ever be

Heidi Klum is seriously mind-blowing; how on earth is it possible to look that good after birthing three children?? She defies all laws of logic. If she didn't have a personality (damn her), I'd be certain she was a robot. People just don't look like that in real life.

And speaking of mind-blowingly hot sex beasts (oh ho!), Mr. Tim Gunn himself was there to reduce me into a puddle of incoherent goo. Tim Gunn, I will bear your children no matter what sexuality you may lay claim to. It's okay, baby.

Make it work, people!

What would make my life complete would be to have Tim Gunn permanently reside in my closet. That way, when I stumbled in there in the mornings, barely awake and bleary-eyed, he would already be throwing clothes around, deciding what was appropriate for me to wear today. "I don't know, darling," he might say, holding a baby doll dress up to me and frowning over the pattern. "It's nice, but it's not wow. The judges would really praise the pencil skirt and blouse."

And then when I was sauntering down the street, looking fierce in my pencil skirt and matching blouse, I could tell anyone that starts fawning over me that Tim Gunn saved my life. And then toss in a saucy wink for good measure.

Last night someone asked what Tim Gunn does in his personal time, so I've spent some time thinking about this fascinating question, and I've come up with some possible ideas:

1. He's secretly the head of IMG Models, because nothing says "fabulous" like representing Gisele, Gemma, and Ms. Klum herself.

2. He spends any time off-camera soaking in a luxurious bath, where the bubbles come from magical caviar, and the soothing bath salts are made from the tears of angels. In this tub, he is fanned by past Project Runway contestants with palm fronds from the Cayman Islands.

3. He spends all his free time attending fabulous soirées with the rich and famous from all over the world, including The Queen Mum, Prince Alwaleed bin Talal, Oprah, and those guys who started Google.

4. He's actually a deadly assassin, trained in the ways of the Ninja, and his chipper and fabulous tv persona is merely a smokescreen to hide behind in order for him to carry out his nefarious deeds, and eventually topple Western Civilization as we know it.

5. He and Heidi are actually the same person.

And that's all I've got. I think I permanently damaged my brain yesterday when I spent the day actually doing work for once (in between gorging myself on the office's free cookies and brownies.) That and I have a dentist appointment today at 1:30, and I never tend to function properly when I know I'm soon going to have someone's hands and various sharp instruments crammed into my mouth. Of course it's only a cleaning, since I have fabulous teeth - Tim Gunn worthy teeth even, I would speculate.

Things I Hate

Days till Hull: 7
Days till Thanksgiving: 9

There are a lot of things in this world that scare me: zombies, clowns, zombie clowns, midgets, midget zombies, midget zombie clowns, etc, and there are a lot of things in this world that perplex me: Rubik's cubes, basic algebra, The OC Season 4, Serena Williams, restraining orders taken out against me when all I was trying to do is spread my love, etc. But what really riles me up are the things that I hate.

1. People that Carry Two Purses: Okay, so you have a messenger bag, and maybe you're lugging around your laptop and some files. Maybe you say to yourself "well, I need my makeup and my wallet, and I don't want my bag to be too heavy!" Well you know what - you fail. In today's purses, there are so many hidden compartments and extra spaces that sometimes I find my friends hiding in there. Erin! What have I told you about getting your muddy feet in my new Michael Kors bag? Thing is, people look retarded when they're toting around one bag, and then have a teeny tiny purse on the same damn arm. You look like it's too difficult a task for you to put your meager belongings in the bigger purse, and thus refrain from looking like an idiot. I do suppose that says a lot about you then, hm?

2. The Rain: Oh, it's on, rain. What's so good about you anyway? Okay so you may like, give water to crops and stuff, and you may like... I don't know, fill up Poland Spring with more delicious water so I know what it's like to be from Maine, and I guess it's a good thing you wash away trash on the street like dirt and animal waste and hobos, but seriously, you're really not good for my hair, so I'm going to have to ask you to pick up and leave. I have to walk around all day today looking like I stuck my finger in a light socket, and that is not beneficial to my mental stability. If I'm going to get up an hour earlier than usual to do my hair, it better stay frizz-free.

3. Kristen Bell: Guess what, Kristen Bell: I'm onto you. People may be hailing you as such a charming little darling in Hollywood, but I know what you really are: a mentally retarded version of the extremely annoying Buffy in the after-high school years. Veronica Mars was a terrible, terrible show, and I still have minor seizures when I think about your obnoxious acting, your puckered face, and the outdated pop culture references that you continually jammed down our throats. Don't just think that now because you're on Heroes you're something special, because you're not, missy. First of all, your character is awful - you're not sexy, you're not coy, and you're sure as hell not dangerous. Your hiring fluke was like hiring Paris Hilton to play a nun. Clearly, something is wrong. And second of all, the creator of Heroes just came out and publicly apologized for turning Heroes into a giant Suck Stew - and he's talking about you, Down Syndrome Sally.

Are you having a seizure? Did you suffer a stroke? What is going on with your face??

4. Nora Roberts: Seriously. Seriously. Maybe this should be in a new category all it's own, because not only do I hate Nora Roberts, but her 'work' also perplexes the hell out of me. I finally sucked it up and tried reading one of her novels when someone told me "omg totally the best reading evar!" and I fell for it. It's kind of like touching a hot stove when you know that it's going to scar you for life, but you have this morbid curiosity to see what the fuss is all about. Here's how one of Nora Roberts typical books plays out:

It was a crisp, cool morning, the kind that made Detective Moana Lisa (See what I did right there?) turn over in bed and curl sensuously around her partner - both on the force of the law and in the force of the thrusts.

"Good morning," came the deep, rumbling baritone of Detective Dashing McSexalot. And then they engaged in hot, steamy, and ultimately, premarital sexual relations.

When they were finished awkwardly pawing at each other, Moana slid smoothly from her silken sheets and stepped to the window, slowly opening the blinds as she raised her face to the sun and drank in the light. In the distance, she could see the mountains, and the peaceful flow of the river. And beyond that, bright in the morning sky, was the beautiful orb of the planet Earth. Oh, how she loved mornings on Mars.

And that, my friends, is when I threw the book at the person recommending that. May you be condemned to a life of misery and hell for that terrible deed.

Q: Does this seriously look like the face of passionate romance??
A: No, it is the face of all that is unholy and blasphemous

5. All White: I used to be a huge fan of the "No White Before Memorial Day/No White After Labor Day" rule, but that was before classy winter white was introduced. Now I think white pea coats and certain white pieces are gorgeous in the winter, but I was always, always want to murder someone wearing all white - no matter what time of the year it is. White is a tricky color because it is not slimming, and often times, it is not flattering. If you want to go monochromatic, stick with black, because black is classy and super slimming, and you really can't go wrong there. But all white makes you look like a giant, puffy marshmallow, no matter how thin you are (I'm talking to you, Alessandra Ambrosio, I didn't miss that white outfit last week!) Also, it's heinously ugly. If you wear white pants and a white shirt, you're an idiot. End of story. And you deserve to be hit by a bus, because it's all a matter of Survival of the Fittest, baby.

And there you have it, a detailed list of 5 of the Things I Hate Most in This World. There are a lot more (don't even get me started on plaid and stripes, or hooker boots with shorts) but I fear having an aneurysm if I keep talking about them all. You just have to know where to draw the line with such items of horrific unfortunate-ness.

Hans Turkeys

Days till Hull: 8
Days till Thanksgiving: 10

I have seen the face of god, and his name is Hans. Actually, it's Tom (Thom? Todd? Whatever) and he's an elite air force officer originally from Holland. If you didn't get hot and bothered just by reading that, then obviously you're dead.

He struck us more as a 'Hans' than as a 'Tom,' as we decided on Saturday night, when there was three of us just staring at him and salivating into our vodka cranberries. We were at Saloun in Georgetown, an interesting bar with live music and a lot of very excited, very drunk people in their 50's who enjoyed rocking out on the dance floor. It also happened to be full of attractive air force men from various countries in Europe, which meant: Accents! And the firmest butt chin I have ever seen in my entire life, but that's another story for another time.

Hans was a tall, gorgeous, charming 21 year old who I couldn't always understand, but his accent was so beautiful that he could've been telling me I was a heinous slag and I still would've been falling all over him. He shook our hands and looked deep into our souls with his fathomless eyes, and I knew in that moment that I could die happily. He bought us a round of drinks, but alas, there were no roofies in them (or plastic baubles from China) and he sadly left without impregnating me. Hans, if you read this, come back to DC. We can have a long, glorious life together - or, at the very least, one mind-blowing night of passionate sex. And then my friends can have you, because sharing is caring.

On Sunday, I was able to (momentarily) forget about our European Gods because it was Our Thanksgiving!! We had a 22 lb. turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, cauliflower, broccoli casserole, cranberry sauce, yams with marshmallows, corn bread, rolls, strawberry cheesecake, pumpkin pie, apple pie, and chocolate cream pie. I didn't actually cook anything, but I did make Hand Turkeys! Which turned into - appropriately - Hans turkeys. Because I can never resist a joke about hot men, turkeys, and putting hands up the anal cavities of dead poultry.

And this was just my plate!

I think it's worth noting that the turkey had been dubbed, upon purchase, 'Tom'. Do you know what that means? It's fate! I got to eat Tom. I got to eat Hans. It's like my fantasies came true, but with the added fabulousness of Thanksgiving dinner heaped on top! Do wonders never cease?

Speaking of wonders, I was drunk by 2, and in bed around 8. Erin and I decided it was a brilliant idea to drink 2 bottles of Coppolla wine (easily the best $40 I ever spent) and later spent an obscene amount of time tottering back to our respective apartments. Which was, in the long run, a good thing, because it helped me work off the 25 pounds I had put on in just half an hour of eating. I was so rotund that I wobbled, and probably could've just rolled the entire way home.

I feel the entire weekend was nicely summed up by a new friend, who said: Hope by now your stomach has digested the mass amounts of food we all ate. You know who probably does not get stomach pains? Hans, because he's perfect."

Truer words have never been spoken.

Thanksgiving, Trips to my Hometown, and My Life (As Told Through E-Cards)

Days till Our Thanksgiving: 2

Days till The Great Hull Voyage: 11
Days till Actual Thanksgiving: 13

As you can see, I've added yet another event to my Epic Countdown Calendar. I figured any trip to Hull is worthy of discussion, as it is in those few and far between times that I instantly revert back to a salivating, boozing monster. I don't know if it's some sort of ingrained response to the area that I grew up in, or if it's because the moment you drive through the town border, you are instantly doomed to one of three outcomes:

1. You get pregnant. In middle school. You test multiple potential baby's daddies.

2. You become a raging alcoholic and spend your days drinking yourself into a stupor with 99% of your graduating class. You get pregnant. You test multiple potential baby's daddies.

3. You develop an irritating heroin addiction. All your teeth fall out, and your prostitution business by the A Street bar suffers. Until you convince people it enables you to give better blow jobs. You get pregnant. Your child has three eyeballs and a questionable number of limbs. You test multiple baby's daddies.

So far I have yet to acquire any actual addiction, and as far as I am aware, I have never actually birthed a child, but every time I go back there the odds definitely tip against my favor.

Illegitimate children aside, yesterday a friend sent me an e-card, from arguably the funniest online card site there is. I'd seen the site before but somehow forgot about it, (you know, with my busy schedule of... um... watching tv) and had a gleeful time reexamining the site and all the treasures within. If any batch of cards were to sum up the entirety of my life, you better damn well believe that it's this one. And now, I present to you, my life through someecards:

I was born; my parents had, by that time, mostly stopped snorting coke and drinking 20+ martinis a night. I turned out completely normal.

I started to grow up and become a fine young woman with no lingering mental issues from my early childhood.

My brother and I were an indestructible team; we never ratted each other out, and we certainly never got in fistfights over $2 bills our grandfather gave to us, even though it was my 18th birthday and it was my fucking $2, Rory!

In high school, I had a fabulous group of friends - we were responsible, mature, and never bickered or gossiped. And we certainly never consumed alcohol.



I graduated from High School! With honors! And somehow managed to get into a great University. I certainly never pretended that I didn't go to good old Hull High School. It's sort of like pretending like you don't have herpes. No one can really tell unless they get too close.



I made a whole new circle of wonderful friends! We really encouraged each other to be the best that we could be.



Oops! I didn't realize you had to repay college loans! I received my Bachelor of the Arts Degree in English, for the low price of just upwards of $50,000 a year. What a bargain!



I got a well-paying, demanding job in a professional field. Some months, I have almost $100 left after rent!! I eat a lot of leftovers.



As time went on, I began to grow closer with my parents, and really appreciate everything they'd done for me in my lifetime.



My (remaining) friends and I made our friendships stronger than ever. We began to appreciate each other as individuals.



I started to actually make wise choices in the dating pool. All it took was another martini.



I learned how to bitch and gossip in a constructive manner and atmosphere. More oil, Kiki!

And now I'm looking towards the future! I know I'll definitely get that screenplay written and picked up by Universal Studios!

And that is the story of my life, and a tantalizing glimpse into my future. Thank you, someecards, for such an expressive, mature medium for me to use. With that being said, it's time to go be productive, and attempt not to offend that damn profanity filter.

The Thanksgiving Confusion, AND The Cruises do DC

Days till Our Thanksgiving: 3

Days till Actual Thanksgiving: 14

From the moment I was informed that the Reds purchased a 22 pound turkey for our now-annual Thanksgiving dinner, I have been salivating obscenely, and imagining all the ways in which I can devour said turkey (with some cranberry sauce, with some stuffing, with some stuffing and cranberry sauce, with stuffing and cranberry sauce and a quart of gravy, etc.) And considering I had the lamest moment of my life last night and went to bed at 7pm (although I do feel somewhat better today) it meant I had the entire night to dream about the deliciousness that is Thanksgiving.

So imagine my confusion this morning when, upon leaving my apartment, I saw that city workers were busy stringing Christmas lights from every available tree branch in the Washington area. First of all - Dad, you totally lied to me all these years! You said the elves put the lights up! What does that mean about Santa?! And second of all - it's mid-November!! What happened to embracing Thanksgiving? We're Americans - we really, really like food.

Nov 8: Fuck you, Thanksgiving

Feeling uneasy and confused, I scurried to work and curled up on my chair, tentatively logging online in hopes that someone would be on to comfort me. I saw an email from Barnes & Noble for 20% off my next purchase, and a hopeful smile appeared - I love books. And I love emails. And I really love sales. I felt loved.

I opened the email, and let out a scream. The 20% sale image was a Christmas Tree, made of books, with a radiating star on top, overlooking a snow-covered village just bursting with Christmas pride. Why was there no tower of Turkeys? No cornucopias bursting with books? No Indians puzzling over stove-top stuffing? What has happened to our once beloved fourth Thursday of the year?

I think I'm going to spend my lunch hour eating copious amounts of turkey sandwiches, and devouring any and all cookies and brownies left over from yesterday's catered lunch. Nothing will help bring back the spirit of Thanksgiving like some idiot gorging herself on any food even remotely resembling a Thanksgiving spirit. What can I say? I'm super patriotic.

In other news, I am miraculously still alive. My 13 hour "nap" (I missed America's Next Top Model :( ) helped to somewhat alleviate the crushing awfulness of my cold. AND! Something else has come to help me feel better - TOM CRUISE AND KATIE HOLMES AND ALIEN BABY SURI ARE IN DC!!! Pics are popping up of them on 22nd Street NW, as evidenced here by the picture, and by my fabulous photoshopping skills which highlight the 22nd St. sign:

Quick! The Thetans have escaped the volcanoes!

This means I need to flee right now, and start running through the streets in an effort to get a glimpse of the crazy family. I've always wanted to rescue Katie and Suri from their basement dungeon where they're forced to sit through Scientology lessons and watch lots and lots of Tom Cruise's movies (back from when he was kinda hot, and people actually thought he was normal.) Luckily, there's a Scientology church about 3 blocks away from where I work, so the opportunity is prime! Wish me luck! If I don't update tomorrow, either the three of us ladies have escaped into the mountains of West Virginia, or I'm locked up in a jail cell in Southeast DC, already Big Bertha's Bitch. Woo!

Netflix: A Tale of Endless Wonder

Today I shall not include a countdown, because the very idea of food makes me want to kill myself. When my alarm went off this morning I very nearly hurled my phone across the room - getting out of my warm bed and attempting to actually pass myself off as human seemed an incredibly daunting task. As I type this, I'm trying my very hardest not to keel over, smack my head off my desk, and land in an ungraceful, sprawled heap on the floor. As amusing as that may be for everyone else in the office, I think I'll try to keep some semblance of modesty.

In order to distract myself from the fact that my throat is somehow turning any food/liquid/saliva into broken glass (which is super fun to swallow!) I've been playing with my brand new, very shiny Netflix account. Besides crack cocaine and Jack Daniels, there is nothing more exciting in this world than Netflix.

That's my actual name and address right there

So far, I have a very eclectic (meaning: bizarre) mix of movies in my Queue, including:

Zodiac: Even though Jake Gyllenhaal is totally gay (I wish I could quit you, Heath) and using Reese Witherspoon as his beard, I still want to kidnap him, tie him to my bed, and spend the next ten hours indulging in a variety of activities that include whipped cream, edible body oils, and safe words (I said "seagull," damnit!)

Severance: What could be better than a British horrody (comorr? comedorror? wtf?) about a team of office workers set loose in the Hungarian woods, fending themselves off not only from psychotic bosses, but from a band of men suspiciously resembling the hillbillies from Deliverance? And you thought the horrors of the deep South were just confined to one region!

Strangers With Candy: Because the Comedy Central show was one of the most hilarious shows I have ever seen; where else can you find Jerri Blank, a quasi-closeted gay couple including Stephen Colbert and his lover "Jellineck" (el-oh-el), a dictator of a principal, and oh yeah, Jerri Blank as a 40-something former junkie and prostitute who's going back to high school? And Sarah Jessica Parker is in there somewhere, since Amy Sedaris (sister of one of my favorite writers of all time, David Sedaris) guest starred on Sex and the City since, oh yeah, despite her monstrous appearance on "Strangers," she's actually really hot. Also, she utters the phrase: "I'm moist as a snack cake." Win.

Mystery Science Theater 3000: Manos: Hands of Fate: Being a deeply devoted fangirl to the entire MST3K phenomenon, I've always wanted to see this movie - long hailed as the second worst movie in history behind Ed Wood's "Plan 9 From Outer Space," it is one of the best spoofed MST3K movies of all times. I feel slightly ashamed that I've seen so many episodes, and yet have somehow managed to miss this one.

The Dead Zone: No, not the tv show, the original movie (although god damn, the tv show has that formerly awkward nerd from every 80's movie with Molly Ringwald, who is now so manly and sexy it makes my brain explode), since Christopher Walken is terrifyingly awesome and I've always wanted to see the original.

Reno 911!: Miami: Yet another Comedy Central spawned movie, I've been waiting with bated breath to finally see this (just not really, since I would've at least passed out by now.) Nothing says "Oscar Buzz!" like a sheriff in plum smugglers, a deputy dating a serial killer even after his capture, and the occasional police brutality beating of a man dressed up as a giant milkshake.

Bram Stoker's Dracula: Yet another movie I can't believe I haven't seen yet. Gary Oldman is the epitome of sexy, and really, nothing indulges in a man's capacity for sexiness like the opportunity to play the brooding, darkly romantic Dracula. It also gives me an excuse to say "stick it in me, Gary!" and for once, not be referring to entirely dirty things.

From Hell: Speaking of ridiculously hot men that I declare "Worthy of Sticking it in Me," Johnny Depp is in this movie, which means I'll suffer through Heather Graham's portrayal of a poor prostitute if it means I get ample Johnny time. Also, it's about Jack the Ripper, which means it's hella awesome. Even if they did change, oh, a huge chunk of the story around. Whatever! It has Johnny. And opium. A winning combination, if I do say so myself.

Shadow of the Vampire: Yes, more vampires, but no, certainly not of the sexy variety. Willem Dafoe is frighteningly Nosferatu-esque on his better days, so it's not surprise that if you were to build a movie around the notion that Max Shrek was not just "strikingly ugly" (as the director of Nosferatu himself declared), but also an actual vampire, then who better to be your leading man?

And that's it for now. I'm thinking of queuing up some seasons of The Office and perhaps a few more vampire related movies, cause nothing helps me sleep soundly at night alone in my apartment than movies about creatures that can easily burst through windows and suck all the life right from you. Awesome!