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.