Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007 - Part 2

Days till 2008: 4
Days till Menopause: 18

Happy Friday! It may only be 9:33am (oh my god) but there's promise in the air - it's almost the weekend! My mother and I are both feeling rather ill today (I think I'll go with "interesting tropical disease" rather than "the 4 margaritas we each had last night at dinner") so I have a warm, cozy, and comfortable Friday night to look forward to. We're going to order in some Rumi's Cafe (only the best Mediterranean delivery in the city), watch The Office Season 3, and polish off the bottle of wine that my boss gave to me for Christmas. I love family time.

With only 4 days left until the New Year, I've been thinking about what my New Year's Resolution will be. Last year it included something about a threesome and using my cell phone more (hopefully not at the same time) but that was a night I've mostly blacked out (for various reasons) and since I never made either of those "Resolutions" come true, I'm in need of an actual goal for this year. Some ideas I've come up with over the past week or so are:

- Have a threesome
- Use my cell phone more

Obviously, I'm having a little bit of trouble. I've been pondering this for all of the 33 minutes I've been at work and I think I have some more to add:

- Figure out if I really want to go to Law School
- Figure out if perhaps I want to go to Graduate School
- Fuck school, and go on a Reality TV Show
- Write a Book
- Pick up a boyfriend that doesn't speak English
- Become a Desperate Housewife
- Go back to Europe

I think out of all of those, the most logical is to write a book. Of course Law or Graduate school would be logical, in a sense, but that means I'd like somewhere around $40,000,000 more in debt, and I'd have to actual work once I was finished with the program. Writing a book means I'd be stretching my creative abilities and possibly seeing some kind of monetary gain in the end. Now, if only I had something interesting to say...

Speaking of Interesting Things to Say, it's time for:

Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007
Number 4: DC Fashion Week: Fall 2007 Collections

Oh, Fashion Week. That glorious week where models are so hungry and so bitchy that everything degenerates into arguing, cat fights, and girls black out eating and stuffing 4 slices of Extra Meaty! pizza down their throats, right before they're supposed to squeeze themselves into a leather pencil skirt that's so tight you can't breathe in it to begin with. It's a wonderful time.

Now, most of you imagine this, for Fashion Week:

And you would be right, if we were discussing Fashion Week in Milan. DC? Not quite Milan. But I was pleasantly surprised that there were several big name designers there (namely Betsey Johnson and DSquared and whatever those Russian women's company was - I knew they were big, but they were so horrifyingly cruel that all the models fled from them, and no one seemed to actually be able to utter their name.)

When I went to tryouts for Fashion Week, I was rather alarmed to see that most of the models were nowhere near the so-called "standards" of the modeling industry. DC has a much more diverse group of women, in a multitude of sizes. Luckily, several designers were far more into the International aspect, and their clothing fit far more sizes than, say, that show in Milan would fit (considering they would MAYBE go up to a size 4 - MAX - and that would be on a 6' tall model.)

But sizes aside, the overwhelming model pool was... hilariously lacking. Sure, there were maybe 15, 20 girls that really had that "it" factor that designers wanted, but the rest of the bunch were awkward, odd looking girls that would scream at anyone who would listen that they were going to be the next Gisele. My favorite was a huge bitch that kept declaring this, even though she was 5'4". Just so you know, runway usually has a cut off of 5'8" and even then 99% of the models will still be at least 5'9". At 5'8" myself, I was definitely at the shorter end.

Oh, and Gisele is 5'11". FYI.

That really set the stage for Fashion Week. We were surrounded by tiny, vicious girls (that's giving some of them too much credit) who were determined to scramble their way to the top, no matter what. They droned on and on about their extensive experience and how all the top New York agencies were fighting over them (question: then what the fuck were you doing at DC Fashion Week????) and how they had to decide between Wilamayna and Dina. I think they meant Wilhelmina and DNA.

I did make friends with a couple of really nice girls, so at least there were a few good ones in the bunch. The Betsey Johnson show girls, in particular, were a lot of fun, even if I was older than most of them. At 22, my only saving grace is that I've been modeling on and off since I was 14; otherwise, I could be considered a dinosaur in the industry. Not that I'm really going anywhere in the industry, but still. At least everyone thought I meant I was a senior in high school, at the time, and not a senior in college. Oops. It's the freckles and baby face, I tell you.

So the first night of Fashion Week was the Fair Trade Show at the World Bank. Not actually in the World Bank HQ, but in some giant theater that they had several blocks away. I don't remember which country/continent it was that I was supposed to be representing, but I'm fairly certain it was for the geriatric label. Here was my outfit:


Yep. Actually, I sort of rocked the hat, and I got a lot of compliments, so at least no one was laughing at me. Well, no one that I could see, at any rate. I'd like to think that Tyra would be proud, since I was "smilin' wit my eyes!" and everything.

I was actually supposed to wear a pair of embroidered jeans and this crocheted halter... bra thing (it looked like a bikini top?) but the pants kept falling off and no one had a belt small enough to hold them up, so I ended up with the pink outfit. Frankly, I'm surprised I was chosen at all for the show, since everyone looks at me and says "Oh, hello, you're from British Heritage, aren't you?"

Yes, yes I am. I don't particularly pass as anything exciting.

Although the most exciting thing about me after that show was the horrific state that my hair was in. The hair stylist and I were so impressed with her work that we didn't want to wear the hat, and my hair was done up so the hat wouldn't fit - but then I had to wear the hat so it was squashed down and beaten to a pulp. Here's what it looked like after all the pins and clips were taken out:


My friend Jim asked: Is that from your segment of A&E's Intervention?

The second show was the men's show, and although there have been a few questionable pictures of me floating around out there, I don't actually look like a man all the time, so I was not permitted to walk in that show.

The next night, however, was the best: The Betsey Johnson show!

Now, I've never taken modeling all that seriously. Is it fun? Hell yeah it is. I like the adrenaline of the shows, I actually really like the catwalk, and I love getting to play with all the clothes backstage, but I've never really given my blood, sweat and tears for it. Until the Betsey Johnson show. I've never seen girls get so psychotic over getting picked for a show before. Everyone and their grandmother wanted to walk for the show, and girls would constantly be dropping by and asking if the reps "accidentally forgot" to tell them that they would be a part of the show. And I can't say I blame them - the clothes were fucking adorable, and the show was actually properly run: it was fun, it was young and fresh, the models actually looked (for the most part) like models that could have a shot at the big time, and there was so much electricity both backstage and on the runway that people really got into it.

I found myself getting ridiculously competitive about the show: flash the reps a smile, add some extra hip movement during the evaluations, try to do something "wacky and fresh" on the runway (although I left the cartwheels for the professionals), skip the Power Bar I was planning on eating for lunch, convince that girl that she had indeed put an extra half a pound on, etc. The claws came out, and suddenly I realized perhaps why the girls on ANTM were as insane as they were. I can't imagine being in a constant state of competition, in which you're fighting to the be the prettiest, the thinnest, and the most photogenic. Quite frankly, I'm surprised no one's killed another contestant on the show yet.

When I found out I was picked for the show, I shamefully will admit that I did a few fist pumps and may have danced around in front of my mirror. Yeah! I thought to myself, I'm one sexy bitch, and I beat out those other ugly nobodies! I'm not particularly proud of that sentiment, but as I've explained, any common sense or rational thinking had long fled me at that point.

After walking around with a swelled head and ego for a few days, it was finally the day of the show! (Which resulted in some more swelling of the ego, but I promise that went away.) Here's what I wore:




I wanted that pink cupcake dress so badly I contemplated smuggling it into my rolling bag and rushing off into the night with it. Then I realized I may not ever get any work doing things like that, so I sadly let the reps take the dress back. If only...

The last show was the giant International Collections Show at the French Embassy. That was a lot of fun because I'm pretty sure everyone running the show was drunk, and we had to sit in that freezing cold Embassy for hours and hours while we waited for the designers to get their asses there. I was included among the Black Out Eaters group, and devoured several slices of pizza in under a second flat (I was hungry!) and then remembered I was wearing a dress at one point that had the entire middle section cut out, so my now-distended stomach would be hanging out for all to see. Awesome!

Here's the offending garment (which was actually really nice):


Please ignore the stupid look on my face, I think I was digesting.

There are more outfits (and some awesome hats) but for some reason I can't find the shows on the DC Fashion Week website. So, perhaps someday I can regale you all with the loveliness that is me, but I don't want to overwhelm you with my beauty so I'll only show you one more:


This is from the end of the very last show, where I am super pissed off, super cranky, and so hungry I want to cry. We ran out to Friday's (they were the only ones open) and I ate a cheeseburger with french fries, nachos, mozzarella sticks, and like 4 gigantic margaritas. YAY FOOD!

And thus concludes Number 4 on my list of Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007!!! Get ready for the fabulous top 3, including Mormons, Graduation Rites, and a Certain Marine named Sorbie.

Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007 - Part 1

Days till 2008: 5

Days till Menopause: 19

So when I (mostly) last left you all, I was confused; lost; frightened. It was a Tuesday that should've felt the same as a Friday, but my internal clock was unable to believe it was the end of the work week for me. I didn't know what to do; even as I drove away from DC, listening to the happy, carefree chatter of my friends as they discussed their holiday plans, I was still left a nervous wreck, believing I had three more full days in the office to go.

And now today, on this should-be glorious Thursday, I feel a new sense of fear; desperation; bewilderment. It feels like a Monday, as I've been off for a week, but it's Thursday - it should be a happy day indeed! Alas.

Anyway, enough of that.

I hope everyone had a very merry Christmas! I know I sure did [insert bragging here] - I got:

A new camera, The Office seasons 1 and 3, Futurama seasons 1, 2, and 4 (already had 3), more Mystery Science Theater 3000!!!, Friends season 10, a buttload of movies, furniture and dishes for my apartment, a ceramic bikini-clad sheep with outfits (don't ask), an ipod dock/speakers, the TV, a bunch of gift certificates, and other stuff I can't remember.

I ate so much turkey, stuffing, and calorie-laden pastries that I'm shocked my pants still somehow fit, and I drank so much booze that quite frankly I'm in awe that I'm coherent at all. Hooray, holidays! It's a time where gluttony and borderline alcoholism is not only accepted, but strongly encouraged; a time where no one goes to work; a time where everyone passes out with a beer can in their hand sometime around 5am, only to wake up at 1pm, glance quizzically at the beer can, and commence another day's worth of drinking. Now I finally know why all those sappy commercials profess the holidays as the most wonderful time of the year.

And indeed it is the merriest time of the year, as 2007 draws to a close, and 2008 looms on the horizon. Many wonderful things happened in 2007:

- I graduated from college
- I didn't develop a recognized drinking problem (for the most part)
- I ended menopause
- I get to go back on menopause
- I became really single for the first time in years
- I acquired better judgment with men
- I acquired better judgment with friends
- I reconnected with old friends
- I lost a buttload of weight
- I gained back some weight
- I lost the weight again
- I got to be part of a mental breakdown (not my own, for once)
- I started writing my first book (sort of)
- I decided to move back to Boston
- I survived

And as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive.

But those are just fun, trivial things. What really matters are the year's Top 5 Awesome Adventures* - five adventures in 2007 that really made an impact on my life; five adventures that really resonated with me throughout the year; five adventures in which sometimes, I wondered what the hell was wrong with the world in general. Since we have 5 days until 2008, I'd like to begin the countdown with:

(* I thesaurus.com'd the word "shenanigans" as I liked that word, but thought it might be a little too ridiculous to use - these are the results: antics, capers, dirty tricks, fooling around, frolicsomeness, funny business, gag, hanky-panky, high jinks, horseplay, horsing around, misbehavior, mischievousness, monkey business, naughtiness, nonsense, prank, trouble, vandalism. As you can see, I chose "adventure" which was not on that list.)


Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007
Number 5: Hawaii: The Night on the Town

For any college student that isn't a massively hideous anti-social freak, March symbolizes one of the most festive, most revered, most awesome times of the year: Spring Break. Not only does Spring Break happen to fall at some point on St. Patrick's Day, it embodies all of the awesomeness that is St. Patrick's Day. It is a week of getting so drunk you think it's a fabulous idea to hit on barstools, old men, and grossly obese women in string bikinis; it is a week of going in and out of consciousness; it is a week of fleeing the freezing cold of the Mid-Atlantic (or wherever the hell you may be) and jet-setting off to destinations like Miami, Mexico, California - or Hawaii.

Obviously, on our last Spring Break as college students, we chose Hawaii.

Yeah! Spring Break! Wooo!!!!

Undressed, uncut, uninhibited and totally unbelievable men aside, Hawaii is the (is)land of beautiful beaches, jutting volcanoes, and scrumptious kona coffee ice cream.

And it is the land of Tropical Jiggly.

Tropical Jiggly wass the perfect example of why siblings should not breed; the offspring are not only hideous, but they're mentally retarded on every level of social acceptability. Now, in order to understand the horror that was Tropical Jiggly, I need to explain the situation we were in, and the story of the original Jiggly.

Jiggly was an obese, squinty-eyed parasite that imagined himself to be DC's version of Brad Pitt. He honestly believed he was "cut," "chiseled," and "intelligent." He constantly crowed about how he was going to be a top lawyer in a top firm, and how amazingly intelligent and logical he was (it was the lawyer in him) and how he was going to kick ass on the LSAT (he scored a 147 - to score that low, you need to misspell your own name.)

Unfortunately, he had the IQ of a mud puddle, the personality of a stump, and the looks of a SAM:

This is Sam, literally the World's Ugliest Dog, as crowned by The World's Ugliest Dog Competition

Only an obese SAM. Oh god, it's still looking at me, MAKE IT STOP!

Jiggly was also a racist, spouting off horrifically offensive remarks about Blacks, Jews, Asians, and whatever other races he deemed less important than his own. He was also exceedingly chauvinistic, declaring on several occasions that women were inferior intelligence-wise, and belonged barefoot and pregnant in front of a stove, cooking for the man and breadwinner of the house. Ironically enough, what he wanted most in the world was to be Black (he called himself White Chocolate, declaring in not-so-many-words that he was as hip and bad ass as a Black dude, only with a creamy white exterior) and what he also wanted most in the world was a woman to call his own.

Shockingly, he was not, nor attained, either of those dreams.

In an effort to escape his jiggling clutches, we flew halfway around the goddamn world, only to step out onto a tiny freaking island, and right into the equally-as-evil clutches of Tropical Jiggly. They were the same person, although he was the only one of the two to ever get lei'd. Cymbal crash.

If you'd given Jiggly a tan, set him loose on the beach, and perhaps cut his hair an inch or so, you'd have Tropical Jiggly. The resemblance - both physical and mental - was shocking. Tropical Jiggly got in our good graces by supplying us with an obscene amount of free alcohol on our first night there (since this high achiever worked in a pizza place on the Hilton Hawaiian Village compound where we were staying) and dangling his far more attractive friend (we'll call him Jose, for privacy purposes) in front of our now-inebriated noses. Then he offered us weed. Seriously, what other choice did we have but to hang out with him? We're only human!

Too late, we realized the peril of our choice. Tropical Jiggly commenced stalking us for the remainder of the week, bragging about how he'd been fired from his last job (a parking lot attendant for the military police) for stealing (several thousand dollars, although he probably got caught lifting a $20 and cried like a baby so they booted his ass out), and how he was such a sexy beast (he had rock hard abs, they were just beneath all the fat), and how all of his bitches always wanted sexy time with him, and he had to beat them away with sticks, because they were stupid women, only good for one thing (well two, if you included cooking) and he tired of them easily - unfortunately, they couldn't get enough of him.

His compatriot, Jose, seemed at first like a welcomed breath of fresh sanity. He was rather adorable looking (big soulful eyes, curly tousled hair) and seemed to realize his friend was a giant fucking moron, so when they "accidentally" bumped into us at a bar a few nights later (after "accidentally" bumping into us all around the hotel grounds, by the ABC Store, by every fucking place we went) we let him buy us drinks. Of course that resulted in Tropical Jiggly appearing out of nowhere (an impressive feat, for a man his size) and plying us with more alcohol. The Girl I was with took Tropical Jiggly on the dance floor, and I commenced dancing with Jose. Unfortunately, as everyone knows, after 1 Long Island I no longer have control of myself, so I may have tried to suck Jose's face off in the middle of the dance floor.

Usually, this ends in 1 of 2 ways:

1) Guy ends up being a great time, and I have some fun
2) Guy is a maniac and wants lots of sexy time, and I make up a ridiculous excuse and flee

This time, however, it ended in a new way:

3) A marriage proposal.

Now I know I'm a good kisser, but this was ludicrous. Jose announced, in the middle of the club, that he couldn't live without me - he couldn't. He would die of heartbreak. I had to move to Hawaii and marry him, otherwise his life would be meaningless, and he would waste away, a melted Pina Colada in one hand, a book of bad poetry in the other, and the bittersweet sounds of James Blunt and his pretentious romantic music in the background.

It was one of the most horrifying moments of my life. In front of me stood Jose, on one knee, his soulful eyes large and puppy-ish, brimming with hope, trepidation, and insanity; behind me was Tropical Jiggly, jiggling like the gluttonous heap of flesh that he was; and off to the right, Girl was "playing with guys' emotions" and about to get us messily murdered by some dude that totally lived in his parents' basement, wrote emo poetry, and had an arsenal of weapons at the ready so that he could one day mow down all the jocks who'd teased him in high school. Actually, he did have that arsenal handy, as he'd moved out of his parents' basement and into the Military Police Barracks.

I was trapped.

Like any sane girl, I decided the best option was to flee into the night, and grab a cab back to the hotel. Only problem was, there were no cabs, and Girl with me had created a bit of a mess. She'd stopped flirting with Homicidal Maniac and had moved onto his friend, Pretty but Dim. Homicidal Maniac was looking like he was about to snap and starting murdering everyone in sight, and Tropical Jiggly was heaving himself around in the background. I was too nervous to walk back to the hotel with the Military Police Guys following us (as Homicidal Maniac followed us out of the club and was glaring at us from the shadows - it was actually quite frightening) and while I knew Tropical Jiggly was a fucking moron, I knew he was mostly harmless (and at any rate, we could easily outrun him.)

Luckily Girl also wanted to go back to Tropical Jiggly's (I don't want to think about it) and knowing full well I couldn't leave her there alone (she'd end up being eaten since Tropical Jiggly was always ravenous, and he'd been drinking enough alcohol to fill a lake) I nervously made my way to the apartment, figuring I'd shove a bottle of water down her throat and take her back once she'd sobered up a little.

What I hadn't counted on was Girl disappearing into the bedroom, making a call to the Military Police Guys, then running off into the night (shoe-less and I think bra-less?) and leaving me alone with Jose and his continuous proposals, and Tropical Jiggly's rolls. I had no choice but to take a deep breath, go over the defense positions I learned during my semester in Kick Boxing, and step out into the night.

Now, take a moment and think back to the "The More You Know" videos that we watched in Health Class in High School. Think, in particular, about the ones labeled "Date Rape: When Bad Things Happen to Drunk Girls" and "Get the Fuck out of the Car, You Stupid Idiot." Those are the kind of tapes that explicitly tell young women not to get shitfaced and run off with barrel chested men that can barely string together two sentences (but can continuously pay for alcohol.) They never end well. Either you end up in a Lifetime movie in a hospital bed with two black eyes, a concussion, and a brand spankin' new case of Agoraphobia, or you end up dead and in the bottom of a river, where you're fished out by the Forensic File team and used as an episode on Court TV. Never, ever get in a car with guys you don't know. Especially when there are three of them, and they're all over 6 feet tall and 200 pounds of muscle. Especially when they know all the back streets, all the hidden places, and you've only been to the island once when you were four. Especially when one of them is a guy we nicknamed Homicidal Maniac.

So, incidentally, that's where I found myself: in the backseat of Pretty but Dim's car, wedged between Girl and Homicidal Maniac. I had my stiletto off and in my hand (and I was poised and ready to hurl it through Homicidal Maniac's eyeball if need be) and the other on the door handle (so I could throw Girl out the door and then leap myself, again if need be.) Once we'd paid Pretty but Dim the $1 to leave the parking lot (he didn't have any money on him) we sped off into the night. I took a moment to reflect on my life, and realized the entire thing was completely insane.

After much cajoling and bribing and snapping, I got the Marine Police Guys to bring us to the hotel. By this point it was 4:30am and I wanted to get the both of us the fuck out of the car and into the hotel, so I could throttle Girl once we were safely inside our suite. Girl and Marine Police Guys, however, had other plans.

"Let's go for a walk on the beach," the third guy suggested. This was a guy so large he put body builders to shame. He was ominously quiet and hulking, and his eyes were so intense I was afraid he could kill us without lifting a finger. He was the exact image of what you expect to see on the nightly news, under the headline "Psychotic Escaped Convict Murders Entire Family - Again!" I realized that, all kidding aside, they might actually be planning on taking us onto the deserted beach at 4:30 in the morning, and either maiming us or murdering us (probably both, so no one could ever tell the authorities.) You know how sometimes you just know something? And even though the people with you see nothing wrong at all with the situation, your skin is crawling and your heart is pounding because you know there's a chance you might not walk out of this alive? Yeah, that's what I was experiencing. Talk about instant sobering up.

"Uh, no, sorry," I said, prying the door open and attempting to shove Girl out of the car. "We're tired! Gotta go!" I said, trying to smile (although a glimpse in the rearview mirror showed me baring my teeth, my eyes wild and my hair a terrible mess.) I shoved Girl again, who refused to get out of the car.

"Yeah, let's go! I want to walk on the beach!" she said happily.

I could feel the way Homicidal Maniac & Co. got instantly excited. They kept demanding we go for a walk on the beach with them, or they'd drive to another beach where we could go "for a walk." It was now or never.

And with that I grabbed Girl and hauled her out of the car, shouting "No thanks!" a million times, so that the attendant at the desk might hear us in case we were kidnapped and sped off. I dragged Girl into the hotel and resisted the urge to push her out the window, then buried my head in the pillow and tried not to listen as Girl excitedly chattered on about how much fun it was to "play with guys' emotions."

Let me tell you all this now: If I ever hear that phrase again, I will snap the neck of whoever said it. No questions asked, no thought put into it, no emotion. Just me, Chuck Norrising your ass.

The next morning, after not sleeping, I tottered out of the room and went to get coffee and food with the other girls (while Girl slept on.) As we were passing the pizza joint where Tropical Jiggly and Jose worked, I spotted Jose and frantically put my bag over my face, not wanting yet another encounter with retarded males. I'd have enough of them to last me a life time. We scampered around the building, trying to run away, when he came out the back door and loudly proclaimed his presence.

"What are you doing with that bag? Are you avoiding me? Why doesn't the cell number you gave me work? Did you give me the wrong number? What are you doing tonight? Can I call you? Want to hang out? Want to get a drink? Call me?"

We gave him another fake number and ran away - out of the hotel complex.

And that was Hawaii: The Night on the Town, number 5 on our Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007. If you think that's mindblowing, just wait for 1-4.

Oh, Tuesday

Days till Hull: Tonight/Tomorrow! (For traveling purposes)
Days till Christmas: 1 Week!
Days till 2008: 16
Days till Menopause: 27


Tis the day to try to slit your wrists and/or hurl yourself out the 8th story window down the hall. Even when I know I'll be leaving for Hull tonight, I still can't shake the horrifically despairing air that comes with a Tuesday. From the moment my godforsaken alarm went off this morning, I've been trying to explain to myself that it's like a Friday, and that this is the last day before a week off, but I just can't get into that mindset. I still feel like it's the beginning of the week, and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and sob until my chest explodes from lack of air.

My bleeding heart declares Tuesdays: Emo Days

Mind the mascara smudges and emo screaming music.

Suicidal thoughts aside, today is a good day because it really is the last day before my vacation. I will be attending a funeral service this week, which (in all seriousness) is heartbreaking (and my condolences, thoughts and prayers go out to the family) but even that is a service dedicated towards hope, love, and remembrance, rather than pain and suffering. Remembering a person for their amazing qualities, and remembering the good times, is a good thing in my book.

And it's, you know, vacation. A whole week where I get to sleep in, where I can stuff my face with Christmas delicacies and not feel the urge to haul my bulk onto my scale, where I can frolic about and waste time and spend money like I actually have some, and just enjoy myself. Amazing! This whole 9-6, 7 days a week thing has very quickly lost its appeal. At first it was like "AWESOME I'm an adult and I wear nice clothes to work and I have a salary!" but now it's like "fuck it, give me a cardboard box and some Saltines, and I'll be so much happier." Ugh.

What I now strive to be

I mean seriously, I'd make an awesome homeless person: I can sleep anywhere without a problem, I'll eat just about anything that people throw at me, I'm Jewish so I love handling change and money of any denomination, I'm very lazy and often called a bum anyway, and I have a vast appreciation for the city streets. If that doesn't spell motivation and drive, then I just don't know what does.

Besides, then I wouldn't have to pay rent, or renter's insurance, or bills. Shopping would mean digging around in the trash (have you seen how many trash barrels there are in this city??) and social time would be all the time, since the city is literally infested with the homeless. Plus, the shelters completely perpetuate the problems by come to places like Farragut Square and just doling out food to anyone that wants it, so I'm all set! At least one hot meal a day? Count me in!

I'm not sure what my posting schedule is going to be like when I'm home (I know, I know, let it all out, it's okay, I'm here for you - at least for now) so I can't guarantee that I'll be constantly regaling you all with my hedonistic tales of debauchery and mayhem, but at least you can look forward to one hell of a post next Thursday. That is, if I live long enough to actually see next Thursday.

So, I leave you all with this: have a Happy Belated Hanukkah, a Merry Early Christmas, and a Fabulous Whenever-the-Hell-it-is Kwanzaa. Drink your eggnog, strategically place your crush under the mistletoe, and never mind the 10 pounds you gain in Christmas cookies alone. Spend time with your loves ones, don't get too violent with the other relatives, and most of all, enjoy the holidays!



Your Survival Technique of the Day
How to Survive a Tuesday (So You Can Actually See Christmas)

Step 1: Find busy work. Have some emails to send out? A spreadsheet to tackle? A list of people to wish harm upon? Well then, get to work! Busy work gets you into a mindless pattern where it feels like you're data inputting for only a few minutes, but suddenly you've passed three hours. Somewhat frightening, but gets the job done.

Step 2: Make yourself at home. Decorate your office space with homey, welcoming things: plants, pictures, ipod speakers, Playboy centerfolds, etc. The warmer your surroundings, the more apt you are to feel comfortable at work, and get through the day without attempting to scratch your own eyeballs out.

Step 3: Reward yourself. Every hour, take a quick break, surf the web (unless you're me, and do that every 5 seconds), crack open an ice cold beer (I mean soda.) Every few hours, treat yourself to a hot chocolate, or a piece of candy. Rewards = Motivation, and they make the time pass by faster.

Step 4: Sleep. If you've tried the reward system, if you've buried yourself in spread sheets, if you've decorated your office with such exuberance that it looks like Santa's Workshop down at the mall, and you're still beating your head off your desk in despair - take a nap. You deserve it. Your scarf and gloves make a great pillow, and you can tuck your jacket around you as a blanket. Under your desk should be cave-like enough to promote sleep - and besides, it's a Tuesday. Frankly, I'm surprised you're actually awake and reading this right now.

Let the Countdowns Commence!

Days till Hull: Now = Tomorrow
Days till Christmas: 8
Days till 2008: 15
Days till Menopause: 28


Vacations, Christmas, and Menopause (oh my [fucking god]) - tis the season for big things!

But before I get to that, first let me say that we had a fabulous weekend, starting with a drunken night out at The Big Hunt (in which not one, not two, but three quasi-attractive men were spotted), and ending with a fabulously drunken night in at our Holiday Party.

Don't hog all the crab dip, Clarence!

We polished off three giant bottles of Yellow Tail wine, two bottles of Korbel champagne, plenty o' liquor, and god only knows how many calories in cupcakes, gooey butter cookies, and deliciously decadent crab and cheese appetizers. We also watched Love, Actually and lamented our status as "too good for the guys here" women, enjoyed some rousing tell-all's, and actually managed to get red wine out of a cream colored carpet. If that doesn't spell success, then I just don't know what does.

Now, with the party behind me, I can focus on the next steps in my life: Hull, Christmas, 2008, and Menopause. I'm actually heading back to Hull on Tuesday night, rather than Thursday night, due to family reasons and some actual issues, so I'll end up being home for a little over a week. Christmas is on Tuesday, and for the first time in 4 years I'll actually head back to DC and spend New Year's in the city. Erin and I, as the resident old biddies, will have to figure out what the two of us can do while everyone else is spread across the country. We're thinking a club, some scandalous outfits, and far too many Long Islands for a normal body to process. 2008, here we come!

This then, of course, brings me to the most "interesting" Countdown on my list: Menopause.

If you don't know what this is, it's the GIANT FUCKING NEEDLE that goes into the muscle on the TOP OF MY ASS

I spent a year going through medically induced menopause (from Dec 2005-Dec 2006) then took a year off to figure out how things would be without it (one word: fail) and, lucky me, I get to jump right back in. From Jan 2007 to at least Jan 2008 I get to indulge myself in hot flashes, night sweats, horrifying mood swings, and all-around insanity. Awesome! This time I'm taking a different Add Back Therapy program, so hopefully I can take the hormones without completely losing my mind. Last time I had to choose between meltingly hot hot flashes (off the Add Back) or mood swings that left me sobbing if someone accidentally looked at me in a way I perceived to be threatening or rude (on the Add Back.) Um... so yeah, hopefully I can get rid of the bulk of all of that. Oh, oh, and keep all my hair! That'd be awesome.

So I have a very merry Holiday Season still ahead of me! Get ready, guys, 2008 is gonna be insane.

Tis the Season

Days till Hull: 6

Days till Christmas: 11

For our Holiday Party! Tomorrow we shall celebrate with champagne, delicious appetizers, and delicious entrees. It'll be the perfect kick off for the actual holiday season.

Unfortunately, it is not yet Joyous Saturday, and I still have to suffer through 7 or so hours of work before it's finally the weekend. I am brain dead, exhausted, and not even remotely capable of coming up with a witty blog entry. So, without further ado, I present you with this fabulous gem in lieu of my usual words of brilliance:

Merry Christmas Party, Everyone!

Wanna Be On Top?

Get your minds out of the gutter, I wasn't implying that (unless you're interested?) - I was talking about The Season Finale of America's Next Top Model Cycle 9, in which Jenah, Chantal, and Saleisha faced off in an effort to prove to viewers once and for all that ANTM is a commercial product, rather than an actual modeling world stepping stone.

crappy quality picture for a crappy quality finale

I seriously am just baffled by the entire thing. They started the night off with those GOD AWFUL Cover Girl commercials (proving that none of the three can actually act) and showed that Saleisha is not only hideously tacky, but freaks out at the drop of a hat. What the hell was that crying nonsense, S? Did you really need time to sit and think about your character? You were selling Cover Girl Lip Gloss. I just thought it was fabulous that on the commercial break, they showed a Cover Girl commercial with Drew Barrymore, and it was like acting was as natural as breathing for her; definitely showed you how awful the ANTM girls really were.

Moving on, they indulged themselves in a photo shoot to accompany the commercial, and Jenah's stood out by far - that weave may be tragic, and sometimes she may resemble a horse...



...but the girl takes a FABULOUS picture, and she can walk the runway like a pro. Chantal's was so-so, but her acting was the best, and Saleisha, once again, turned out a crappy product all around.

Which leads us to Voting #1. Tyra whines about how hard all of this is for her (yes, Tyra, let it all out), Miss J's afro contains all the bodies of the former contestants, and you can see the manic, desperate glint in Twiggy's eye - her contract is almost up, and she's gonna run screaming out of there the minute the winner is finally announced.

The judges debate; Saleisha's definite lack of high fashion appeal is discussed (the girl is a commercial model people - say it with me - commercial) and we focus on how the blonds are much more high fashion; Chantal is called first (okay, so she definitely had the best commercial, and her picture wasn't too awful); the tense atmosphere threatens to suffocate us all as Saleisha and Jenah square off; Tyra says Jenah, your pictures rival those of today's top models; Jenah goes home.

Okay, so let's take a moment to think about this. The judges JUST SAID that Saleisha wasn't high fashion enough. Tyra JUST SAID that Jenah is not only high fashion, but her pictures are right up there alongside today's top high fashion supermodels; and they send Jenah home and keep Saleisha. On what planet does that make sense? That's right, on no planet. Tyra's off in her own world of insanity, and clearly thinks that on a modeling show where they're searching for the next high fashion supermodel, they should send home the only one with high fashion potential and keep the hideously commercial girl instead.

Alrighty then.

So we move onto the Grand Finale, with Saleisha and Chantal stomping down the runway in an effort to bring home the title. The runway show, for me, is always an iffy thing because more often than not, the girl that does a better job is booted off. Anyone remember Cycle 8, where CariDee made a complete ass of herself and looked like a fucking moron, while Melrose did a fabulous job - and they picked CariDee? Right.

So I have to hand it to her, Saleisha has a pretty good walk. If only they could lop her face off and give her a high fashion face, maybe we'd be going places. Chantal's walk admittedly wasn't as good, but she has potential, and she looked the high model part. Not to be *~controversial~* but Saleisha is a little thicker 'round the middle than most high fashion models, while Chantal has that tall, thin, graceful body that designers demand. And she's come a long way over the course of the show. Of course she did accidentally nearly kill that poor Chinese man, but who the fuck has little people on stilts on a runway, where models are constantly stomping by, and the dresses are all super long with super long tails? Tyra, you crazy bitch.

In the end, of course, they picked Saleisha, which literally proves that ANTM is solely about the ratings and about "a personal journey," rather than a show about real skill, real high fashion potential, and actual modeling world happenings. Although they still won't put a plus sized girl into the final 4 (or 5, or 6) so maybe it's not entirely about "inner" beauty.

Saleisha's first professional photo shoot

Um.

But! While we were bemoaning the loss of ANTM (until next fall, that is, as the show airs twice a year), we found the PERFECT temporary fix - Crowned. It wasn't until I watched 5 minutes of this show that I realized TV can lower your IQ so horrifically that your brain actually leaks right out of your ears. The premise behind the show is that a bunch of pathetic, unattractive girls (think Saleisha + 50 pounds) team up with their haggard, youth-craving mothers to compete against a sea of other fat southern slobs for the CROWN! I don't know what actually goes along with winning, as I was too busy trying to claw out my own eyeballs so I wouldn't have to watch anymore of it.

I was just going to pick out a few gems, but I think it's really worth it to go over the entire cast of the show. Rest assured, your Thursday Updates from now on will cover the Crowned! Journey, while we all sit and wait and plead for ANTM to come back on and save us - who would've though that ANTM would be the smar t alternative?

The first case of "Who the Fuck is the Mother" Syndrome - they didn't seem to understand that "blonde bombshells" implied womanly curves and an empty skull

In which we realized it is indeed possible for someone's head to be almost three times the size of a normal person's head - the daughter actually looked worse than the mother. Sexy!


Another case of "I Don't Get It" - they sang about being Diamond Dolls, how all they loved to do was shop, own diamonds, and live the glitzy life, and then couldn't figure out why the judges called them superficial. Or maybe the didn't know what the word meant.

Hot and Not For some reason my computer won't upload their picture. I think it's for the best - the mother's hotter, the daughter's a beastly freak, and they seem to think "Hot and Not" implies that they're only "Hot" and not "Not" despite, you know, the name.


Booted! The first to be kicked off (their speech was so boring I nearly cried) - but in a "Twist!" they made the Blonde Bombshells think they were out... but then revealed they needed to cut the A's sashes with a giant, bedazzled pair of scissors. I wish I was kidding.

I don't remember who they were. On a show where everyone's a psycho freak, that's probably not a good thing. Maybe they were the ones getting berated for "you're mother and daughter, not sisters." God, mom, stop trying to relive your glory days!


The best thing about this team is that they seriously thought "skin deep" meant they were beautiful beneath the surface. No, "skin deep" implies you're superficial and have no depth. Next time, use a dictionary.



And now we move onto my absolute favorites - the best and the worst!



It's kind of hard not to like this pair, if only because the mother resembles the hideous offspring of Jabba the Hut and Princess Leia (complete with pigtail buns.) They're so hideous and so awkward that you kind of want them to survive. Kind of.

The BEST part of this is that the girl was crowing about how intelligent her mother was, and how her mother had a PhD and everything - and yet they chose Silent but Deadly. And didn't realize that rather than sounding like chic, intelligent, modern women, they sounded like a gaseous output.

Okay, I have to admit - I really like this mother-daughter duo. They were genuinely nice, obviously really loved each other, and were aware that they were not sisters, but a mother and daughter team. They were the only normal ones, and one of only two teams to perform well - they just had fun with it. And, they were this episode's winners!


And now we come to the most hilariously horrifying reality contestants in TV history. The daughter resembles a soul-sucking demon (wait, did I say "resembles?" I mean is a soul-sucking demon) whose only purpose in life is to unleash her evil and wreak havoc on the world. Also: she's an opera singer. Yeah, you just try convincing me she's not a hell beast. Her mouth is so huge she could easily devour the judges, and her personality is like Christian from Project Runway, if Christian was a speed fiend who ALWAYS SCREAMED ALL OF HIS WORDS JUST LIKE THIS. She also weighs about 2 pounds, her rib cage is jutting out and just begging to slice open the throats of the other contestants, and her eyes are so wild and rolling that I'm amazed she's not careening into things and constantly toppling over. Oh, and her mother is a hag who seems to think her fiendish spawn is actually talented and attractive. I know these two will stay on just for ratings, and while I'm frightened, it's a good thing - if she wasn't on TV, god only knows the daughter would be crawling out from under my bed in the middle of the night and attempting to destroy my soul.

And yet only one of them is unable to create a stunning garment - yes, I'm talking about you, Laura

Speaking of Christian and tiny people with speed problems, last night's Project Runway was a barrel full of awesome insanity. The designers had to create clothing for "the normal woman" - only these women had all lost somewhere between 40 and 140 pounds (seriously, they lost a me) - and the clothes had to be made from the material from their now ridiculously over-sized garments. Christian ended up winning the challenge, with a fabulous black t-shirt blazer that I totally would buy if I had any money; Kevin aka Joey Fatone also had a fabulous shirt, and my girl Jillian (and my adorable Sweet P) also came up with some great outfits.

On the other hand, there was the cake-tiered monstrosity that Elisa designed (although at least she didn't spit on the garment or client) and the "what the FUCK was he thinking" Pilgrim-inspired disaster that Steve aka Slingblade created. First of all, this:

Prude French Maid Pilgrim Chic

And second of all, this:

MMHMMMMMM

Discuss.

At least we had some fabulous "Twists!" in PR as well. We had to say goodbye to Jack, our sexy, sexy gay designer. I was terrified that his weeping announcement from the commercials was that his HIV had progressed to full blown AIDs (even though he'd been HIV Positive for 17 years and his immune system was doing very well) but thank god it wasn't. He did, however, have a potentially dangerous staph infection, so he listened to his doctor and left the show in order to relax and get treatment. Good luck, Jack, we all love you!!! Christian I'm sure will be the saddest, as whose going to carry him around in that tote bag?

Well, maybe CHRIS can!!!!!!! While we were all sorry to see Jack go, we were really feeling the horrific loss of both Jack and Chris - two of the best PR designers of the season. But with Jack gone, and the need to even out the playing field (which means "Oh shit, we can't believe we sent Chris home, what a stupid fucking mistake, damn you Donna Karen!) they brought Chris, my giant, lovable, squeezable teddy bear back. I love you, Chris, and you've just made my night.



Your Survival Technique of the Day
How to Survive an Onslaught of Hilariously Bad Reality Fashion TV Shows

Step 1: Distance. Just remember that they're all the way in New York, or preferably LA, and therefore are not within rushing-at-you-and-eating-you distance.

Step 2: Intelligence. These shows may try to sap every last brain cell from your head, but if you keep your chin up and keep telling yourself that these shows actually reinforce your intelligence, you might just make it. Remember that all these people make you look 100x more intelligent than usual.

Step 3: Beauty. See "Intelligence."

Step 4: Editing. If you're feeling the weight of the reality shows on your shoulders, remember that sometimes the editors and producers angle things a certain way. Maybe there's hope - maybe Saleisha is actually a foot taller than she appears. Maybe the Redhead Bombshells are really caring, thoughtful individuals. Maybe StevenBlade doesn't actually want to kill you and eat your flesh.

Step 5: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Applications for America's Next Top Model are up, and there's always next season for Crowned and Project Runway. Maybe you can bring some poise, intelligence, and common sense to the show. Or maybe you've already gone insane, and this is the next logical step fro you. Congratulations, you're still in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Model. Tyra, out.




Days till Hull: 7
Days till Christmas: 12

ANTM STARS!!!!!! 2 DOWN, LIKE 75 TO GO!!!

OH MY GOD YOU GUYS WILL NEVER GUESS WHAT HAPPENED TO ME THIS MORNING!!

Unless you read the title and used your deduction skills to propose a theory.

I MET SARA, FROM AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL CYCLE 6!!!!!!!! And now we're best friends:

This image was not doctored in any way.

She was just as tall in person as I'd thought she'd be (6'1" for a girl usually stands out somewhat) although I didn't get the chance to find out if she was as nice as I thought she'd be. I wouldn't even have seen her face if I hadn't been preening at my own reflection in the window of a nearby office building - it was then, when I was swishing my head around and wondering if I could keep a straight face in front of people like Tyra and Miss J when I saw her. I turned, gasped, and tried to hurry after her, but her legs are probably a foot longer than mine, and she strode with the determination of... well, someone getting away from people like Tyra and Miss J.

But she looked exactly the way she did on TV (even though that was what... 2 years ago now?) and must've weighed all of 120 pounds. Tops. I wanted to throw myself at her and hug her and ask her if I could paint her nails and make popcorn for a sleepover at my place. You know, the usual girly things that brand new BBFL's do.

Another person I ran into that looks EXACTLY the same as they do on TV was - you guessed it! - Jaslene! From America's Next Top Model Cycle 8! I ran into her outside of the Elite offices in New York, and I almost snapped her in half when I sneezed (and it wasn't even that good of a sneeze.) We quickly became equally as close BBFLs, as you can see by this completely candid and real picture from my very own camera:

She's so excited to be my friend that she's conveniently headlighting

This means that in less than 6 months, I've met two of my favorite ANTM contestants. Which means I need to step it up and start meeting more of them. Without further ado, here are the remaining girls that I would like to add to my Model BFFL Collection:

Cycle 6:

In Red, From Left to Right:
My Home Girl Joanie, Crazy Gina, Adorable Kari, Actually Modeling in Actual Fashion Shows Mollie Sue, and Winner Extrodinaire Dani(elle)

In Yellow:
Crazy Ass Kathy who started stripping on the Season Premiere

In Blue:
Jade, the Anti-Christ

Smiley Face:
Sara, my BBFL, whom I've already met (sort of)

Cycle 7:
(AKA The Best One Yet)

From L to R:
MELROSE My Hero, Brooke the One I Want to Hug, The "One's Shockingly a Lesbian" Twins Amanda and Michelle, and CariDee the Psychopath

Cycle 8:

In Red, from L to R:
Whitney "More of Me to Love" Cunningham, Renee My Hot Bitch, Natasha The Best Mail Order Bride Ever, and Dionne "WTF Is Wrong With You Bitches" Walters

In Blue:

Jael, so I can push her into the pool again

Smiley Face:

"Jaspeen" Jaslene, my BFFLII

Cycle 9
(Current Cycle)

From L to R:
Kimberly the Neither Plus Nor Normal Sized Model, HEATHER MY OBSESSION, Chantal the Awesome, and Jenah the Fierce







Stay tuned tonight for AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MODEL CYCLE 9 SEASON FINALE! My money's on Jenah - she better kick some ass. Again, it better be a Battle of the Blonds Part II - I don't want Saleisha and her Dora the Explorer Haircut splashed all over the tv for the rest of the year >:O

Oh, Tuesday II

Days till Hull: 9
Days till Christmas: 14

I seem to have quite a few posts with the title "Oh, Tuesday." Tuesday has quickly become that day - that terrible in-between day, where nothing makes sense, your bed is crying for you, and somehow you end up sleeping at your desk with a sharpie in one hand, a pen in the other, and a pair of scissors between your teeth. No, seriously, what project was I possibly working on before that nap?

Back in college, Tuesday was Tuesday!!!! the kick-off to the week's drinking festivities. Initially it was Frat House Tuesdays!!!! where we'd crack open some Pabst Blue Ribbon's and start chugging around 3pm, never once considering stopping before 3am. Those were the days of Pi Kapp and the fabulous convenience of Becca and I not only dating brothers, but brothers who lived on the fabulous fourth floor and happened to live right across the hall from each other. We could drink until our legs gave out, then have a guaranteed place to crash. If that doesn't say "couples' bliss" then I just don't know what does.

Just your Typical DC Tuesday Night Frat Party

Once we finally hit 21, it became Happy Hour Tuesdays!!!! where we'd go to McFadden's or 51st State, drink dollar beers or $2 cranberry vodkas, get wasted by 7pm, and spend the rest of the night hitting on bar patrons, falling out of booths, and voyaging across campus for pizza (or stopping by Papa John's to buy a large cheese and eat it on the way home. For reals.) Tuesdays broke the week up nicely, and got you ready for Hump Day Wednesday!!! drinking, which in turn prepared you for Thirsty Thursdays!!!! aka The Unofficial Beginning of the Weekend. Especially for me, since I think I had Friday classes perhaps 2 out of my 8 semesters at school, and I never actually went to those classes anyway.

Now, however, Tuesdays are the bane of my existence. Sure, there's amazing TV on from 9pm-11pm (House and Nip/Tuck, anyone?) but all that waiting beforehand is just brutal.

Monday's are horrific because they signal the end of the weekend (and yet another morning where I have to get up before 8am) but everyone feels the need to be super productive on those days, and somehow force themselves to face the seemingly unending week that's stretching on before them. Wednesdays are better because they're "hump day" and going to Happy Hour is not only acceptable, but even strongly encouraged - it is the tail end of the week, after all. Thursdays are soclose!!!!!! and Fridays mean the beginning of the weekend.

But Tuesday? We should call it Noday (see what I did right there?) because it is, indeed, a "no" day. It has none of the productivity of Monday, only the horrific sinking feeling that week is never going to end. It has none of the budding excitement of Wednesday, none of the hopeful feeling of Thursday, and none of the vast relief of Friday. It is the worst day of the week.

And it is today. At least I have Nip/Tuck to somewhat save the day. If only House were new, too.


Your Survival Tip of the Day
How to Survive a Tuesday

Step 1: Motivation. Pick a prize to bestow upon yourself for surviving the day. A new pair of shoes, that purse you've been drooling over, or a kilo of the good stuff are all great motivators to spur you on and keep you going.

Step 2: If you ain't got no money take your broke ass home. Plan a fun night with the girls - a cheap Happy Hour to look forward to, some movies to watch, or a rousing game of Ritualized Sacrifice. This is also highly productive and will get some of that heavy stress off your shoulders.

Step 3: Consider therapy. Nothing screams "On the up-and-up!" like an hour long session with a mind massaging shrink. Work out your hatred for the 9-6 grind, and indulge in the feeling that, even for one hour, someone in this world loves you.

Step 4: Fake an illness. Top "Get Out of Work" illnesses are Stomach Flu (no one wants to think about the implications of that one), Migraine, AIDs, Fascism, and Ebola. Also popular around this time of year is the Zombie virus, as it's also productive: everyone who's ever seen Dawn of the Dead knows Zombies congregate at malls, so you may as well get your Christmas shopping done while you're playing hooky.

It's Official:

I'm an old woman.

Last night, with frightening clarity, I crossed the threshold from neurotic, stressed twenty-something to psychotic, frail old-woman: I realized I had heartburn.

Heartburn is something that old people love to natter about, like arthritis, or the good old days, or the diabeetus.

No claims forms... No upfront costs!

I feel like I should be hunched over a bingo table, irritably slamming my Bingo Marker at whatever spots I so decide worthy of neon purple ink, bitching about my arthritis and the gout in my leg and how my grandchildren, the ungrateful bastards, never bother coming to visit their old grandmother Chelsea. And then maybe I'll huck up some spit (or, better yet, just start drooling), and whack Artie with my walker because he was about to win the round. Nobody beats Chelsea at bingo.

When did I stop popping vicodin and washing them down with a refreshing bottle of Smirnoff, and start devouring Tums and swigging Pepto? Next thing you know, I'll be 5'2", be covered in liver spots, and have a hump that'll rival Quasimodo's. Oh, my misplaced youth! Why did you abandon me so?

To add insult to injury, I've developed a nervous twitch whenever I turn my bathroom light on in the morning, as I've been finding a few gray hairs here and there. I'm terrified that by the middle of next week, I'll look like someone shaved my head and glued a mass of Q-Tip fuzz onto it. Both my father and his mother were gray by 30, and since I'm already practically 80, I'm fucked. I'll have to start dying my hair with Clairol No Drip, since Sarah Jessica Parker swears that's what she uses, and we all know that celebrities always use the "do it yourself in a box" hair dye, and never go to the salon and have it professionally done by Ken Paves and his army of stylists.

Bingo, bitches! Momma needs a new pair of orthopedic flats!
(One of these things is not like the other)

So, if you need me tonight, I highly suggest calling sometime before 8pm - after all, it's lights out after Jeopardy. I'll be gumming some applesauce and sipping some warm milk before then, so feel free to give me a call on my cellular telephone. I can't promise I'll know how to answer (or have the eyesight capabilities to even see the buttons) but I'll try my best. If I remember, that is.

Oh, and:

Days till Hull: 10
Days till Christmas: 15