Waterboarding = A-Okay!

So it seems that the United States government is having a bit of a problem with publicly admitting that waterboarding is actually a form of torture. I mean, I can see their reasoning - when you look at the definition of waterboarding, it's really not even remotely harmful to one's emotional, mental, or physical wellbeing:

Waterboarding is a form of torture that consists of immobilizing a person on his or her back, with the head inclined downward, and pouring water over the face and into the breathing passages. Through forced suffocation and inhalation of water, the subject experiences the process of drowning in a controlled environment and is made to believe that death is imminent. In contrast to merely submerging the head face-forward, waterboarding almost immediately elicits the gag reflex. Although waterboarding can be performed in ways that leave no lasting physical damage, it carries the risks of extreme pain, damage to the lungs, brain damage caused by oxygen deprivation, injuries (including broken bones) due to struggling against restraints, and even death. The psychological effects on victims of waterboarding can last for years after the procedure.

Oh. Wait.

Okay, so, if immobilizing a person, then forcing water into their breathing passages with the intent to perform the process of drowning (and convince the person that their death is swiftly impending) and risking damaging their lungs, brain, and even perhaps killing them, isn't considered torture... then what is?

Just pretend it's a day on the beach!

I know that if someone happened to such a lighthearted prank on me (because seriously, what other category could this technique possibly fall under?) I'd be pretty pissed. In between choking almost to death (or possibly actually drowning, and then being revived) of course.

With this line of reasoning, the government is essentially saying that the following techniques are, in no way, forms of torture:

1. Causing mental harm to a subject (potentially long-term harm)
2. Causing emotional harm to a subject (potentially long-term harm)
3. Causing physical harm to a subject (potentially long-term harm)
4. Causing a subject to believe they are about to die
5. Risking causing brain damage to a subject
6. Potentially killing a subject
7. Performing controlled drowning to a subject
8. Performing oxygen deprivation techniques to a subject

Obviously, none of these techniques are damaging or dangerous to a human being, since the government deems it so. So what does torture then entail? If something can progress as far as murder, essentially, then where do we draw the line? There is no line, if we ultimately take the life of an individual.

Hm.


Your Survival Technique of The Day:
How to Survive What May or May Not Be Considered Torture by the US Goverment

Step 1: You Don't. Sorry.

Contrary to Popular Belief...

This is not me:

Yes, I have a vagina. Yes, I happen to have two X chromosomes. Yes, sometimes I have a bad day and cheer myself up by stuffing my face with ice cream and chocolate. Yes, sometimes I cry over "rescue the puppies" commercials. Yes, I enjoy frilly lingerie. Yes, I think a man should propose and suck it up and buy me a magnificent rock someday.

But this does not mean that I'm an idiot. Or that I can't comprehend "male ideas." This doesn't mean I can cook (or want to cook for people.) It doesn't mean I want to have a brainless job. It doesn't mean I want to be a receptionist. It doesn't mean that because I'm cute, I'm retarded. It doesn't mean you can ignore me entirely, or talk right over me. It doesn't mean you can be a gigantic douche wad. It doesn't mean you're better.

So shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down and STOP.

Thanks, people.

Vapidity and the City

I first bought the book 4 Blondes last March, in a book store at Dulles Airport while a friend and I were stocking up on reading materials for our flight to Hawaii. As an avid fan of Sex and the City, as well as an avid reader, I thought it was rather strange that I had never actually read one of Candace Bushnell's books, seeing as it was her column and her stories that had been the inspiration for Carrie & Co.

Fast forward to January 2008; I'm bored and hanging out in my apartment, and while I'm putting some books away, I spot 4 Blondes on the shelf. I thought it was rather strange that even after buying said book, I'd still actually never read it (I'd first been too caught up in a book about dinosaurs!!! then I'd been too caught up trying to seduce a guy on the plane with my smoky, half-lidded eyes trick.)

Figuring it was the best way to spend a lazy Sunday, I cracked open the book and began to read.

What I promptly learned is this: Candace Bushnell should be shot. In the face. Repeatedly.

Now, before I explain why Candace Bushnell needs to be stopped, let me show you something. Here are two lists: one list naming qualities I've seen in various women, and another list naming qualities I've been in various men.

Women: Strength, intelligence, wit, tenacity, vivaciousness, jealousy, curiosity, vapidity, ruthlessness, greed, kindness, the ability to love, the ability to care, the desire to squash all of their rivals, stupidity, lack of social cues, tact, grace, poor decision making, good decision making, a disregard for social norms, a strong regard for social norms, adaptability, rigidness, etc.

Men: Strength, intelligence, wit, tenacity, vivaciousness, jealousy, curiosity, vapidity, ruthlessness, greed, kindness, the ability to love, the ability to care, the desire to squash all of their rivals, stupidity, lack of social cues, tact, grace, poor decision making, good decision making, a disregard for social norms, a strong regard for social norms, adaptability, rigidness, etc.

Unless you're a moron, you've realized by now that the lists are exactly the same, and this is because both men and women exhibit any combination of those personality traits. For every airhead, there's a scholar; for every jealous maniac, there's a caring, trusting individual; for every commitment-phobe, there's a nurturing parent. And this goes for both sexes. Sure, there are stereotypes running around all over the place, but in this day and age, we've realized that people don't always fit neatly into a mold. Variety is the spice of life, and all that.

Unless you're Candace Bushnell.

Because apparently you suffer from mental retardation

Bushnell not only manages to set the women's movement back 10,000,000 years, she also manages to push men right back into their prior "cave man" status. She takes any individuality, any depth, and any emotion that a normal human being feels, and throws it away, forcing everyone - man or woman - into a horrifically tacky, one-dimensional mold. Her characters are so shockingly stupid, vain, shallow, and flat, that I can't understand why anyone on earth would willingly pay money to read her books. I'm ashamed that I did, really.

The book 4 Blondes is broken up into four stories, about a model, a writer, a socialite, and a columnist, because if you're not aware, everyone in New York is either a shockingly attractive woman who only uses her looks for advancement purposes, or she's an obnoxious writer who supports herself with her own pomposity and self-idolizing. The book is supposed to tell the stories of four women, each of whom are at a turning point in their lives. If you've watched Sex and the City, you assume there's depth, emotion, and a real life-altering realization that the characters make. Once you read this book, however, you realize that the producers of SatC obviously only took the bare bones of Bushnell's work, because the book is the exact opposite.

Here's a breakdown:

Story 1 - The Model. Janey is a model who's obsessed with spending every summer in the Hamptons. She spends every summer with a different man, spending all his money, not paying rent, and driving his expensive car around. She has no actual friends, and all familial ties are strained and lack love. She's depressed, shallow, flat, and boring. She regularly has affairs with married men. The Men in Her Life: All the guys she fucks think men only want to "spread their seed." She has lots of butt sex with an ugly dude. Sex means nothing. All the men think men are superior to women. They're also all completely insane and unstable. Her Turning Point: She gets a Victoria's Secret deal worth 2 million, buys her own house in the Hamptons (which is impossible, considering 2 million is nothing for the Hamptons) and is given a car. The Outcome: She's still alone, has no friends, has no one to love her, hasn't grown, hasn't developed - but she has a heated pool. She likes cocaine.

Story 2 - The Writer. Winnie is a bulimic, horrifically dominating wife who not only hates herself, but hates her husband, and can't be bothered to give a crap about her child. She thinks everyone else is stupid and worthless, and she hates slutty women. She has no real friends, and hates her family. She belittles her husband constantly and despises everything about him. She hates sluts but freaks out about her weight, turns into a huge slut around other men, and has an affair with her husband's best friend. The Men in Her Life: Her husband hates himself and her. She has an affair with a man who wants to "spread his seed." All the other men hate their wives and feel emasculated. Her Turning Point: She gets a job that pays $500,000 a year. With stock options. The Outcome: She's still bulimic, she intends to keep cheating, she's gleeful that she's ripped her husband's masculinity to shreds. Also, her husband is still a massive pussy who enjoys cocaine.

Story 3 - The Socialite. Princess Cecelia is a socialite who rose from nothing, which automatically means we've stepped into an alternate universe, as socialites are always from horrifically hoity-toity backgrounds (or are at least loaded) and are never poor bumpkins who get a leg up in life. Sorry, kids. Princess Cecelia is also completely insane, and constantly loaded on Xanax and downers, or going insane on cocaine. Her only friend is an insane woman who killed her husband, and they're not actually friends. She's alone and hates herself. The Men in Her Life: She has a "loving husband" but he has lots of affairs, has no emotional depth, and doesn't seem to give a shit about her. Other guys want to bang her, or to use her status to elevate themselves. Her Turning Point: She decides to get off Xanax, and get back on Page Six. The Outcome: Her husband still cheats, she's still miserable, she's drunk and on cocaine all the time, she still has no friends, she's still a paranoid schizophrenic, and everyone hates themselves.

Story 4 - The Columnist. I don't even know if we get this chick's name, but I think it's supposed to be based on Bushnell herself. The woman thinks no one in New York can actually be in a relationship, so she's booted off to London to talk about love there. If you didn't know, all Englishwomen are really ugly, so even an "average" American over there is guaranteed love, sex, and adoration from all men. The Men in Her Life. Every man in England has a tiny dick, is terrible in bed, and willingly (and constantly talks about it.) All men want to "spread their seed." Every man hates his wife or girlfriend. The Turning Point. I don't know. I don't get it. She kind of likes a dude who has a tiny dick. I don't get it. The Outcome. She meets an Englishman on the plane who is attractive and I suppose has a good sized dick. I dunno.

So.

So.

Here we are.

In Bushnell's universe, all women are shallow, self-hating monsters that care only about money, drugs, and sex. Emotions are non-existent, friendships are non-existent, and nothing actually matters in life. Family means nothing, children mean nothing, and everyone hates themselves. Men are chauvinistic pigs, and there's not a single one on the planet that actually cares about women, or is capable of settling down with one. Everyone is lost in their own misery, and completely unable to connect with other human beings.

Now, you might wonder why I'm so pissed off about this. I support one night stands, I support being happily single, I support women getting what they want. But this! This book is a depressing, horrifying world of pain, misery, and the art of 'going through the motions.' No one grows, no one makes real connections, and no one does anything to better their situations. Bushnell apparently is a robot without any feelings or emotions, and is content to let everyone think that any woman is blond, miserable, shallow, and ridiculously stupid. Every woman is either gorgeous, or has an eating disorder in order to make herself gorgeous, even though this beauty is literally only skin deep. Even the "intelligent" women are shockingly stupid.

Reading this book, I had to fight the constant urge to kill myself. It was so depressing and so awful that I couldn't believe I was willingly reading. I suppose it was like a car crash, and I was that obnoxious motorist that has to drive sloooowly on by, holding up traffic because I just can't help myself - I need to see the burning wreckage.

Now, a part of me has this sick, twisted desire to read Sex and the City, if only to see if A) Bushnell used to not be a complete fucking idiot, and B) to see just how different the TV show and the book really are. I've read a million times - in blatantly stated warnings - that the show is only LOOSELY BASED on the book. The gist is that the producers took the idea of Bushnell actually being a socialite and writing her own weekly sex column, and building a show around that. I think if they actually based the show on the books, they never would've had a hit.

In fact, people probably would've killed them. Immediately.


Your Survival Technique Of The Day:
How to Survive a Candace Bushnell Book

Step 1: Put. The book. Down. Throw it, shove it in a drawer, set fire to it, whatever. The important thing is, get the hell away from the book as quickly as you can.

Step 2: Morality lesson. Pretend like the book is an allegory for the evils of shallowness and emotional detachment. Pretend like Bushnell has the capacity for actually creating something like that, and as you read, tell yourself (repeatedly) that this is just a showcase of what can happen when people lose touch with reality, and become completely one-dimensional.

Step 3: Watch Sex and the City on repeat. Sure, they have their shallow moments, but the characters are real women, and they actually grow and love and have friendships and are happy. This may make up for the mess Bushnell created.

Step 4: Hunt Bushnell down. Now.

The Joys of Old Age

Hey guess what?? I don't have skin cancer! Awesome!

Yesterday I had a dermatologist appointment to get the results back from my freckle biopsy, and to have a full body exam to make sure there were no malignant melanomas (or any other form of cancers) lurking in odd places like between my toes or on my scalp. My fabulous doctor happily informed me that I was cancer free and healthy as an ox, and I didn't have to come back for another year.

What's interesting is that my dermatologist - just like my gynecologist - is a 75+ year old man. I'm not entirely sure how I ended up with old men constantly pawing over every inch of my supple young body, but if it's anything like last weekend, I must've finished off that handle of Captains by myself and gotten freaky on the dance floor beforehand.

Awkward sex jokes aside, I love old people. They taste like beef jerky.

Hey guys! What's the plan for tonight?!

Old people are awesome because they've seen it all and done it all. They're at that special point in their lives where they could drop dead for no reason at any time, so they throw caution (and tact, and social cues) to the wind and go nuts. My grandfather used to bitch and complain about everything from how cold his steaming hot fried eggs were, to how nobody should trust the Japanese because they were still planning on bombing our harbors just you wait. And nobody even so much as bat an eyelash. Everyone would nod their heads and agree, because it was Papa, and he was old, and old people are allowed to make outrageous claims and generalize entire races in awkward, semi-racist statements.

Take my grandmother, for instance. At 83, she has the holy triumvirate of being old: she's in her 80s, she's a woman, and she's British. No one can resist the allure of the British accent, particularly on an old person. She can do no wrong in anyone's eyes. In fact, if she were to set fire to a carload of puppies and infants, people would still buy her tea and crumpets and ask about her days in the war. I've seen it happen.

Since she's old, she gets to make outrageous statements like, "I hate the Jews!" (when she's half-Jewish herself), and "Americans are pigs!" and "medicine doesn't actually help people!" And people are okay with that.

But if my father, a Baby Boomer in his early fifties, were to start ranting on about how cheap us Jews are, and how the French should seriously come over and whip our asses for us constantly berating them, then he'd probably get shot. Multiple times. No one under the age of 75 can make those kinds of statements anymore, and the age limit is being pushed higher and higher, with people sticking around for longer periods of time now.

Which brings me to my next point: I can't wait to get old.

I like to think I'd be a mix of Rose and Sophia - spry and slutty, even in my golden years

Okay, so this contradicts my stance on life (cryogenic freezing when I'm still young and attractive), but you can't deny the allure of old age. I can see myself now - sitting on a porch in Boca Raton, rooming with my closest friends, bitching about anything and everything, and then going on a date with Stu from Bingo. Perfection. The Golden Girls is the perfect existence because they're still hip, they're still funny, and most of all, they're still getting laid.

And who wouldn't want to sit by the beach, sipping (Long Island) Iced Teas, debating the pros and cons of dentures and bitching about how obnoxious today's youth is? I mean, minus the dentures, that's practically my life already. And seriously, how obnoxious are those teenagers? God! No respect, no tact, no class. In MY day, we knew our places.

Taxi Cab Confessions

I find it very fascinating that cabbies are so different in every city I've been to. In New York City, they don't blink at anything; you could strip completely naked and have a threesome with a homeless guy and an Olsen twin, and they just don't care. Why? Because that happened during their last trip, only with Ashley instead of Mary Kate. In Boston, they drive like kamikaze pilots, careening wildly into pot holes, street signs, and elderly citizens that take too long crossing the street. In San Diego, they are exceedingly quiet and very polite when spoken to. And in DC?

They talk. Incessantly. Then badger you about your political views.

Some of the more interesting conversations I've had included a debate between McCain and Hillary's convictions, a lengthy discussion of Obama's idealism and how it could affect international relations, and a delightful story about how this one cabbie was visiting his son in Boston, but he was on some random medication and it made his bladder always feel full, so he pulled over somewhere in the North End and peed behind a pillar.

Not that peeing behind a pillar has political ties, unless we're discussing the Bush twins after a night out on the town, but still.

How do YOU feel about the approaching economic recession?

The cabbies here just really enjoy a good chat. Sometimes this is alright with me, as sometimes I'm in the mood to prattle on and on about my own convictions, but other times I don't feel like being badgered and yapped at. Especially in the morning, when I'm practically a zombie.

This morning my cabbie was very nice, but he asked the dreaded question - "isn't it a lovely morning?" followed by the worst of all time, "are you feeling motivated this morning?"

First of all: No. No, it is not a lovely morning. Do you know why? Because it's the middle of January, it's 3 days after Blue Monday (aka the most depressing day of the entire year), and it's DC. It's a terribly depressing day, even if it is a Thursday, and therefore close to the weekend.

And second of all: No, I am not feeling "motivated" this morning. That's a ridiculous question to ask at 9am. The only times I get motivated before noon are if something huge is going down; if I'm moving, if I'm leaving on vacation, if there's breaking celebrity gossip on TMZ, etc. Otherwise, I'm cursing the world in general for forcing me to be awake at such an ungodly hour.

So, to answer the cabbie's question, I replied, "No, I'm not, but I can't wait for the weekend." To which he laughed. I almost cried. I explained that it was cold, and it was the middle of January, and therefore it was very difficult to muster up some motivation.

He replied, saying something I found to be very interesting: "Well, you're obviously, what, 20?" (it's the suit - without it, people think I'm 16) "Of course you feel that way now. When you get to be my age, it won't matter."

And this frightened me.

What do you mean, it's not July?!

At this point in my life, right in the throes of my Quarter-Life Crisis, it's killing me to imagine going through 75+ more years of gloomy, gray Januarys. I hate the cold; I hate the winter; I hate that terrible feeling of "oh my god, we have at least four more months until it starts to warm up." Am I doomed to spend an eternity feeling crushed by the weight of winter gloom and nosy cabbies?

For the moment, I'm toying with the idea of hibernating for the rest of the winter. I really love sleep, and I really love being cozy in bed. And I really love gorging myself on food and then going into a food coma. But, as the past week has shown me, I hate cabin fever, and I cannot survive on my own. Regardless of anti-social feelings first thing in the morning, I'm a social, needy person. Sure, I can live on my own if I have to, but it doesn't mean I have to be thrilled with it. I like noise, and people, and constant entertainment; hibernation doesn't exactly offer a wild time.

So, in an effort to tackle my issues head on, I present you with:


Your Survival Technique Of The Day:
How to Survive The Winter Blahs

Step 1: Hibernation. If it's your thing, go crazy. Eat a lot of heavy foods, chug some beers, and tuck in for the long haul. Remember to lock your door beforehand, though, because your neighbors are probably really weird, so you don't want uninvited company coming over when you're in a self-induced coma. Unless you're into that.

Step 2: Indulge. Find winter activities that you enjoy, which will help you embrace the cold. If you like skiing, hit the slopes; if you like ice skating, hit the rink; if you like watching other people's misery, watch them tromping by in the cold from the warmth of your office.

Step 3: Take a vacation. A Rockefeller? Go to the beach - Aruba, Barbados, Jamaica, whatever. A broke ass 20 something? Beg your parents to pay for you to go to Miami. A broke ass 20 something with mean parents? Print out pictures of tropical islands and plaster them all over your office/cubicle/bedroom walls. Close enough.

Step 4: Reward system. So you hate skiing, you don't want to sleep for 4 months straight, and those blurry pictures of Aruba are pissing you off instead of making you feel better? Plan a reward system to help you through the long haul. For every week you stop yourself from committing a messy suicide, give yourself something nice - it can be anything from a new pair of shoes, to a package of Oreos that you've been dreaming about. Like Pavlov's dog, we can be programmed to eagerly look forward to tasty treats.

Because You Can't Spell "Diet" Without "Die"

I hate dieting.

It may be the single most frustrating process that anyone willingly goes through. We subject ourselves to eating less and less, all in an effort to look fabulous. It is my dream that someday I will invent a pill (with my extensive background in biochemistry and pharmaceuticals, of course) that will enable us to remain at our target weight no matter what.

It's a brilliant idea, because you'll have to get healthy the right way first. You lose the weight, you pick a plateau point, and voila - no matter if you dine on a breakfast of ice cream and fried chicken, you'll stay at 110, 115, 120, whatever you'd like. Because of course this pill will do something like break down bad fats and trans fats and blah blah blah. All I know, is that I want to live in a world where I can eat whatever, whenever I want. I miss fried food.

I had a bucket of KFC for breakfast!

The most retarded thing about all of this, is that when I say "dieting" I mean still mowing down on carbs and other delicious no-no's. For breakfast I have a bowl of maple syrup oatmeal, or a heaping bowl of cereal (usually Frosted Mini Wheats, because I go insane if I don't have sugar first thing in the morning); lunch is often a sandwich and some yogurt; and dinner is usually a large salad with chicken, some wheat pasta, or a large sandwich with baked chips. I can't cut back on carbs, it's physically impossible. I end up having a food blackout, in which I remember walking to the bathroom... and the next thing I know, I'm in the middle of my kitchen, on my back, boxes of cookies and bread strewn around me, delicious carb-y crumbs covering my face. I'm like a junkie that just can't help herself.

It doesn't help matters much that my office is a carb breeding ground. Other firms are always sending us tantalizing gift packages, crammed with cookies, biscuits, chocolates and other ridiculously tasty morsels. I have to physically restrain myself from devouring the entire thing in one sitting. And, being the only female in the office, I get to watch my bosses stuff themselves silly, patting their bellies and yapping on and on about how dieting is so stupid, and who want's thirds?

Ugh.

My other problem with weight loss is what I like to call the "Nicole Richie" syndrome. I'll bitch and moan and diet for a few weeks, and the pounds will come off slowly, and then one morning I wake up and my rib cage is jutting out so prominently that you could grate cheese off it. I don't know what the trigger is, but I tend to start getting into my ideal weight range, and then suddenly I look like I should be hanging on a wall in an anatomy class.

Work it, gurl!

At any rate, I think things are progressing fairly well at this point. I'm still eating a wide array of things I shouldn't, but at least the diet seems to be moving along at a normal pace. No hip bones that could cut glass, at least.


Your Survival Technique Of The Day
How to Survive Dieting

Step 1: Don't RESTRICT. You know that dreadful word very well. If you tell yourself that you're never allowed to eat something like pancakes again, one minute you'll be drying your hair, and the next thing you know, it'll be 3am and you'll be finishing your fifth plate of IHop's triple decker pancake platter, and you'll be ready to birth a stack yourself.

Step 2: Substitute sweets. I know, the idea of picking "berries" over "pixie sticks" seems shocking, but fruits and other healthy alternatives still pack taste (and some sugar, so you won't crash and burn.) You'll feel better in the long run, and then you can adopt that snooty attitude that other dieters have - you can make amused, obnoxious noises while someone else is stuffing their face full of processed crap, and take delicate, haughty bites of your kiwi.

Step 3: Clean House. Are your cabinets full of chips, sweets, cookies, and other deliciously decadent forbidden food? Throw them out! Or give them to the homeless guys at the McPherson Square Metro stop, whatever. Just get them out of your place. If they're around, you'll be tempted (especially when you're trying to cut back), and before you know it, you'll have devoured 1000 calories worth of Oreos.

Step 4: Careful with Alcohol. Someone literally once told me, as she was chugging a Bud, that beer calories and other liquid calories don't count, because you pee the calories out. Two words: Beer. Belly. So many people chug beer and other alcohol like it's going out of style. I know, I know, I love it too, but go for light beers and healthier alternatives; a vodka cranberry may not be your ideal drink (or the healthiest thing in the world) but at least you're getting some juice, and you're not just drinking straight calories.

Step 5: Wire your jaw shut. When all else fails, hello, liquid diet!

OMG WTF

OH MY FUCKING GOD

HEATH LEDGER DIED

From TMZ.com:

TMZ has learned that Academy Award nominee Heath Ledger has died in NY.

He was found in one of his residences in Soho by his housekeeper at 3:35 PM ET, dead in his bed. Law enforcement sources tell TMZ they believe it was not a crime.

The 28-year-old actor has a daughter with former fiancee Michelle Williams.

Story developing...

Tuesdays = Fail

Just so you know.

In other news: It's Tuesday. It's been 2 weeks since Ovary Gate '08, 1 week since I ran home to Boston to lick my proverbial wounds, and 1 hour since I've been at work and already I can't take it.

I don't quite understand my simmering hatred for Tuesdays - I mean, I do in theory. As I've explained before, it's the day of Nothing. But it still doesn't prepare me for the bone deep terror I feel whenever I step foot in the office on a Tuesday morning. It seems like the world is against me, waiting for me to slip up so it can drag me below the... I don't know, insert something deep and poetic and haunting. Whatever.

I don't even have enough brain power today to be witty.

Seriously.

Since I'm brain dead today, I thought I'd waste time/not push my brain too hard, and take some stupid quizzes so I can post my results on my blog! I know you're all super excited! So, without further ado, I present to you:

Pointless Quizzes I Took Today To Kill Some Time

37

56

They were actually harder than they appeared - there's something about a clock counting down right in front of you that makes you panic - suddenly it's harder to type, and you know you live in that big country sandwiched between the place where all your cheap clothes from Walmart are made, and that other place where people have funny accents and say "eh" a lot, but you can't think of the name of it for the life of you. Damn.

As for the color quiz, what the fuck was that? I put in the usual suspects (blue, green, red, orange, yellow, etc.) and then the others (light blue, cerulean, rust, mauve, taupe) but I was still something like... 200 colors short of the total. What the hell else is there? I tried Macaroni and Cheese, but that didn't work - and I know that's in Crayola's giant box of crayons, okay?

And that right there killed 10 minutes.

And I'm spent.

I Am The Definition of Awkward

My life is very awkward. I am very awkward.

But before I explain further, let me ask you a question. Have you ever watched, seething with jealousy, as some old dude careens down the sidewalk on a motor powered wheelchair? Have you ever fought the urge to shove an old woman off one of those motor scooters are Target, because she's zooming around and not only getting her purchases faster, but also running over small children (without getting in trouble) in the meantime? Have you ever wanted to pick up a child out of a wheelchair and throw them to the curb, then steal it because your legs are tired, and damnit you just want to get home faster?

Well, of course you have. But the point is, once you have to actually get in a wheelchair, you suddenly can't wait to scramble out of it and run away as fast as humanly possible.

The first time I ever had to stick my surprisingly round ass in a wheelchair of any sort (besides after a surgery, or after twisting an ankle and having to be carted from the waiting room into the ER or something) was on a trip to Target. I'd been having a bad day pain wise, and once I got into the store, I realized there was no way in hell I'd be able to walk around for more than, oh, .005 seconds. Erin had to procure a motor scooter for me, which caused quite a few raised eyebrows, as I don't particularly look like I need a motor vehicle for movement purposes.

Of course it didn't help matters much that the only scooter left wasn't charged enough, so I had to inch around in the store, pissing everyone off around me because turtles and slugs and such kept speeding by me. Even the old people looked like marathon runners in comparison. And, to add insult to injury, the goddamn thing beeped like a fucking truck when I backed up. It seemed to shout "fat ass needs you out of the damn way to back up!" with every movement. It was mortifying.

I hadn't had to use a wheelchair in public since then, until this past week. My father and I realized that there was no way in hell I could get around in the airport with one, as it'd been something of a struggle to walk from my bed to my bathroom. We told the Jet Blue staff that I'd just had surgery (a cleaner, less embarrassing way to explain the situation, as people look at you funny when you say "oh hey, an ovarian cyst ruptured all over my pelvis, and I bled all over my abdomen - can you push my fat ass around? Thanks!") and needed a chair, so some poor sap got stuck wheeling me around Dulles.

And, if you didn't know, they just moved the Jet Blue terminal, so I got to take a wild ride on the shuttle, and be pushed even further around. I kept my sunglasses on and hid my face, and my father was protectively hovering around me, so some people got really curious and were trying to see if I was... well, probably not famous, I'd need a bigger entourage, but people were seriously craning their necks and deliberately walking by.

I suppose at least that cheered me up a little. I should've pulled the "Yeah, I'm totally Lindsay Lohan, I'm just not wearing make up - and I forgot to go get a touch up on my tan" card. That might've worked.


Whatever, close enough.

The way back was way more awkward, however, because my dad wasn't flying with me, so I just looked like an oversized bug, dressed all in black with my sunglasses on, huddled in a wheelchair pushed by a large woman who didn't speak any English, all on my own. I think everyone just thought I was a freak.

When I'm in pain and I'm walking, I tend to favor my left leg and put the weight on it, keeping the right leg slightly bent. I think it's because when the first cyst ruptured, it was on my right side, so the pain tends to be worse in that area. On the trip back to DC, everyone asked if I had just had knee surgery (since why else would a seemingly otherwise healthy 22-year-old be in a wheelchair?) so I just said yeah. It really is much easier than launching into my Reproductive Organ Mayhem Speech; say "knee surgery" and no one bats an eye (in fact people are very nice to you) but even start saying "uteru-" and people freak out.

Well, now that I'm back in DC, my adventures with wheeled modes of transportation aren't over. I have another week until I'm supposed to attempt walking to work (which is so strange, because when I'm healthy and fine, 6 or so blocks are nothing - but when I'm in pain, it may as well be an attempt to take a stroll to, oh, North Carolina) so I'm on cab patrol until then. Which means goodbye, $20 a day!

Crap, I knew I should've taken the other taxi

This morning - after sleeping a galling 14 hours last night - I stumbled out of bed and actually showered, dressed myself, and put on makeup. I figured I'd attempt looking human on my first day back to work in almost 2 weeks. I waddled out the front door of my building, and after freezing to the bone in just under 20 seconds (WHY is it so cold in DC?!) I hailed a cab and made my way to work. I paid the $10 freaking dollars (including tip) and was about to get out of the car, when the driver happily said, "Aw, are you pregnant?"

I suppose I should've expected this, as:

1. I took a taxi 6 blocks away.
2. I keep a hand over my stomach protectively in the car, because the uneven pavement/pot holes really freaking hurt
3. I'm puffy and retaining water and I looked slightly manic

But I was horrified. Especially because this isn't the first time I've been asked that question. And I don't just mean by a concerned gynecologist.

When I had surgery in June of '06 I had a laparoscopy, which entails having gas pumped into your stomach so that there's more space between organs, and it's easier for your doctor to get the tiny lasers and scissors in there (as a laparoscopy, for endometriosis at least, involves cutting out and burning away any scar or endometrial tissue that may be causing problems.) Unfortunately, you end up with a ballooned out stomach, which doesn't go away for about a week and a half or so. Which meant that 5 days after surgery, when I was up and mobile and going to summer classes at UMass Boston, I had a giant, pregnant-looking stomach. It didn't help that I always had one hand protectively over it, and the other supporting my aching back. I had the pregnant woman walk down, kids.

Mothers and women of all ages would come up to me, cooing and congratulating me. The only reason I didn't snap necks left and right was because they said my baby would be beautiful, just like me. Goddamn right any spawn of mine would be beautiful.

So, long story... long... I'm almost used to being asked if I'm happily impregnated. That doesn't mean I like it. I snarled something about uteri at the cab driver and dragged my sorry ass out of the cab, and proceeded to angrily waddle up to the front door of my building.

Only to find the building locked. After all, it is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, so EVERY OTHER BUSINESS IN THE DISTRICT HAS THE DAY OFF.

Only 7 more stories to go!

I waited for half an hour in the bitterly freezing cold, all the while leaving multiple messages on my boss' office phone and cell phone. Someone finally came to the lobby door, and informed that that no, none of the offices were open, and I should go home. So I did.

An hour later (after spending a total of $20 on cabs so far), my boss calls. Oh yeah, hey, the office is open, I got delayed, um, come in. AWESOME. So I shell out another $10, cart my ass all the way back to work, and so far I've spent 2.5 hours doing absolutely nothing, other than taking 10 seconds out and booking a rental car.

It's dark, it's cold, and I think we're the only 2 people in the entire building. And our office is in a massive building. This can end in one of several ways:

Scenario 1: My boss turns into a homicidal maniac and chases me around with a chainsaw.
Outcome 1: I die. I can't run, and our doors don't lock.

Scenario 2: Zombies overrun the building, in search of fresh meat.
Outcome 2: I die. I can't run, and though we can look our door from the inside, it's glass. It'll give after one or two good attempts at getting in.

Scenario 3: A ghost appears - perhaps the ghost of someone who was messily murdered on a day much like today, in which no one was supposed to be in the office, so no one found their body for days.
Outcome 3a: I die. I can't run, and the ghost can move through walls and doors.
Outcome 3b: I pull a Ghost Whisperer, and help the ghost avenge their death.
- Outcome 3b(i): The murderer is my boss. I die too.
- Outcome 3b(ii): The murderer is my boss. I bring him to justice.
- Outcome 3b(iii): The murderer is not my boss. We both die.
-Outcome 3b(iv): The murderer is not my boss. We team up as a sleuthing duo, and bring the murderer to justice. We then quit our jobs and travel the country with Ghost Hunters, avenging all the pissed off spirits that died messily, without having their murderers brought to justice.

Short of my boss and I become the next Ghost Hunting Nancy Drew & Co. Team, I think I'm in for a bad day. Once it's finally 6pm, and I've spent another $10 getting home, I'm going to pour myself a big class of Absolut Vanilla, watch some Futurama, and cry myself to sleep. It doesn't get anymore glamorous than that.

Bank of I Take All Your Money

There are days that, in the future, we look back on and cannot believe we never saw the deep evil behind. We ask ourselves, "how did we not see it? How could we not feel the horror permeating every inch of our beings?"

These days appear innocent, in the beginning. The day Napoleon stopped growing; the day Hitler came in second in a potato sack race to Ethan Farberstein; the day Britney Spears decided to marry Kevin Federline. Sure, they seemed like normal, inconsequential days at the time, but if only we'd known.

But today... today I knew that I was setting in place a terrible chain of events. For once, I could see the horror that laid before me. Today, I made my first student loan payment to Sallie Mae.

There comes a time in everyone's life when they realize: Holy Shit, I Have To Pay For Crap. It's a dark day indeed. I also realized that rather than paying the $17,000 I owe (note that I owe it - my mother has a separate loan) I was actually paying back $24,000 over ten years with interest. Because I really wanted to pay an additional $7,000 in interest when I'm broke. Thank you, Sallie Mae.

So I now pay $205 a month towards my loans. Which, in the long run, is... okay. I owe 120 months of loans (hence the 10 years) which means I'll have them paid off fairly soon, per the standard repayment lengths. Plenty of my parents friends are still paying crap off. I had the option of paying over a longer length of time, but guess what?

You pay more interest and pay several thousand dollars more. I don't think you really understand that until you have a bill in front of you, and you realize your heart has stopped and you should probably have someone start giving you CPR. Sure, the deal is to pay less money monthly initially, but then they up the payments to horrific levels, and squeeze you dry. No, thank you.

So, here's my candid, open breakdown of my monthly payments:

Total Bi-Monthly Paycheck Amount: $2750
Total Paycheck After Taxes/Benefits: $1900
Balance After Rent Payment: $800
Balance After Minimum Credit Card Payments: $700
Balance After Loan Payment: $500

So. That leaves me with $500 a month to not only live off of, but to save up with, and to fuel my booze and partying addiction with. Not to mention my food costs. How I go from $2750 a month to $500, I don't understand, even after my highly organized list above. A year ago, $500 was striking it rich - it was like I'd won the lottery. I could eke it out for a shockingly lengthy amount of time. Now, it may as well be $5. It's a shock to the system, paying for all your own expenses.

My parents are proud. I think they're insane.

Rent is the worst. In hindsight, I could've found a room in a house with a bunch of strangers, but my roommate experiences are really hit or miss, and after spending the summer jumping around from hotel room to hotel room, and sleeping on people's couches, I was really looking for a place to call my own. And I love it, don't get me wrong; I feel accomplished, and mature, and happy in my apartment. I like that I can do whatever I please. I can wander around in my underwear; I can pee with the door open; I can sing along to the Spice Girls at the top of my lungs, and then blame it on another neighbor the next morning. Freedom.

But writing a check for $1100 each month sort of kills your soul a little. Like you feel like you're writing in your own blood, which is flowing out of a particularly painful wound. I don't want to give them the check, but I also don't want to sleep behind the building in the alley, so I dutifully hand the check over, my head hanging, fear and desperation in my heart.

What's most horrifying of all, is that this is probably what I'm going to be making for the rest of my life. I was an English Major, and I want to go into publishing - someday I want to teach. That means I'll be eating Ramen and drinking Sam's Choice Cola for the rest of my life. Sam's Choice Cola. Maybe I'll get desperate and sell a kidney, or something. Maybe I'll rob a bank and speed off in a red convertible. Maybe I'll turn to prostitution. Who knows? Only time will tell.

At the very least, I'd finally have a reason to buy thigh-high boots

This all culminates in my new desire to break my lease, pack up some meager belongings (although I have to bring my bed, which I'll negotiate later, because goddamn that thing is comfortable), meet up with my friend Jim, and move cross-country to LA. Because where else in the country (besides NYC) do thousands of young, dirt poor hopefuls flock every year? The city is full of aspiring actors/models/singers/Paris Hiltons who are supposed to be broke and struggling. It's part of the job description.

And we all know you don't really need to have talent to make it in Hollywood, which means I'd be all set. I'm marginally attractive, I can act a little, and I can pout into a camera. I'm all set. I could totally be in movies, or on TV, or on The Hills.

Fuck Heidi - Team Lauren

Then, once I've become super famous (i.e. RICH) I can pay off all my loans, buy a massive house, and never even so much as blink when I write out obscenely huge mortgage checks. I can also buy lots of shiny, pretty things, and never have to worry about finances or going broke or anything. Plus, I'm good at hawking myself, so I can make a perfume or something, or "design shoes" or whatever, and be set for life.

If Britney can do it, so can I.


Your Survival Technique of The Day
How to Survive A Few More Months of No Money

Step 1: Ration. Set financial limits for yourself, and only allow yourself to spend that amount on each facet of your life. Set aside money for food, rent, clothes, staples, etc.

Step 2: Diet. Less Money + Less Food = Smaller Pant Size. Fabulous!

Step 3: Second Job. There are plenty of second jobs for young, tired, strained 20-somethings. You could wait tables, you could babysit, you could work the pole at the Golden Banana. Whatever gets you through the month.

Step 4: Move to LA and become a star. Hm

Ovary Gate '08

Okay, so remember, a week ago today, when I was going on and on about how that Tuesday was far less painful than the others, and I was feeling good about myself, and how I was starting menopause in a week and everything would be all fabulous?

I spoke far too soon. The irony.

So here's what happened:

Around 4:30pm on Tuesday (while I still have an hour and a half of work left), I start to feel nervous. I'm suddenly in a lot of pain, it's suddenly hard to walk, and it takes me like 2 hours to waddle down to the bathroom because I really had to pee. (I know you were dying to know that.) Now, I've been in some pain recently, but nothing like this, so alarm bells start going off. I don't want to freak out yet though, or freak my boss out, so I wait it out and see if it goes away.

It doesn't. By 5pm I realize "oh shit, another cyst is totally rupturing in my abdomen," and I gmail message Erin, who replies with "HOLY SHIT CHELSEA!" and proceeds to leave work and come pick me up. I waddle to my boss' office and try, as calmly as I can, to explain that I'm about to keel over, so I'm going to the hospital, but don't worry, I'm fine.

Dramatic Reenactment

This is while I'm making really awkward, unattractive faces (have you ever seen me cry? or wince? good LORD ), I'm pale as a ghost, and clinging to the door frame. My boss freaks, but I manage to calm him down, and then proceed to beat my head off my desk as I wait for Erin.

Erin arrives (I'm so proud of her for remembering my building) and whisks me off to the hospital in a speeding cab. Although we were halted through two entire green lights because Cheney's motorcade was going by, which only further proves that Dick Cheney is the antichrist.

Such a Dick

After Cheney was finally done being a priss and holding up traffic, the cabbie whisked us to the ER entrance of - drumroll please - The George Washington University Hospital. What I love so much about my former school's hospital is that it has such an amazing reputation; presidents, high ranking political officers, foreign heads of state, all are taken to GW Hospital - hell, even Regan was there, after being shot. It's the place to go, they say.

Unless you're not a rich politician. Then you're treated to the most horrifically pathetic, deprived, unfriendly doctors in the entire world. For the second time, I spent like 9 hours in the hallway, but this time I was not on drugs, and I was pissed as hell. I spent most of the time arguing with the doctors, who wanted to give me more painkillers (even when I refused after the initial morphine-esque drug, as I get horrifically hungover about 10 seconds after taking them) and telling a male doctor just what I thought of him.

For the record, male doctors: if a woman has an ovarian cyst rupture, she is not up and mobile as soon as it's done rupturing. Even if you think she's capable of putting on some sneakers and running a marathon, you are wrong. And I was serious about kicking you in the balls repeatedly, and then seeing how well you could walk. I know where you live.

Also for the record: creepy, creepy intern, an internal gynecological exam is not a porno. I know my fruit basket is the most amazing thing in the world, and I know you want to worship it, but stop getting that scary pedophile look in your eyes when you watch doctors give the exams. You were lucky the scalpels were out of my reach.

Tomayto, Tomahto

On the other hand, I was lucky enough to have been given the chance to watch a live reenactment of those "Don't Do Drugs!" videos from DARE classes. My cot/stretcher/rolly bed was conveniently placed right outside one of the emergency care rooms, and I was eye-level with the window. Inside, someone initially was unresponsive and out cold. He'd taken a LOT of drugs, and was found face down at a bus stop (after dramatically declaring he was going to jump off a bridge.)

Well, that blissfully unconscious state didn't last for long. Now, you may be wondering "what did he take?" According to the doctors? GHB. Yep, the date rape drug. When they first said it was in his blood, I stupidly wondered if someone had slipped it to him, but apparently people take it on a recreational basis. Why is entirely beyond me, especially after watching the aftermath.

He woke up and promptly began screaming and throwing himself around, which was part sad, part funny, considering he was restrained to the bed and could only swing himself repeatedly into the metal bars along the bed's edge. That was fun for awhile, mostly because it took my mind somewhat off the horrific pain in my stomach.

Of course then GHB guy started projectile vomiting. It was so gross, but so impressive. I mean, this guy had skills - I've never seen someone project so much, so far, without even trying. I couldn't entirely be angry for the smell and the ruckus it caused. For a few moments, at least.

10 hours, a battery of tests, and a lot of threatening on my part later, Erin and I were free to limp out of the hospital and attempt hailing a cab at 4am on a Tuesday (well, technically Wednesday.) AWESOME. In case you were wondering, there were no cabs, so we were out there for awhile.

I spent the next week on bed rest, while my dad came down and assumed a Mrs. Doubtfire-esque role, spending his days grocery shopping, Blockbuster hunting, and booze procuring, as any good father would. I was well fed and sufficiently liquored up, and yet I still developed an unhealthy case of Rear Window Cabin Fever.

I see what you did right there, neighbor across the street

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) I did not have access to a telescope, so I had to settle for peering awkwardly out the window, and hoping that the people on the street didn't notice me (since I'm on a lower floor, and people are always looking in my window, and everything.) Besides going to the dermatologist to have a freckle removed (which was blissfully, mercilessly painless and took about 2.5 seconds) and attempting a trip to Erin's to watch the Pats crush Jacksonville (which ended very painfully - well, for me and the Jaguars, at least) I spent almost an entire week cooped up inside.

After that mind numbing week, in which I didn't get much better, my primary doctor thought it'd be a good idea to come back to Boston for more rest and an evaluation. So, I'm home, and blissfully mooching off my parents for a few days. I plan on flying back to DC on Sunday, and attempting work on Monday. Um.

Yes, I said flying

Also, I'm not on menopause yet, because my insurance is a giant piece of crap. It's supposed to be a good insurance, but it doesn't cover the lupron, which is ridiculous. A LOT of women are on it, and a TON of men are on it - it's actually used in prostate cancer cases (which boggles my mind, since it medically induces menopause in women) and it's an in demand drug. And without insurance covering it, just how much is my three month dose?

$1700. Yep.

So my doctor is calling their medical exception line and ripping them a new one, which should go over well because she's small and feisty and I have all the faith in the world in her. So hopefully I'll go back on menopause this week, and I'll be good as new in a few days.

In the meantime, I'm staying healthy by having no appetite (which is awesome cause now I'm finally back down to 125), taking unhealthy amounts of ibuprofen and advil, and steadfastly staying away from the temptations of GHB. You never know.

Your Survival Technique of the Day:
How to Survive an Ovarian Cyst Rupturing

Step 1: If you're a man, breathe a sigh of relief. I'm not sure if you're aware, but you don't have ovaries or a uterus, so you're spared.

Step 2: Breathe. Calm yourself down, and figure out a quick and efficient way to the hospital. Preferably take a path that doesn't intersect the path of a motorcade. They take their sweet ass time, and they have, like, 40 cars in their entourage.

Step 3: Find a suitable hospital. Which means don't go to GW Hospital.

Step 4: TAKE THE DRUGS. Ask for extra, extra doses of anti-nausea medication.

Step 5: Pass out/Ask for a medically induced coma/Ask someone to knock you out. Since the drugs will make you sick, and the doctors earned their degrees playing Operation.




For Your Time: The caption on an NBC News segment about OJ Simpson being held in Vegas for his supposed role in an armed robbery was just called: "Squeezing the Juice." Awesome.

Sharing is Caring

Since you're all on tenterhooks, waiting to see when I'll post today's entry, I'll go ahead and put you out of your misery.

And right into mine! I had another ovarian cyst twist and rupture right around 5pm last night, which was awesome because I was still at work. After reassuring my boss that I wasn't going to die (which I don't think he believed, considering I was white as a ghost and couldn't stand up properly), Erin came and whisked me off to the hospital.

Long story short, I'm holed up in bed for the rest of the week (except for tomorrow morning, when I get to have my freckle thing scalpeled off - YES!) and miserable and I can't walk and I already have cabin fever. SO. When I'm feeling up to it, I'll tell the story, as it was a good one. You can always count on GW Hospital to be shockingly, shockingly inept. Makes for a good time.

The Tuesday That Wasn't

Days till Menopause: 7 (One Week!!!)

Today is Tuesday, but for the first time since I actually started being a responsible quasi-adult and going to work, I don't feel the urge to messily commit suicide. I'm in a good mood today - and, dare I say, almost chipper. I'm not entirely sure why I'm in a good mood, particularly because I'm attempting to clear some very big hurdles at the moment, but today just has a good vibe to it. And I actually slept through the night, without any weird dreams. That has to add to my awake-and-perky status.

Which means in 10 minutes I'll be huddled under my desk and crying about how wrong I was, but so be it.

I just have this good feeling about life. Even though I spend most of my time lost and confused, in a dark tunnel of despair (i.e. drunk) I just know that things are going to work out. And in any case, if they don't, I'd make a great hobo.

But enough about that!

Jen sent me a message on gmail asking for words for a crossword, which got me thinking. What are your favorite words? Do you have any words that are particularly tantalizing to you? Here are some of my favorite words of all times:

- Fuck
- Discombobulate
- Onomatopoeia
- Sexile
- Herpetitus
- Flabbergast
- Spelunking
- Schmutzka
- Glockenspiel

The odder, the better. Not that sexile and herpetitus are actual words, but that's okay. Urban Dictionary has them, which means that technically they are recognized across the country by retarded 16 year-old boys that have too much time on their hands. Good enough for me!

Words aside, 2 of the 3 seasons of Futurama that I ordered came in the mail! Which means now I'm just waiting for the first season, and I'll have all 4. Now, I don't know why you watch Futurama (for the jokes, the crude animation, the awesomely perverted subject matter), but I watch it for one sexy, sensual reason: Dr. Zoidberg.

Because nothing - nothing - is sexier than a questionably, alien crustacean with an insatiable appetite for food and any item that could possibly be perceived as food (not limited to: boots, trash, other creatures, friends, professors, skin, and shells.)

Unless, of course, you put him on a giant sperm:

Sexiness Personified

I love Futurama because it makes absolutely no sense, and doesn't pretend to. It's sort of like when you smoke a lot of weed, but the weed is accidentally cut with PCP, but instead of getting angry and violent you get really trippy and see things. Like giant crustacean alien doctors on enormous sperm.

Sometimes I wonder what will happen when I'm cryogenically frozen for a thousand years, and wake up sometime in the 30-something century of my choosing. They'll have a cure for whatever disease it was I was running away from (which may indeed be old age - I mean c'mon, they must've figured out age reversal at that point) so I can step boldly, freely, and happily into the brand new world. I wonder if Boston will follow the same fate as New York, and be built over - will I live in New Boston? Or New New York? Or DC? Cause DC is already pretty lecherous at this point, I'm not sure changing it into a sewer would actually have any major effect on it.

Okay, so maybe I'm crazy, but Walt Disney did it, so why can't I? All I need to accomplish before hand is to amass a mind blowing net-worth, gain legions of devoted fans, and become absurdly famous. Then they'll have no choice but to chop my head off and stick it in a freezer. Then they can totally thaw me out and put me on, like, Alessandra Ambrosio's body if they want. Oh yeah, baby.

omg, stunning

And that's all I have for you today. I don't have a Survival Technique of the Day because, as you can see, I'm on crack today. I think it's time to chug some more caffeine, and see what happens!

Dream of the Day

Okay, so this is my second post today, but I'm bored and waiting for various travel sites to hurry up and load already (so we can see about potential spring break ideas), and I thought it might be fun (i.e. another way to ease my crushing boredom at work) to include a Dream of the Day entry, for when I have good and/or confusing dreams. Or terrifying ones. Whatever.

As you all know, I have a frighteningly active subconscious, and I have very, very strange dreams. While my horror movie nightmares haven't been happening lately, I've been having a new type of dream, which I like to call the: Impending Doom Dream.

Delightful!

Basically, these dreams involve me running from/avoiding/going out of my way to get away from something bad that I can't seem to avoid. Last night I had two such dreams (in between waking up to get some water because my apartment is dry as all hell.) The first was:

Everybody Loves (or Hates) Chelsea

This dream doesn't actually make much sense, so bear with me. At least it's not the one about the unicorn and the monkey man. But there is a nuclear family at the center of the dream, and pesky assailants that want to kill me, so I figured I'd go with this description.

The dream began with a group of us (myself, Erin, Becca, and Jen) fleeing a group of unknown assailants. The only thing I know about them was that it was a rather large group of men my age, and they wanted to kill us. Charming! They were chasing us through the back streets (okay, woods) of my neighborhood from Hull, and we ran up a cement driveway, which revealed a big tree house of sorts. The tree house had housing in it, along with a restaurant, a drive in movie theater, and some other assorted shops. It was big, okay?

At that point, we suddenly jump ahead 3 years. I have no idea where my friends are (and in fact they never reappear during the dream) but I have acquired a husband (who I know to be attractive and like a buffer version of Milo from Heroes) who loves me very much. Oh, and we happen to have a 2.5 year old daughter.

My baby's daddy

We have a loving relationship and a loving family, and we enjoy eating McDonald's from the restaurant and watching drive in movies from our perch also in the restaurant. It would appear we run most of the, um, tree house activities. There are families all over the place, and it's quite a happening joint.

However.

After those blissful 3 years, the unknown group of assailants come back, and want to kill me, and also kill my daughter. My husband isn't going to be killed, which is highly unfair, but what can you do. So my daughter and I are hiding from the assailants as they come prowling around at night, and I have to remind her to be quiet, lest they come and slaughter the both of us. I immediately recognize it's a dream because in real life, I would've thrown the daughter as bait and made my escape.

Although what's odd about these nightmares/doom dreams is that I don't know I'm dreaming. Up until recently, I was always aware of the fact that I was dreaming. While I can still dictate what I do, and make choices about what happens in my dreams, I am no longer aware that I'm not actually awake. I was actually terrified for my daughter, and feeling an emotion I can only ascribe to "motherly love." Which isn't an emotion I'm programmed to have.

Once the assailants leave, things mostly go back to normal, although my husband and I decide it's no longer safe - we know the assailants will come back in a few weeks - and we need to move. We also decide to "give the daughter a little brother or sister."

Now, this last part I think comes from Criminal Minds, because we'd just watched an episode in which two characters had that exact conversation (minus the: people are coming to kill us! part.) Other than that, the rest is my own twisted mind.

The dream ends with us packing up to leave what is now our tropical tree house, and move somewhere safer. Yes, with the daughter.

Possible Interpretations:

Being Helpless/Vulnerable: Being or feeling helpless or vulnerable in a dream can represent: Actual feelings of helplessness somehow in your real life; Some aspect of your life where you feel vulnerable or like you could use some help; Losing, or a fear of losing, power or control somehow in your life; A focus on the unpredictable nature of life

Daughter: A dream that you have a child that you don't have in real life can represent a feeling of responsibility for something or someone in your life; a need to pay more attention to your needs or to take better care of yourself in some way

Family: Family often represent members of your real family, whether they look like themselves or not. A family you don't know may still represent your actual family, or they may represent another group you interact with in real life, such as a friends or co-workers.

Husband: A dream where someone is your significant other who is not in real life may represent your significant other and is portraying certain characteristics that you are noticing in them right now; Your subconscious mind may be exploring what it would be like to be closer to the person in the dream (not necessarily romantically), or perhaps you just like this person, think they're nice, find them interesting, or you've noticed qualities you admire in them.

OR

One, they could be past life dreams. Two, they could be your way of disguising the symbol. We speak in metaphors. I am so hungry, I could eat a horse. It doesn't mean you're going to actually eat one of those lovely creatures, it means you're very, very hungry. We dream in symbols. So the strangers are symbols of concepts, ideas that you want to deal with.

Mall-like Area: A mall, shopping center, or market can represent your life or several aspects of your life, with each store or area representing an activity, relationship, job or aspect of school, project, etc. Consider your feelings about the places in the shopping center and the dream events that happen there, and look for parallels with feelings and events in your real life

Menacing: A menacing person, figure, or animal - or a feeling of being threatened - in a dream can mean you're feeling threatened in real life somehow - either mentally, emotionally, or physically.

Threat/Attack: A threat in a dream, or a feeling of being threatened in a dream, can mean you're feeling threatened in real life somehow—either mentally, emotionally, or physically; Being attacked, beaten, or tortured can represent; A feeling or fear of persecution, hostility, aggression, criticism, etc. from by another person or by "people in general" - A situation where you feel or fear your boundaries being crossed or your integrity compromised by someone else

Tree House: A desire for or feeling that you have achieved: Privacy, Independence, freedom, or autonomy, Time or space to oneself, Exclusivity, or the ability to choose who can spend time with you and who can't; Can also represent living your life separated from or distanced from others physically, mentally, or emotionally—in other words, not engaging in the world and the process of living in the world.

Therefore:

I'm feeling the need to protect someone, or to protect (or better) my own life and my own situation; I feel I've achieved independence, freedom, and privacy, and the ability to choose who can spend time with me, and who can't. At the same time, there's a real life threat that's permeating my subconscious, and it's threatening that wellbeing and feeling of safety and accomplishment.

This is actually FREAKISHLY spot on, now that I've dissected it. In my real life, I've worked hard to get certain um, menacing/threatening entities out of my life, and now I have the freedom and privacy to have my life for myself, and decide whether or not I want to be around a particular person. At this VERY MOMENT however, a very real entity has come back into the fringes of my life, and even the idea of that entity impedes on my sense of security and privacy. Holy shit, people.

Now that I'm at once sufficiently freaked out, and yet very proud of my subconscious, we go onto dream number two, a little gem I like to call

Stop Taking Acid, And Put Away the Weapon

This dream, it is important to note, has a portion that is EXCEEDINGLY similar to a dream I had a few days ago. In that dream, I was with a bunch of people from high school (and I think college) whom I hated (and who hated me in return) and they were people I would still like to throttle because I'm an adult and totally get over my grudges. Anyway. I was trying to offer very real advice to a tricky situation we were having - and at that time we were in what I knew to be my old room at my grandfather's house - when a boy I'll call MO (a real person, although I never had any real contact with him and never really knew him, so idk wtf he was doing there) started chasing me around with a chainsaw. No one would help me, and he was getting awfully close. The dream continued with me going on an adventure with my new cat and squirrel friends, but that's another story entirely.

Anyway.

In the second dream, I was back at my grandfather's house, although this time I was in the living room (and it was the living room, it looked just like it did in real life, rather than it being a dream assumption/version) and again I was with a group of people I strongly dislike, although these people were girls that were older than me, so I never really had much interaction with them. There was another boy there (who, oddly enough, sort of ran around with the real MO) who I'll call JK. Again, I never had much interaction with him, save for the 7th grade in which I told him his girlfriend had the dick and did the fucking in the relationship. What can I say, I was precocious. At any rate, I hadn't spoken to him since that point, so I have no idea why he was there to begin with.

So, once again I'm trying to stress something very important to these people, and once again they're refusing to listen. It's like I keep trying to yell louder and louder, and it does nothing. At the end of this, rather than chasing me with a chainsaw, JK punches me in the eye and then destroys my science project.

Yeah.

So then I go to the bathroom so I don't lose my temper entirely and stick the jagged end of the project through JKs sternum, (and again, I'm in the actual downstairs bathroom of my grandfather's house) when JK and his actual ex-gf from high school walk in. I threaten to go through with the whole "sternum piercing" plan, when JK says he wants to "get it on" and mentions "daytime sex," and he wants to have a go at it in the bathroom. Which, by the way, was a half bath, so there's no way in hell the three of us could've fit in to begin with, so sex in any form would be quite awkward.

I seem to think this is a pretty good idea. Suddenly, however, we've gone through a secret passageway (and in real life, the house was super old and did have a shockingly high number of secret doors, passageways, and rooms) and we're in a basement that was previously unknown to me. We found a way to get in, it would seem, from the bathroom.

I see a cat walk by, who may or may not actually be a rat, who's stretched out and wearing an orange clown costume (??????) I wonder how the cat/rat sleeps with the costume on. JK eventually takes it off, and I'm sad to see it without the costume. And I realize it is a cat.

Then I'm somewhere ENTIRELY different - it's nighttime, and we're outside of a basketball court that's fenced in - there's only one basket, from what I can tell. All these cars are there, and it's a predominately black neighborhood, but people seem to keep changing from white to black and back again. My father is there to watch the game. JK announces his plan is to have "daytime sex" in the middle of the court, which the game is going on. I seem to realize this is a terrible plan, considering not only is it a very public place and my FATHER is there, but we'd definitely get stepped on. Ouch.

I run away. The cat is there, and I think my dad is, or at least he was, and then he is again. I don't know. I'm on the top of a hill, looking down at a valley full of houses. And then I wake up.

Possible Interpretations:

Basketball/Game: Play, social interaction, competition, dialog. Pay attention to the type of activity, the dynamics between you and/or the players, and how you feel about what's going on. A game can represent a real-life activity (past, expected future, imagined, etc.) or the dynamics of a real-life situation (such as the dynamics between you and your teammates on a project at work).

Cat: Independent, having strong ideas about how things should be, lithe and adaptable, mysterious. To dream of a cat usually means that these qualities are advantageous for you to have right now. Occasionally, a cat in a dream means that you'd benefit by having less of these qualities right now. A cat can also represent a person who you feel is showing these qualities. A cat in a dream can also represent an actual cat in your life; Sometimes a cat can represent your own inner child - meaning that you could benefit from more attention to your need for self-care, self-reward, and self-focus. A cat being in trouble, sick, or overlooked can mean you may be overlooking a responsibility for yourself or your life.

Father: Can represent your real-life father, an authority or caretaker figure (such as your employer), or your spiritual parent (God).

Grandfather's House: A house, apartment, flat, or any place of residence often represents you or your life, even if the dream residence not resemble your actual residence. The events in the dream residence may represent events in your life. A house can also represent security, comfort, protection, familiarity, or belonging.

Guy I Sort of Know: A person in a dream can represent that actual person, or the characteristics you attribute to that person. For example, if you dream about your friend who is always relaxed and easy-going, your friend might represent himself, or she might represent the idea of relaxing and not worrying.

For clues about what the person represents, consider what the person means or signifies to you in real life. Also consider their characteristics or qualities that stand out in the dream, what they're doing and how, and your emotional reaction to their presence.

Sex: Emotional intimacy (emotional trust and openness), interaction, or a feeling of closeness with someone; A replay of when you felt close to someone emotionally, mentally, or physically; Liking the person or wanting to know them better—and not necessarily romantically! If it is unwelcome, it can represent an intention or attempt at emotional intimacy in real life that you consider unwelcome from someone else (such as a stranger telling you their secrets) or a feeling that someone is trying to act too familiar (such as acting like they are your close friend when they aren't).

Therefore:

There are some relationship dynamics at work at the moment; possibly with my father, but most likely with another male figure in my life; since it's someone I vaguely know, yet there's a threatening feeling behind it, I need to figure out why they're acting too familiar; they want something from me that I have no desire to agree to (well, okay maybe the act itself was fine originally, but certainly not with that person and not in that capacity.) I'm feeling misplaced in my own home, that feeling of comfort is being threatened. I have to care for myself, although I'm feeling threatened and vulnerable.

SERIOUSLY I'm so glad I've been doing these dream analysis posts, because they explain so much!!!! This links eerily to the dream before it, in which a male entity is lurking in my life, threatening the now-stable and private (and selective) life that I currently have. There are also other factors at hand, but this is the most pressing.

I love you, Dream Dictionary.