America's Next Top... Something

Days till Boston: Tonight
Days till Old Age: 40

Oh, America's Next Top Model. You've tried so hard to reinvent yourself this season - a new city, a new opening montage, even some 'variations' to the ridiculous song Tyra sings for the credits - but it's just not enough.

Take last night's episode, for example. Between the two - yes TWO - eliminations, and Paulina's assessment of the girls, it was clear that Tyra & Co. are continuing on their path of picking the girls with the least amount of potential. Most of them could barely model for Walmart.

Okay so, let's first see who went home, and then we can deal with the survivors:

First Elimination
In a (not so) surprising twist, Kimberly - the idiot from the dreaded western Mass region - realized that, like, omigod, since she doesn't, like, condone (not her word, that's beyond her grasp) spending, like, money, on designer duds, she probably, like, shouldn't model. Omigod really? REALLY? You fucking idiot. I thought Tyra was going to snap her neck. Here's her picture - the judges thought it was good, I thought they were on crack:

Not only does she look like a man, she looks like a constipated man

Second Elimination:
I also saw this one coming, mostly because a) i couldn't remember her name, and b) she was god-fucking-awful during the photo shoot. Seriously, it was like she was mentally retarded. Oh wait... Atalya (oh that's her name) was sent packing, even though Kim had already peaced out. At least they made one good decision last night.

Yeah, that's... that's... yeah.

So, two down, twelve to go! Of course if we went with Paulina's assessment, it would be more like twn down, four to go. Unfortunately, Paulina only has so much to power. At any rate, I almost laughed my ass off when she told Dominique she looked like a man - especially because I do believe Dominique was called a tranny no less than four times this episode. Sweetie, if everyone around you is telling you they think you're a dude, you should probably take that to heart.

It's not that she's ugly, per se, it's that she makes a much hotter dude

Anyway, here's how the rest of the group did, in order of their call outs:

Anya: Oh, I like Anya! I like Anya a lot. She may be slightly retarded, but she has a great face, and she photographs beautifully. Please don't kick her out, k?



Claire: Um... honestly, I have no idea why the judges like Claire (oh, that's right, they're insane.) She seems like a really fun person in general, but she's gross looking. She's 24 and looks 40, and there's nothing high fashion about her. She kind of looks like she's the homeless one.



Whitney: I LOVE WHITNEY! And I was so glad she got called out third! She really is the best plus sized model ANTM has ever had, and she' so damn fierce. I really, really hope they keep her around for as long as they can.



Lurch, er, Lauren: Okay seriously, what the FUCK. Tyra, I know you want a toy to groom, but Lauren is all kinds of wrong. The picture's not too bad, but she can't walk, she can't stand, and she can't articulate. She's a mess, and not a hot mess, just a gross mess of nothingness.



Aimee: Oh, Aimee, I like you too. Aimee, Anya, and Katarzyna are my faves - they all look sort of similar, with a very "in" look. I think they're all beautiful, and they all photograph very well. Just get rid of the other 9 girls, and we're golden.



Fatima: Fatima looks like one of Hello Kitty's friends, and it's driving me crazy that I can't figure out which one it is. A monkey thing, perhaps. At any rate, she's much thinner than I thought she was, and much more hideously bitchy than I thought she was. I know, you were circumcised, I feel badly for you, but stop being a miserable cunt already.



Marvita: We GET it! You had a horrible past, you were homeless, you were abused, we know already. Stop telling us, now it's just a ploy to get attention. Listen, Marvita, you look like a man (an ugly man, too), you can't walk, you can't pose, and you sure as hell don't photograph well. Now go untuck yourself, and hit the streets.



Katarzyna: She is my absolute favorite this season (and maybe my favorite look of the entire show.) Katar-whatever has such an interesting, beautiful face (so she'll probably go home... next) and I think designers would really be clamoring over her. Oh, and wtf about her wearing too much makeup - I think she just has kind of shiny skin? Idk, I'm terrible with makeup, what do I know.



Stacy Ann: Does she - or does she - look exactly like "Dani" from cycle 6? It's uncanny. At any rate, the only thing that stands out about her is that goddamn lap dance that won't go away. Get over it already! Plus, it creeps me out - in person she looks like she's 12, so it's kind of awkward.



Allison: Allison is butt-motherfucking-ugly. Seriously, there is something wrong with her face! Her eyes are either cross-eyed or set too close together - I'm not sure which, but it's bad all the same. She looks like she has Downs S



Amis: Something is definitely amiss here. Get it?? Yeah, Amis is an obnoxious pain in the ass, and I was very happy she was in the bottom two. Hopefully next week they can kick her ass out (or Allison's, since Allison was in the bottom three.) This chick is so damn awkward, it's painful to watch her. Get out, please.


And that's where we leave off this week! I wish Tyra had gone on a rampage and killed Kimberly (and Marvita, and Fatima, and Amis, and Allison) but not all wishes can come true. At least there's always next week.

The Great Dog Name Search

Days till Boston: 2

Days till Old Age: 42

For those of you who don't know, this is Jazz:



She's my 12 year old Lhasapoo (part Poodle, part Lhasa Apso) and she needs a friend when I move. Since I'm hideously allergic to any dog that's not a poodle crossbreed, and since I want another dog with the same temperament and personality as Jazz, I've decided to go with another lhasapoo. I was thinking perhaps gray or brown, for some variety:

Obviously, they're sickeningly adorable in any color.

I'm going to go with a slightly older dog (although ideally I'd like it to still be in the puppy range, so it knows Jazz from the beginning) because I won't have the time or patience (or mental stability) for house breaking it. I need a fun and energetic dog to keep Jazz company during the day - and something that won't pounce out of closets and maul her, like my dad's cats do.

So, all other factors aside (money to buy the new dog with, money to feed the new dog with, time to walk the new dog, etc) I'm in need of a name for Dog. And not "Dog" like Erin would suggest, because that's confusing and unoriginal and I'd sort of feel bad just going with it. Ignoring her "advice" I've come up with a list of possible names:

1. Ibiza (Ibby?) - because it has a "Z" in it like Jazz's name, and that seems quirky and fresh without being something retarded like "Tinkerbell" or "Mittens"

2. Alessandra Ambrosio - because who doesn't want to snuggle up with her? Seriously, I'd like to meet that person, because I'm certain they don't actually exist

3. Kishka - idk it sounds kind of Yiddish, my mother would be a fan

4. Stella - eh not too bad, but I feel like this is popular among tiny dogs

5. Cashmere - thank you, Jen, for that... suggestion

And yeah, that's all I've got. As you can see, I'm in desperate need of help. I want something fun and quirky (and something that fits a small, retarded dog) but nothing that sounds like it escaped from Paris Hilton's dog kennel of insanity. And while the idea of naming a lhasapoo something like "Moose" or "Wolf" is amusing, I'm not sure that'd work. Unless I choose a brown one, and went with Moose. That has potential...

Spice Up Your Life

Oh, hey look, the countdowns are back:

Days till Boston: 3
Days till I'm Really Old (23): 43

Yes, I'm going to Boston this weekend; no, it's not for fun. I'm going up to clean out my childhood bedroom, as my mother has officially kicked off her "Get the Children the Fuck Out of My House" movement. With me having already been gone for a solid 9 or so months, and my brother moving out for good this summer, she's already imagining how nice all of her belongings will look, strewn about the rooms that her children once claimed as theirs.

In her loving words, "Seriously, if you don't get up here this weekend, I'm throwing everything out. Even your stupid stuffed animals."

Thanks, mom.

Since I'm losing a (massive) chunk of my childhood, I was beyond excited to reconnect with my youth in what can only be called the single best way possible: on Thursday, we saw THE SPICE GIRLS.

Zig-a-zig ahhhh

I'm not entirely sure what a "zig-a-zig ah" is, but I do know that seeing The Spice Girls in concert has been my ultimate goal in life since I was 13 years old. I vividly remember the days when we used to dress up like each of the spice girls, wearing our platform shoes and feather boas, and speaking in horrifically garbled British accents. I was always Geri, not because I had red hair, but because I had a fiery personality (and was always kind of easy.)

The Spice Girls were feminists for our age - they were all about getting laid, but hey, a girl needed her friends' approval before taking that final plunge (er, so to speak.) "Girl Power!" was their motto, and young women everywhere embraced it. If we wanted to run obstacle courses in 6 inch stilettos (see: Spice World) then dammit, we were going to put on those heels and get out there. We could do everything just as well as the men, and look hotter doing it. If that's not feminism, then I just don't know what is.

My Idol

All-in-all, the concert was amazing. The Spice Girls are the fiercest bitches I have ever seen (take notes, Christian Siriano) and they put on one hell of a show; man bondage, man humping, and catwalks were just a few of the treats. They sang all my favorites (namely Spice Up Your Life and Wannabe - and When 2 Become 1, which I like to sing to Erin to make her uncomfortable) danced their asses off, and regaled us between wardrobe changes with an endless parade of hot, buff, sweaty men. Perfection.

The only thing less than perfect about the night was the fact that the four of us - a group of 22 year olds - were about 10 years older than the average groupie. Now, The Spice Girls officially formed in 1994 (when I was in the 4th grade, putting me at 10 years old), earned their nicknames (Posh, Ginger, et al) in 1996 (when I was 12 and in the 6th grade) and released Spice World in 1997 (13 and in the 7th grade.) They were really at the peak of their fame from 96-98, so my friends and I were old enough (or young enough) to hero worship them, and really keep track of what they were doing.

So, 10 or so years later, one would imagine the fanbase would be in their early twenties, and that the concerts would be packed with that age group. Instead, the Verizon Center was crawling with girls barely in high school - and they were all dressed up in ridiculous costumes. It'd been one thing when we did it, back in the late 90s when platform shoes were in, and when the girls were still curvy and didn't dress like sex pots, but now everyone was wearing ridiculously revealing clothing, and going on and on and on about how when they were 5, the Spice Girls were the best thing ever. Excuse you? When I was 5, I wanted to be a Ninja Turtle, so shut your mouths.

This was right after my "I want to be naked all the time" phase and right before my "I want to be Punky Brewster and rescue Cherry from the fridge" phase

What I also found startling about all the young girls, was that apparently "Wear Gold Spandex" had been announced that morning in homeroom, and everyone had taken it to heart. I've never even seen gold spandex before, let alone 1,000 girls wearing it. It was like the sales rack at Forever21 had been violently ill, and projectile vomited everywhere. All I wanted to do was start smacking bitches, but parents don't like it much when I assault their young children. At any rate, the beer line was exceedingly small, so at least we got alcohol into our systems. And, I suppose it's worth mentioning, we did have fun making fun of everyone around us. Although if I saw one more Scary Spice with those stupid braids made into horns on the top of their head, I thought I was going to kill someone.

Oh, I was going to buy myself a t-shirt, as they had an adorable pink one that said, fittingly, "If you wanna be my lover" but it was $50. $50 for a t-shirt with an estimated value of $10.50. So now it's time for me to log into ebay, and see if mama can find herself a discounted shirt. Wish me luck!

America's Next Top Out of Work Failure

It's that time again, kids! Last night was the season premiere of America's Next Top Model! (Can you believe we're already on Cycle 10? It seemed like just yesterday, Eva was winning and everyone was busy killing themselves because the girl is 5'6" and hideous. Aw, memories.)

Since Tyra's show moved from LA to NYC, I was hoping we might see a new crop of girls actually worthy to pursue a modeling career in the fashion capital of the States, but alas, Tyra & Co. are up to their old tricks. Rather than picking girls with talent and looks, they picked ugly ducklings that they hope to mold into beautiful swans. Tyra, here's a tip for you: when you have a bushel of 23+ year old girls, they ain't getting shit. Most models start out at 14; trying to turn a 24 year old into a supermodel is impossible.)

Well, let's meet the failures, and see if there's any that might have a shot at getting some work:

Aimee: Well, she does have somewhat of a high fashion face, and she is18 which at least puts her somewhat in a position to actually get some work in the future. Unfortunately she can't walk (and she hunches like she's trying to read something on the floor) but we'll see if "Miss Jay" can uh... work some magic. Or whatever the hell it is that he/she/it does.




Allison: Is it just me, or is her face off? I can't tell if she's slightly cross-eyed, or if her eyes are just too goddamn close to each other, but there is something very asymmetrical about her face. It makes me want to pick up a brick and slam her right between the eyes. At any rate, it would mean she needed plastic surgery ASAP, so it'd be a blessing.



Amy/Amis: Oh, where to start. Amy is the next "rock 'n roll!" and spent about 98% of the show yabbering away into the camera. Awesome. She's a bad ass, and if you don't believe her, well, just take a look at her pubes - she's already offered. Oh, and since there's another Aimee, this one chose... Amis. Double Awesome. Not even a "Chantal" (who's real name was Heather, but there were 2 of them) or "Whoolahay" (I already miss Dionne.) This is hella depressing.


Anya: The next Natasha! Which automatically makes me like her at least a little, because let's face it, Natasha was brilliant. In her own way. (Do you remember all of me??) However, her wonky accent isn't Russian, it's... Hawaiian? Since when do people from Hawaii sound like ESL students that spent their entire life in the outskirts of Moscow? Well, at least she has the heart. She can't walk to save her life, but she's got heart.






Atalya: I don't remember anything about her. This is either very good, or very bad.






Claire: Oh, this is fun. Claire is 24 (yes, 24) and a mother (yes, another mommy) and still breast feeding. Okay, so she's still pumping away, that's fine, but it should've been left there. But no, Ms. Environment goes right ahead and admits that she drinks her own breast milk. I wasn't sure what was more disturbing - her admitting this, or Tyra and the J(ay)s staging a scene where they all drink big glasses of delicious, frothy milk.



Dominique: Straight up, Dominique scares the crap out of me. She's ridiculously intense, and has already stated several times that she doesn't want to smile, because that's just "who she is." Well fabulous. I can't wait until some of the others (especially ~Amis~ and her endless enthusiasm) push Dominique to the point where she starts snapping necks. Seriously.



Fatima: Fatima stands out for a variety of reasons, although the one that glares out is the fact that she was circumcised when she was 7 (a result of growing up in Somalia.) It's horrifying, actually. On a lighter note, Fatima is the only one who sauntered in looking like an actual model. She has the body, face, and "it" factor, and it doesn't hurt that she looks exactly like a young Iman. All she needs is a new do' and this girl might actually make something impressive of herself.


Katarzyna: While her name baffles me, her face intrigues me. She's one of only 3 girls I can really see that could have a possible career in the future, mostly because she has that "it" factor that 99% of the other girls lack. Her face is interesting, and she has hints of Gemma and Masha in there; a nice combo of today's biggest faces. Which means Tyra will send her home first, probably.



Kimberly: Good fucking lord, this chick is retarded. She didn't realize she was supposed to pose while the photographer was ready and waiting and every other girl before her had just posed; she can't actually string together a coherent sentence; she has fluff where her brain should be. And to make matters worse, she's from Western Mass. As everyone knows, Western Mass is to Boston, as The Deep Deep Deliverance South is to New York City. For real, people. For real.



Lauren: Now Lauren is how we all know that ANTM is fucking rigged, and Tyra just wants a pet to groom and play with and call her own. Lauren is literally Frankenstein in heels (especially seeing as auditions were the first time she'd ever worn heels.) She can't even walk a straight line, never mind the catwalk, and she's greasy, unshowered, and rather stagnant. So she'll probably end up winning, of course.



Marvita: I hated Marvita last season when she made it to the final 25 or so and was cut, and I still hate her this season. The first damn thing out of her mouth both times was "I have anger management issues cause I've been molested and raped." Seriously, TMI chickie. And shut up, you're looking for attention, because you mention it every 5 minutes. You look 40, and you're hideously ugly. Get out.




Stacy-Ann: Stacy-Ann's dream in life, apparently, is not to be a top model, but to give a... lap dance. Sweetie, that's called "drinking on the weekend." At any rate, Tyra realized a kindred soul, and she, the J(ay)s, and Stacy-Ann all had one freaky lap dance menage-a-quatre. Awesome.



Whitney: Personally, I think Whitney's stunning. Our token plus sized model, she has a gorgeous face and a perfectly proportioned body, although you wouldn't be able to tell that by her pictures, as she slumps and keeps making this same goddamn retarded face. I hope she gets work, because unfortunately, the winner of the show will not be plus sized, but I still really like her.




So, here are my feelings:

- Aimee, Anya, Fatima, and Katarzyna are the only ones with high fashion faces. I think it's Katarzyna that can actually walk, though at any rate, 3 out of the 4 look like they've never even heard of high heels before. Seriously, it's like putting a dog in stilettos and watching it attempt not to kill itself. Fatima will stick around because she has a sob story and Tyra likes black girls with heart; Anya will stick around because she's hilariously dumb and we always love us our maniacs with accents; the others are pretty and fashionable, so they'll be sent home immediately.

- Claire drinks her own breast milk. Seriously. Seriously. I'm so grossed out.

- Whitney is the best plus sized model they've ever had on the show (sorry Toccara, I still love you and your fierceness, but Whitney is perfectly proportioned.) She'll never win though, because plus sized models are not supermodels. You still need to be in that size 2-4 range, but i do think Whitney could get some work anyway.

- Marvita is going to end up dead in a gutter someday. People will rejoice.

- Lauren is actually a man. Dominique is also actually a man.

- Kimberly will stick around for awhile, because they always keep the fucking retarded, obnoxious one around for awhile. Possibly for ratings, possibly because the producers of this show are obviously insane.

- "Amis" is going to drive me fucking insane.

So, that's all I have for now. Sadly it's too early in the season to actually make solid predictions, but keep tuned, faithful readers, I'll be recapping each episode as we get closer and closer to naming... America's Next Top Model. Wannabe. Whatever.

When Fish Attack

Sooo...

You know how British people are... well, weird? They say "boot" instead of "trunk" and add the letter "u" to everything so "color" becomes "colour" and they switch around "er" so "center" becomes "centre" and so on and so forth? And how they pepper their conversations with words like "wonky" and "shagging" and such? And how they name their kids "Imogen Poots" and "Mackinstosh Muggleton" (no seriously, those are the kids from 28 Weeks Later, not Harry Potter characters.)

I guess it only makes sense then that a fish that resembles a retarded looking stuffed animal has sparked widespread panic among the British citizens. Uh. This would be said offender (and I assure you, the caption beneath it is actually from The Sun, a UK magazine):

Teeth ... snakehead eats everything and can even kill humans

Uh. Now, according to the article, this "harbinger of death" can grow to be 3 feet long, and weigh up to 44 pounds. To me, it looks like an ugly toy that someone buys to freak out a friend. But, according to the article, this squeaky toy-esque monstrosity craves human flesh. Here's the article (with the awesome stuff bolded, although they put some fun things in CAPS to begin with):

PSYCHO PREDATOR IS SID FISCHIOUS

A SAVAGE fish more terrifying than a piranha has been caught in Britain for the first time — sparking fears of a deadly invasion.

The vicious giant snakehead EATS everything it comes across and has even been reported to KILL people.

The monster — from south-east Asia — has a mouth crammed with fearsome teeth, can “crawl” on land and survive out of water for up to four days.

News that a 2ft specimen had been hooked in an English river caused widespread panic among anglers and conservationists.

Journey ... smuggle fear

An Environment Agency source said last night: “The reaction was, ‘Oh s***’. This is the ultimate invasive species — if it starts breeding here it’s a disaster.” Angler Andy Alder caught the snakehead while using a sprat as bait for pike on the River Witham near North Hykeham, Lincs.

Andy, of Lincoln, said: “It had a gob full of razor-sharp teeth. To be honest it looked terrifying.”

Experts who studied photos of Andy’s catch confirmed it was the predator which is on a list of species that cannot be imported into the UK.

It is feared the fish had been smuggled in for an aquarium and then illegally released. Snakeheads caused chaos when they were found in America in 2002, with snipers setting up on banksides to shoot them and entire lakes being poisoned to kill them.

Ben Weir, of fishing mag Angler’s Mail, said: “In all my time of working within fishing I have never heard so many concerned voices.”

Adult snakeheads can grow to 3ft long and weigh as much as 44lb.

So I guess the Brits need to start, I dunno, checking under their beds and in their closets before going to sleep? Cause if this is really "Sid Fishious," then this creature is totally going to... start shooting heroin and attacking people for delectable human meat? And play the bass really, really badly? I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Sometimes I think I've seen it all, but then something like this just comes along and shatters all my illusions. Gob full of razer-sharp teeth. I think I need a drink.

I'm Totally LOST

I like LOST. I like LOST a lot, actually. I may not like it as much as the Reds, who read theories online and stress out about them, but I still really like the show. I think it's clever and fascinating, I think the characters are so nuanced and complicated, and I love how everything ties together when you least expect it.

That being said - I don't understand the show.

I try, I really do. I pay attention to the clues, I watch the subtle hints, I re-watch episodes in the hope that I'll be ahead of the game, but just as I'm gloating and announcing that 'Sally' is totally the key to the entire show, they go and kill 'Sally' off and it turns out she was a meaningless plot device. And then I feel stupid and baffled; and that is exactly what they want. Damn you, J.J. Abrams.

So, I've decided to stop trying to figure out the mysteries of LOST. I'm just not smart enough to wrap my brain around it all, and frankly, I don't have the patience to attempt really tackling the behemoth. Instead, I want to imagine what it would be like if I were on the show. If I'd plummeted out of the sky on that fateful day, and managed to get up and walk away (all without getting sucked into the engine, like that one unfortunate bastard in the pilot.)

Day 1: So, I was totally right about planes exploding in midair, and breaking apart and flying everywhere. This is it, I'm never flying again, you fucking bastards. Although at least the vast majority of us miraculously survived. And hey, I think my huge glaring disability is cured!

Day 2: I've noticed everyone on the island is shockingly attractive. And everyone has perfect teeth. And there's already all this sexual tension between them all. I think this is going to be the best experience of my life.

Day 3: Why they fuck are there polar bears in the tropics?

Day 4: Okay, so my 'doable' list is as follows: Jack, Sawyer, Kate, Paulo, Desmond, Jin, Sun, Boone, Shannon, Juliet. This shouldn't take too long. Oh wait, maybe Sayid too. And maybe Claire, but she's a little too mousy for my tastes. And that whole "pregnant" thing is a turn off.

Day 5: Boone dead, Shannon dead. Time to update the list.

Day 6: Why do The Others let Ben rule? He's a glorified mole, a giant rodent with oddly lizard-like eyes. Suspicious. I feel like he was the ugly duckling in High School, and now wants to have some glory and respect in his life. If only things had gone differently!

Day 7: Seriously, Kate, make up your mind already, this is getting ridiculous.

Day 8: Anna Lucia dead. Break out the whiskey! But don't drive after drinking the whiskey.

Day 9: Hatch located; bizarre man pressing buttons for past three years. Luckily he's just as attractive as the rest of the cast, so we can overlook this minor mental instability. Oh hey, more new characters - sup, guys? I love how you act like you've been here all along. Oh wait, you have been? We're supposed to believe that? Goddammit.

Day 10: People I wouldn't do: Libby, Ben, 99% of The Others, Charlie, Locke (...), Mr. Eko DEFINITELY NOT

Day 11: We have a lot of toothpaste and makeup, I've noticed. Everyone's so damn clean.


Unfortunately, I don't think my take on LOST is quite as... exciting or multi-layered as the actual show. Although I would definitely introduce a lot more sex. A lot more. Seriously, we need more naked time. They're all on a goddamn island, let's see some skin already!

So here are some of my questions. I'm not intelligent enough, nor creative enough, to find the answers, so I put them out there for all of you:

1. What the fuck is up with the polar bears?
2. What the fuck is up with the smoke monster? Why did Locke see a white smoke monster, but Mr. Eko saw a black smoke monster? And why was it so lame looking?
3. Are we dealing with time travel?
4. Who're the rest of the Oceanic 6?
5. Do the flash fowards really happen, or is that just one possibility?
6. Why did they hire Michelle Rodriguez in the first place?
7. Would Libby really have let Hurley hit it?
8. Are Jack and Claire really half-siblings?
9. Who is Jack's ex-wife's new boy toy, and is he going to have any importance?
10. Can we have an episode where Paulo just walks around naked? Please?
11. Who does Kate really love - Jack or Sawyer?
12. Can I have her cast off?


The world may never know.

The Joys of Bromance

It's no secret that I'm obsessed with reality tv, to the point where I often fantasize about trying out for shows and cashing in on my alloted fifteen minutes. I obsess over the contestants, acting like I know each and every one of them on an intimate level. I feel their joy and their sorrow, their elation and their devestation, and at the end of the day, all I want to do is open my arms to them and cuddle them. Unless it's someone like Saleisha from ANTM, then I just want to punch her in the face and cut off that hideous haircut of hers.

I find myself constantly addicted to shows as they come out. I cry with Ricky on Project Runway, I root for the beauties on Beauty and the Geek to finally understand the basics of 3rd grade math, and I imagine that someday, I'll be able to turn the oven on without screaming, like the contestants on Top Chef. (Seriously, ovens are horrifying.) There's a special chamber in my aortic region for each and every reality show out there.

But a new show has emerged from the genius' at Bravo, and it's blown every other reality show completely away. This masterpiece combines models, both sexes, actual talent, and some of the most provocative photo shoots I've ever seen. This show is Make Me a Supermodel.

And it's one big bucket of sex.

Now, to be fair, the contestants really do have a lot of talent, and a lot of potential. The vast majority of them are very high fashion, and even those that aren't quite there could still do big things. They improve every week, they take their challenges seriously, and best of all, the judges and the rest of the country takes them seriously as well. When the ANTM girls march out on the season premiere, everyone laughs their asses off and knows they're doomed to a life of Sears Catalogues and Chili's commercials. The MMAS contestants, on the other hand, could legitimately go on to do big things.

But again, none of that matters when we look at just how hot these models are, and at some of the shoots that Bravo has lovingly bestowed upon us. After a quick Google search, here is a lovely collage made up of images I yanked from here:

BRB, taking care of business.

Okay...

I'm spent.

Moving on. The show actually creates high fashion-esque shots, which is something a lot of modeling shows won't do. Sure, ANTM had that one shoot where the girls posed naked together, but even that was ridiculous. There was no real emotion it in, and certainly no excuse to get all hot and bothered during it. (Basically, what I'm trying to do here is justify my lusty ways by making MMAS look like a superior show - which it is - so I feel better about myself in general. And so I can start salivating over the models again.)

But beyond any cheap sexual thrill I get from watching Perry and Casey grope and lick each other all over while on that bed, you know, the shoot where Perry was like humping Casey, and they were both rolling around together, and they were like sweating, and...







...just a sec.

Okay. So beyond just acting like there's a shit load of sexual chemistry between two people, we come to the ultimate awesomeness that MMAS embodies: the Bromance. It's like a Dupont Circle version of Romeo & Juliet; straight, tough prison guard Ben (who's married) from Tennessee meets fairly flamboyant, gay student Ronnie from Chicago, and sparks fly. Quite literally. Watching the two of them together is like watching a couple on their honeymoon; they're affectionate, adorable, and the chemistry between them is palpable.

Wife and all.

If you google "Make Me a Supermodel," you'll find at least two dozen sites talking about Ronnie and Ben's "will-they-or-won't-they" relationship. Hell, even Entertainment freaking Weekly wrote about it:

The Unlikely Wisdom of Supermodel Wannabes

If you haven't been watching Bravo's newest reality series, Make Me a Supermodel, you're missing a whole lot of gratuitous on-air nudity and — now that we have your attention — one of the most provocative relationships on television. Ronnie, a gay 24-year-old student from Chicago, is enamored with his roommate, Ben, a straight (and recently married) 22-year-old prison guard from Nashville. Here's the kicker: Ben not only welcomes the attention but seems to have genuine affection for Ronnie. This unconsummated ''bromance'' has become the show's buzziest story line — and it's igniting plenty of will-they-or-won't-they speculation. Right now, it's nearly impossible to find a blog that doesn't refer to the duo as ''adorable.''

If the culture war is indeed over, then it's safe to say that reality TV played a major role in helping to end it. Had a show like Supermodel existed 20 years ago, a guy like Ben would have been far more likely to refuse to bunk with a gay man than to flirt with him...

...Of course, none of this resolves the most pressing moral dilemma still facing us today: Should we actually be rooting for Ronnie and Ben to hook up? Probably not. But it's hard to avoid. They're pretty adorable together.

Even established entertainment publications are commenting on the tension between them. And sure, I feel slightly bad for Ben's wife, as she appears to be a sweetheart, but still. April - your dude is gay. And it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside to watch him with Ronnie. And you have to admit, they're adorable together. They practice walking together, they encourage each other at the end of the runway, they always pair together, and they always happen to be groping each other, or rolling around on a bed together.

(btw: the last two icons were during runway training, when Ben was "encouraging" Ronnie)

Soooo. Yep, that's love right there. I kind of want to jump right in the middle for a Chelsea sandwich, but I don't want to ruin the wonder of it all. Yes, for once I'm putting my own sick, twisted perversions aside, so that others can enjoy themselves. I think this counts as growing as a person, or something.

At any rate, come Thursday night at 9pm, I'll be cheering on my boys. Maybe this week, we'll finally get to see them making out in the bathroom or something. And so, I would like to leave you today with this gift:


You're very welcome.

Happy Valentine's Day!!

To all my loyal readers,

This is my gift to you:

Happy Valentine's Day! Chill the champagne now.

I'll be visiting each and every one of you later.

Nagyalma Slew 'Em

I know you're asking yourself, "what does today's title mean?" Is it a disease out of the murky depths of the Congo? Is it the a design company that launched last week at Bryant Park? Is it the result of Chelsea being awake too early, and passing out on her keyboard?

No, my friends, it is none of those things.

It is rather the name of the Komondor "Best in Breed" winner at the 2008 Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. In case you're wondering what the hell a Komondor breed dog look like, I've provided you with a picture of ol' Slew 'Em himself:

Slew 'Em comes from a very impressive lineage, including a father who won several awards as a pure bred Komondor show dog, and a mother who was a kitchen mop at Applebee's.

Unless you've been living under a rock whose landlord doesn't allow pets, you know that the Westminster is the Super Bowl, Olympics, and Ken Paves Salon of the canine world. It is the creme de la creme of competitive dog shows, showcasing only the best in their breeds. For me, it's like crack is flowing out of the tv and directly into my blood stream.

I get to watch dogs on parade for hours and hours, and it never quite gets old. It drives everyone else around me insane, but it fills me with such joy that I want to rush out and purchase any and all dogs within a ten mile radius (and makes me conveniently forget that the only dogs I'm not horrifically allergic to are poodle crossbreeds.) It's like visiting a pet store, where all the pets are not only loved and taken care of, but have their hair in rollers and are freely given monikers such as Glacier Creek's Whispering Wind, and Fleur De Lis Platinum Grandeulr (a Kuvasz and a Newfoundland, respectively.)

I imagine that after the show is over, the dogs urge their owners into their crates, and then head off for some cigars and brandy in the ultra exclusive Winners Lounge. There they toss their hair and smoke cigarettes from those fancy French looking holders, and discuss the perks of being pure bred perfection. They laugh at the misfortune of mutts, and nod knowingly as the conversation turns to how stupid humans are, and how unfortunate their trainers' choice of outfits were. They are the snooty, upper crust of the dog world.

And on Wednesdays, we wear pink

Since I was a kid, my family has had many dogs, but we've never actually shelled out the 3 grand or so to purchase an actual pure bred. This is mostly because 1) that's a buttload of money, 2) I'm hideously allergic to most dogs (which means all purebreds) , and 3) they're all inbred and insane. True story.

If you don't believe me, let me tell you the Tale of Katie. Katie is a 3 pound Yorkshire Terrier with a taste for human blood. All 10 or so inches of her are comprised solely of a demonic entity, and she spends her life hiding in tea cups, prowling beneath couches, and launching herself out of door jambs in order to satisfy her craving for human flesh. She is the "pet" of my mother's friend, and so on occasion we willingly bring her into our home while her owner is out making good use of his remaining limbs.

She runs shockingly fast for something that's a glorified rodent, and can jump from the floor straight up to the back of the couch with ease. Her teeth are razor sharp, as I found out first hand when she once lunged at me and sank her teeth in the ample flesh of my ass. I'd be running up the stairs to grab my phone, when she attacked, hurling herself off the back of the couch and chomping down on the flesh she so desired. It hurt like a bitch. And then the damn thing wouldn't get off - it was like she was going down to the depths of hell, and she was bringing me down with her.

Don't let the stylish bow and glossy, blown out hair fool you:
this is the face of pure evil

Katie has bit me several times since then, including once when she tore at my hand - and I do believe she was going for the vein there, hoping I'd bleed out so she could devour me without having to deal with me fighting back. I blame it on the generations of inbreeding before her, although her murderous rage could've been caused by her owner deciding to cut her hair himself. I know I get a little... crazy... after a bad hair cut.

At any rate, I think I'll stick with my mutts. The ones we've had are happier, more energetic, (a little more neurotic, although in an endearing way) and they still have fun names. Take a look:

1) Skeezicks. My dad's lifelong companion, whom he found rooting around in a pile of garbage in an alley way. What at first appeared to be a sickly gray dog was actually a thin, healthy white dog with a heart of gold. When I was born, Skeezicks would crawl under the dresser while I slept and watch over me. Oh, and in case you didn't know, my parents kept me in their sock drawer for the first few weeks of my life. Yes, a sock drawer. Explains a lot.

2) Satchmo O'Muttley. Satchmo was the most fitting Christmas present ever. My dad was engaged to a J2 at the time, living in a quaint, picturesque house with her three kids (and my brother and I a few days a week.) They thought it would be brilliant to bring in a small little puppy for us to love. Unfortunately, small little puppy only stayed small for about 2 hours, considering Satchmo was 1/3 Siberian Husky, 1/3 German Shepard, and 1/3 WOLF. By the time it was a month old it was the size of a moose, and delighted in knocking Rory over and dragging him around by his ankles. Needless to say, we had to give Satchmo away to a ridiculously excited 25 year old hiker and outdoors man. It was a true match made in heaven.

3) Nika. Nika was another "what the hell is this thing made of?" mutt, and to this day I'm not entirely sure what she actually was. At any rate, she was sweet, small, and ridiculously well behaved, which came in handy considering she was my current pseudo-stepmother's dog, and when my dad moved in with her we had two other dogs and two cats. Talk about insanity.

4) Sasha Madam Spotswoodle. Take a nervous, anxiety-ridden middle aged man who fears death, the dark, small spaces, crowds, and everything in between, translate that into dog form, and you have Sasha. A walking Xanax ad, she's sweet but insane. At least we know what she is - half Rottweiler, half Border Collie. Talk about bizarre breeding.

5) Jazz Bonehead. JAZZ. My Jazz. My reason for living. The only thing in this world that's inspired even somewhat motherly feelings to emit from me. Jazz is a "designer crossbreed" which sounds much fancier than it actually is. She's a Lhasapoo, meaning she has a Lhasa Apso mother and a Poodle father, and is bred not only for the intelligence, patience, and good cheer of the two breeds, but also because the coat of the Lhasapoo is non-allergenic. Whenever I touched any other of our dogs, I had to immediately go wash my hands and flush my goddamn eyes out, but I can cuddle Jazz and roll around with her for hours, and be fine. Which I do, because I'm insane. But how could you resist this face:


That's right, you can't.

And so what if she's slightly retarded? She's sweet, she's adorable, and she doesn't make me sneeze. AND she tends to fall down stairs and walk into walls and trip over herself, all without getting hurt. No brain, no pain. And that's the way I like it.

Dear Cold: Go Fuck Yourself

I've had it - I am completely, 100% fed up. I'm throwing my hands up, throwing the proverbial towel in, and declaring: I QUIT.

Fuck. The. Cold.

Walking to work this morning was like stripping naked and plunging into the icy Atlantic. While in Nova Scotia. On the coldest day of the year. My entire face was bright red and chapped by the time I finally threw myself through the building's front doors, and I would've been crying if I wasn't afraid the tears would turn my eyeballs into ice cubes. Between the huge jump in temperature (how again did we go from 60 to 20?) and the fact that the wind was so strong it felt like it was cutting my flesh right off the bone, I realized I just can't take it anymore.

Should I drive, take the Metro, or ice skate to work today?

I hate the cold. I cannot live in the cold. I can do maybe ONE cold weekend a year, and that would be so I could go skiing one day, and wear a cute sweater on the other day. I'm ridiculously sensitive to the cold (okay, so I'm just a whiny baby that can't handle it) despite the fact that I was born and raised in the goddamn Boston area. While everyone else is frolicking about in the snow, enjoying the temperature drop, I'm hiding out inside, gulping down hot chocolates, and bitching and complaining from the moment I feel my first slight chill of the season.

I'm not meant to exist in this temperate zone. I'm supposed to be luxuriating in the warmth on a beach, happily living in a place where the temperature stays between the 60-85 range. I don't mind a coolish day, in which I can wear a light jacket and cute boots, but I don't want to have to break out the parka and some snow boots.

So... LA, here we come!



Sure, LA has some days where those boots and the light jacket come in handy, but for the most part, it's MUCH warmer than anywhere in the goddamn New England/Mid-Atlantic region. And there are other warm areas nearby; San Diego is south, Vegas is east, and Hawaii is west. So, while you all are freezing your asses off, trudging through the tundra in the bleak middle of a DC winter, I'll be sitting on the beach, sipping a martini and chatting about Hollywood politics with A list celebrities.

At least for now, I can console myself with my inner FURNACE. Which brings me too:

Chelsea's Menopausal Madness of the Day

Today (unfortunately) we have not yet seen any hot flashes. Friday, however, saw a spectacular hot flash in the middle of the FMF lobby, and then some lovely hot flashes at 3am, 4am, and 5am. It's like being woken up by your alarm clock, if by "woken up by your alarm clock" actually means "hauled out of bed and thrown into an oven." Do I - or do I - get hotter every day? Oooh, literally and figuratively!

Receipe For Disaster

Several Absolute Vanilla and Coke Zeros + Several Kamikaze Shots + Several Vodka Crans - Food - Water x Passing Out Immediately = All Day Hangover Deadness

We Have Liftoff!

AND WE HAVE MENOPAUSE!

Houston, we're cleared to be mobile (and get laid)

Today is a glorious day! I had my menopause shot at 9am, and I should be mostly pain free within the next day or so! I'm highly looking forward to running around like a maniac, dancing on bars, and bringing home questionable men. It'll be just like college!

True, it's only a matter of time until I start having hot flashes, and until I start crying over things like "misplacing that paper clip" and "that commercial that had sad music" but in the end, the good trumps the bad. I like to think that the emotional roller coaster of menopause helps me in the long run, because it makes me act like... well, like a female. I don't cry, I don't watch romantic movies, and I hate Kate Hudson, but now that I have crazy hormonal tides, perhaps I can once again better bond with creatures of my own gender. And maybe I could even watch The Notebook with people, and not get kicked out of the room for alternately laughing at the movie for being fucking retarded, and screaming at everyone enjoying it for being pathetic, overly emotional morons.

Anyway.

Today marks a turning point in my life (hopefully) for several reasons, some of which I cannot yet go into detail about. If today goes according to plan, then I will be on busy, happy little beaver, and life on the whole will take a much needed turn for the better. If things don't go according to plan, I'll soothe myself by scarfing down entire gallons of ice cream, and then reveling in the fact that I can now go to the gym to work the calories off, rather than finding another fat deposit on the inside of my thigh.

It's the little things in life, really.

At any rate, this weekend will be spent having a lot of fun, and hopefully Monday will mark my return to the gym, and the reintroduction of candy bars to my diet. Another change this brings is that instead of continuing "Your Survival Technique of the Day" I've decided to go with something more fitting:

Chelsea's Menopausal Madness of the Day

Some past examples include:

- crawling into the fridge during a hot flash
- sobbing in class when my professor wrote "good job!" on my paper, rather than "great job!"
- devouring two entire pints of coffee heath bar crunch ice cream in 20 minutes
- tearing a friend a new asshole for daring to ask how i was feeling that morning
- convincing myself a hot flash meant my insides were melting, and panicking
- thinking it was a good idea to announce in class that i'm on menopause because "my uterus likes to shed a lot"
- demanding that my parents get remarried... to each other. because at the time, it made perfect sense in my head, even as i was screaming at them and declaring that they were working together to defeat me. how that makes sense, i do not know.

Just so you have an idea. So far, so good for today, but that's because the shot is only throbbing in my ass, and has yet to fully make it's way into my blood stream. I anticipate something fabulous tonight though, because the first one is always a doozy. Fabulous!

Crap

BRB, Apocalypse

HALLELUJAH!

BREAKING NEWS:

On Friday I get to have this shoved into the tender muscle of my upper ass:

Do you know what that is? Are you tingling with excitement? You should be!

That's my Lupron Shot! Finally!! I've been waiting months for this, and now that my insurance company has finally decided to cover most of it (seeing as how the original price of $1700 was a little too steep.) This means that while I have to deal with all the insanity of being on medically-induced menopause (the worst of which are the hot flashes - I anticipate spending a lot more time shoving my head in my freezer, like I did back in the good ol' days) I get to be healthy.

Here's a sampling of things I can do on the shot:

- Not have anymore cysts burst
- Walk for miles without pain
- Go to the gym and work on my fitness
- Dance like a maniac when I'm drunk at bars
- HAVE SEX

That pretty much sums all of that up. No pain, the ability to exercise, and the ability to get my freak on, if I so desire. Which means I'll probably get wasted this weekend, and wake up the next morning next to this:


But that's okay; he'll probably have food tucked away somewhere, so we can enjoy a romantic breakfast in bed or something. Nothing says "celebration!" than awkward sex and a bag of pork rinds hidden behind a man boob!