America Continues Embarrassing Downward Spiral

Days till Menopause: 11

They say that bad things come in threes, but 2008 has brought in a complete barrel full of insanity. Never before has a year started off with so much utter stupidity and horror.

First of all, the heat in my apartment building is busted. You heard me right - busted. When I walked into my apartment last night, I wondered why it was almost as cold as it was outside. And let me tell you, it was fucking freezing outside; we're in the middle of a horrific cold stretch, so of course it's now that the heat decides to shit the bed.

I was elated for all of .002 seconds when I awoke at 3am for some water, because I heard my radiator kick back into gear. Then I actually got out of bed, and promptly froze, because the AC had been turned on, rather than the heat. So now I think I have pneumonia, which is awesome.

Okay, off to bed!

Second of all, Britney Spears has apparently gone completely insane (more insane, I should say), and after essentially holding her children "hostage" in her home (while an endless parade of police cars, ambulances, firetrucks, helicopters, and paps looking to get some ass circled her house and recorded it all for the world to see) was carried out on a stretcher and taken to the hospital. Man, I hope when the time comes for my psychotic breakdown that I'm not famous (yet) and I can do it without it being splashed across the tabloids and blogs.

Of course by this point, it's not like it's a surprise when she goes completely off the deep end (again.) This is a woman who's shaved her head in public, who's attacked paparazzi vehicles with an umbrella, who continuously forgets to wear underwear with skirts, who continuously forgets to wear underwear and pants with "dresses" (aka regular t-shirts, as it's all the same to her), who can't actually read, add, or speak English, who is so drugged up she has to undergo court ordered drug testing, and who is so legitimately mentally ill that all of this is actually kind of sad. Well, sort of. It's also really good entertainment. Let's have a moment to reflect, shall we?

Losing your children AND your mind? Hilarious! I bet Jamie Lynn is super pissed that she's no longer in the spotlight!

Uh. Moving on!

Third of all, Huckabee beat out the other Republican hopefuls last night in Iowa, proving that not only are Republicans fucking insane, but the world as we know it is beginning to collapse in on itself. Huckabee is a guy that doesn't believe in evolution. That's right, kids, he doesn't think humans naturally evolved over long periods of time, he believes that God created the world in 7 days, and we were wandering around in Eden as perfect specimens and have never once changed.

Which is odd, because we've never found any human remains from that long ago, and we had these things called "the dinosaurs" and we've already seen, in evolutionary terms, from evidence like bones and fossils, how humans have been steadily evolving from apes, to cro-magnums, to Republicans, to actual humans.

See, this is where we get into trouble. The Bible is not an actual recording of events - it's a series of allegories, moral lessons, and man-made tales created during a time where those sorts of lessons were encouraged. When the Bible was written, it obviously was not present day, and there were different rules, different ideals, and a completely different way of life. Nothing but the bare bones of the Bible are relevant today (don't steal, don't cheat, don't kill, etc.) Reading it like non-fiction isn't only insane, it's dangerous.

The Bible, as fiction, is fabulous; it's full of danger, death, wrathful gods (yeah Old Testament God!), scheming neighbors, love triangles, moral lessons, and all sorts of nonsense. When taken as non-fiction, it preaches hatred, intolerance, bigotry, and stupidity. It was indeed written by men, and it was relevant only for the time period in which it was created. NO ONE LEADING A FIRST WORLD COUNTRY SHOULD ACTUALLY TAKE IT AS FACT.

And for the first time ever, Chuck Norris fails America

What I think we should do is just go ahead and elect a 5 year-old boy, because then it's completely acceptable - and dare I say adorable - when he comes up with complete BS like this. If little Timmy declares "God made us all in 7 days cause God is awesome! We came down in bubbles like Glenda from The Wizard of Oz!" it's cute, because the kid is 5 and can't tie his own shoes, never mind understand the concept of evolution. When an educated man over the age of 40 says the same thing, well, then it just gets scary.

And besides, if we have a 5 year-old, then we can just keep the same agenda and workings of the Bush administration, because at least at this point, we'd be a step ahead of the game, and our foreign relations would be better because everyone would be going "awww he's so cute, it doesn't matter if he's stupid!" as opposed to "good fucking lord, this man went to Yale?!"

For now, we can only hope and pray that things are different in New Hampshire. I mean, first of all, it's not the midwest, so immediately we're ahead of the game. New Hampshire folk are like the little siblings of us Massachusetts folk - cynical, bitter, and sharply intelligent. And they're actually aware that we didn't just spring up from nothingness one day. Seriously, people.

So, Hillary '08. I think she can clean up our foreign policies, help bring an end to the war, pay off our debts and get us another surplus, encourage human rights, allow stem-cell research, prove that gay marriage isn't the work of the devil, separate church and state, and even offer Britney a shoulder to cry on. If that isn't the workings of an amazing leader, then I just don't know what is.

Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007 - Part 5

Days till Menopause: 14

HAPPY 2008!!!!!!!!!!

I hope everyone had a happy, healthy, and extraordinarily drunk New Years! Before I tell you all the tale of how Erin and I rang in the new year, I feel it's only responsible of me to somewhat finish The Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007. I really meant to do all 5, but between my mum visiting me over this past weekend, and the fact that for some reason the internet in my apartment has decided to no longer work, I was sadly cut off from the online world. Since it's already (oops) 2008, I suppose it's enough to skip right ahead and jump to:

The Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007:
Number 1: The Urinator

You may think that the Wall of Shame was all fun and games (hmm interesting rhyme) but far more work goes into it than you may be aware. The first step in the process is deciding on a name for the offender, and oftentimes it's difficult to think of something both explanatory and catchy. Take, for instance, The Mormon Mauler - fabulous name, no? - a guy that was a Mormon (apparently) and yet we believe he snorted coke in our bathroom as he then went totally out of his mind and tore all my clothes off in a partially-lust-filled frenzy. I've never been so shockingly disheveled and out of breath from a half-assed (and not even very interesting) hook up.

Anyway.

At first we were tossing ideas around, trying to think of some basic key phrases we could work with - something that could be funny and fitting:

- coke head
- tiger
- disheveller
- maniac
- drug fiend

See? None of those are particularly hilarious. Eventually we came up with Crouching Tiger, Hidden Lightweight, because we honestly hadn't seen his insane transformation coming (nor his taste for the powder) and because he pounced on me from behind, and it was all very Ninja-like. It seemed fitting that we honor the great ninja-esque movies, while explaining that the dude couldn't hold his booze/beer/cocaine/etc. But something was missing.

It wasn't until months later, when Becca had a stroke of genius, that The Mormon Mauler finally had a fitting and thrilling name.

The second step in this process is to come up with an appropriate and hi-larious! picture to actually go up onto the wall. We had problems with MM because we were originally going with Crouching Tiger... and the first picture had a ridiculous tiger bounding across the paper, with a coke nose and a spray of white powder. It was very classy - something you may see in the tabloids after Lindsay Lohan has a night out on the town, perhaps. But then it looked sort of like Tony the Tiger was snorting the sugar off his Frosted Flakes, and the whole thing ended up being just sort of sad. But that's another story altogether.

Now, every once in awhile, there's a guy that comes along that's just so outrageous, and so shockingly absurd that his name just seems to emerge from the very air itself. It just is. And such was the case of:

The Urinator

For a rose is a rose is a rose, and a Urinator by any other name would smell as... pungent.

Let me explain the situation:

In DC, there's something that affects 99.9% of women from the ages of 17-25. You may think it's the clap, but in fact it's far more horrifying (and far more embarrassing.) It's called: Marines. The Marines are a group of men that are so low on the IQ totem pole that, often times, I can carry on a better conversation with the trash barrel outside the McPherson Square Metro Station. I'm sure that, somewhere, perhaps higher in the rankings, there are men of intelligence, men of poise and grace and manners, men who are brave and strong and capable of leading other men in the most dangerous and treacherous of situations.

Maybe. My experience, however, has taught me otherwise.

While I am not part of the 99.9% of women who fall into the "Slavering Over Marines" category, my friends are the type to be rather enamored with them. When a friend started dating one (and I use the term "dating" very loosely), we suddenly ended up with a group of them that sank their proverbial teeth into our proverbial ankles, and seemed ready to stay for the long run. There was Sergeant Blue Balls, the guy that couldn't catch a break; The Beefalo, living proof that one can still be a member of society after a full frontal lobotomy (just not a productive nor intelligent member of society); Random Dude who no one seemed to know; and my friend S, who was doomed to become The Urinator.

I first met the boys a few nights before I finally (again) broke up with my on-again, off-again ball-and-chain of a boyfriend. The Urinator was apparently enamored of me from the beginning, as he wanted my number and wanted to hang out. Now, to be fair, he was a really nice guy. A little enthusiastic, sure, and not my type, but he was smarter than his pack of hyenas, and he was a genuinely nice guy; he didn't press too hard for my number, and he did back off when I told him I was (for the moment) still technically in a relationship.

Fast forward to the night I did finally end one of the most obnoxious relationships of my life, and who's conveniently at our place? The Marines. So The Urinator knows I'm single now, considering I was so giddy and relieved that I joined the Marines and my friends in our living room for celebrations and numerous toasts. It was sort of cute, the way he was hanging off my every word, and laughing a little too hard at my stupid jokes, but it was almost endearing in a way. I didn't want to sleep with him, but he was fun to hang out with, and god only knows we were testosterone-strapped for most of college. There's something about being in a sorority and being surrounded, at any time, with at least 30 other girls, that makes you crave masculine time.

So when The Urinator called me a few days later, and invited me to go with him to the Marines Corps Ball, I figured it wouldn't hurt to hang out with him a little more, and get more of a feeling as to whether or not I wanted to actually commit to going to this thing with him. While I'm often heartless, he was fun and kind and I figured I'd at least give him the chance to hang out again, so I could see if I'd be comfortable going out for a night of crazy drinking and questionable choices with him.

We had a party at our place so everyone could join in on the fun. We got ready and pregamed a little, while the Marines finished working a banquet of some sort. When they arrived, we commenced a long night of drinking, Never Have I Ever, and all-around frivolity. By the end of the night I was feeling pretty good - drunk, but not shitfaced. The Urinator, however, was completely out-of-his-mind drunk. We couldn't figure out how 8 beers had made him so sloppy, since we'd seen two of them pound a 30 rack in a shockingly short amount of time and be fine. What the hell had they been doing beforehand?

Hard alcohol. At the banquet. And lots of it. With the clock pushing 2am, The Urinator was so drunk he could no longer stand up properly; he was slurring and blathering on to himself, and couldn't quite keep both eyes open (or focused.) We sent him off to go to sleep, where he conveniently passed out cold. On my bed.

When the time came for the rest of us to retire, I realized that there was a very drunk, very passed out guy on my bed. And a very almost-entirely-naked guy on my bed, to boot. Somewhere between the living room and the short walk to the room I shared with Erin, he'd shed all of his clothes (besides his boxers), and was sprawled out beneath my quilt, legs sticking out everywhere. It was all very awkward.

I was too drunk to attempt yanking him out and shoving him onto the floor, so after some quick debate, I figured I'd roll him into the GIGANTIC empty space between my bed and the wall (thank you, GW architecture) and leave him be. Erin was about 4 feet away from me, and she has the strength of 10 marines, and besides, The Urinator was a nice guy. A terrible drunk, but he was harmless. I changed into my pajamas, rolled The Urinator aside, and settled down to go to sleep.

Around 3am I awoke to an elbow in the jugular, and my first thought was god fucking damnit, he's trying to silence me and have his wicked way with me, I need to wake up Erin, and good lord this is going to be awkward. Then I realized that he was still asleep, and the reason he was fidgeting like a mad man was because he was taking his boxers off. Okay, so then I was confused - was he attempting to molest me, or was he insane? Or was it some combination of the two?

And then, suddenly, I heard a noise that would forever change my life (and give me one of the best ice breakers a girl could ask for.) It was a curious sound, a bizarre sound, something that doesn't seem right - like hearing an animal in the dorm, or hearing a sorority girl speak up in class with a correct answer. It was wrong.

And it sounded like a gentle fountain.

I bolted up right and looked over at Erin with a look of dawning horror - she herself had mirrored by movements, practically jumping out of her bed, her eyes wide and terrified. In a slo-mo montage from a tacky horror movie, I turned my head and my jaw dropped open as I took in the sight before me. It was The Urinator.

Completely naked.

Pissing in my bed.

My reaction was sort of like this:

My stuffed animals, including my beloved stuffed Moshi duck (named Octavian Belu after the former Romanian Womens' Olympic Gymnastics Coach) once in a neat row along the edge of my bed, were now like a firing line, awaiting the blast of something far worse than a bullet. My ridiculously pretty, ridiculously expensive quilt, was right in front of them. It was a fate worse than death.

Now, if anyone had ever asked me: "What would you do if a Marine peed in your bed?" I would've answered: "Hauled him out of bed, beat his sorry ass, and kicked him the hell out." In all actuality, I decided to:

Scream like a wussy little girl, jump out of bed, and run screaming through my hallway, out the door, and down to the lobby, where I proceeded to continue screaming, and eventually frightened the hell out of a UPD officer. Erin came with me while I suffered what can only be described as Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. All I could say, over-and-over again, was "he peed in my bed... he peed in my bed... he peed... in my bed!" It was very tragic.

After about an hour of this, I finally collected myself enough to go back upstairs. When we arrived at the door, Erin and I realized that the cot that had been sitting outside in the hall earlier had not been claimed - we'd assumed our neighbors had requested it, but since it was now about approaching 4am, we figured no harm, no foul. First, we wheeled the cot into the room and into the living room - then it was time for The Urinator.

I approached cautiously, holding my breath, feeling my body tremble. He was asleep in a pool of his own urine, spread out like a drunk doing some macabre snow angle. By some miracle, he'd only managed to pee in my comforter, and, somehow, didn't get a single drop of urine on my quilt or on my beloved stuffed animals. Feeling somewhat emboldened, I stepped right up to him and said:

"Get up."

Upon receiving no reply, I shook him gently. Then I shook him harder. Then I grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard enough to give him Shaken Baby Syndrome. Still no reply. Knowing I had to get him the fuck out of my bed, I raised my fist high above my head, and brought it down in one fell swoop, punching the side of his face as hard as I possibly could. Finally, an eyeball cracked open.

"Get the fuck out of my bed," I said.

"Mphjgfsuyfjsjf?" he replied.

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BED RIGHT THIS INSTANT!" I screamed, waking up the roommate in the next room over (who was, conveniently, looking for an excuse to wriggle out of the grasp of The Beefalo.)

Somehow Erin and I managed to drag him out of the bed, wrap him in the soaking wet, urine drenched sheet, and shove him out into the living room and onto the cot, where he promptly passed out, in all his naked, urine-covered glory. Luckily, Random Dude on the couch didn't wake up.

Feeling hysterical again, Erin and I barged into the Reds' room, waking them up and demanding a Tide Stain Stick (not that that would've helped at all.) I reverted right back to screaming "he peed in my bed! He peed in my bed!" which they both later thought was a nightmare, until the insanity of the next morning. But I don't want to get ahead of myself.

I spent the rest of the night/dawn/morning washing my sheets 6 times, and washing my blanket 4 times. I was chilled to the bone, horrified and panicked. My bed was my sanctuary. It was well known for being ridiculously comfortable, and I often cocooned myself in it - and some Marine had come along and urinated in it.

When I finally passed out, sometime around 7:30am, I wrapped myself in my untouched egg crate and entertained the idea of crying myself to sleep (truthfully I was too hysterical to do so, both out of horror and amusement, and spent the next few hours fitfully tossing and turning, coming in-and-out of consciousness, seeing rivers of yellow water pass through my mind.)

Around 10am, I blinked my eyes open, hearing people begin to stir in the other rooms. By this point, all 4 of my roommates were well aware of what had happened, and they were anxious not only to get the Marines the hell out of the apartment, but also to laugh their asses off without completely destroying whatever shreds of masculinity these poor individuals had. I heard The Urinator ask where I was, and ask if we wanted to go to iHop. The answer? Not a fucking chance in hell. I could hear my friends telling him I didn't feel well, that I needed to sleep and to leave me alone, but I heard him make his way over anyway.

I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep when he barged into the room, and it took every single ounce of self-restraint not to punch him in the face (again) when he said some cheesy goodnight line, and ran his fingers through my hair. I cringed and almost cried. Luckily, after that touching bit of insanity, the Marines left. Not realizing anything had happened the night before, and accepting the fact that everything was somehow different without even batting an eyelid.

Now, I'm not too sure about you guys, but if I woke up, butt-ass naked, in a room I didn't fall asleep in (on a bed I didn't fall asleep on - never mind a bed that hadn't been there the night before), wrapped in a still-damp sheet wreaking of urine, I might have a few questions. Such as:

- What did I do last night?
- Why do I smell urine so strongly?
- Why am I naked?
- How did I get out here?
- Where did this bed come from?
- Why do I smell like a Walmart bathroom?

The Marines, on the other hand, defied all laws of logic, and accepted it as merely "whatever." The Urinator dressed himself, the others all collected around his urine-wreaking body, and they all sauntered off as though it were the most perfectly normal thing in the world.

When they were gone, I woke up and washed my sheets again.

Later that day, as we're walking to a sorority powder puff football game (yes, we actually did retarded shit like that in the sorority), one of my roommates gets a call. From The Urinator. Sometime during his drunken wanderings that night, he lost his cell phone, and realized that he didn't have a way of getting in touch with me. Tragic. She got nervous and blurted out my phone number, not knowing what else to do.

When Kristyn found out what she'd done, we realized it was time to take matters into our own hands. Kristyn picked up her phone, and called The Urinator.

"Hey, [The Urinator]? Yeah, this is Kristyn, Chelsea's friend. Yeah, you can't call Chelsea, sorry."

Finally realizing that something was amiss (I suppose the whole "waking up naked and soaked in your own urine" thing wasn't enough indication at the time), he begged her to tell him what he'd done. This was how we heard her side of the conversation:

"Yeah, you pissed in her bed. Yeah, that is really embarrassing. Yeah, you better not call her. Bye!"

And that, my brave friends, was The Tale of The Urinator. And the Number 1 Awesome Adventure of 2007. Without my friend The Urinator, I wouldn't have the best "Never Have I Ever" at parties - I wouldn't have a guaranteed ice breaker with new people - I wouldn't have the best "Oh no, I can beat your Top 3 Things About Me List that professors always give on the first day of class!" ever. And I wouldn't have had quite as amazing a year. So thank you, Mr. Urinator. While you may be wasting away in shame, know that you will forever hold a special (and puppy piddle pad-covered) place in my heart.

Happy 2008, everyone! Here's to no more Marines urinating in your bed!

Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007 - Part 2

Days till 2008: 4
Days till Menopause: 18

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

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

- Have a threesome
- Use my cell phone more

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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


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

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


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

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

Top 5 Awesome Adventures of 2007 - Part 1

Days till 2008: 5

Days till Menopause: 19

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

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

Anyway, enough of that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Yeah! Spring Break! Wooo!!!!

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

And it is the land of Tropical Jiggly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Usually, this ends in 1 of 2 ways:

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

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

3) A marriage proposal.

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

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

I was trapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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