Murphy's Law

Murphy's Law states: "Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong," and I really feel like that is the perfect summation of my existance.

Sure, sometimes I luck into things, but when it comes to health-related issues, it's just one big barrel of What The Fuck. Take Lupron Round 2, for example:

I put in the prescription for my Lupron injection nearly 2 weeks ago, knowing that I needed to get the shot somewhere between 2 weeks and a week-and-a-half before the prior Lupron dosage ran out. Which means I need it by next Friday. So of course the insurance company dicks me around for days and days, and I'm not actually able to have it mailed to me until yesterday. Which is okay, because as of today, it's about a week-and-a-half before the shot runs out. So I'm thinking "well, at least I have it now!"

Which of course means that this morning I wake up, feel terrible, and - whoops! - get my period. Nearly 10 days before the shot runs out. Which, might I add, is nearly impossible, seeing as the shots surpress ovulation so that I do not get my periods. Medical marvel, or freak of nature? You decide.

Now you may be wondering, "why is this such a bad thing? Besides the whole bleeding and PMS-craziness factors?" Well, loyal readers who enjoy TMI, it's a bad thing because when I ovulate and my happy little egg gets pushed out, endometrial tissue from my uterus sheds inward, rather than outward with all the other delightful gunk that constitutes a period, and then it likes to float around in my abdomen and attach itself to nerve endings, which is why I'm always in pain. Fabulous!

So no periods = no endomerial tissue = no pain. But of course I got my period - directly after having surgery. The whole point of having surgery and then being on Lupron continuously is to make sure periods do NOT happen, so that I have no more pain. Course we're not even sure now if the surgery was a success, and now I'm going and sloughing my innards all over the place, so I think it's safe to say that I am not a happy camper right now.

Well, I'm in quite a bit of agony, but I took a happy pill I had left over from the last time I was hospitalized, so I don't... care. It's a bizarre feeling. By this point I should be bawling and throwing whatever's handy, but right now all I want to do is eat chocolate and sit in a dirty little heap. Course then I'll get fat, and since I can't work out I can't eat and sit on my ass, especially since I'm supposed to be getting back into modeling. Ah, nothing says "beautiful young woman" like a bleeding, menopausing, hunched over freak of a girl.

Fabulous.

The Joys of Menopause

Days till Surgery: 27
Days till Old Age: 35

I think part of the reason I feel so damn old is that I welcomed in my 21st - and will welcome in my 23rd - birthday while in menopause.

Now, I know it's not real menopause. Once I stop taking my shots, my body will go right back into churning out eggs and being one massive vat of fertile woman bits. Seriously, if I ever get pregnant, I'm in trouble - I'll have a litter or something.

But knowing that this isn't real menopause, and knowing that I'm not really in my mid-to-late fifties doesn't really help much when I wake up at 4 in the morning because I'm having night sweats so badly I've lost 2 pounds. And it doesn't help when I'm so hormonal that I cry over commercials, and crave chocolate so badly I dream of robbing the candy counter at the closest CVS. And you'd think maybe the second time around wouldn't be so hard to handle, but it's really not all that much easier.

What's interesting about this time around is that the symptoms are slightly different. When I first went on menopause, there were three constants:

1. Hot Flashes: They always happened a certain way. First I'd feel this terrible wave of nausea, then 5 or so seconds later I'd erupt in a horrific hot flash, that would last anywhere from 30 seconds to several minutes. It felt like I was burning up from the inside out, and that everything inside was turning to hot liquid magma. As soon as it was gone, I'd feel fine. If it was a short hot flash, I'd strip off whatever layers I could, and fan myself until it passed; if it was a long hot flash, I'd run to the bathroom and stick my head under the faucet, or run to the kitchen and stick my head in the freezer. The freezer was the best remedy, but seeing as most classrooms didn't have one, I could only use them on certain occasions.

Come to me

2. Mood Swings: Oh, mood swings. One minute I'd be fine, and the next minute I'd be screaming and throwing things, over something as simple as "where did I leave that pen?" There was no telling what would set me off, and there was no telling if it'd be a rage swing, or a sad swing. If it was a rage swing, then the throwing of sharp objects would commence; if it was a sad swing, I could usually be found bawling in a heap on the floor over absolutely nothing. Luckily, I was able to mostly curb these with the help of certain add back therapy, but they still surprised me on occasion. And I'm sure they surprised other people around me.

3. Night Sweats: You may think these are the same as Hot Flashes, but you couldn't be more wrong. Sure, they both involve copious amounts of heat emanating from my body, but while one was usually over after a few excruciating seconds, the other plagued me for hours at a time. Night Sweats varied - sometimes I'd just wake up drenched in sweat, and trudge off for a very baffling 3:30am shower. These weren't quite as bad, because I'd just wash my sheets and go back to sleep. But other times I'd wake up drenched in sweat, and wouldn't be able to shake the heat. I'd sit in bed, miserable, for hours, feeling like I was melting. I'm not sure why they were so bad, especially when daytime hot flashes were more predictable, but that's menopause for you.

Kill me now

This time, things are different. Now it's like my body's been set on a low broil, and there's nothing I can do to shake it. My hot flashes and night sweats are as common as ever, but there's not that "volcano eruption" phenomenon happening. Rather than having to tear off all my clothes and sweat all my water weight out, I just feel like I'm simmering away on a stove top. The night sweats aren't really sweats per se (I'm sure you're all relieved to hear I don't need to wash my sheets every night, as I'm not actually sweating) - I just feel so hot I have to sleep on top of all the covers, and it's hella uncomfortable. I can't get cool, and I can't get comfortable, and I end up staring at the ceiling and wondering if the neighbors upstairs are screwing or beating each other up. Hmmm.

The hot flashes seem like mild, uncomfortable heat that just keeps going and going and going. I don't melt like I used to, but I'm definitely hot and unhappy - and rather than for minutes, or hours. On the Amtrak down to DC, everyone was wearing coats and sweaters and scarves - I was in leggings and a t-shirt. I wasn't dripping sweat, but I was overheated and cranky.

And the mood swings now seem set entirely to "sad swings." I haven't felt any irrational anger yet, as I'm sure everyone around me is grateful for, but I have these deep senses of sadness that hit at random times. This time around I know what they are, so I can ignore them, but they're tricky bastards. Last night, for example, I had one while I was making pasta for Erin and myself. I was in a good mood and chatty and talking Erin's ear off, but at the same time I just wanted to sit on the floor and bawl, and eat the entirety of her Oreos package. I probably just should've done it and gotten it over with.

Must. Eat. All. Oreos.

Now, all things considered, I am very grateful to be on Menopause. Without it, I'd be developing more cysts, ending up in more hospitals, and fighting to the death with more ridiculously stupid and chauvinistic male doctors. The menopause lets my system reboot, and once I have surgery, it enables me to feel 100% better. I can work out, I can run for miles, I can have as much sex, with as many partners, as I so desire. (Watch out, world, 27 days!)

If that doesn't spell success, then I just don't know what does. But it would be easier without all the side effects.

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!

Ovary Gate '08

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

I spoke far too soon. The irony.

So here's what happened:

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

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

Dramatic Reenactment

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

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

Such a Dick

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

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

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

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

Tomayto, Tomahto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I said flying

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

$1700. Yep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

The Tuesday That Wasn't

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

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

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

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

But enough about that!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sexiness Personified

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

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

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

omg, stunning

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

Giant Dead Rodents and My New Love

Days till Menopause: 8

Ah, Mondays.

It's becoming more and more of an effort lately to even attempt getting out of bed in the morning, never mind to actually find the willpower to crawl out from beneath my toasty warm blankets and trot off to take a shower.

What was nice about this morning, though, was that when I took in a deep, early morning breath, I didn't immediately choke on the thick stench of death and keel over myself. Why is that odd, you ask? Well, let me tell you a story.

Once upon a last Friday, Erin and I went over to my apartment so I could change out of my work clothes and gather some assorted things before we went over to her place. This was partially because I had no heat at the time and I was going to spend the night at her place, and partially because, who am I kidding, I spend most of my weekends over at her place anyway.

When we stepped into the lobby of my building, it smelled like a combination of cigarettes, old people, and stale feet - nothing out of the ordinary there.

We proceeded upstairs, where upon the first landing we started smelling something horrific. At first I thought it was someone's cooking gone terribly wrong, but the closer and closer we got to the second floor doorway, the worse it got. It was sinking it's venomous teeth into us, sucking out our souls with its nauseating stench.

And then we opened the door.

I don't really know how to explain the blast of odor that hit us upon opening that door and stepping into the hallway. I don't think anyone that hasn't experienced that type of deep terror can really understand. In the simplest terms I can come up with, it was like some massive, stinking, mutant hamster had crawled into someone's radiator and died a nasty, grotesque death, and now it's rotting carcass was wafting through the heating system and destroying everything in our path. No wonder the heaters were out; how can the system keep going after a 400 pound rodent dies in it?

x1000000000000

Erin was right - it was totally how Law & Orders start. Open with two girls, chatting along and not really taking in their surroundings. They follow their daily routine, when something suddenly seems amiss. They peer quizzically at each other, yet continue onward. What is that smell? Should they investigate? And they do, peering around until DUN DUN, dead body!

At any rate, I was grateful whatever it was hadn't died in my apartment. I hope it wasn't a person dead somewhere, but it smelled like the inside of a gigantic hamster cage, so I can only assume it was indeed a 400 pound rodent. It is the city, after all.

The rest of the weekend was mercifully odor-free; we watched Mystery Science Theater 3000, we slept in until noon, and we even got off our asses and went out to 51st State for drinks. I like that we've made friends with the bar staff, because it's a fun place to go - it's not the madhouse that McFadden's is. There aren't college juniors going completely insane because they're finally 21, and at 51st State we don't run the risk of running into a bunch of douches we can't stand, and then having to play nice for a few hours.

The people are amusingly insane, and even though we've had several bizarre men hit on us and ask us for dances/hook ups/to follow us home, it's almost charming in a way. It's been awhile since I was hit on by awkward 20 somethings, rather than awkward teenagers or awkward 40 somethings.

Oh, and we also watched almost 2 entire seasons of Criminal Minds. I'd heard of the show before, and seen a little bit of one episode, but I hadn't really given it much thought. I figured it was yet another "detectives band together to bring down the bad guy" show, and Law & Order SVU already fills that special place in my heart. What I didn't realize is that the characters are elite FBI profilers in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, the plots are awesome, and the whole show itself is really, really good. They've tackled everything from kidnappings to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, to dismemberment to Saw-like people, and everything and anything in between. Oh, and Dawson Leery guest starred as an awesomely schizophrenic psychopath who kidnaps my poor Reid.

Reid. Okay, my "type" of guy varies. I tend to date one of two types of guys: Tall, blond-ish guys with good senses of humor, and tall, very dark guys with good senses of asshole-ish-ness. Reid, aka Matthew Gray Gubler, falls into none of these categories. He is this:

AND I CAN'T HELP MYSELF. Admittedly yes, he's also a model for DNA Models (one of THE top agencies) and he's done campaigns for Marc Jacobs, Burberry, and Louis Vuitton (meaning the cream of the crop) - but he's super stringy, super angular, and super... well, dorky. Especially on Criminal Minds, in which he plays a super genius who graduated from high school at the age of 12, and can profile people who haven't even been born yet.

He's not even remotely my type, but I'm strangely drawn to him. Maybe he's made of magnets.
At any rate, I'm smitten. I want him to show up at my door with a bouquet of flowers and a bag of Hot Fries, and declare his love to me. And then I'll make him shower me in gifts until the 15th, when I can make sweet, sweet love to him all night long.

And it wouldn't be like a normal relationship, in which I meet him at 10pm, have sex with him at midnight, then forget about him. No, this would be real. I'd hold him tenderly, maybe we'd cry a little together as we shared our feelings. We could brush each other's hair, tell stories about our childhoods, and dream up chic and awkward fad names for our babies. I'd suggest Paperclip Maria, and he'd surprise me with Coca-Cola Jade. Our son would be named Fabio Sandstorm. Maybe the other way around. We'd move to a ranch in Tennessee and raise livestock. You know, escape the paparazzi and the cruel realities of Hollywood. It'd be like Heaven.

Although, truth be told, I'd probably just get him drunk and get him laid. Can't teach an old dog new tricks.


Your Survival Technique of the Day
How to Survive the Stench of a Dead Creature

Step 1: Cover. Make sure your eyes are only somewhat opened, and make sure your hand is closing your nostrils and covering your mouth, so that you're only breathing in the scarcest supply of air. You want to stay alive, so burning lungs are part of the job.

Step 2: Run. If you must get something from the mist, do it as fast as you can. This is to avoid breathing in too much of the odor and dying awkwardly and embarrassingly on your own floor, and it's also to make sure you don't take too long, and your lungs don't explode because you're not breathing in enough air.

Step 3: Survival of the fittest. If you're with someone else and they're falling behind, leave them. You can't overcompensate for their lack of survival skills. Ask Darwin.

Step 4: Shower and detox. When (if) you make it out, immediately run to a fresh air source and gulp in some air - then shower directly after. If you were in a cloud of dead rodent smoke, chances are you now smell like dead rodent. To avoid accidentally killing any of your friends, or having the maintenance man called on you, scrub yourself straight away.

Step 5: Dinner. If you're from the South, dig in.

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 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.

Let the Countdowns Commence!

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


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

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

Don't hog all the crab dip, Clarence!

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

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

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

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

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

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