Go (Mid)west, Young (Wo)man!

Days till Halloween: Who cares, I'm back!*

Once again I have proven I am an indestructible force of pure strength and character; I have battled the dangerous, scathing skies, I have overcome the masses of rabid, hate-mongering Midwesterners, and I have triumphed over the consumption of approximately 400,000 calories (per day). And I survived the smell of cow manure in rural Omaha - and let me tell you, that in-and-of itself should warrant at least a purple heart.

Just give me one reason, and I'll turn you into my manure

I got to experience the smell first hand, when a fabulous coworker and I got lost in rural Omaha - which was unexpected, as we were in a business/industrial park area, and we missed our street, and then suddenly Bam! dirt roads and the crossroads from Supernatural and everything. Totally got the whole Midwest experience right in that one moment. Actually, the smell continued over to the center we were visiting, but I wasn't sure if that was really all that strange or not, since I'm so used to the smell of smog and pollution and all the other yummy things that come along with living in the city (or close to the city, per my childhood.) That might actually have been fresh air, as it's common knowledge that anyone that lives in the city too long actually ends up being poisoned by fresh air if they return to rural areas.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I left on Tuesday, feeling particularly brilliant that I got to the airport right at 9:20am for my 10:40 flight, only to realize that my flight was at 11:40am, and I totally could've slept in for another hour, but now I got to spend that hour sitting at the airport sipping coffee and trying to pry my eyeballs open. Super!

I flew Midwest Air, which I'd only even recently found out existed, and was shocked and horrified by the depravity of the crew and the flight experience itself. I should start off by explaining that the pilot was a dog - maybe that will explain some things:

Oddly, this was the third result on Google Images

The plane was a vehicle of death; it had to have been 500 years old (at least), as was evidenced by it's giant leather seats, the ample leg room, and the warm, safe feeling that the death trap provided us. Yeah, like I want to be hurtling through the sky on an airline without any history of crashes or accidents! Give me TWA any day, my friends.

Worst of all, the airline tried to poison me by cramming delicious chicken fajitas down my unwilling throat, and then - worst of all - they gave us warm, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. What the fuck. I just want to be left alone when I fly, I don't want some perfectly nice flight attendant trying to force me to eat delicious, warm, gooey pieces of chocolate-ly chip heaven. No thanks! I'd much rather starve.

The recipe for DEATH

When we finally landed and I could fling myself down on solid ground and curse Midwest Airlines for giving me the most enjoyable flight of my life, I realized to my horror that I was indeed in the Midwest. And the people - the people! They were all like "oh hey, we're the first genuinely nice people you've ever met, can we help you with anything?" and I was all like "what the fuck no, leave me alone, I don't want any of your help," but then they were like "let me help you with your luggage, and let me get the door for you, and let me be super welcoming and introduce you to everyone," and I was like "oh my god, you people are monsters, just let me be!" Seriously, it was a nightmare.

I did the rounds for work, and met the whole team (and a good chunk of other employees) and I have to admit that they were fabulously nice people, and I really had a good time. Everyone was really helpful, very nice, very funny, and more than happy to put up with my naturally retarded nature. Of course when I left, everyone probably thought I was a total moron, but I'll imagine it as the nice, safe, enjoyable little bubble that it was. I was very relieved to see that everyone was as friendly as they seemed via email, as I wasn't entirely sure what to expect; probably some combination of Office Space and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. You know, what anyone would expect of an office in the Midwest.

Omaha itself was... well, Omaha. The downtown and Old Market area was actually bordering on adorable, with its brick streets, cute boutiques, loft apartments and plethora of bars and restaurants (yeah booze!), although the rest of the city was too small for my tastes. After spending the majority of my life traveling between Boston, New York and DC, I start to freak out and get super paranoid if I can't hear horns beeping, people swearing, and drunks hollering at all times of the day.

Old Market/Downtown Omaha... damn you for making me like you

On Tuesday night we went out to Anthony's Steakhouse for authentic Nebraskan steaks. Now let me tell you, I don't know what it is that they sell on the East Coast, but it sure as hell isn't actual cow parts; maybe it's some bastardized combination of knuckles and heads and whatever the hell else is in horrific combination "meats" like hotdogs. The steaks out there are completely different from anything else out here (well, unless it's expensive Nebraskan steaks we order in or order at restaurants, but they're not quite as fresh, considering I think the cows were slaughtered out back as soon as we put our orders in) and were shockingly good. Even my lingering sore throat and flu couldn't stop me from enjoying them. Not that I usually have problems overcoming ailments for the sake of food, but this was saying something, considering how much like ass I felt.

Yes, that is a giant cow on top of the restaurant

I think I put on about 10 pounds just from the past two days alone. There was the meals on the plane, the plethora of warm, gooey, delicious chocolate chip cookies, the steaks, the catered lunches, the additional cookies, the giant fudge cake for my boss' birthday, and everything else I managed to cram down my throat. Oh yeah, and the additional additional cookies that the hotel gave us. What is with the Midwest and delicious cookies, and why don't we have more of them out here on the East coast?

I managed to drag my significantly larger bulk onto the plane on Wednesday, and happily didn't have a complete mental breakdown on the flight, per my usual happening. I still hate takeoff with a deep, fiery passion, but the flights themselves were surprisingly nice. Fucking Midwesterners and their stupid approach to a happy, safe life. I'm not bitter, I swear.

The plane - of course! - got in something like 40 minutes early, so of course I had all this extra time, which meant I could go back to my apartment, change leisurely, take my time and unpack, all before heading over to Erin's to watch Supernatural. Damn you, Midwest Air.

The day ended nicely with an abundance of the Supernatural boys, and a discussion of our plans for today. If you weren't aware (and were a big FREAK OF NATURE), today is the day that 30 Days of Night premieres in theaters. Yeah vampires in Alaska! I've been pumped to see this movie for months now, since I first saw something about it in one of the many weird sites I visit online. We're going to truck out either to Chinatown or Alexandria to see it, depending on whether or not the Reds come with us and feel like carting our asses out to Virginia in the car. I am so super pumped to indulge myself in my Halloween horror movie geekiness.

30 straight days of night? We should've thought of this years ago!

Of course I've started with the horror movie atmosphere already, as I'm listening to the radio at work, and Britney' Gimme More is playing. I keep having horrific, PST-esque flashbacks to her badformance (har har, get it?) at the VMAs in which she jiggled her beer belly at us, tottered around in an outfit 400x too small for her, and generally showed school age children everywhere why drugs really are a bad thing.

*Of course I care, that'd be madness otherwise. Days till Halloween: 12

Ghosts, MySpace Creepers, and The Horror of America's Next Top Model

Days till Halloween: 20
Days till Omaha: 6

I'm not entirely sure which is scarier: Halloween, the night of ghosts, mayhem and general tomfoolery, or my trip to Omaha, the great void in the middle of no-man's land. To be fair, the people in the Omaha office seem fabulously nice, and I am looking forward to meeting them, it's just that I have a deep fear of any area that is entirely landlocked. Rivers and streams and lakes don't count - it's ocean or nothing for me, my friends. It also doesn't help that just thinking about taking two different planes on consecutive days makes me want to scream and hide under my desk in the fetal position.

Speaking of hiding under my desk in the fetal position, I am tempted to do as such for two reasons: 1) it is roughly 20 degrees below zero in the office right now, and 2) I am the only one in said office, and I am convinced that there is something moving around in the main room, but I am too frightened to go and investigate the noise (meaning I have seen too many horror movies, and am too intelligent to go in and see what's making that noise that sounds just like a roaring chainsaw in the dark closet.)

Your bejeweled bell bottoms are terrifying!

In all actuality it's probably, like, a paper clip stuck in the vent, but I'll sit at my desk and convince myself that it's a zombie and I have to type very quietly so as not to catch it's attention (which everyone knows would mean I'm doomed, since I type with the grace and delicacy of an elephant.) Sadly, this is a normal state of being for me, heightened only to a fever pitch by the deliciousness that is the Halloween Spirit. I think part of it has to do with the fact that it's finally not 95 degrees with a 200% humidity rate outside; if it feels cold and spooky, and I'm stuck alone in a giant, dark office (where the hell are those back lights, anyway?) my mind shall fill in any and all blanks.

On the topic of blank spots in the brain, last night's episode of America's Next Top Model reminded us all yet again that Tyra Banks' head is full of helium and pop references to her days in the Inglewood 'hood. One would think that if she wanted the next Top Model, she'd be picking girls with strong high fashion looks, not a few commercial girls and some hideously disfigured burn victims she found when she mistakenly entered the Shriner's hospital, thinking she was at Bloomingdale's. There's maybe two, three girls top, that could actually have a shot at walking on a runway. The others are doomed forever to the hell that is the Sears Seasonal Catalogue.

This week, the ever-obnoxious Victoria got the proverbial boot. I really wanted to like Victoria, because she was a Yale student who seemed above all the stupidity and cruelty of the house, but my optimism for her ground to a screeching halt as she turned heinously prickly and began arguing with the lovable, fabulous Tiwggy at each and every judging panel. Of all people why Twiggy? She's the only one up there with any sense whatsoever - well, Nigel may have some sense, but I'm always imagining us having hot, steamy monkey sex, so I'm never actually sure what comes out of his mouth. At any rate, it has to be better than Miss J's incoherent, often times flailing ramblings.

The irony!

If you're like, 99% sure that modeling is the stupidest thing in the world, and you go to Yale of all places, why on earth would you ever audition for ANTM? You failed, you have to return to a student body that will forever, ceaselessly mock you, and everyone told you that you sucked. Congrats! Let the neurotic self-hatred begin!

Speaking of dumb pictures and even dumber people (see what I did right there? I'm leading every sub post into the next one, and tying this together so nicely it's like it was gift wrapped at Papyrus. Am I good or what?), I received a message on my MySpace account this morning, which read:

Cheklsea,

Hi I looked at your overall profile and you seem pretty cool. I liked it very much.

Your pics I have to admit were very nice, but let’s be fair. You already know that so I am not telling you anything new:)

I apologize in advance what might be perceived as a rude out of the blue e-mail. ...but I am moving from NY to DC/VA because of a job offer I cannot pass up and I don't know anyone here. It would be comforting to hang out and meet some new people. I recognize that you don't know me from a whole in the wall but I can assure you that I am normal, sensible, give people lots of space and respect their privacy. While my profile portrays a narcissistic and perhaps even an immature side of me, let this e-mail reflect a much deeper, down to earth side of me, and if you give me a chance I’m confident you’ll mirror those same views as well. So I hope you'll feel comfortable talking to me and getting to know me.

Generally I like to have a relaxed time when I first meet someone. Go out have drinks, just chilling out. Yes I do like dancing but that doesn't control my interests or the people I hang out with. It's just another type of activity I like which I have many. Makes sense?

You can IM me on hotmail as ___ If you have AIM, you can IM me as ____. If you use yahoo you can Im me there as well as a fall back option ____.
If texting is easier for you, you can do that as well. My text number is _____.

I know I hit you hard with the e-mail but at least it wasn't some 2 line boring cut and paste hello. I hope to hear from you but either way have a great day and know this…. If your pics reflect your true personality, then you’re an amazing person.

Hm, where to begin with this gem. First of all, my name is Chelsea. Contrary to popular belief, there is no "K" in my name. Second of all, of course my pictures are good, that's why I put them up there. I debated with putting up the "Drunken Chelsea Slips and Falls Down Stairs and Lands in Bloodied Heap" picture, and the "High as a Kite Chelsea Attempts Stripping on Coffee Table in Middle of Frat House" picture, but ultimately decided perhaps I wanted to portray myself in a different way. Plus, I'm wearing a ton of makeup in those pictures, so of course they're fabulous.

Moving on, I do hope this is some sort of hoax, as this just gets sadder and sadder. Okay, you're making a big move, I understand you don't know anyone in DC, but why not... oh, I don't know, make some friends at your new job? Hit up the bar at happy hour? Make small talk with your neighbors? The last thing you should be doing is trolling MySpace - given the site's statistics, I'm probably a 400 pound man that likes to capture smaller, weaker men and trap them in my basement for months on end, so you should be careful with giving our your personal information there, buddy.

And oh boy, the personal information. All I need his is social security number and I'm getting myself a brand spankin' new identity. For his sake I left the spots blank, but it's safe to assume that his screen name and email address are very similar to something like hot2trot@moron.com. It's that bad. Also, how did we get to such a "deep" level via a one-sided email conversation? Saying you're deep and mature doesn't make it so - I could say I'm Paris Hilton, but I didn't magically develop a wonky left eye and a fresh case of herpes. Sorry.

To say farwell to all of you, and to my new best friend, I end with his last comment: If your pics reflect your true personality, then you’re an amazing person. Well, since my pictures are from my brief modeling stint and from some drunken sorority escapades from my college days, then I'd say they sum me up pretty nicely: a frigid bitch with a taste for the sauce. Right on!

Travels, Jobs, and the Great Cat Rescue

So I once again have survived an 8+ hour Amtrak trip, although this last trip wasn't an over night, which meant that they didn't blast the cold air (so I didn't have to wear two jackets and fourteen sweaters under them), but no one was sleeping so there were people talking constantly and believing (incorrectly) that their lives were interesting enough to share them with me.

When I travel, I don't particularly like making small talk. (When I fly, I'm too busy screaming to manage an actual conversation, but that's another point entirely.) I like to put my ipod on, maybe do a few rousing crosswords, and spend the rest of the time staring out the window and making myself dizzy, or attempting to nap in between people moving around and poking my seat and letting their child scream directly into my ear.

On this trip I had several chatty seat mates, although the strangest of them all happened to be the one that mercifully didn't speak as much. He sat down beside me, and I noticed he was pretty good looking. I gave him a curious once-over, he made some polite small talk, and then he was mercifully quiet. But not long after sitting down, he took a shirt out of his suitcase and put it on - normally this would be of no interest whatsoever, but the shirt was a pale yellow with little cherries and flower blossoms all over it. It was something straight men should run screaming from, and someone gay men should burn immediately. He then proceeded to put on the most heinous pair of horn rimmed glasses I have ever seen, and then he topped off the horrific transformation by pulling out a Star Wars series book and reading heartily.

Seriously, wtf? If you're a good looking guy, why ruin yourself by gleefully reading a book about Star Wars, and dressing yourself like a gender-confused outcast with terrible taste in clothing? I just can't take anyone reading Star Wars books seriously, because 1) the movies were enough, for the love of god!, and 2) I just can't take Darth Vader seriously. Anyone that's part robot, speaks through a water filter, and calls himself Darth just isn't scary. And I tend to associate Darth with Garth from Wayne's world.

Dude! I am your father!

Anyway, I made it through the rest of the trip without further incident, and started my first day as a Grown Up that Works All Day and Goes to Bed Around 10pm After Bitching About Children These Days and How I Was So Much More Mature When I Was Their Age. Seriously though, was I that annoying when I was 18??

My new job is pretty much totally schwing, to borrow some lingo from Mr. Garth. My bosses are relaxed and have good senses of humor, I'll have some projects between my text twist and celebrity blog time, and I generally get to relax and do as I please. Not bad for a first job. Only problem is that I have to go to Omaha next week. OMAHA. Do you know what's in Omaha? Corn. And fields. And people that burst out of cornfields with chainsaws. That's pretty much it. However, our corporate headquarters are in Omaha, and I have to go meet the staff, so I get to go on a trip with my bosses. To Omaha. In a plane. A PLANE. I might get fired before I even get there, as I tend to claw at the person sitting next to me when I fly, and my bosses might not appreciate me peeling the skin from their hands because I'm a giant, giant pussy and am convinced that the plane is going to plummet from the sky at any moment. With my luck, we'll take one of those tiny planes with two rows of seats on one side, and only one on the other - you know, where the stewardess has to move the very fat man on board to the other side of the plane, just so you'll stay in balance and not go careening across the sky.

Next stop, Omaha!

In more friendly and less deadly news (until her parents find out), Erin and I have adopted a giant, fluffy cat named Cleo (or Catzilla for short, per my own twisted mind.) She is the coolest cat ever; very relaxed, very chill, very much a stoner, I think. She seemed a little perturbed at being scooped up and sped away from her home (especially because she's spending two nights as a fugitive in Kristyn and Becca's dorm room), but I think she'll adjust nicely. She played with her toys last night, hunted through the closet, and gave lots of those looks that cats give you which clearly say I'm going to kill you in your sleep. Because cats are intelligent and viciously evil creatures, and all they want to do is murder you and dispose of the body, in order to have full reign over their surroundings.

Courtesy of ICanHasCheezburger.com, perhaps the most frightening site on the entire internet