28 Days Later (is Christmas)

Days till Christmas: 28

And so the Christmas season begins! My office building's lobby is wall-to-wall Christmas decorations, including several hung wreaths that could kill a man if they fell from their perches, and one of the largest Christmas trees I've ever seen, complete with baubles the size of my head. I think it's time to break out my Official Christmas Shirt and start getting wild.

Hold on to that feeling

Although I have been debating over whether or not to purchase a second Official Christmas Shirt, since that would give me some variety (and save on washing the same shirt every other day.) I'm looking at a new Johnny Cupcakes shirt, as I'm pretty sure the last one I bought was a limited edition Halloween shirt... two years ago. Oops.

Frosty the Cupcake, or Cupcake Runnings?

Oddly enough, I went to Hebrew School with the girl in the white shirt, but that is another story for another time. Speaking of other stories, I've been getting ahead of myself, and have yet to tell you all about the insanity and frivolity that was my Thanksgiving Break. So, without further ado, I present to you: Chelsea is a Fat Ass with a Drinking Problem!

Tuesday: After landing at Logan around 1am, I head back to good ol' Hull for some much needed gossiping time with my father and Joanie. I show them pictures of my apartment, we chat about law school and the future, and all-in-all it's disturbingly normal. Except that I go to sleep at 5am and wake up the next day at noon.

Wednesday: My mother and I pretend to be townies and indulge ourselves at Schooners, where everyone knows your name, your height and weight, your Social Security Number, and whether or not you're circumcised (the answer to that is: yes.) We drink bloody Marys - and that is pretty much the moment I decide it'll be a fabulous idea to keep it up for the entire weekend.

Thursday: Thanksgiving! I begin drinking at noon. Hilarity ensues. I meet a guy that's moving to Helsinki, and we discuss the lack of sunlight during their winter days. Somehow I polish off a bottle of wine. And a bowl of spinach dip. And a bowl of pumpkin spread. And a huge plate of stuffing. And a turkey. Etc. Etc. Etc. Embarrassing family tales are told, and I believe everyone within a 10 mile radius knows everything awkward and stupid I've ever done in my entire life. More wine is imbibed.

Thursday Night: Some old friends from home and I meet up with some friends from high school I haven't seen in over 4 years now (god fucking damn, I am so old.) At first I'm rather nervous as saying I used to be kind of a douche is like saying that, oh, Heather Mills is kind of the Anti-Christ. And kind of wobbly. A bonfire is witnessed, many more drinks are tossed back, a $210 tab is issued, and I find myself having the most fun I've had in an embarrassingly long time. Drunken apologies are given, Swisher Sweets are smoked, and a weed dealer named Hans somehow ends up in the car and confuses the hell out of everyone. A 2am road trip to Allston takes place, I fall asleep on someone's ass, and sometime around 4am I realize if I don't start drinking water now, I'll be in for quite a horrible surprise the next day.

Friday 6:00am: I step on the dog and somehow 4 mugs of water magically appear, strewn across the floor. I wonder what the hell I was doing from 4-6am.

Friday: I wake up around 8, disoriented and still reaching for a phantom beer. Hangover sets in. My father calls and wants to go shopping, and suddenly I feel better - there's no better remedy for a hangover than shopping. TVs are discussed, more drinks are had, and I begin to wonder why I ever left college. We have dinner at the Italian restaurant I used to work at, and I get the thrill of seeing the owner's son, the same guy that used to hug us and poke us and flirt with us. By the way, we were 14 when we worked there. Hot!

Saturday: We set off an adventure to Plymouth! Plymouth Rock is gawked at, restaurants are decided on, and I have a moment of mind blowing confusion when I see the signs for the 50th Anniversary of the Mayflower II and read it wrong, thinking it's the 50th anniversary of the original Mayflower. I remind myself that my parents were not 2 and 4, respectively, when the original Pilgrims came over to settle the great Americas. Dinner with my aunt and uncle is eaten, more alcohol is consumed, and more family tales are happily told.

Saturday Night: More shopping commences, and a digital camera is bought (although I have to pretend like I didn't see it, so I can pretend to be excited on Christmas morning.) Jen and I meet up and have a lovely dinner, then finally sit down to watch not only Plan 9 from Outer Space, but Plane 9 from Outer Space with commentary from Mike, the guy from MSTK3000. More hilarity ensues. But then Jen is a two-faced liar and I don't eat the food we bought, and sadness overcomes the world.

Sunday: Kristyn and I set off on our DC Road Trip! We leave at 11:30am, make great time and stop in Middletown, CT to meet up with friends for lunch. We explain the usage of the word "quaint" and explore the town. Delicious pizza is eaten. We leave at 4, we hit traffic along Connecticut. 5pm. 6pm. We hit traffic in New York. 7pm. We get lost off the Tappen Zee Bridge, trying to avoid the mass amounts of traffic. 8pm. We get into New Jersey. 9:30pm. New Jersey fucking sucks. 10pm. We get into Delaware. $3.00 is a ridiculously high toll for driving all of .002 miles within the state. 11pm. We pass Baltimore. 11:30pm. 12 hours after we set out, we arrive in DC! I fall asleep.

And there you have it! My awesomely busy, exciting, thrilling, and drunken holiday! I hope you all had similarly wacky Thanksgivings, and are now getting ready to don your festive, bell-covered reindeer sweaters, drink your egg nog, and sing drunken Christmas carols, cause oops, someone spiked the 'nog again!

Merry Turkey Hangover Day!

The amount of food and alcohol that I have consumed in the past 48 hours is so shockingly high that it could feed and water all of the starving children on those "just 10 cents a day!" commercials. All things included, there was turkey, 6 kinds of pie, an entire bowl of spinach and artichoke dip, several drunkenly-devoured deviled eggs, and a $210 bar tab. Oh, and cigars. Yes, we are champs.

I would elaborate, but I'm still trying to polish off this bottle of Coppola Merlot. I'll attempt actual explanations on Monday, when the cold, horrifying shock of going back to work finally sinks in. Until then, enjoy your bottles of wine, have some laughs with your friends and loved ones, and indulge in your glorious, much deserved tryptophan coma.

Greetings from Hull

Days till Thanksgiving: Tomorrow

Save your jokes

Home, sweet home! I made it to Hull mostly intact, although my flight was rather... eventful. We were supposed to leave at 10:50pm, but the flight was delayed half an hour, and then we didn't actually get onto the plane until sometime around 11:40. Once we were seated, we were informed that the fuel truck wasn't working probably, and that the Jet Blue people were as pissed off as we were. Around midnight, the fueling was finally finished, and we were free to take off... right into the Mist of Doom. It was so goddamn turbulent that I was convinced (as usual) that we were going to plummet right out of the sky. Luckily, they fed me lots of cookies and diet coke, and Nirvana's original MTV Unplugged show from 93 was on, so at least if those had been my last moments, I could've died happily.

We landed around 1am at Logan, where I was greeted by my dad, brother, and quasi-step-mother, and the horrific Sounds of New England, some offensive, blaring tape of animal hoots and screams that sound more like feeding time on the Serengeti than a quiet night in the woods of Massachusetts. And the sounds followed you into the elevators, and right over to your car, and continued to ring in your head until you finally managed to get home.

This morning (okay so it was 12:30pm, but I had just woken up, so for all intents and purposes it was morning) my mother picked me up and we enjoyed a fun-filled morning of pretending to be townies: we went to the magnificent Schooners.

Resistance is futile: You are trapped here forever

Now nothing - nothing - screams Hull Townie more than enjoying two bloody marys before 1pm at Schooners on the shore. I was lucky enough not only to watch some 60 year old man literally fall asleep in his food (and then be reprimanded by his wife who walked in, smacked him, and told him to stop drinking before the afternoon), but to also bear witness to my freshman year high school English teacher and Class of 2003 Advisor. This man is somewhat of a legend in Hull because he takes it upon himself to latch onto the "cool" kids of the various grades, and tries his best to make everyone think that he's not a pudge, middle-aged, closeted homosexual, but an awesome, beer chugging, everyone's-favorite-guy. Because nothing says "Awesomely Cool" like trying to pretend like you're a super popular 15 year old. Totally.

My mother almost fell off her chair with excitement, knowing that every time I've talked to this man, I've either called him an idiot, fought with him over his nefarious ways, or called him out for playing favorites and being pathetic.


Mom: I'll pay you $50 if you go over and talk to him.

Me: No way in hell! The last time I talked to him I told him he was unfit to be a teacher!

Mom: Okay, make it $100.

Me: No way!

Mom: I'll make it $200 if you spill your drink on him.


It's so good to be home.

Tomorrow is our annual Thanksgiving Dinner, held at the home of my mother's best friend (and basically my second mother.) We're heading over there at noon, which means I'll be drunk at 12:30, napping by 2pm, awake and drunk again at 4, asleep by 6, and then up and refreshed for us to go shopping with Kristyn and her entourage, because it'll be Black Friday, baby! And nothing is more exciting than blowing your entire paycheck on heavily discounted goods. Pounds of Ralph Lauren sweaters, and hideous holiday decorations from Target, here we come!

Oh, Tuesday

Days till Hull: Tonight!
Days till Thanksgiving: 2


So this morning I awake feeling particularly refreshed and alert. Immediately I begin to worry, because if I ever wake up before my alarm goes off I always feel exhausted and cranky and like I might kill the first person I see. It's very light outside, which also makes me worry, as I set my alarm for 7:15am so I could shower and do my hair, and it's usually still pretty gray out there at that time.

I reach over and grope for my phone (aka: my alarm clock) and when I pick it up, I realize, to my horror, that the screen is dark - and won't turn on. Which means it's dead. I scramble out of bed, trip over the sheet, and dart across the room to hurl my eyeball at the microwave clock (since I don't sleep in my contacts and therefore am blind as a bat) and see, to my horror, that it is 9:35am.

9:35am. For the first time since I was 14 and started working, I've overslept. I've never even overslept my jobs as a hostess, never mind my jobs at the other law firms and publishing agency. Now some people might just shrug and head into work, but since I had no phone to call with, my (stolen) internet never works in the morning, and I'm hardly a normal person, I very nearly have a heart attack. I get all the workings of a panic attack, and proceed to run around like I'm on fire, half-screaming, throwing clothes on, brushing my teeth with far too much toothpaste, and then darting out the door with minimal makeup on. It was like a nightmare come to life.

After huffing and puffing for 8 blocks I realize two things:

1) I am seriously getting out of shape again

2) My endometriosis is seriously the biggest fucking pain in the ass in the entire world.

2.5) Oops forgot one more thing - I can't wait for menopause in January. I'm going to throw a menopause party, then run to work and enjoy the brisk air, and then pump my fists victoriously when I am pain free (and 20 minutes early, to boot.)

So that's the way I start my crazy Tuesday (Wordsworth, eat your heart out.) Right after work I have to bolt home and make sure I've packed everything I need for Thanksgiving Break, because Super Shuttle is picking me up between 7:25-7:40pm and I need to be ready; otherwise the permanently pissed off driver will probably take off and leave me stranded on the sidewalk. And Dulles is so very far away.

Tonight I take the red eye flight back to Boston, and thus begins the insanity known as Thanksgiving Break. My family will be my family, which will mean we'll drink, we'll fight, Turkey will be thrown, and maybe - just maybe - miracles will happen. It's such a special, magical time of the year. Now where's my bottle of Pinot Noir, I need to get this party started now; there's no way in hell I can get on the plane and arrive in Hull without having been thoroughly soused for a good 9 or so hours.

"C" is for "Doomed to a Life of Mediocrity"

Days till Hull: Tomorrow!

Days till Thanksgiving: 3

According to the glorious Hypocondriacal Pit that is WebMD, your name may tweak your destiny." This article proposes such insightful hypotheses like:

- MBA students whose first or last names start with the letters A or B tend to make better grades than those whose names start with C or D

- Major League baseball players whose names begin with the letter K strike out more often than those whose names don't start with letter K (obviously the letter used to record strikeouts)

- Law school applicants whose names began with A or B were more likely to get into top-ranked law schools than those with other initials

- That hideous "My name is Chelsea, my husband's name is Charles, we live in Chicago and we sell Chihuahuas" game could be a chilling indication of your future: People have a subtle bias toward the letters in their monogram. "For example," they write, "Toby is more likely to buy a Toyota, move to Toronto, and marry Tonya than is Jack, who is more likely to buy a Jaguar, move to Jacksonville, and marry Jackie."

- Christine may not find a C grade quite so bad as Anna


Do you know what this is? This is the dumbest proposal I have ever heard in my entire life, and I once spent a poli sci class listening to someone propose that we go to Iraq and murder all of the children whose parents were killed in the war, because that was the best way to stop the violence and make sure that our future generations (if there were any over there) would get along and not want to wage war on each other.

Do you really mean to tell me that law schools and MBA programs are teeming with Amandas, Annas, Alberts and Brians? And that the Zacks, Zoeys, Wills and Victorias of the world are doomed to spend their time as janitors in Taco Bells or gas station attendants at the local Pump 'n Go? What about the Williams that go by Bill - are they simultaneously retarded and rejected from law school, but gaining admittance to top tier MBA programs? What about the Bob Whites of the world - are they just as confused? And are the Kates and Johns of the world forever doomed to a life of blue collar mediocrity?

Exhibit A: Victor Exhibit B: Arnold

And for the whole "inclination towards your initial" business, let me tell you that that is one big heap of stupidity. Sure, I like the letter C because my name starts with it, but I have no inclination towards surrounding myself with things solely because they start with the same letter that my name does. I dated a Charlie once, but I've never dated another C person before; I want to live in DC, or Boston, or New York, or London, or LA - Chicago doesn't even really register because it's too damn cold (and away from ocean coastlines); My dream car is a Lexus RX, not a... what the hell kind of car starts with a C anyway? A Camry? No thanks.

I do have to agree with the assumption that a "Christine" would be content with a "C" grade, but only if the following conditions apply:

- "Christine" is named "Chelsea"
- "Chelsea" really, really hates studying
- "Chelsea" is a slacker that likes drinking and watching tv too much
- "Chelsea" is super glad she pulled off that "C" in bio, rather than the "F" she was expecting

Otherwise, I just can't buy the idea. And due to the sheer number of Jennifers, Saras, Steves, and Kellys, statistically speaking it would be impossible for all of them to be middle-of-the-road schlubs. So, WebMD, please go back to making me think I have brain cancer, or encephalitis, or a dangerously enlarged prostate, and stop trying to tackle these off-the-wall topics. Thanks.

Turkeys, Chocolate, and Delicious Babies

Days till Hull: 4
Days till Thanksgiving: 6

Today is a wondrous day indeed, because it is Friday, which means that not only is the weekend nearly upon us (and pay day), but in 4 days I will be jetting off to fabulous Hull so that I may spend the following 3 days systematically devouring several large turkeys. Coincidentally, this morning when I logged into my gmail, this was the headline on my news bar:

Turkeys are social, playful birds who enjoy the company of others.

Know what else is awesome about turkeys? How delicious they are. They taste like moist, succulent strips of farm fresh baby, and everyone knows you can't get fresher than babies. In true dysfunctional family style, Thursday we will celebrate the gluttonous feast with my mother, Friday we will make our way into Boston to celebrate "Jewish" style (i.e. go out to eat) with my father (never minding he's not the Jewish parent), and on Saturday we will be throwing caution to the wind and braving a trek down to the windy wasteland that is Cape Cod in the winter for our final celebratory dinner with my aunt and uncle. All-in-all, I expect to put about 50 pounds on, and I'm already planning on how to let the waists out of all my pants.

You're planning to do what??

Thanksgiving aside, I am already ready to pack up my things and head right back to my apartment; my bed is beckoning to me, even from here. It was one of those mornings, the kind where you wake up and instantly start sobbing, because your bed is so very warm, and outside is so very cold, and the last goddamn thing you want to do is get up, shower, get dressed (get dressed in matching garments, no less), hike the 8 blocks to work, and then attempt maintaining your sanity and lucidity for the duration of the day. Hard stuff.

I woke up late, as I usually do at the end of the week, even when resistance seems futile, took too long eating my morning oatmeal (and burnt half of it to the bowl, which was fun to clean off), couldn't get my hair to cooperate, and made poor decisions with clothing until I realized I had -10 minutes until I had to leave and I better put some damn pants on because it's too cold to go outside pantless, and I don't particularly feel like losing my job.

I also decided it would be a brilliant idea to wear my heels to the office, rather than wearing something tasteful and comfortable like my gigantic UGGs or my pink Crocs, because I thought they would look classy with my gray skirt and new jacket (which they did), and that they'd make my legs look fabulous (which of course they did), and that my poor broken toe wouldn't hurt all that badly (which... yes, yes it did.)

After limping for 2 blocks I decided to be a pussy and take the Metro, which meant more waiting, then a mad dash to get on, and then nearly having a heart attack when the idiot conductor announced we were going straight from McPherson Square to GW/Foggy Bottom, and I thought that somehow we'd completely bypass Farragut West and I would be doomed to ride the Metro aimlessly back and forth forever, like a ghost with no direction and unfinished business.

To cheer myself up, I indulged in a brownie and some hot chocolate, so even though my skirt feels kinda tight, hey, at least I had that delicious snack to further encourage me to associate unhealthy foods with feelings of emotional happiness.

Man, I can't wait for Thanksgiving.

Hans Turkeys

Days till Hull: 8
Days till Thanksgiving: 10

I have seen the face of god, and his name is Hans. Actually, it's Tom (Thom? Todd? Whatever) and he's an elite air force officer originally from Holland. If you didn't get hot and bothered just by reading that, then obviously you're dead.

He struck us more as a 'Hans' than as a 'Tom,' as we decided on Saturday night, when there was three of us just staring at him and salivating into our vodka cranberries. We were at Saloun in Georgetown, an interesting bar with live music and a lot of very excited, very drunk people in their 50's who enjoyed rocking out on the dance floor. It also happened to be full of attractive air force men from various countries in Europe, which meant: Accents! And the firmest butt chin I have ever seen in my entire life, but that's another story for another time.

Hans was a tall, gorgeous, charming 21 year old who I couldn't always understand, but his accent was so beautiful that he could've been telling me I was a heinous slag and I still would've been falling all over him. He shook our hands and looked deep into our souls with his fathomless eyes, and I knew in that moment that I could die happily. He bought us a round of drinks, but alas, there were no roofies in them (or plastic baubles from China) and he sadly left without impregnating me. Hans, if you read this, come back to DC. We can have a long, glorious life together - or, at the very least, one mind-blowing night of passionate sex. And then my friends can have you, because sharing is caring.

On Sunday, I was able to (momentarily) forget about our European Gods because it was Our Thanksgiving!! We had a 22 lb. turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, cauliflower, broccoli casserole, cranberry sauce, yams with marshmallows, corn bread, rolls, strawberry cheesecake, pumpkin pie, apple pie, and chocolate cream pie. I didn't actually cook anything, but I did make Hand Turkeys! Which turned into - appropriately - Hans turkeys. Because I can never resist a joke about hot men, turkeys, and putting hands up the anal cavities of dead poultry.

And this was just my plate!

I think it's worth noting that the turkey had been dubbed, upon purchase, 'Tom'. Do you know what that means? It's fate! I got to eat Tom. I got to eat Hans. It's like my fantasies came true, but with the added fabulousness of Thanksgiving dinner heaped on top! Do wonders never cease?

Speaking of wonders, I was drunk by 2, and in bed around 8. Erin and I decided it was a brilliant idea to drink 2 bottles of Coppolla wine (easily the best $40 I ever spent) and later spent an obscene amount of time tottering back to our respective apartments. Which was, in the long run, a good thing, because it helped me work off the 25 pounds I had put on in just half an hour of eating. I was so rotund that I wobbled, and probably could've just rolled the entire way home.

I feel the entire weekend was nicely summed up by a new friend, who said: Hope by now your stomach has digested the mass amounts of food we all ate. You know who probably does not get stomach pains? Hans, because he's perfect."

Truer words have never been spoken.

Thanksgiving, Trips to my Hometown, and My Life (As Told Through E-Cards)

Days till Our Thanksgiving: 2

Days till The Great Hull Voyage: 11
Days till Actual Thanksgiving: 13

As you can see, I've added yet another event to my Epic Countdown Calendar. I figured any trip to Hull is worthy of discussion, as it is in those few and far between times that I instantly revert back to a salivating, boozing monster. I don't know if it's some sort of ingrained response to the area that I grew up in, or if it's because the moment you drive through the town border, you are instantly doomed to one of three outcomes:

1. You get pregnant. In middle school. You test multiple potential baby's daddies.

2. You become a raging alcoholic and spend your days drinking yourself into a stupor with 99% of your graduating class. You get pregnant. You test multiple potential baby's daddies.

3. You develop an irritating heroin addiction. All your teeth fall out, and your prostitution business by the A Street bar suffers. Until you convince people it enables you to give better blow jobs. You get pregnant. Your child has three eyeballs and a questionable number of limbs. You test multiple baby's daddies.

So far I have yet to acquire any actual addiction, and as far as I am aware, I have never actually birthed a child, but every time I go back there the odds definitely tip against my favor.

Illegitimate children aside, yesterday a friend sent me an e-card, from arguably the funniest online card site there is. I'd seen the site before but somehow forgot about it, (you know, with my busy schedule of... um... watching tv) and had a gleeful time reexamining the site and all the treasures within. If any batch of cards were to sum up the entirety of my life, you better damn well believe that it's this one. And now, I present to you, my life through someecards:

I was born; my parents had, by that time, mostly stopped snorting coke and drinking 20+ martinis a night. I turned out completely normal.

I started to grow up and become a fine young woman with no lingering mental issues from my early childhood.

My brother and I were an indestructible team; we never ratted each other out, and we certainly never got in fistfights over $2 bills our grandfather gave to us, even though it was my 18th birthday and it was my fucking $2, Rory!

In high school, I had a fabulous group of friends - we were responsible, mature, and never bickered or gossiped. And we certainly never consumed alcohol.



I graduated from High School! With honors! And somehow managed to get into a great University. I certainly never pretended that I didn't go to good old Hull High School. It's sort of like pretending like you don't have herpes. No one can really tell unless they get too close.



I made a whole new circle of wonderful friends! We really encouraged each other to be the best that we could be.



Oops! I didn't realize you had to repay college loans! I received my Bachelor of the Arts Degree in English, for the low price of just upwards of $50,000 a year. What a bargain!



I got a well-paying, demanding job in a professional field. Some months, I have almost $100 left after rent!! I eat a lot of leftovers.



As time went on, I began to grow closer with my parents, and really appreciate everything they'd done for me in my lifetime.



My (remaining) friends and I made our friendships stronger than ever. We began to appreciate each other as individuals.



I started to actually make wise choices in the dating pool. All it took was another martini.



I learned how to bitch and gossip in a constructive manner and atmosphere. More oil, Kiki!

And now I'm looking towards the future! I know I'll definitely get that screenplay written and picked up by Universal Studios!

And that is the story of my life, and a tantalizing glimpse into my future. Thank you, someecards, for such an expressive, mature medium for me to use. With that being said, it's time to go be productive, and attempt not to offend that damn profanity filter.

The Thanksgiving Confusion, AND The Cruises do DC

Days till Our Thanksgiving: 3

Days till Actual Thanksgiving: 14

From the moment I was informed that the Reds purchased a 22 pound turkey for our now-annual Thanksgiving dinner, I have been salivating obscenely, and imagining all the ways in which I can devour said turkey (with some cranberry sauce, with some stuffing, with some stuffing and cranberry sauce, with stuffing and cranberry sauce and a quart of gravy, etc.) And considering I had the lamest moment of my life last night and went to bed at 7pm (although I do feel somewhat better today) it meant I had the entire night to dream about the deliciousness that is Thanksgiving.

So imagine my confusion this morning when, upon leaving my apartment, I saw that city workers were busy stringing Christmas lights from every available tree branch in the Washington area. First of all - Dad, you totally lied to me all these years! You said the elves put the lights up! What does that mean about Santa?! And second of all - it's mid-November!! What happened to embracing Thanksgiving? We're Americans - we really, really like food.

Nov 8: Fuck you, Thanksgiving

Feeling uneasy and confused, I scurried to work and curled up on my chair, tentatively logging online in hopes that someone would be on to comfort me. I saw an email from Barnes & Noble for 20% off my next purchase, and a hopeful smile appeared - I love books. And I love emails. And I really love sales. I felt loved.

I opened the email, and let out a scream. The 20% sale image was a Christmas Tree, made of books, with a radiating star on top, overlooking a snow-covered village just bursting with Christmas pride. Why was there no tower of Turkeys? No cornucopias bursting with books? No Indians puzzling over stove-top stuffing? What has happened to our once beloved fourth Thursday of the year?

I think I'm going to spend my lunch hour eating copious amounts of turkey sandwiches, and devouring any and all cookies and brownies left over from yesterday's catered lunch. Nothing will help bring back the spirit of Thanksgiving like some idiot gorging herself on any food even remotely resembling a Thanksgiving spirit. What can I say? I'm super patriotic.

In other news, I am miraculously still alive. My 13 hour "nap" (I missed America's Next Top Model :( ) helped to somewhat alleviate the crushing awfulness of my cold. AND! Something else has come to help me feel better - TOM CRUISE AND KATIE HOLMES AND ALIEN BABY SURI ARE IN DC!!! Pics are popping up of them on 22nd Street NW, as evidenced here by the picture, and by my fabulous photoshopping skills which highlight the 22nd St. sign:

Quick! The Thetans have escaped the volcanoes!

This means I need to flee right now, and start running through the streets in an effort to get a glimpse of the crazy family. I've always wanted to rescue Katie and Suri from their basement dungeon where they're forced to sit through Scientology lessons and watch lots and lots of Tom Cruise's movies (back from when he was kinda hot, and people actually thought he was normal.) Luckily, there's a Scientology church about 3 blocks away from where I work, so the opportunity is prime! Wish me luck! If I don't update tomorrow, either the three of us ladies have escaped into the mountains of West Virginia, or I'm locked up in a jail cell in Southeast DC, already Big Bertha's Bitch. Woo!

A Healthy Smattering of Strep

Days till Our Thanksgiving: 5
Days till Thanksgiving: 16

Okay, so perhaps I don't have strep, perhaps I just have a flair for the dramatics, but I certainly feel like I am about to keel over and drop dead from some kind of damning illness. While I was rebounding nicely from my epic battle with the flu, it turns out that it was merely the calm before the next round of storms. I'm debating whether or not I should just rip my throat out and call it a day, or leap from the window and put a definite end to my misery.

Actually, scratch that last thought. I want to be cryogenically frozen (with my dog, Jazz) and thawed out when our species has become immortal, or at least lives for longer than an average of 80-odd years. Much better.

I really should go to the doctor's and get a strep and mono test done (not that I particularly think it's either, as I have no other symptoms whatsoever besides a sore throat, and when I actually did have mono, believe you me, I was well aware of it. Mostly because I kept falling asleep in class, or on the shuttle to the Mount Vernon campus, or in the middle of the sidewalk. Whatever.) I was exposed to infectious mononucleosis last May when someone decided it would be a good idea to give me their unfinished beer after knowing they had mono, but that was eons and ages ago, and while I may be an incubator for many things, I don't think it could've been prowling around for that long and only now rearing its ugly head.

The only thing keeping me from going to the doctor is that - oh yeah! - I don't have health insurance. I have to wait 90 days for it to kick in, which means it should start on Christmas Eve, and by then I'll either no longer be sick, or I'll be, you know, dead. I'm rather afraid that if I go to the doctor they'll be like, "Damn! You have Infectious Monostreppasaurus Pox, which means you need surgery and chemotherapy and aromatherapy, which means you'll be dealing with this for the next year!" and so come December I'll have a preexisting condition, and my new health insurance will gleefully deny coverage for me in regards to it.

Fuck the healthcare system. Where's Michael Moore and his entourage of documentary cameras when you need them?

The Weekend of a Thousand "What the Fucks?"

Days till Our Thanksgiving: 6

Days till Thanksgiving: 17

I woke up this morning with a horrible, gut wrenching feeling of foreboding and danger. I rolled over, glanced beside me, and shrieked in bone deep terror. Yes, I realized that it was indeed Monday, and it wasn't just a bad dream that I had to get up and once again pretend to be a productive member of society. Fuck Mondays.

This was (as the title so aptly states) the Weekend of a Thousand What the Fucks. Let me start at the beginning:


What the Fuck #1: Transformers

Okay, so... I really wanted to hate this movie. Like I really wanted to hate this movie. I'd spent the better part of the last few months making fun of Kristyn for wanting to see it, and telling anyone that would listen that not even Shia "Golden Boy" LaBoeuf and Megan "Porn Star Face" Fox could save it. I mean, seriously - it's a movie about transforming robotic aliens. I'll buy a lot of things, but alien, robotic children's toys starring in their own feature length action film was really pushing it.

This is a Prime time for a terrible pun!

On Friday night we went to the Reds to watch it, and I was all ready to start mercilessly mocking everything about it. But... I didn't hate it. Quite the contrary, actually. Even Megan Fox and her impressive gambit of pout faces couldn't ruin the movie (even if her cleavage was heaving at every possible moment.) I do believe the writers and producers and the director sat down and said "Okay people, we're making a movie based on children's toys; children's toys that are transforming robots from outer space. Transforming alien robots from outer space, people. Obviously, we have to make audiences know just how aware of how absurd we find this. Good? Let's get that Even Steven's kid in here and get rolling!"

The movie was funny, and (thankfully) didn't take itself too seriously. Sure, there was lots of "blow 'em up" scenes, and enough action to keep the guys happy, but there was a lot of humor and a lot of absolute ridiculousness. I really wanted whatever that little robot thing was, the one that kept cackling and stealing all the government's information. It kind of reminded me of Stitch from Lilo and Stitch. Just on speed.

Even the acting was good, considering, again, it was a movie about robotic alien transformers from outer space. So, I have to admit, I was surprised by how much fun the movie was, and I have to stop bashing everyone for liking it. Damnit.


What the Fuck #2: Target's Christmas Onslaught

I'm a firm believer in the Holiday One Month Rule, which clearly states: "Thou shalt not put out decorations for a holiday that is in advance of one month; Thanksgiving decorations shall not be on display until November 1st; Christmas decorations - on punishment of death - shall not be on display until the fourth Friday of November." We need solid time for decorating and getting ready between holidays, which means that when stores start pimping their Christmas regalia before Halloween is even over, their general managers should be promptly hung, drawn, and quartered before a cheering, screaming crowd.

One giant, plastic Christmas tree to rule them all

Erin and I made a Target/Old Navy/Best Buy/Shopper's run on Saturday morning, and from the moment we stepped into Target we knew we were in trouble. The Christmas decorations were out in full force, and from every shelf came the shrill scream of the ceramic Santas, the wire reindeer, and the colorful Christmas baubles aligned in neat, color-coded rows. It was like stepping into the bowels of hell. I was expecting a plethora of turkeys and cornucopias, since it's still early November, and Thanksgiving is clearly the next holiday in our Holy Quadriad of Year End Holidays, but no. Christmas had cannibalized the weaker holiday.

I was hell bent on ignoring the tinkering Christmas carols, and the shiny, gleaming Santas, reaching out with open hands, promising me endless happiness and contentedness if only I'd purchase tree ornaments for $1.99, or tapered candles for $1.59, or the temptingly sinful candy cane shaped candy dish, lusciously begging to be placed on my coffee table for the devastating price of $1.00. I was above that - I was a Holiday Warrior. Guerrilla style tactics like that don't work.

Only they do, because somewhere between Home Goods and Electronics, I blacked out, and 20 minutes later, Erin and I were the proud owners of not one, but two plastic, light-covered, chest-high Christmas trees. I don't remember buying it, but when I came out of my stupor, there they were, nestled in our carts, peering up at us with innocent, inquisitive fake pine branches.

I think I was chloroformed by Christmas.


What the Fuck #3: The Big Hunt

Now, I previously posted that The Big Hunt's reputation as a "human meat market" was not only vaguely disturbing, but an entirely untrue assessment of the vermin crawling between its walls. Admittedly, I was so drunk the last time I was there that I wanted to tear my stomach out, flush it out with water, and never drink again, so I thought it would be a good idea to go back there on Saturday night to get a better feel for the place. What I learned is that I should always trust my drunk judgment: More cleavage is always better, it's perfectly acceptable to chew on strangers' necks in full view of my friends' cameras, and The Big Hunt is full of the cities' ugliest people.

Really? No way, me too! I always go to The Big Hunt!

The bar was crawling with 40-something women jammed into mini skirts, white tights, cowboy boots, and leopard print spandex of questionable origin. I've never seen so many ugly people crammed into one tiny space, and believe you me, I've been in a lot of scary places before. This was beyond anything I'd ever experienced. Beer bellies and crimped hair prevailed, and even the under 30 crowd was full of the dredges of the earth. I'm assuming the recent rain puked them up into the gutters, and, disoriented and in need of warming alcohol, they stumbled through the front door of the bar and never left. I suppose if, when I went outside, I was chased by villagers brandishing pitchforks and torches, I wouldn't leave the premises either.


What the Fuck #4: 30 Days of Night

So I finally - finally - went to see 30 Days of Night. Erin and I battled cabin fever by trekking out to Chinatown to the Gallery Regal Theaters to finally indulge our Vampire tooth (uh...) and finally see the infamous tale of a clan of bloodsucking beasts with heinous teeth (I'm assuming they were originally British) unleashing their doomsday abilities upon the very poor, very freezing, very dark town of Barrow, Alaska.

I should probably mention that Barrow doesn't actually have 30 days of darkness (they have 60-70 days of semi-darkness, in which the sun hovers at the horizon between 12-4pm), and they don't have a "Last Call!" flight that, if missed, strands potential victims in the barren wilderness for an entire month (Alaska Airlines has a daily to/from Barrow flight so that no one is actually driven to insanity up there during the winter months.) However, if these details were applied to the movie, it wouldn't have been all that thrilling, so moving on!

98% of the movie was freaking fabulous. The vampires didn't have time for pansy romantic stories (sorry Gary Oldman's Dracula, you know I'd still do you ten ways to Sunday, but you're really far sexier than you are scary), they didn't brood and lament on their own immortal existence, and they sure as hell didn't have brooding, romantic affairs with blond, bubble gum Slayers that spit out so many pop culture references that it makes you physically sick to your stomach. Instead, they were total bad ass killing machines, hell bent on destroying the entire town and feasting merrily on the inhabitants, before lurking off into the night and making sure that humans still believed them to be nothing more than nightmare creatures (much like Paris Hilton's family originally tried to do with her.)

Josh Hartnett was sufficiently in over his head yet strong, the gore was great, the music was awesome, and the camera work was really, really good. Towards the end of the movie, I was ecstatic, as it's not often a horror movie I've been dying to see really lives up to all the hype and expectations.

However, everything changed at the end of the film, in which the directors clearly started celebrating their achievements too early, and got too drunk and too stoned to continue thinking coherently. It was like they were boasting more and more outrageous ideas, and finally picked the most ridiculous of them all, cracked up and patted themselves on the back for a job well done, and proceeded to destroy the end of the movie. David Slade and Sam Raimi, I was expecting more from you.

Of course the ending didn't stop me from crashing at Erin's place, since I was convinced vampires were going to come bursting through my window and eat me alive. I mean... since I was very tired and didn't feel like trekking back in the cold to my apartment. Which is about 2 feet away from Erin's. Right. Exactly. Moving on, people!

So, that was my weekend. I actually went on a date on Saturday night, which was quite enjoyable, but for once I feel it is inappropriate to discuss such matters over a public forum. No, not because I lived up to my reputation as a cheap floozy, but because I have some level of decorum and appropriateness. Seriously, I swear.

Zombies, Transformers, and Transsexuals

Days till Our Thanksgiving: 9
Days till Actual Thanksgiving: 20

Okay, so I might be obsessed with countdowns - give me a damn break. Our Thanksgiving is coming up next Sunday, which makes me giddy as a school girl. Erin and the Reds are going to make such delicious delicacies as turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, cauliflower, and lots of other yummy things, while I get the most important job of all: tracing my hand on paper and drawing hand turkeys. YEAH! Otherwise, Thanksgiving just wouldn't be the same.

In other news, it's finally Friday, and as of 6pm this afternoon the weekend is officially upon us! Tonight we're going to the Reds to watch Transformers; now, I get the Shia hype, but he looks kind of like my brother, so it freaks me out when he's sucking face with some girl on screen. Especially if it's Megan Fox, cause for a second there I was like "damn! a young Angelina Jolie, I know who can fill her space on my Girls I'd Do List now that she's Skeletor!" but then I realized that she was actually quite horrifying looking. I think it's all the Porn Star Pouts - that shit's not okay. I have nightmares about people like her and Lindsay Lohan continuously pouting like they're somehow being screwed off camera. No thanks.

I am Optimus Prime!

Ugh, now I'm going to have to look at that as I update. It doesn't help that I'm alone in the office, as everyone's in Miami on business, or working from home - earlier I scared myself with zombies again because someone posted scary pictures from 28 Weeks Later, but now I have a fresh fear to deal with: Megan Fox crawling out from under my desk and attempting to suck my soul out of my mouth with her giant, porn star lips.

Speaking of zombies, but far less frightening ones than in any of the "28 Whatever Later" series, for Halloween we watched FLIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD. That deserves all capitals, not because it was terrifying, but because it was hilariously awful. I mean, I've seen the gambit of terrible horror movies, but this was in a league all it's own.

I can't believe I agreed to star in this film!

Take the most pathetic acting possible, add some gratuitous sex with barely legal, partner swapping teenagers, sprinkle in some token black people (and the only black couple was a wife and her pro golfer husband, since apparently they decided Tiger Woods was the only black person they liked), and top it all of with not one, but two crazy "I'm Carazay!" characters, and -

Oh, wait, add a mad scientist and some zombies too. Oh, and the "virus" is actually a strain of Malaria, which - GET THIS! - isn't actually a virus. Oh no, it's a protozoan. Okay, we're set!

- now you have the most ridiculous movie created in the past few years. No wonder if went straight to DVD. They defied all sorts of laws of physics and, you know, reality; they liked to blow up bombs ON a flight, they liked to shoot in the pressurized cabin (and not just handguns, they went all out with automatic weapons and the whole shebang), people continuously flew through the air, etc etc. It was fabulously terrible.

Unfortunately, I didn't just rent it, I actually paid $10 for it, which means that at the end of the day, I'm the real loser in this equation. I guess I'll have to drown my sorrows in Transformers, a very realistic movie in which space creatures that like to pose as cars and trucks and blenders and stuff come to battle over the earth or something, I dunno, and Megan Fox pretends like she's not a transsexual, and... fuck. Man, I am fucked.

Knockin' Boots: No Seriously, Leave That Shit Out of the Office

First of all, Happy November, everyone! I still can't quite believe that October (and Halloween) are over, but that just means that the next holiday to start counting down towards is Thanksgiving. (See Britney's new festive outfit!) There's something very magical indeed about a day dedicated towards our eventual slaughter of the Indians, in which we indulge ourselves in gluttonous amounts of turkey and stuffing, and drink so much beer that we end up hitting awkwardly on our exes, or our cousins, or the nearest lamppost.

Drunken escapades aside, I feel it's time for me to rant about something that's been bothering me since we stopped having 80 degree days. I understand that most people are entirely incapable of successfully dressing themselves, but there's an alarming trend that's been on the rise, and I feel it is my duty to put an end to it (by any means necessary) before we have a full epidemic on our hands.

Take a look at this awkward, rather blurry array of boots:

Mmmm, fake leather

Now, there are certain professions in which it is acceptable to wear these boots to work: perhaps you work at a fashion house, or a fashion magazine; perhaps you're a movie star and you wear them around Hollywood; perhaps you're a hooker, and nothing says "tip!" like a fresh pair of knee highs. If you have a "more fashionable" or "more laid back" or "more time on your back" job, then by all means, unleash your inner fashionista and enjoy.

However, if you are: a lawyer; a publisher; work in a business-attire office; over 50; over 250 lbs; you are not allowed to wear these boots to work. Ever. You look - shockingly enough - like a misplaced hooker. I know, that one just came right outta left field. Point is, knee high boots, especially when they're made of bad pleather, and especially when they boast huge zippers, jangling metal, or giant buckles, should never, ever be worn in the work place. The amount of people I see, dressed in a two-piece business suit with a prim skirt, who are also attempting to rock the come-fuck-me boots, is shocking. Especially since a large number of them are past their reproductive years, and frankly, no one wants to see droopy skin hanging over the top of the boot. Somehow, it ruins the mystique.

Now I love boots over jeans, and I have some hooker boots of my own. But even I - with my loose morals and questionable tastes - refrain from breaking them out at work. If I don't do something, then that should speak volumes, people.

Boots aside, I have another question possibly regarding a hooker (you never know): Who was calling Erin at 2am in a fit of drunken excitement, and demanding to talk to me? Your phone number is (oh come on, like you thought I wouldn't post it) 618-558-1457. I'm not entirely sure who from Southern Illinois has Erin's number and not mine, and thinks they're going to get a hold of me that way - especially since I don't give Erin's number out to guys when they ask for my number and I don't feel like giving it. I give them the numbers of people I hate. That's why it's so funny, see?

Please, feel free to reach me at a time when 1) you are not wasted, and 2) it is not 2am, and 3) you're actually talking to me, not poor Erin. Grazie!