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.

Ikea, Ihop, and The Guys From Supernatural are So Freaking Hot

Days till Halloween: 30

Before I start a massively long bitch fest about the horrific-ness that was yesterday, let me gleefully exclaim that it is October 1st! October is my most favoritest month in the whole wide world, because it is the only month in which it is publicly acceptable for me to talk excitedly about ghosts and hauntings and supernatural occurrences without too many people running away from me. And of course, it has the GREATEST holiday known to mankind - HALLOWEEN.

Mary Kate Olsen?!

It's better than Christmas, Hanukkah, and my birthday, because it has hoards of candy and hoards of horror movies, and what on earth could be better than that? Actually, adding in hoards of alcohol and hoards of drunken hookups in questionable costumes is a more realistic approach, but who in their right mind would argue against those thrilling, newer traditions?

Anyway, yesterday was supposed to be a fun yet relaxing day (although it was the last day of September, and not the first glorious day of October, so perhaps I should've expected it.) Erin and I were going up to College Park to go to Ikea, then heading down to Alexandria to indulge ourselves at Ihop, run a few errands at PetSmart and Target, and do some grocery shopping at Shoppers; afterwards, we were going to go back to the apartment, crack open a bottle of Coppola Merlot, and continue our Supernatural Marathon in an effort to wind down and enjoy the last bits of the weekend.

Unfortunately, this was not meant to be. Instead, I somehow set off Murphy's Law x1000, in which every possible thing that could go wrong, did indeed go wrong, and in a particularly painful and aggravating way.

We made good time getting out to Ikea, and for the most part managed to get through the maze that is the store without too many mishaps. We found my bed and I picked out tables and chairs and everything. Of course the table and chairs I picked out were out of stock (actually, I think they mysteriously vanished because nothing was actually in the right place in the massive storage warehouse area), and of course the bed was... well, a giant square which was in no way conducive to transporting or packing it, but we managed to drag everything out to the cashier area.

Now, I wanted to open up an Ikea credit card, because all of my cards are at home in Boston, and I wasn't able to get anything in time for my trip. This should have been a painless process in which the masses of Ikea workers came together, hoisted me in the air, and happily brought me to the right desk to open a card. However, everyone at Ikea is a filthy liar, and I spent about an hour running around the store, instructed to go to different places, and massively lacking a credit card. In the end, I screamed at some pompous twatty worker (honestly, you work at Ikea, buddy) and finally ended up finding a stupid kiosk on my own.

Let's tell her the kiosk is in the loading dock!

After finally procuring a credit card, yelling at a few more people, and refusing to let Erin eat (hey, I let her buy some cookies, okay?!), we made our way outside to load up the Scion I had to fork over $70 to rent. As we started loading, we realized we'd made one key error: the box with the bed in it was about an inch too big to fit in the car. We tried shoving it in every possible angle (not that way, har har), tried putting it in the trunk/back seat area, tried wedging it between the seats, tried shoving it across the tires, everything. Finally, we had to open the box, take out all the individual parts, and hope that the iron bed frame didn't tear the Scion to shreds.

(Not that that would've been an unfortunate occurrence in theory, as the car was a complete piece of crap with no shock absorbers, no alignment, and I'm pretty sure the only thing holding it together was some chewing gum and a piece of duct tape for good measure. I just didn't want to have to pay the damage fee; Zipcar is relatively affordable, but they put in little fine print like it may cost you $9 to rent the car for an hour, but if you return it at 1:01pm instead of 1:00pm, you have to actually pay with your soul. Oh, you didn't see that in the paperwork? Sucks to be you.)

After much blood, sweat and tears (literally all three in the process), we wedged everything into the car and sped off to Ihop. Oh, except that I accidentally took the NORTH exit instead of the SOUTH exit. Twice. Erin, to her credit, didn't jump out the car door and put an end to her misery, and luckily after about half an hour of confusion, we were on our way to Virginia and to Ihop!

My god! So many delicious possibilities!

We had a robot waiter set on Turbo Speed who cheered us up by bringing us our delicious food, including a strawberry crepe, which may have actually had orgasmic ingredients in it. It's always good to know that stuffing your face with Ihop will help turn your day around (until you get on the scale the next morning, but hey, that's what denial's for.)

We tried to go to PetSmart but it was closed, so instead we made our way to Target. Erin acted like an adult by purchasing a dust buster for the epic-ness that is Cleo's shedding, a broom and an indulgence in the Adam's Family Movies Pack; I, on the other hand, proved that I am still 10 years old, and bought a back-breaking amount of Halloween candy, Halloween paraphernalia, and basically tons of crap.

Then it was on to Shoppers. By the time we reached the store - about 6 hours after we'd set out for the day - we were too exhausted to do any substantial shopping, and instead picked up milk, Frosted Mini Wheats, and two bottles of Coppola Merlot. Which we proceeded to drink the entirety of, after realizing that (once we got back), the bed wouldn't fit in the elevator, and we had to have half the building come and help us get our crap inside.

The upside - besides two bottles of fabulously delicious wine, of course - is that we continued our Supernatural Marathon and finished watching another large chunk of Season 2. I always knew I'd like the show because 1) it's very X-Files-esque and god only knows how obsessed I still am with that show, and 2) Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles are the hottest men in the entire freaking world, and seeing the two of them together for that much time is enough to make my head explode. And by head explode, I mean I need to have sex with them. At the same time.

You take the front, I'll take the back

Seriously, I cannot even explain how attractive the two of them are. There really need to be more Jareds and Jensens just wandering around DC, looking for a slim, attractive, freckled 22 year old with a snarky exterior but a warm heart on the inside. Or at least someone mildly attractive with slutty tendencies. Whatever works.