I'm Totally LOST

I like LOST. I like LOST a lot, actually. I may not like it as much as the Reds, who read theories online and stress out about them, but I still really like the show. I think it's clever and fascinating, I think the characters are so nuanced and complicated, and I love how everything ties together when you least expect it.

That being said - I don't understand the show.

I try, I really do. I pay attention to the clues, I watch the subtle hints, I re-watch episodes in the hope that I'll be ahead of the game, but just as I'm gloating and announcing that 'Sally' is totally the key to the entire show, they go and kill 'Sally' off and it turns out she was a meaningless plot device. And then I feel stupid and baffled; and that is exactly what they want. Damn you, J.J. Abrams.

So, I've decided to stop trying to figure out the mysteries of LOST. I'm just not smart enough to wrap my brain around it all, and frankly, I don't have the patience to attempt really tackling the behemoth. Instead, I want to imagine what it would be like if I were on the show. If I'd plummeted out of the sky on that fateful day, and managed to get up and walk away (all without getting sucked into the engine, like that one unfortunate bastard in the pilot.)

Day 1: So, I was totally right about planes exploding in midair, and breaking apart and flying everywhere. This is it, I'm never flying again, you fucking bastards. Although at least the vast majority of us miraculously survived. And hey, I think my huge glaring disability is cured!

Day 2: I've noticed everyone on the island is shockingly attractive. And everyone has perfect teeth. And there's already all this sexual tension between them all. I think this is going to be the best experience of my life.

Day 3: Why they fuck are there polar bears in the tropics?

Day 4: Okay, so my 'doable' list is as follows: Jack, Sawyer, Kate, Paulo, Desmond, Jin, Sun, Boone, Shannon, Juliet. This shouldn't take too long. Oh wait, maybe Sayid too. And maybe Claire, but she's a little too mousy for my tastes. And that whole "pregnant" thing is a turn off.

Day 5: Boone dead, Shannon dead. Time to update the list.

Day 6: Why do The Others let Ben rule? He's a glorified mole, a giant rodent with oddly lizard-like eyes. Suspicious. I feel like he was the ugly duckling in High School, and now wants to have some glory and respect in his life. If only things had gone differently!

Day 7: Seriously, Kate, make up your mind already, this is getting ridiculous.

Day 8: Anna Lucia dead. Break out the whiskey! But don't drive after drinking the whiskey.

Day 9: Hatch located; bizarre man pressing buttons for past three years. Luckily he's just as attractive as the rest of the cast, so we can overlook this minor mental instability. Oh hey, more new characters - sup, guys? I love how you act like you've been here all along. Oh wait, you have been? We're supposed to believe that? Goddammit.

Day 10: People I wouldn't do: Libby, Ben, 99% of The Others, Charlie, Locke (...), Mr. Eko DEFINITELY NOT

Day 11: We have a lot of toothpaste and makeup, I've noticed. Everyone's so damn clean.


Unfortunately, I don't think my take on LOST is quite as... exciting or multi-layered as the actual show. Although I would definitely introduce a lot more sex. A lot more. Seriously, we need more naked time. They're all on a goddamn island, let's see some skin already!

So here are some of my questions. I'm not intelligent enough, nor creative enough, to find the answers, so I put them out there for all of you:

1. What the fuck is up with the polar bears?
2. What the fuck is up with the smoke monster? Why did Locke see a white smoke monster, but Mr. Eko saw a black smoke monster? And why was it so lame looking?
3. Are we dealing with time travel?
4. Who're the rest of the Oceanic 6?
5. Do the flash fowards really happen, or is that just one possibility?
6. Why did they hire Michelle Rodriguez in the first place?
7. Would Libby really have let Hurley hit it?
8. Are Jack and Claire really half-siblings?
9. Who is Jack's ex-wife's new boy toy, and is he going to have any importance?
10. Can we have an episode where Paulo just walks around naked? Please?
11. Who does Kate really love - Jack or Sawyer?
12. Can I have her cast off?


The world may never know.

The Joys of Bromance

It's no secret that I'm obsessed with reality tv, to the point where I often fantasize about trying out for shows and cashing in on my alloted fifteen minutes. I obsess over the contestants, acting like I know each and every one of them on an intimate level. I feel their joy and their sorrow, their elation and their devestation, and at the end of the day, all I want to do is open my arms to them and cuddle them. Unless it's someone like Saleisha from ANTM, then I just want to punch her in the face and cut off that hideous haircut of hers.

I find myself constantly addicted to shows as they come out. I cry with Ricky on Project Runway, I root for the beauties on Beauty and the Geek to finally understand the basics of 3rd grade math, and I imagine that someday, I'll be able to turn the oven on without screaming, like the contestants on Top Chef. (Seriously, ovens are horrifying.) There's a special chamber in my aortic region for each and every reality show out there.

But a new show has emerged from the genius' at Bravo, and it's blown every other reality show completely away. This masterpiece combines models, both sexes, actual talent, and some of the most provocative photo shoots I've ever seen. This show is Make Me a Supermodel.

And it's one big bucket of sex.

Now, to be fair, the contestants really do have a lot of talent, and a lot of potential. The vast majority of them are very high fashion, and even those that aren't quite there could still do big things. They improve every week, they take their challenges seriously, and best of all, the judges and the rest of the country takes them seriously as well. When the ANTM girls march out on the season premiere, everyone laughs their asses off and knows they're doomed to a life of Sears Catalogues and Chili's commercials. The MMAS contestants, on the other hand, could legitimately go on to do big things.

But again, none of that matters when we look at just how hot these models are, and at some of the shoots that Bravo has lovingly bestowed upon us. After a quick Google search, here is a lovely collage made up of images I yanked from here:

BRB, taking care of business.

Okay...

I'm spent.

Moving on. The show actually creates high fashion-esque shots, which is something a lot of modeling shows won't do. Sure, ANTM had that one shoot where the girls posed naked together, but even that was ridiculous. There was no real emotion it in, and certainly no excuse to get all hot and bothered during it. (Basically, what I'm trying to do here is justify my lusty ways by making MMAS look like a superior show - which it is - so I feel better about myself in general. And so I can start salivating over the models again.)

But beyond any cheap sexual thrill I get from watching Perry and Casey grope and lick each other all over while on that bed, you know, the shoot where Perry was like humping Casey, and they were both rolling around together, and they were like sweating, and...







...just a sec.

Okay. So beyond just acting like there's a shit load of sexual chemistry between two people, we come to the ultimate awesomeness that MMAS embodies: the Bromance. It's like a Dupont Circle version of Romeo & Juliet; straight, tough prison guard Ben (who's married) from Tennessee meets fairly flamboyant, gay student Ronnie from Chicago, and sparks fly. Quite literally. Watching the two of them together is like watching a couple on their honeymoon; they're affectionate, adorable, and the chemistry between them is palpable.

Wife and all.

If you google "Make Me a Supermodel," you'll find at least two dozen sites talking about Ronnie and Ben's "will-they-or-won't-they" relationship. Hell, even Entertainment freaking Weekly wrote about it:

The Unlikely Wisdom of Supermodel Wannabes

If you haven't been watching Bravo's newest reality series, Make Me a Supermodel, you're missing a whole lot of gratuitous on-air nudity and — now that we have your attention — one of the most provocative relationships on television. Ronnie, a gay 24-year-old student from Chicago, is enamored with his roommate, Ben, a straight (and recently married) 22-year-old prison guard from Nashville. Here's the kicker: Ben not only welcomes the attention but seems to have genuine affection for Ronnie. This unconsummated ''bromance'' has become the show's buzziest story line — and it's igniting plenty of will-they-or-won't-they speculation. Right now, it's nearly impossible to find a blog that doesn't refer to the duo as ''adorable.''

If the culture war is indeed over, then it's safe to say that reality TV played a major role in helping to end it. Had a show like Supermodel existed 20 years ago, a guy like Ben would have been far more likely to refuse to bunk with a gay man than to flirt with him...

...Of course, none of this resolves the most pressing moral dilemma still facing us today: Should we actually be rooting for Ronnie and Ben to hook up? Probably not. But it's hard to avoid. They're pretty adorable together.

Even established entertainment publications are commenting on the tension between them. And sure, I feel slightly bad for Ben's wife, as she appears to be a sweetheart, but still. April - your dude is gay. And it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside to watch him with Ronnie. And you have to admit, they're adorable together. They practice walking together, they encourage each other at the end of the runway, they always pair together, and they always happen to be groping each other, or rolling around on a bed together.

(btw: the last two icons were during runway training, when Ben was "encouraging" Ronnie)

Soooo. Yep, that's love right there. I kind of want to jump right in the middle for a Chelsea sandwich, but I don't want to ruin the wonder of it all. Yes, for once I'm putting my own sick, twisted perversions aside, so that others can enjoy themselves. I think this counts as growing as a person, or something.

At any rate, come Thursday night at 9pm, I'll be cheering on my boys. Maybe this week, we'll finally get to see them making out in the bathroom or something. And so, I would like to leave you today with this gift:


You're very welcome.

Happy Valentine's Day!!

To all my loyal readers,

This is my gift to you:

Happy Valentine's Day! Chill the champagne now.

I'll be visiting each and every one of you later.

Nagyalma Slew 'Em

I know you're asking yourself, "what does today's title mean?" Is it a disease out of the murky depths of the Congo? Is it the a design company that launched last week at Bryant Park? Is it the result of Chelsea being awake too early, and passing out on her keyboard?

No, my friends, it is none of those things.

It is rather the name of the Komondor "Best in Breed" winner at the 2008 Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. In case you're wondering what the hell a Komondor breed dog look like, I've provided you with a picture of ol' Slew 'Em himself:

Slew 'Em comes from a very impressive lineage, including a father who won several awards as a pure bred Komondor show dog, and a mother who was a kitchen mop at Applebee's.

Unless you've been living under a rock whose landlord doesn't allow pets, you know that the Westminster is the Super Bowl, Olympics, and Ken Paves Salon of the canine world. It is the creme de la creme of competitive dog shows, showcasing only the best in their breeds. For me, it's like crack is flowing out of the tv and directly into my blood stream.

I get to watch dogs on parade for hours and hours, and it never quite gets old. It drives everyone else around me insane, but it fills me with such joy that I want to rush out and purchase any and all dogs within a ten mile radius (and makes me conveniently forget that the only dogs I'm not horrifically allergic to are poodle crossbreeds.) It's like visiting a pet store, where all the pets are not only loved and taken care of, but have their hair in rollers and are freely given monikers such as Glacier Creek's Whispering Wind, and Fleur De Lis Platinum Grandeulr (a Kuvasz and a Newfoundland, respectively.)

I imagine that after the show is over, the dogs urge their owners into their crates, and then head off for some cigars and brandy in the ultra exclusive Winners Lounge. There they toss their hair and smoke cigarettes from those fancy French looking holders, and discuss the perks of being pure bred perfection. They laugh at the misfortune of mutts, and nod knowingly as the conversation turns to how stupid humans are, and how unfortunate their trainers' choice of outfits were. They are the snooty, upper crust of the dog world.

And on Wednesdays, we wear pink

Since I was a kid, my family has had many dogs, but we've never actually shelled out the 3 grand or so to purchase an actual pure bred. This is mostly because 1) that's a buttload of money, 2) I'm hideously allergic to most dogs (which means all purebreds) , and 3) they're all inbred and insane. True story.

If you don't believe me, let me tell you the Tale of Katie. Katie is a 3 pound Yorkshire Terrier with a taste for human blood. All 10 or so inches of her are comprised solely of a demonic entity, and she spends her life hiding in tea cups, prowling beneath couches, and launching herself out of door jambs in order to satisfy her craving for human flesh. She is the "pet" of my mother's friend, and so on occasion we willingly bring her into our home while her owner is out making good use of his remaining limbs.

She runs shockingly fast for something that's a glorified rodent, and can jump from the floor straight up to the back of the couch with ease. Her teeth are razor sharp, as I found out first hand when she once lunged at me and sank her teeth in the ample flesh of my ass. I'd be running up the stairs to grab my phone, when she attacked, hurling herself off the back of the couch and chomping down on the flesh she so desired. It hurt like a bitch. And then the damn thing wouldn't get off - it was like she was going down to the depths of hell, and she was bringing me down with her.

Don't let the stylish bow and glossy, blown out hair fool you:
this is the face of pure evil

Katie has bit me several times since then, including once when she tore at my hand - and I do believe she was going for the vein there, hoping I'd bleed out so she could devour me without having to deal with me fighting back. I blame it on the generations of inbreeding before her, although her murderous rage could've been caused by her owner deciding to cut her hair himself. I know I get a little... crazy... after a bad hair cut.

At any rate, I think I'll stick with my mutts. The ones we've had are happier, more energetic, (a little more neurotic, although in an endearing way) and they still have fun names. Take a look:

1) Skeezicks. My dad's lifelong companion, whom he found rooting around in a pile of garbage in an alley way. What at first appeared to be a sickly gray dog was actually a thin, healthy white dog with a heart of gold. When I was born, Skeezicks would crawl under the dresser while I slept and watch over me. Oh, and in case you didn't know, my parents kept me in their sock drawer for the first few weeks of my life. Yes, a sock drawer. Explains a lot.

2) Satchmo O'Muttley. Satchmo was the most fitting Christmas present ever. My dad was engaged to a J2 at the time, living in a quaint, picturesque house with her three kids (and my brother and I a few days a week.) They thought it would be brilliant to bring in a small little puppy for us to love. Unfortunately, small little puppy only stayed small for about 2 hours, considering Satchmo was 1/3 Siberian Husky, 1/3 German Shepard, and 1/3 WOLF. By the time it was a month old it was the size of a moose, and delighted in knocking Rory over and dragging him around by his ankles. Needless to say, we had to give Satchmo away to a ridiculously excited 25 year old hiker and outdoors man. It was a true match made in heaven.

3) Nika. Nika was another "what the hell is this thing made of?" mutt, and to this day I'm not entirely sure what she actually was. At any rate, she was sweet, small, and ridiculously well behaved, which came in handy considering she was my current pseudo-stepmother's dog, and when my dad moved in with her we had two other dogs and two cats. Talk about insanity.

4) Sasha Madam Spotswoodle. Take a nervous, anxiety-ridden middle aged man who fears death, the dark, small spaces, crowds, and everything in between, translate that into dog form, and you have Sasha. A walking Xanax ad, she's sweet but insane. At least we know what she is - half Rottweiler, half Border Collie. Talk about bizarre breeding.

5) Jazz Bonehead. JAZZ. My Jazz. My reason for living. The only thing in this world that's inspired even somewhat motherly feelings to emit from me. Jazz is a "designer crossbreed" which sounds much fancier than it actually is. She's a Lhasapoo, meaning she has a Lhasa Apso mother and a Poodle father, and is bred not only for the intelligence, patience, and good cheer of the two breeds, but also because the coat of the Lhasapoo is non-allergenic. Whenever I touched any other of our dogs, I had to immediately go wash my hands and flush my goddamn eyes out, but I can cuddle Jazz and roll around with her for hours, and be fine. Which I do, because I'm insane. But how could you resist this face:


That's right, you can't.

And so what if she's slightly retarded? She's sweet, she's adorable, and she doesn't make me sneeze. AND she tends to fall down stairs and walk into walls and trip over herself, all without getting hurt. No brain, no pain. And that's the way I like it.

Dear Cold: Go Fuck Yourself

I've had it - I am completely, 100% fed up. I'm throwing my hands up, throwing the proverbial towel in, and declaring: I QUIT.

Fuck. The. Cold.

Walking to work this morning was like stripping naked and plunging into the icy Atlantic. While in Nova Scotia. On the coldest day of the year. My entire face was bright red and chapped by the time I finally threw myself through the building's front doors, and I would've been crying if I wasn't afraid the tears would turn my eyeballs into ice cubes. Between the huge jump in temperature (how again did we go from 60 to 20?) and the fact that the wind was so strong it felt like it was cutting my flesh right off the bone, I realized I just can't take it anymore.

Should I drive, take the Metro, or ice skate to work today?

I hate the cold. I cannot live in the cold. I can do maybe ONE cold weekend a year, and that would be so I could go skiing one day, and wear a cute sweater on the other day. I'm ridiculously sensitive to the cold (okay, so I'm just a whiny baby that can't handle it) despite the fact that I was born and raised in the goddamn Boston area. While everyone else is frolicking about in the snow, enjoying the temperature drop, I'm hiding out inside, gulping down hot chocolates, and bitching and complaining from the moment I feel my first slight chill of the season.

I'm not meant to exist in this temperate zone. I'm supposed to be luxuriating in the warmth on a beach, happily living in a place where the temperature stays between the 60-85 range. I don't mind a coolish day, in which I can wear a light jacket and cute boots, but I don't want to have to break out the parka and some snow boots.

So... LA, here we come!



Sure, LA has some days where those boots and the light jacket come in handy, but for the most part, it's MUCH warmer than anywhere in the goddamn New England/Mid-Atlantic region. And there are other warm areas nearby; San Diego is south, Vegas is east, and Hawaii is west. So, while you all are freezing your asses off, trudging through the tundra in the bleak middle of a DC winter, I'll be sitting on the beach, sipping a martini and chatting about Hollywood politics with A list celebrities.

At least for now, I can console myself with my inner FURNACE. Which brings me too:

Chelsea's Menopausal Madness of the Day

Today (unfortunately) we have not yet seen any hot flashes. Friday, however, saw a spectacular hot flash in the middle of the FMF lobby, and then some lovely hot flashes at 3am, 4am, and 5am. It's like being woken up by your alarm clock, if by "woken up by your alarm clock" actually means "hauled out of bed and thrown into an oven." Do I - or do I - get hotter every day? Oooh, literally and figuratively!

Receipe For Disaster

Several Absolute Vanilla and Coke Zeros + Several Kamikaze Shots + Several Vodka Crans - Food - Water x Passing Out Immediately = All Day Hangover Deadness

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!

Crap

BRB, Apocalypse

HALLELUJAH!

BREAKING NEWS:

On Friday I get to have this shoved into the tender muscle of my upper ass:

Do you know what that is? Are you tingling with excitement? You should be!

That's my Lupron Shot! Finally!! I've been waiting months for this, and now that my insurance company has finally decided to cover most of it (seeing as how the original price of $1700 was a little too steep.) This means that while I have to deal with all the insanity of being on medically-induced menopause (the worst of which are the hot flashes - I anticipate spending a lot more time shoving my head in my freezer, like I did back in the good ol' days) I get to be healthy.

Here's a sampling of things I can do on the shot:

- Not have anymore cysts burst
- Walk for miles without pain
- Go to the gym and work on my fitness
- Dance like a maniac when I'm drunk at bars
- HAVE SEX

That pretty much sums all of that up. No pain, the ability to exercise, and the ability to get my freak on, if I so desire. Which means I'll probably get wasted this weekend, and wake up the next morning next to this:


But that's okay; he'll probably have food tucked away somewhere, so we can enjoy a romantic breakfast in bed or something. Nothing says "celebration!" than awkward sex and a bag of pork rinds hidden behind a man boob!

"Super" Tuesday - Approach With Caution

So... it's Tuesday.

With the pattern we have thus far, every Tuesday over the past month or so has been disastrous; there was Ovary Gate '08, there was the failure to get my menopause shot, and there was the untimely demise of Heath Ledger. Basically, all signs of the impending Apocalypse, which of course will take place on a Tuesday. Fuck Tuesdays.

My only hope is that today will live up to it's name and actually be a Super Tuesday (especially considering that Super Bowl Sunday ended up being so horrific that I still want to die. BRB, jumping out a window.)

My official stance is: Hillary First, Democrat Second.

"I will fuck your shit up"

I'm a huge Hillary supporter for a variety of reasons:

-She cares about the people in the country
-She has the experience, tenacity, and drive to actually accomplish her goals
-She cares about women's health issues and health care in general
-She wants to strengthen our education systems
-She wants comprehensive government reform
-She wants women to have equality in all areas of the country
-She wants to improve our horrifically terrible international relations
-She won't, you know, get us into another pointless war

etc etc etc. I really like Hillary, and even though she can be a bit... bull doggish at times, I think that's an important quality to have. She'll fight for what she believes in, and she'll put all her cards on the table. People won't be left wondering what the real agenda is.

I still believe that she'll end up with the Democratic nomination, but like I said, at any rate, I just want a Democrat in office. I really like Obama too. I think he needs more experience, and I think he's a little too idealistic (especially with the sorry state of the country and all of our affairs right now) and needs more time to get a better grip on the way a country is run. I think if Hillary were to win in 08, then Obama would be the perfect candidate to step in once her terms were over (since obviously I want her in there for the full 8 years.) At any rate, I'd still pick him over any of the Republicans, as he'd still do an amazing job, and wouldn't continue to grind our country into the dirt.

Ideally, I'd love to see Obama take the VP spot if Hillary wins, but I know that's probably just wishful thinking. It'd be amazing, of course, because then he'd seriously be in the perfect position to become president afterwards (seeing as he's not Al Gore, and won't belly flop so horrifically) but we'll see. A girl can dream.

(Secretly, though, I still wish this was our option:




You know you want it too. Plus, young people would totally vote if they had this option.)

So, politics aside, I've been promising a post about our adventures in New York City. Sadly, this is not that post. I still need to upload pictures and come up with witty captions and a humorous spin on our adventures (not that they need a spin, considering my friends are insane and we bring the party to every city we go to) so that'll be coming tomorrow. For now, let me sum it up with a few key points:

- Clay Aiken ("Craykin") is Sex on a Stick. Kind of.
- Spamalot is the best thing on Broadway.
- We're "functioning alcoholics," which means we can feel superior to "fall down drunk alcoholics," and still be somewhat productive members of society.
- It is indeed possible to do New York on a budget, provided you live off a diet of crackers and peanut butter. I'm amazed at how little I was able to spend.
- Cloverfield is totally awesome. As long as you don't die.
- I really, really want to go back.

Fuck DC, it's boring as hell and I need to get out of here. I'd even go back to New York if the Cloverfield monster was running around and causing chaos. Adventures, here I come!