Oh, Theo

Theo, Theo, Theo.

Did what we had mean nothing to you?

I suppose you'd say it didn't, what with you not even knowing me and all. But I think I loved you enough for both of us.

And then you go and pull something like this.

~weeps~

You know, despite some of your boneheaded maneuvers lately (I mean, come on, how much did you pay for JD-fucking-Drew again?), you were my third favorite of all my sports-related fantasy boyfriends.

And you had to up and throw it aaaalll away. Let's just say that marrying some ho is infinitely more upsetting than the Drew deal. I shan't be getting over this one!

(Until you get divorced and stuff. Hehehe.)

Casting Directors are Stoopider than Boys

I love me some "24." One of the best shows on television, without question.

But what special brand of crack does their casting director smoke, and where can I get some?

James Cromwell and Paul McCrane.

Two actors I enjoy, particularly Cromwell, whose turn as the farmer in Babe pretty much assured him a place in my heart for life (I know he must be honored).

And McCrane's Dr. Romano on "ER" was one of the last good things about that show before it officially entered "Law&Order" territory (somewhere around the 243rd season).

But they are currently portraying the father and brother of one Jack Bauer, and it's so distracting in its absurdity that it's really going to bother me.

Point one: I appreciate that they found an actor with the same height issues as poor Keifer (Keifer's actually taller than McCrane, who must be about 4'11") to play his brother, but McCrane's balding, shiny pate and weasely composition leads me to question how he could ever in a million years be related to the rugged, swaggering, torturing, action hero Jack. Let alone be his brother.

Point two: Cromwell? Is 6'7". He's about three heads taller than each of his alleged "sons" on the show. Are we going to meet Mrs. Bauer, or is she busy helping Santa gear up for Christmas?

I mean, come on. Was Donald Sutherland really not available? And maybe bring in Emilio Estevez to play the evil brother. Would have been so hard?

That's Becuase You're a F***ing Broad, Sweetheart

First off, have you all seen last week's TV Guide cover? It has been sitting on my coffee table for a week, but I'm just now noticing how retarded Ryan Seacrest looks. I'm sort of wondering who he pissed off at TV Guide that they would post a cover featuring a photo where he more thoroughly resembles Corky from "Life Goes On" than anyone I would ever let do me. I'd rather do Paula if we're basing it strictly on this cover photo. Plus, his teeth look like Chiclets. It's truly fascinating.

(Remember that "Punky Brewster" episode where she wants to join the club that calls themselves The Chiclets, except when she gets in they dump out this huge pile of like, Mike&Ikes and say they are drugs and tell her she has to do them in order to be cool? What a classic episode. That might have been the one Nancy Reagan was on. Man, I am old.)

(That special Punky episode is eclipsed only by the Johnny Dakota episode of "Saved by the Bell" with the "there's no hope with dope" PSA at the end. Remember when TV tried to be responsible? If "Saved" was still on they'd have Kelly blowing Mr. Belding after cheerleading practice and snorting lines off Screech's ass and then doing a threesome with Lisa and Jessie. Honestly.)

Last night I was waiting for a drink at the bar when the guy standing next to me had a gross overreaction to a lime in his Jack & Coke. I sort of snickered at him, and pointed out that lime in Jack and Coke is actually not all that bad (although it is better in a Captain and Coke, I will admit). He glared at me, sneered, and then spat out, "That's becuase you're a fucking broad, sweetheart. Have a nice night."

Let's just say I was pretty sure he didn't really want me to have a nice night.

You know something, I've been back in New Hampshire for 3 months now, and I haven't had a single conversation with a guy at a bar, let alone been on a date or even just drunkenly made out.

Highly, highly disturbing. I've not had a drought like this in a relatively long time, actually. Hell, I used to even weigh about 50 pounds more than I do now and I still got a lot more ass.

Have I gone hideous in my old age? That guy, who--for the record--I was not even attempting to pick up--I couldn't even tell you what he looked like--basically telling me to fuck off was the most exciting thing to happen in ages.

Highly disturbing.

United 93

I stayed in tonight. Cleaned my apartment for three hours (seriously! I don't even have that much square footage going on in here, don't even ask me how that worked, but there it is), changed kitty litter, took the out the trash, dusted, vacuumed, prepared laundry to bring to parents' house tomorrow, brushed the cats, made a half-hearted attempt to clip Butters' claws becuase she can hardly walk without getting stuck to the capet, but quickly gave up.

It was an extremely mundane evening, but I enjoyed it.

Then I got United 93 on my On Demand, as there was precious little on television.

First of all, this film is excellent. Excellent. But I struggled over whether or not to write about it or recommend it (although obviously I am, and I do).

I don't know if it's becuase it's "too soon," becuase I don't think it is. September 11 is my generation's Pearl Harbor, and I think five years is enough of a mourning period to have gone by to start examining it artistically ( although please, God, 40 years from now do NOT let the disembodied preserved head of Jerry Bruckheimer make a movie starring Violet Affleck as a plucky flight attendant or some shit. Please. I'll probably still be alive then, but that would probably kill me, or at least make me violently ill, as I am sure the atrocity that was the Ben Affleck "epic" (epice piece of crap) Pearl Harbor made the WWII vets still alive to see it).

But...it's just so raw, this film, and it made me realize how raw I still am about 9/11. Nothing directly happened to me that day, aside from as an American. All my friends in Washington and New York were safe. I didn't lose any family members, but I felt it--the shock, the grief, the rage, the horror--so strongly then, just as I did tonight watching this movie.

I wept through half the film, and flashed back to sitting in my parents' bedroom that morning, after my mom called me from work and woke me up to tell me to turn on the tv. I remember as though it were yesterday, kneeling on the floor, clutching the phone to my chest and watching the second plane hit and thinking about my father, who was due to fly from Boston to Los Angeles that morning. As it turns out, the flight my father was booked on was set to leave Boston an hour or so after all flights were grounded, so he never even made it all the way into the airport before being turned right back around.

His travel agent had offered him a seat on and earlier flight, United 175, which was the plane I watched explode in a fireball on live television. Dad didn't want to get up so early. If my father were a morning person, he would be dead at the hands of fucking terrorist coward bastards right now, and I would have watched it happen on live TV, and watched it again tonight, as the film used real news footage of that flight's fateful end.

So that is what's raw about this film, at least for me. It felt real, like it was happening all over again. It plays out in real-time, almost in documentary-style, particularly the scenes set in air traffic control towers. We are not given background stories or personal information or even much dialogue--apart from frantic, whispered games of "telephone" as the passengers who are surreptitously using cell and airphones to call loved ones relay information about the other hijacked planes--from the heroic passengers and crew on board.

One by one, helpless air traffic controllers lose radio contact with the blips on their screens and then watch them blink off radar. Confusion reigns, orders are shouted, misinformation speeds through the various levels of command. I learned afterwards that many of the people in these scenes were played by the actual air traffic controllers involved, and they all did an excellent job of portraying the overwhleming panic and dread taking hold that morning as they realized that each of the 4,200 planes in the air had suddenly become potential deadly weapons.

A running theme early in the movie is the disbelief from each new person that hears the news of the hijackings. "Shit, another one?" "Did he say planes as in plural?" It reminds you just how unbelievable these events were. If, God forbid, anything resembling 9/11 would ever happen again, we know now there would be no disbelief, only steely acceptance. You're only innocent once.

As the national FAA director (playing himself, and damn impressively) makes the call to ground all U.S. air traffic and stop all international flights from crossing our borders, an underling questions the decision, pointing out how much money it will cost, as though still not understanding the full gravity of what is happening. The director points to the TV screens showing footage of the WTC and Pentagon in flames and aptly points out, "We are at war with someone. I want those planes on the ground." And I believe that is exactly how it played out in real life.

Which is why, despite the fact we will never know for sure (although the families of all 40 victims on board flight 93 cooperated fully with filmmakers, providing every detail they could muster, including tearful phone messages) what exactly happened on that plane, I believe it could have happened exactly as portrayed. And it breaks my heart. That they desperately tried, until the last possible second, to survive, knowing they probably wouldn't, but knowing that if they didn't do something the plane they were on was going to fly into another building...I am just amazed, amazed at how some people were able to at least make an effort in a situation that would have no doubt paralyzed me with shock and grief and fear. Several passengers are portrayed making phone calls, leaving messages of love.

So, everyone must see this film, despite the fact that it will be difficult, and will probably make you cry, and might make you lose some sleep (I know I'm about to have some trouble in that department). It contains zero politics, zero hint at any of the bullshit that has gone on in the country in the last few years, it merely presents the events of that horrific day and implores you not to forget.

I know I never will.

Thanks Perez

Via Perez Hilton, this video is too cute, and the band--Bo Pepper--reminds me of The Ditty Bops, with their cute lyrics and bouncy-sounding lead singer.

Dearly "Departed"

The Oscar winners won't even be announced for another few weeks, and I'm already depressed about them.

The question plaguing me is as follows: when did "pretentious and in love with its own importance" become more award-worthy than "well-made, well-cast, obscenely entertaining, well-acted, and did I mention OBSCENELY ENTERTAINING??"

My prediction: Babel will beat out The Departed for Best Picture. And its director will probably beat out living legend Martin Scorcese, who is one session in the tanning bed away from becoming the Dan Marino of filmmaking: undeniable Hall of Famer, can't close on the Big One.

The Departed can only be described as superb entertainment. It isn't a heavy-handed "message" movie. It's just damn good. (I suppose it's possible that the giant bottle of Captain Morgan that Jeff and I snuck in to the theater to mix with our Diet Coke had something to do with it, but I really don't think so.) This was some finely crafted, unbelievably acted, beautifully made, downright sumptious storytelling, people, and was supremely entertaining...but the Academy stopped awarding "supremely entertaining" over "important" pretty much after the Shakespeare in Love beating out Saving Private Ryan debacle. And that's just not fair, espcially to a director like Scorsese, who pretty much only knows how to do "supremely entertaining." Good for us, bad for his Oscar chances.

This same shit happened to old Marty in 2004, when Clint Eastwood's well-made but depressing as hell Million Dollar Baby (which dared to ask the question, "Can you tell how good a movie is based on how many people went home and stuck their heads in the oven afterwards?") beat out Scorcese's lavish, gorgeous and compelling The Aviator. (I would have even been able to overlook Gwen Stefani's involvement with the latter if it had managed a win in this category.)

Come to think of it, it probably won't be the Babel guy beating Scorcese out for Best Director, but rather Clint--again. The Academy never misses an opportunity to suck that guy's cock, even though he never misses an opportunity to stick one in and break it off for movie goers--Mystic River anyone? Wait, was that one depressing becuase of the story, or becuase of Laura Linney's "Boston" accent?

Then there was last year's travesty--even though it didn't involve Martin Scorcese. Brokeback Mountain was on HBO on Saturday, so I watched it again while dusting (I have way too much wood furniture in my living room these days, it takes me forever to dust, and don't even get me started on cat hair, I've only had the fuckers for 10 days but could build a whole new cat twice the size of both of them put together out of all the hair I've wiped off my coffee table).

This movie was the very definition of superb entertainment. It was moving, realistic, sexy, beautiful, amazingly-acted and directed, sad without being depressing; it had a good message without beating you senselessly over the head with it, the main conflict was complex and compelling; I could honestly go on all day. Plus, hot guys! DOING IT! Jake and Heath!

DOING IT!!!!

Crash, on the other hand, which inevitably rode its own wave of self-congratulatory "look at us, We've Got an Important Social Message" bullcrap straight into the Best Picture award (and a Best Supporting Actor nomination for Matt Dillon, who basically did the same asshole riff he played in There's Something About Mary, but playing him straight instead of goofy. What a stretch.) last year, causing an absolute riot among anyone who knows anything about good movies.

I hated Crash. I don't need some obnoxious movie blaring in my ear about how much we all have to learn about our own prejiduces.

Just like I don't need Babel to tell me whatever bullcrap message it's no doubt selling.

Heh Heh...I guess this is where I mention that the theaters up here are finally showing it, and I won't be seeing it until Friday night.

If come Friday it is necessary for me to come back here, hat in hand, and eat myself a heaping helping of my own words? Will do.

Something tells me I won't be though.

Rowr! Hschssssss!!!! Rowr!

My cat Chloe does NOT like to have her claws clipped, as I discovered this evening. It was bad enough that it just about broke my heart to hold her down and subject her to it in the first place, becuase she--unlike her chunked out, scruffy, half-a-tail havin', cheerful and purring all the time sister, Butters--is this little sad-faced teeny tiny girl with big huge plaintive Puss in Boots eyes.

She always looks so sad, and every now and then for no reason at all lets out a little squeak of a meow.

Tonight, she showed her, "Back off bitch or I will break. your. shit. OFF." side. Very charming. And I have a lovely scratch on my FACE to prove it. Good times. The good news is that my furniture will probably be at least slightly less fucked after tonight.

Also hissing and scratching are the tired-ass, unattractive bitches populating this season of "Beauty and the Geek." Double u, tee, EFF, becuase this show used to be so cute. On previous seasons the boys and girls bonded, and everyone was (for the most part) sweet and friendly and it was just a really fun, cute show. Now? The guys are cute and fun.

The girls tend on the tanning bed wrinkled, bleached blonde, bitch-ass side.

And I don't like it one bit.

Hey Baby, Nice Globes

Ah, the Golden Globe Awards. The best damn awards show period. The booze flows like wine, and the spray on tans are as tangible as the discomfort so obviously felt by the big time movie stars being forced to share air with lowly television stars. Naturally, I kept a running diary.

802: Brangelina!!! You almost never see them at shit like this. Why aren’t they seated at a tableful of underprivileged orphans with an 800 number flashing for those interested in adopting?

805: Surprising absolutely no one, Jennifer Hudson wins best supporting actress. I really loved her performance in “Dreamgirls,” but you can tell that she’s received so many awards that her head’s gotten almost as big as her tits. Beyonce’s fake smile is awesome though. Beyonce Internal monologue: Lap it up, bitch, next year you’ll be replacing Kirstie Alley as the spokesperson for Jenny Craig!

808: Justin Timberlake accepts the award for Best Song on behalf of an absent Prince, and does so by dipping down to imitate Prince’s…limited stature. Careful JT, what he lacks in height he makes up for in cock. He’ll come after you and use that thing as a garrote. The lack of Cameron Diaz’s audience reaction shot? Unforgivable.

810: Jack Nicholson’s daughter is very pretty, but looks like him in a way that freaks me out. I don’t know how guys can date her without picturing her bashing through a door with an axe. She’s probably never had a boyfriend.

812: Why on EARTH Jeremy Irons and Jeremy Piven were competing for the same Golden Globe is really beyond me, but Piven was so obviously hammered already in his reaction shot that I was oddly okay with it.

820: Kyra Sedgwick’s boobs are massive, did she just have a baby? Why don’t I know this, I make it my job to know stuff like this. I love her and Kevin Bacon because they are both really pretty much unattractive people who have made it in Hollywood. And I suspect that the reason their marriage has worked for so long is that they’re like, hosting Hollywood swingers parties and dressing up in leather. Tell me you couldn’t see Kevin Bacon in bondage, am I right?

826: You know, when she made “Jerry Maguire” Renee Zellweger had eyes.

828: Oh shut up, Jessica Biel. You make me want to drive my car off a cliff. How can the rest of us make it in this world when you’re around? It’s really just not fair. Christ.

831: Don’t worry Keifer. Later on you can go to Hugh Laurie’s house (“House!” Hahah! Get it? GET IT?) and rip his heart out with your toenails (tm Jeffa).

832: I’m sick and tired of everyone being all shocked and dismayed when they win. “Oh my goodness, this is so unexpected…” That being said, Hugh Laurie’s speech was such a riot. And I never fail to forget that he’s actually British, no matter how many awards I see him win.

841: I can’t really begin to describe what’s going on with Charlie Sheen’s hair. But I'm pretty sure a curling iron and some Aqua Net were involved.

844: Seriously. “Cars?” There’s no way that was better than “Happy Feet.” Also, get off the stage “Cars” guy. You’re not famous.

845: Annette Benning gets caught guzzling champagne on camera. Niiiice. If Beyonce wins I’m switching to “24.” I don’t want to live in a world where Beyonce gets an acting award in a category that Meryl Streep was also nominated. I mean come on.

847: Streep. Thank the lord for Streep. As an admirer of the craft, I can’t help but join everyone else in burying my face up her ass, because girlfriend knows what she’s fucking doing and looked damn good with that silver bob in that movie. I mean, I can’t make a joke about Streep. Honestly. (Okay, I really didn’t like her dress.) And she’s right about how 90% of the nominated movies aren’t fucking playing in places like New Hampshire. I really love awards shows, and I really love good movies, and sadly enough most of the movies that are, you know, worth seeing are the smaller movies that don’t end up in the multiplex in Manch Vegas. Nevermind that they’ve had “Casino Royale” playing on 4 screens for like 5 months but can’t manage to put “The Queen” up there for me. Jesus. And I would continue to rant about this all the way through the commercials, but I have to pee.

855: Poor Ben Stiller, everyone is still obviously mingling and drinking and laughing while he is trying to introduce “Borat.”

900: You know, I love that Ben Affleck is back to his original color and stuff, and I’d totally want to go see a Sox game with him and Jennifer Garner, but I really found him much more entertaining when he was drunken and orange and J-Lo’s bitch.

905: Eddie Izzard with facial hair, a possible American accent, and absolutely no make-up in this commercial for “The Riches” really, really disturbs me. Eddie, why are you doing this? Get some damn high heels on and get back on stage, because it’s been 8 years since “Dressed to Kill” and I’m getting kind of annoyed over here. And don’t bring up that 2002 show you did, because not only did I hear it was sub-par, that was still five years ago.

911: Annette Benning continues to guzzle champers like a champ. Yeah Drunk!Annette Benning! I feel like she is the one that brings rounds of shots to the table at 145 when everyone is already fucked three ways to the weekend.

918: Oh, poor Cameron. You’ve been drinking your woes away, haven’t you? You’re wearing a frilly doily of some kind and squinting at the teleprompter like my mom trying to dial her cell phone when she’s not wearing her glasses. Have another. And again, the lack of a JT audience shot? UNFORGIVABLE.

920: In what I fear will be a continuing trend, “The Queen” beats “The Departed” out in the screenplay category. I’m quite certain that “The Queen” is a great movie, I really want to see it, as a matter of fact. But I haven’t because it ain’t playing in the fucking Shire. So I’m screwed. Ew, this British guy is using his time to promote some sort of political agenda. Go back to England, hippie.

922: A possibly drunken Tim Allen (hey, Tim Allen!) refers to “30 Rock” as “3rd Rock”. Ha! Alec Baldwin should kick his ass when he gets to the stage. I’m just glad Tony Shaloub didn’t win again, I am sick of that guy, and “Monk” looks like a pretty stupid show to me (and don’t email me, I really could give a crap if it’s actually the best show ever, I don’t watch it and I’m sick of that guy!).

923: Ah yes, old Alec appears to be picking up Affleck’s slack in the self tanner department. At least we can count on someone to give me something to work with.

931: Aw! Okay I also can’t make fun of the girl from “Ugly Betty,” because she’s so freaking excited they won best comedy, and her dress is my favorite shade of purple. So pretty. Plus she’s kind of a chunk, so, solidarity, sister.

935: Jesus Christ, Sharon Stone. You look unbelievable. The same can be said, but for entirely different reasons, about Clint Eastwood’s inexplicable gold bow-tie.

940: I love the DVR. I just rewound to determine that Prince was indeed there in the audience. Was he in the shitter when they called his category? Was he getting blown by 8 different chicks in the limo? Has he already used his penis to garrote Justin Timberlake? Was it Cameron Diaz in the limo with him, and is that why they didn’t show her in the audience? I need answers!

946: Hugh Grant asks Prince to stand and bow since he’s here now. He was “stuck in traffic”. If by “stuck in traffic” you mean “stuck in some ho”. By the way, Drew Barrymore looks stunning, and it’s officially starting to piss me off that no one looks absurd (poor Cam notwithstanding, but she has an excuse), what am I supposed to make fun of? Drew even wore a bra. Christ.

958: Why is Tom Hanks presenting Warren Beatty with a lifetime achievement award? Was he the original second bosom buddy?

959: My new cat, Butters, reacts to Warren Beatty’s award by jumping on the couch next to me, ripping a huge smelly fart, and then jumping back off and leaving the room. Thanks, Butters; I didn't like "Bullworth" either, but I'm starting to think you have some serious ass problems. We may need to get that checked. Meanwhile, Chloe the cat (not to be confused with her namesake, Chloe the Badass from “24”) was too pissed off that I chose to record “24” to watch the Golden Globes, and has apparently left the room in protest for the evening.

1023: Did Dustin Hoffman really just say that they “put the fun in dysfunctional?” What’s he gonna say next, a “your momma’s so fat” joke?

1024: Yay Martin Scorsese! I actually saw (and loved) “The Departed.” How he managed to coax passable Boston accents out of the cast that wasn’t actually from there is beyond me (although I guess Martin Sheen was really only doing a half-assed Kennedy impression, but his character got chucked off a roof for chrissakes, so that’s really punishment enough).

1027: Cameron, look at Reese Witherspoon. Her breakup was probably just a LITTLE more traumatizing than yours, and she doesn’t look like she just spent the night doing blow with Lindsay Lohan in the back room at Hyde.

1029: Borat speaking in a normal British accent, and being so hilarious that I don’t even know why I have bothered attempting anything resembling amusing in the entirety of my life, when there is genius out there like this. Good lord!

1030: The fucking power has just gone out. What. The. FUCK. The GOOD awards are coming up!!!!!!! WTF!!!??????? The ice storm stopped like 300 years ago. God damn it.

1040: My mother helpfully informs me that “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Dreamgirls” have won awards since my power has been out.

1050: Jenny informs me that Forrest Whitaker beat out Leo. He was robbed!

1100: This is so annoying. I wanted to watch “24” before I went to bed. Fuckers!

1124: Power is back. Wa-frigging-hoo. I've ascertained that stupid "Babel" won (most depressing movie ever) Best Picture and that Forrest Whitaker won for some movie I’ve never heard of. Whatever.

Stairs! We Meet Again!

Ladies, you know that feeling you get on your chin when you've been making out with a guy that hates to shave? Sort of rubbed raw, over-exfoliated, super-sensitive?

I've got that going on fierce today. Except instead of making out with a guy, I was making out with an extremely hard door. At the bottom of an extremely steep flight of stairs. Down which I tumbled, face first at around 245 this morning.

I'd like to apologize to the stairs located on Winchester Street in Virginia, becuase I've been saying for months now that I "fell down the stairs" in reference to what I now realize was merely a minor stumble that occurred last 4th of July.

That shit don't even qualify, despite the fact that I was crippled for the following 6 weeks.

This, this was falling down the stairs done right. The best part being that I totally called it. As we were about to make our way down the stairs, I basically said, "Wow, I'm totally falling down these stairs!" One point two seconds later? Well, you get the idea.

(Sidebar: This reminds me so much of a famous incident from my undergrad years (what, you think this aversion I seem to have to remaining upright was a recent development?), in which I was strolling along, sober as a preschooler, on my way to the dining hall or some such, and I stumbled. I caught myself, turned to my friend Brian and said, "Wow that was close, I almost fe--!!!" I was cut off in the middle of pronouncing my own victory over gravity by another stumble, this one far more successful than the first. I went down like a ton of bricks, and Brian will never let me forget this. You know how some people are like, Civil War re-enactors? Brian is a "Sarah eats it in the middle of saying she almost ate it" re-enactor. Good times.)

Below are some figures to assist in your understanding of the following mathematical formua:

Sarah + 4-inch Ankle Boots + 5 Jack & Diets + 4 Bud Lights + 0 Cigarettes (aka "highly anxious mental condition") + Very Steep Steps = Disaster

The Offending (If Awesome) Boots:

And the inevitable result:

Results: No major injuries. Unbelievable!

My left leg is black and blue up and down, there is a large gash on my left knee, my left eblow is a bit skinned, and I have minor aches and pains throughout the rest of my body, notably in my neck, shoulders and back.

My stuntwoman-worthy headfirst face plant into the door at the bottom of the stairs seems to have resulted only in a slightly tender, raw chin.

Basic Saturday, really.

The Following Was Written Between 10pm and 1020pm

The gym has been murder lately. Every January it's like this. People, with their lame-ass, "Oh, the holidays are over, back to the gym!" resolutions ruining it for those of us that are AT the damn gym (for all the good it does us. Well, okay...me) all year long.

Why can't these people just hurry up and get back to being lazy bastards?

Instead, I've got every fatty in Manchester running me down in the parking lot and sweating their germs all over me in the locker room.

It seriously took me 10 minutes to find a parking spot tonight; it was like a damn demolition derby out there, and not in the good way. (Seriously, how fun are real demolition derbys? I once went to a fair where people paid 5 bucks to get to hit an old car with a sledgehammer. Good times.)

In brighter news, underwear throughout the country is going to need to be changed at approximately 10pm on Sunday night if the rumors about the new season of "24" are to be believed.

Jack Bauer, baby. He's five-feet six-inches of pure, American awesome. Let's just say I would have him over to play Abu-Ghraib on every surface of my apartment, despite his Manchester Syndrome*.

* Reference to the disease, potentially caused by the water and avoided by few, that causes somewhat limited stature among the men of Manchester, NH.

Yep, I'm an Actual Grown Up

This is what happens when we decide to "just stay in and keep it low-key" on New Year's Eve.

Notice how I'm holding my noisemaker like a cig? See below.

(Sigh.)

Smoking is Cool, Goddamnit

Most people who smoke really wish they could quit, have tried to quit a hundred times, hate that they can't, etc etc etc. They probably have what you call a love-hate relationship with the ciggies. I do not understand this, becuase aside from the social stigma that has developed in recent years, I can't think of a single thing about smoking that I don't love desperately.

(Okay, one thing, and that's smelly hair. Yay! I came up with one, thank the lord, I'm going to need to cling to that.)

I started smoking at 14 because I wanted to be cool. Fat kids do whatever they can, y'all. I had already embraced the classic maneuver, "Be Funny and They'll Hate You Less" made popular by youthful porkers since the cavedays ("Ooga, ooga, pull my finger!" "Ooogahahah! You funny, Me hate you less now, fatty."), but I figured I needed a little something extra.

So, smoking.

When I was 15 I took it up a notch, switching to Marlboro Reds to add that extra layer of bad-assedness to it, which actually worked, sort of. I remember vividly being at a party and bumming a cig to one of the cooooooolest guys (emphasis for irony, I think this guy is like, a cashier now) in school and having him actually comment on how most girls are wimpy and smoke crap-ass light cigs, but I--ME!--was cool for smoking my hideously awful bad-ass manly cigs. Score!

Of course, then he went and felt up some other chick, but hey, we smoked a cigarette together and he called me cool to my face. So at first I think I was just hooked on the coolness. Then I grew up, stopped giving a poo what others thought of me, yet continued for whatever reason to smoke.

Must have been becuase SMOKING IS AWESOME.

Truth be told, folks, I love everything about smoking:

Getting a new pack. The firm feeling of an unopened pack in my hands. Packing said pack against my palm. Peeling off all of the staticky film the packs come wrapped in, a trick I picked up in college to differentiate MY pack of Marlboro Lights from everyone else's, since most people only take off that top bit of film.

The way they smell. I know most people would say they smell gross. And maybe the smoke itself does, but I love the smell of an unsmoked pack of cigarettes, particularly that first waft of tobacco scent that drifts up when you pull off the foil from the top.

The cracklely noise they make when you first light them.

Smoking outside in the cold, when you can already see your breath, and adding the smoke to it and it's like you're exhaling this huge plume of smoke, like a dragon.

The way, if you haven't smoked in a while, that you get the hardest buzz ever when you smoke one.

Smoking and talking. Hate to say this, but I've bonded so much over smoking. I made some of my closest friends in college through it. I spent some of my favorite hours with some of my best friends in high school, college and after college just sitting and smoking and drinking (coffee, beers, glasses of wine).

Smoking and drinking alone. I know, I know. But last summer I spent plenty of nights smoking and guzzling down wine by myself. I gotta admit, this may be pathetic, but it's kind of like going to the movies alone. You're ashamed to admit you do it, but when you're doing it you're wondering why you don't do it more often.

Okay so why all the brouhaha?

Becuase it's been 9 actual days since my last cigarette, and I'm sort of hoping to make it stick. It hasn't really been that hard, considering by the time I decided to give them up for good I was really only smoking when I drank.

Then again, I didn't go out this past weekend due to being a huge giant ball of phlegm shaped like a girl. (It's like my lungs were all "WTF, mate? Where's the smoke, eh? Well, take THIS! *cough cough cough cough cough*" I'm going to consider it a cleansing detoxification.) So it's kind of easy to not smoke when you're not out drinking.

When I go out this weekend, it's possible I'm going to die from needing to smoke so badly. Just so you know, just in case I don't come back and you get all "Hey, what happened to that chick, she wrote the best blogs EVER!"

God, they're so good.

(Sniff!)

Things 'n' Beyond

I swear to god, stores like Linens 'n' Things and Bed, Bath and Beyond probably spend a portion of their profits on the special, secret-ingredient "Idiot Gas" that they pump into the air at each location.

This the only explanation for why I could enter a Linens n Things looking to buy a table lamp with a gift card I got for Christmas and end up leaving the store TWO HOURS later having spent my gift card AND a hundred dollars of my own money on useless shit I so don't need. Like a 14 dollar pillar candle to go with the 19 dollar Asian-looking lantern thing for my coffee table (the good news is that it now smells like "ginger citrus tea" or something in my living room), and the matching wall sconces (right now you're probably asking what a "sconce" is, I really couldn't tell you, I just know the Idiot Gas convinced me I needed them), which of course need their own 12 dollar pillar candles (actually good point, make that "ginger citrus tea" and "maple vanilla," which I selected becuase they were the right color, but also becuase it made me think of pancakes, and ever since I re-committed to the whole diet thing this new year I've been fucking starving).

And the lamp? Naturally I can't just buy a lamp, no, the Idiot Gas won't allow that. I have to buy the best lamp there, and then, whoops! It's got no shade. So I gotta buy the pretty red shade, even though it's an inch too short to fit the lamp and sits crooked on the harp and will probably collect dust like a motherfucker just like every other DAMN thing in this place nevermind when I get the kittens I'm thinking about adopting this weekend to make my life as a cat-having dust-frenzied bingo-playing SPINSTER that much more complete. But it's RED, and it matches my furniture! Every other DAMN person is always complaining that my other living room lamp with the beige shade and the purple trim "doesn't match the furniture." So there. HAPPY NOW?

I swear to you people I came really close to purchasing a 20 dollar banana hanger that came with an attached banana slicer. Becuase, you know, the effort of slicing a banana over one's Corn Flakes is really too much for some people. And the bananas can NOT sit in the fruit bowl on my kitchen table with the fucking MANGOS, okay? They are SENSITIVE. They could BRUISE! Nevermind that a bruised banana that sat in the DAMN fruit bowl with the mangos tastes every bit the same as a Fancy (fucking) Pants banana that hangs from the 20 (fucking) dollar banana hanger.

But it was at this point that I figured out the ploy with the Idiot Gas. I was about to throw the banana hanger into my cart with the 8 dollar "plastic bag holder" that mounts inside my cabinets for simple storage of my grocery store bags that I cart my lunches to work in. You know, because my previous system of balling them up and keeping them in another bag was just reeeeeally not cutting the mustard.

The worst part is that L&T had a shite selection of picture frames, and I need some, so...I'm going to have to do the Bed Bath & Beyond this weekend.

That's where they get you. With the Things and the Beyond.

Everyone needs Linens, technically. I mean, it would be gross to just sleep on a bare mattress. And you'd get cold! And you'd never get any becuase all your potential lays would be all "Um, why don't you have sheets? And what is that stain over there?" (Not exactly easy to throw a damned queen-sized pillow top in the washer, knowwhatI'msayin'?).

And Bed and Bath follow the same concept. You can't like, just not have a shower curtain. That would be weird. (Although you could make the argument that a $2.99 liner would do the job just as well as my $24.99 "hotel quality" fabric liner....if you were like, a fucking caveman or something.)

It's the "Things" and the "Beyond" that fuck you. Bed, check! Bath? Sure! Beyond? What's that?

That's where banana hammocks are from! Just ask one. Where you from, banana hammock??

Oh, you know. "Beyond."

Now, if you'll excuse me, Goran Visnijc and John Stamos are creating what can only be described as a vortex of hotness on my TV screen.

This Entry is Super Gross (Just fair warning...)

(Seriously, you may not want to be friends with me anymore after reading this, but I've got to get it out there.)

Honestly, what is everyone's deal with the shower?

I am sick as a dog right now, and was recounting to my mother the amount of phlegm I hocked up in the shower this morning even after blowing my nose, and was complaining about how I am basically just giant ball of phlegm and how unfair it was, and she interrupted me and got all grossed out:

"Wait, you blew your nose in the shower?"
"Well, yeah. It's nice and steamy, loosens everything right up."
"That is DISGUSTING."
"Well, I just find it easier to, I don't know, expel things in a nice steamy environment!"
"I can't even talk to you."

Let me just say this. I get a stuffy nose all the freaking time. I dont' know what I'm allergic to, but it's got to be something, becuase you can count on "be" pronouncing "by" "embs" like this for the duration of the winter season, even when I'b not sick. And I've tried a variety of potions and elixirs for this ailment, and nothing works.

And the only thing that helps in the morning when I wake up with a brick for a head is getting in the shower and honking it all out. (Wow, I'm just really not going to have any friends...oh well!)

But if you're going to be gross, isn't the shower the place to do it? It's like peeing in the shower.

WHAT is the problem with peeing in the shower?

1) Urine is actually sterile, people. No germs. STERILE.
2) It goes straight down the drain.
3) It is then followed down the drain by soapy water.

So what's the problem? My ex-boyfriend was horrified and disgusted when I came out to him as an occasional shower pee-er (Come on, it's not like I'm addicting to the shower pee, it's just that if I forget to go beforehand I much prefer letting rip in the shower than having to sit my wet ass down on the toilet afterwards...the feeling of sitting on the toilet when you're freshly showered sickens me, it's the thought of all the germs that are probably on the toilet seat clinging onto my damp skin...~shudders~).

"You PEE in the SHOWER?"
"Well, yeah."
"THAT's DISGUSTING."
"Oh come on , it is not."
"That's where I go to get CLEAN? And I'm standing in your PEE?"
"Dude, I found half-eaten week-old chicken bones in your car the other day, and you're lecturing me on cleanliness?"
"At least I don't PEE in my car."
"Well, neither do I. Just in your shower."
"GAH!"

Seriously, the guy was one of the top three biggest slobs ever (after Pigpen, and me of course), and he gave me a hard time for peeing into a soapy drain.

I think the world is just divided into two groups: Those who don't think it's okay to pee or blow one's nose in the shower, and those who do.

And I think it's high time for the people in the former group to quit giving those of us in the latter group a hard time. After all, we know you don't always wash your hands after using the public restroom, and that's SO much worse.