The Oscah Blog, Part Deux

(Please click here for the Oscah Blog, Part One..)

730: J-Lo looks pre-go in her pretty, kind of Grecian gown. But her husband continues to have the callow complexion of a cross between an AIDS patient and the cartoon guy from "Corpse Bride."

739: Oh my lord, Kate Winslet, can I be you? Please? Gorgeous. GORGEOUS.

750: All right, so I can’t really harp on Streep. I mean, my goodness, she’s Streep for chrissake. But she appears to be wearing a housedress of some kind, mixed with some sort of tribal necklaces/mardi gras beads. It’s a very…odd look. Great, now I’m going to get struck by lightning.

751: Now I’m really going to get struck by lightning. But: sorry, Abigail Breslin. Your dress is F-U-G. It looks like a dress that maybe would have come with Easter Barbie, if there were an Easter Barbie. There’s really not a whole lot a 10-year old can do about looking chic, I mean 10-year olds are supposed to look like Easter Barbie. But this is the Oscars. Would a little Dior have killed her, just for one night? Hm.

,mmkllll ß Brought to you by Chloe the cat, still not grasping the concept of “computer not cat” plan for my lap tonight.

800: Kind of fun little montage with characters from the nominated movies. But it’s always, always funnier when Billy Crystal does it. I think “Academy Awards Host” should be the only thing Billy Crystal ever does, actually. I know I’m in the minority on that, but hey, I can’t help it. I like those goofy little songs he sings.

803: Leo talks about conflict diamonds like his 12 year old model girlfriend doesn’t bathe in them nightly.

804: Naomi Watts….I don’t know. It reminds me of something Carol Seaver would have worn on the prom episode of “Growing Pains.” Nicole Kidman, in gorgeous red, is so tall and thin that she looks like a paper cut. A really, really, really pretty paper cut.

812: I am unsurprised to learn that Vogue’s Andre Leon Talley styled Jennifer Hudson’s look. That man is a big fan of the “obnoxiously unnecessary coat.”

813: “Devil Wears Prada” (and “Sex and the City”) costumer Patricia Fields, is wearing red sequins that do nothing to disguise her ginormous gunt, and with her hideously scarlet dyed hair, she looks like a haggy, washed-up, boob-sagging Jessica Rabbit. Sad! I’ll never look at “Who Framed Roger Rabbit” the same again.

817: Apologies for the lack of originality here, but…Penelope Cruz really looks like a feather duster. That’s not a creative way to describe her dress, which is stunning from the waist up. But really, I have a feather duster in my linen closet, that really is what it looks like.

819: Oooh, Eddie Murphy non-baby-mama Tracy Edmonds really should have pulled her Spanx up higher. There’s a definitive line at her waist, and her dress is, wow, well, there really may have been a Bedazzler involved.

822: Mmm, Ryan Gosling. Bad tux, hot guy. I need new underwear for the first time tonight. Good times!

825: Five minutes to showtime, I’m giddy. Need to pee, I’ll try to post Part Three, with the meat of the actual show, all in one big bit, probably around three hundred oclock tonight. Enjoy the show!

The Oscah Blog, Part Uno

Okay, I give, I give. I shall do an Oscars blog. I was inspired by the red carpet coverage on E!. More specifically, by the horror of Jennifer Hudson’s ill-advised golden tinfoil bolero jacket.

Oh, Jennifer. You’re the darling of the awards show circuit. You looked fierce at the Golden Globe awards. I liked your performance in “Dreamgirls,” and I think you’ll win the Oscar tonight. But why, why, whyyyyy did you add that tinfoil thing to your lovely chocolate gown? You look like you just finished a marathon.

(Sidebar: I never got that aspect of marathon running. I know it has some shit to do with body heat or evaporization, or whathaveyou. But it’s like, if I ever ran a marathon, I don’t think the little tinfoil blanket is really going to help me feel any better about all my toenails falling off and the pee running down my legs, and the cardiac arrest and stuff.)

So, I’m settling in with several cans of Diet A&W Root Beer, some Easy Mac, and a very disgruntled cat who doesn’t understand that “laptop computer” means “computer on my lap, INSTEAD of a cat.”

652: Looks like Cameron Diaz has packed on the old Breakup 15. Nice dress though.

655: In response to Rachel Weiszcghzlnzzzz’s Vera Wang gown (which is lovely, by the way), Seacrest says “Wow there’s a lot of wang here.” To make up for it, he turns to the camera as Jessica Biel makes his way towards him to say, “wow, there’s just hottie after hottie out here, wow.” Just keep sayin’ it, Seacrest.

658: Speaking of repressed homosexuality, here comes John Travolta and his lovely beard. Kelly Preston, wearing some sort of shiny animal print monstrosity. Her hair looks nice though, and she looks not a day over 30, so good for her.

659: Seacrest pumps Travolta (heh) for information about dressing in drag for “Hairspray.” Travolta looks pissy about it. Hey Zucko, maybe if you don’t want people to think you’re Gay-o, you shouldn’t do a role last made popular by one Harvey Fierstein. Just sayin’.

704: Seacrest plays a hilariously heartfelt “good luck” message from Simon Cowell for Jennifer Hudson. Do you think he’s angling for a “thank-you” in her acceptance speech?

707: Flipping to the Barbara Walters special in time for her to ask Ellen Degeneres if she’d be dancing. Degeneres looks like she just asked her if she would wear a dress, all annoyed by the question. Um, again, maybe if you don’t want people to think you dance everywhere you go, you shouldn’t do damn American Express commercials where you….dance everywhere you go.

710: I really miss Pretty Leo. Not that Grown-Up Pinched-Looking Leo isn’t still a dish, and not that I wouldn’t totally do it with him (although, at this point, I’d totally do it with like, a bookshelf).

Okay, taking a break from the Seacrest, because he’s making my brain hurt, and he just pulled down his pants to show what brand his underwear is…in front of Helen Mirren. So yeah, it’s hard to type while blind.

(Also, I’m hungry. Time for Easy Mac.)

Stay Tuned...

Boy howdy, do I love Oscar night.

I may or may not keep a running diary tonight...depends on my motivation level.

I was actually out until 4 in the morning last night, a highly unusual move on my part these days, but it was indeed fun.

Yesterday, I bought four pairs of shoes for 90 dollars from the Nine West outlet. I am such an unbelievable sucker for the buy one get one half off deal. But they're all so darn pretty!

Then it occured to me that three of them are suede, and it's the dead of winter. I'm wicked smaht. But, again, pretty!!!!! Slingbacks and platforms and spikes and kitten heels, eggplant suede and charcoal tweed...aaaaah. Who needs sex, honestly?

Last night, on day seven of 28 Days, I folded like a cheap suit. Since I did not get drunk, I do not consider it a total failure. And I only drank beer. Oh, and a shot, whoops. Oh well.

In all honesty, how is a person supposed to give up smoking, drinking and candy all at the same time? Impossible! I did not smoke last night, at least...siiiigh.

Anyway, this is just a space filler in between the depressing post previous and the no doubt awesome Oscars wrap-up later.

Everybody Must Get Laid (unless you are me)

This is a major overshare, and for that I apologize.

But I'm currently in the biggest cold streak of my sexual career, and it's really starting to bug. Today marks the 125th day since I got any, and that is pretty much the absolute longest its been in the entirety of my life.

Well except for the mumble-mumble years I spent as a virgin, which so obviously doesn't count.

Now. I'm no spring chicken. If I were still 22 I'd just head out to a bar and grab the first warm body I could find. But as a lady (snerk) of 27, I am not really feeling the need to do that.

Yet.

It's kind of like how I never had the good sense to be afraid of living alone, until recently, when I've been on an "I'm definitely going to get murdered" riff and have been doing things like buying pepper spray for my nightstand and putting a big 2x4 in the track of my balcony door and checking every closet and behind the shower curtain before I go to bed. I guess I'm not putting enough faith in the cats as a security system....

A person who does these things isn't likely to be taking some stranger home from the bar all willy-nilly. But. Um, yeah. Talk to me at Day 250, I may have to sing a different tune.

Or maybe...get a new boyfriend? A hooker? A male Real Doll? A mail-order husband from Kazakhstan? Hm.

Come Fly With(out) Me

Am I the only one who understands how completely insane it is to ride on an airplane?

Why is everyone else always acting so damn normal, like they aren't potentially minutes away from a tummy-churning plummet several thousand feet out of the air ending in a horrific fiery death?

If I'm not sedated with a nice cocktail of wine and Advil PM, flying could pretty much count as cardio for me, considering my heart doesn't stop pounding the whole time. And yet I sit there on the plane next to all these people who are just hanging out, having conversations, reading books, not clutching the armrest with a Vulcan Grip of Death (or whatever) and gasping like it's their last every time there's even a teensy bump.

I guess it does occur to me that I do all sorts of stuff that other people think is just as terribly abnormal as strapping themselves into a flying metal death tube several miles above earth.

Like when I mentioned to my friends at brunch on Sunday about how I ate an entire box of Life cereal in one day last week. They looked at me like I'd just told them I'd eaten an entire box of toenails.

(You know what though? If eating an entire box of Life cereal is as horrifying to them as flying is to me, perhaps I ought to rethink my position on it.)

(Nope, it's still delicious.)

I never made it to Mardi Gras, as flying standby in a blizzard isn't really conducive to such things. I did, however, make some excellent friends waiting in line for flight re-bookings for two point two hours.

Regardless of the lack of Mardi Gras, the official Fu Manch Shoes 28 Days of Virtual Rehab officially began at 12 pm on Sunday (before which I had the obligatory last glass of champagne with brunch, of course) and I'm on Day 3. So far, I haven't been shaking in a corner cranking butts and scratching at the invisible bugs on my skin...but the night is young.

Not to mention that tomorrow I've agreed with my friend Kelly to give up candy for lent. Despite my whole "not believing in Christ" thing.

CANDY! Talk about scratching myself and cranking butts.

And that's forty days. I mean, good god!

Although perhaps being cut off from my nougat I.V. cold turkey might be good for the alarmingly yoooge size of my ass lately.

(I may have to cheat on the no smoking pledge at some point here. Most people eat candy to combat smoking cravings.)

(Mmmm, I smoked this weekend, sooooo goooood....)

That's What Friends are For?

"Someone smells like FEET."

"Yeah. It's me."

"DUDE."

"I've been wearing these tights since 5 this morning biatch, and, uh, I wore them to work yesterday. I didn't know I didn't have any other tights or hose in my house that were run-free to wear on the plane! Leave me be!"

"You are disgusting. You're making me gag."

"Thanks, dude."

"I have Febreeze, you cannot come back into the room until you spray yourself down with it."

"I've been in an AIRPORT for like 16 hours! This is discrimination!"

She was even more appalled when I went to put the tights on again this morning, but what was I gonna do?

"If I don't wear these my legs will freeze off, I know it's gross, but I will burn them as soon as I get to New Orleans!"

"Don't do it. I'll puke if you do it."

"You're supposed to look NICE when you fly on an employee buddy pass, and this is the only nice outfit I brought, and I have no other hose. I was not expecting to get stuck overnight here, cut me some slack!"

"You're supposed to LOOK nice, how are you supposed to SMELL???"

As it turned out, I didn't make the flight, and I'm in DC for the weekend. The offending tights are wadded up in the bottom of my luggage, and I am now nicely showered and wearing very clean socks.

But you got to love a friend that will tell you when you smell exactly like you'd spent the preceding 36 hours in air travel hell on Earth.

So now there will most definitely be no live-blogging from Mardi Gras, becuase I'm pretty far away from New Orleans. Which sucks, but at least I get to spend the weekend with my peeps in DC.

As long as I promise them to remain clean and odor-free while here.

(I don't normally stink, I swear!)

The First Annual Feast of Bitterness

I have two Valentine's Day dates tonight. Too bad they're a couple of chicks instead of Tom Brady, but I guess he seems to think that Gisele is better looking than me or something. Whatever.

It will be a grand time though. We have champagne, we have candy, we have all my "Sex and the City" dvds, and--most importantly--we have the baked ziti.

Let the First Annual Feast of Bitterness begin! Think of it as a Valentine's Day Festivus. After the feast, before the dvds, we will pass around the Unofficial Man-Beating Baton (okay, probably just the remote) and speak of all the bastards that have done us wrong in the previous year.

Then we will view "Sex and the City" and discuss how we do not understand why Carrie always had a boyfriend when she dressed like a homeless person and was constantly squealing like a rutting hog, and how in the early seasons it is inexplicable that Miranda was laid as much as she was when she appeared to be raiding the closet of one Paula Pound(somekids)stone to assemble her wardrobe.

This year will also feature a special prayer for another blizzard next Valentine's Day, since it tickled us pink that chicks were denied getting their "I've got a boyfriend and youuuu dooooon't" bouquets at offices across the land.

(And trust me, I'm a big-time veteran of the "I've got a boyfriend and youuuu doooon't" bouquet. There isn't a girl in America that doesn't take pleasure than getting called to the front desk to retrieve their bouquet and have everyone commenting, "Oh those are lovely" every time they come round your desk. And there isn't a boyfriendless girl in America that doesn't want to punch these bitches. It's like the feeling you get when you're walking through first class on your way to coach. Just admit it, and we can all move on.)

Bitching about men and trashing other women over with, we will be cleansed and able to welcome February 15th with open arms. Aaaah.

I'd like to say I'll be live-blogging from Mardi Gras this weekend....but, well...I am lazy. I do promise to post photos though!

I wish I'd have had time to make my own YouTube video of this song, but this little kid will have to do:

Snow? Ohmigosh, Run for Your LIfe!

You know, I haven't spent a winter in New Hampshire in several years. But...this IS still New Hampshire, right?

As in, right next to Maine? As in, right under Canada??

Why the ruckus over this storm? I've been watching the local news, and the entire first 17 minutes of this 30 minute broadcast were ALL about the snow.

There are presidential candidates up here. There's a damn war on. And, um, hello! Have we already forgotten about Anna Nicole??

Oh, they just spent a whopping 2 minutes on other news, now they are back on the storm. Thank goodness, becuase otherwise we might forget that it's supposed to snow.

Like 10-12 inches of snow is a good-sized storm, sure. But do we really need the coverage they are describing for tomorrow? Special early edition of the morning show. Reporter blogs! Minute-by-minute updates of accumulations! Reporters on location at frantic grocery stores! Lookout!

Am I think only one who understands that snow is rather portable? People stock up on supplies like it's a damn concrete storm. Snow all over your car? Brush it off, shovel it away. Now, if concrete falls on your car, that would require a jackhammer. That's something to actually worry about.

Anyhow, I'd better go to bed, I'll need to be well-rested for this apparent apocalypse that's coming. Good lord.

G' (Valentine's) Day Mates

I keep hearing this radio commercial urging guys to take their sweethearts to the Outback Steakhouse for Valentine's Day dinner.

If I actually had a boyfriend, and he actually took me to the Outback for Valentine's Day, I'm really not sure what I'd do.

Part of me would be insulted he'd dare take me to a cheesey-ass chain steakhouse for the Big Romantic (fake) Holiday.

But part of me would be like, "Well...Bloomin' Onion. Okay."

Nothing says I love you like a bowling-ball sized onion dunked in batter and deep-fried, you know?"

But I'm also not really like other girls.

Which is probably why I'm single. All the girls with the good sense to throw a hissy over and Outback Valentine's Day probably won't be home eating Easy Mac with bacon bits and talking to their cats on the dreaded night.

Speaking of the cats, I'm violently resisting the urge to mention them more than once weekly in this space, because it's pathetic, and I can't be cat lady.

(Seriously though, Butters is getting really fat. I've only had them a month, and she is now the size of like, two Bloomin' Onions. Great, now I'm picturing her all fried and edible, so I clearly must go, as am losing mind.)

It Takes Two...To Pull Me Away from the TV

I've been a fan of Sarah Bunting's (aka "Sars" for those non TWoP readers among us) writing for ages, but I don't recall the last time I ever came so close to snapping my neck nodding along with one of her posts until today.

The nodding started last week, when she listed out a bunch of classic books and movies she has always meant to read/watch but never got around to. I currently have a post-it full of book titles I need to take down to Barnes and Noble, which I've been meaning to read for, oh, three hundred and eighty-seven YEARS. It's stuck to my desk right next to the unpaid doctor's bill I keep meaning to sort out from October of 2005, where they are trying to claim that I was diagnosed with chest pain or something when it was only a damn physical. Every day I think, "I will call about that again today and see about getting it cleared up."

And every day I leave work going "D'oh!"

So you can imagine how far through that list of books I've gotten.

But there's better things to do, don't you see? Like my 85th viewing of the Farrelly brothers crapfest otherwise known as "Fever Pitch."

Which is the point Sars made, today, as I chuckled and giggled myself into several damn coughing fits (oh did I mention that I'm pretty sure I have the flu? Good times!):

"Why? Why? I could read Dante! I could catch up on vintage sitcoms! I could tutor a child or have tea with a friend! But no: I've got my feet up on the coffee table, sharing a bowl of kettle corn with an overweight feline and watching Stakeout -- again! Actual astronauts do not know as much about airlock technology from the 1980s as I do, because I have seen SpaceCamp more times than Americans have gone to the actual moon!"

I bolted from work at exactly five today, more excited for my couch than I've ever been in my life. And found (fucking) "Fever Pitch" waiting for me on HBO.

This movie is about as good as I feel right now (read: as in, NOT GOOD AT ALL).

But you know what? I watched it anyway. For the 85th time. I can't turn it off. I'm powerless against it. Why? Becuase they play Dropkick Murphy's at the end and show real footage of the final out and the victory parade, which makes me fire up the waterworks and get all giddy and happy and flashbacky to when it actually happened.

(*tear)

Ever see "The Long Kiss Goodnight?" This is seriously (seriously) in my top five. I would normally never admit this. But I'm sorry, Geena Davis straps on FIGURE SKATES and chases the bad guys across a frozen lake and SHOOTS THEM WITH A MACHINE GUN while performing a CARTWHEEL. On ICE SKATES.

It's so good. And Samuel L. Jackson is there. And Geena snaps the neck of...a deer. Yeah, I don't know. It's just so good. I've seen it like, 24 times.

So Sars? I feel ya. And don't even get me started on the Olsen twins/Kirstie Alley/Steve Guttenberg trifecta also known as "It Takes Two." Can't. Not. Watch. Mary-Kate Olsen driving a hansom cab. Seriously. Can't resist. I mean, come on.

In other news, I think I'm checking myself into rehab.

Well, Virtual Imaginary Rehab anyway.

Next week, I go to Mardi Gras. When I return, I am going to sentence myself to 28 days sobriety.

(Ah! "28 Days!" Sandra Bullock goes to rehab and meets quirky characters! Steve Buscemi as a drug counselor! Viggo Mortensen as a drug-addled baseball player! It's gold!!)

I know those of you who know me in real life are probably laughing hysterically. But really, I think it's necessary.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go fish my lung out of the kitchen sink and try to stuff it back in after my latest coughing fit.

I promise to blog about it often and will totally cop to it if I cheat...wish me luck! (Oh, did I mention that the 28th day is St. Patrick's Day? Yeah.)

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.

Sign Says, Stay Away Fools

Haven't done the Numbers in quite sometime.

6: Number of times I got on a plane and flew somewhere in the last month.

1: Number of times I got so scared that I cried during takeoff.

4: Average drinks per flight.

2: Number of times I got to go first class, whoooohoooooo! Me gusta mucho free booze.

0: Number of times the plane came crashing out of the sky in a fiery death explosion, killing all aboard (Not that this matters in terms of "Lowering My Rampant Fear of All Things Aeronautic."

0: Number of times I've been to the gym in the past MONTH (oy, I was doing SO well, fucking holidays.)

[Redacted]: Number of pounds I gained over Christmas. OY. Well I guess that's what New Year's resolutions are for.

9: Cigarettes smoked last night.

13143185903185310: Cigarettes I intend to smoke tonight...becuase...

0: Number of cigarettes I get after tonight. Wail! Sob!

(sniffle...)

(No, you guys don't get it, it's SO fucking good.)

(Just so good, what the hell am I thinking?)

2:1 <- Odds of my breaking this resolution on the first Friday.

12,314,917,477: Number of dollars I spent last night on booze.

10: Perfect ten for the awesomest Khrissy birthday party since the infamous Deano Strip Tease of 2001 incident.

3: Number of times I had to re-read that last sentence before I accepted that the Deano Strips for Khrissy's Birthday (and puts a sock on his penis) (seriously) was actually five damn years ago. Holy mackerel.

0: Motivation I have to get ready to go out tonight.....

Happy New Year!

I'm Sorry, I Just Don't Have Much To Do This Week

I think one of the guys in those creepy video Match.com commercial ad things that are all over MySpace right now is the guy who played "Seth with the Tiny Penis" in "The 40-Year Old Virgin." And it amuses the shit out of me every time I see it. But, those ads are still creepy.

I've done Match before in the past, with varied levels of success.

Actually scratch that, I've never gotten laid by someone I met on Match, so therefore it did not result in success. But I did have some nice dates with nice guys, is what I mean.

Wait, did I get laid?

~thinks~

Nope. Definitely not. Two guys had potential, but one ended up being potentially gay, and the other ended up dumping my ass before we made it past third base. Oh well.

Anyhow, stole this from my buddy Pat, sorry for another survey but I am bored as poo, and they are fun.

1. What bill do you hate paying the most?
Credit cards. Even when I make a huge payment (well, huge to me anyway) they never seem to go down.

2. What's the best place to eat a romantic dinner?
Top of the Hotel Washington in D.C. I don't know if they have food up there, but I've been there for cocktails a few times, and it's great.

3. Last time you puked from drinking?
Um, a week ago. Yeah, I am 27.

4. When is the last time you got drunk and danced on a bar?
If I recall correctly (and you never know), I danced on a bar at Alicia's bachelorette party in the summer of 2004.

5. Name of your first grade teacher?
Mrs. Guinesso? Something italiany

6. What do you really want to be doing right now?
I'm missing DC at the moment for some reason, so I guess I'd like to be at Mackey's with all my friends like I'd never left. Man, now I am depressed.

7. What did you want to be when you were growing up?
Lame: A writer. You know, those who can't write, blog.

8. How many colleges did you attend?
One, G-Dubya. Loved DC, hated G-dub. And I'll be paying my loans off literally until the day I die, then they'll be all my illegitimate kids' problems.

9. Why did you wear the shirt that you have on right now?
Becuase I'm going out after work tonight and it shows my tits off. I'm slutty, whoo!

10. GAS PRICES! First thought?
I remember when the Shell down the street from my childhood home had gas for .97 a gallon. Does that age me?

11. If you could move anywhere and take someone with you...
I think I'd move to Boston, but only if I could buy a massive house and transport all the people I miss the most into it, so I could have access to them whenever. Oh and Tom Brady, so I could have "access" to him whenever.

12. First thought when the alarm went off this morning?
&$#@!!

13. Last thought before going to sleep last night?
"Wow, you were amaaazing, Right Hand. We should do this again sometime!"

14. Favorite style of underwear?
Boy shorts

15. Favorite style of underwear for the opposite sex?
Boxers, definitely. Anything else just shows their shit, and penis pouches are just not sexy. Unless you're Tom Brady.

16. What errand/chore do you despise?
Honestly, all of 'em. I ought to be able to just lay on a platform all day like Jabba the Hut, with sex slaves all round me dressed in purple and gold. This is disturbing becuase lately I've actually begun to resemble Jabba, so let's move on.

17. If you didn't have to work, would you volunteer at an art gallery?
If I didn't have to work, I'd probably be too drunk to volunteer anywhere.

18. Get up early or sleep in?
Sleeeeeeep.

19. What is your favorite cartoon character?
Beavis and Butthead, they were ahead of their time. Eric Cartman should send them a check.

20. Favorite NON sexual thing to do at night with a girl/guy?
You know that game where you touch hands and the person with their hands on the bottom tries to smack the hands of the person with their hands on top? That. Mostly becuase when members of the opposite sex play that game, it usually leads to doing it anyway.

21. A secret that you wouldn't mind everyone knowing?
I didn't vote in the last presidential election, even though I was like, in charge of a phone bank and all active and whip at the convention and stuff. I'm a loser.

22. When did you first start feeling old?
When I broke up with my last boyfriend and realized that if I still wanted to have a baby by the time I was 30 I needed to meet my husband immediately. That freaked me out. I'm now aiming for the 35 range so I don't give myself a stroke.

23. Favorite 80's movie?
Heathers, no question.

24. Your favorite lunch meat?
Salami. Hehehe.

25. What do you get every time you go into Wal-Mart?
Herpes, it's actually in the air there.

26. Beach or lake?
Beach

27. Do you think marriage is an outdated ritual that was invented by people who died at 20?
No, but probably only becuase I like being the center of attention so much, so I'll want to be a bride someday. Hopefully I won't look like Jabba in a wedding dress.

28. Who do you stalk on MySpace?
Basically, anyone I don't see as much. I'm on my DC friends' pages all the time, becuase it's an easy way to keep up with them. Oh, and Kevin Federline.

29. Favorite guilty pleasure?
America's Next Top Model

30. Favorite movie you wouldn't want anyone to find out about?
"It Takes Two," which is an OLSEN TWINS movie that ripped off "The Parent Trap." To quote the Sports Guy, "I will now set myself on fire."

31.What's your drink?
Lately, Jack & Diet. Or Captain & Diet. Or margarita. Okay, Alcohol. Alcohol is my drink.

32. Cowboys or Indians?
Red Sox, thanks.

33. Cops or Robbers?
I have a girl-crush on Callie from CSI: Miami. I'd totally make out with her, and I covet her long blonde hair.

I'm not sure why it skips from 33 to 38, but there you have it...

38. Who from high school would you like to run into?
High school, god. I agree with Pat, there isn't anyone from high school. that I want to see that I don't see. Everyone else can suck on it. But I guess my friend John, we are big time IM chums, but I haven't seen the motherfucker in two and a half years.

39. What radio station is your car radio tuned to right now? Sirius, Howard 100.

42. Norm or Cliff?
NORM!

43. The Cosby Show or the Simpsons?
Simpsons

44. Worst relationship mistake that you wish you could take back?
I sometimes think that me and my ex stayed together way longer than we should have becuase we were afraid to be alone, but I don't think of it like it is such a terrible thing, I mean, we had fun.

45. Do you like the person who sits directly across from you at work?
No one does! I am so ronery!

46. If you could get away with it, who would you kill?
Peyton Manning (okay, not really, don't sue me, Archie.)

47. What famous person would you like to have dinner with?
Tom Brady or Matt Damon, if by "dinner" you mean "sexual intercourse."

48. What famous person would you like to sleep with?
Oops, I guess I skipped ahead there.

49. Have you ever had to use a fire extinguisher for its intended purpose?
No. But what are other people doing with fire extinguishers that this is a question??

50. Last book you read for real?
Embarassing, but it was "Mary, Mary," the latest Alex Cross novel by James Patterson. In my defense, I borrowed it from my mom to read on the plane, and polished it off in less than 10 hours of travel this weekend.

51. Do you have a teddy bear?
Nope, just a stuffed elephant named Harold.

52. Strangest place you have ever brushed your teeth?
Um, I sometimes will brush while peeing to save time.

53. Somewhere in California you've never been and would like to go?
Napa...mmm, wine.

54. Number of texts in a day?
Um, sometimes tons, sometimes none. It definitely is a direct proportion to alcohol intake.

55. At this point in your life would you rather start a new career or relationship?
A new relationship...I'm definitely growing weary of singleton life at this point. Plus, I miss spooning, and the gigolos will only do that if you pay extra.

56. Do you go to church?
No, I think I'd burst into flames.

57. Pencil or pen?
Pen

58. Bueller??? bueller???
Aw, great flick.

59. How many jobs have you had?
I think like 20. I got fired a lot in my youth.

60. What do you want to achieve in life?
I'd like to write a book, even if it never gets published. I'd like to write for an entertainment magazine. I'd like to take a summer touring Europe, if I ever have the money. I'd like to have a house on a beach. I'd like a lot of things. Hopefully some of them will pan out...

Yay for 2007. Kelly says it's her "Year of the Husband," which kills me becuase she never stops being optimistic. I think for me it's going to be "Year of the Fresh Start," becuase 2006, in many ways, was a HUGE gong show for me. It was awesome, I had great fun, I moved back to Manch Vegas.....but I definitely need to revamp some things.

But first, let's drink.

Two Thousand and Six

1. What did you do in 2006 that you'd never done before?
Was maid of honor in my sister's wedding and gave a toast; tailgated at six different country shows with the best Tailgating Team ever!

2. Did you keep your new years' resolutions, and will you make more for next year? I have, generally, the worst will-power ever, which is why my thin clothes remain in a sealed vault where they've been un-worn for 2.5 years. So I don't make resolutions.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Aliwalidoodah!

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Thankfully, no.

5. What countries did you visit?
Ugh, none. So sad!

6. What would you like to have in 2007 that you lacked in 2006?
A cat and a waistline. Oh, and some Uggs. I still like them, shut up!

7. What date from 2006 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
June 10 and 16th, my back to back bridesmaidly duties! And Cinco de Mayo, Brooke's insane bachelorette crazyness.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Eating 20 crabs.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Well, the whole waistline thing. And failing to remain upright on the 4th of July, resulting in a lovely tumble down some stairs and a lovely sprained ankle that turned all blue.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
See #9 re: Big Blue Ankle.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
About 14,000 pairs of shoes, lovely shoes.

12. Whose behaviour merited celebration?
Jenny's for avoiding decending into Bridezillaville and keeping a very cool head.

13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed? Frankly? My own, on a number of occasions...not a banner year for the whole "Sarah Behaving Herself" thing.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Into my belly, in the form of booze, and onto my feet, in the form of shoes.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Bachelorette parties, particularly ones involving party buses.

16. What song will always remind you of 2006?
Probably "Sweet Child of Mine," becuase I think I karaoked that song more times this year than I have any other song in history.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
i. Happier or sadder? I think I am happier.
ii. Thinner or fatter? Definitely fatter, UGH.
iii. richer or poorer? Hmmmm. Pretty much the same.

18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Exercising

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Boozing, eating, hooking up with the wrong guys.

20. How will you be spending Christmas? Just spent it with family at my sister's house outside New Orleans, much merryment.

21. What was your favourite TV program?
Grey's Anatomy, 24, Lost.

22. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
Nope.

23. What was the best book you read?
"Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs," by Chuck Klosterman. Couldn't put it down.

24. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Buck Cherry

25. What did you want and get?
Some things that didn't turn out too great on either front, and to move back to NH, which is turning out swimmingly...so we'll call it a wash.

26. What was your favourite film of this year?
Talladega Nights

27. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? I went on a date and drank margaritas, then went to a friend's house for a movie. Very low key, I was 27 (creepy, this is #27 in this survey!) BUT, I also had an awesome party the following week!

28. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2006?
Chunky and pointy (chunky = jewelry and body, pointy = shoes).

29. What kept you sane?
Wine, friends, friends, friends, wine, Jack Daniels.

30. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
I still live with a massive Matt Damon crush, we're entering Year Nine. And of course Tom Brady, who is SINGLE again by the way, muahhahahah.

31. What political issue stirred you the most?
I remained relatively unstirred this year...I was so checked out of politics.

32. Who did you miss?
All my far-off friends, including the ones I've just left behind.

38. Who was the best new person you met?
Well I met her before this year, but Sara is definitely the best friend I only got to be close with this year. We've only been hanging out a few months but I know we will be friends for life!

39. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2006:
There is no theory of evolution. Only a list of animals Jack Bauer allows to live.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year:
"You had some of the best times you'll never remember with me, Alcohol."

That's Definitely Jessica's Stench

Things That Have Happened to Sarah Since December the 8th:

Spent a few days in Washington. Threw up in various locations around town, including but not limited to the street outside some girlfriends' house, the back porch of said girlfriends' house, and the handicapped stall (indeed) of a downtown bar.

While in Washington, also smashed (and I mean smashed) an entire large glass tumbler of Jack&Diet on the ground at a very nice bar during an ill-advised attempt to rock back on my 4-inch heels to give my throbbing tootsies a break. Note to self: Slipper drink glasses full of delicious alcohol will NOT actually prevent you from tumbling to the ground, so next time grab onto one of the 18 sturdy men that were about two inches away. If you end up taking them down with you, all the better. You do need a piece, after all.

Ate double my weight in Christmas chocolates, cookies, cakes, drinks, pork, beef, cheeseburgers (this weekend in New Orleans, for example, I ate a cheeseburger that used a croissant as a BUN...which, yeah, mmmm, but also, uh, gaining some holiday weight much, Sarah? Going for the record are we? Well done!), pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, various breakfast pastries, and cheese. And various other things that will no doubt result in disastrousness when Kels and I head back into Weight Watchers tomorrow evening for the first time in (gulp) three weeks.

Made this incredibly wise decision: The night before I had to be at the airport at oh-six-hundred hours (that's six in the MORNING to lay people) (heheh, "lay" people) to head off to the Big Easy (named after me, of course) (wait...), I assembled some girlfriends and my buddy James at my house for an impromptu pre-Christmas bash. The girls and I consumed an entire bottle of chocolate vodka before James even arrived. James arrives, we kill a bottle of champagne. We go to Margarita's, consume a margarita. We go to Strange Brew for ladies night, where I proceed to spend approximately 13 thousand dollars, despite the fact that drinks are half price. This could explain why I did not remember who drove us home (some dude the other girls picked up, good job ladies), wound up beating James repeatedly at 4 in the morning with the stuffed elephant from my bed (whom he named "Harold" for some reason), and tossing up all 13 thousand of those dollars later on. It would also explain to the guy seated next to me on the plane--in first class, no less--why I reeked of booze, puke and toothpaste. And also why I stole his pillow. Sorry about that, First Class Dude.

(What's with me throwing up all the time? This was a major problem between the ages of 17 and 24, but I'd say I'd managed to get a handle on it in recent years, identifying the point in my binge drinking when it's maybe time to, you know, STOP binge drinking. But in the past six months or so I think I've hurled more than in the preceding 3 years. Highly disturbing.)

Saw the following movies: "Dreamgirls," which was overhyped but still tremendous, particularly the American Idol chick. "The Devil Wears Prada," which was sweet and light, but annoyed me becuase they had the character go from a "fat" size 6 to an "acceptable" size 4 and act all pleased with herself. I thought the point was that she was a "real" girl in this super-skinny high-fashion world. But oh well. Still very good, and Meryl Streep's performance is sublime. "Mission: Impossible 3," which was shockingly awesome. I thought I'd be distracted by my disdain for The Cruise (read: The Crazy) but I forgot about all that for the most part. My only quibble is that they cast a Katie Holmes lookalike as his wife. Come ON. And yeah, at one point I actually shrieked, alone in my living room, "Felicity! No!" I am so ashamed.

Spent Christmas Eve-Eve on Bourbon Street getting shitfaced....with my parents. Did a karaoke rendition of Redneck Woman in a bad mullet wig and a cowbow hat, which was in front of a huge crowd and with speakers blasting outside onto Bourbon street...and my parents were there. Caught beads from balcony dwellers and bought a drink called The Hand Grenade...with my PARENTS. What's funny is that my parents are really fun, and they sure know how to party. But that didn't stop it from being weird, especially when a guy asked my sister to flash for beads...IN FRONT OF MY DAD. I mean, that's just not right, y'all.

What WAS right was Christmas Eve morning at the Cafe Du Monde, scarfing beignets and chicory coffee and feeding hunks of the delicious fried dough to the scrabbly looking pigeons while an awesome guy with a trombone and a tamborine played Christmas tunes.

What was also quite right was when my brother-in-law accused my sister of having boobs the size of babies's heads. Which, I'm sorry, but I just can't get enough of that similie. I can't even look at her anymore. Good thing she lives pretty far away. Babies' heads! Okay, I have to move on, because I'm laughing hysterically again.

Had the following exchanges:

Sister: There's the Superdome.
Me: Didn't they tear that down?
Sister: Well no, becuase it's right there.
Me: No, I thought they had it condemned becuase it was full of poop.
Sister: Right there in front of you.
Me: Is it still full of poop?
Sister: I imagine not.

Dad: I think that's the mule I drove the last time I was here.
Me: You drove a mule?
Dad: Well I got to hold the reigns in the carriage.
Me: There are like 8 mules over there.
Dad: I recognize her stench.
Sister: Wasn't her name like a person? Not something like Bessie or Rosie, wasn't it like, Jessica?
Me: The Bessies and Rosies of the world aren't really happy about having mule-names, I think.
Dad: That's definitely Jessica's stench.

Me: I'm telling you, there is a building they tore down becuase it was too full of poop.
Sister: What is your poop obsession?
Me: It's not an obsession, I just know that it happened.
Dad: I really think they just cleaned the poop.
Me: Can you imagine doing that job?

Seriously almost bought the following on Bourbon Street: 1) A pink cowboy hat with feathers, which was $39.99 but I really did think about it. 2) A string of beads with black penises. 3) A t-shirt that read, "I got Bourbon-faced on Shit Street."

Actually bought the following: Matching feather boas for me and my mom. Awww.

Got awesome Christmas presents, had fun, flew first class to and from New Orleans, and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate. I could have accidentally ingested someone's kid in the last 3 weeks, seriously. If so I apologize. I'll buy you a new one, I promise.

Came home to discover my car battery died from the slow drainage of my satellite radio while I was away. Called AAA, who came and jumped it this morning and then instructed me to let it run for a good 30 minutes. I drove the 5 minutes to work and promptly forgot this instruction.

Guess whose car is dead again?

~raises hand~

I'm wicked smaht.

So that's about that. I'll probably have some more comprehensive thoughts on the Big Easy later on, but I wanted to update, I'm sure you've all been thoroughly depressed without me.

Our Balls are 12 Inches In Diameter!

Well, becuase you all failed me in determining what, exactly the infamous Christmas Kissing Balls were (as I did figure that they do not sell sex acts at Home Depot), I was able finally to Google them myself and figure it out.

Apparently, the Kissing Balls work like mistletoe, and you're supposed to kiss under them. You know, the whole tradition of mistletoe is truly brilliant. This reminds me of the time my friends and I went out to the bars wearing Santa hats with mistletoe tied to them. It was a brilliant tactical maneuver that worked wonderfully, if you don't take into consideration that the boy I ended up making out with that night later turned out to be engaged (d'oh).

I'm just glad, for all of us, that the kissing balls mystery has finally been solved. But since the website advertising these balls proudly states that they are 12 inches in diameter, I don't recommend tying them to your Santa hat in a pathetic effort to get a piece (hey, come on, we were 22! Like you never did anything retarded when you were 22?).




I'm off for a 5 day visit to my old stomping grounds in DC, and will most likely not blog while I'm gone. I'm planning a two-tiered attack of wine and benedryl (which I actually need, I seem to have developed some sort of skin condition between last night and this morning...just what I need for the three dozen parties I am attending in the next week!) to combat my flying anxiety, here's hoping it works.

If it doesn't, perhaps I should just hang out in my office's bathroom for a while first to give myself hypothermia. I hear when you're dying of hypothermia you actually acheive this sort of mellow euphoric state after the backbreaking shivering and teeth breaking chattering.

(Seriously, it's so cold in there I thought my butt was going to get stuck to the toilet like in "A Christmas Story.")

The Weekly Numbers, Late As They Are

I totally forgot about the Numbers. Dang, three weeks blogging and I already suck at updating. You know, back when I had my very first blog, on the illustrious Diaryland way back in 2001 (before blogging was cool, chickens. We're talking the stone-ages of blogging. And yes, I am aware that blogging still isn't really considered cool. But really aren't I cool enough for you to overlook that fact?), I would update approximately 4,000 times a day. Seriously, it was an update fest.

And here, I am like 10 entries in and already writing one of those dreaded, hacky, "sorry I never update enough" posts.

Oh well, deal with it, fuckers.

Onto the numbers....

Number of signs advertising kissing balls I've seen since the one I snapped a pic of at my spa: Three! And I still have no idea whatsoever what these are, if not a sex act. And I'm assuming they are not, considering New Hampshire isn't necessarily the sort of state where mom and pop shops on the side of the road display signs advertising the sex acts available within. I'd post more camera-phone shots of the kissing balls signs, but I was a lazy bitch and did not take any. Again, deal with it.

Items I have packed for my trip to DC this weekend: 0

Dirty items of laundry that I plan on bringing with me, but that I have yet to wash and probably won't until midnight THursday: 4

Number of Items I intend to pack for my 4 day trip: Well let's see. Jeans, a couple sweaters, pj's, workout clothes (heeeeeheheheheeee, *breathes*, heeeeeeeeee!!!!! Yeah, right.), 2 pair going out shoes, 2 work outfits, 2 going out shirts. 4 pair underwear. So what is that? 15 items? Not including toiletries? 15 it is.

Number of items I will no doubt ACTUALLY pack for my 4 day trip: Every single item of clothing in my closet and dresser, as well as two different pairs of underwear for every day (one comfy and one sexy..hey, you never know!), flip flops I won't wear, 4 different pairs of jeans, 3 different pajama bottoms for no apparent reason, Britney's panties, my wok, a fire extinguisher, my neighbor's cat, all the dishware from my cupboards including my 23 wine glasses, and a hat. Actually two hats, one Red Sox cap and one warm and fuzzy. Oh, and some cheese. So, how many is that?

Number of casualties incurred during my move this weekend: Only one, thankfully, and it figures it was my dad, who cut the back of his hand putting my kitchen table together. He always manages to find new and interesting ways to injure himself. He had already drawn blood once this week during a run-in with a teacup Maltese "killer," and went around complaining about feeling faint the rest of the week. The best part is that my mom actually gets mad at him every time he hurts himself. This tickles me pink. It's like when she gets mad at him for traffic. "WHY are we stuck behind this TRUCK? You just HAD to get behind the TRUCK, didn't you???" "None of the other lanes are moving either!" "But now we can't SEE." It kills me. Like he can do anything about traffic? Women are crazy, I heart us.

Number of Dunkin Donuts iced coffees consumed since last numbers update: 1. Hurrah! I seem to have settled down my rampant addiction. Actually, it's that I have not had any cash on me. My local Dunkin drive-thru doens't take cards, as I discovered while counting out several quarters and dimes for the long-haired 50 year old hippie guy that always serves me my coffee.

Number of ridiculous vanity plates noticed: 50,000. Seriously, what's UP, New Hampshire? This state is officially cuckoo for vanity plates. Granted, I myself had a vanity plate on my car in high school, and I just thought I was the cat's pajamas. It said "SARAH&", as "SARAH" was already taken. I thought it was mysterious..."Sarah& who????", people would think to themselves as I drove by. But folks, that's when I was 16 damn years old, and the car was a shit-ass Toyota. I was not some pompous ass in an Escalade with the license plate (seriously) "3CADDYS". That one did make me chuckle though. That douche is so lucky he lives in New Hampshire. How fast would Mr. 3Caddys get carjacked down in DC? Oh my gosh.

Number of drinks I'm going to need before I can get on the plane Friday: 40,000. I hate flying. HATE. "But the flight's only an hour, just relax!" You say. Guess what, chachi, the amount of time the plane is in the air before it comes CRASHING OUT OF THE SKY is not a factor in how dead such a catastrophe would make me. The last time I flew, my ticker was averaging 240 beats per minute. I'm going to try and use my old friend Mr. Jack Daniels to bring that number down to a nice, panicky 200 this time around.

Wish me luck.

I'd Be His Wide Receiver, But I Don't Like The Implications of the Word "Wide"

I've watched this like 10 times today. I'm hypnotized. God Bless the Sports Guy for pointing me in this direction.