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The following is an animated representation of my feelings regarding the fact that it is Friday:


OMGosh you guys!! I almost died on Friday! And by “almost died” I mean my car got beat up by some bigger, bully cars and I managed to escape unscathed. But still, it was traumatizing! Trauma. Tizing. In order to grasp the depths of exactly how distressing it was, please see the following clip for a reenactment of my Friday night (minus all the jovial singing). Now that you have a visual, I will tell you how it really happen. There I was on my way home on the 210 Freeway, totally stoked that it was Friday and I had gained freedom for yet another weekend, when all of a sudden I hear something crash behind me. Before I can even ponder aloud “Where did that crash come from?” and realize that the source of that crash was located directly on and around my rear bumper, I was suddenly being thrust forward by said crash into the red truck in front of me, who, by the wonders that are physics, smashed into the car in front of him. Basically, science was involved.

So, my night’s not going so fantastic because I’m sitting in the fast lane in LA in Friday night traffic. I couldn’t possibly be in a more dangerous situation. . .or so I thought. So the being smashed into and sliding into another car happens around 6:30. At this point, I have to go to the bathroom a wee bit, but I figure, how long can this take? An hour? Hour and half? 3 weeks? Whatever, I’ll make it. After moving over to the shoulder and having the CHP show up, its now like 7:30 and I’m sitting in my dark car with nothing to do–except think about how much I have to pee. No sweat! I pee a lot and because of this I’m a pro at holding it (somewhere my husband is laughing as I type this)! More time passes and now its a little after 8:00, and the cop, who took all the necessary paperwork and licenses from all 4 cars, has yet to emerge from his cruiser. WTHeck is he doing? Writing a novel based on our insurance info? They say that a cop’s job is mostly paperwork, but seriously! We are 4 measly cars who happened to bump into each other–this is not a murder scene (where I can only imagine excessive documentation is needed). This is where my hatred of the cop began.

As I started to ponder exactly how I could walk up the freeway exit to the nearest bathroom/gas station/bush without getting horribly smashed by a speeding car (which would at least relieve me of my bladder problems), the cop finally decided to grace us with his presence. Once he was done taking my statement, I asked him how my car looked since I still had to drive 30 miles home and I had not been allowed out of my car (making the escape up the freeway exit particularly difficult). He checked it out and said I was fine. Now, let me just say, I am one who tends to put my trust in law enforcement. Not always, mind you, but in this particular situation, I had no reason to doubt Mr. I’ll-take-my-time-if-I-want-to-CHP-man. Whateves. He didn’t know that I have a bladder the size of an ant’s purse, so how can I hold his thoroughness against him. Little did I know that his little game of torture was only beginning!

After given the all clear, I merge super-duper carefully onto the freeway (which is way difficult when you are not only freaked out about your banged up car but know that the cop is watching you drive away). I pull over a couple of lanes and settle in at a cruising speed of approx 60mph, just waiting for the next exit so I can FINALLY get my 5:00 diet coke out of my system (Its now around 8:30). All of a sudden, I hear a rather large WHOOSH! and witness as my crumpled hood flattens out and flies up to meet my windshield, completely obstructing my view of all the speeding death wagons that surround me on the freeway!! WHAAAA!!??? Damn cop said I was good to go! Like I said, Trauma. Tizing. Can we just pause for a moment and thank the Lord above that I am a marginally fit 20-something year old who was able to hold in her pee at this particularly surprising turn of events. I’m not saying it almost didn’t come out–because it did–but I held it together.

So, what’s a girl to do when her beat-up car turns on her and decides to throw a temper-tantrum right in the middle of a freeway that was the site of an initial betrayal mere hours ago? Well, for starters, you slam on the brakes, (which I’ve decided is a totally normal response when the very handy sense of sight is suddenly taken away). Then you decide that stopping in the middle of the freeway is NOT a good idea, and proceed to duck down in an attempt to see below the car hood that is now glued to your windshield. Next, you pray very hard and very loudly as you pull over to the nearest shoulder and jump out of the car that is obviously possessed and has a vendetta against you. Then, you put the hood back in its place (not because this solves anything, but because it shows you have some dominance over the car when it is not in motion) and proceed to call AAA with a hysterical, stuttering voice. And finally, you kick the rear tire of the demon car for good measure and run up the hill of the shoulder so as not to succumb to the inevitable death that you have already cheated twice that night.

Once the tow-guy arrived to save me from bullying cars and possessed hoods (8:45pm), he continually commented on what a bad place I had chosen to pull over. As if I had a choice in the matter tow-guy!! I was like, dude, when you are maneuvering a heavy vehicle at high speeds and suddenly cannot see where you are directing said vehicle, you pull over to whatever stretch of non-freeway you can find! He didn’t seem to understand the desperation of my situation, which not only included near-death but also exploding bladders. So at this point, I’m dancing the pee-pee dance as if its the latest trend and I’m attempting to win So You Think You Can Dance (how much do you wish that was a category!!?) But I still had the 40 min drive home in the smelly tow truck to endure! Lets just say that I did not listen to any of the small talk that tow-guy yelled at me from across the cab on our way home as all of my concentration was needed to. . .how to say this lady-like. . .keep my wits about me. Which some how I managed to do.

Now, I can’t blame the cop for the initial smashing of my bumper, but pretty much all of the hell that I endured after this point I totally believe was the maniacal scheming of an angry Highway Patrolman.

And that is why I hate the 210 (and a particular unnamed officer).

So, I was browsing the gossip sites today, and this picture caught my eye. Doesn’t it look like Diane Sawyer is eyeing young Shia here, well, um. . . like a side of La Beouf? Not that le petite Shia would mind since it seems he has a tiny crush on Di Di and wouldn’t mind going to a park somewhere to discuss the impeding implosion of the American economy while feeding the popular TV anchor who is old enough to be his grandmother grapes. Oh to be a fly on that wall! I mean, I can’t really blame him, because at 62, Miss Sawyer is still pretty foxy. She’s no Helen Mirren, but then again, who is. I don’t even want to be compared to this stone-cold fox at 27, let alone when I am actually in my 60s. Seriously, I will pray to the gods of small pores and perky boobs and do complex rain dances in front of Sephora for the rest of my life if only I could look like Helen Mirren when I am in my 60s. So, I guess what I am saying is young Shia, you shouldn’t haphazardly choose hot, grandmother-aged stars to have a crush on until you take a gander at all your choices. For you will find that the choice will always be Dame Mirren–Always!

. . . what a perfect world it would be. I can picture us now, sitting on a pristine beach somewhere on St Lucia (because Lucia is a fun word to say) with Mai Tais in our hands, the light breeze gently blowing through our linen pants (that are not wrinkled because linen would not dare wrinkle in the presence of NPH), while discussing his childhood and the rigors of growing up in Hollywood, his adolescence turned into entertainment for all America to see (frown face). As the awesomeness radiates from his perfectly highlighted hair in the setting afternoon sun, he calls over the server to refresh our drinks, sharing with us the delightful tidbit that “Mai Tai” is the Tahitian word for “good.” “Oh Neil,” I say, “you are full of such wisdom and awesomeness.” As he lets out a hearty laugh, he says, “Yes, yes I am.” We then go on to discuss the hideous bangs that Willow was sporting last season on his hit CBS show (8:30pm on Mondays–I have to give a shameless plug for my BFF) and what Britney is really like in person. Being the gentleman that he is, he first says “delightful” then later coughs “crazy!” under his breath (in response to both the bangs and Britney). After telling a final, hilarious story involving Johnny Depp, the Ivy, and a cup of tapioca pudding, we leave the remains of our Mai Tais to melt in the St. Lucian sun to go paint pottery and eat chocolate-dipped strawberries.

What adventures we would have!

CNN headline of the week:

Fewer bones, more breasts at Fashion Week

Did KFC cater fashion week this year? Wow, the fashion industry is getting serious about wanting shapelier models!

But for serious, this article discusses the porkers who were walking down the runways this year at the famous Bryant Park Fashion Week who apparently were (gasp!) size 2 and 4!! (Cover face in horror and anticipate downward spiral of fashion industry). Um, the title clearly mentions “breasts,” and I somehow doubt that a size 2 model has any protruding flesh in the chest region (or any region for that matter). They’re trying to trick us into believing that real women can wear these clothes and I’m not falling for it (use indignant tone while pointing finger angrily in general direction of New York).

Avril Graham, executive fashion and beauty editor at Harper’s Bazaar, made this astounding observation, probably while wearing a size 2 Prada dress herself that hangs loosely on her frame: “We’re obviously going through a season of a less cookie-cutter look.” Please see the following photograph where line of stick-thin models display strikingly similar body types and hair-dos:

(Although, I do want to know whose line this is because its super cute!) You are absolutely correct Avril, my dear– no cookie cutters in sight! Look at the varying shades of hair color! And that model in the long red dress is at least 0.5 lbs heavier than the model in front of her. Bravo, Mercedes Benz Presents New York Fashion Week! You are doing wonders for the self-esteem of millions of American women by showcasing models that have only skipped all meals in the last two months instead of the last two years! I feel so good about these “shapelier” models that I will only attempt to starve myself for the next week until I completely forget about all things Oscar de la Renta and Victoria Beckham’s boney ass in the funny haircut isn’t plastered across every website I visit (or until I pass out. . . or see a candy bar, which ever is first). Next year, KFC should totally cater the event so the headlines can read “Fewer bones, more large, protruding guts at Fashion week.” How much would that rock?

The following is a photographic representation of my feelings regarding the fact that it is Friday:

Seriously, don’t you wish you were him?

This morning, as I did my normal peruse of the headlines from near and far, I came across this groundbreaking story from Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin: Man Eats 23,000 Big Macs in 36 Years. Interesting, no? So I read further. Turns out the man from Fond Du Lac has OCD and has to eat two Big Macs EVERY DAY!! Whaa? Did you say two everyday? Yes my friend! Two. Per day. Oh, and two parfaits PER DAY for good measure. So, at this point in the story I’m thinking, “How can this man even make it to the nearest McD’s since he most obviously cannot fit into a normal sized car?” But no! OCD man weighs a mere 185 lb, practically nothing for his 6’2″ frame! Good thing he was blessed with maximum strength metabolism since he developed this unfortunate condition of daily consuming meat manufactured from cow hooves and dung. I immediately start to scan the page for a picture, for I do not believe this abomination of science actually exists, as I desperately plot out how to get on board for the all hamburger and parfait diet (would In N’ Out have the same magical effects?). As the scanning continues I notice this little morsel of goodness:

“I also promised her [his mother] I wouldn’t cut my hair and in 20 years I haven’t.”

The freakiness continues!  Picture! Picture!  Where are you?   But instead of showing their readers some mercy by displaying a picture that I can only assume looks like this , this is what we got:

Is that his hand?  Has he not cut his finger nails in 20 years too?  I don’t get it.  I know what a Big Mac looks like, but not the main subject of this article: the long-haired, freaky thin, hamburger consuming (2 PER DAY!!! I can’t get over it), OCD-man of a subject who we deserve to see!  What the heck Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin?  What the heck?

Get this: Some super retarded Swiss scientists decided it would be a good idea to create a machine that would recreate the Big Bang aka, “the creation of the physical universe.” They spent $9 billion to build and test this machine of which the outcome will be one of two things: a) they will prove that they are indeed right, that the universe and all of its intelligent beings were created magically by the random shuffling of some particles and that we have progressed so far beyond our original gaseous state that we now have the same level of intelligence as. . . the gaseous state that first created our universe. Oh yeah, and the best part is, the results of an A+ outcome for these scientists could very well (and I quote) “generate black holes that could eat the Earth.” Yay science! or b) prove that they do in fact have the intelligence of an amoeba for spending $9 billion on a project that proves that they have been wrong for the last century and basically serves as a mediocre light show:

“While observers were left nonplussed by the anticlimactic flashing dots on a TV screen that signalled the machine’s successful test run, among teams of scientists involved around the world there were jubilant celebrations and popping champagne corks. ”

I know I like to toast to good health right before the black holes destroy us all! Or maybe they were attempting to get really drunk in anticipation of the verbal beating that will be unleashed upon them for spending $9 billion on an experiment that inevitably will not work.

Either way, do not be surprised when you wake up tomorrow to find that Switzerland has been sucked into the fourth dimension and is spitting out tiny, acid-spitting creatures from the deep pit it collapsed into.

Article from

So here’s the deal: lately I have found myself steeped in a lot of vampire lore.  Actually, that makes it sound way more academic than it is so let’s be honest: I’m reading Twilight while watching Buffy Season Two (mind you, this is all while I’m supposed to be doing homework so I can one day escape the mind-numbing boredom of an 8-5 desk job where I waste away under fluorescent lights until there’s no longer any difference between my skin tone and that of the pasty, ash-colored walls I labor beside, but I digress).

The problem with my spending so much time watching/reading vampire-related pulp is that I start to imagine myself as a character in said dramas.  Which wouldn’t be so bad if I imagined myself as, say, Buffy, which would be rad because then I would be a superhero and have an excellent wit (seriously, have you noticed how many puns and quips are inserted into that show?  Like one every 78 seconds.  Example:  Buffy: “Giles lived for school. He’s actually still bitter that there are only twelve grades. He probably sat in math class thinking, ‘There should be more math. This could be mathier.'”). But no.  Inevitably when I’m coming home after dark, walking up to my shadowy front door, I think to myself “If I were on Buffy right now, I’d totally be getting attacked by some rogue vampire/demon/bounty hunter/Spike-if-I’m-super-lucky” and then get all panicky and shove the key into the lock with undo force trying to get inside because once I’m inside then the house-protection or whatever it is kicks in and the vamps can’t come in unless I invite them (unless we’re talking aboutTwilight vampires because apparently Edward spent every night creepily stalking/watching Bella sleep in her room so that magic doesn’t apply to those vampires).

Totally normal, right?

I am obsessed with everything Crew lately!! I think I missed my calling in life. I should have been a on a crew dance team, or a crew rowing team, or at least a member of a J Crew sales team. I like how crews and teams just go together–they promote cooperation! I must sheepishly admit that this obsession was brought about by the watching of Step Up 2: The Streets last weekend (my husband’s idea BTW) followed by canoning down at the beach (ironically, this one was my idea). Alas, I think I am too old to start training to be on any of these teams, so I must settle for simply shopping at J Crew instead.