The Brazilian

Days till LA: 2 (!!!!)

As of 9:15am this morning, I am no longer a virgin. No, not that way, I don't even remember the days when I still had access to that particular club - I mean that today I officially had my first Brazilian Bikini Wax. Yes, you heard me: Full. On. Brazilian.

After all of my laparoscopies, various gynecological exams, and perverted medical intern encounters, I have pretty much had everyone and their grandmother poking around in my vagina. By this point, I could hand out tickets and charge admission, because I really don't mind, and I really need a steady source of income. And while I have a flair for the dramatic, I have an impressively high pain threshold, so when I scrambled up onto the waxing table, wearing nothing but a cute sailor-themed shirt from Forever21 (and a perfectly coifed 'do down below) I didn't worry too much. Been there, done that. And besides, having scar tissue cut out of your abdomen can't be as bad as waxing, right?

Well, mostly. I've been having my brows waxed since I tumbled out of the womb, because I'm pretty sure I was born resembling Madonna's daughter Lourdes:

I prefer to call it: Latin Flavoring!

So having burning hot waxed poured all over my delicate skin, and then ripped off with strips of paper has never particularly bothered me. In fact, I find it almost relaxing. Yes, I just said that. But nothing could quite prepare me for the sensation of burning hot waxed poured over my nether region and then ripped off in a gleeful swipe, so when that first strip came off... well, I didn't scream, but I did start giggling uncontrollably. Like, couldn't stop. I may or may not have alarmed the waxer.

But after that initial ohmyfuckinggod moment, in which I thought I might bite off my own tongue, it wasn't that bad at all! (Says the girl who's used to people tearing at her lady bits.) Sure, there were a few more frightening giggles to be had, but after those first few yanks, everything went blissfully numb, and by the end I was pretty okay with everything. My waxer was suitably impressed, seeing as some women pass out the first time they get a Brazilian. Me? Nah! I just turn into some scary ass version of the Joker.

At the moment, I have sort of a cowboy swagger going on, and I'm guesstimating that in the next hour or so I might imbibe several stiff drinks, but otherwise I'm good to go. Bald, prepubescent, and fabulous. Perfect.

Oh, Hull

Days till LA: 4

As many of you know, my thoughts on Hull are "shifty" at best. During the winter, I always feel like I'm entering The Dead Zone, so to speak; it's cold, it's often snow-covered, and the only thing to do in town is to get shitfaced at one of our many luxurious bar establishments with everyone you and your parents graduated with. Like the Red Parrot, housed, suitably, in a screaming shade of mauve:

(And yes, I had my Bat Miztvah reception there.)

But in the summer, the town comes alives - mostly due to the fact that we lucked out along the way and ended up with an amazing beach. But there's something almost, dare I say, magical about Hull in the summer. I think I feel this way because I've lived so far away for 5 years now, and coming back to Hull in the summer has always meant a 3 month vacation for me.

My summers are usually, quite frankly, amazing; my mom and I wake up early and have coffee out on the porch, enjoying the fact that Massachusetts is capable of warming up for a few months of the year. Then we go for a long walk either around Strait's Pond, or along the length of Nantasket Beach, and then spend the rest of the day relaxing on said beach, down on J Street where we both really grew up. I go back for a nap, we have dinner and a cocktail, and then I go out with some of the fabulous people that I've kept in touch with all these years.

Nantasket Beach, with it's lovely... er, shrubbery

Everything seems welcoming, somehow; the days are hot, the beach is perfect, and there's no stress. I'm genuinely happy to see people and catch up, and while I love the city and would never contemplate moving back to the suburbs, it's nice to get a break from it all. Sitting on my back porch, surrounded by all the trees and greenery, it's very easy to get the illusion that we're not only 20 minutes from the city.

And in the summer, when the streets aren't cold and barren and gray, everything seems bright and happy and... I don't know, idyllic, I suppose. In the winter the carousel looks sort of like an uptight tortoise that is attempting to hole itself off until the warm weather comes, but in the summer it's open and welcoming and I have to remind myself that I'm not 5, so riding it several times in a row becomes creepy, and makes parents want to call Chris Hansen and get the To Catch a Predator team down here, stat.



It was different, when I moved to DC, because I could come home whenever I wanted. Which isn't to say I took advantage of that, since I usually only came home on Thanksgiving and Christmukkah, but it was nice knowing that I was... $75 and an 8 hour Amtrak ride away. And sure, it takes less time to fly from LA to Boston than it took to train it from DC to Boston, but there's also a several hundred dollar price difference in there, and the whole fact that flying reduces me to a quivering mass of fear and terror.

Unless I'm popping Ativan, which reduces me to a quivering mass of jelly that is highly suggestible to just about anything. Anything.

Anyway.

I'm ridiculously, ridiculously excited about LA, and I have absolutely no doubts, but I do have to admit that for the first time, I will genuinely miss Hull. Since childhood, Hull summers have been a staple in my life. And yesterday, while my mom and I were out for a walk, it hit me that I only have four more days of this; only four more days to see all my friends here, only four more days to enjoy Nantasket Beach, and only four more days to spend time with my family. Yeah yeah yeah, call me a pussy, but my mom is, idk, my BFF Judy, and Jazz is the only thing that's ever inspired maternal instincts in me, and I even love seeing my brother, bless him.

And the summer is supposed to be our time - I'm supposed to spend June through August on the porch, out on the beach, at the townie bars with everyone I've ever met here. And I won't have that this year. This summer, Hull will go on without me. My mom will spend time with her friends and zone out at the beach, and everyone here will go on with their summer plans, and I don't know - it's strange to think about. I'm not one for conventional emotions, but it's all only sinking in now.

I think it's because, at this time of year, I've always come home and nested for a few months, and just enjoyed pretending like I wasn't an adult yet, and I could come hide away in this safe place for just a little while longer. And sure, at first I'd planned on being in DC throughout the summer, and moving once my lease was actually supposed to be up (November 1st) but now that my plans have changed, and I've spent 2 weeks already doing the things I usually do... well, I'll miss it. There, I said it: I'll miss Hull. And all the wonderful things that Hull summers bring with them.

You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry

Days till LA: 6

Before I explain, let me tell you a little bit of back story: I used to be strong. Sort of. When I was a cheerleader, I was a catcher and a thrower, which meant I caught (to be more exact, my ribcage caught) the girls that were up in the mounds when they came back down, and I was the one to throw girls up in the air for basket tosses. Upper body strength used to be my calling card, so to speak. And then somewhere along the way, I became the girl that couldn't open the jar of sauce, and needed a big strapping man to help her lift heavy boxes and such. My arms went from suitably muscled to limp strands of spaghetti (only less delicious) and all was forgotten. My abilities lay dormant.

Until now.

Recently, I've been doing some pretty bizarre things, and I don't even mean to. It's like the first half hour of a movie, in which odd things keep happening to the heroine, hinting at the fact that soon enough, she'll gain her super hero status. As for me, it's turning into the Hulk. Or Hulkette, because I think a feminine suffix is needed here, and "She Hulk" does nothing for me.

A few weeks ago, after a fun-filled argument with my father outside of a restaurant, I went to open the door and get out of my grandmother's car, and... ended up ripping the door handle right off the door. I mean legit, I was sitting there with the entire fucking handle in my hand, pieces of plastic just dangling right off. Sure, I'd been pissed off, but not pissed off enough to just start ripping pieces of the car off.

And it happened again, just days ago. I was using the trunk lever in my brother's car to pop it open, (it would seem I like destroying cars that don't belong to me) but when I pulled on the handle... I ripped it right off at the base, and sent it flying across the car (nearly losing an eye in the process.) And this time, I was tired, not angry!

And then just two days ago, I picked up my beloved Oscar de la Renta sunglasses... and crushed part of the frame. I crushed my favorite fucking sunglasses. And while this did enable me to finally buy a pair of aviators, c'mon, people! How did I do that??

The horrifying physical conclusion

And I know what's going to happen next. I'll be setting off to go to the mall, like any typical young woman, and I'll reach for the door handle on my mother's car and pull the door right off the hinges. Then I'll stand there, gaping, a massive door held aloft in my right hand, and the neighbors will come out and gape and gossip and word will spread that apparently I have Hulk-like strength.

But then I'll be in town, and I'll try to help someone with their groceries, and I'll accidentally squash them or something - or, better yet, try to help them up and end up ripping their arm off - and I'll turn all green and bellow and the townspeople will fear me, and I'll become a recluse, hiding in the shadows of my house, scrubbing relentlessly at my green skin because it clashes with half my outfits.

But then? I'll become a hero.

First, I'll comically help bend a tree to get a stuck cat out of the branches, and people will reluctantly smile and make stupid animal jokes, and I'll act all bashful and kind, and soon enough people will begin to smile and wave when they pass by my house. And then I'll help a kidnapped baby by bodily picking up the kidnapper and hurling him into the distance. And then to top it all off, when an old woman is trapped in a burning building, I'll dutifully rip a wall off the building and pluck her out, setting her down on the ground. And the people will love me. Hulkette will be a beloved community figure.

Which means, of course, once some ridiculous villain (like "Ice Man" or "Poison Oak" or "Town Drunk") comes to town and starts making outrageous, slightly drunken statements about blowing buildings up, and getting their sticky little fingers on nuclear war heads and the such, the people will rally around me and beg for me to save them. And I will, of course, provided that I get a day dedicated to me, or at least some free ice cream from Riddles SuperMart.


And of course I'll grow a huge rack, and my waist will somehow shrink to 21" inches acound, and even though I should topple over, according to the laws of physics, I'll just end up being strangly, shockingly alluring, green skin and all. Which will help once I'm a part of the Justice League or whatever the fuck they call it, because then I can get with Batman or something, and if Batman looks anything like Christian Bale's version, then I'm good.

I can deal with this.

Calorie-laden

Oh my god.

I've eaten approximately 100,000,000 calories in the last 2 days. I'm going to go to casting calls in LA and get a mixture of laughter and screams of terror.

Course this doesn't keep me from eating my fifth brownie of the night. Tasty!

This is for you guys.

I've Come To Like My Anatomy

Days till LA: 10

No, I'm not talking about finally coming to terms with my body in one of those Lifetime Channel-esque moments in which I fling my bra out the window, triumphantly pull on my skinny jeans, and run outside in the rain with my fists pumping in the air, declaring that I don't care if I'm a size 22 or a size 2, because I am an empowered woman, now hear me roar.

We all know I'm vain and I already like my body.

What I'm talking about here is a deep, dark, shameful secret; one that I've held out announcing till the last possible minute, because it's taken a lot of retrospection, a lot of working through my emotions and feelings, and a lot of debating over whether or not I'm ready to take this leap, but at long last... I am.

I like Grey's Anatomy.

Pardon our witty quips

I promised myself that I would never, ever like this show. Every time I watched it, it made me want to vomit copious amounts of bile; I wanted to throttle Meredith Grey, and castrate McDreamy for being stupid enough to fall for her crazy shtick; I wanted to punch Izzie in the face and laugh triumphantly over it; I was afraid of Sandra Oh.

But then I watched one more episode, and then of course it had to be the bear attack one, and then the next thing I knew, I had gone into a Grey's Anatomy blackout, and suddenly I was watching episodes - nay, entire seasons - online, and I couldn't stop myself. And then I watched the rest of the season, and I realized I'd hit rock bottom last night when I was getting teary eyed over the finale, and shouting in triumph when just about every pairing I wanted to see started sucking face at the end of the episode. And even when - Spoilers! - Meredith did the tackiest thing in the world and 'built' the McDreamy house out of candles... I found my poor little heart twisting in joy, and wanted to bawl like a baby when they finally decided to get back together and send Rose packing.

And then this morning, I realized I was unable to look at myself in the mirror. It's like I'm a meth addict, but rather than looking in the mirror and seeing my teeth falling out and my skin all sallow and pock marked, I'll see myself all googly-eyed and hopeful, ready to dash out into the spring morning and find my one true love.

I think it's a good thing that Becca gets here today, and that Jen is taking us out to Margaritas for, fittingly, Mexican food and their signature margaritas. I need all the alcohol I can get, so I can get back to my dry, self-depreciating, "no-one-ever-loves-like-that" cynical self. God help me.

Insert Cook-ing Joke Here

Days till LA: 11

So I haven't actually sat down and watched American Idol since Ruben shattered the dreams of creepy teenage girls everywhere by beating out Clay for the title, but I have stayed up to date on things by checking out the top contestants performances on YouTube and such.

I mean, it's very difficult to actually completely distance yourself from AI, if only for the fact that everyone is constantly talking about it. I swear people take it more seriously than the upcoming presidential election - when I tell people I don't know who I want to win, I may as well be saying I don't care about the future of our country, and let's just let Huckabee go fuck wild and take evolution out of science classes everywhere. Scandalous!

What part of humans were created by god in 7 days do you people not understand??

Hilariously outrageous claims aside, I had to stay at least somewhat on top of this season's competition, especially by the time we whittled our contestants down to the two Davids. This is partly because David Archuleta is a singing fetus, and partly because David Cook is really fucking fine.

I didn't notice Cook at first, partly because 99.99% of the contestants initially show up looking like the horrifying "Before" on one of those makeover shows on the Style Network and with his doughy face and argyle sweaters, he didn't warrant high enough on my Hot O' Meter to catch my attention; but now? Oh, hell-o! It's the Carrie Underwood Phenomenon - they don't start out hideous, per se, but they're completely unremarkable, until one day when, suddenly, bam! they're ridiculously hot and everyone's left scratching their heads and wondering why they didn't see it beforehand.

And this is the case with Sir Cook. Because he went from this:

(Uh, dude, you have a watermark on your face)

To this:


Damn.

Sometimes, all it takes is cutting a few calories and growing (and grooming) some facial hair. It's a miracle! He's now completely fuckable. I feel like Tim Gunn beaming over his latest makeover creation. I wonder how many Style Network references I can make in one post...

At any rate, last night David Cook proved that he is the best contestant this season, and put David Questionably Aged Archuleta to shame as he won the title. It's not that I hate Archuleta, it's that I had my fill of babies crying constantly when I was in preschool, and the last thing I want to do is have an American Idol winner that needs to have his diaper changed on the hour, and put down for naps so he doesn't become too cranky during sets - is that really too much to ask? I mean seriously, the kid blubbered so much that my mother threw her hands up in irritation last night and demanded to know when he was going to be stop being such a goddamn pussy and suck it up already.

Good question, mom. Good question.

At 25, David Cook is 20 years and 8 days older than David Archuleta

So, this means that now David Cook will become famous (worst case scenario, he ends up like Ruben, and while he's no longer particularly culturally relevant, he still gets into VIP rooms at clubs, and at least people still dimly remember his name) and will relocate to Los Angeles, and this means that he will be within stalking distance of me. So, after I seduce Joe Jonas and Ben Barnes, watch out, David Cook - I'll be coming for you next.

Small Town Happenings

Days till LA: 12

The thing about small towns is that no matter how far away you go, or how long you're gone for, the instant you come back you're thrust right back into the middle of everyone else's insanity. Suddenly you're being filled in on how so-and-so is dating so-and-so, and how Susie is having her third baby (with a third father) and how John is marrying a 14 year old, and how Kevin is in jail for breaking and entering and grand larceny, etc. It'd be charming, if it wasn't so frightening.

Since being home, I've been informed of about 5 pregnancies (by girls all younger than me, that I remember from high school), a marriage, 2 deaths, and reminded of one hilarious divorce. Edit: And one person getting their kids taken away when she was busted for prostitution - with her mother. You can't make this shit up.

We're too goddamn young to be marrying each other and popping children out of our collective vaginas, sorry to say. It's one thing to be date - by all means, go ahead - but people who are (or are around) my age are not ready to get married and start families. Call me a liberal psycho, but c'mon - how many marriages do you know (from OUR generation, not our parents') that last longer than a year or two, max?

It ain't pretty, kiddies. At least it's highly amusing while I'm here.

Flight Itineraries and Celebrity Stalking Plans

Days till LA: 13

Holy crap, I move to California in less than two weeks. In less than two weeks. It hasn't fully sunk in yet, even though Jim and I have already purchased our tickets and worked out our itinerary. If you're curious, here's our trip plan:

Monday, June 2nd:
- 7:00am EST (yes, 7:00am) Depart Logan
- 9:48am PST, Layover in Las Vegas = food time and hitting up the airport slot machines
- 12:00pm EST Depart Las Vegas
- 1:19pm EST Arrive LAX

I don't think it'll really hit me until we get to the airport, because I tend to not really realize something is about to happen until I actually set it into motion. Like right before surgery, when I don't actually realize I'm about to be sliced and diced until I actually step into the hospital, and then all I want to do is run screaming - only this time, I'll run screaming onto the plane, already contemplating ways to kidnap all the celebs I'm obsessed with. Close enough.

First course of action: Operation Make Prince Caspian My Sex Slave

So MJ, my moms' friend, is picking us up at LAX, and then we'll be staying with her either for 2 weeks, or until we get an apartment - whichever comes first. I'm hoping we won't have too many issues getting a place, considering Craigslist has a plethora of postings every day, and at least 10% of those aren't crack dens or fake postings by people looking to steal your identity and all your money. If worse comes to worse, we'll become hobos - at least it's warm there.

But in the meantime, I have 13 days to continue whipping my body into prime shape. It's... slow going. I should probably lay off the chocolate, considering I'm setting up modeling jobs, and no one likes it when you claim you have a 24" waist and then show up with a 30" waist and chocolate smeared all over your lips and jaw. Believe me, it's awkward.

Off for a run, ciao!

The Great Budget Truck Adventure

Days till LA: 16

Oh.

My.

God.

Before I get ahead of myself, I should probably begin this story from the beginning. So, let's go back to Thursday evening, shall we?

I've driven from DC to Boston (and vice versa) more times than I can actually count, and several of those trips I've done all of the driving myself. My father is a die hard road trip fan, so my brother and I have spent countless hours carousing across the East Coast, and we're more than used to hauling ass and driving into the wee hours of the morning. I have no issue driving for half a day (and then some, often times), so it struck me as odd that the night before I was to drive home, I started tweaking out a little.

I think a part of it is that I knew I was finally leaving DC for good, and while I'm very happy to be moving on, I'm going to miss my friends incredibly, and for all the complaining that I do, I have some amazing memories of my time in the District.

I will miss you, homeless man that used to hide in the Cosi alcove on 15th Street

I went to bed around midnight on Thursday, since I wanted to be up around 9am the next morning to do one last check of everything, and make sure I cleaned all the floors/closets/sinks/etc so I wouldn't get a surprise bill in the mail from our leasing office. Unfortunately, I had already packed my tv AND ipod dock AND radio (and we all know I can't sleep in silence) so that, coupled with this random nervous thing, meant I didn't fall asleep until 3am or so. And then I woke up at 6am. It was delightful.

I flopped around in bed until 8:30 or so, when Erin came by to drop off her vacuum so I could suck up all the feathers that my down pillows like to spew out. I spent the next 2 hours obsessively checking all of my belongings, and scrubbing every surface imaginable with a Magic Eraser (which, by the way, really is magical.) At 11, the girls came to help me get my shit downstairs, and after an awkward call from Budget:

"Hi! We're not sure how you set up a pick up at the V Street location, because it's been closed for months! Awkward! Good thing we caught you, please go to the sketchy NE location and pick up your truck instead!"

I was on my way to pick up the truck! The Budget truck was a million times better than the UHaul, if only for the fact that there was no rotting fruit and army of fruit flies in the cab of this particular truck. Thank you, Budget, for having the sense to actually clean the truck before giving it to the next patron. I appreciate your initiative. Unfortunately they were out of 10 foot trucks, which meant I was hauling a 16 foot truck from DC all the way home. Which means I'm pretty fucking bad ass, when you think about it.

Nothing says "adventure!" like 16 feet of metal moving truck

While I had more crap than anticipated, it only took about an hour to bring it all downstairs AND pack it up, so I was ready to hit the road by about 1pm. After driving the girls back to E Street (which meant cramming people in the cab of the truck like a clown car) I was off!

I made surprisingly good time at first, considering it was a Friday afternoon. I was anticipating hitting major traffic once I got near Philadelphia, but I stopped a few times in Northern Jersey (more on that in a sec) and made it almost to New York City before I started hitting traffic and it started down pouring. Talk about delightful.

I stopped in one of the many lovely Turnpike rest stops, and made my first mistake in thinking I could park the truck in the car lot. Turns out, 16 feet of car does not fit into a standard spot. And since the genius' behind the rest stop designed it so that once you were in the car parking lot you couldn't get to the truck lot, I had to just keep on trucking (oh, the puns.) So I made it to the next stop, but forgot to get gas, so after eating a delicious chicken parm... meal from Sbarro, I stopped at the third station and put $75 into the truck. Turns out it costs almost $200 in gas to get from DC to Boston in that behemoth. Awesome.



And then there was New York.

Now, even on a good day, it takes awhile to get over the George Washington Bridge. It's always packed and always busy, so you have to factor in some time to get through the tunnel and over the bridge itself. However, I spent 2 hours in FRONT of the bridge - not on it, in FRONT of it. In the pouring rain, while every motherfucking 18-wheeler thought it was totally okay to cut across four lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic because the EZ Pass only lane was on the far left hand side. Not like there weren't 10 MILLION SIGNS posting it for miles beforehand. There's nothing like the stone cold fear of having a semi dart across multiple lanes of traffic and nearly ram 20 cars in the meantime to keep you awake at the wheel.

After finally getting out of the city, I made fairly good time getting home, but with the rain and people being fucking stupid on the roads, I didn't get in until 2am. I drove for 13 HOURS. By the time I got home I was absolutely delirious, and had no voice left because I'd been singing and talking to myself in order to keep myself awake. And unfortunately, since I only had the radio for comfort, I kept singing the same goddamn 5 or so songs, seeing as every radio station apparently has a 5 song play list. If I hear Danity Kanes' Damage one more time, I might snap the first neck I see. I'm not kidding.

Once I got home, we unloaded the truck as quickly as possible, and then my mother and I had a couple pomegranate martinis to unwind. Needless to say, I was asleep probably 30 seconds after finishing my last martini. God, I love my mother.

This morning we set off to return the Budget truck, and after driving right past the drop off location (which was, embarrassingly, ONE HUGE FUCKING LOT LINED WITH BUDGET TRUCKS IN PLAIN SIGHT) and convincing ourselves it didn't exist, we finally located said drop off lot and then went to Bertucci's for pizza and wine. Alcohol is the best way to relax ever.

So yes, we arrived home at 1:30pm, after polishing off a bucket of rolls, a salad, an ENTIRE large pizza, and then a huge slice of 5 layer chocolate cake. And promptly both took naps. Then woke up at 4, puttered around, and then napped until 8. After putting my bed together, we congratulated ourselves on our "busy" day, and now we're lounging around in the living room, listening to the dog snore and growl in her sleep. Everything is a-okay in my world right now.

So Long, DC!

The day is finally here! No, not the great LA move - that's June 2nd - but today is the day that I get the hell out of DC! The girls are coming over in about half an hour to help me get all my crap out of my apartment, and then I pick up the Budget truck at noon. I'm hoping to be out of DC by 2pm at the latest, just in time to get a little ways outside of the city, and then proceed to spend the next 10 or so hours trapped in rush hour traffic. Nothing like a Friday afternoon move!

I'm sad in some ways to be leaving DC, because I did have an amazing five years here, and I will miss my friends like crazy. I am very excited, however, because DC just isn't a good fit for me, and now I get two weeks of laziness with my family in Boston, then LA!!!!! I just need to survive driving the truck by myself all the way up to Boston. I have no qualms about the actual driving part, as I've driven the entire trip by myself before, but I am concerned about the fact that this time, no one else will be in the car/truck with me. As you may know, boredom is not my strong point, and I fear somewhere around Philadelphia I'll start going insane. Perhaps I'll pick up an ax-wielding maniac so I can have a good time.

I'm only half-joking.

See you all in Boston, where free and constant internet = actual updates again!

The Never Ending Pile of Crap

Days till Hull: 5
Days till LA: 22

I do not understand how I have so much SHIT. I've spent the past month throwing mountains of crap away, and yet now that I'm down to the wire, and packing up the last of my things, it just seems like there's more and more piling up. I don't understand how this much CRAP existed in a 500 sq foot studio apartment. It's nothing short of mind blowing.

Artist's rendition

At the very least, I've made up my mind about how I'm getting my stuff to Boston/LA, and what the hell I'm doing with my bed. My dad is going to take my bed (and the lamps that conveniently match it) and my bedside table, and I'll be bringing the furniture - and all 100000 boxes of crap I have - up to Boston in a Budget Truck. I was going to forgo a truck, but Budget was almost exactly $200 cheaper than UHaul, so there you go.

The Budget truck will be kind of a pain, as moving trucks often are (not to mention that I'm packing it alone on Friday morning, which should be... interesting. Provided I survive) but it means that I can bring back way more crap and not have to throw everything out. This way, some clothes and stuff can stay at my mom's, some more clothes and crap can stay at my dad's, and then I'll only be bringing the essentials with me to LA. I'll bring my clothes/shoes/makeup on the plane, and then have everything else shipped out. Thank god for helpful and willing parents.

I can't believe I'm saying goodbye to DC and my very first apartment on Friday, and that I only have a little less than 3 weeks until we head west. It's... shocking but amazing.

I Have Psychotic Machine Ovaries

OKAY PEOPLE.

When someone goes through medically induced menopause, it is inferred that said person will not continue to produce eggs and have menstrual cycles, because THE PROCESS IS HALTED. No more, not ever, not until I stop the Lupron shots and it's out of my system.

Which makes it a bit baffling as to how I got my period about a week or so ago, when I still had 2 full weeks left on the last Lupron shot - how does on break through when there's still 2 weeks worth of drugs in one's system? I was asking myself the same question.

Which makes this more baffling, as I got my next Lupron dosage last Wednesday, and it is good for THREE MONTHS, and yet TONIGHT I GOT MY PERIOD AGAIN. This means that I am officially menstruating while going through menopause. IS THAT EVEN PHYSICALLY POSSIBLE??

I don't understand why I have atomic eggs, as my mother so daintily put it. Am I supposed to be churning out litters? Am I supposed to have an army of tiny Chelseas? Am I supposed to be THIS crazy woman???:

I am, aren't I?? I'm doomed to be Michelle Duggar, who's pregnant with her 18th CHILD. EIGHTEENTH! Her vagina must be a wind tunnel - when she walks it must sound like a tornado's approaching. How on earth is it physically possible to birth eighteen children and still be able to stand up and walk around? Let alone have sex again to birth yet another spawn!

I suppose it's as physically possible as going through menopause and yet menstruating at the same time. It just makes sense that, of course, I'd have yet another bizarre medical mystery on my hands. I was going to say I should be a surrogate, because then I'd be paid to get fat, I'd be getting paid in general, and the hormone shift during pregnancy alleviates endometriosis (and usually stops it all together) but then I realized that I would end up with 18 children coming out of me, and I don't particularly fancy become a human wind tunnel anytime soon. I still have some hopes for my future.

Breaking News

Days till LA: 26

I've picked out the guy who's going to end my dry spell once my lady junk is back to normal: Ben Barnes. Yes, it's the guy from Prince Caspian, and no I don't care if that makes me kinda sort of creepy - this guy is gonna have one hell of a night. Provided I can actually, you know, find him and drug him. I mean, seduce him.

I was going to try to make some kind of flag pole joke, but I'm too tired to think

I'm taking this as as sign, because today (for the first time in over a YEAR) I got in a real, full workout! I went running to Dupont Circle, back to the GW campus, and then back to my apartment, and while I have no idea how far that is, I know it's a hell of a lot farther than I've gone in quite some time. So, Ben Barnes, your days are numbered. Get ready.

28 Days LA(ter)

Days till LA: 28

Zombie innuendo aside (please, dear god, seeing as it's 1:40am and I'm currently alone in my very-vulnerable-to-attack apartment) things are going quite well at the moment. I have a few dilemmas, as would anyone planning on hiking across the freaking country, but I feel very good about the situation in general.

As of right now, Jim and I are planning on hightailing it to Los Angeles on June 2nd. On the 1st I have... something involving a Rabbi, an unveiling, and my dearly departed grandfather (I promise there's no punch line coming) so we're going to head out the next day. No, we don't have an apartment set up, but I've pretty much come to the decision that it would be wisest to wait until we're out there. I've had some replies on Craigslist, but everyone wants me to send all of my personal information via email to them, and while I might not have shocking amounts of common sense, I'm proud to say I'm above sending online strangers my Social Security number and license information.

So we'll either be crashing with a family friend, or living it up high class style in a roadside motel, while we apartment hunt. That way, we can actually verify the people on Craigslist, rather than go through the joys of identity theft. It's the little things, really.

My only issue now is the question of what to do with my bed. This is my bed:

Is that, or is that, the most beautiful bed you've ever seen?

Clearly I'd like to keep it, especially because I have an amazingly comfortable box spring and mattress from Jordan's Furniture on top of it, and I'd really like to keep the set. But getting it out there will most likely be quite pricey and, frankly, a massive pain in the ass. These are my options:

1. UHaul the bed and my belongings back to Hull, and leave the bed at my mom's as a spare.

2. UHaul the bed and my belongings back to Hull, and have my mother ship the bed out later, if we can figure out the mechanics of shipping not only a bed frame, but a mattress and box spring.

3. Sell the bed down here, and use the money to purchase a new bed in LA, seeing as there's an Ikea in Burbank, and Jim and I will be shopping there like there's no tomorrow anyway. Forget the UHaul and ship a few things, and take Amtrak back to Hull instead.

The last option is, I know, the smartest. I'd make money, and not waste $400 on a fucking UHaul (seriously, what's up with the price hike?? It's not like gas is included in that damn total!) and I'd just be able to buy the same set out there - but it makes me very sad to part with my bed. Call me nostalgic - or crazy - but I want my bed out there. Course money reigns supreme at the end of the day, and since I'm penny pinching at this point, it might be time to grow up and say goodbye. Tis the time of change, and all.

Standard Test Post

I am very impressed that I managed to make this new blog and not screw it up spectacularly.