I'll take it

Woo Hoo!!! I'm, once again, anonymously famous! I got quoted in the Gawker Stalker! About halfway is the documentation of my encounter with Chris Parnell in the Mac store last Sunday. It almost makes having to drop $60 for a new ipod worth it.

This is by far my 2nd most visited site (after Myspace) on the internets. So that I've been completely randomly non-quoted (my name isn't even there) on the site kind of makes my Tuesday.

Also (on a completely random note) this woman just called who was so obviously from Boston. I have never heard the Boston "A" on the phone, from a middle-age sounding woman, during the word "regarding." Astounding.

the question of my life

So. I've been watching the Project Runway marathon for quite possibly the fourth Saturday in a row and can someone tell me...Is Daniel V. gay? I mean I can totally get it if he is. But is he? Because he's adorable and talented. And a straight male fashion designer. Guh! Amazing. I mean, I live in NYC and he'll be at Fashion week so I'd work my charm as long as I know it's not in vain.

Oh man, if we got married, I'd totally want Tim Gunn to officiate our wedding. How amazing would that be?

My lack of .02

So I found out today that baring any unforseen circumstances I am graduating from college on June 1, 2006 (yea, I know, it's later than yours but its also at Radio City Music Hall, so shove it). This is pretty awesome news. Before today graduation was this tangible thing that I knew was going to happen but didn't really think to hard about, kind of like the Amazing Race premeire or the next ice age.

So I sat down and did my graduation audit and was fairly happy at what I had achieved until I looked at my credits for my major. When I was picking classes for this semester I found out that I could get an Honors in English degree if I took this one particular class, which sounded like a good plan. Then I found out that I have to have a 3.5 in my major, which sounded totally cool. I had had some problems but overall I felt I did pretty great in my English classes. Then I figured out my GPA. 3.48. Seriously. I have a 3.4-fucking-8. I am less than a tenth of a point away from being able to get an honors degree and I am livid. I'm trying to calm down, because I have a whole semester to work this out and its good that I caught it now. I noticed that the one grade that stuck out was my B in Fiction 1. My professor at the beginning stressed her un-belief in the whole "grades" thing which to me means you should go ahead and give everyone who does the work at least a B+ or an A- because, why fuck up someone's life over your own personal "beliefs"

I sent my professor a very calm and understaded e-mail asking for her reasoning behind my grade and now I'm just waiting for a response because seriously, if that B were to magically become a B+?! I would be in the clear. And really, the fact that I came to all the classes and did all the work and participated and all that shit should really make the "+" unless its because I didn't cry in our little conference. Which means I'm just going to have to kill her.

1 hour 39 minutes

...Is aparently how long I can go at work without coffee on a Hangover Wednesday before my brain starts to drip out my ears and I forget what that ringing sound means.

Also, Drunk Tuesday always seems like a better idea before Hangover Wednesday. And once again it wouldn't hurt if someone would remind me that Pabst Blue Ribbon tastes like goat pee before I purchase it at the improv show.

crazy people make the day go faster

So I'm working for this company that has a pretty wicked British influence. You could actually probably definatly call it a British company...that broadcasts things. So I sit here at the front desk and take advantage of the free internet and hot chocolate and try not to fall asleep between 9 and 5:30. Its not very exciting mostly because there isn't any production done here, it's just all the boring businessy crap (although its a nice office and the people are grand and like I said-- free hot chocolate and bagels on friday!) so I'm really forced to make my own fun.

Thankfully the fun was made for me this afternoon. A girl of about fourteen and an older woman who I'm going to assume was her mother walk into the office which was already weird because I bring the average age down about 4 years so anyone younger than me is a fairly rare sight. The girl breaks into this obviously rehearsed speech about how she missed auditions for Luna Lovegood (for Harry Potter, to all of those living under some sort of rock formation) because they were in London and she was here rescuing kittens or something and so would she be able to go ahead and audition here for me, right now at this very moment (I maybe paraphrasing but this was the general message). I try to not look at her like she rides the short bus and tell her that contrary to popular belief, not everything that has to do with the British also has to do with Harry Potter and so no, I was a complete vaccuum of information regarding Harry Potter auditions.

She kind of got sad but didn't fight, which is where her mother stepped in to inform me that "No, I was wrong, I did have information and no matter how many times I said I didn't have information I actually did because she has an accent which automatically makes her a mind reader." After repeatedly telling the woman that seriously? we had nothing to do with effin' Harry Potter and maybe she should try some one who, I don't know, does? I gave up and gave her the number for the London office so she could bother their receptionist for 39 cents a minute.

Also, the embarrasing Harry Potter freak inside of me wanted to shout, "Hello! You aren't British! Nice try Princess America!"

arthritis is a killer

I guess the old adage saying, 'you have the most fun when you least expect it' is true (Is that an old adage? It's very possible I just made it up). On Friday night I was mere moments from calling it a night at the dark hour of 8:30 pm after an exhausting day of ballet class, pretending that I like ex-bosses, baby-sitting melt downs and the evil glares of old ladies on the bus. Then, standing at the entrance of the subway I called B one last time. And for the first time all day, she answered (it's not that she has poor cell phone manners, like some people I know, its that she was working as a nurse and contrary to everything I've ever seen on ER you aren't allowed to whip the cell out in the middle of a code).

Anyway, dressed like a 12 year old with no make up on and pony-tail hair, I had quite the night. I'll spare you most details. Needless to say, I was v. drunk thanks to Bethany not liking her Texas-sized margarita and my parents raising me not to waste anything, particularly when it's made with alcohol. At one point I was surrounded by five guys while I danced to my theme song (I Wanna Dance with Somebody by Whitney Houston, no judging) and while that isn't on my list of things I want to do in 1001 days I feel like it should have been because it was pretty awesome and life affirming. Then at the end of the night (and by the end I mean when the kicked us out when the bar closed at 4 am--seriously) we're walking out and a tallish guy stops me to read my shirt. He laughs as it says "Let me be your sugar baby," which is cute and clever, just like me. Here is a paraphrase of the rest of our conversation.
Him: Oh man, if only you were five inches taller
Me: Uh what?
Him: I'm a physical therapist
Me: Uh what?
Him: I'm a physical therapist, having to bend down and kiss you all the time would hurt my back.
Me: Uh what?

...Then I walked out not quite understanding what had just happened. If there is one part of my body I'm NOT self concious about it WAS my height as I've always thought the pocket-sized thing kind of went with my personality. And if he was just trying to be polite and brush me off, which was also weird because I was obviously walking out, it didn't require a conversation, just a glance at the shirt and a laugh and everyone is on their way. However, he did give me the best story of the weekend which is more than I can say for the many boys I "danced" with that evening. Lads of NYC, I think we need to stop with the BET and just embrace the fact we shouldn't hang out on the dance floor.

three things

According to this opinion piece in The Washington Post (or as I love to call it, The WaPo) A new Wal Mart opens every three days in The United States. Doesn't that make you feel dirty? Like, need to take a three day shower, dirty?

And because we all need a good laugh all the time (especially when we feel so effin' dirty) Hissyfit linked This Gem. It's miraculous.

Also, Hi IMDB, I called this (half way down, regarding Stuart Little's parentals being showered with Golden Globes) three days ago. Pick up the pace, homeslice.

I'm slow

I *just* realized that Geena Davis's Commander in Chief and Hugh Laurie's House are on at the same time now. Look at Stuart Little's parents competing for ratings. It's nice to see them both doing so well after that pile of stinky M. J. Fox poo.

And they just both won Golden Globes. Nice job guys.

A Change of the Guards

At some point during the deep dark hours of Sunday morning amid the PBR and Hookah smoke Teeny Sasquatch Fuglord III (aka Christine) was given complete control of my love life for an unspecified amount of time. It would be almost impossible for her to do a worse job that the other people who have been in charge in the past 21 years. And she's already proven (on a very cold, drunk on 40s, textmessage-tastic December night) that she gets results.

It's in her hands now, the fetus of mess that we call my love life.

shut up pigtails.

Have you ever seen that Pedia Sure commercial where the Mother is grocery shopping with the daughter in the grocery store and the mother is picking up normal food (broccli, chicken and waffles for those of you keeping score) and after everything the daughter says in, pants down the most obnoxious child voice ev-eh, "I don't think I like [insert food here]"

If I ever annoyed my mom like that in the grocery she would have left me there.

Also, who doesn't like waffles. Stupid little picky girl who is going to grow up miserable and spoiled.

Vat-sized Heaven

I'm back in New York finally. I missed it while I was down South but now that I'm here, the thought I keep having is, "Oh man, now I have to buy/do/make my own toilet paper/laundry/food." V. depressing after 3 weeks at home which (I realized today) is the longest I've spent in Middletown since I left for college almost 4 years ago. Crazy, I know. But I did get a miraculous send off. Mom needed tires so she decided to join CostCo, also known as the special people club. Here's the thing about me and most things involved with suburban living, including bulk shopping: I am so increadibly intrigued by this alternate form of living I become giddy like a three year old with an inch worm. We got our fancy membership cards with our increadibly horrendous pictures on them and my mom turned me lose in the store. People who don't live in suburbia may not understand the idea of Costco. In Costco it is virtually impossible to buy one of anything. They live the idea of, "why buy one when you can buy six or seven hundred bags of chex mix/bic pens/pounds of tomatos?" Can I tell you? I did a dance. No joke. I was so excited by the fact that I bought a double-sized box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for the price of a regular sized box in New York City that I danced up and down the aisle until my Mom threatened to take me home with out my cereal and my 16 Dole Cups of Mixed Fruit. And as if it couldn't get any better, if I hadn't already been embarrassing my family name enough, they had exactly ONE copy of The Third Season of West Wing for cheaper than Amazon was going to ship it to my post office box in three to four days. Cheaper + Instant Gratification= Tru Luv 4Eva with this kid.

Sadly, Brooklyn does not appear to believe in the magic of bulk buying but aparently Queens does (I knew there had to be something redeeming about that particular borough), so Roommate and I have planned a journey out in a quest for a 5 pound tub of cookie dough and 86 fun sized bags of Combos for when we're having a bad night.

auld lang might-just-suck

So far in 2006 I have:
When given vast stretches of free time, been completely unproductive
Over eatten out of boredom and the alive and well fat kid inside of me
Watched absurd amounts of television
Spent money I don't have on things I don't need
Done nothing to get closer to where I want to be a year from now.

...2006 is looking curiously similar to 2005.

I hate the idea of a new beginning on New Year's. It is entirely too much pressure for one twenty-four hour period. The idea that you're going to let a night of drunken shennanigans determine how the rest of your year goes doesn't seem quite so brilliant when stone-cold sober (as I am for about the 3rd time all break-- I told you there was nothing to do here). 2004 and 2005 were, for the most part, pretty sweet new years eves. I did the thing like its cliched to be done. Then I built up all this pressure for 2006 because 2004 and 2005, while awesome, were not as productive in various (read: most) facets of my life. This New Years Eve, while exceedingly rockin' in many a way, did not have the ending I had invisioned. Though the whole "crumpled magic celery dress on the floor" (read: chair. the magic celery dress never ends up on the floor) thing did occur-- it just wasn't how I had planned it.

Anyway. 2006 has so far been spent mostly in the company of Hugh Laurie and the rest of the cast of House as I tore through C's season 1 DVDs. In retrospect this wasn't the best idea as I will be celebrating Epiphany (Jan 6th, for all you heathens out there) having all 4 wisdom teeth extracted (a word that continues to send chills up my spine). The watching of the House and the overthinking (because, seriously, I have nothing else to do) of all the what-ifs has made me completely positive that in the process of the extraction I will crash and then need a lumbar puncture, which will go badly and I may or may not be paralyzed from it. Then they're gonna find out that I may in fact not need my teeth extracted at all, but I actually might have vasculitis, they can't be sure until they test my bone marrow which will leave me pretty much hating life and refusing any sort of other medical tests even though they may actual save my life until of course the doctor (who sometimes looks like Dr. House and sometimes looks like Dr. Derek Shepard because, guess what?!, it's my complete mental breakdown) comes into my room and tells me to trust him because he's going to save me, which of course I do. And then right as I'm about to have surgery he bursts in to say that I'm going to be okay! That it was just the fact that I wore those stupidly gorgeous 5 inch stilletos for 5 hours on New Year's Eve and then walked barefoot in Downtown Baltimore which gave me a serious syphillis of the foot, which is hard to diagnose but totally curable. Then Dr. Derek Shepard (who is who this overthought always ends up being about because a good head of hair wins out every time) decides that he can't life without me and he cures me and we move to Fiji.

So. If you never hear from me again, its probably because I'm in Fiji, with Dr. Derek Shepard doing 2006 like it was meant to be done.

Happy 2006 Lovelies.