I had to work today (the day after Christmas) and Christmas Eve. You might be asking yourself “Why Eddie, Why do you have to work?” The answer is simple, homelessness is persistent, and people don’t magically have jobs or homes or food or showers because it is the birth of some random baby. (I just made your job seem self absorbed and pointless right?!? GOOD THAT WAS THE POINT.) The reality is I hate using my precious vacation days on days that are easy to come into work. No one is going to call or be in the offices besides me so I can leave early and play around on the Internet.

In other news; I live across the street from a busy pub. In a relatively quite city this establishment is known for being a bit rowdy. But that’s what I get for choosing to live in the 20 something’s area of town. On Christmas Eve after the bar closed one man filled with holiday joy (and I am guessing the deadly whisky beer combination) he decided to make a priceless choice. The man stood in the middle of a traffic circle and yelled “HELLO NEIGHBORHOOD…HOPE YOU ALL WANT TO HEAR CHRISTMAS CAROLS” and started to sing shout several songs. For some reason I found his slurred drunken serenade adorably sweet.

Last but not least I present to you another round of “Eye Spy with Eddie”

You know you are in a redneck truck stop when you find the following items in the women’s bathroom.

How desperate are you when you are paying twenty-five cents for cologne in a truck-stop bathroom. And how exactly does this work? You put twenty-five cents in and pull the little lever on your pulse points? I am willing to bet several people have positioned their necks towards the nozzle where the cologne sprays they get a stinging eyeful of cologne.

Next to the cologne machine was this lovely item

NOW I am all for safe sex. And if you are getting highway lovin’ it is less embarrassing to buy condoms in the bathroom then from the toothless the 75+ truck stop employee. What cracks me up is the name. I bet Theodore Roosevelt thought when he picked out is team of Ivy League studs, farm hands and talented horse men to fight Spain he thought “I WILL CALL THEM THE ROUGH RIDERS AND ONE DAY A PROPHYLACTICS WILL BE NAMED AFTER THIS TALENTED TEAM OF MEN!” I wonder if anyone else thinks of the historical connection before thinking “hahah bathroom condoms in a redneck truck stop.”

The real Rough Riders. Who probably spread VD. I bet the sex workers they got with in Cuba, Florida, and New York wished they used their namesake condoms from the future.

I wish I could quit you,



I love the 80’s. Actually, saying I love the 1980’s might be a bit of an understatement. I am perpetually in awe of western culture in the 1980’s. I’ve studied the time period; I wear it, watch it, and listen to it and at night I use 1980’s culture as a nice warm blanket.

All this 1980’s love aside even effects my holiday. If you know me well, you know that the amazing 1980’s song from Band Aid “Do They Know It’s Christmas? (feed the world)” is my absolute favorite holiday song.

THIS SONG HAS IT ALL Boy George, Bono (his budding love for peace made known by him singing 10 decibels louder then everyone else), bananarama, and a Eurocentric view towards international charity.

While you all gather around your families, eat, drink, open presents remember there is NO snow in Africa (even in the mountains) let these 1980’s crooners send you into the holiday mood. Of that random day we celebrate a knocked up virgin giving birth in a barn…and a fat man that flies in a sled and enslaves little people to make gifts for the good kids!

I wish I could quit you (holiday style),



All I want for Christmas is an iphone for this half-Jew

Happy Drinking Game Friday everyone! I had a tough time figuring out what today’s drinking game would be. I wanted it to be holiday themed, as tis season, but what movie? Being a heathen who has a Jewish mother and a Catholic turned Atheist father, my family celebrates the holidays not so much in the traditional ways. For example, during this fine Christmas season, many families watch movies like It’s a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 42nd Street, or A Christmas Story. My family prefers James Bond and Mystery Science Theater 3000 marathons. But we’re not just a family of sarcastic, religiously confused and jaded folk (although that would explain me a lot…) Every Christmas Eve we do watch The Muppet’s Christmas Carol. And every year I cry. Damn that frog for tugging at my heartstrings.

I didn’t know if anyone else is familiar with this Muppet classic (if you’re not, you should be, it’s got a great soundtrack and Beaker flicks off Scrooge in one scene) but you should add it to your Netflix as soon as possible. My love for Kermit the Frog and Michael Caine aside, I decided to go in another direction with today’s drinking game. The common denominator of the 2bird reader demographic is that we’re all mostly 20 somethings going home for the holidays (well…Eddie’s not…sorry for rubbing salt in that wound). So get your flask and that reindeer sweater ready and get because it’s time to play The Home for the Holidays Drinking Game!


By the way when I say, “Home for the Holidays,” I’m not referring to the classic 1995 Holly Hunter movie. And no, that’s not my family. Now that that’s cleared up, here’s how this is going to work:

You are going to be drinking at random times where it won’t be “socially acceptable” to have a glass of wine, bottle of beer, cocktail or shot etc. with you. Thus you will need some sort of flask to play. I also recommend making a screwdriver and putting it in a Nalgene bottle or hot beverage to-go mug and pretend it’s just o.j. Pretend you’re back in college and get creative.

Take a drink when:
- You inform a family member, neighbor or acquaintance you run into “what you’re up to these days”
- A family member criticizes your life
- You watch a Christmas themed movie
- You go to a high school reunion-like party (finish your drink if it’s in a field or on a farm)
- A relative tells you you’ve lost weight
- You run into someone you went to high school with (finish the drink if you hated or dated them)
- You get so full you feel like you’re going to vomit
- Somebody compliments somebody on their cooking

Take two drinks when:
- A relative tells you you’ve gained weight
- Eggnog is served
- Someone carols at your door (finish your drink if you’re the one caroling)
- You get jealous of a sibling
- A dead family member is mentioned in a nostalgic way
- Someone complains about the lack of snow

Finish your drink when:
- Someone refers to Christmas as Jesus’ birthday

Aight kiddies, tonight I leave dear old NYC and head down to our Nation’s Capitol for Christmas with the Patsy Family. Everyone have a safe, happy and inebriated holiday! Special mad love shutout to my roommates Serena and Blair, our friends at Kosher/Eucharist Tulane Chris and Michael and of course my partner in (blog) crime (which might be the lamest kind of crime ever,) Eddie.

Sha la la!



Sometimes I find things that are just weird and ridiculous. Instantly I feel compelled to share them with the Internet. I am calling these random segments "Eye Spy with Eddie"

in my work e-mail I received this poorly created e-mail.

It reads...

“Have you ever heard someone say they want LESS fun? We didn’t think so. In fact, most busy professionals crave a little comic relief, easier networking, and well….more fun!

That’s why we’ve added even more in stock quick-ship fun titles to our patented stack-a-ribbon- awards. Now in addition to the best selling titles like “DIVA” (The office bitch) and “Runs with Scissors” (that guy in the office everyone makes fun of in the break room), you can adorn your attendees with titles such as I READ YOUR EMAIL (which is a violation of privacy) and DORK (the ribbon for the whole accounting department)”

Then it goes on with information about how to buy these awesome gifts for a great price!

That is the way to get the elusive #1 boss mug, make everyone in the office wear ribbons with sayings. Employees enjoy having their physical and mental faults on their shirts.

For shits and giggles you should get frank the 70 year old guy in marketing that always has Viagra delivered to the office (so he does not have to go to UPS and pick it up) a ribbon that says IMPOTENT. Oh man, that will spice up the office holiday party!

Maybe this is the way my mind works, but the first thing I said when I saw the OCD sticker was IS THAT EVEN LEGAL?!? It feels like a lawsuit waiting to happen.

I wish I could quit you,



Strippers. ::Patsy proudly stands up and starts a slow clap while nodding vigorously in approval:: After this weekend, I just gotta give it up to strippers who can work a pole. It’s not what you’re thinking; I didn’t go to Score’s and get a killer lap dance this weekend (but there’s always next weekend). However I did do some stripping of my own this weekend. Well, not really, but I did work a pole. Friday night Serena, Blair and I were on the N train headed to Union Square to have drinks with a friend. Recently three strippers have been doing “performance art” by working the poles on the N train. When we found ourselves in an empty subway compartment, Blair channeled the strength of the strippers and starting spinning around the poles at a really impressive rate. As we approached the Manhattan Bridge, I decided to make my dream of spinning around a pole like a stripper while riding the subway over the Manhattan Bridge become a reality. Like most dreams I develop ten minutes before acting on them, it did not end well. Turns out properly spinning on a pole is really fucking hard. You have to have a lot of upper body strength and strong abs. The only time I work my arms is to bring whatever cocktail I’m drinking to my mouth. And the last time I did a crunch was when I laid down and realized my ipod was at the foot of my bed. But, I had a dream to fulfill damnit, so I got some pointers from Serena the stripper (you have to lift yourself up with your upper body, control the release slowly and cross your legs as you spin down) and attacked the pole a few times before going over the Manhattan Bridge. And when I say attacked, I really mean attacked. I sort of just ran and flew myself at the pole, spun once really fast and landed on my ass. Over and over again. Across the Manhattan Bridge. I kid you not, this happened Friday night, it’s Tuesday morning and I am still feeling it. My arms are killing me, my back is killing me and my abs feel like they’re on fire. This proves a few things: 1.) Strippers deserve our respect 2.) Carmen Electra’s “Strippaerobics” might be a late addition to my Christmukkah list and finally 3.) mother fucker I’m out of shape.

If I were to write a self-help book. It would be called How to Make Awkward Work for You. I’m sort of awkward and I am pretty socially inappropriate (for example: actual conversation taken from the subway this morning:
Me: I want to become a high class dominatrix and I’m dead serious.
Serena: Go for it.
Me: I can’t think of anything better than dressing in a hot outfit, whipping some guy with a riding crop and peacing out.
Serena: Oh, so you wouldn’t have sex with them?
Me, screaming: I’M NOT A PROSTITUTE!!!!! ::notices everyone is looking at me::
Serena: Patsy, I am returning your gifts and getting you social graces for Christmas.

However, I kind of make my awkwardness work for me. Friends have told me that my awkwardness is charming and instantly puts people at ease. But being this socially inept and awkward has other bonuses, as I found out Saturday night.

As I said in my last post, when I’m at a party, my standard icebreaker is to ask someone the story of losing their virginity. I cannot recommend this enough. Now you can’t just show up at a party and dive straight into hymen talk. You have to wait until people are nice and toasty and then go for it. Saturday night Serena, Blair and I went to my friend from college’s Politically Correct Holiday Party. (This has nothing to do with anything, but there was this guy there who looked JUST like David Boreanaz (of Buffy, Angel and Bones fame) and it was freaking me out the entire time. I tried to hit on him, and my sexy intro ended up with us making a bet to see who could pee their pants for the longest. We didn’t actually try. But either way, that’s not sexy.) Anyway, at the end of the party I found myself with in a corner with a few people including a drunk and rowdy boy. So, away with my new icebreaker I went. He lost his virginity when he was in 11th grade to a random slutty girl at a party and she got blood all over his shirt. “Wow, you must have a big dick,” I innocently responded. “Yea. You wanna see it?” And I did. I will never pass up the opportunity to see someone’s dick and if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right. So we went to the bathroom (although I explicitly prefaced this with “You’re a good kid and you went to the University of Maryland so I gotta respect you, but although we are going to the bathroom together, I have to be upfront and tell you that I am not going to blow you, jerk you off, make out with you or let you touch any part of my person.” So in we went. The kid was not lying. He had a massive, massive wang. And that’s in regards to both girth and length. So there I am, standing with a drunk kid, pants and black silk boxers at his ankles, having an honest to God intelligent conversation about condoms, love and the merits of long term relationships. Good kid. Although he did ask if he could “at least lick my tit and give him a tug” (response: punching him slightly above the dick) before we both walked out of the bathroom together looking like those people who just hooked up in the bathroom at that party. I decided the best way to remedy this was to turn red and yell “IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!” over and over again which apparently made me look even more guilty. Wouldn’t it have been easier if I could have just handed them my book How to Make Awkward Work for You to them and ask them to turn to chapter 23?

And to end this sexually charged post, I have to mention something that happened yesterday at work. With the five seconds I had to spare, I went on facebook because I saw that my friend who we shall call "Chuck Bass" had posted something on my wall. By “my friend,” I also mean I’ve never met him, but he’s best friends with Serena from college and I have an odd fascination with him that he doesn’t get creeped out by, which I appreciate. The following is what Chuck posted on my wall:

for some reason, this song just reminds me of you (and by you, I mean my crazy, hypersexualized version of you that I jerk it to every day..umm..just kidding!)


“How sweet of Chuck to think of me!” I thought to myself. So I turned up my computer and clicked the link. Guess what the song is called? Smell Yo Dick. Now the song didn’t play too long before I quickly pressed pause so the bible-thumping editorial assistant corner-caddy from me didn’t get offended by my musical choices yet again. However Anne The Evil Copy Editor was dropping something off in my box (that’s what she said) just in time to see “Smell Yo Dick” in large yellow letters on my computer screen as I panicked to mute it. Now, I haven’t gotten a chance to listen to the full song, but from the title I think I get the gist. Chuck, what in the sweet name of hell makes you think of me when you hear “Smell Yo Dick?” Is it because I frequently send you hand written notes with a single pink rose that says, “My Chuck, I would love to smell yo dick?” If so, THAT WAS METAPHORICAL!

Sha la la!


Your One Beauty

I know it is not Friday, but I decided to post a drinking game! Rejoice and reflect in my power.

As you might have deducted (or you already know me) I am a lady who loves the ladies. I think a requirement of lesbianism is a LOVE for the classic children’s tale, and 1994 movie version of Little Women. I have made it a family holiday tradition to watch this movie.

Aside from holidays, Little Women has also seen me through some hard times. When I watch this movie I am filled with such hope. I accredit my survival to Little Women, from break ups, finals, and unbearably hot summers where you don’t even want to move (and the idea of New England snow is refreshing.) Everyone has their list of “prerequisite” things that an ideal mate must contain; a love of Little Women is on my list.

The 1994 movie is touching, sweet, slightly feminist, and gives me hope for finding a mate, all topped with holiday joy!

So, gather your sisters, your German professor (and give him your empty hand, in the rain), some tissues, and a holiday drink of choice.

  • Take a sip when Jo (Winona Ryder) writes
  • Take a sip and sing along when Beth (Claire Danes) plays the piano
  • Take a sip of something citrus when citrus fruits are shown/discussed
  • Take a sip when the girls mention missing their father
  • Take a sip when transcendentalist and feminist issues are discussed
  • Hold hands with the person next to you and try to imitate Claire Danes crumple-faced cry when anyone cries THEN take a sip
  • Take a shot when temperance is discussed

I wish I could quit you,


Hit me baby, one more time

The past two weeks have been the most stressful at work yet. Since you precious people have to get your weekly magazines EVERY WEEK, we’ve been working three times as hard to put out three issues in 10 day to make up for the days we’re going to lose for Christmas and New Years. But today has been mysteriously boring as shit. Maybe it’s the weather. Currently Mother Nature is crapping all sorts of frozen shit on us. Some call it a “wintry mix.”

Things accomplished today: free pizza in Conference Room B! went to Jack’s 99 Cent Store and got LiveStrong-esque bracelets with Jay the photo editor. They’re red and say “BFF” in script flanked by candy canes, currently playing the “questions” game with my sister via gchat, and general slack-assery et al. Oh, here’s some shit—the magazine I work for is having their “Holiday Party” today and the Art Department isn’t invited! What the fuck is that? Literally every other department is invited except for us! I can hear them laughing and cheering as they open their Secret Santa gifts as I type. I love a good Secret Santa! Whatever…I don’t need our magazine’s half-hearted attempt at a holiday party (who has their company party in the middle of the day? Where’s the open bar?) I have a friend who works for Inc. Magazine and I’m being her hot date to their proper company party downtown tonight, followed by a sample sale on the Upper West Side. SO I DON’T NEED YOUR HALF-ASSED COMPANY PARTY ANYWAY FUCKTARDS!...now I have to go quietly cry in the corner.

So, my drinking career is going backwards. I started drinking early in High School and I never once puked, blacked out, or made a sloppy decision under the influence. That was when I was 15. Now I’m 22 and I can’t drink without puking, blacking out and making a sloppy decision(s). Let’s talk about this past Friday night.

Friday my dear friends Anna and Jill came to visit. So Friday night myself, Anna, Jill, Blair and Serena went to a housewarming party on Roosevelt Island. I didn’t know the hostesses, they are friends of my roommates, but I love a good party full of random people, so I was in. The actual party was pretty fun. I gots to chatting with a small group of random people and found myself asking them all the story of losing their virginities (also asking the guys how long they lasted; average answer: 1 minute) and other inappropriate questions one does not generally ask upon the first meeting. I think that should be the default icebreaker conversation, “how did you lose your virginity?” Because you meet someone and you do the “Oh how do you know blah blah? What do you do? Where did you go to school?” And you don’t remember any of it, nor do you really care about the answers. But I will remember Erick the 23 year old who lost his virginity in his best friends bed and lasted “about 3 minutes” until the day I die.

Much alcohol was consumed, that’s a given. Because I’m working backwards in my alcohol career, lots of mixing of beers/alcohols (clear, brown, champagne) were consumed, so I was properly drunk. When it was time to leave the party (one man down, poor Blair didn’t make it home, opting to puke in a bucket and pass out on the floor instead) Jill and Anna exited with some guy who’s name I do not remember (but he lost his virginity in a nice hotel in the city with a girl he had been dating for a while and lasted “60 seconds max”) and his girlfriend. As they were walking down the hall to the elevator, Jill simply said, “Make sure you take care of your girlfriend, I think she’s pretty drunk.” Now there is no malice in that statement. The girl spent the entire party passed out on a bed in a drunken stupor. Facts are facts. This statement somehow pissed this random girl off, as she snapped out of her blacked out state, ran out of the elevator and slapped Jill across the face. In a “I KNOW YOU DID’NT” moment, Anna and Jill started clawing at the girl in the elevator who was being protected by her boyfriend. That’s when I exit the party and see this scene playing out. Being the good Samaritan I am, I ran up to see what was going on, realized some sort of fight was ensuing and put myself between the crazy couple in the elevator and my friends. I turned sideways, looking at my friends and said “Hey what’s goi---“ and that’s when the crazy bitch in the elevator punched me in my right eye. I got punched! I’ve never been hit in my entire life! And she was a size zero hipster dump! The shock of this flew me to my ass. As I lay there, I saw the elevator doors start to close. It was at that point I remembered my family motto (“Never fuck with a ::insert my last name here::””, said “NOPE,” got my ass up, grabbed the elevator door just as it was about to close, and like Superman, pried it open. I started charging furiously at the hipster she-dump before some random guy grabbed me and held me back Jerry Springer style.

It gets better, order another round.

After this debacle, we decide to run to the subway and try to catch the fucktards and give them a beating they wouldn’t forget. I ran ahead of the group, as I am in full diva don’t fuck with me mode, and ended up at the end of the subway platform alone. Alas! Those assholes got away. I stood there defeated. I turned around to see a group of thugs staring back at me. “Some dumb bitch punched me and I was trying to catch her so I can beat her ass in!” I explained to the head hood. I was met with sympathetic “Shit girl”s. They turned out to be really cool people! They informed me I had a “runny mascara situation” where I had been hit and I sassily told them not to worry about it. Then one of the thugs looked at me and said, “So we gonna smoke this blunt or not?” to which I said, “Spark that shit up! Pass that shit to me!” to which he said, “SHIT GIRL, there’s an established circle, you new to the crew, wait yo turn!” to which I said “Well then hurry up and light that shit!” And then I smoked a blunt with my newfound thugalicious friends. Soon my friends caught up and we boarded our subway home. It turns out that copious amounts of various alcohols, found drugs, and a rocking subway car do not make for a good time. It was at Smith and 9th street that I calmly exited the train and threw up in a well-placed trashcan. Thank you MTA. The next thing I remember is lying in my bed thinking “Well that’s not a good sign” as Jill told me how big to open my mouth and I struggled to accommodate the small piece of cake she was trying to feed me. I was hung-over well into the next night. Oye.

I find myself saying this more and more, but I’ll say it again for good measure: only me.

Sha la la!


La-la-la-la I don’t hear you

Dear drunk guy on the street who called me a hooker at 4pm on a Tuesday,

You have problems that were clear. Anyone working on his second 40 oz in the middle of the day, standing outside in the winter with a friend under a bridge commenting on every passerby has a few issues. If you ask me you should get your eyes checked.

I know sex workers in this city do not look like the “typical” ladies of the night. I just don’t understand how my pony tail, a winter hat, arm warmers, black pea coat, winter boots, and black dress pants looked like I feel into the sex worker category. You even went one step further and asked me how much I would cost…instead of wittily replying I ignored you. For me not to respond took personal restraint, I was proud of myself.

The issue is deeper than you drunk sir, it is a growing problem in this overly friendly and small “city”. See no one taught you people that normal individuals do not talk to strangers. Starting a conversation with someone on the street has no point and can only lead to danger. Yet you appear to think starting a conversation with a young woman walking alone at night is a wise choice. You people have also decided someone wearing headphones is a minor to conversation deterrence, and that they must secretly want to chat. Day after day someone tries to strike up a conversation with me while I am wearing my ipod. STOP!

In conclusion I am not a sex worker, and if you don’t know me, don’t talk to me. If you try to start a conversation with me I will ignore you. Yes, I am being rude but it is my way of forcing you people to grow up.

From your neighbor who was raised not only on the East Coast but also in the era of fear and “stranger danger,”


Chia's Come in Waves

I have an important issue to discuss with our 2birds audience. It is about a holiday advertisement that we all know (and probably hate) the Chia Pet commercial.

I would like to assume that we all know the jingle that goes along with Chia Pets. If you have not heard it in sometime (meaning you live under a rock, or in a foreign country) I found the “classic” commercial on YouTube.

My favorite part of the Chia Pet ad is not the jingle, it is the fact Chia Pets are sold at “fine retail outlets” like K-Mart, Woolworth, and Ames.

The president of the Chia Corporation in San Francisco has decided, once again, to use all their advertising money during the holiday season. Now when I watch TV I see a Chia Pet every commercial break. In addition to the annoying ad (as shown above) have a voice over line that Chia Pets make great gifts. Come on people, who wouldn’t want to give a green pet rock?!

"Here you go weird officemate I picked in secret Santa here is a Chia pet for your cubical”

“Here ya go grandma you probably would have been happy with a Liz Claiborne sweater but here is a Chia Pet! Ch-Ch-Ch CHIA spells CH-CH-CH CHRISTMAS!”

Readers, I am being honest with you when I tell you I was going to buy a Chia Pet and prove they 1) suck 2) do not make great gifts. I had a hypothesis and everything set for a great entry. When I went to pick up the Chia at a local fine retail store I found out Chias are NOT CH-CH-CH CHEAP. One Chia would have set me back twenty-five dollars.

I know buying gifts for everyone on your list is hard. So instead of giving you the information to cross Chia Pets off your list I created (with help from friends)

Eddie’s list of "Semi-crappy gifts that are better than Chia Pets because they are under $25:” Holiday gift ideas for those random people you must buy for!

Meat Mitt (who doesn’t want to pick hot meat right off the grill?
  • Gift Cards to a used book store
  • 4 bottles of natures candy…Andre
  • Duct Tape
    • You can use Duct Tape to make a wallet, fix leaky windows and pipes…hell even make a prom dress.
  • 20 boxes of Rice-A-Roni
  • A magazine subscription
  • “Artsy” paper weight
  • Plaster imprints of your Hands
    • (WARNING THIS GIFT IS ONLY CUTE TO PARENTS AND GRANDPARENTS AND YOU MUST BE UNDER THE AGE OF SEVEN or have a child under the age of seven….or borrow a relative under the age of seven)
  • A real plant
  • A box of tissues with tissue cozy

  • Movie Tickets
  • I.O.U for Sex or Sexual Favors
  • Lots of Candy
  • Scratch off Lottery Tickets
These are just a few ideas…feel free to comment and if I enjoy your ideas I will add them to the “master list.” This way no one has to resort to a Chia Pet for the office White Elephant.


Youz a ho, ho, ho

Hello 2bird readers! First I would like to apologize for my absence that I’m sure crumbled your world and broke your heart. I know, I can be so cruel. But I have returned with kooky stories and the makings of a bangin' drinking game this friday to make up for my absence.

So it’s Christmas time in the big City. I love Christmas time: fabulous store windows, twinkle lights everywhere, trees, ribbons, ice-skating, hot cocoa (with a lot of Baileys)! However, my normal holiday joy was put on hold this year for two reasons.

Reason 1:
Obviously relating to Rick a.k.a. my patriotic asswipe of a landlord. Now, as explained, I gots the holiday spirit just like any other girl, but Rob has taken it too damn far. Let me explain to you what the already tacky exterior of our apartment now looks like. The large American eagle liberty poster has been replaced by a large flag of the nativity scene with 2 floodlights illuminating it at all times. In addition we’re talking garland (fake, obviously), mini Santas, ribbons and bells everywhere, twinkle lights, 3 wreaths (one of which is made of blue and white lights to shut the Jews up), a large “Merry Christmas” sign that’s made out of the material of one of those fake diamond rings you get out of the vending machine at an arcade, little signs proclaiming “Joy!” “Noel!” “Jesus is the only Lord and Savior!” everywhere (well…maybe not that last one,) and finally we come to the icing on the cake: the singing fake Christmas tree lit up by mini Santa Claus lights. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. The apartment looks like a red carpet showgirl any other day of the week, of course he would bring out the big guns during Christmas. Expect pictures for 4th of July…

Reason 2:
Every Jane or John feels a little lonely around Christmas time. It’s natural. The city is so romantic this time of year, they might as well be playing porno in Times Square and hand out condoms and Barry White CDs. Coming off of the worst date known to man and a mighty rough experience with a fucktard gent over Thanksgiving break, I’m not exactly in the mood to put myself back out there and find Mr. Right. You know what doesn’t help? Waking up on a cold Monday morning at 6:45, checking perezhilton.com and seeing this banner ad:

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at Photobucket

Boyfriend Season? Fuck. Great, now I have to get a camo-printed ho dress, John Deer trucker hat and a rifle from my grand pappy and catch me one of dem critters.

Sha la la!


Snowflakes in the air

I secretly enjoy the holiday season. I have already decorated my apartment with a small tree, bells, bows, and the scent of the holidays (Christmas smells like gingerbread and Goldschläger.)

There is something magical about this time of year. Like a sucker I feel the need to watch every TV holiday movie. These poorly made classics are staples on my television. A Charlie Brown Christmas is arguably the best.

A Charlie Brown Christmas shows a simple world where children run everything. With bit of talk about the Big J and speeches against commercialism it has touched the hearts of the American Public. If you hate this movie you ARE THE DEVIL.

In light of the upcoming holidays (and the recent biography of Charles M Schulz) I decided to spice up this holiday classic with a drinking game!

Take a Sip When…

* Charlie Brown says something that is ridiculously EMO.

* Every time a non-white character comes on screen.

* Schroeder rebuffs Lucy’s advances. (Finish your drink if anyone in the room suggests that Schroeder is gay…or if you think it.)

* Every time Schroeder’s piano produces the sound of some absent instrument. (Finish you drink if his piano magically sounds like a full jazz quartet.)

* Every time someone makes fun of Pigpen’s appearance. (Kids are horrid rude creatures. Shouldn’t the Christmas sprit extend to all people, including the dirty kid?)

* The relationship between Snoopy and Woodstock confuse you.

I wish I could quit you,


I wake up to Al Roker

I woke up at 7am, brewed some coffee, took a shower, tamed my wild mane and made a few thanksgiving side dishes.

By 8:45am I was ready to just relax and take in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. As I sat down with my hard cider I realized this is the perfect time to live blog. So I present to you my thoughts on the (first hour) of the American staple The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. (EDIT: I was tipsy when I wrote this, I made an executive decision and decided to post this as is...enjoy!)

9:00 am- Oh, those cheesy children dressed up in costume singing their guts out. I just know that they have no chance in hell at making it in the musical theater world. The guy at the ribbon cutting ceremony is ggggg gay and checking out his hair in the camera.

9:15 - Legally Blonde The Musical…wow singing a personal essay. When I am studying for LSAT’s I always wish things like this could happen. If I could only tap dance a personal essay instead of writing about how I want to save the world. Yes, I am a bit envious of a fictional blonde ditz who gets into Harvard Law because of “love”


Why am I so bitter?

9:25 Young Frankenstein…this actually looks good. I am also already 2 hard ciders in…may or may not be dancing to the fridge to get another.

9:28 The Ronald McDonald balloon looks a bit like he is taking it in the rear from M&M guys.

9:30 Bob Saget in a helicopter, I have no clue why but this cracks me up. Now I hate him he is making fun of homeless people and the Golden Girls, not cool. Wait he just made a J-date joke which mildly increased his funniness.

9:30 Xanadu..I LOVE THIS MOVIE. Yes, I admitted this. And the idea of a roller-skating disco musical is my idea of heaven. Plus guys in American Apparel short shorts are always entertaining. I was born in the wrong decade. I want to think if I was in my 20’s in the late 70’s I would be a disco queen. In reality I would have been some lame lesbian feminist with a power suit job.

9:38 Time to call people and wish them a tipsy happy Thanksgiving…this does not count as a tipsy dial because I would have done this 100% not tipsy.

9:41- CHRISTOPHER MELONI (that guy from Law and Order SVU) HAS THE MOST AMAZING DOG. A pug, French Bulldog combo named Bonnie. I WANT ONE. I love pugs and French bull dogs, as I saw this dog I squealed it really is one of the cutest dogs ever.

9:43 Mary Poppins...nothing can compare to the classic movie. At this point I have moved on to rum and OJ. Why orange Juice, because that is the only mixer I have)

9:50 The ROCKETTS. I saw the Rockettst Easter special once. The show started with the Rocketts dressed like nuns singing in Latin, it was awkward and everyone in my family could not stop laughing. I opened up my blinds and I am sitting in the sun like a cat with my feet up in the air like a 15 year old girl on the phone. I have no clue why you need to know that but it fit.

9:56 The TV coverage of the balloons is starting…this is the boring part

9:59 I SPOKE TOO SOON DOLLY PARTON. God I wish I look as great as her “I am not the Dalai Lama but I try” words to live by Dolly, words to live by.

It has been a great hour. Mission accomplished if I do say so myself.

I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving and a lovely time with family and friends. Have a lovely Tofurkey day!

I wish I could quit you,


I missed DEXTER for THIS?

So I went on a date Sunday night. My first New York City date. I “met” the guy through the personals on bust.com through Bust magazine and had high hopes for this gent. He is 30, in magazine publishing, plays the guitar and seemed to be very attractive.

APPEARANCES ARE DECIEVING PEOPLE. Do not put up pictures of yourself that make you seem hotter than you are! That is just such a bad idea; I cannot stress it enough. Sure I put up a few pictures where my neck is at such an angle that I look like I have better bone structure than I do, but I wasn’t hiding a major skin disorder or a major jacked up teeth situation that causes a nerdy sounding lisp. Just don’t do it people.

So let me back up a little bit. So this Internet “bad-ass hottie” named Steve and I had been emailing for a few weeks and decided to go out for dinner and drinks. “Mamas gonna get some!” I casually thought to myself while making a thrusting motion of my pelvis (at work).

A few days before the date was to go down (if the pictures were accurate…zing!), Steve called me to chat. I was immediately caught off guard by what a stereotypically “nerd” voice he had. It was nasal with a slight lisp and he stuttered a lot. He also talked. A lot. Mostly about the difference between chrome slides vs. Digital photos in a magazine. Now I’m a design/magazine nerd, but such conversation is not the way to my heart, or my pants. He also divulged that the reason he couldn’t go out on Saturday is because he was going to UFC, or Ultimate Fight Championship.

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Like the cage fighting you see on Spike TV when you’re flipping through channels...his “obsession.” Hmm…I hung up a half hour later feeling 98% “Oh fuck, how do I get out of this gracefully?” However, the 2% left rationalized that cool people can be into lame things. Take me for example, I love “Buffy The Vampire Slayer,” “Mystery Science Theater 3000” and went to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival for 6 years in a row out of choice. Or my roommate Serena! She’s cool as shit, but enjoys a good Renaissance Festival and likes horses. Or my sister! The epitome of cool, and she likes Linkin Park! I was feeling better and ready for our date.

The day before our date R2Steve2 (as he shall here on be called due to his cliché nerdy voice) called again and said we would be going to a Mexican restaurant on St. Marks Place. “Score!” I thought. I had had a very successful first date at a nice Mexican restaurant before and St. Marks is a trendy area. So the afternoon of the date I was filled with anticipation and butterflies. So I killed those butterflies with my pre-date ritual of a glass of wine and a bagel (well, the bagel wasn’t part of the ritual, I was just hungry). Except instead of one glass, I had three and was feeling a wee bit sloshed seeing how I had only eaten half a bagel that day. I realized that I had no idea where St. Marks Place was, if it was a park, circle, arch, dome, cube? I looked at the MTA map and saw that there wasn’t a St. Marks Place stop anywhere. Not wanting to call R2Steve2 back and reveal that not only am I new to the city, but I’m heavily geographically challenged, I searched the rolodex of my mind to think of who would know how to get around St. Marks. I knew there was only one man: my father. Seeing how my father went to NYU and spent a good chunk of the 60’s as a junkie laying around that area I called him up. Yes kids, I asked my dad for directions to my date drunk. Siiiighhh… But trusty old dad knew the directions of which trains I should take off of the top of his head and I was on my way.

Half an hour later, there I was, gussied up and looking fly, waiting for R2Steve2 at the corner of St. Marks (a street, not a park, circle, arch dome or cube) and third. Suddenly, he walked up and we exchanged glances. “What’s up, I’m Patsy.” I calmly said. “OH MY FUCKING GOD! HE’S SHORT, HAS GRAYING HAIR, LOOKS LIKE HE’S SUFFERING FROM LEPROCY, HAS A SERIOUS BUSTED TOOTH PROBLEM AND SMELLS LIKE ONIONS! RUN! RUN AS FAST AS THOSE IRONIC COWBOY BOOTS YOU ARE WEARING WILL TAKE YOU!” screamed my brain. But I’m not that shallow. I decided not to run and to continue on to the Mexican place and give the man a chance.

Now about this Mexican place. Turns out he takes me to Burritoville, a burrito-to-go place where you order at the counter. I got a taco salad and offered to pay but was met with R2Steve2 assuring me “Oh no, it’s on me, it’s the least I can do since we have to eat it in the cold.” Are you fucking kidding me? It was 32 degrees out! We shivered over our food talking awkwardly, most of the time just him talking about his new found love of shrooms and the best way to brew them in tea. Once the meal was over I thought, “Thank God, I’m getting the fuck out of here!” But then R2Steve2 asked if I wanted to go for a drink. And I just can’t refuse a damn drink, so I reluctantly said yes.

R2Steve2 took me to “The 24-hour Cocktail Lounge,” which I can best describe as the seedy bar at a seedy strip club, but sans strippers. We were the only people there (besides the 90 year old bartender who can’t speak anymore and just shuffles around) and there was no music playing. You could cut the awkward with a knife. We sat down at a booth that no doubt has already given me the Herp, and began awkwardly talking again as I chugged my Heineken. Finally another couple came in and started to have a normal conversation that was occasionally interrupted by bursts of laughter. “Do you think we have that kind of chemistry?” R2Steve2 asked. “No I don’t. I also think I have to go now.” And that was that.

Fuck. Me.


Liberty High

I know you all sit and wonder how I spend my free time. And perhaps in all that wondering you had a strain of thought that went something like this:

“I bet Eddie sits around her apartment sporting a ‘Hanes Her Way’ sweatshirt, matching panties and matching thigh high socks. She sits on her daybed (which is also her couch) sipping hot coco and crafting. The whole time My So-Called Life (the recently released DVD box set) plays in the background.” Well random person, you are 100% correct.

1990’s Zeitgeist, plaid and teen angst is always awesome.

I wish I could like quit you Jordan Catalano ,


Stuff that Turkey

Today’s drinking game is brought to you by a special little underage lady, my friend Golden. (No I do not spend my time trolling for underage girls in parks offering rides for candy. Golden has graduated college and has a legit job, she just on the young side.)

One night I was one of those ‘bad’ friends and left her in a hotel while I went out to the bars. Golden joined forces with a co-worker and stayed in the hotel drinking. In a tipsy state Golden created The Food Network Drinking game. [Golden’s Edits: due solely to said co-worker's love of cooking, because Golden actually loathes the Food Network with the fiery passion of a thousand suns and wishes Rachel Ray would die a horrible, slow death. Get the fuck off my box of Triscuits, you crazy bitch!]

I can not attest to the quality of this game, for I was out wasting time and money. But when I returned to my hotel golden was giddy and obviously under the influence. With turkey day fast approaching, and as Americans turn their minds to food this is the perfect time to play. Feel free to play while your family members yell at each other. Or, if you come from one of those families gather everyone around the TV and play together.

Take a sip (of your expensive California wine…or in golden’s case Smirnoff Ice)
*When anyone with an accent speaks
* When a catch phrase is used
* Every time the title of the show is sung, spoken, or shown
* When measurements are given in immeasurable methods (such as a dash, a pinch, to taste)
* When the shows theme centers on an upcoming holiday
*Any time an onomatopoeia is used- IE the infamous "BAM!"

Finish your drinking
*Every time you see Rachel Ray (this rule can be amended for shows staring her…)
Golden’s Optional Rule: Hit your drinking mate with a pillow anytime a show staring Rachel starts. Yes, I know the rage that her annoying, shiny face induces. Just don't spill any booze in the process of releasing your anger. Wasted alcohol is not acceptable.
* When a shows theme is centered on a past holiday
* Whenever Neil Patrick Harris' full name is used

[Golden's Note- this game was born of a very specific show called Dinner Impossible, in which Neil Patrick Harris randomly guest starred as a sous chef, and I found that hilarious. How could you not laugh at Doogie in a kitchen, trying to make mango paste look like cheese? If you're really compelled to see this, the episode was called the Magician's Meal... or something.]

Wash your hands and double dare everyone in the room to take a shot
*When Mark Summers is on TV

Drink up Bitches

I wish I could quit you,


Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick

In addition to tsunami warnings the cute coastal town warned me not to touch seals on the shore. There was a harsh monetary punishment for coming within 50 feet of the sea mammal. As a rebellious spirit I decided I had to break the law. I vowed to come within 49 feet or less of a live seal and poke it. My weapon of choice was my finger, with a short stick as a backup.

Sadly, I never achieved my goal of poking a seal. During a lovely walk on the beach a rock started to bark. After my girly shrikes ended I was delighted to find the noise coming from a cute little seal pup. The small creature looked up at me with big brown eyes (actually eye, the right one was crusty and closed) and instantly like the Grinch my heart grew. I also realized this thing was infected, and from the look of the funk eye it was not good.

I am a very tactile person when it comes to animals. Going to zoos and seeing animals just out of reach is torture. These beautiful majestic creatures behind plastic and bars call my name. They appear to say, “pssst Eddie, forget the sign, please pet us!” It is not just living creatures; I also have to fight the urge to touch museum artifacts and works of art. Like shooting up with dirty needles my personal demons are risky.

Years ago, at the National Zoo I was joking around with friends about panda coats. (If you ask me babies would also make a great leather coat. Over-fed babies plump and supple for the skinning. Babies from all different ethnicity's would create a darling patchwork effect… I am Cruella DeVille.) As soon as the sentence was out of my mouth a panda lady appeared. I do not use the name “panda lady” lightly; this woman was COVERED in panda gear. She wore panda shoelaces, socks, pants, t-shirt, vest, necklace and earrings. To top it all off panda lady donned a pair of panda ears in her damaged perm fried hair.

In a deep robust hausfrau voice panda lady proceeded to shout information at me. She informed the growing group panda hair was “poor coat material” along with other useless facts. All of a sudden from the back of her panda pants pocket the zoo worker (or what I hope was a zoo worker) pulled out a bag of panda hair (or what I hope was a bag of panda hair). The woman kept moving to stop me from running away. She firmly instructed me to reach into her zip block bag and touch the furry mass. The hair felt identical to a goat (truth-be-told it could have been a bag of goat hair). Yet, the experience quenched my thirst, I found out what a panda feels like without jumping into the bamboo ridden habitat.

There is a lesson in all of this (I am also the internet Aesop):

1) Panda people are weird

2) Sometimes making rude jokes and mistreating endangered wildlife can be a risky, yet awesome life choice.

I wish I could quit you,



Rule #1 of Fight Club: don't blog about Fight Club

When I come home after work, generally I’m in one of two states.

State 1: Zombie State. Example: last Thursday I came home, drank half a bottle of wine in bed watching “Reno 911: Miami!” passed out and slept from 9:30pm until it was time to get up and get ready for work the next morning.

State 2: 12 Year-Old Boy with ADD/ADHD State. Example: A few weeks ago I had an enormous surplus of energy. Where this excess energy sometimes comes from, I have no idea, seeing as I’ve been compared to a housecat on numerous occasions. I decided to channel this energy in a constructive manner by challenging my boy roommate, Blair (of wrote the last Drinking Game fame) to a fight club. Blair being basically me in male form whole-heartedly agreed, and the battle ensued. Most of the fight was pretty innocent, spent rolling around and tackling each other while trying to sneak a punch in, but towards the end of the fight, we had a good old fashioned “How Hard Can You Punch Me?” competition. Two things went awry at this point. First, I held back. I should have beat the shit out of my dear best friend, but I know my own strength (Eddie can attest to this, we took kickboxing together), and I didn’t want to hurt the poor thing with my Hulk-like strength. The other thing I forgot is that Blair is athletic and really strong. I don’t know why I forgot this, seeing as Blair is a dancer and once was a gymnast…boy is strong. As my mom later said to me, “The boy may be gay, but the boy is still a boy.” So I let him pound away on my right upper arm until I couldn’t take it anymore. The result was a beautifully impressive black and blue bruise the size of a baseball that lasted about a week and a half.

However, once the bruise disappeared, I sort of missed it. It made me feel so badass. And it’s been cold in New York as of late, so I’m always wearing long sleeves or a wrap. One night last week when I had another random and unexplained bout of high energy, I dared Blair to punch the spot where the old bruise was as hard as he could repeatedly in hopes that a new bruise would return (I swear I’m not a masochist weirdo…I just get bored and I like proving my high tolerance for pain…I DON’T NEED TO EXPLAIN MY ACTIONS TO YOU!) And indeed, a new bruise is back…and bigger and blacker and greener than ever. I was impressed for a few days until my mom informed me that such a bruise could turn into a blood clot, move to my brain and kill me (Fight Club not over however, we’ll just move to my left arm, and I won’t hold back anymore).

So the Fight Club, and resulting massive bruise really haven’t been a problem until today. This morning I was running late, and before I was out the door, I realized I was wearing short sleeves, exposing my disgusting and suspicious bruise. With no time to coordinate a whole new outfit, I ran to my dresser and half-assed covered it up with foundation and shimmery powder. So now I’m walking around with a bruise that looks like I’m desperately trying to cover up a beating I got from my boyfriend with shimmery powder.

If I had a quarter from the number of concerned/odd looks I’ve gotten from co-workers today, I’d have a shitload of quarters. When faced with inquisitive co-workers, it would probably be less embarrassing to mutter some cliché line a la Lifetime made for TV movie (maybe specifically from the one starring Tiffany Amber Thiessan where her army husband beats her but nobody cares because that’s the price of being an army wife…anyone? No takers? Only I saw that?) like “Oh that…I…I uh ran into a wall,” or “Oh THAT…haha…no my army husband beats me.” These statements are all less embarrassing and more socially acceptable than “Oh that? My roommate and I sometimes play Fight Club and see how hard we can wail on each other. He’s good. I’m secretly a 12-year-old boy on the inside with the body of a stacked 22-year-old woman. Well see you later in the conference room!”

So if anyone asks, Blair is my husband, he’s a serviceman and he puts me in my place when I get new fangled ideas like maybe getting a part-time job or learning to read.

Sha la la!

Poor Planning

My “running around the pacific northwest” muscle is sore. After consecutive professional development conferences/trainings in different states/areas I am beat. In my travels I came across a few disturbing pieces I feel compelled to share with the general public.

First alarming image is a sign I found in a cute coastal town.

1) What idiot runs towards the water during a tsunami?

2) Even though the stick person is running towards higher ground it is clear zie has no chance of surviving the approaching wall of water. This sign does not inspire hope for safe evacuation.

3) This sign made me feel bad for the quaint little town. After seen the warning I knew that
they were geographically fucked.
a. (Maybe that is why people like beaches…risks are fun! After all areas that are safe from natural, human, or zombie disasters tend to be lame.)

4) I would bet a large monetary sum that this town considers the sign their emergency management plan. I can just hear the mayor;

“A tsunami sign is how much?!? I know they are rare but do they have
to be that pricey? We will take one, yeah just one; a natural disaster will only hit the area closest to the ocean (even though we are surrounded by water). One strategically placed sign should be enough warning. I would also like to order 50 ‘Keep your dog on a leash’ signs and 50 ‘Don’t feed the wild life’ signs.”

I wish I could quit you (remember move to higher elevation),


You Wanna Be On Top?

Well happy Drinking Game Friday to one and all. My roommate Blair wrote this week’s drinking game, but before I turn it over to him, I would just like to state that I got felt up yesterday. By a homeless, perhaps schizophrenic man in a stairwell coming up from the subway. He and my left breast are now best friends. That’s the most action I’ve seen in a month and a half. So, referring to Wednesday’s post, I guess the moral of this story is— be careful what you blog for, it just might come true. Take it Blair!

America's Next Top Model. My guiltiest of guilty pleasures.

Wait, no. I take that back. I am in no way embarrassed of my viewership of this show. ANTM has been nothing but good to me since its inception in May 2003. I have spent countless hours laughing at the show with various friends, from Tyra's infamous freak-out in Cycle 4 to Kathleen's "I know, right?" from cycle 8 and everything in between. In fact, it was ANTM that brought me and one of my closest friends here in NYC together in the first place, bonding over the absolutely luda antics of Tyra and the contestants. So I live for MTV or VH1 marathons of the show, knowing full well that when these happen, I can easily kill upwards of 4 hours watching episodes I've already seen hundreds of times already.

So I'd be willing to say that I am a bit of an ANTM connoisseur. After nine cycles, there are some things you can just count on happening. Since the brilliance of Tyra Banks and Ken Mok is already chipping away at your brain cells, why not help it along with a bit of alcohol.

Thus I propose the America's Next Top Model Drinking Game:
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1 sip:

* Any contestant says "I'm not here to make friends." (You can usually count on this at least once an episode. Because…)
* Any contestant says "This is a competition." (It hardly seems fair because usually "I'm not here to make friends" follows or precedes "This is a competition". However, this is a drinking game and I'm not writing this to make friends. I'm writing this to get you drunk.)
* Any contestant claims modeling is their dream/passion/lifelong ambition. (You might want to make these sips small…)
* Tyra Mail is received. (This is probably the easiest rule to follow since Tyra Mail is announced loudly by everyone on screen.)
* Tears. (I think in order for this rule to be put into place, the person doing the crying must also acknowledge the tears. We need to see some genuine emotion, or at least a hand brushing the tears away. Sometimes a bitch just gets something stuck in her eye, and her eye waters up.)
* The word "fierce" is used.
* Twiggy says "The camera loves you." (If you happen to be watching an earlier season in which Twiggy does not appear, you can just drink whenever Janice Dickinson is abrasive.)
* Tyra demonstrates the right and the wrong way to pull off a pose/picture/commercial/whatever. ("You're giving me this ::squints:: but what I want is this ::squints and moves forward::. Can you see the difference?")

2 sips:

* A judge other than Twiggy tells a girl "The camera loves you."
* Tyra talks about smiling with your eyes. (Because models don't smile with their mouths. Ever. Next Tyra teaching the girls to hear with their elbows.)
* A contestant is accused of looking "hoochie" or "porn-star". (What I love about this is Tyra asking them to look "ho, but make it fashion")
* Miss Jay looks gender confused. (Basically just whenever Miss Jay is wearing women's clothing, but make no effort to fem up the face.)
* Jay Manuel sasses a girl on set. (I'll leave the definition of sass up to you. But for a man made from plastic, Mr. Jay is pretty darn sassy.)
* A yelling match ensues. (This will probably cause you a lot more inebriation in earlier episodes, however the full blown yelling becomes less extreme as the season progresses.)
* Mark Rosenthal, Atoosa Rubenstein, or Benny Ninja make an appearance. (Luckily these three have never appeared in an episode together or my head would explode from all the hotness, large-faced-ness, vogue-ness respectively.)
* A contestant mentions their baby back home. (No, not their boyfriend. An actual baby. Because most of these girls are 18-22, and have a child, but believe that pursuing a modeling career is the smartest way to support your family.)

3 sips:

* Tyra hugs any of the contestants. (Cycle 3 Tyra was the best for these hugs because she clearly did not want these girls touching her.)
* Miss Jay appears to be wearing men's clothing. (It will blow your mind.)
* Makeover episode!
* A girl is sick, either in bed or enough to get sent to the emergency room. (Most people go to the emergency room for a broken bone or a life-threatening illness. ANTM contestants = dehydration.)
* A former winner of ANTM appears on the show. (Don't these girls have modeling careers to attend to?)
* A contestant's terrible past is recounted. (My daddy used to touch me in my no-no spot in the back of our trailer…. And that's why I want to be a model.)
* An aberration occurs during elimination. This could be no elimination, a double elimination, or a contestant voluntarily leaving the show.

And finally, finish your drink:

* Someone you've actually heard of in the fashion industry is involved with the show. (Another discretionary event, since some may be more fashion literate than I. However, I certainly would recognize Kimora Lee Simmons, for example and not necessarily the "Swirl Twins" of Ron and Richard Harris.)
* A full episode concludes without Tyra actin' a damn fool. (This may not ever happen. But if it does, finish two drinks.)

Well, I hope I didn't just punch your liver into submission. What I hope you take away from this drinking game is knowledge of your angles, the ability to find the light with your face, and recognition that you are a role model for millions of little girls out there. And probably a few college graduates who enjoy mindless entertainment.

I hope you've enjoyed playing this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And thanks to Patsy and Eddie for the ghost writing opportunity.

Stay fierce,

Blair Waldorf


Where Have all the Cowboys Gone?

Normally I like to write about just random, kooky things that happen to me (as they tend to), but alas—here comes the dreaded “Sex and The City”-esque update. So let’s set the scene- I’m wearing boy cut underwear, a Gucci camisole, my Patsy gold ghetto-bling necklace, chain-smoking and walking around my fabulous studio pondering all of the recent sex I’ve been having.

Reality: I’m wearing jeans and a white shirt (It is BCBG though…I don’t know if that wins me any anti-white trash points), sitting at my office computer in my cubicle drinking sugar free instant cocoa, thinking about all of the sex I’m not having.

I propose the following question: What the fuck Brooklyn? What. The. Fuck. When I moved here, I wasn’t aware that it was a magical borough full of couples with dogs and babies. BABIES AND DOGS AND HAPPY COUPLES! Everywhere I look! I assured myself that when I went out a-boozin’ in the trendy area of Brooklyn this past weekend, surely I would frolic through a field of single indie-hipster boys, spin around, throw my hat in the air and sing “I’m gonna get laid after all!” But no! Even at the trendy places, it’s married couples and dating couples. Where did you people come from? In order to become a couple, you technically have to be single at some point. Therefore, there should be single people besides myself who are single and ready to mingle. But no! The entire borough of Brooklyn has coupled off. I don’t get it. How is this possible? All I know is it’s 100% depressing.

Everyday when I commute to and fro work on the subway, I have a subway crush. Someone I make eyes with hoping to God they’ll toss a note to me across the car that says “I like U, do you U like me? Circlez 1: Yes, No, Maybe.” But alas, they always break up with me and get off the train before the note can be tossed. The worst is when you’re makin’ eyes at your subway crush and you can’t see his ring finger to see if you’re a subway crush home wrecker or not. Yesterday there was a hot guy standing by me and he sneezed. I was about to say “bless you,” when I realized he was wearing a wedding ring. So I didn’t say bless you. This is how bitter I am. I wish we all had to wear stars sewn onto our clothes, a yellow star meaning you’re single, and a black star meaning you’re taken (a.k.a. you are any given resident of Brooklyn that is not myself or my roommates). Yes, sewn stars on clothes everyday. No exceptions. This is what will happen damnit! Didn’t someone try to do that before…? [Editor’s Note: Patsy is Jewish and therefore allowed to make Hitler jokes. It’s like black people with the N-word]

Last night I watched 4 back-to-back episodes of HBO’s “Tell Me You Love Me,” which taught me two important lessons: 1.) Never get married and 2.) Never have children or attempt to have children. Both will ultimately ruin your life. If this is the case, Score: Single Patsy: 1, Stupid couples with their dogs and babies: 0

But the romantic in me can’t be that cynical…last night I found out an old friend of mine got engaged. I got jealous, harsh words were thrown around the apartment (she sort of deserves them…we were Middle School friends, so she was obviously a deviant little cunt.) That makes like 5 friends from my childhood engaged in the non-white trash “I got engaged because mah boyfriend Jeb is shippin’ out to Iraq in 2 months and I gots knocked up” kind of way. Via facebook (facebook: making stalking people socially acceptable and easier since 2003,) I looked through her photos from the night they got engaged. She looked so damn happy. I want that! Later that night, I got to thinking: What the hell is a girl to do surrounded by couples, dogs and babies on an island full of happy couples?

Sha la la!
Carrie, er, Patsy


You Don't Own Me

Sorry, for my absence (not like you noticed…) I was in Portland for a conference. I spent my time going to meetings, skipping said meetings and going to the ocean, calling Patsy while at the ocean saying “I AM LOOKING AT THE OTHER OCEAN RIGHT NOW.” My nights (all two of them) were filled with walking around Portland admiring the cute vegan places, vintage clothing boutiques, a giant book store, and hitting up the bars.

I hope everyone had a lovely Halloween dressed as a Slutty _____________ (soccer hooligan, garbage collector, fry cook, postal worker.) As Brooklyn Vegan pointed out I had the year’s most unoriginal costume. I was Amy Winehouse post bloody knife fight with her husband.

Before becoming a drunken whiskey sour filled mess in another city I planed ahead. When I found out I was on deck for this weeks drinking game Netflix came to my rescue. One of these three ladies attended our alma mater so it is a bit of a GO COLLEGE shout out. That has nothing to do with why I picked this movie but it sounds classier than “I put it in my queue when I was feeling all lonely and upset and at the time I though it would give me a good laugh.”

I brought the DVD to my friend’s apartment along with a pocket full of enthusiasm, another friend, and a six pack of André- my favorite $3.99 sparkling wine. We started to play the game with only three of us and it went very well. When others joined I realized we were on our way to breaking the cardinal rule of movie drinking games. Thou shall not play a movie drinking game with more than 5 people. If played with more than five people the game will fizzle and everyone will start their own conversations. This fizzling is not always a bad thing. Some people were probably delighted at the games early ending. But for others (me) who actually wanted to play the slow death of the game was painful.

If we had played the game to the end our livers would harden and our hearts softened with a warming pro-woman agenda. Instead I was left barely feeling a buzz. Without further delay I bring you the classic 1990’s chick flick The First Wives Club.

Take a sip of your drink (out of the bottle)…
When a character takes a sip of their drink (alcoholic)

When the word lesbian is used or lesbianism is referenced

When someone says something to the effect of “this is the 90’s”

For every character on screen who is wearing pearls.

Shout l'chaim and drink when Bar Mitzvahs or studying Hebrew is discussed/occurs (this was turned into when Judaism is mentioned…which turned into when a person who is Jewish is on the screen) In conclusion drink when you see Bette Midler.

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