50 Shades Furious

I read and review Fifty Shades Freed so you don't have to.

The hardest thing about reviewing this book, more so than the first two books, is the fact that nearly every scene has multiple things wrong with it, or shouldn't have happened at all, but most often both. It is getting increasingly hard to not write five paragraphs for any one of hers and explain both why the event would never have occurred at all, AND all the overlapping things that were ridiculous once it did. Also, since Christian and Ana are always both wrong for different reasons, I feel like I should maybe start keeping score of who was the least wrong in every argument so we can see who wins at the end (spoiler: it won't be ME). Keeping score of who is "winning" tends to be extremely harmful to relationships, but this relationship is going nowhere anyway, and frankly I just need something else to do besides scribble notes in all caps and do all the research the author should have done but didn't, otherwise I'm going to hurt someone and I don't want it to be me.

We start off Chapter 7 with Ana explaining that the mysterious saboteur in the server room is Jack Hyde, followed by Christian being pissy with her for knowing what her FORMER BOSS WHO TRIED TO RAPE HER looks like. Though in his defense, the way she describes that she knows it's him - the "line of his jaw", the "shape of his shoulders" - does make me wonder why she was examining him in such minute detail. But hey, maybe she was trying to memorize his build so she could give an accurate description of her assaulter to the police, and she just never got to because her idiot husband never bothered to tell the police. Advantage Ana. Anywhore, Barney in security positively identifies Jack Hyde using facial recognition software (in no universe does a company in Christian's line of work need any such thing unless he's secretly running a casino) and then assures Christian he will "also scan the city CCTV and see if I can track his movements." I almost wanted to give this one to James since she does live in a country that has CCTV everywhere, but it took me 5 whole minutes to do the research so no dice. Seattle has no city wide CCTV coverage. The state of Washington has traffic cameras on major roadways throughout the state, and I found a mention on Boing Boing about someone protesting the CCTV cameras that had been installed at four public parks in the city, but it was from 2008 and there hasn't been a word about it since. This is a good example of what I was talking about above: He can't check the city CCTV because it doesn't exist, but EVEN IF IT DID, you still can't (legally anyway) just hack into the city's CCTV system to track the movements of one specific person. You would need to inform the police who would then either use the CCTV or not at their discretion to find him IF they felt it was warranted. Knock it the fuck off, James, Christian isn't the goddamn Batman.

Ana then goes off to make sandwiches for them (sub sandwiches because HAHA GET IT?), which is where Christian finds her and makes some dumb comment about her being barefoot in the kitchen. Ana asks if he meant to add "and pregnant" and this is the first time it dawns on them to discuss whether either of them wants to have children and when. Three weeks AFTER the wedding. This discussion is short, and then they move on to the much more important topic of the plans for the new house. Fab, guys, you will make awesome parents. Ana asks if Christian wants to put in a playroom and he is completely taken aback by the question. Not because his sexually ignorant wife made such a bold suggestion, but because "this will be a family home." And god in heaven knows, you simply can't have kinks AND children at the same time. You know what? I'm actually fine with that particular stupidism, it just gives me one more fabulous reason to avoid breeding.

The next day, Ana goes to work ("You know you don't have to do this," Christian reminds her for the 423,346,348,936th time) and everyone but her assistant and the moron at the door are treating her with barely disguised hostility, which for once she has enough social awareness to know is because she was handed a job she didn't earn and isn't qualified for because her husband owns the company. Speaking of her husband, an hour after dropping her off he emails her to complain that his first email bounced back to him because she hasn't changed her email address yet. Which is because she didn't want to change her name and hasn't told him, but that doesn't make it any more reasonable to expect that the first thing she would do after three weeks away from a job she's only just learning how to do is to make fucking sure her email has her magic new married name attached to it. She responds to his email telling him she doesn't want to change her name at work and she will explain why later on at home. She doesn't get an email back and assumes this means he's ok. Honest to fuck, I don't understand how she can be the one married to him yet I know him about a trillion times better. You are in so much trouble, Ana.

The reason for his lack of a response becomes clear a couple hours later, when Christian (I am fucking serious, you guys, what in the shit does this man actually DO?) storms into the office to chew her out over this point. In the course of this, he manages to refer to her as an "asset" in need of "rebranding" and that he likes to stop by the companies he owns to keep management sharp and "wives in their place." IN THEIR PLACE. IN THEIR MOTHERFUCKING PLACE. I honestly don't give a shit whether Ana's argument is stupid or not, she has won this contest already (my contest, she has no hope of winning autonomy from her husband at her job). Not that I'm not angry with her. Because oh no, not wanting to change her name has hurt Christian right in his tender little feelings! She never wants to hurt his feelings! He just showed up to your job to put you in your place and call you an asset as if you were actual property that could be owned. FUCK his feelings. Fuck his feelings with an entire goddamn rose bush. Other completely retarded statements he makes during this argument:

• "I want everyone to know that you're mine."/"It's not enough." That she MARRIED him. She married him and it is NOT GOOD ENOUGH. MAYBE YOU SHOULD JUST SEW HER TO YOUR SHIRT LIKE A MERIT BADGE SO EVERYONE WILL KNOW.
• "I want your world to begin and end with me." Followed almost immediately by genuine shock that she feels suffocated. You could not be more suffocating if you held a plastic bag against her face with a pillow on top of it and a rope around her neck and you are underwater AND ALSO IN SPACE.

He goes on to explain that in addition to coming by to "deal with my errant wife" (Jesus fucking fuck), he also wanted to tell her that he was planning to change the name of the company to Grey Publishing (presumably because he just likes to see his name written on things since there is no real marketing reason to do this) and that in a year's time he's going to give it to Ana - as a wedding present. By the way, this is a wedding present she's going to spend the rest of this chapter and the next one repeatedly trying to explain to him she doesn't want. She has her dream job now, she doesn't know how to run a company, she doesn't WANT to run a company, she doesn't want anything at all to do with this plan. None of which matters, because Christian is on a roll now, trying to bribe her to do something she doesn't want to do by insisting that she do ANOTHER thing she doesn't want to do. But he's sure it will all be fine and here's why: "You are also the most well-read person I know." Because CLEARLY having read several books makes a person with no business experience and who couldn't find her head if it wasn't attached to her neck qualified to run a fucking company. How in the name of Lindsay Lohan's skidmarked underpants have you had any success in business EVER if these are the sort of business decisions you make? Where did you acquire these amazing skills, Christian, Enron? Why do I get the feeling that if anyone took a look at how your companies actually operate they would find nothing but fraud and waste and breathtaking corruption? Because I have not seen you make one single sound decision about anything business related AND you have time to STALK YOUR WIFE ALL DAY LONG EVERY SINGLE DAY, so it seems like the only way you could have built an empire like this is through fraud, crime, or suspiciously good luck (which is likely to turn out to be fraud or crime).

Sorry, I got a little off track there. Anyway, she eventually gives in to all his demands, but she's still angry about it when they get home  ("I thought we had sorted all this in your office." CHOKE ON A DICK) so they fight some more even though the outcome will ultimately be the same, mainly because James wants to have Christian say more misogynistic and patronizing things since SEXISM IS SUPER FUCKING ROMANTIC: "Don't be mad. You're so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child." FUCK YOU CHRISTIAN, I HOPE YOU GET TEABAGGED BY A GANG OF ELEPHANTS.

Chapter 8 consists of three things: Ana behaves like a psycho, Ana gets off playing Tune In Tokyo, and Christian gets a haircut. Or if you look at it another way, one thing: Amber wonders if jumping out her third floor bedroom window will kill her or at least put her in a prolonged coma. Gia Matteo is the architect Christian and Ana have chosen to remodel their new house. She is, of course, one of the finest architects in all of Seattle if not the world. Ana despises her because she is obviously trying to steal Christian, but she doesn't want to fire her because her drawings are breathtaking. Even in terms of first world problems this isn't a problem. Guess what, Ana? There are other architects, and you have enough money to hire any or probably ALL of them. Fuck, you could probably afford to have Frank Lloyd Wright exhumed and have his body reanimated so he can build you a pretty house. HIRE SOMEONE ELSE. She's not going to consider the most obvious option though. No, instead when Gia comes over to discuss the drawings, Ana is going to dress like a tart, because hey lady, two can play the "I am a desperate slut with no self esteem" game! Certainly the most mature way to deal with people who dare think you have an attractive husband. This scene is one of the finest examples of "everything is wrong with it" I have ever seen. James has really outdone herself with this one. Because for starters what's about to happen would never actually happen. I don't care how good an architect you are, if you behave grossly inappropriately toward your clients, let alone right in front of their wives' faces, you will no longer have any clients. So when Gia comes in and virtually ignores Ana while getting uncomfortably close to Christian and flirtatiously touches his arm, I am once again reminded that E.L. James isn't going to let plausibility get in the way of writing the soap opera she wants to write. But even if you can suspend disbelief that the scene even exists, what happens in it STILL doesn't make sense. When Gia touches Christian, who we know from two and a half books worth of nauseatingly frequent reminders HATES TO BE TOUCHED and must CONTROL ALL THE THINGS, his response is to timidly take a step away from her, say nothing at all about it, and wait for Ana to come stand in between them, giving her a relieved look at being "rescued". THEN, when Christian leaves the room for some urgent matter with Taylor, Ana goes into full on jealous psychopath mode and threatens Gia several times to stay away from her man OR ELSE. And then another thing that would never happen happens: Gia becomes terrified of Ana and suddenly starts to treat her with respect. In real life, no commission is worth having to deal with an unhinged crazy bitch who has hallucinated some sort of threat to her marriage, and certainly not the greatest architect since god, and a real life Gia Matteo would have said "fuck this shit" and walked away from the job. The only thing that could have made this scene any more preposterous is if they got into an actual Jerry Springer style cat fight (it comes close though - Ana thinks to herself at one point "Yeah bitch, mine" which is exactly the kind of thing you would hear on Springer, but she doesn't say it out loud).

After that debacle and another several pages of the same argument about her name they've had twice already, Ana decides that Christian needs a haircut so she's going to do it all super romantic-like and drags him in the bathroom to sensuously wash his hair, which is when I make a horrified choking noise in my throat and write "please god no, don't do this." The haircut doesn't go so well at first because they haven't fucked in FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. The hair washing is interrupted by Christian who is overwhelmed with lust over it, so he ties Ana's hands behind her back with her underwear and more or less gives her a titty twister until she comes everywhere. While this is happening he tells her how beautiful her breasts are and how he's going to fuck them someday. I'm not sure why that day isn't today and actually right now, but I'm in better shape than Ana is over that statement: What the hell does that mean? she wonders. Oh my god, I hate you. Ok, fine, you've never done that before, but you are having sex ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE, you must understand the mechanics by now, you should be able to sort this one out yourself without breaking all three of your brain cells. When Ana comes (the second time) while sitting on Christian's magical Boner of Ecstasy, she starts crying, which she does pretty much every single time she has an orgasm, and frankly I hope she drowns in her emo, emo tears. Especially after she thinks "After all our arguing today, my frustration with him, his with me - we still have this." Holy bananas do you suck at life. Hey, at least we have sex since the rest of our relationship is fucking terrible!

Once Ana's teargasm has subsided, she remembers that the whole point of this exercise was to cut Christian's hair, so she goes down the hall to his study to get some scissors and two things happen. The first is that she happens to see Taylor and Mrs. Jones kissing and HOLY SHIT IT IS EXPLOSIVE NEWS. Just to Ana, though - Christian already knows and points out that they are both adults and single and free to do whatever the fuck they want. But Ana just can't wrap her head around this because - no, for real this is her ACTUAL reason - "I always thought Mrs. Jones was older than Taylor." The woman ALWAYS has to be younger, how else will the man be able to romantically treat her like a helpless child? YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE ANA. The second thing that happens is while going through Christian's desk looking for scissors she finds a gun. Fully loaded. In an unlocked drawer. Despite multiple attempts on his life, a high speed car chase, and a mentally unstable ex stalking them, Ana is totally perplexed about why Christian would have a gun. I am only perplexed by the fact that every other sentence out of Christian's mouth hole is about how he is so afraid of anything ever happening to Ana, and keeping a loaded weapon in an unlocked drawer in an unlocked room in an apartment housing at least two other people besides Christian and Ana that has already had its security breached once by a woman who was so disoriented she couldn't even wash herself is pretty much the definition of asking for an accident to happen in which Ana gets killed. In fact, the only law of gun safety he hasn't violated right here is that he apparently doesn't sleep with a loaded gun under his fucking pillow. YET. P.S. This is the second gun you've mentioned in this alleged love story, Ms. James...you DO know that the stereotype of "every single American owns a gun" is not actually true, right? Right? Ana doesn't mention the gun to Christian when she goes back to finish cutting his hair, because if there's one thing they are both good at, it's never ever discussing anything important until it becomes a fucking crisis. Instead the chapter ends with her cutting his hair, another argument about her running a company, her fundamentally misunderstanding something he said earlier in a way that makes him panic, and frantic, desperate sex that solves everything. So, basically EXACTLY THE SAME FUCKING THING AS EVERY OTHER SHITTY PAGE OF THIS SHITTY ASS BOOK OF SHIT. SHIT.

Oh, the tally for these two chapters is Ana - 2, Christian - nil (I am counting the half dozen fights about the same fucking thing as just one long extra stupid thing).

50 Frowns Deeper

Last night while I was reading, I stopped mid-sentence and sent an outraged email to H-Town which was titled “FUCK THIS IN THE ASS TIMES A MILLION WITH SHAQ’S RIGHT SHOE”.

Chapter 5 opens with Anna confirming with the girl from reception what she already knows – that the woman Christian is talking to is Elena the Evil Pedo from Hell – and completely losing her shit. She storms out of the salon because she loves to make dramatic scenes and proceeds to have THE EXACT SAME CONVERSATION with Christian about what a threat this woman is to her that they have already had at least three or four times. If you took out every scene or description where the author repeats herself, the entire trilogy would be 11 pages long.

H-Town: she writes, "My scalp is trying to leave the building."
My response: "My brain is trying to leave this book."

me: followed almost immediately by "Mrs. Leonard? I thought she was divorced"
because no one divorced has ever kept their married name, ever

H-Town: ever. Amber. Ever.

me: and also they proceed to have the same conversation they have every day

H-Town: yup Sex - angry conversation - sex - angry conversation - sex - angry conversation

While they are standing there screaming at each other in public about a problem that doesn’t actually exist, Christian gets a phone call warning him of an actual problem. It seems ghost girl is still on the loose but now she’s managed to get herself a concealed weapons permit (he claims during the conversation that she got this without a background check). Christian relays this to Ana and unilaterally decides she will be staying with him until his people get a handle on the situation. Ana reacts to this by screaming at him that she wants a haircut. Christian reacts to that by picking her up off the ground like a small child throwing a temper tantrum, which in all fairness to Christian is EXACTLY WHAT SHE IS DOING.

H-Town: and he FUCKING CARRIES HER
I wanted to open my front door and throw the book outside
but was afraid it would kill the grass.
and for the 74th time in my notes, I wrote, "Ana is stupid."
Also, I just started keeping track of how many times he runs his hands through his hair
that's this book's "pants from hips" comment
four times in chapters 5 and 6

me: so he tells her about Leila going all The Shining
and she's like FUCK THAT I WANT A HAIRCUT
HOW COULD SOMEONE'S LIFE UNRAVELING BE MORE IMPORTANT THAN GETTING RID OF THESE SPLIT ENDS?!?!?

H-Town: hahaha

me: btw, that concealed weapons permit?
NOPE
I checked
Washington State requires a background check that includes a mental health check and takes at least 30 days, sometimes up to 90
she did not get out of the hospital after a suicide attempt and go get a concealed carry permit at the fucking grocery store the next day

After carrying her over his shoulder in public, they go to Ana’s so she can pack since whatever Christian decides is the law. By the way, on hearing that Leila can now practically get a handgun from the nearest vending machine, her ONLY fear is that something might happen to Christian. Her instinct for self-preservation does not fucking exist. When they get to his place (he drove her Audi because women should never drive if a man is present) they continue having the same conversation they had an hour ago while they wait for Franco the “small, dark and gay” hairdresser to come over and cut Ana’s hair, which clearly will solve all of her problems.

me: did you enjoy the hairdresser?

H-Town: Oh my god
first off, nice slight about "I bet he's from Baltimore or something"
fake-uh Italian-uh accent-uh
also, he's gay
WHAT A SURPRISE

me: you should have known that because he's dark. ALL MEN WITH A TAN ARE GAY
why does she think he's faking an accent anyway?

H-Town: Italians aren't real
can we talk about the "I put a spell on you" part? (this is the song that is playing while she’s cooking them lunch)

me: haha yes

H-Town: first, IMPRESSIVE CONTENTS OF HIS FRIDGE
He could have a bottle of ketchup in there and it'd be more impressive than Ana's empty anorexic cavern of a fridge

me: HOLY FUCK THERES PEAS IN HERE

H-Town: but then. THEN, the "I Put A Spell On You" part
when he sashays across the room towards her
HE'S SO SEXY
I could not stop laughing
if anyone did that to me, it could be the hottest person on the planet, I would die of laughter

me: when I come see you I’m going to play that song and then duck walk across the room to you.
romantically

H-Town: and then I'll crab walk to you

Following her SUPER IMPORTANT HAIRCUT, they go back to their discussion about everything that’s wrong with him ever, which leads to her complaining about the stalking. He tells her he does “background checks” on all of his submissives and this is why he knows every goddamn thing about her – including her bank account number. Then they argue about money some more, and he brags to her about how much money he makes an hour, a figure that no one who isn’t actually paid an hourly wage would know, and certainly not a person who has more money than god.

Me: so he shows her the file on her

H-Town: oh that's right
what the FUCK

me: there is 1. no reason he would need a copy of her birth certificate at all, ever

H-Town: Maybe he's an Obama birther
he doesn't want subs from KENYA!

me: 2. no way you can get a bank account number from a background check

H-Town: Come on, Amber, we know he's magic. He probably just gazed dreamily at an ATM and it swooned and spit out all her account details.

me: I’m sure, but that's how he tells her he got it
her reaction: "I don't know if I should be angry or flattered."
REALLY? YOU REALLY DON'T KNOW WHICH ONE
I wrote FUCK YOURSELF
but of course, she doesn't know how
oh also in this scene
THIS IS THE BEST PART
"do you even know how much money I make?"

H-Town: "do you know who I am?" it's like that
I make $100,000 every hour
I use it to buy hair gel that I am constantly putting in my hair with my hands.

me: EVERY HOUR

H-Town: Every time a bell rings, Christian makes $100,000

me: I did some math
James wasn't clear whether that was every hour of his life or every hour that he works so I did both
If he makes $100k every hour of his life, he is making $876 million a year
If you assume he is talking about a 40 hour work week, it's $208 million
So then I got on the internet

H-Town: which EL James and Ana clearly don't know how to do

me: want to know how much Rupert Murdoch made last year?

H-Town: yes I do

me: total compensation $33.3 million

H-Town: hahahaha

me: Warren Buffett's actual salary is $100k a year but including investment income, he made $48.1 million in 2006 (latest record available)

H-Town: YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND CHRISTIAN, AMBER!
He owns hair salons! and publishing companies!

me: yes, salon owners and publishers totes make more than four times what Warren Buffett makes

Ana goes to the bedroom while Christian assembles some sort of SWAT team that is going to go looking for Leila, and she googles (WHO KNEW) schizophrenia because she feels Christian exhibits multiple personalities. Since schizophrenia and multiple personality disorder are totes the same thing as each other and rapid mood swings are the same thing as having more than one distinct personality. WAY TO BE DEROGATORY ABOUT SOME VERY SERIOUS MENTAL ILLNESSES, JAMES. THE PSYCHIATRIC COMMUNITY THANKS YOU.

Me: is "breathtaking ignorancism" in the DSM-IV?

H-Town: it should be now
Then Christian comes in and they take a lipstick tour (during the part of the argument when she was whining again about not being allowed to touch his chest, he suggests that they mark off the areas that are “safe zones” with a tube of red lipstick he apparently keeps around the house)
H-Town: I really wanted her to write "I'm a giant stalkery douchebag" on his back

me: oh I would have been drawing penises all over him. ALL OVER HIM
and then I would call him " Dickelback "

H-Town: hhahahahaa

me: (this is where a reference to Nickelback lyrics/songs would go if I knew any)

H-Town: thank god you don't know any

me: Dickelback is our new band
Our first album is Why Are You So Stupid? and the single off it is called Account Number 2950482945893

Chapter 6 starts with a tired banging scene I’m certain I’ve already read, and is followed up with her getting dressed in eveningwear finery for the charity masquerade party they are attending that evening at his parents’ place. Oh, and some ben-wa balls, which she still has yet to call by their proper name.

me: Chapter 6
INTERCOURSE

H-Town: this line: "Boy, I want him."

me: I wrote that down too!
is she 11?

H-Town: once the hoo-ha parade is done then comes the dress-up scene
which is so much like an even stupider version of Pretty Woman, I wanted to ram my head through the wall

me: she must have had that movie on repeat the whole time she was writing this
she name drops a bunch of what I assume are high end designers
apparently this impresses others of our gender
but I had no idea what she was talking about

H-Town: Yeah, she could've said she was wearing a dress from Flim Flam McGee and I wouldn't have given two shits
"ooh, the new fall designs from Barb Wirefence! Amazing!"
"heels from Ben Dover! YES!"
oh, and Ana goes to the party with balls in her cootch
Don't forget that part

me: which she STILL can't name

H-Town: Yeah, it took me a second to figure out what they were because I didn't read the first book "Balls? What are they talking about (reads further) OH. OH, THOSE BALLS."

me: it was exactly like the no underwear scene, it was endless pages of her acting like no one had ever done that before
*did that yesterday*

They head for the party surrounded by The Ghostbusters extra security because of Leila. Naturally, everyone is massively rich and georgous and every woman is swooning because Christian is the richest and gorgeousest of all.

H-Town: the party scene was stupid
it was just EL James describing a party she wants to go to
oooh, masquerade masks! CHAMPAGNE! OLD PEOPLE!
ice sculptures!

me: synchronized servers!

H-Town: stupid bullshit!
she puts the whole menu into the book.
I wondered if Christian had sex with it while demanding a steak?

me: there was not one thing on that menu I would have eaten. not one

H-Town: it was just a bunch of French words shoved together

me: RIGHT?
I was honestly not sure those were actual things

H-Town: fromage e ferchette oui eiffel tower

me: this line
"Mia and Grace are already in situ..."

H-Town: STAB

me: I wrote "shut your hole"

There is an auction of various super classy rich people things I could not be less interested in, one of which is a weekend stay in Aspen, Colorado at property owned by Christian. Ana, as ever, is surprised to learn that he owns property. HE OWNS EVERYTHING IN NORTH AMERICA YOU TWAT. HE IS PROBABLY ALSO AN OLYMPIC CLASS SKIER. Out of the blue and for no reason at all, she decides to bid $24,000 on a weekend getaway she could have for free any fucking time she wants. And wins. The item. She loses at life because Christian is going to straight up murder the shit out of her for it.

H-Town: And then at the end, she bought Aspen.

me: oh my god wtf was that?

H-Town: he makes $100k/hour, it's cool
he probably farts out that much money

me: no it's not cool
he gave her that money and HE WILL BE THE ONE WHO DECIDES HOW SHE SPENDS IT

H-Town: I foresee punishment INTERCOURSE coming soon

me: I know this sounds rapey, but she was asking for it
let's see, you don't want $24k, but your sociopathic boyfriend forces you to take it
do you a) quietly donate that money to a charity you believe in without mentioning it or
b) publicly give it away RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM

H-Town: for his own damn house
she spends $24k ON A RETREAT TO CHRISTIAN'S OWN HOUSE

me: I'd be pissed too, just on principle, for her being such a fucking idiot

H-Town: and that's the end of two shit-tacular chapters.
What's been blown: Christian, a tube of red lipstick, and $24k.

me: my will to live, half an evening

H-Town: my summary: This book sucks so much that Dyson is considering filing a lawsuit.
boobs n shit, talk to you tomorrow

me: boobs to you as well

The Last 5k I Will Ever Run*

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you. There will be a new 50 Shades review up tomorrow. I simply didn't have time to read this weekend: - I was being chased by zombies, driving across middle America and practicing how to be a stripper.

I ran my second Run For Your Lives zombie chase/obstacle course/5k on Saturday in Indianapolis. It wasn't any better than the last one, despite the fact that I did actually train this time. In fact, I finished the highly touted Couch To 5k program and I can say with confidence that I could probably run a straightforward 5k without wanting to die (though I would still hate it. Pretty sure nothing is ever going to change the fact that I HATE running). Unfortunately, the skills required for running a 5k are worthless for this particular 5k. What little areas there were for open running without an obstacle or zombies seemed to almost always involve either running through water or running through sand, both of which blow and are a complete energy suck. The rest of the time, we were sprinting. The zombies in Indiana are way more aggressive than the zombies in Maryland - they run faster, chase further, and work together to chase down the people who still have flags left. At one point, we gathered a large group to try to overwhelm a massive field of zombies. We got to the end, crawled through some murky water under a bridge and were greeted on the other side with ANOTHER huge field of zombies.

The obstacles were harder than last time as well. We crawled army style through a field of gravel, from which my knees are now cut to shreds. I climbed up the cargo net fairly well, but my decision to try and slide down the opposite side was, in retrospect, a poor one. I had been extremely confident going in about the one obstacle we knew about, crossing monkey bars over a pool of blood and entrails, due to my trapeze classes. I shouldn't have been. There was one thing I hadn't accounted for: at trapeze class we have chalk. At a zombie race there is nothing, plus your hands are wet from climbing up there due to people who fell in before you, plus your clothing is entirely soaked from all the previous water obstacles so you can't dry your hands on those either. I got about a third of the way across before I realized it wasn't happening and let go, justifying that decision to myself that the blood pool would feel soothing on my cargo net rope burns anyway.

I when I finally crawled under the electrified fence (seriously) and crossed the finish line, I was ecstatic. Not just because it was over, but because it was over and I WAS STILL ALIVE! I had one flag left at the end of the race, thanks to the amazing H-Town who ran interference for me after she'd lost all of her flags, and also from a spin move I used to get away from a zombie who had me wrapped up.

Survivor. Yes, I do know my hair matches my shirt.

And that's it. I am never doing this again.*

After the race, I faced a five hour drive back to Chicago so I could be at rehearsal for my latest student burlesque show first thing Sunday morning. Just a quick word about driving across the state of Indiana, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure: It's fucking terrifying. If you're like me anyway. Because I do not blend in there AT ALL, and as the bartender just said to me "In Indiana, the motto is 'If it's different, shoot it.'" The first thing you see when you cross the border from Ohio into Indiana is a giant cross made out of aluminum siding. Jesus approves of weatherproofing your home. Immediately after that are two billboards, these two, in this order:

Hell = The Hotel California

Jesus = The Dude. He's had a rough night and he hates the fucking Eagles, man.

Sitting in my tiny rental car with absolutely no one looking at me, I have never felt more like I was being judged. Until I got out at a rest stop to recaffeinate, my turquoise hair shining like a neon sign flashing "MISCREANT" and "FORNICATOR", and had to have a very uncomfortable staring contest with the man behind the counter before being allowed to purchase a Coke Zero. I felt safer surrounded by zombies.

On Sunday I went to rehearsal for the Studio L'Amour Student Showcase, which is July 1st at Joe's on Weed if anyone is interested in attending. I do not have photos of this part of the weekend, though I do have this one of me in (part of) the outfit I'll be temporarily wearing:

Not pictured: waist cincher, hand fan, sense of propriety.

My hope is that by the next student show in December, I'll be dancing solo instead of in a group with 15 other girls, but I will be in the front row this time so I've got that going for me.

So that's what I was doing instead of reading more dubious "literature" all weekend, though there was a bit of H-Town reading it aloud that I wish I had video of. I do expect to finish it this week, and then I may be willing to entertain reading the next one for you, but only if you give me some time off to read something decent, do the actual work that I get paid for, and keep saying really nice things about how amusing you find my rage.

*Until H-Town asks me to do another one. I am weak.

Day 21 And I'm Still Having Gender Issues

Me: I learned how to curl my hair yesterday. Like a girl.

CEO: (laughing (probably more at me than with me)) I'll just leave that one alone, dear.

I took a class in how to do your own hair in pin-up style yesterday, partly because it's something I should learn what with the burlesque and all, and partly because it was being taught by the amazing Sara Jean, who styled my hair for both of my photo shoots at Vavoom Pinups and it looked AWESOME. Also she is super cool. She's a good teacher (way better, in fact, than she thinks she is), but even so my hair looks a shit ton better when she does it than when I do it. It's hard to do on yourself anyway, but when you add in my left handedness and my complete lack of fine motor skills/ hand-eye coordination, you end up with weird crooked curls and burnt fingertips. At any rate, in addition to actual make up, I now also own a curling iron and hair spray. This is going to take some getting used to.

By the way, I did find out what a teasing comb is. It's actually just a really skinny brush with a pointy tail on the end, and it did not make fun of me. To my face anyway.

Day 15 And I Am Preparing For My Next Class On How To Be A Girl

YOU GUYS. Did you know that there's a difference between a bobby pin and a hair pin? NEITHER DID I. I totally thought that was two different names for the same thing. Apparently it's not, as evidenced by the fact they are listed as two separate things on the list of supplies I'll need on Sunday for the workshop I'm taking in how to do pin up hair. Also seemingly two different things: "clips to hold larger sections of hair" and "box of single prong clips". In addition I have NO IDEA what a teasing comb is. It's probably a comb that's going to make fun of me for not knowing anything about hair.

England Trip Do Over - Part 1

I got two entries into my chronicle about my trip to the UK in May before I found out what I suspected all along - I shouldn't have gone. But I did go, and on my last night there, not only did I FINALLY get to spend some quality time with my Hitchin friends, but I even managed to meet and instantly befriend a few more, most notably MrBalls. And since I'd already scheduled the time off work in September for a different trip I wouldn't be going on, I decided to take a mulligan on that first trip, go back to England and do the things I wanted to do the first time.

It is amazing how much easier it is to pack for a longish trip overseas when you don't have to pack five pairs of shoes, twenty ridiculous outfits and a dozen sex toys. In fact, I wound up taking a much smaller suitcase, which was enormously handy during my travel marathon of the brown line to downtown, the blue line to the airport, the tram to the international terminal, a plane across the ocean, the longest line to clear customs ever, the tube to Kings Cross and a train to Hitchin, where blessedly MrBalls was there to pick me up in a car I'm pretty sure he bought specifically for its strong resemblance to a storm trooper helmet (also the smaller suitcase allowed my colleagues at work to make fun of the neon kitty cat paw prints I'd painted all over it to make it recognizable at baggage claim). After checking in at the hotel, we headed across the street and had a beer while we awaited the arrival of Nat the Evil Lesbian who was joining us for lunch. After some nice Italian  food with another beer and a trip to Just Desserts for a piece of cheesecake that tasted like angels having sex in my mouth paired with a delicious pear cider, we started casting about for something to do for the rest of the day. This was important: I'd been up for over 24 hours but sleeping was not an option. The only way to get through the jet lag associated with long distance travel is to power through that first day and not go to bed until everyone else does. Obviously what I needed were mass amounts of depressants. For this we headed down The Vic*, which seems to qualify as my local despite the fact that I don't even live in the same country. There we picked up a couple more friends, i.c. hater and the beautiful Sulu. Unfortunately, we also picked up a completely random drunk at the next table. I'm not sure how this happened, though I suspect it had something to do with my hair (Melle had cut it several days before under the instruction that she make me instantly recognizable to a complete stranger in the middle of London. She translated  that into bright purple with some red peeking out around my face, which for some reason does not get you a free upgrade on Virgin Atlantic). Regardless, I made the same mistake I always make - I was nice to the idiot and then we couldn't get rid of him. It wasn't so bad at first. He was annoying, but also seemed quite taken with my foreignness, right up until I corrected him that my accent wasn't Canadian but American, at which point all hell broke loose. Suddenly I went from adorable purple haired tourist to wayward insolent colonist. "You're our CHILDREN!" he shouted at me while I ill advisedly stoked the fire by loudly giving thanks to France for financing our revolution and for the lovely statue. When he called MrBalls fat, we took it as our signal to leave and went down the road to a different pub, where we met up with Sulu's old school friend who was freakishly tall and where I had my first accidental run in with someone I know. The Canadian barmaid from The Vic was drinking at a table with some nice gentleman (who would later engage me in a fabulous compare and contrast conversation (cricket/baseball, rugby/American football) which for once didn't involve an argument over which version was better) and we recognized each other. And then I got the Loud. "OH MY GOD NAT I JUST RANDOMLY RAN INTO SOMEONE I KNEW IN HITCHIN," I screamed at her, apparently  repeatedly all night long. After several hours of this, Nat finally walked my drunk ass back to the hotel. We had to be up early the next morning for our day at Thorpe Park.

*Or, in the American vernacular, down to The Vic.

Rainbow Brite Revisited

I have received several angry messages from friends due to my sucky posting habits asking for pictures of my new hair, so without further ado I give you...me:





Please note my posed posture and come hither look. This is because Melle secretly wants to be a fashion photographer, also evidenced here:



Descriptions thus far have ranged from "Rainbow Brite had sex with you hair!" to "A gay pride parade threw up on your head":


Personally I enjoy it. Commence with comments from the peanut gallery...now.

Rainbow Brite

Today Melle plans to "explore Roy G. Biv" on my head.

Viva Las Vegas

So I’m back from Vegas. I started writing this righteously long post and then realized it was going to be interesting to no one except me and possibly the bartender, so I’m scrapping that and going with the bulleted highlight format instead.

• People, I’m sorry, but what the FUCK is up with the heat out there? 107? You have got to be kidding me. And the wind? Not the nice cooling breeze you get here in the great lakes region. Oh no. Just super hot air blowing you in the face and drying out your contact lenses. The second day some woman said to me “It’s cooler than yesterday!” It was 104. How can you tell the difference between 107 and 104?
• Here’s the lone issue I have with having pink and blue hair: it’s like an open invitation for strangers to talk to you. Everywhere I went it was “Cool hair!” “I love your hair!” “Your hair is so awesome!” Seriously, at least 60 people I didn’t know came up to talk to me, minimum. The bartender suggested there should be an over/under line on how many strangers were going to comment on my hair each day. At the Foundation Room one night, a girl came running up to me screaming. “OH MY GOD! Look at your hair! That is the best thing I have ever seen! Wow! You guys, come and look at her hair. OH MY GOD, AND YOUR DRESS! This is the greatest dress ever! Is this how you dress EVERY DAY? (By now she has a hold of both my arms which she is squeezing in a death grip. Her face is two inches from mine.) You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. I have to get a picture with you!” At which point the owner, helpful as ever offered to take a picture of both of us. Some random guy got in it too and I was smashed in between two total strangers posing for a picture, after which she kissed me and had to literally be dragged away by the arm by one of her (very embarrassed) friends.
• Also about my hair: the owner took up calling me Sno-Cone. Cone for short.
• I ate at Fatburger twice in the same day. That’s right, two fatburgers and two milkshakes all in the same day. Holla.
• The M&M store is so super cool I can’t even tell you. They have these huge columns of M&Ms in every color you can think of all along the back wall. I made a bag of scarlet and grey ones for Michigan Bouncer (who said “I’m gonna eat ‘em just like Michigan’s gonna eat the Buckeyes this year!”) and the bartender made a rainbow bag for Manny. I bought myself a new puzzle, but I can’t put it together because Kristen keeps sitting on the pieces.
• A tally of Fuckwit’s fuck ups for the weekend: (1) could not meet us at the M&M store because he couldn’t find it, despite the GIANT M&M right out front; (2) became incensed when he learned he’d have to pay for his own lunch, since he’d just assumed the owner would buy lunch for 15 fucking people just for fun; managed to offend every single person in a 20 foot radius at he Foundation Room by calling the girls bitches (3), making racial comments to our Mexican friend (4), and to the manager (5); was charged for room damage for puking on the floor (6) and the comforter (7). I’m sure there will be more; these are just the stories I’ve heard so far.
• The Double Down Saloon is the most awesome thing I’ve seen in Vegas yet. It’s the epitome of a punk rock bar. The jukebox is stacked, STACKED with punk music from the classics to the brand new to the obscure. The walls are covered in all manner of graffiti. There are signs hung up all over the place. One reads “House rule: You puke, YOU clean it!” Another advertises bacon martinis for $5. And another one announces this effed up “special”: “Ass Juice! $3 or 3 for $11!” I asked how many people fall for that and apparently it’s quite a few. I also asked what ass juice is made out of, but they wouldn’t tell me. I asked what a bacon martini was and I was presented with a bottle of vodka that had strips of bacon floating around in it. Not even kidding. After that I was glad they didn’t tell me how they make ass juice.
• “I STILL LOVE YOUR HAIR!” I heard someone shout while waiting to board the plane at the airport. I turned around to see the crazy girl who had molested me the night before walking past me, grinning and waving.

Because It's Rad

Since it's been over a week, it seemed like it was time to get my hair cut again.

One of the best things about having a pink and blue fauxhawk is watching people try to stare at you without appearing to be staring. Feel free to stare openly, I can totally tell anyway.

Amberance - Now Available in Stripes

I get bored easily. So even though I loved loved loved my last haircut, I found myself back in Melle's chair last week begging her to cut it all off. Melle loves to cut my hair because I pretty much let her do whatever she wants. My theory is that I don't cut hair for a living. She does. So who am I to be telling her what would look good on my head? I don't know; it's not my job. It's Melle's job and so I just go in there assuming that she knows what she's doing. People don't really get this, I think because people tend to get hyper-sensitive about their hair. When people ask how I'm going to get my haircut I have to tell them I don't know, because I honestly don't. Every time I've thought I knew how it would turn out I was wrong. The most direction I've ever given Melle is "do something asymmetrical". So when I went in last Thursday night on the way to the bar (did I mention how great it is to get your hair cut next door to your bar?), I found Melle rubbing her hands together maniacally. Well, OK, she was really washing some other girl's hair, but trust me, I could see the wheels turning.

She had nearly completed the haircut when she got this "Eureka!" look on her face and asked me "Can I put lines in it?" I explained to her my theory of haircuts, and so she set to work on carving stripes into my head, giggling to herself "Teehee! You're an investment analyst!" the entire time. Here is the result:

It's a little different as you can see. I am in love with my head now, except that I can't get used to the fact that it looks really cool. Because I am not really cool. My hair is much much cooler than I am, in my opinion.

Though not everyone's opinion, as evidence by my brother's reaction upon my arrival at Tai's:


He's not drunk, just exasperated.

Thanks Melle!

Post Decoupage

There really is nothing going on in my life right now that is big enough to write an entire post about. Instead, I give you some small pieces of story, which I will glue together in this post and then cover them with a clear lacquer. Please read in a well ventilated room.

My dad makes the best stuffing in the whole entire world, and I know this because I've eaten stuffing made by about four other people and his was the best. Also because my dad is the best at everything. But anyway, I decided it would be really fun and not at all taxing in any way to host a dinner party at my house for the Liz crowd, at which I decided to serve my dad's stuffing. I requested the recipe. The problem with this technique is that there IS no recipe, much like there is no recipe for almost anything he makes. He's one of those natural cooks where everything he does turns out fabulous, and everyone proclaims his awesomeness but secretly hates him for it. So the answer to my question went something like, "Well, you know, bread cubes, some onions and celery, saute those in butter, get some italian sausage, put that in there, chicken broth, pepper, parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, just like the song (I'm not even kidding you, he said that), couple eggs, you might need some more water. Needs to bake about an hour." Which is not so much a recipe as it is a list of ingredients, and so I was left on my own to figure out proportions of things, which I did mostly by sight as I know what the stuffing is supposed to look like. At any rate it seemed to work, and it got rave reviews and I'm going to make stuffing all the time now.

Speaking of the holiday dinner, I am so Fabulous at throwing parties that Martha Stewart should be watching MY show for ideas. This is mainly because I am insanely anal and make endless lists, and also a schedule for the entire day which actually began with the entry "Wake up". I had tasteful holiday plates, and cloth napkins with festive napkin rings, and an actual TABLECLOTH. All my flatware matched and so did my wine glasses, in which I served actual wine just like a real grown up. Candles and festive lights were our only illumination and Frank Sinatra softly crooned holiday classics from some unseen location while we chewed. All the food came out at the right time and was delicious including, it seems, the mashed potatoes. I was a little troubled about the potatoes because I think they are vile and so I've never actually made them before. And my arm almost fell right off too, from the actual mashing of them, because I kept seeing little tiny chunks and had no idea whether or not that was normal so I was trying to destroy every last one. When I was finished I had no idea if they were going to be awesome or ass because even if they are awesome they're going to taste like ass to me and knowing this I sure as hell wasn't about to sample them for no good reason. People asked for seconds, and thirds, and then they took the whole bowl home with them, so I'm assuming that's good. Though I still haven't gotten an answer about the chunks.

When people send you mixed nuts for the holidays, and the mix happens to include peanuts, everything in the bag will taste like a peanut.

Today I was at Walgreens getting a bag of Doritos for lunch and saw maybe the stupidest thing ever. They have these really ugly-ass black and grey stockings that scream "CHICAGO WHITE SOX WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS 2005" on the side. You'd think that's the stupid part but you'd be wrong. Because stuck to each of these hideous oversized socks is a big round yellow sticker which reads, I kid you not, "$14.99 or $14.99 each". I can only assume these stickers were issued by the Department of Redundancy Department.

Melle is at it again, and this time she cut off even more of my hair and turned a good chunk of what remained a bright red-purple plumlike color. I am way extremely hot right now, enough to even overlook that extra layer around my waist, because da-ymn. Also, when I found the bartender wandering down Addison, attempting to walk from the Addison blue line stop to his car at Tai's three and a half miles away in 25 degree weather with a giant suitcase and no hat (uphill both ways) and I stopped to give him a ride, he looked at my hair and said, "Your hair looks nice," which if he's speaking directly to you means "I would totally fuck you right now" because he's one who's sparse with the compliments. Or maybe he was just grateful for the ride, it's hard to tell.

I've been having incredible spider luck lately and it's kind of scaring me because I think they're trying to lull me into a false sense of security before the big assault. But while cleaning for the holiday dinner, out of nowhere there's this GIANT SPIDER crawling around on my wall. I'm known for exaggerating the size of my eternal tormenters but in this case I don't even have to because this asshole was the size of a daddy long legs. And in a big fat hurry. I had just closed the front door when I saw him running along at a frightening clip on the adjacent wall. I screamed and stood paralyzed, as per usual. When he got to the door, though, he stopped on the molding and looked around, not with malice, but in confusion. Then it hit me and I somehow mustered up the courage to re-open the door. Through the crack of which he promptly crawled out as if he were late for his own wedding or something. I don't know if maybe he was doing recon or if he just wasn't a fan of ceramic pine trees or stockings hung by the chimney with care. Either way, he left and I was grateful.

Here is why my cousin Rick is funny: He e-mailed me to ask how things were in Chicago, so I wrote back that they were fine, I liked my apartment and my neighborhood and I had become a regular at Tai's. He answered me, "I'm glad to hear that you are a regular. I was afraid when you moved to Chicago you'd become a large."

Per Pronto's Request

Here's the new haircut. I'm in my "Trinity" outfit, and giving my patented "come hither" look (which is often misconstrued as my "I'm pissed at you" look). Appropriately, I am sitting in the Lovesac at The Liz.

Ego Maniac

So to go with my new sexy haircut, I wore a short gray skirt, black blouse, black tall boots and my long black PVC jacket to work yesterday. You can't get your hair chopped off and then show up the next day dressed like a ragamuffin, you know. I was told I looked like Trinity from The Matrix, and Fish announced that I was officially out of his league. It has gone to my head. It has not, however, caused me to be any less of a dork, or any better at managing the simpler aspects of my life.

Fish: did you bake the pie?
pgsdenmilf: this morning
pgsdenmilf: i was funny
pgsdenmilf: i got up
pgsdenmilf: put the pie in the oven
pgsdenmilf: went back to bed
pgsdenmilf: got back up
pgsdenmilf: got in the shower
pgsdenmilf: pie is done!
pgsdenmilf: get out of the shower
pgsdenmilf: run naked and wet across the kitchen
pgsdenmilf: turn the oven off
pgsdenmilf: get back in the shower
fish: :-)
fish: you're silly
fish: but fucking hot
pgsdenmilf: so you've mentioned
pgsdenmilf: i will wear my trinity outfit to the bar tonight....and bring a pie. i will insist on being addressed as Incongruous.
pgsdenmilf: I will preside over my minions by standing near the mirrors so everyone can see the front and back of my head at the same time
fish: very good
pgsdenmilf: They will sing songs and tell tales of me long after my days are done: Incongruous, the Hot and Domestic

Melle Gives Good Head Hair

I cut my hair last night. Well, I didn't cut it; Melle did. And John too, sometimes. But we'll get to that.

I've been dying to chop all my hair off for the better part of a year now. I hadn't actually done it because 1) I have no money 2) I moved and didn't have a hairstylist here and 3) I'm lazy as hell. But a couple of weeks ago I looked in the mirror and saw a frizzy mass of blondish/reddish frizzy junk and decided I could stand it no longer. I still didn't have a place to get it cut though. Lucky for me, the Beer Gods have noticed my devotion (I frequently pour out libations to them, you see) (as in down my throat) and decided to take pity on my poor head and show me a sign. I know it was the Beer Gods because the sign showed up on my way to the bar, in the shape of a purple horseshoe surrounded by the words Urban Lift. A hair salon 20 steps from Tai's? Clearly someone was trying to tell me something.

So at work I decided to look it up on the internet to see if they had a website. They did, in fact, and on that website was my second sign that this was the place to go: they have a blog. (This sign came from the Internet Gods, not the Beer Gods. Obviously Fish was praying for me.) I thought to myself, "Hey! I also have a blog! Clearly these people are really cool. (and therefore my hair will be cool)." I called up and made an appointment.

The third sign was when I walked in yesterday and saw Melle. She had on a jean skirt with purple lace nylons and some mauve-ish colored boots, the cutest glasses in the entire universe and way wicked cool hair. I was obviously in the right place.

I had had some trouble trying to explain to my parents about how short I wanted my hair. "How short? Like shoulder length?"

"No, that's long. I'm cutting it short."

"Like a bob?"

"No! I mean short, like as in actually short! Lesbian short."

My stepmother looked concerned and my father cracked up. Neither one had to ask me what "lesbian short" looked like though.

I did not have to resort to tired stereotypes when I said "short" to Melle. She and the other stylist, John, stood beside me, picking at my head, looking at magazines, asking me questions, pretend cutting, and debating about what would be the ultimate coolest way they could coif my head. Eventually they came to a consensus and Melle whisked me off to wash my hair (always the best part, and since I was getting color too I got to do it twice!).

Melle and John, by the way, are both entirely hilarious. Melle was nervous about cutting so much hair off. For one thing, they had decided on a cut she hadn't had much chance to practice yet. For another thing she had had a bad experience. Apparently when she was in beauty school some girl with waist length hair came in and said "Make me look like Halle Berry." So Melle put her hair in a ponytail and then chopped the whole thing off. Halle burst into hysterical sobs. Melle panicked and also burst into hysterical sobs. It scarred her for life. Consequently, when she had sorted out my hair into sections and grabbed the first piece, she stood holding it with the razor against it while asking me no less than 5 times if I was ready. So cute.

My hair, by the way, is not exactly "lesbian short". The back and sides are spiked out, maybe an inch and a half long, and the front tapers down from the end of my spikes to my chin. I promise pictures are forthcoming, but for now, please enjoy this very rough approximation of what I'm talking about on the head of Blink-182's Tom DeLonge.

After she sliced about 11 inches of hair off and I didn't scream or try to stab her, Melle relaxed, and we both enjoyed a very long but seriously entertaining story about when John's mom decided she ought to go to the gay bar with him and git on down on the dance floor (John apparently stopped her from getting on the stage). In between story time and Melle's happy slicing, John would come over and peek at my head, take Melle's razor, and do some cutting of his own. We also took in some Snoop Dogg (John: How can you go wrong with Snoop?) and some punk rock (Melle: No one will like this song but me. Me: This song is awesome!).

We colored it after we cut it (and by "we" I mean Melle and John, I just sat there trying not to laugh too hard and screw up Melle) because we cut off about 3/4 of my hair, so why bother coloring all of that? Melle mixed up for me a super dark brunette color with caramel and yellow-blond highlights, one of which looked like mashed up tangerine in the bowl (I wish I didn't work in a professional office so that I could actually have tangerine colored hair from time to time). John came and peeked at it while Melle was washing my hair and did a happy leprechaun dance from the sheer joy it induced.

Finally, I grabbed my camera and asked Melle to take some pictures, thinking I would stand there and smile while she snapped a few off. I don't know why I thought that, given the whirlwind of entertainment I had just born witness to. Melle decided to take action shots: a "come hither" look, and a Charlie's Angels, coming around the corner shot, complete with finger "gun". At some point I also insisted that she come drink with me at Tai's, because, um, she's way rad.

I am seriously in love with this place. I might even just ditch Tai's and start hanging out at the salon on Thursday nights, which is completely dorky, but you see, so am I. Oh, and my hair? I am one sexy bitch right now. Thanks, Melle!