Paris, Love

Oh Paris, how I love thee!

You’ll be happy to know that I was able to put aside my puppy problems and really enjoy my time in gorgeous, romantic, magical Paris.

Want some highlights?

Of course you do!

Instead of camping out at the local Best Western (because I’m pretty sure there was one in Paris) Papa decided that a family of 5 needed more than 2 standard rooms—we needed an apartment. So we rented a 3 bedroom, 3 bath apartment with 2 sitting rooms, kitchen, dining room and laundry room overlooking the Seine and Pont Sully (one of the bridges that leads to Ile St Louis).

Pretty freaking fantastic, right?

Another little tidbit about the apartment that’s worth mentioning—the woman who lived below us.

Ever see people with dogs in little suitcases on airplanes? Well most of the time (when people can afford to shell out the $100 for a bag and $120 each way to bring the dog onboard) those bags are Sherpa Bags and the woman who lived below the apartment—Gayle Martz—just happened to invent them.

All the celebrities carry them, so you know she’s made a pretty penny. Actually I’m positive she’s made a pretty penny because she made a point of telling us that she owns homes in southern California, NYC and Paris.

Life outside the apartment was pretty great, too.

We wined.

We dined.

We champagned.

We strolled down small cobelstone streets lined with adorable shops selling everything from glass figurines (Twin’s present), wines from a vineyard in Dirty Dirty’s sister city in France, every kind of kitchen dish and utensil imaginable (including knives that say “pizza” in the blade), to mountains of spices.

Though my favorite store was easily Shakespeare and Company.

It's quite possibly the most famous English bookstore in all of France and was once a favorite spot of Hemingway's.

We saw the last stage of the Tour de France, which was lovely despite the fact that Contador won.

No one likes a bitch, Contador.

And I even got to drag the family through the Louvre for a few hours, all the while impressing them with my newly acquired art history knowledge.

^On the other side of this wall is only the Mona Lisa. That attention whore.^

Though the highlight of my trip was my personal picnic in my favorite park—Place de Vosges.

What made this picnic so wonderful?

I got to explore the city by myself in search of a pita full of falafel, which I ate on a bench in the sun while watching some of the cutest kids run around the park.

Why is it that children screaming is so much less annoying when they’re speaking French?

Overall, it was a fabulous trip that I wish had lasted longer, especially since the real life that I returned to is far from thrilling or even pleasant.

Mother refuses to do anything about Luke. And I have to miss a trip to ChiChi’s beach condo with all my friends because I’m having my surgery then.

Super fun, right?

Uh Oh

I realize it’s been quite a while since I’ve updated you on my summer shenanigans. That’s not for lack of excitement, though. Believe me, there has been plenty going on.

Papa and co came for a birthday/Father’s day visit.

We laughed. We cried. We went out to dinner and Papa didn’t trust that where I told him to park the car was safe so he moved it half way through the meal.

Only a few short days after Papa flew back up to VAB Brother, his friend Spencer Pratt* (SP) and I hopped in Brother’s sensible Volvo sedan and drove the long 10 hours (it was 11 hours for us because Brother loves to stop a lot) up to join him. The next day the 3 of us and Papa jumped in his equally sensible, but slightly more masculine Rover and drove up to DC to pick up Westchester and take in a Mets v Nats game.

The Mets won. We were happy. We were tired.

The next 2 days (which included the 4^th) were spent getting too much sun on the beach with the neighborhood families.

I think everyone of Sister’s posse got (or pretended to get) stung by a jellyfish. While this was going on the parents were drinking coconut rum.

It was a good day.

Brother and SP drove home the next day while Westchester and I did some shopping and entertained LilBro** and a friend of his in our hotel room. By entertained I mean drank a handle of Sailor, no sexual favors included.

Westchester left a couple of days later and I made my way down to the Boro.

Just like last time I invaded the Minimalist’s castle (which is the same borrowed castle as last time), but without any of the silly fears. And once again we spent (probably) far too much time laying in bed watching Deadliest Warrior. And once again, we were quite happy with that.

Once difference from last time is that this weekend was full of belated birthday celebrations. The Minimalist’s 21^st birthday was the 5^th so in honor of the momentous day I gave him a nice bottle of whiskey. And in honor of my less momentous birthday he swallowed his masculine pride and walked in Victoria’s Secret to buy me a gift card (because he knows I love undies but also knows that if he had bought me any it would have been a tad creepy [and probably the wrong size]). After that he also swallowed some fake chicken at Boba House, my favorite vegetarian restaurant. He swore he would never go there, even refusing when ManLove wanted to go.

I was grinning like a fool, to say the least.

I returned to the Dirty Dirty Monday after 12 days away.

And that night was spent hanging out on Adult’s porch listening to Grill Master teach ChiChi’s Frenchie*** incorrect English. Or just say outrageous things to here. My favorite:

GM: “If you hang out here too much you’ll shoot your friends and bury them in the backyard.”

F: looks confused

GM: “Why am I like this? Maybe because when I was younger my father put dimes in a sock and beat me with them. But don’t worry, I got used to the bruises and learned to hide in the closets.”

Why that’s not exactly something to joke about it was ridiculously funny because all Frenchie understood was “dimes,” “father,” and “hide in the closest,” leading her to believe Grill Master was Looney Toons because his father hid his money in the closet.

I think you just had to be there.

This all seems like fun, but not terribly noteworthy summer fun, right?

If this was the whole story it sure would have been, but there’s more.

About a month ago I went for my yearly physical, which revealed that I had abnormal cells on my cervix. This find lead to another test, which turned into a biopsy, the day before leaving for Vagina Bitch. I was supposed to get my results the 7^th, but that date has come and gone and I’m still waiting. And I’m still nervous.

I probably shouldn’t be (I’m young, healthy with no known family history of cervical cancer), but I am. I can’t help it.

So during all this family, friendly, sunny fun I’ve had this little gnawing thought at the back of my mind. Not fun.

But really more than nervous I’m just ready to know. Once I know I can get out of this horrid limbo situation I’ve been living in. And we all know how I feel about limbo…

*Spencer Pratt-I call him this not because he shares any of SP’s qualities, but because they once both sported flesh-colored beards.

**LilBro-a fellow GuilCo sophomore-to-be who reminds me unbelievably of Brother, especially when drunk

***Frenchie-ChiChi’s mother is the definition of Francophile and somehow managed to find a teenage French girl to stay with them for a month a few years ago. Well, the girl has come back for another month-long visit.

Serendipity

Serendipity was ah-maze-ing!

We were serendipitous enough to have perfect weather—75-80 and sunny. And I was serendipitous enough to have plenty of beer.

^A suitcase was the only way to sneak two cases into my building.^

Unfortunately, Twin wasn’t able to come. She now has adult responsibilities (rent) to think about.

Friday afternoon I woke from a nap in the grass to the smells of a lovely cookout hosted by dining services. Westchester, Newbie, Peru* and I nommed on grilled goodies (including veggie burgers) on the lawn before grabbing a bag full of beer and Roomie-Dearest and heading off to watch the male ruggers beat the shit out of each other. A guy from the other team got K.O.ed. The sound of his head hitting something could be heard at the other end of the pitch.

After that beating they definitely deserved the night of drinking that followed. Unfortunately, PSafe were out in full force and Roomie got written up for drinking. Once people had had enough of the 5-0 we migrated to the woods to finish the keg the Minimalist and co had started earlier in the day. Both Westchester and Roomie found someone new to swap spit with. And apparently so did GoodMan’s girl, because when I saw him at the end of the night he had a broken hand and an empty bottle of Juager. From what I hear, breaking bones is a Serendipity tradition of his.

Saturday was by far more glorious than Friday. The ruggirls played a great game. I drank a High Life while acting as touch judge.

Then I drank another High Life while watching ruggirls and guys Jello wrestle.

Roomie got in on it, but I abstained.

Once I saw the Jello (and the used Band Aid that was floating in it) I decided that I would let others have the fun. And expose their bits and pieces.

I instead, opted for the rock wall. It turns out that I can climb like a monkey.

The highlight of scheduled events came later in the night when Man Man played a rossome show. I’m not a Man Man listener and after the show I probably won’t start. Don’t get me wrong, they were great live, but I feel like they’re probably a band best live. I just don’t see how they could transfer that energy to a recording.

Speaking of energy, by this point I had been running on 3 or 4 hours of sleep for about 12 hours. I was on the verge of being exhausted. So I drank a 5 Hour Energy shot thinking it would keep me going till the sun came up. Nope. It didn’t do shit.

I ran back to my room to grab my drinky drink (and devour 2/3 a package of Hello Jello) and headed to the Olds thinking that my night was still young. I was having a great time (which included chatting it up with some PSafe officers and RAs) with all intents of hitting up at least 2 or 3 more parties.

Nope. Once the Olds got busted we headed back to the Minimalist and Cesar’s apartment to re-group, restock and figure out a game plan. This is about the time I blacked out. The darkest black. But Roomie tells me we hung out there for a little and then went home to bed while everyone else kept going.

That disappoints me.

Fuck 5 Hour Energy.

And now it’s a rainy Sunday afternoon. I’m currently doing laundry and reading myself for a double date with the Minimalist, his best friend, ManLove**, and ManLove’s lady friend, Babs***.

Overall, I think this weekend has been a success. Sure, I didn’t trip like a lot of people do. I didn’t wake up somewhere in someone else’s clothes with no recognition of how I got there or even where I was. I didn’t accomplish some impressive feat of alcohol consumption (unless you count me eating almost an entire Hello Jello in under 10 minutes). But I don’t do that. Instead I drank a lot, met a bunch of people (most of whom I don’t quite remember), had some great sex, and got hit on by a girl.

I’ve often worried that my freshman year won’t be as wild and crazy as other people’s. That I won’t have the stories, scars or police records that seem to qualify how great your year was. But that’s not me. I may go a little crazy sometimes, but for the most part I’m a level-headed girl. And for the most part I’m okay with that.

*Pure- a nice little straight-edge Peruvian boy.

**ManLove-the Minimalist’s best friend and freshman roommate. He no longer goes here (and isn’t supposed to leave his state) so a visit from him is a treat.

***Babs-a ruggirl from the Dirty Dirty who has been dating ManLove long distance for quite a while.

Fucking the Irish

Want to see my natural habitat for these past few days?

Starfucks, so that I could get all my work for Monday finished early. (I remember when an hour of Starfucks homework time seemed like a lot. Oh how things have changed.)

Why did I need to work ahead so much, you ask?

So that I could have all my many many pages of reading and annotating for Thursday done by Wednesday, thus leaving Wednesday open for…St Patty’s Day, of course! I’ve been shacking up with a proud, card-carrying dirty Irish Mick for months now. There’s no way I wasn’t taking part in the only thing people like about the Irish. And believe you me, I went all out.

Proof:

And this was the classier getup, too. Complete with a shot glass “arm band” (as Party City called it),

green bra bought for the occasion, and ruffled undies that say “Get Lucky.”

What could be better?

The Hello Jello, of course.

So that explains why I didn’t to have my Thursday work done, but why did I have to work all the way ahead to Monday?

Because this weekend is Serendipity, the huge campus-wide, school-sponsored party, concert, festival weekend. AKA-The time that people have a more legit than normal excuse to dress up in costumes, get really drunk/trip balls, and run around campus. Sounds like fun, right?

It gets better. Twin is coming! As are a bunch of the Minimalist’s friends (including his very best friend, who I sort of met last night). I tried to get ChiChi up here, but she’s busy. Boo.

Don’t worry, I’ll give you the full play-by-play of the weekend once I recover. Until then, time for more homework (because some professors are bitches and give you papers and tests on Monday).

I Survived!

I’m now safely back in my dorm. I survived my first college spring break with minimal damage and no fights (though there was definitely some secret venting).

I know you’re all curious to find out just how wild this girl went so allow me to give you the highlights.

We drank a lot, though not as much as I thought we would. All the beer was gone, a good amount of the Sailor, the champagne went quickly, we put a dent in the vodka, polished off a bottle of wine from Papa, but we barely touched the tequila and I don’t think we really used any Triple Sec.

I’m not complaining, though. We did our best. Gave it the old college try. And now we have a ton to bring home so we can keep this semester going strong.

I cooked a lot, though not as much as I would have liked. I definitely wish I had a few more days with a kitchen. But this week was just what I needed to rekindle my love affair with culinary creations, so you’ll probably see me in the kitchen a lot more.

It appears that I have a new habit of passing out drunk in my bed, waking up blacked out, taking off my pants, and passing out somewhere else.

Mr. Jackson did a wonderful job as our sole source of testosterone. How he did it, I’ll never know. I wouldn’t want to be the only guy in a house full of girls for a week. But he was a trooper.

I developed quite a taste for dirty vodka martinis. And I developed a habit of making giant ones and finishing them quickly.

We made it down to the oceanfront one day. It wasn’t quite warm, but it was warm enough to lay in the sun for a while.

On Thursday, I drove the crew minus Mr. Jackson to Richmond to spend a few hours exploring (and pay a quick visit to Roomie-Dearest’s family). While there I finally bought one of those Cruella Deville-style cigarette holders.

I must say, it makes smoking so much more of a special experience. I may just have to smoke more often.

On our last night we headed over to the Big House (Papa’s house) for a little party. What did this party entail, you ask?

Papa and co, my posse, plus a handful of families from the neighborhood drinking a plethora of beers (Mr. Jackson fell in love with Michalob Ultra Lime Cactus) and a fully stocked bar all while playing beer pong and flip cup. Papa and I played two games (we won the first, lost the second). Then after a brief tutorial it was college vs parent when we played and won two games of flip cup. I drank too much. We introduced the adults to “Jesus Can’t Play Rugby” and taught them a few new beer pong rules. It was a great night.

But now I’m back in the real world, a little worse for the wear. And that real world means homework. I’ll start tomorrow.

Spring Broken

Thursday:

2:30- With a lot of money in hand, I head off to the ABC Store (liquor store) with a 21 year old ruggirl to buy an obscene amount of booze for spring break.

2:45- The manager at the ABC Store decides that her state ID isn’t a valid form of proof so she can’t buy me obscene amounts of booze.

4:00- The ruggirl and I, now with another 21 year old, finally succeed at buying my liquor at the same ABC Store. But not before the new 21 year old has to get a special permit to transport the alcohol because apparently it’s illegal to transport this much alcohol without a permit.

4:45- We make our second stop at Total Wine and More, a giant store with almost every kind of wine, beer and champagne imaginable all at rock bottom prices.

5:20- In the process of leaving so the 21 year old can buy all the beer and champagne, the ruggirl and I get questioned about why we were in the store. The 21 year old is almost not allowed to buy all of the goodies.

6:00- I’m in a car with Westchester, Ginger, Crazy and another girl heading to watch the men ruggers play a much anticipated night game.

10:00- We return, thoroughly drunk, from watching the men lose a hard-fought and controversial game.

Friday:

10:00- In attempting to pack my car I realize that the alcohol takes up over half my trunk space. Luckily, Mr. Jackson is also driving so he can carry the lesser-important clothes while I bring the booze and foodstuffs.

1:45- I’m happily cuddling with the Minimalist until his friend barges in and announces that Campus Life is doing health and safety inspections early. That means the Minimalist and his apartment has about 15 minutes to get rid of their almost-impressive, definitely-disgusting collection of empty cans, bottles, handles and cases.

2:10- Less than 5 minutes after we clear the last (of about 15) trash bags full of contraband trash out of the apartment Campus Life knocks on the door. Luckily, our herculain cleaning efforts were successful and they escape any trouble.

3:00- Westchester, Frenchie and I are finally on our way to Vagina Bitch for a week of drinking, cooking and relaxation.

3:37- Spring break almost turned into Spring Broken when by the grace of deities and sheer good karma I very very very very very very narrowly avoid 1) crashing into a car in front of me, 2) getting rear-ended, and 3) being hit on the side by a very large Uhaul van all because a stupid car a few cars ahead decided to slam on their breaks. In the fast lane.

7:00- We arrive at Papa’s humble homestead where we nom on some dinner and wait for Roomie-Dearest and Mr. Jackson to arrive.

9:00- Finally, all of the booze is laid out in front of us and we stand in awe of all the awesomeness.

3 handles of Smirnoff

2 handles of Sailor Jerry’s

1 fifth Aristocrap tequila

1 fifth Jose Cuervo platinum tequila

2 fifths Triple Sec

12 Blue Moon

12 Yuengling

6 Natty Green’s Buckshot

6 Natty Green’s Old Town

2 handles Cook’s champagne

1 bottle raspberry champagne

and a few random drops that were left over in our fridges and this fridge.

I’ll let you know what I remember.

Counting the Days

Praise Jesus and Allah and all their cousins!

At approximately 11:07AM I walked out of my last midterm into relative freedom. Spring break is still a few days away, but those few days will be filled with readings and short write-ups, not hours spent clicking through art history slides until I can’t close my eyes without seeing pictures of Transitional, Early and Late Classical Roman statues. No longer will I drive the Minimalist out of his own bed by listing off Egyptian tombs and artifacts.

^Imhotep, the stepped tomb of King Djoser from the Old Kingdom in Egpyt^

You know what I’m doing instead?

Reading interview transcripts of Quaker Conscientious Objectors during WW1 who volunteered to be semi-starved so the government could study starvation and rehabilitation. Creepy, right?

^Here’s one of the participants.^

Only slightly better than comparing cave paintings, but at least it’s something different.

Speaking of something different, there have been a few changes around the ole dormstead:

My rugby season has ended early. Very early.

It started when I would get short of breath at practice. I’ve always gotten short of breath (especially during sprints), but this was more than normal. I chocked it up to getting out of shape over Christmas break. Well, practice continued and my ability to breath continued to get worse. Very counterintuitive. So after spending the last part of far too many practices standing on the sidelines trying to get rid of the spots that were clouding my vision a equally-asthmatic ruggirl suggested that the cold must be aggravating my asthma.

Hell, the cold was aggravating all of me, but no other parts of my body were refusing to work. Damn asthma.

A week or so later a doctor confirmed the diagnosis and prescribed A) lots and lots of medicine (mainly steroids) that make it nearly impossible to eat soup, climb into bed and other things that require stability OR B) no more outdoor activity until the weather warmed. As much as I lovelovelove rugby I wasn’t willing to put myself through more meds just for the slim chance that they wouldn’t sap all my energy and I would be able to play.

So I’ve gone from bruise-sporting ruggirl to support staff. I carry water bottles, pump up balls, and keep time. Far less fun, but at least I’m not ditching the team like other girls.

I’m also trying veganism.

Why, you (and Mother) ask?

Why the hell not!

(To which Mother responded that I looked thinner than normal in some recent pictures. Mother has thought I have an aversion to food practically since I started making my own food choices. Me? An aversion to food? Really? Exhibit A: FoodBaby)

But frankly, I’m always up for a challenge. And anything involving food always peaks my interest. So with a little help from Fresh Market, a large handful of vegan blogs (especially Peas and Thank You), and the vegan station in the dining hall I’ll be saying “veganize me, Cap’n” for the rest of the week.

For the last few days of this little foodventure I’ll be on…Spring Break! Woohoo!

Roomie-Dearest, Frenchie, Mr. Jackson and Westchester are all accompanying me to Vagina Bitch for a week of drinking, me cooking amazingly wonderful and healthy food, and relaxation. Maybe 1 or 2 other things thrown in there, but you’ll just have to wait and be surprised about those.

The Minimalist and his crew are going to the mountains for their break. I was invited to go (and I know it would be ah-maze-ingly fun), but I kind of want to do my own thing (don’t take that as a sign of problems. Everything is better than ever. I promise.) And I don’t know if we could handle each other for a week straight. No need to put undo stress on our lovely little arrangement. (Though their house rental ends early, so he may come up with a friend anyway.)

So until Friday, when my posse and I get to escape the little brick boxes we live in, I’ll continue reading about starvation (while snacking on trail mix, of course) and dreaming of the free laundry and bathtub that awaits me.

Intentionally Unfettered

And in honor of the Day, here's my latest journalistic creation for you to sample. It's almost as good as chocolate:

The heart-shaped chocolate boxes and red stuffed bears that greet you inside most stores can only mean one thing — Valentines Day. Or as I’ve heard it bitterly called, singles awareness day.

While some singles lament this holiday as Hallmark’s way of pointing out their disappointing love lives, others aren’t vowing to dress in black or eat their weight in chocolate. Being single is a choice, not a curse.

But when you can barely turn on the TV without seeing a reality show about a bachelorette finding her Prince Charming, that can be hard to believe. Yet there are some people who enjoy being unattached and make a conscious effort to stay that way.

There are several perks to going stag. A desire to maintain my independence is one reason I’ve had over the years.

To me, a Facebook-official, attached at the hip relationship conjures images of straightjackets. The idea of not only having to call or see someone every night, but of having to want to call or see someone every night seems ridiculous.

The guilt I used to feel when I would miss a call or choose to spend a night with girl friends instead of my supposedly-significant other was more annoying than heart-wrenching. And I could certainly do without the quasi-interrogation that sometimes succeeded those nights.

Another less common but valid motivation for maintaining solo status is school and work.

The people with this set of priorities may sound like a bunch of uptight, party poopers who would rather spend a Friday night in the library than out painting the town red. Or they could want to have every opportunity to let loose in their free time without the added stress of having to incorporate a plus one.

Other people, like Roomie-Dearest, would rather sample from a buffet than order an entrée. To some people college should be more about playing the field and experimenting, not finding The One or getting your MRS or MR degree.

“I would have killed for a boyfriend in high school,” said Roomie. “But now I just want to have fun.”

Roomie is not alone in that mindset. The evidence is there whenever you see people at a party swapping spit in a way that makes it seem they are as concerned with romance as with each other’s middle names. Not all of those people have emotional or self-esteem problems.

Sometimes people just enjoy flirting. And making out. And hooking up.

This may come as a shock to the people who view Valentines Day or their Facebook relationship status as a measurement of their self-worth, but not everybody needs a hand to hold in order to keep walking forward.

I’m no cynic. I believe in love and marriage and a baby carriage. I know there are some people for whome the close companionship of a relationship is exactly what they crave. I know that some people think their grandparents’ 50^th anniversary and dream of reaching that golden milestone.

If you’re one of those people I wish you luck with your relationships. But I can say without a doubt that my Valentines chocolate will be delicious whether I get it from a fella or a friend.

Thoroughly Modern Martha

This has been a thoroughly sweet, thoroughly V-filled weekend.

It started Friday night with Vagina Monologues.

Vaginas can talk? What?!

Pretty much. If you’re out of the loop Vagina Monologues is a collection of monologues and short skits that are re-enactments of actual women talking about their vags. Sound…interesting? It actually was. I walked away with a goodie bag of condoms and flavored lubes, a chocolate vagina lollipop and a desire to “reclaim my cunt” by wearing sexy undies and doing something dirty. So a very worthwhile experience.

Saturday was FINALLY a rugby day once again. Sadly, due to my newly uncontrolled asthma I was unable to play. That didn’t mean I couldn’t cheer on my teams (and yell quite a few obscenities) as they slipped and tackled in the mud. The men won. The women lost. We all drank. And I finally had to shoot the boot (for messing up a song). Luckily, I was wearing my rain boots so I was able to drink my own foot sweat, not somebody else’s. Lovely thought, right?

I woke bright and early Sunday morning so I could trek over to Starfucks (slipping on some ice and busting my knee in the process) in order to study. After which I spent a lovely afternoon laying in the Minimalist’s bed, watching Rescue Me and talking about which woman was craziest and which woman we would bang. Not terribly romantic, but enjoyable nonetheless.

One would think I would romance on the BIG day. The day far too many people are bitterly bitching about. To those people I say:

Shut the fuck up. Valentine’s Day was not created by Hallmark (though they may perpetuate it). It was not created as a way to mock single people for being unloveable/undesireable/ugly. If you don’t want to celebrate it, then don’t. But for the love of God and all things chocolaty, don’t ruin the holiday for everyone who wants to celebrate it with your constant complaining and woe is me attitude. Suffer silently.

I, as you can probably tell, adore Valentine’s Day. Not because I have a Valentine every year who showers me with handcrafted candies and roses and champagne. I had a Valentine once and I don’t even remember what we did. No, it is because I relish any opportunity to channel my inner cooler, more modern Martha Stewart. This year, I really went above and beyond.

I made my own Valentine’s candy. White chocolate covered pretzels, cayenne chocolate pretzels, white chocolate truffles, cayenne chocolate truffles. They were time consuming to make. The chocolate wouldn’t cooperate. I spent too much on supplies. But they can out wonderfully delicious, so it was all worth it.

I packaged them up in adorable little goodie bags for all my loves.

I decorated my room with cute little cupcake window gels. Because they were cheap and the little draddle window gel I stole was lonely.

I made my own cards. While the little packaged cards you gave out in elementary school are fun, I couldn’t find any that weren’t Twilight, Hannah Montana or SpongeBob. So I collaged my own. They were far cheaper (as in free) and not in any way annoying or corporate.

I’m wearing a pink shirt, pink bra, frilly pink undies and pink socks with little red heart-puffs on the back (a Valentine’s present from ChiChi a few years ago).

I helped Frenchie decorate her room. Honestly, it is bordering on nauseatingly pink and sparkly. I’m sure her roommate thoroughly appreciated it.

Frenchie, Westchester and Roomie-Dearest and I even had our own little party (in Frenchie’s room, again to annoy her roommate). We gave out goodies and played Secret Cupid. I pulled Roomie and gave her the softest little bear ever. Westchester drew my name and gave me a stuffed cupcake.

Adorable, right? There’s more.

It’s a pupcake!

And of course there were the usual plethora of candy.

Frenchie is gave out more equally adorable personalized M&Ms.

Roomie-Dearest gave me a cute card. (For several reasons, some people call me Hampster, so this was relevant.)

And for the icing on my modern Martha cake:

I’m learning to knit.

Right now it looks like shit, but it will improve. Then I want to make a pair of the warmest, fuzziest socks ever (hopefully sometime before summer).

But for now, Martha 2.0 is exhausted. I hope your Valentine’s Day was lovely. G’night, m’non-bitter bitches.