The Adventures of Brooklyn Girl in Boston

I have literally had this post festering in my email box for a week now and have just discovered it. This will be long so I recommend you stretch beforehand. Anyhoo, here it is, better late than never:

I'm writing this in Pre-Cal and Sister Helen keeps interrupting my writing spree with her teaching. What does she think this is? school? Preposterous. Anyhoo, got back last Saturday from Boston, which was a lot of fun even though the weather did not parallel the good mood. Me, Deidre and her parents left Thursday after school for Boston, hit shitloads of explicable traffic in Connecticut [apparently the rest of the world has caught on that Connecticut bites the big one and wanted to get out of there as fast as they could] but still managed to make it to Massachusetts at a decent hour. We stayed at a nice hotel, which though didn't have a Neutrogena bathroom cosmetic line for me to steal, did have beds of bliss, mini-muffins and "Pride and Prejudice" on demand, all three of which are key factors to my existence.

The next morning, me and Deidre went to BU's [or The Boo as to it will now be referred] open house while her parents moved out her sister from Northeastern. We got there late, right in the middle of the Dean's Welcome, plus we were parentless and New Yorkers [They can smell the subway on us. They're like enraged wolves], so we really started off on the right foot. After a few presentations, we got to eat lunch at one of the cafeterias. The pasta was horrid but it did have pretty good coffee [Wow, a stretch for Beantown] and even a goldfish dispenser. A goldfish dispenser! That, coupled with the red plastic cups and "Baba O'Riley" [see October 9th post], have assured me that The Boo is indeed home.

However, once the cheese-coated high of the dispenser wore off, we realized that a lot of students were eating alone during lunch, which, aside from Paris Hilton trying to write a book, is the saddest thing I've ever seen. Eating is such a communal process to me, like the amount of calories you're lining your esophagus with is meaningless when you have a bunch of friends around you doing the same so that you'll all die together with high cholesterol. If I have no one to sit with at lunch next year, I will literally hide in my dorm in shame, gnawing on a year-old rice cake.

Anyway, after stalking other open housers for an hour to make sure we didn't get left behind, we were taken on a dorm tour by Chow, one of the Benetton-Ad-looking tour guides that were obnoxiously cheery [like Happy Girl cheery] and most likely on something. The hallways of the freshmen dorms look like something out of "Hostel" but the actual rooms are nice-sized and pretty tolerable. However, said tolerability may not correlate to the subject of roommates. Think about it: you are practically encaged with a stranger in a two-by-four for an entire year. What if I have an obsessive compulsive cleaner who will be revolted by my slob lifestyle and will douse me with Windex in my sleep as punishment for my messiness? Or what if I have a roommate who performs routine animal sacrifices involving ferrets in the middle of the night? Or, God forbid, someone who chews with their mouth open when they eat. THE HORROR! THE HORROR! Or, worst of all, what if my roommate isn't the strange one? What if I am?

Enough anxiety. After, all of the accepted students had a Q&A with actual students of The Boo. It was all major and minor mumbo-jumbo until finally a Jeri-curled Jew asked about partying and fake ID's, and the real shit came out. Afro boy is my kind of people. We took a campus tour, during which me and Deidre tortured the poor guide girl with our incessant pestering about the student store [which has its own Jamba Juice and Starbucks. I am going to be the most caffeinated girl on campus], which we raided. After that, because, again, apparently the scent of Brooklyn is specifically putrid in the nasal canals of Boston cabbies and therefore they ignored our frantic waving hands and left us stranded in the rain, we had to trek a mile in our matching The Boo hoodies to Northeastern. It appears that walking in Northeastern territory in The Boo hoodies is like Don Imus walking through Harlem- it’s a guaranteed death act.

While we did almost get hit by a train and had the fury of Northeasterners burned into our retinas, we managed to get there in one piece. We helped her sister move out of her apartment, which was inexplicably covered in feathers and thumbtacks, stated ourselves on Au Bon Pain and started the long drive home, salvaged by “The Devil Wears Prada”. We got home late, I went to bed later and geniusly took off work on Saturday so that I could catch up on sleep and Tivo love [sidenote: My Tivo officially knows I’m a notorious faghag. It records anything with the word “gay” in the title or description. It’s bad when a nonhuman digital recording device knows me better than some of the actual human specimens I know.].

Saturday night didn’t go out because my brain was still on snooze mode, so instead had lively conversations about marijuana and multiplication tables with intoxicated fifteen-year-olds over wine and cigarettes. Sunday, I couldn’t skip work again so I had to spend a day at the office, though, thankfully, I was left alone most of the day. Okay, so that’s it for this post. I’ll save the rest for the next one. Ciao.

The Greatest Love Story Never Told

Immaculate realization has hit and significantly brightened my day. The Tribeca Film Festival is coming up. Normally, this fact wouldn't even cross my mind but this year the festival is premiering "Scott Walker: 30th Century Man," produced by my one and only Qaf obsession Mr. Gale Harold *insert elongated swooning here. and a thud*. Now that I've been doing all these events for UrGuide, and there's a very good chance that it will be covering the event, there is a possibility floating around the universe that I could be in the same proximity as The Gale. If this dream somehow transforms itself into reality, I am 90% sure that I will be arrested. For rape, of course. The other 10% is equally split between the possibility of me fainting at the very sight of The Gale's hotness or death [cause of death: hot flashes?]. And I am not exaggerating, I know a lot of people say if they meet so and so they will "die" but, if I even breathe the same air as The Gale, I will literally die. I will combust from overheating. I seriously didn't go see him when he was Off-Broadway for "Suddenly Last Summer" for fear of croaking or pouncing on the poor boy in the middle of his performance. I'm a wreck. Ciao.

Seriously, can we just take a moment to behold the beauty:

Guh.

Editor's Note:
Breaking News: My life is an inflamed, puss-coated sore. Omar called me to come cover Tribeca later today. And where will I be? At the prison that is my job. So all of my dreams of me and The Gale locking eyes on the red carpet, him sweeping me off my feet and then impregnating me with his flawless man juice of love after a night of ravenous rape-age has been thwarted by "The Man." And by "The Man," I mean Society? Tracey? Bob? Who cares, I'm in mourning of the greatest love story never told. Sob.

Go Shia Go!

Warning: Here is the delayed actual Spring Break post. It will most likely be long but it's my blog so bear with me:

I am hungry, cranky, and my family thinks I'm a lesbian. But I have a brand new deliciously orange manicure so life's not all bad. I have to go back in the time continuum. Last Friday, everyone went out for Justine's 20th. Me, Justine, Mike, Christina, Alex, Will, Zain, Gabby, Tekla and Tara went to Mars 2112 for a night of intergalactic voyeurism, and, er, dinner. Traveled in a space ship ["Oh look, hemorrhoids...I mean asteroids"- Mike], spent the night mimicking alien yoga with Tekla, and made our skin turn into rubber with the magic of the bathroom air-dryers [Videos will be added because they are stupendous]. Afterwards, we searched around Little Korea for an available karaoke bar [Apparently, the only thing outnumbering karaoke bars in Little Korea are actual little Koreans. They're like the plague]. Once we found the designated destination [unfortunately not called Ding Dong Dang, as the one I had wanted to go to was spectacularly named], we started showcasing our jaw-dropping talent to the sophisticated sounds of Britney Spears, Spice Girls and the Backstreet Boys [Mike and Will's interpretation of "I Want It That Way" was particularly spell-binding. Evidence:







Me and Tekla did bring the house down with our performance of "That Thing You Do!" [see my karaoke envy in the Kiss Me I'm Shitfaced post on March 18th], if I do say so myself. The highlight of the night was when the young Asian guy who was forced by his boss to confiscate our alcohol snuck in a few cups of vodka during our group sing-a-long of Blink 182's "All The Small Things", spurning all of the girls to simultaneously molest him. We unanimously finale'd to the Hanson classic "MmmBop" [Retreat!], which starts to sound like "Oohbomdabalabalajadoobom, Dobeedamala!!, doobom" after a group of sloshed youth sings it over and over again. Took cab home, which sparked the previous Dashboard Confessional post, which was 60 indispensable dollers out of my pocket and got me home at two, just to wake up a few hours later to go to the torture chamber that is my job [I will eventually quit...I will...stop looking at me with those furrowed brows of judgment!].





Saturday, after work, I believe I slept because I have absolutely no recollection of what I did. Sunday was, unfortunately, Easter. Easter, like Thanksgiving, is one of those holidays that make me realize how truly and utterly insane my entire family is, because I'm not clouded over by the magic of presents like on Christmas or sugar-high from candy like on Halloween, plus the turkey-coma wears off after a bit, leaving me to view, in pure sobriety, how I ended up the mess I am. It was the same as every year; spent at Uncle Lou's house [yawn] and consisted of watching a ferocious three-year-old maul his father [Is there a hotline for abused parents?], sparking an argument about what Jesus-centric event we were actually celebrating [mind you, I've been in Catholic school for fourteen years], and craving nicotine as much as Donald Trump's hair craves a makeover. Afterwards, I was actually allowed to chauffeur la familia to Aunt Rachael's house, to the chorus of Glenn and Jody's backseat breakdowns, where I was tricked into writing a letter to Oprah about Bon Jovi for Cara by means of ice cream sundaes and watched "The Sopranos", who are officially more normal than my own family.

Monday, after work and a brief meeting with the Elliptical [we're slowly making our way past the friendly acquaintance mark], Steph, Ana, Mike, Justine, and Chris came over for what was supposed to be a manhunt masquerade [Steph even came in her witch costume and I was prepared to break out the Marilyn] but what quickly morphed into turbaned hide-n-seek. After a while, we ended up just doing the Hokey Pokey in the middle of the streets with bed sheets wrapped around our heads and chasing down those annoying late night joggers. Snarfed craptastic Dominos at 11 [Diet's going really well!], watched Harry Potter and did face [and boob, Michael] painting like the mature gremlins that we are.

Tuesday was the "Perfect Stranger" premiere so I met up with Omar, John the Breathatarian [...no comment], and Catrina. The premiere was crazy; there were so many celebrities on the red carpet. We talked to American Idol's Kimberly Locke who is such a sweetheart, Daniella Van Graas who is beyond pretty, the director James Foley who was in dire need of a moist toilette [he had this gross white stuff on his mouth during the entire interview, Paula Miranda who was dangerously close to having a Janet-Jackson-exposed-moment, and, me and Catrina's favorite, Giovanni Ribisi [Phoebe's brother from Friends. I love how every actor I meet is somehow connected to the freaking show], who I could just eat with a spoon and who I laughed way too loudly at [he must think I'm insane] when Catrina asked him about "The Other Sister" [a movie he made about a decade ago. Great journalism Catrina, almost as good as when you asked Steve Martin about pedicures :) ]. Saw Christy Turlington, Martina McBride, Tim Robbins [who's son is surprisingly hot] and Pat Sajak [yes, you read that correctly]. Julia Stiles, Adrianna Lima and Ed Burns [hot!] all ran away from the press, and we only got one question each with the two main star, Halle Berry and Bruce Willis. Halle Berry is astonishingly tiny but isn't as breathtaking as rumored; I mean she's still gorgeous but I didn't pass out or anything. Bruce Willis is spoosed and wouldn't directly answer any interviewers' questions. Afterwards, we were going to check out a Mya concert in a club in the Meat-Packing District but Omar could only sneak in one underage blonde so I opted to head home early.

Wednesday and Thursday were much-needed snooze days after the hectic-ness of the premiere. Wednesday was just work and driving lessons, and Thursday I said no to interview Julianne Moore [I know, I'm a moron] for day of piano, exercise and more driving, during which I freaked out Scotty the Instructor with my fondness for Jesus statues and my diabolical plans involving midgets and tree stumps. Yesterday, met up with Jess early to get my nails done and celebrate Magazine Day, the best day ever. Talked Jess into skipping work to go see "Disturbia" [see SHIA LOVE! after the Ciao] with me, Gen and Steph, which was awesome. Journalistic tendencies are brewing so I'll write up a review of "Disturbia" in a bit. Tonight, so far plans are to head over to Bridget's for a Spring Break finale, then sleep away my, hopefully, drunkenness tomorrow all day long. Sounds ah-mazing. Ciao.


Quotes of the Day: Ode to Steph
“I got my meningitis shot. So now, in fact, I have meningitis"- Steph

Steph: so i texted u not realizing u still dont have ur phone and some random chree with a 281 area code answered me lmao.. i wonder who else
Chree: lol
Steph: fine out what area 281 is
Chree: lmaooo: 281 TX Texas: Houston Metro
Steph: lmaoooo greatttttt maybe ana know them
Chree: yes, cowboy chree!

Steph: my horoscope told me to go tonight read telstra gemini report 90% coming said it would be sentimental
Chree: see
Steph: jesus is telling me to come
Chree: you have no idea how many quotes of the day are from your mouth

Steph: chree i dont want to alrm u..but i have rubella
Chree: oh god, another one
Steph: lmaoo please dont quarantine me... blaim my doc hes the sob that diseased me.. i heard tonic water is good for my issue

SHIA LOVE!:
Steph: Shia Saide LaBeouf was born June 11, 1986 in Los Angeles, California to Jeffrey LaBeouf, a Cajun circus clown, and Shayna Saide, a Jewish American ballerina.
Chree: lmao
Steph: the best opening bio of anyone
Chree: seriously it's so genius

Random Bits

1. Sneezing with iPod headphones is very awkward. You can't hear if anyone says "God bless you", and therefore cannot say "Thank you" unless you want to look like a tard if no one actually said it. But, if someone did say "God bless you" and you don't say "Thank you" because you didn't hear it in the first place, you look like a bitch. These are the thoughts that wrack through my brain at night.
2. What genius decided to make women have their periods all at the same time? Fontbonne almost literally burst in equal parts blood and bitchiness. Fucking Eve and her fucking apple.
3. Shopping for a prom dress is worse than Brazilian bikini waxes and your favorite bra's strap snapping combined [Random side note: However, your favorite bra's strap snapping is a close second. You know the bra, the one that lifts and separates and gives you the kind of cleavage that usually means you're not paying for your own drinks that night? There has been many a time when I've tried to salvage a good bra by stapling or duck-taping the straps back on. I'm so classy.] I literally needed a machete to get through all the chiffon. Devil.
4. My friend Laura showed me this a while ago and it's the most Blog de Chree-worthy piece of Youtube Love that I've ever seen:

Raw Foods and Ice Cubes

Spring Break is officially here. WOOT! Okay, so I’m not on some Caribbean island with a boy attached to my arm and a beer funnel attached to my face as hoards of coeds bond with the rally cry, “Chug!”, but so far, vacation in grey, grungy New York beats a beach bum hump fest any day. Plus, exposure to sunlight transforms me into a 5-foot-three-inch lobster. Shit happens.

Saturday after an excruciatingly long day at work [I’m about to quit. I’ve been saying that for the past two years so don’t pay any attention to me.], went to Bay Ridge to hang out with Mike, Justine, Chris, Desiree, Alex, Will, Zain and Gabby for a sober but fun evening. Partook in such dangerous events as car tag [one car is “it” and has to “chase” the other car around the neighborhood…yeah, don’t try it at home], set to an amazing soundtrack of The Transplants and Ricky Martin [Livin La Vida Loca!], hood surfing [Alex and Justine clung to the hood of the Cruiseship while Mike looked for a parking spot. Again, not recommended if you somewhat value your life], and trying to steal jello cups from senior citizens [Do not ask]. Then played the name game for a while, and had a sing-a-long to old school Good Charlotte with Desiree on the way home.

Sunday, my parents proved their already established insanity by hosting a Dinner Party Competition in my house. Aunt Carm and Uncle Steve judged as the Usuals divided themselves into five teams and each threw their own dinner party to see whose sucks least. As a direct result of this absurdity and in protection of our own dwindling mental capacities, I, Hootie and Steph escaped the mental asylum to go see a movie. Randomly ran into Mike, Justine, Zain and Gabby so I decided to be a fifth wheel and tag along with them to see the mind-exercising masterpiece, “Blades of Glory”. Um, yeah, if you didn’t realize that that last sentence was drenched in sarcasm, you will have to leave the premises immediately. Just so you understand.

Monday was a completely pointless school day; I had four frees and religion. Useless. Tuesday, decided to start vacation early and skipped school so I could do my first on-camera interview for UrGuide. Me, Omar and John the Breathatarian[who is actually just a vegetarian who really enjoys oxygen. Oh well, the name works] went to the Apollo Theater in Harlem for the premiere of “Are We Done Yet?” the sequel to “Are We There Yet?” Me walking through the streets of Harlem is definitely a sight to be believed; they probably thought I was an albino, I’m so melanin-ly challenged. But it was awesome just being on the stage of the Apollo, it’s so historic. I got to interview Ice Cube and Alicia Allen, who were both really nice and took the time to answer all of my questions, even though it was pretty clear that I had no idea what I was doing.

We didn’t stay to watch the actual movie because, frankly, the first one sucked harder than a Hoover and history tends to repeat itself. Instead, we met up with John’s friend Marcello, who is a photographer and is hilariously violent; especially towards slow pedestrians [“I WILL hit you! I will go second gear all over you ass!”]. We schlepped over to Chelsea so me and Omar could have our raw-food cherries popped at this all-raw restaurant Bonobos. We gorged ourselves on walnut pâté, sprouts and coconut chai, which, even for this butcher’s daughter, were surprisingly good. Afterwards, we parted so John and Marcello could finish a screenplay they were working on and I and Omar could finish editing UrGuide.

Yesterday, skipped school yet again because it was only a mass and apparently missed a very entertaining pony tailed Holy Roller with a guitar tortured the Bonnie congregation with Jesus-lover songs. Damn. I was enjoying my day of pistachio-inhalation and old school Will and Grace episodes [I’m talking old school, like when Karen didn’t have her whiny voice yet], when I realized I had completely forgot that I had planned to see “Curtains” with Winnie and the Broadway Bonnies so I had to cancel my plans with Jess and haul my ass to The Boner to meet up with everyone. I’m glad I did because the play was hilarious; David Hyde Pierce has exquisite comedic timing and the talent of the supporting cast more than made up for the unbearably grotesque woman sitting next to me chomping her gum like a cow and distracting me from the magnificence. Obviously, I highly recommend. Go see it. Now. Today was normal, although the morons at work were way more annoying than usual. Just finished up my way-delayed driving lesson and luckily I’m not that tragic so hopefully I’ll have my license for the summer. I think this is long enough. QAF is coming on and I need my Spunk! Fix. Ciao.

Happy Mika Day!

As you can tell from my not-very-cryptic message last post, I got the red envelope, the BIG red envelope. I got in to Boston University, alma mater of fellow remarkable people Martin Luther King, Jr., Faye Dunaway [Mommie Dearest herself- "No more wire hangers!!!"], Howard Stern, Jason Alexander [Costanza!] and a few QAF alumnus [Rosie O'Donnell & Peter Paige- EMMETTLOVE!]. I am officially going to college and Augustana's "Boston" is officially my new anthem. After months of waiting and chasing the poor, terrified mailman down, I finally got in and I am ecstatic. So ecstatic that my initial responsive scream put Abigail Bresnin’s puny “Little Miss Sunshine” yelp to shame; Jody thought I was having a convulsion.

Anyhoo, onwards. This week was normal, except for the insane Women’s Day Assembly [which, ironically, made me exceptionally ashamed of my own sex]- during which the Ally McBeal Clone did a spoken-word presentation of “I Am Woman” [HEAR ME ROAR. You know she was itching to go all Christina Aguilera on that one], which then sparked Big D and Mrs. King to belt it out over the loud speaker-and the fact that the male faculty members are publicly challenging each other in a Facial Hair-Off. Fontbonne is a freak show.

Obviously last weekend bombed because I was grounded, but so far this weekend is compensating for the former suckiness big time. Yesterday was MIKA DAY, also known as the greatest day ever in all of the history of mankind. For you unhip, uninformed peasants who don’t know who Mika is, simply, he is God. After school, I, Mallory, Michelle and Deidre [a.k.a Sex and the City-for once, Sarcastic Chree is not stuck being Miranda! I get to be Carrie! WOOT] went to Borders in the Time Warner Center to see the one and only MIKA perform and sign CDS for his debut album “Life in Cartoon Motion”. We had to wait a while for him to get there but the stilt-performers, balloon artists and magicians entertained us, plus blogger Perez Hilton was there, who has an awesome blue fauxhawk, a fact which didn’t decrease Mallory’s disappointment [she thought the announcer dude said Paris Hilton]. Then Mika came out [!!!!] He was perfection personified, as was expected from the Mika-loving masses [We are officially a cult. We listen to such high-pitched falsettos that would make dogs and the Bee Gees shriek, bow down to curly-haired skinny homosexuals wearing dangerously tight pants and consume lollipops in bulk]. He performed “Grace Kelly”, “Love Today” and “Billy Brown”, which sparked a crowd dance party and sing-a-long, although he didn’t fulfill the crowd’s desperate cries for “Lollipop” […cult…].


Note the "To Chree, LOVE Mika". L-O-V-E, people.

After the performance [during which Michelle screamed out quite possibly the most genius thing I’ve ever heard, “YOU HAVE GORGEOUS LOCKS OF…GORGEOUS!”, to the amusement of the entire crowd], we had to wait on line for three hours during the meet-and-greet to get our CDS signed. To amuse ourselves, we made friends with a bunch of people, including a duo of sweet gay boys, an Asian chick and a large pink-haired lady with about eight breasts and a mustache. The boys were Anthony, who we were all jealous and in awe of because he was uber-skinny, had a Mika-esque mop top, got the sexier imported version of the debut, and had an awesome job selling Wicked merchandise at the Gershwin, and Roger, who was a choreographer, a fellow burlesque gogo fan, was our quasi-photographer for the night and exchanged his info with us because he recognized our foursome’s blatant awesomeness. The Asian chick, whose name wasn’t important enough for me to remember, was useless except for pointing me and Deidre in the direction of food and inspiring a sex sermon, and the fat-bottomed girl was Alessandra who kept creeping into our conversations only to brag about meeting Mika the night before and singing loudly off pitch, which resulted in a temporary diversion from our newfound gay idols which made me hate her more.

Our lively conversation ranged from such gripping topics as Mika’s sexual preference [“He’s straight as a lightening bolt”-Roger. “Yup, gay as Christmas”- Me], prom, best canceled sitcoms [ZOOM!], etc, and involved book readings including but not limited to “Why Do Men Have Nipples?” and “How to Raise a One-Year Old”. To our faghag dismay, Anthony had to leave the line before getting Mika’s autograph because he was so late for work, which prompted our desperate pleas for him to call in sick [“Say Mika’s part of your religion”-genius Moi] but alas, we had to say goodbye. After a while the line started moving and we eventually made our way to Mika heaven to take pictures and get our CDs signed. He was adorable and British and charming and amazing and I was so awkward. I just said “You’re awesome!” and grinned at him like a complete lunatic. My eye was probably twitching from excitement. I am so attractive.

After, Roger taught us how to effectively do a squish photoshoot, then we parted and tried to steal Mika balloons but we were caught by security. Poop [we had also planned on stealing a Mika lollipop from the front pocket of Bald Man in front of us but we decided it was too risky]. Went to Mc’Ds [510 calorie burgers!] and was going to stuff our faces at Serendipity but Michelle had to get home so we took subway back to Bay Ridge, on which we performed a loud vocalized rendition of selections from Rent and Chicago to the annoyance of the fellow passengers. Met up with Mike and Justine for a little bit, then went home, where Glenn thought I was drunk [I was high off Mika love!]; rightly so, as I probably looked more drunk in trying to prove my sobriety. Now I am getting tortured at work once again. Seriously, how do they not notice my glares of sheer disgust and utter contempt? I am amazed by their oblivion. Must go. Ciao.

Quote of Yesterday:
“Leiberwurst spielen!”
Translation: Insulted lip protrusion!

P.S. This is why I adore him:

At the very end, you can hear Obnoxious Me scream "Lollipop!!!" like a mental patient.