Rats!

Wow. Summer is pretty much finito. Official countdown: 7 days. But I guess that doesn’t matter much out here in sun-drenched San Diego.

I feel for all you New Englanders though, I really do (insert stifled, bratty chuckle).

Even before I made like a tree and left Bean Town, some of the leaves had already opted for their autumn ensembles. And now, from what I see on weather.com, the summer warmth is beginning to wilt. And I’m sure every pair of New England butt cheeks are clenching with disinclination to acknowledge the imminent arrival of another cold, dreary, snow-filled winter (suckahs!).

Snowflake? Blizzard? Nor’easter? These words no longer hold meaning for me. These and all other winter related words have been excommunicated from my vocabulary. I am now a devout follower of Sunshinism.

Mmm that sounded pretty cult-like, didn’t it? I swear I haven’t joined a cult. I’m steering clear of the Kool-Aid and Nikes…pinky swear.

But if it’s any consolation, residing in the bushes behind my apartment, there is a pack of rats the size of taxi cabs (ran into the exterminator today). So that’s always delightful.

Then again, if gas prices continue to make like the number of Lindsay Lohan’s staggers into rehab, then the R.O.U.S's could be a potential solution. Saddle up ol’ Ratty and away you go!

Ew. Please no.

Sandy Eggo

When my brain wheels are turning full throttle, and I can feel the anxiety levels starting to mount, like on a roller coaster when you’re inching your way to the top of the slope for that first horrifying plunge that launches your stomach into your throat, and makes your whole body rattle and roll so that you now know exactly what it would be like to go through life as a maraca, I need to hash my worries out with someone. But not just anyone will do.

What I like to do is drive right on past the exits for Normalton and Sane-Peopleville, and park my cranked-out jalopy in front of a mirror and pretend that I am talking to a celebrity. For a little one on imaginary-one celebrity therapy time.

Lately, as my San Diego departure time draws near, I’ve been conversing a lot with Edward Norton; he gets me. Plus, he is easy on the eyes and is the fluffer to my nutter.

So what usually happens in my delusional therapy sessions is that I run into Edward in some commonplace setting like the grocery store or on the subway. And naturally, I have a Siren-esque effect on him where he becomes so enticed by my charm that he invites me out to dinner, which is where I proceed to open up the Pandora’s box of lunacy that is my brain.

Then, depending on the mood that I’m in, the celebrity therapy session can go either one of two ways:

The first being that Edward is so enthralled by my tales that he decides to pen a screenplay based on my life. We then exchange digits and decide to meet everyday for as long as it takes to go over filming details - then I win an Oscar.

The second ending to my celebrity therapy session is a bit friskier, however. In this scenario, I pop the lid off my id and Edward comes back to my place where an entirely different kind of film is made.

In a nut shell, I’m a big, steaming pile of crazy. But with Edward’s help, I am like so ready to live in San Diego. Woot woot.

Coast Swap

The first time I saw Titanic, at the raw, green age of 13, my newly pubertized ovaries gave Leonardo DiCaprio the superlative of standing OVAtions (oh the wittiness) and so, he was dubbed the crown baby making partner.

Ever since then, I have had this insatiable urge (might it be my megalomaniac of a biological clock?) that I need to get myself to California. And so, here I am in sunny San Diego.

Leaving home wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be though. As I moved through the airport security at Logan, I found myself slogging knee deep through a gooey quagmire of the "I don't want to leave my mommy's".

I felt the compulsion to turn and wave to the parental unit not once, but four times. Good God, I’m such a boneless little fledgling.

However, any lame tears that I had stored up for the in-flight portion of the journey were soon transferred to the bigger fish to fry bucket.

Once the plane was up up in the air, I had the fret rug pulled out from under me to be replaced with wall to wall nausea. Suh-weet.

And damn it all to hell, if this wasn’t the one time that I was seated next to a decently attractive, non-creepy, young guy who, under less barfy circumstances, I totally would have fantasized about having an erotic romp in the airplane bathroom!

But no, I was too busy adorably dry heaving into the air sick baggy. Go me.

Dunkin' DoNOTS

So, thus far my dieting ploy to intimidate my fat ass and thighs into retreat by threatening to swaddle them in nothing but spandex and/or saran wrap has failed miserably.

But let’s be real, I suck at intimidation. Kind of like Bambi trying to mug someone, “No, I will not give you my wallet, you cute, little deer. Now come here and lemme pet you! You‘re so freakin’ cute!”

So I came up with a new dechunking plan. Any time I want to eat something, I ask myself “WWGD?” What would Gisele do? Crisp lettuce? Gisele says yes! A half gallon of double chocolate fudge brownie ice cream? Gisele says noooo! Put down the spoon and back away slowly.

Then I ogle a picture of her 5 foot 11 inch Brazilian goddessey goodness and mentally photo shop my head onto her body...my thinspiration.