the madame.

True story: I live in a gypsy brothel. 

No really. What started off as 'family dinner' in my apartment last night turned into a fight for a death for bedrooms, privacy and (in my case) sanity. Seeing as I am the only permanently attached person in this apartment I watched semi-silently in the corner as everyone in my apartment consumed roughly 3 bottles of tequila and then splintered off with respective partners to respective locations. I don't think I'll ever really understand my life. 

classy (fide.)

Roommate Needed.

(Fucking) amazing 2 bedroom, 1.5 bath apartment in Williamsburg, NY, on the brink of hipster cool and one short* train ride away from the most amazing city in the world. Would prefer a sassy gay man who can dress me each morning and validate my 'indulgent' purchases. Currently live in a gypsy apartment with strippers, 6 year olds, one vegan, alter-egos, and the occasional tranny-hooker. Also have developed a mild case of turrets from said roommates and have a tendency to say things like 'bitch' and 'skank' very enthusiastically --- but I generally wouldn't take it personally. All interested parties inquire within. 

*short only if you can navigate the ny subway system. If not you'll end up in New Jersey. And die.  

PANIC PANIC I DON'T WANT TO BE A TRANNY

...Nothing against trannies.

So I went to my hair appointment today, and what sounded fine in theory ("a blunt bob, so you won't have to style the front like you would for an a-line cut, with layers all around to give you volume") ended up with me staggering out of the salon looking a Korean pop star. A Korean man pop star. I came home and dunked my head under the sink, and this is what I came out with:





I have a 3-hour class in about half an hour; every time anyone looks in my direction I'm going to assume that they're seeing this:



Which, I mean, Friar Tuck was a badass, but NO. This is not going to help my participation grade.

a letter.

Dear Jen,

After a 2 hour phone call with the NYU Housing Department I've been informed that my chances of getting on campus housing are slim to none. I think this is a sign that you need to move to New York with me and be fabulous, or as fabulous as we can afford to be. We can skimp on unnecessary things (food, water, electricity, etc) and save our minimum wage pay-checks for the essentials (designer shoes, small leather goods, blair waldorf-esque headbands) and call it the good life. If this isn't a life plan I don't know what is.

<3

muss

...till you live with them.

The conversation went something along these lines:

Muss: I think I want to read 'Are you there vodka? It's me Chelsea.'

Hannah: I used to own that, till my mom donated THAT and 'How to Make Love Like a Pornstar' to an elementary school book fair.

...crickets. 

the middle names of teds

VERONICA: Well, that triggered a 229 protocol, which means I now have to give you a job interview, [looks at application] Theodore. Margaret. Crisp.
TED: Job interview?...And it's pronounced 'Mar-gar-ay.' It's a family name. It means 'lamb of God.'
VERONICA: I don't care. Now, let's begin the charade. Or, as Mar-gar-ay would say, 'shar-odd.'

Unfortunately for Ted Mosby, "Evelyn" is pretty much only pronounced one way. Also, I think I need to stop watching television.

i don't slip.

Most amazing purchase of the day: 

The American Apparel Le Sac Dress, and appropriate strings. The man of questionable sexual orientation* told me that if I mastered the Le Sac dress I could conquer anything. Apparently he never got the memo that I already win at life.

Speaking of which, tonight I went to a rave for which I was not properly outfitted (ie missing ecstasy and glo sticks) left early and came home to be the third wheel. Fun was had for all. 

*note: men who work at American Apparel are a grey area on the gay/straight scale. Too trendy to be straight, but not fashionable enough to be gay. The world may never know.

taylor swift + coldplay = 2 dudes in a room

check it.

I woke up this morning to find that my nose stud had mysteriously disappeared. It wasn't in my bed, bathroom, or attached to my towel meaning that it has suffered the same fate as my credit card and my roommates brand spankin' new ray-bans; disappeared into the depths of our apartment. We should probably stop giving everyone keys.

In any case, amidst the AIM booty call occurring last night the dynamic duo (...or something way cooler) managed to compile the most amazing party outfit on a budget---and then my dreams were crushed when I saw the dress (aka the main component of the party outfit) in person and realized it looked like spray-painted plastic. Next.

Anyway, the weekend rundown as followed: running around hollywood in stilettos and an lbd sweet talking promoters and ignoring 12 year old skate-boarders, dyeing my hair even more red than it was before---think Sidney Bristo circa season 1 of Alias, writing 'really?' across the top of my check when a completely MIA waitress thought she deserved a tip and watching my roommates make Twilight a drinking game. My suggestion was to have them take a shot everytime Edward was creepy, they didn't vote in favor of alcohol poisoning. Smart kids. 

hrmph.

I like Zack Braff.

WEEKEND UPDATE

This kind of defeats the purpose, because we're actually holding an AIM booty call right now (proper logistical terminology for booty calls: participating in? conducting? making?). Whatever. Here are two things that were awesome about my weekend that aren't late-night visits to Golfland USA, Star Wars marathons with chocolate birthday cake, and smoking in the hot tub at 3 a.m.:

1. The LUSH Comforter Bubble Bar (photo forthcoming, once I find it)
It smells like blackberries, is decently bubbly, and turns your bathwater hot pink. Plus, you can ration the bar, unlike the bath bombs, which are indestructible and have to be hoiked into the tub, one six-dollar piece at a time, and sometimes dissolve into weird pieces of gunk, like tree branches. And sand. Which is unpleasant, when it's unexpected and you're sitting naked in a tub (I'm looking at you, Big Blue bath bomb).

2. Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist.
This movie is awesome. Michael Cera's post-Arrested Development career used to make me a little nervous, partially because I was afraid he'd veer into Zach Braff, Asshole territory, but this is an adorably twee and mostly harmless hipster film with a hell of a soundtrack (and I also didn't pay for it, unlike Last Kiss, which still makes me angry, two years later). Seriously, Zach Braff. I dislike you intensely.

One thing that was not awesome:

1. Hot Cheeto Puffs, or My Inability to Digest Hot Cheeto Puffs
This is unacceptable.

well.

We've always wanted to compile a book. Our original angle was long distance awe-some bffs---however that fell through because it would have been two different books that probably would read something like this:

muss: i live in the crazy house with girls who schedule blacking out into their weekly routines as opposed to...class.

jen: i live in the crazy apt where my roommate figuratively blacks out and disappears for weeks at a time and isn't even remotely close to her classes.

wait, maybe this could work.

In any case we've settled for baby steps, blog first then book. The hardest part was, of course, choosing a name. Our first choice? oohshiny (it sums up our lives in one completely non-committal statement.) It was taken (tear!) we settled for this because it's really the only way we communicate.

And that's the way we like it.