48 hours and too many quarters later...

When I was younger and relied on my Mommy to do my laundry (okay, I still rely on this), she would become rather irrate if I had multiple costume changes in a day and took more than 2 showers in a day, using 2 towels each time (one for my voluminous hair and the other to cover myself as I scuttle across the hallway to my room to get dressed). She'd tell me that I did not NEED to change 4 times a day or shower several times using new towel or two everytime (it really is necessary though considering the hyperhidrosis I tend to suffer from - see below post). However, last night I discovered why laundry is not only a chore, but a life ruiner. That's right, laundry made me cry like a bully during recess in 3rd grade.

I do laundry as often as any other 20-something-year-old, so, not often at all. I get down to the last pair of underpants - usually Spongebobs from about 5 years ago - until I really convince myself that maybe it's time to get the overflowing pile of soiled linens cleaned.

In college, laundry sucks for one reason - there is never an open dryer. Inconveniently college students all do laundry on either Thursdays - before the weekend, or Sundays - after the weekend. You think it would be easy for someone to plan out doing laundry on say, a Monday, to avoid this problem, but it honestly cannot be done. College students just cannot do laundry if it is not an issue for the upcoming weekend's wardrobe or if they do not need to clean the beer soaked outfits from a previous weekend. I fall into this category of people; I really do understand it.

Laundry in the real world sucks for the reason above (sometimes waiting for an open washing machine happens, and when it does, it's infuriating) AND finding quarters. When you don't need a quarter it seems to be the only piece of monetary metal on you, yet when you are in a situation where you deperately need quarters, like when doing laundry or when you really need M&Ms from a vending machine, you seem to dig into your pockets coming up with an assortment of pennies, nickels and dimes and NO quarters. It's just the way the world works.

All day Sunday I dreaded for evening to come upon me because I knew it was a dreaded laundry night. Luckily, I thought ahead and got quarters all ready. I venture to the 5th floor (there is one washer and one dryer on every other floor). To my delight, the first washing machine I see is open - off to an excellent start. I stuff in my weeks and weeks of filthy clothes into the machine, shove my quarters in the coin slot, and select the cycle. At this point, I'm feeling like a laundry-washing extraordinaire, a real professional in the booming laundry business.

A half hour later, I go to the 5th floor to do the 'ol transfer from washer to dryer - a usually quick and painless switch. I enter the laundry room to the smell of something on burning. The stench is awful. I walk slowly to the washing machine only to see a large handwritten sign saying that the machine is "Out of Order." Funny, I mutter to myself, because it was NOT "out of order" a half hour ago when my belongings were put into the machine. I open the machine to find my unwashed clothes sitting in a pool of dirty, dingy and utterly disgusting water. Before I can even start to cry - I panic. I close my eyes and shove my hands into the machine, pulling out my clothes as quickly as possible, like a clown pulling scarves out of its mouth in a sick, distrubing way, hoping I won't realize just how disgusting the whole thing is. I then realize that it will be impossible for me to carry an entire load of clothes soaking wet up two flights of stairs. I realize it will take multiple trips.

Oh! And let me inform you: I had just showered, even put lotion on!, minutes earlier. As I pick up the laundry basket to do my first run up the stairs to the 7th floor, the brown water leaks out of my laundry basket all over me. I am horrified. HORRIFIED is an understatement. I do the carrying as quickly as possible (it would have been a lot quicker if it was during my cross country days - you know when I didn't crave McDonald's at least once a week). Once all my clothes are in one place, I place the wet clothes into a new washing machine, use the last of my quarters, and select the correct cycle. I return downstairs to my floor, shower once again and change into literally the last two pieces of clothing I own - pajamas that looks as though someone knit them in 1910 - awesome.

I head upstairs, finally ready to put my clothes in the dryer and call it a night. Then I see it again - an sign - but this time the washing machine overheated so half my clothes were taken out - half of them in, half of them out, and all of them absolutely dirty. At this point in the evening, I realize I just want to clothes dry so I can take them back to my room without doing several stair workouts. I throw them in the dryer, use quarters borrowed from the neighbor next door to me and wait an hour before checking on them. But when I go check, I realize that yet another machine in the building is not working and I'll give you one hint as to what machine - it wasn't a microwave.

So after 3 hours and $4.50 in quarters, I was left with soaking wet, dirty, and smelly clothes (and not just smelly from my worrisome perspiration problem). To those who may be concerned - no worries, I went to a laundromat this evening and did my laundry where I was questioned by a man well into his 60s what "The Bachelor" was all about (I told him to take a good look at Jake the Bachelor and if he still couldn't figure it out, that's not my problem).

My mom will never have to tell me not to have my favorite "costume changes" ever again.

"Take a bite of my bad girl meat... show me your teeth."

To those who have not been lucky enough to hear me belt out the phrase I have used as the title to this blog, you may wonder what this is going to be about.

For those who do know what the beautifully poetic phrase is from, you must be an idiot if you did not see this coming.

My life revolves around her, so to no surprise, I must dedicate a lengthy post about the one and only Lady Gaga.

I cannot begin to tell you what drew me to her - was it her sequined leotards? Her filthy yet incredibly clever lyrics? The outrageous bleach blonde hair she sports in different fashions on a daily basis (my favorite being the one where her hair is shaped into a telephone at the side of her head - genius!)? I really do not know how it happened, but somewhere in the past year, I have fallen in love, and fallen so hard, for Lady Gaga.

To say she is creative is a gross understatement. There is absolutely nobody else on the planet like her. Which is why I so badly want to model my life, style and entrie being after her.

So many times the intern next to me would tell me I nee to stop lip syncing so obviously to Lady Gaga as I listened to the albums "The Fame" and "Fame Monster" repeatedly at work. She said she "couldn't stand her." I was horrified, saddened and felt deeply and personally hurt. Who could not love the most outrageous musician of this generation?

Then, just the other day, a change of heart occurred. I put up my Facebook status to my favorite Gagalicious lyric:

"I can't believe how you looked at me
with your James Dean glossy eyes.
With your tight jeans, and your long hair,
and your cigarette-stained lies."

The lyrics, which come from my favorite Gaga song "Speechless," is just so adorable - and so true! Who wouldn't fall for someone wearing tight, skinny jeans and donning long hair (this of course excludes the Jonas Brothers - their hair is far too styled and there is a big difference between trendy tight, skinny jeans and just too freakin' tight skinny jeans).

To my surprise, and delight, my fellow intern commented on how she liked the lyrics! Aha! She figured this must be a fluke - she cannot actually be becoming a Gaga fan. But of course, I know everything, and I am certain she, too, will fall for her soon. Just one song at a time.

Anyone who did not see Lady Gaga perform with Elton John at the Grammys, Youtube is immediately. It was not only my favorite performance of the night, but possibly my favorite performance in years.

Some people may think that maybe I admire Lady Gaga a little too much, but hey, living is just better when you're rocking a sequined leotard and a planet-inspired, out-of-this-world, had piece.

My Armpits are like two little Niagra Falls

There's one in every crowd. Maybe it's the girl cramming the night away, jittery on cups of coffee and nervous about the 7-page final. Or maybe it's the inebriated fool in the corner of a shady club, uncontrollably fist-pumping in the air, like he just don't care. Maybe it's the 5th grader, sporting her rad head gear just doing some algebra.

In case you didn't realize from the last description, I fall into the group of Sweaty Kids (I only had to wear the headgear from 7 PM to 7 AM, not terribly inconvenient and hey, I looked good).
Yeah. I get sweaty. In all kinds of situations, too. It doesn't have to be after a nice run on the treadmill. In fact, it's usually in situations in which some perspiration would be embarrassing.

It dawned on me today just how severe the problem has gotten. As my boss at work was trying to have some friendly chatter, My forehead felt like someone had chucked a water balloon at it. Embarrassed, I walked back to my desk and asked the pint-sized beauty queen sitting next to me, who typically never has so much as a hair out of place, "Uh hey, do I look... sweaty?" Her reply? "Actually yeah. Really sweaty. What just happened?"

Great. From what I thought was a few drops of water coming from pores turns out to be massive amounts of sweat all over my face.

Looking back, I see the signs. I knew this was my destiny.

When I was younger I couldn't move a yard without getting flushed and sweaty like I had just ran a marathon. My older fair-haired sister claimed it was due to my surprisingly, horrifyingly and almost incredibly hairy back (honestly, it's not that hairy ... I don't think). But it couldn't be my peach fuzz fur that shouldn't be on any girls back.

When I was even younger, the foreshadowing of my sweaty existence seemed to appear. I would wake in the middle of the night to tell my Mom I had gotten "really, kind of sweaty" in my sleep. I mean, yeah, it wasn't sweat and I had actually pissed the bed, but I already had my suspicions.

I guess what I'm trying to say, is that I know you're out there. And it's okay. Sometimes I get sweaty in inappropriate situations. At least I can address it.

I think I am going to start a support group. Together, we will perspire.

I was completely prepared not to have a blog. I started it with high hopes of someday writing something that interested tired coworkers looking for entertainment via trashy blogs. However, I am not going to hold out for that day that I will be interesting... if Perez Hilton can have a blog about celebrities he wants to be like, I can have a blog about my life that is a continuous comedy.

Stay tuned readers, stay tuned.