Oooh, her head spins all the way around!

So, it was a little spooky. Yep, it caught me off guard a little.

NO, it wasn't as nauseatingly shocking as gossip bloggerville makes it out to be.

It was just a little case of vampire-on-vampire sex with a little "head-spinning-180-degrees-backward" kinky thrown in. Add a little blood oozing out of the spun-head's mouth and you've got another average episode of Sex and the City, un-dead style.

Huh? OH, what am I talking about?

True Blood, season 3, episode 3.

I've tried like heck to track down the clip online, but the good little protected-content-infringement-Police have managed to smack down every single clip. Bummer, actually, although it was pretty much in the NSFW vein (ha! punny....vein....while talking about vampires.....get it? bwuahahahaha) and I try to stick to strictly SFW-ish subject matter, celebrity backsides and John Mayer aside.

Er - back to the vampire sex: am I so callous that this really didn't affect me? Because it made me giggle, that was about it.

People in the blogs are talking about being nearly sick after watching the scene, not knowing whether to turn it off or cry, talking about it being the most shocking think they've ever seen on television, blah blah blah.

Really? Because some cool CGI effects spun a head around while she was getting taken to town by a bedfellow who was (begrudgingly. um, angrily.) following his good little vampire orders.

Also: I totally don't mean for this to sound like a strange Freudian change of subject, but I am SO in the mood for a Costco hotdog right now. I've had one on my mind for a few days now, probably since the point at which I realized I actually haven't eaten one since, oh, middle school, and suddenly (much like the KFC Chickenwich Obsession) I sort of can't get it off my mind.

But that's neither here nor there, since I am well and truly chained to the cubicle for another few hours.

Another few hours during which my life continues to be UN-ruined by the fact that good old Vampire Bill Compton gave his "Maker" Lorena a little bit of his, um, magic stick while managing to simultaneously twist her head around in a very "Death Becomes Her" sort of style.

The scene was quick.

After an episode of flashback sequences involving children killed by the "The Pox" and more taunting by Maker Lorena she gives Vampire Bill some sort of "make love to me" order (gasp! shock! noooooo!), which he, technically, obliges IF we take all of the "love" out of the act and stage it in more of an "extreme cage fighting" mood and, and Bill's apparently so repulsed by the sight of her un-dead face (and let's be honest, she's a squinty little thing with bad eye makeup and a permanent smirk, I was pretty tired of looking at her by this point in the episode, too) that, while taking care of "the deed" he grabs her head and twists it around completely backward, Saltwater Taffy style.

Very cool CGI stuff, really.

And -- to me -- a bizarrely laughable reminder that both parties are, in fact, already quite dead, so what's a little maiming to work out your anger.

I dunno - for a show that's always been pretty salacious and continually sets out to shock us (they've tackled a lipstick lesbian moment and a hot guy-on-guy fantasy sequence so far this season alone), this just seemed like one more way to up the ante and keep us watching.

Because if Twilight taught us anything: we apparently like to fantasize about dead people.

A little pre-Mexico ass motivation, Canalooney style.

Ok, so right at the moment I'm listening to some AARP-aged co-workers discussing the merits of the movie "Secretary" over the cubicle wall - lamenting how horrible it was, though, "If you're crazy about Maggie Gyllenhaal, you'd love this...."

Taking everything in me not to butt into the conversation, especially when that leapfrogged into a discussion about her character in Crazy Heart and how difficult it was for them to believe a woman like her would ever fall for Hot Mess Bad Blake (again - keeping my seat in my chair, but figure the middle-aged Software Support gurus could use a lesson in how easy it is for hot young girls to fall for messy old men when the messy old man is charming).

Anyway.

Here's the deal - we know I'm not crazy about the gorgeous creature currently sinking her pretty fingernails into George Clooney's arm and hanging on for dear life. Actually, in my mind, she pronounces his name "Geh-orge," a'la Captain VonTrapp, because it reinforces precisely how international and splendid she is, and therefore how desperately superior to the rest of us Yanks who would actually deign to do vapid things like wear Nikes or convertible cargo pants or eat fast food or acknowledge that Snookie walks among us.

You know why else she's waaaaaaay above the rest of us?

Because her ass looks like so:

And as if that isn't cause enough for the rest of us mere mortals to turn in our "maybe some day if I lost thirty pounds and traded faces with Jessica Alba and George Clooney was really drunk I'd have a shot with him" cards and throw ourselves on the altar of White Flour-Less living, her abs look like so:

And to kill that tiny thought swimming in the back of our minds about what her backside REALLY looks like (in case, you know, that first shot was just taken from that really thigh-friendly "bent-slightly forward" angle that always minimizes the appearance of cellulite), here it is from another equally astonishing angle:

And I'm pretty sure if I got 3 of my girlfriends together on a boat and all of us put on our best tanga bikini bottoms and crouched on all fours, we would hardly be photograph-ready, cute dog or no cute dog on hand to distract from the inevitable saddlebag situation.

And thus: we have photographic evidence of why Canalooney stands strong after this many months of what otherwise appears to be joylessly abject misery - she's got Miranda Kerr's body underneath that Italian scowl.

So - what does this have to do with me and an upcoming jaunt to someplace slightly more equatorial?

Um. Well, SURPRISE! My bum neither looks nor photographs like this woman's under even the most forgiving lighting, AND, as I was struggling to come up with sufficient motivation to dissuade me from simply taking posession of a huge stash of clever scarves and sarongs to tie around my waist when I make my south-of-the-border run shortly, this proved to be just the motivation I needed . I got away with the "skirts hide all sins" mindset several years ago in Greece...and these days (shockingly!) my metabolism is 4 years older and wiser, my skin 4 years less elastic, my cellulite 4 years more moved in and camped out in parts south of belly button, my stretch marks 4 years sneakier, and my ego 4 years more gutless......but there's something in me that just won't let go of the idea of getting rid of the vanity pounds to the point that I could be photographed from behind in a swimsuit and I wouldn't see the picture and promptly "un-tag" myself on Facebook (for instance....theoretically) and looking at this was, interestingly, sufficiently motivating.

Therefore: I'll use 4 years ago (not the Canalis, that's just superhuman and I'm not that horribly unrealistic) as my motivation. Vain as posting this seems, gotta admit, I didn't look half bad.....

White & Knight.

So, I went away for awhile there. It happens. Vacations, and work on my novel-in-progress, and a dull stint in Celebrity Gossip Land where everyone was well-behaved or too boring to bother with would be easy excuses......BUT:

Really, I was just waiting for yesterday to roll around.

Because I said 2 things yesterday that I never thought I've have reason to say, ever.

First thing: "Those white jeans are super cute."

And they were. In a sort of fabulously chopped-up, "careful to wear nude-colored undies," won't-they-look-great-with-some-fun-gold-heels-and-a-long-summery-top" sort of way.

And they fit well. In a smaller size than I expected to wear. So - while it felt rather 1994-ish to be wearing them (and while I justified them -- horrifyingly -- by recalling how great LeAnn Rimes (YES, you read that right, LeAnn Rimes) looked in something similar recently), I think they're a great way to declare summertime in Seattle officially here.

And then today it got chilly and rainy again.

Because the universe knew I bought ripped white jeans inspired by LeAnn Rimes and wanted to make sure I didn't top off the look by adding a side-ponytail or something flash-back-ee, so it stepped in to save me from myself.

But I won't be deterred. I'll find a one-shouldered floral top of some sort and some great peep-toe platforms and I'll show white jeans how it's really done. And I'll make Blossom proud.

The second thing I said yesterday; "I wanna go see that new Tom Cruise movie."

Yeah, I said that.

My inner Tom Cruise-hater put herself on ice for a moment and allowed herself to actually giggle out loud at how perfectly-suited he seemed for the nearly satirical character in Knight and Day. Unhinged, crazy-eyed and over-the-top seems to fit him well. Almost as well as Les Grossman (perhaps his most compelling "work" to date, "Born On the 4th of July" included, because I actually cease to see the Tom in the Les suit. And the dancing....I could watch it all day. All day.).

And while I struggle to deal with Cameron Diaz in any capacity, looks to me like she's supposed to be an obnoxious, squealing ding-bat in this movie, and that doesn't seem to require much acting, so maybe I'll be able to handle her.

Either way - it was a day of firsts.

Welcome back to the not-quite-good-graces of Heather's consciousness, Tom. All that's left to really redeem you is a haircut. And, um, PLEASE, just stop with the staged "out-and-about" photo-ops with "Kate," where you struggle to hold hands like a normal couple which just makes it all the more obvious that things behind closed doors are miserable and loveless.

Those two things, and I might actually stop hating you.

Christina's CD drops today - so let's talk about the new Gaga video instead...

I do love a good Evita-with-Automatic-Weapon-Bra-Masquerading-As-A-Sexy-Leather-Clad-Nun fantasy sequence. Especially if it involves staging what seems to be an eleborate funeral procession followed by a good dose of writhing around on a bed with men in latex speedos and swallowing rosary beads. Simply can't be beat. And it doesn't hurt if we have a cute military policeman make an appearance at the end.

I particularly enjoy it if the entire sequence reeks of old Madonna videos and involves a dramatic narrative sequence at the beginning that -- ultimately -- feels like it has nothing to do with the rest of the song and dance routine but definitely allows dancing men to cavort rather robotically around a, um, football stadium...(gladiator arena.....??? airport runway....??? the surface of the moon....???) holding metal crates, before being sort of glamorously taken advantage of by a dancing woman in flesh-colored undies.

So, given all that, stands to reason I'd love the newest Gaga video since it involves all of the above.

And I did.

It was a fun spectacle. And that's even given the fact that the song itself, "Alejandro," was my least favorite on the entire CD. So, if you can take a song I usually skip and give it a fun, very monochromatic, machine-gun-breasted video so fun I watch it a few times in a row and don't even realize I'm listening to a song I don't much care for: well done.

I have no idea what story she's trying to tell (or why there's a sort of bedazzled heart being carried on a gilded pillow ahead of the funeral procession, for that matter), but I do know this woman is in incredible shape. Feminine, fit, fun to watch dance around in the little "zero support" bra & panty (and I hate the word "panty") combo.

It's sort of standard Gaga fare (and actually, in its color palate, startlingly familiar to Christina's "Not Myself Tonight" video...hmmmm) - visually striking, strangely philosophical, obviously intended to be decently inflammatory, and delightfully sexually charged. But it's what she does best.

Enjoy.

On deck for tomorrow: my review of Christina's "Bionic." Been looking forward to it for a few years, so it's about time!

Uh, George, ditch the broad (she's turning you into Ben Affleck).

So, we remember the days of Bennifer, no? The moniker that spawned a million other celebrity name hybrids like Brangelina, TomKat, etc?

I know - a lifetime ago.

BUT - remember, also, that it marked the advent of the most morose-looking period in Ben Affleck's life, where every photo of him looked more like a wax re-creation, and nary a smile was spied from the begininng of that relationship with Jennifer Lopez up until, oh, the opening of Gigli?

Remember further that after they split, married other people, figured out how to relax and smile again, all of us were finally able to breathe a collective celebrity-loving sigh of relief, knowing finally that Ben would go on to live another year or two and JLo would continue to sacrifice mink hair for the sake of her eyelashes? All was balanced in the world again.

Yeah, so Clooney needs to take a hint from that particular story arc and ditch Elisabetta Canalis. Because Canalooney drives us nuts.

And she's sucking the life right out of him. 

Granted, I wouldn't necessarily want to break things off with a woman with legs like hers, either (seriously - the woman is straight out of a shaving gel commercial - amazing legs) but the facts are uncomfortably obvious to every woman between 19 and 87: the Clooney looks certifiably waxen in every single photograph with this woman. Further evidence that he needs to hop on his Harley and zoom far, far away from the gorgeous -- albeit frosty-looking -- Italian babe with the cool tattoos and great legs: she's become a Twitter liability.

No major movie star wants to have to do damage control because of a poorly interpreted Tweet in Italian that somehow managed to allegedly compare Jennifer Aniston to Iggy Pop. The alleged quote: “I’m flipping through the new Rolling Stone. Iggy Pop on the cover is the double of Jennifer Aniston.”

Granted - that's funny. And, uh, sort of true.

HOWEVER: consider the fact that those same women who love Dear George more than they love their own sons also believe they'd be best friends with Jen Aniston in "real life" (if they lived, like in the same zip code or shopped at the same Whole Foods or got their waxing done at the same spa. They'd totally do happy hour at sushi joints or pretentious wine bars together if they just lived a little closer).  

SO - Clooney has himself in a pickle. His Queen Frostine girlfriend is offending the Aniston-loving masses. Death threats follow, I can only imagine.

So now, not only does Clooney appear dour and serious and boring and angry in pictures, his girlfriend is busy ticking off America at large. This simply doesn't help the image. Doesn't help Clooney. Doesn't help Jen (because, as much as I'm terminally annoyed by the woman, and as eerily apt as the comparison seemed, it's still a low blow coming from a woman most of us see as having stolen Our Man. And we know we can't compete because we don't have legs like hers, or a name like hers, or an accent like hers....we just don't). AND - clearly none of this helps Elisabetta endear herself to us over here stateside, either.

This is where Clooney should make the big gesture: dump the broad. She's become bad PR.

We like him better as a globe-trotting playboy rather than as angry arm candy, any day. And yes, make no mistake - she's the one holding the reins here. In her world, he's the wealthy, hunky Yankee who's been granted the honor of accompanying a real Italian model to dinner.

By the by - she outright denied tweeting the Jen insult. HOWEVER: her Twitter account has since been removed. Let's hope it's George getting in there for some damage control.

If you can't keep her under your thumb, cut her loose.

Your legions of dedicated fans simply don't like the girl.

Canalooney: clever, right? Sounds sorta like an Italian entree?

Came up with that allllll by myself.

Random shout-out ...

Dear Prince Charming,

Listened to my favorite song by "The National" again today on my way to work and there was that particular verse at the end of the song that, of course, made me think of you again (though these days, I think I'm usually thinking of you on my way to work...). Anyway, it's that verse that says,

"You know I dreamed about you
for twenty-nine years before I saw you
You know I dreamed about you
I missed you for
for twenty-nine years"

Which is, while infinitely sappy, a sort of beautiful, fitting thought, given that we're both on one side or another of twenty nine years and just finally "met." Always in quotes, that word "met," since my thirteen year-old self would probably put a smug little hand up and say, "uh, you sort of met him like, sixteen years ago. get it straight, lady."

But I would just tell my little thirteen year-old self to chill out and would remind her that knowing OF someone is different than knowing someone.

I'm glad I know you, now.

Actually, I still get a kick out of thinking back to that cute guy and his skateboard who looked so good in those baseball pants all of those years ago, and realizing "if someone had told me back then that years in the future the two of us would click like....legos: I wouldn't have believed them," but it's true.

Why am I tossing this up here on the world wide webernet for, oh, anyone and their mother, and my mother...or for that matter (if she were so inclined) your mother to read?

Good question.

Maybe because I'm proud of you and me and us and figure everyone deserves all the wonderful recognition they can get (and if that comes in the form of a blog shout-out, hey - I'm technological like that). I learned from my mom, actually, what a blessing it can be to reinforce people, build them up, compliment them, tell them exactly what you appreciate about them as often as you can, as honestly as possible.

Maybe because it feels safe, and healthy and wonderful to know I can be honest with you, transparent with you, and hey, at this point, you even find the neurotic parts of me endearing. I can bust out Monday-Evening-Cranky and know you'll still like me on Tuesday morning.

Maybe because you listen -- patiently -- when I whine about the horrible job (over...and over...and over again). And - while it must take a certain amount of effort - you don't immediately leap in and try to simply solve the problem - you just listen. I know that's practically a genetic impossibility and can't be an easy task, so thanks. Thanks for being a man who listens, empathizes, understands.

Maybe becuase you remember the little things I say -- you do. You're an excellent listener...

I can't tell you how shocked I was to hear after our first date that you not only remembered my favorite color, you actually went out and investigated what that meant about me. Ditto the Gemini thing. Little gestures that showed you wanted to know and understand me. Big impact.

You appreciate words and conversation and thought and introspection - you actually use the brain God gave you. And he gave you a great brain. A brilliant mind. A sexy mind. And a compassionate, generous, selfless spirit that I admire and respect to no end.

Other things I admire endlessly: your music. Watching you play those damn catchy riffs: lots of fun.

Dig the fact that you know how I like my Americanos.

Ditto the fact that you'll spring for the bottle of wine over the cheap beer for our dinner dates (hey, after years of only hearing "what's your cheapest draught beer" when ordering, it's a pleasant change - ! Not that you can't order cheap beer, by all means, drink up....!). Seems like a silly little thing, but it means I get to experience "dinner out" in a fundamentally different way.....

I admire your dedication to and connection with your family (especially the way you've been there for your mom). You're dependable. Trustworthy. Dedicated. Responsible.

I admire your honesty, how comfortable you are talking about any and everything, respect that you want to know what I think....I dig that we can agree on most things, and enjoy disagreeing on a few others.

The amount of thought you put into endearing little things like what jacket to wear with what shoes is downright adorable. Also adorable: the impressive way all of your clothes hang so symmetrically equidistant from each other in your closet. Must be a man thing.......

You endure my champagne adoration. See - it's good!

You're wonderful. And I'm a lucky girl, fortunate to spend time with someone who puts a smile on my face, every day.

So....thank you. For simply being you.

You leave 'em all in the dust, baby.

Ouch! Sack-tapping? Really?

I guess I have a different definition of the word "tap" than the average adolescent boy.

Go figure.

In my mind, tap = light touch (clarification: I'm being literal here and excluding the "I'd tap that...." slang).

Anyway. Tap.

Apparently, to boys in the 12-20 age bracket, it's the same as a sucker punch. As in, to "sack-tap" means to smash someone in the nuts.

Seriously.

There's something of a sack-tap epidemic sweeping the nation. Meaning apparently an entire generation of boys may have a harder time accidentally knocking up their girlfriends in coming years.

Here's a snippet from an MSNBC article about the "phenomenon:"

Bruises, blood clots, testicular torsion — in which the organ twists up to 360 degrees — and, more rarely, testicular rupture, all are consequences of blunt force trauma to the testicles, including injuries caused by close-range punches.



Nearly 8,000 boys and young men ages 10 to 20 were treated for pubic region injuries in the nation’s emergency rooms last year, according to estimates from the Consumer Product Safety Commission. That’s up from about 7,300 injuries in 2008 and about 5,500 in 2007.


Most of those injuries were caused during sports or by accidents involving bicycles or skateboards, a review of cases reveals. But a growing number have been caused by so-called games known variously as “sack-tapping,” “nut tag,” or “Roshambo,” after a 1998 episode of the animated series “South Park” that popularized the painful practice.

Soooooo - there's a lot going on here. Abuse, sexual assault, bullying. Oh yes - a sack-tap by any other name is still unwelcome sexual contact with the potential to yield incredible bodily harm.

Hmmm.

This got me thinking about what I shall call the "testosterone-driven gender behavioral gap."

Girls (presumably because they don't have that "Beat it up! Fight with it! Best it! Kill it! WIN-WIN-WIN!" streak that's quite as developed as the one in adolescent boys) don't walk around socking each other in the bits and pieces. Sure, they manage the "girl-equivalent" of this sort of emasculating behavior by insulting each others' clothes and starting nasty rumours about one another, but the whole "let's test each other with random acts of excruciating pain?" Um, yeah - that's just not something you're gonna find a girl doing unless it involves a spa and some strategic waxing.

So what gives? Testosterone, I guess. Slap each other in the nuts and he who winces least is the toughest guy? Hmmm - I guess you can take that all the way to the emergency room where they perform surgery to save your baby-makers, tough guy.

But why the sudden increase in sack attacks? Why are they on the rise? Is it really just because of the prevalence of similar acts of stupidity in the media? Because people have been jumping motorcycles over shark tanks (so to speak) on TV for generations, and everyone doesn't necessarily rush out to try that for themselves.

Dunno, I"m stumped.

It's weird.

Poor kids and their messed up junk.

It's as difficult to comprehend as the fact that dudes like to toss around the "Suck my ______" as an insult, but you'll certainly not hear girls use the, uh, equivalent when they want to needle each other. Why is that?

Beats me. All I know is if I were a 14 year-old boy, I'd figure out a way to wear steel reinforced shorts to school.

"Make it so." And so she did. And now he's a knight.

Captain Picard! My very first bald crush.....! You and Ben Kingsley have one more thing in common (apart from that whole "serious actor without hair" bit)! Now we have to call you "Sir!"

It's official: Patrick Stewart was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II at Buckingham Palace today.

I couldn't be more proud. Actually, yep, I feel rather like a proud mother (er, you know, in that context where "mother" equals "grew up watching him on The Next Generation every night in syndication on Canadian television stations with better commercials"). Particularly because he -- naturally -- sites this as his crowning professional accomplishment. Yay Cap'n. I love to watch peoples' dreams come true. Unless it's Diablo Cody. In which case I just sneer and heckle and do a terrible job of hiding a strangely angry jealousy that manifests itself in smug self-satisfaction when a movie she wrote flops.

Engage.

Heh. Heh. Heh. Remember that? At the end of every episode? The little two-finger "go ahead and put it in drive, Geordie" bit that he'd do. I loved that bit.

But really, I grew up with Jean-Luc as one of the ultimate male role models in my little pre-adolescent television-watching existence. He was perfect. Noble, steadfast, slow to anger - the thinking girl's hero. He read books. He drank tea. He could still weild a phaser with the best of them. He had that fantastic accent. And the bald head (couldn't tell ya what it is about that.....just that I've apparently liked that bald look since I was all of 11 years old. Go figure). He was Jesus in a polyester one-piece jumpsuit, basically.

And I can't even speak for his stage work.....ehhh, I live in the States - big names from the UK stage don't really make it to the American Left Coast all that often, and I can count the number of times I've been to New York on zero fingers, so I'm out of the loop as far as the rest of his illustrious, storied career (which includes a stint in the Royal Shakespeare Company and a Tony nomination for MacBeth).

Here's a quote from the Captain himself:

"This is an honor that embraces those actors, directors and creative teams who have in these recent years helped fill my life with inspiration, companionship and sheer fun...It was an unlooked-for honor but as I grew up as a child, falling in love with the theatre and Shakespeare, my heroes were Sir Laurence Olivier, Sir John Gielgud, Sir Alec Guinness...The knights of the theatre represented to me not only the pinnacle of the profession but the esteem in which the profession was held. And now to find myself, to my astonishment, in that company is the grandest thing that has professionally happened to me."

I took some "cut n' paste" liberties with those quotes (culled from a handful of news sources present at the event), but basically: the man is brilliant. Humble, eloquent, and -- at 69 -- still foxy.

Makes me want to descend down into the dark, uncharted depths of my apartment's storage unit and dig out those VHS tapes (yes.) of the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation and start from the beginning. What's that? Oh, I can get the entire series online using that subscription service I already pay for? Oh - yeah, I'll do that, then. 

In other news:

Whoa, what happened to this guy?

I can't decide....am I jealous, or just sort of ooked out?

Hmmmm.

Megan Fox bikini pics.

And I actually had to hesitate for a moment when I looked at them to determine whether or not the odd, "don't wanna look, can't look away" reaction I had to these photos was standard "wow, she's skinny" jealousy, or, um - mild "wow she's skinny" revulsion?

 Because there's something about the washboard-ee torso (abs AND chest, let's be clear) that's just...spooky.

Actually, I'm usually not one to judge on the "too skinny" front, because, hey, I think I actually ascribe to the "you can never be too rich, too skinny, or own too many shoes" mantra. Or jeans. I don't think it's possible to own too many pairs of jeans. I've lost count of how many pairs I've got to my name and that certainly doesn't stop me from the Pursuit of the Unicorn Denim. The perfect pair. They're out there.

Anyway - typically when I see pictures of Megan, no matter how done up, dressed down, or photoshopped she looks, I'm always sort of awestruck by how perfectly she's put together. In this case, however, I was more awestruck by the droopiness of those bags hanging off of her boney chest, and how angular and, uh..."slicey" (AND Nicole Richie circa 2006-esque) her hip bones looked as they did their valiant best to hold up her bikini bottom. We remember this, right:

I mean, I always have hip/thigh envy - meaning, I envy those girls with narrow hips and skinny little thighs, but in this case, she actually manages to look like a 13 year-old boy. With droopy bags on her front side. Bags that looks like they're trying to make a break for it and take up residence on the body of a girl who prefers, um....eating. Which is odd, because Megan is one girl that almost always looks healthy, athletic, curvy - just right.

And usually, it's impossible to have abs that are TOO toned, too nice and flat, too trim. But in this case, Megan's less hot chick, more, oh, Kelly Ripa. Sorry Kelly, you just look like you eat Pilates instructors for breakfast. Your tiny little self could probably bench a Honda Insight. Just saying.

And I don't mean for this to sound like I'm just ripping on fit, skinny, famous girls - because it goes without saying that I'd love to have the problem where people look at photos of me and think, "pretty girl, but her abs are just too tight." BUT, since that's not me, and since I'm merrily PMS-ee and am having flashes of feeling like I'm channeling my inner Jennifer Coolidge this week, I'm gonna have at it. Call her out for looking freaky.  And a little like a drowned, shaved rat.

See more pictures HERE (if you dare).

And then someone buy Megan a Double Down.

Mmmmmm. That sounds like just what my hormone riddled self would kill for right now, and then loathe in the morning. It would be like a fast food one night stand. Bad idea. Bad idea.