it's the most whoring-ish time of the year.

I don't have a good track record with holidays. Usually on New Year's Eve, I'm trying so hard to have a good time that something inevitably goes horrifically wrong - one year I was robbed, one year I was stuck in my parent's basement during a blizzard when I was supposed to be on a romantic getaway in the White Mountains, and one year I got stuck playing Trivial Pursuit and drinking two glasses of gross Romanian champagne. I had quite a memorable Thanksgiving when I was sixteen and after an hour of driving around looking for an open restaurant, I had to eat at a dive while my father drunkenly called me a whore in earshot of the entire restaurant. When I was a kid, I would throw up every Christmas Day because I was so excited about getting presents.

Nonetheless, I still love all of those holidays. I get excited about them. One holiday, however, makes my guts churn and my cynicism boil over into open and gross rancor.

Dude, I know exactly how you feel.

Halloween blows. Asshole kids smash your pumpkins and throw eggs and shaving cream at your car. There's a steady stream of brats knocking on your door and asking you for shit. You have to spend ridiculous amounts of money on poorly made pieces of polyester that usually rip before you even make it to whatever stupid Halloween party you're trying to go to. It's going to take you three hours just to get all your makeup off, and no matter what, whatever you chose to wear is weather-inappropriate and has you either sweating or freezing all night.

But the worst part of all? The slutty costume enigma.

If you have a vagina, even if you wear jeans and t-shirts every day, you are expected to wear the shortest, tightest piece of clothing you can find that reflects some theme. The point, I guess is that traditional costumes tend to make women look "unattractive." At least in the beginning, sexified Snow White and the like sort of made sense. The costumes found a way to actually reflect the concept. But the shit now is ridiculous.

Apparently, even the private parts of child-aged cartoon characters can't be left to the imagination.

This is allegedly a beer pong costume. The text on the skirt says "Don't forget to wash your balls!" Let's just make an outfit that says "I'LL SUCK YOUR DICK" and get it over with. Better yet, just get it tattooed on your forehead. America - where subtlety went to die.

"This is a costume, right? I'm wearing one of those cute little top hats!" If you need context to even explain to people that are going to buy it what is actually is, it's fucking terrible.

Sexy lumberjack! REALLY. REALLY. What's next? "Sexy lumper!" Or maybe "Sexy person who delivers my heating oil!"

God forbid a corporation in America NOT take something unique and badass like roller derby and make it into something shallow, sanitary and meaningless. SHE'S NOT EVEN WEARING ROLLERSKATES. I weep.

Here's a tip: Before you design a costume, why don't you do a quick Google search to ensure it doesn't reflect a well-known, relatively fucked up sexual fetish. I feel so sorry for any woman who ignorantly wears this out, because there is definitely going to be some creepy ass guy ejaculating onto her.

Do you know how many people in the world would look good in this costume? Probably about eleven. Do you know how many women are going to wear this and look like a bloated sausage? A number possibly in the thousands. And how is "being a naked woman with sushi strategically placed over my breasts and vulva" a fucking costume? I give up.

I spend pretty much every day trying to look attractive. I just want one day out of the year where I can go without wearing a bra. Which is why my Joan Jett costume this year will be to the top.

what women spend half their lives panicking about.

Being a woman is tough. Not only are we underpaid, overworked, objectified, stifled and otherwise made to feel like pieces of shit on a daily basis, we also are responsible for propagating the species. As such, our minds and bodies are never totally in sync. Even if the thought of reproducing makes us want to wretch, sometimes our uteri have other plans. There's a reason they're called "pregnancy scares." Women live in constant fear of being knocked up.

Even if you've been very careful, warning bells start to go off every time something in your body is out of wack. Tender breasts? You're up the duff. Fatigue? Absolutely preggo. Heartburn? Even if you ate Taco Bell that day, you can convince yourself that it's the result of a burrowing embryo. You assume the condom broke and you never noticed, or there was a pinprick you somehow overlooked. You rehash the day you took your birth control two hours late. You gasp in horror as you remember the moment you accidentally put on semen-stained underwear. You annoy the crap out of yourself with your obsessive thinking. The only time you're ever free of your neuroses is menopause (I've got about 25 years to go), or a month you don't have sex - which, if you're me, is non-existent. I think I've only gone intercourse-free for two menstrual cycles in eight years.

I remember having my first fertilization fright at the tender age of 16. I had unprotected sex with a much older man (brilliant, I know), and I remember my paranoia intensifying as my period remained in absentia for over a week. How was I going to explain this to my parents? Hadn't I learned my lesson from taking home that fake baby that cries in the middle of the night? The only thing I was able to glean from that experiment was that I could probably lie down next to a foghorn and sleep soundly. I'm immune to obnoxious baby cries! I don't know how to change a diaper! I'd be a terrible mother! I have to get an abortion! I don't have any money! My dad will cry because I'm a failure!

Of course, all this worry was for naught. I got my period. I made it through high school and college and a myriad of sex partners without a single positive pregnancy test. Now, I'm on a precipice. After two weeks of waiting patiently for my tardy menses, I'm preparing to take a test to confirm or deny the existence of a bun in the oven. Despite the fact that I have decent health insurance and a supportive spouse, I am freaking out.

Now that I'm married, everyone says it's not a big deal. I disagree. It's not an occasion to celebrate. It's not a blessing in disguise. It's a pain in the ass. Just because I actually intend on spending the rest of my life with the person who potentially impregnated me doesn't mean I'm thrilled about gestating. My husband is currently unemployed and my car doesn't even have air conditioning. I can't be responsible for another human being. My ovaries should know better.

Can't guess? It's the international symbol for a worst nightmare.

If I am pregnant, I know what I will do. I have the money to deal with it. It still doesn't allay the anxiety. Even women I know who already have children still get nervous whenever that time of the month rolls around. It's one of those things they never tell you about womanhood, like period diarrhea and those stray hairs that you have to pluck out of your chin. Our only consolation is that moment in which we divulge to our female friends our predicament... and they know exactly how we feel. At least we all suffer together.

UPDATE: Well, I got a visit from the crimson typhoon. But it took almost eight weeks - and you better believe I'll be in full-on panic mode in another five. Welcome to womanhood.

v-cards: part one of a two part series.

Back in the days when I actually wore lingerie and bathed on a regular basis, I was a burgeoning sex kitten. I had a belly button ring and a list of makeout spots. I was a self-titled "good time girl." I liked being kinda slutty - it was a badge I wore with pride.

I wasn't unusual. Of the hundreds of people in my graduating class, I knew only a handful of virgins. Everybody did everybody. Sex wasn't so much a rite of passage as an unwritten rule. We were young, we drank Popov vodka, we went skinny-dipping. My group of friends was so sexually voracious (and bored) that many of us ending up hooking up with each other. Most of it happened in my basement (sorry Mom and Dad). And most of it was messy. I'll never forget certain incidents involving a stained t-shirt and a midnight romp down my street clad only in boxer shirts.

I don't regret any of it. My sexual exploration as a teen was completely natural and entirely pivotal to my development. I wouldn't be as awesome as I am now had I not learned a few things along the way. Among my greatest learning experiences were the two virginities I destroyed.

The first one was an accident. I didn't actually find out about it until a good three years later.

At age 17, in the middle of summer, and in the midst of a dry spell, I proposed what I liked to call a "business arrangement" with a friend.

This friend was more than a friend. He stuck his tongue in my mouth when I was 13. We spent our entire eighth grade Washington, D.C. trip with his hand surreptitiously down my pants. We fooled around everywhere, and we had a lot of firsts. We parted after middle school, when he was sent to boarding school and I went to a public high school.

We stayed in touch and went for friendly car rides on some weekends and holidays. I hadn't viewed him as a potential sex partner - I was young and had lost my virginity to my high school sweetheart just a year prior. He was back at his parents' for the summer. He was kind and gentle and nothing like me. He liked lacrosse and wore khakis. I had come out as bisexual and listened to Alkaline Trio. But goddamn I was desperate.

I hadn't intended on making it with a virgin. He had told me previously that he met a girl at school named Kate who had popped his intangible cherry, but that it had gone kaput prior to the end of the school year. Finding myself adrift in a sea of losers, he seemed like the perfect option. I gathered my courage and sent him an instant message. I proposed an agreement - hookups whenever one of us felt like it, with no strings attached. It was perhaps my most brilliantly engineered relationship to date. He eagerly agreed, and I made a date for our first rendezvous.

I showed up at his parents' whitewashed stately colonial house around 1 pm. He had the kind of parents who had money but you really didn't know how; they drove brand-new Volvos and played tennis and were never home. He came to the door and planted a sloppy, wet kiss on me. It didn't get much better from there.

We hurriedly made our way upstairs and started getting down to business. It didn't take long before I started wondering why he was so... bad. No rhythm, no natural sense of movement. I got on top and remember staring at the sports-themed border in his still-pristine childhood bedroom, and all I could think about was... balls. I worked my magic and expected results, so we could wrap it up. I was surprised at his longevity. He suggested we go take a shower.

Now this should have been it. I should have known that any man who would get in the shower wearing a condom and proceed to poke around my behind was definitely green when it comes to intercourse. He was too excited and all too eager to push the boundaries of our interaction. I yelped in pain and he backed off. He left me to finish my shower and was ready and waiting afterward with a new rubber. I admired his persistence and obliged, but I was weary of any future hookups. I held out for a month before getting back in the saddle.

We went on to have a lot of good times together, and I let the inelegance of our first time together slip my mind entirely. Several years after everything romantic or sexual fizzled out, on the heels of a very casual conversation, he dropped the bomb that our fateful afternoon was his first time. Part of me was horrified that he hadn't mentioned it sooner. The bigger part of me was relieved. At least he had an excuse for why it was so uncomfortable. My ass didn't.

reason #5,724 why I am now an old lady.

Let me tell you all about my newest hobby. It's really quite thrilling. You see, I go into grocery stores to buy butter and frozen pizza and come out with puzzle books. I am a big fan, in particular, of word searches. I spend hours on end ignoring my husband while attempting to complete word searches in which I look for words like "liege" and "whiskers." Then I go to bed, not after 11 p.m. and not before complaining about how much my feet hurt and attempting to woo my cat into sleeping on the bed beside me.

It's weird when you reach this point that you realize why adults do things, and though you're conscious of this, you don't stop yourself from doing them too. Other things on this list that I've discovered include:

1. arguing about housework
2. getting a pet and treating it like it's a child
3. having less sex
4. having a drink immediately when you get home from work
5. feeling like you should go on a diet
6. placating yourself with stupid crap you don't need (like vintage luggage and xbox games)

I mean, many of these are the consequences of... responsibility. Responsibility of keeping a house, being a good partner, being successful at work and attempting to retain your sanity without absolute exhaustion. But it's hard keeping your edge, man, and with every Dell Official Word Search booklet I buy that advertises for porcelain Yorkies sitting in teacups wearing rhinestone collars, another piece of my youthful hipness dies.

Back to the puzzles. I just completed "Mustache Bash" and had the hardest fucking time trying to find "fu manchu."

get a spine. please.

Today in Dumb Young Women Who Don't Know What the Hell They're Talking About and They're Making the Rest of Us Look Bad, Eva Lorraine Molina busts out some bullshit about how women nowadays aren't "ladylike" enough.

I bet this girl just read "Modesty" by Wendy Shalit and thought she'd chime in with her own narcissistic, implausible, poorly written diatribe.

"On college campuses telling the difference between liberal and conservative women is nearly impossible when they behave in an equally undignified manner. Conservative women should display their values through their lifestyle. This means acting like ladies, because the difference between conservative and liberal women should not just be the way we vote."

Conservative women wear modest clothing. Liberal women dress like they're competing for Miss Hawaiian Tropic. I'm sorry but I can't take anyone seriously who makes sweeping generalizations and divides people into two categories.

She goes on. "A lady does not tell dirty jokes along with men and she does not tolerate men telling dirty jokes in her presence. She does not swear, and she is not considered 'one of the guys.' In spite of new fashion trends, a lady always dresses appropriately, leaving a lot to the imagination. When at a social gathering, a lady does not do things she will regret the next day. Above all, a lady is well-mannered, dignified, gracious, and kind."

A lady has no sense of humor. She does not have fun, and she is not considered "someone you hang out with." In spite of new fashion trends, a lady wears the frumpiest clothes possible, hiding behind her baggy shirts and long dresses because she refuses to be seen as a sexual being. When at a social gathering, a lady sits around as a bored designated driver while her husband drinks thirteen Budweisers. Above all, a lady is passive, quiet, desperate and a doormat.

"Our society holds conservatives to a higher moral standard."

Let me repeat that, because the first time I read it, I choked on my water in a fit of laughter.

"Our society holds conservatives to a higher moral standard."

No wonder the Bush administration tortured prisoners, Larry Craig solicited a man for gay sex in an airport bathroom, Ted Haggard did meth with his hustler boytoy, Tom DeLay laundered campaign money, Mark Foley sent lewd messages to teenage Congressional pages, Jim Bakker served jail time for fraud and Jimmy Swaggert hung out with a prostitute at a hotel in New Orleans.

Really living up to that standard, let me tell you.

"I have heard many of my male peers place women into three categories: 'the ones to mess around with, the ones to date, and the ones to marry.' Though this is a rather crude way of categorizing women, it shows that men do recognize and value the qualities that make a woman a lady. Ladies are the kind of women that men can take home to Mom and Dad and that most men want to marry."

Sweetheart, he might want to marry you, but he's sure as hell not going to want to sleep with you. It doesn't matter if he puts a ring on your finger, you'll sit home barefoot and pregnant while he's sleeping with one of those women who's there 'to mess around with.' Sorry, but party girls always win. Get a grip.

What all of this boils down to, essentially, is this: Women are supposed to be perfect, happy, attractive helpmeets at all times. Any incidence of women showing INDEPENDENCE, any self-actualization, any time women show dissatisfaction with their lot in life or desire to change said lot, we are being "unladylike." And naturally, it's all OUR fault that society has changed and we've been labeled "sluts." It has nothing to do with the fact that men have been responsible for the hypersexualized female image in modern media. It isn't related to the fact that our society is entirely focused on the male gaze. And, in Molina's world, it's up to us to change in order to be respected by men - of course, it's not the responsibility of men to progress past patriarchy's "fuck them, date them, or marry them" axiom, and change to earn OUR respect. Get off the floor, Eva. Have some dignity.

an ode to beaus of days gone by.

Ah, the good old days. When I was young, carefree. When I dated complete morons.

As I get ready to embark on this crazy journey you kids call "matrimony," I can't help but be reminded of my expansive and often frightening romantic history. I find this to be a good time to reflect and put it all behind me as I get ready to start life with the only person I've ever been in a relationship with who can actually deal with all my bullshit.

I put forth, for your examination: three of the most screwed up couplings of my 23-year-old life.


Exhibit A: Chelsea's Traveling Circus, featuring The 180 Degree Man

When I was 18, I was probably the most miserable person on the campus of Northeastern University. I was also the biggest mess. I smoked far too many cigarettes. I ate horrifyingly fattening cafeteria food every day, I wore way too much glitter for my own good, and I drank Southern Comfort religiously. after screwing around with a misguided emo kid, an actor, a software peddler, a pagan and a hipster, I fell for - you guessed it, or, actually, probably not at all - a long-haired World of Warcraft player English major who pretended to play bass. Who was a virgin. Pro-life. And a Republican.

Not a very long story short, we dated for a year and a half. He broke up with me over the phone right after my mom got out of the hospital, where she almost bled to death (not that there's any ill sentiment remaining). It appears that after we split, he cut all of his hair off and voted Obama. How charming! I like to think it was my bold, overtly feminist ramblings, but it seems to me now that he was either 1) naively under the political direction of his overbearing Catholic mother, who continued to buy him action figures for Christmas when he was 19, or 2) claiming to have voted for Bush and and against abortion simply to irritate me. I wish him all the best, regardless of the fact that I actually have no idea who he ever was to begin with.


Exhibit B: Work Relationships are a Bad Idea, Even if One of You Doesn't Work There Anymore

Fresh on the prowl in January 2008, I admitted to a former coworker that I had a crush on him following an inebriated night in the city. We had worked together as co-ops and had spent most of the 6 month period making fun of each other. He admitted the feeling was mutual. Things are supposed to progress grandly from there, are they not? We met up in Allston for drinks. Drinks turned into hanging out at my friend's friend's house until 3 am. That turned into an awkward sleepover on my parents' couch. We made out in a stairwell at Jillian's during a work party. He took me to lunch and left me on the stoop of my office building, and he didn't call me again. Until he found out I met someone else. Turns out he was "cleaning up the mess" of his psychotic meth-addict ex-girlfriend, who has her eyebrows tattooed on. Last I heard, they had a beagle together. Mazel tov.


Exhibit C: I Thought I Did a Dead Guy

I just want to preface this story by saying: when I was 17, I was an idiot.

I met a guy on the internet. I'm not going to go into my internet rant, and I'm not going to discuss how the internet has led to two engagements of people I know. Including my own. All I will say is, I met a guy on the internet. And he was a lot older than me.

Seven years older, to be exact. I invited a guy seven years older than me, who I had never met before, to come to my house. And he did. And he brought pot. And I hooked up with him.

We went for a walk around my neighborhood and he invited me to go "camping." Now, we all know about "camping." "Camping" is not cooking on an open fire, sleeping under the stars and enjoying nature's pleasures. "Camping" is going somewhere so you can have sex in a tent. Foolish me, wanting adventure and more of this guy's pot, agreed. I met him at a forest in Taunton. He regaled me in stories of jam band festivals and sleeping with a woman in her forties so he could get unlimited use of her Cape Cod beach home. He told me all about the trailer he lived in while we sat in my Jeep to avoid mosquitoes. I was bored and he was an asshole. I drove home the next morning and never saw him again.

One day, curious about the hippie douche I went "camping" with, I Googled him. Much to my surprise, I found an obituary for a person of the same name, and approximate same age, from New Bedford, where he claimed to be from, but the obituary was dated 1999. I convinced myself the loser I met assumed a dead man's name so he could screw high school chicks from the North Shore, and fell into a miserable shame-slump about it.

Recent Facebooking has refuted my initial conclusion. The guy I met from the internet did provide me with his real name. He only used his weed to bed me. His about me says it all: "you could never understand this shit." I think I do, Brian. I think I do.

I'm nobody's strumpet.

I have a dream.

I have a dream that I will find a generous benefactor who will give me insane amounts of money to use at my leisure simply for being the fantastic creature that is Chelsea.

Apparently, my dream is not so unique.

I have been pretty intrigued lately at the fuss about SeekingArrangement.com. If you live under or a rock or don't read any of the Gawker blogs, SeekingArrangement helps people, well, seek arrangement. By arrangement, I mean pathetic gold-digging "sugar babies" latching onto rich, lonely, seemingly-sex-starved self-righteous rich jerks. Men attach a net worth to themselves, and a monthly "budget" of what they will spend on the right whore lady. in their words:

"An Arrangement is short for 'Mutually Beneficial Relationship' between two people. Such a relationship is usually between an older and wealthy individual who gives a young person expensive gifts or financial assistance in return for friendship, or intimacy."

It's tempting. I am an American. I like clothes. I want a car. I have bills to pay. Denying my consumer-driven mentality is about as pretentious and phony as asking somebody rich to finance my lifestyle in exchange for my companionship.

I've always found, though, that being a gold-digger is a question of dignity. Either people will take handouts, or they won't. I come from the stock who is too proud to take money, let alone ask for it. Unfortunately, I am a big selfish brat. However, this, like all things, has limits. I obviously have never cared about money when it comes to dating. Anyone who knows my track record is baffled at how I have only been sexually attracted to poor dudes. I'm even marrying one.

Which is why the SeekingArrangement thing just won't settle right with me. it assumes that the greatest currencies in a relationship are money and beauty. That's a sound model, I guess, if you recognize that it's directly related to every advertising ploy in modern society. but it's bullshit if you actually consider that 95% of the population is 1.) not rich and 2.) not beautiful. Furthermore, it perpetuates the idea that the best way to get what you want is to fuck someone who has it - money, power, even a discount at the dry cleaners. And anyone with half a brain will tell you - a truly classy lady would never screw for money.

What I always wanted was a charming, fascinating older woman with no children of her own (and, obviously, a small fortune) to take me under her wing. I would visit with her twice a week and drink extra-dry vodka martinis while she warbled about how much I reminded her of herself at my age. Then she'd give me $2000 to go buy a nice coat and do something about that god-awful hair, a woman should never let her roots show.

If anybody's got any hookups to lonely old ladies with eccentric accents and no heirs, let me know.

desperate guys never had a chance with me.

Some of you may or may not know that I met my fiance on Craigslist. True story. It was a chance encounter that turned out, luckily, to be awesome, but just as easily could have been disastrous. That's why I find it quite funny to read the insanity that is "men seeking women." It reminds me how lucky I am to not be dating anymore. Seriously, these guys are real pieces of work. For every one guy that is genuinely looking for a relationship, there are probably 30 men who are pathetic, entirely narcissistic or just plain dumb.

So check out these beauties I found today.

You: Like Horror Flix,Metal,House/Trance...love to hit the gym, like tattoo's cuz I have a few. (tasteful not obnoxious) Ready to do anything on a moment's notice, caring, not into games, ready to cut to the chase, sense of humor, look fab in a bikini and oh yeah..you are financially independent. I am not set on anyone one thing but like my women who take of themselves(tanning,gym etc) and have a brain to go with it.

"Ready to do anything on a moment's notice"... oh, so you mean, unemployed and without hobbies? I like how this guy uses "ready to cut the chase" as a euphemism for "easy." Also, it's hard to be brainy when you spend all your time in a tanning bed and on the elliptical.


This here gem comes from a man four years away from being a senior citizen:

Would you like to go to dinner and a movie, then back to your place or mine and just lie down and cuddle, hug, kiss and be together? I would.

I wouldn't, jackass.


A young man from Allston boasts about himself to impress you:

As for how I look, you will not be disappointed. I work out a lot, and am very cut, with abs. Please do not be overweight, and if you think your way too good for Craigslist, then you should be emailing me. Again, this is with no strings attached unless you want some strings in there.

If you think you're way too good for Craigslist, then you shouldn't be ON CRAIGSLIST, MORON.

I am impressed by this young gentleman's honesty:

i have an addiction to coffee so if your the type of girl who likes to go out to one of those cafe coffee shop type places, i just might have to tag along. maybe i'll even try one of those fancy type things they sell like lattes or whatever they are called. I went to one the other day and it was pretty cool. One thing i really hate is shaving. so if you like guys to be clean cut all the time, sorry. i'm gonna have a bitchin' beard someday.

You made it to 2009 and you don't know what the fuck a LATTE is? Oh, and thanks for sharing that story about your magical journey to a coffee shop. Really interesting. Glad to know you hate shaving - hopefully, then, you wouldn't expect any woman you date to shave either. Hairy armpits for everyone... bitchin'! He goes on:

another thing i should throw out there is the fact that i do not go to school. schools not for me at the moment. i do have some semesters under my belt and i will return at some point, but not right now. i also do not have a car at the moment because i crashed into a telephone pole during a snowstorm earlier this winter. i'm just waiting til the spring to buy a new one. enough of me rambling on. right now i'm just hanging out drinking coffee, watching sportscenter waiting for the news at noon.

At least you admit that you don't go to school or have a car, and nobody's going to have to waste their time going on a date with you only to find out that you are pretty much useless. I'm also really enamored with the way he said he was going to stop rambling, and then rambled on for another whole sentence about nothing, which also served to indicate that he also doesn't appear to have a job, since he can sit around watching sportscenter all afternoon. FAIL.

I had to read this four times before I even understood it:

am still single guy looking four a girl its hard too go talk to the kinda girls i like becouse am sum what shy am a chill guy how like to hang out watch movies music mostly rock metal sum bules little rap polish hip hop any kind music if i like it drink sum what party play vid game hang with freinds play my guitor i paint drow no fake or made up online girls how say come talk to me on this site i will not go to that site i wanna talk to u here on this site am looking four girls that live close by to me am a cancer sign am 23, 58 polish&irish i was born here live here my hole life pluse too find a little hottie girl only if u girls have pic & phone number so i can call u so send them am four real am a nice guy as u can tell please girls dont wast my time

I'm sure none of you people who made it past the fourth grade can even get what he's trying to say, so I'll decode all you need to hear:

I am for real (despite the fact that I can't differentiate between a conjunction and a number). I am a nice guy, as you can tell. please girls, don't waste my time.

Don't worry, I'm sure after you waste everyone else's time as they try to decode your giant run-on sentence catastrophe, they won't bother.