Some commentary de Trixie:

1. No surprises in the "who would be the one to lose their hair first" question.

2. Jon is still the most unenthusiastic performer and awkward dancer ever. It's almost painful to watch.

3. Um, Jordan? Looks EXACTLY the same. I want the name of his dermatologist.

4. When Joey put that hat on and belted out the opening line of Please Don't Go Girl I teared up. Don't judge me.

5. There were hundreds of people in Rockefeller Center this morning who are worse packrats than I am. Seriously, sweetie? You kept your "extra large Hangin' Tough button?" It's nice to know I'm not alone.

Somehow I managed to make it out of the land of methadone clinics and popeye's chicken franchises without needing to dial 911. When I came in to the office this morning (for an 8am conference call...on a FRIDAY), I checked my phone and saw that I had 6 missed calls:

1. Booty Call*
2. Booty Call*
3. Mom
4. BCBG informing me of a Sale
5. Girlfriend
6. Booty Call*

I'm so glad BCBG left a message.

*Please let it be known that the three booty calls were all the same guy (I'm not THAT much of a hussy). He's persistent (and likely intoxicated). I'm sorry, dude.

I dreamt that I was BFF with Victoria and we were shopping. She drove a Honda Del Sol. It was weird. And we went to Target. She told me she always buys her handbags at Target. And I said, "But what about all of the Birkins?"

"They're fake, love," she said. "Target is mayjah! Now hurry up, we have to go pick up Marc (Jacobs, of course) at JoAnn Fabrics."

And then I woke up in a cold sweat.

Here's my list (Please note, they are in no particular order. Unless I happen to actually meet one of them...then you're number one, baby. You've always been number one...call me!):

1. David Beckham: Absolutely no commentary needed. He's quite possibly the perfect male specimen...as long as he doesn't talk. (Ok, so I added commentary...shoot me).

2. Michael Phelps: That's right. The body makes the list. Don't hate.

3. Adam Scott: A beautiful professional golfer/Burberry model with an Aussie accent? Yes please!

4. Clive Owen: I always say the movie Closer is the most unrealistic movie ever because no woman would EVER dump Clive Owen for that awkward midget, Jude Law. It just wouldn't happen. Clive is hot.

5. Geoff Stultz: I watched both seasons of October Road in their entirety (some episodes twice) because of him. That's love right there, bitches. At one time I was going to have a t-shirt made that says, "I (heart) Eddie Latekka." That's right...I'm as pathetic as you think I am right now. But come on, he dates the chubby girl. It's like the cutest story line ever!

That's my list as of 5/5/08. I'm a fickle bitch. It can change.

It's on...

I'd just like to take a moment to talk to you about my new shoes, the MBT Karani's! I'm wearing them everywhere, and they are totally helping the blood circulation in my legs!

Aren't they fab? They're as fab as a gay guy in my bed. That's a ten on my fabometer!

2. My Blackberry: I don't know why I waited so long to embrace the Smartphone thing (it could be because I'm about as techie as a senior citizen). It's still way too much phone for me, but I love how I discover something new it does every day.

3. My new golf bag: So I've talked myself down off the "I need to have the houndstooth, Nike golf bag" ledge, and I'm embracing my love for the bag I got for Christmas. I know, I know...you'll all be able to sleep tonight.

4. These shoes: I'm not going to tell you the story of how these shoes came to live with me because it would make you even more jealous of my luckiness, but I am absolutely in love with these shoes. They don't look like it, but they go with everything. And I am one tall drink of water in these bitches.

5. The weather today: I don't want to jinx the fine residents of Chicago, but we may be out of the water, folks. Wrigley, street fests, day drinking, North Ave beach...here I come!

I love you!

Let's call a truce. I'm sorry I hacked into your site and posted that you love golf. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't sleep a wink last night for fear of your retribution (it also could have been the bad Mexican I ate for dinner, but we won't talk about that).

I love you!

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Now that that's over with...there will be absolutely NO more disparaging comments about Adam, Sergio, or any other extremely masculine member of the PGA tour. Failure to comply will result in your commenting privileges being revoked.

You've been warned. Fear my wrath.

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How did we come out of the same woman? Seriously.

And do not ever--EVER--make fun of GSP's shoulders. Much magic lies within them.

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Now that I've stopped laughing I have a few comments:

Let's be honest here. Which is more gay? This?

or This?

I'm just sayin'...

Also, I was not wearing pigtails during the Danny Eagle incident she speaks of. Pigtails? In 5th grade? I don't think so. The fur trimmed jacket was hot though. And I don't know what this "front kick" thing is, but she nailed him in the balls, I cried, and then we ran home. That happened a lot come to think of it.

It should also be noted that I don't "sleep with gay men." It's only happened twice (maybe three times...there's one I'm still on the fence about). And they were both straight at the time.

My stance on facial hair is not very strong. I feel like sometimes it's god awful, and sometimes it's kind of sexy. However, even when it's kind of sexy, it's complete murder on your girl's skin. You see, we get what's called make out rash. I recently has to slather my face with vaseline for two whole days after a date. I'm still breaking out. This is why I prefer the men I date to be clean shaven.

But let's discuss the difference between good and bad facial hair. Good facial hair means a little scruffiness all around. Bad facial hair mean a mustache, goatee, or any type of creative facial grooming. Not following me? I'll show you.

It's Sunday, so of course I've been watching golf (tangent: my boyfriend, Adam, won today, and looked SO fucking good doing it in a gorgeous Burberry sweater). So I'll use a golf example.

Sergio on Thursday = Good.

Sergio on Friday = Bad.

I'm not sure what's going on with the rodent that's taken up residence on his chin, but it has to stop. Did he get drunk and decide to shave his beard off? Was he running late and didn't have time to finish? Or does he think this is ok?

This is NEVER ok, boys. Never. Ok.

**Gratuitous photo of Adam in the gorgeous Burberry sweater holding his new trophy below...Isn't he just the dreamiest?

Boy I really brought the crazy with that last entry, huh?

Wow...

Thanks for all of your kind words of encouragement, but really, I'm fine. Just stressed out about work and some things and they all just bubbled up...inside Loehmann's. Seriously, I'm fine. If I have another breakdown in Nordstrom Rack then you can start really worrying about me.

Speaking of crazy...

I have an appointment with Chaz tomorrow morning. He just called me to tell me that he's fighting with his salon, so he's going to do my hair at his house tomorrow morning. Mind you, last week he cancelled my appointment because his car was impounded and his registration revoked, so he had to deal with that. It's a good thing he's a genius...

Whilst browsing in the State Street Loehmann's during my lunch break, I had a kinda/sorta meltdown. (Tangent: I have NEVER been more disappointed in a store in my life than the State Street Loehmann's. Besides being a completely uncomfortable shopping experience with the full length windows for walls - like I really want all of my coworkers to walk by and see me bargain shop? - it is grossly cluttered, and overall just a mess. It's more TJ Maxx than Loehmann's, and it pisses me off...end tangent). I had just found a killer pair of gorgeous, white, Nanette Lepore pants that made my ass look outstanding for 75% off, and was walking around with them slung over my arm. I was feeling good.

I wandered over to the dress section and started digging (because that's what you have to do at this Loehmann's...dig), and I saw it... The CUTEST little DVF sundress EVER! This was a good day. I was going to land a DVF dress and a pair of Nanette Lepore pants on the same day. I picked up the dress, and it was a size 12. Panic set it. I started furiously flipping through the rack and saw another one. In a size 2. I attacked the surrounding racks. No more dress. Mother Fuck. I had to have this dress. It was supposed to be mine. It was already packed in the suitcase in my mind and going to LA with me next month.

I grabbed the 12 off the rack and ran back to the dressing rooms to ask if they had it in a 4, 6 or 8 (I'm flexible, and I have a fabulous seamstress). Of course they didn't. I started to think about how much it would cost for a seamstress to make the 12 fit me. And for a fleeting moment I contemplated a breast reduction so the 2 would fit (I'm pathetic, I know, but it was only for a fleeting moment). And then I started to cry. Now granted, I have a lot going on right now, and the crying was definitely more about everything else and less about the dress, but the point of this story is...I cried in Loehmann's.

I'm pathetic.