Why the heck weren’t MY high school dances this exciting? – A Recap of Pretty Little Liar’s “There’s No Place Like Homecoming”

Breaking and entering, destruction of chemistry labs, freaky gang-type tattoos, allusions to incest, creepo fortune tellers, and, quite possibly, a MURDER, all in a single hour?  I’ve got three words for you: Best.  Dance.  Ever.

Last week, I griped about the disappearance of one of my favorite characters on Pretty Little Liars.  Namely, THIS GUY . . .

Yep  . . . unfortunately, that adorable, drunky Brit, Wren, was missing YET AGAIN this week!  However, unlike last week, where I spent a good portion of the lackluster episode pining for his return, this episode pretty much rocked, IN SPITE of his absence.  Shocking, yet true . . .

(Which is not to say that I don’t want him back, ABC Family!  You BETTER bring him back!)

So, in the words of the inimitable Hanna, who, by the way, was my TOTAL hero and main source of comic relief, this week  . . .

(Who knew Queen Bee Former Fatties could be so funny . . . and likeable?) . . .

 “Let’s get this PARTY started!”

Confuscius say, “Who hijacked MY Fortune Cookie?”

In the darkest corners of human nature, there now lurks a NEW evil . . . and it is shaped like this . . .

When the episode opens, Spencer, Emily, and Hanna are in Aria’s bedroom staging an intervention.  We know that Aria is seriously depressed, because she is wearing a  . . . PONYTAIL!

She is also sporting . . . NON-NAME BRAND SWEAT PANTS . . . from LAST SEASON!

Clearly, this is an emergency of EPIC proportions.  To rescue their friend from the dark fathomless abyss of “dressing for comfort,” the girls arrive, armed with trashy gossip magazines and Chinese food.  What more could a girl possibly want?

Without too much effort on their part, the girls eventually manage to snap Aria out of her Mr. Fitz-shaped depression, and convince her to attend the upcoming Homecoming Dance.  With their “mission accomplished,” the girls quickly breakout the takeout and start to chow down.  Before even touching her food, Hanna heads for dessert (girl after my own heart). 

She eagerly rips open her fortune cookie, yanking out that familiarly tiny piece of paper that, to this day, is my FAVORITE part of eating Chinese food.  Unfortunately, Hanna’s cookie-sized “prediction for the future” isn’t anything positive like:  You will come upon great and unexpected riches.  Nor is it something funny like:  You will eat another fortune cookie.  Rather, it says THIS . . .

Lions and tigers and bitches, oh my!  There is no place like homecoming.  See you there, A!

A’s unexpected use of a Wizard of Oz reference in crafting this taunt, can only mean ONE thing.  SOMEONE in the writers’ room has clearly been reading my recaps, in which I generally enjoy comparing “Dead Ali” to the Wicked Witch of the West.

Then again . . . maybe not.

The rest of the girls quickly open their own fortune cookies.  Sure enough, each one bears the SAME cryptic message.  This development obviously begs the very important question of, “How did A get her message into cookies?”

Does she work at the Chinese Restaurant where the girls got their takeout food?  Did she simply order the Fortune Cookies premade online, and slip them into the girls’ takeout bag, at the last minute?  If the latter is true, how did A know that the girls would be ordering at the exact time they did?

I’m with you, Mr. Monkey!  I don’t get it, either.

Hanna Gets Sexercised

The next day, in what was, hands down, the episode’s funniest scene, Hanna attends an abstinence group meeting with her boyfriend, Sean.  During it, she is asked to participate in a “role-playing” exercise, in which she propositions a boy for sex, and he turns her down for Jesus.  The boy doing the rejecting in the skit is a new guy named Lucas.

 I liked Lucas instantly, if only because his nerdiness, and smart-mouthed defensive sarcasm, reminded me so much of the ever-awesome Seth Cohen from that show The O.C.  And you all know how I LOVE me some Seth Cohen!

Socially awkward and snarky, but loveable, high school nerds?  Meet your king!

“Come back to my bedroom,” monotones Hanna, looking bored as ever.

“I can’t do this,” replies Lucas.

“But you’re so hot,” deadpans Hanna.  (Her delivery of this line, in particular, WAS hysterical!  I only wish I had it on MP3, so that I can play it for myself, whenever I’m feeling down.)

“No, what I mean, is I can’t do this with YOU!” Lucas clarifies.

In a very sweet, and unusually honest moment for the show, Lucas explains how a guy of his social status could never even THINK of having the opportunity to have sex with a woman of Hanna’s caliber.  (Clearly, Lucas has never watched The O.C.)  “I have the physical strength of Screech . . .  keeping my virginity is pretty much a done deal for me,” he concluded.

I had to laugh when I heard the random “Screech” reference . . .

After all, the Lucas character is undoubtedly WAY too young to have watched Saved by the Bell, the sitcom that first featured the character (as are, I would imagine, a good percentage of Pretty Little Liars fans).  Heck, I was a little kid when the show first aired, and I am quite a ways away from high school.  Perhaps Lucas remembers Screech, or rather Dustin Diamond, the actor who played him, from Celebrity Fit Club.  

Or, maybe he found that awful sex tape starring the actor, online, while his parents were asleep in the next room.  Seeing THAT would be enought to make any kid want to stay abstinant FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES!  Then again, later on in the same episode, Lucas also made a Hans Solo reference . . .

. . . leading me to conclude that the character is actually a 40-year old, stuck in a 17-year old body. 

(BTW, the next time Hanna propositioned him for sex during role play, Lucas enthusiastically said, “Yes.”  Atta boy, Lucas!  Don’t let nasty sex tapes starring has-been 90’s stars get you down.)

Speaking of a character on this show who looks and acts too old to be in high school . . .

 . . . Hanna was so inspired by her sexercise, that she decided to play matchmaker for her dear friend Emily.  Having recently learned from A, via instant message, that Emily and middle-aged Maya occasionally enjoyed swapping spit with one another, Hanna more or less invites Maya to the dance on Emily’s behalf.  The problem, of course, is that Emily is already going with someone else .  . . Creepy Toby.

I love high school dances.  They always remind me of that old movie, Carrie.

More on Creepy Toby in a bit . . .

Spencer should really stick to what she does best (Hint:  It’s not dating.)

Having unceremoniously tossed aside, and completely forgotten, about the adorable Wren, as if the hottie was yesterday’s dirty underwear, Spencer is totally ready to head off to the Big Dance with Ball Boy Alex, when the episode begins.  The two share a surprisingly sexy scene together pre-dance, when Alex visits Spencer at school, so that the two could color coordinate their outfits.  (Color coordinate, huh?  OK.  Alex is clearly gay.)

When Alex offers to pay for the dance tickets, Spencer awkwardly explains that she has it taken care of.  “It’s just that you . . . work so hard for your money . . . I’d hate to see you waste it on something stupid like this.”

To Alex’s credit, rather than be offended by the obvious implications of that statement, he simply pulls Spencer into a steamy embrace.  “But I WANT to,” he insists.

He then deftly sticks a wad of cash in the pocket of Spencer’s jeans, like she’s a Vegas showgirl, who just gave him a lap dance.  (Way to stay classy, Ball Boy!)

That night, at the dance, Spencer is surprised (and by “surprised” I mean completely miserable) to see that her sister Melissa also in attendance.

Glory Days . . . They’ll pass you by, Glory Days .  . .

Apparently, it is customary for former Homecoming Queens to pass off the  crown to the next Queen Bee.  And this year, they conveniently chose the Homecoming Queen from the class of 2000, Melissa.  This is probably because she was the only former queen lame enough to show up. 

Wait a second . . . Class of 2000?  Did I mishear that? 

Wouldn’t that make Melissa (and Wren) like 12 or 13 years older than Spencer?  And what about that AP History paper Spencer stole off her sister’s laptop?  I could have sworn the date on it was 2004. 

Even if we give Melissa the benefit of the doubt, and say she WAS part of the Class of 2000, that would mean she wrote the AP History paper that Spencer stole, over a decade ago.  And yet, Melissa still remembers it well enough to recognize it as hers on the website where information regarding Spencer’s award is posted.  I seriously doubt I could recognize a paper I wrote my last year in college, let alone high school, especially ten years after the fact. 

Melissa must have superhuman memory.  A nice skill to have.  Too bad she’s such a raging bitch. 

“I heart the Russian Revolution.  I always really identified with that Stalin guy.”

When Spencer becomes too occupied with the mystery of A’s identity to truly show her date, Alex, a good time, Melissa uses it as an opportunity to plant the seeds of destruction in Alex’s mind about the genuine nature of Spencer’s romantic attraction to him.  “She’s just using your poor ass to make our parents mad,” Melissa explains, more or less.

The statement festers in Alex’s brain all evening, and eventually causes Alex to ditch Spencer’s ass at the dance, without even saying goodbye.  When Spencer confronts Melissa about her misdeeds, the latter explains matter-of-factly.  “I didn’t have to do much.  You screwed that one up all on your own.”

“Who, moi?”

And while I HATE to EVER agree with Evil Melissa, I have to admit she DOES have a point here . . .

But BEFORE all that happened, Spencer and Alex went to visit a fortune teller, who had a penchant for tarot card reading.  (Yeah, we didn’t have THOSE at my dances either.)  At first, it seemed like a typical reading.  The fortune teller droned on and on about a bad relationship, and not trusting people and blah, blah, blah.  The whole thing would have sucked if A didn’t swoop in to make it exciting.  “Say Bye, Bye to Your BFF,” she somehow managed to scrawl on one of the cards. 

Woah!  How did A do that?  Clearly A is a superhero with magical powers!

 . . . or should I say  . . . supervillain.

Awkward much?

As soon as Aria was assigned to help out at the “bean bag toss” table at the dance (which, apparently, had some sort of “carney theme” or whatever), you just knew she would somehow wind up working it with Ezra Fitz and his new uber dweeby haircut.

“I wanted something to match my pasty white legs.”

The two bicker a bit about whether Aria knows “A” and whether she told “A” about her relationship with Fitzy.  Eventually Aria gets frustrated and storms off.  Later, a jealous, Fitzy spies Aria dancing with Hanna’s beau, Sean.  Fitz looks PISSED!

Glory Days . . . They’ll pass you by, Glory Days . . .

To Fitzy’s credit,  when Aria confronted him in the hallway later that night, I really thought, Fitzy was going to say something d-baggy about her “moving on” so quickly.  Instead, he breaks into an honestly heartwarming (even to a TOTAL cynic like me) speech about how he wishes that he could give Aria a good time in the same way boys Aria’s own age could: taking her to movies, introducing her to friends, attending dances together, banging her in the gym locker room, etc.  Fitzy then admits to Aria he got his haircut to impress her, and my heart melted a bit. 

But I STILL hate that awful haircut . . .

Creepy Toby ALWAYS gets the girl (even if she is, technically, a relative)

No one much approved of Emily’s taking Creepy Toby to the Homecoming Dance.  In fact, the couple’s mere entrance into the auditorium causes the entire room to literally turn blue with fear.  (Seriously, what was with the weird lightning in this episode?   Half the dance scenes were lit like a live actions Smurfs movie!)

Which begs a very important question: which Pretty Little Liar would get to be Smurfette?

One of the reasons for the Pretty Little Liars being so “blue” about Emily dating Toby, was that they kind of /sort of thought he killed Ali / was “A.”  You see, apparently, Dweeby Toby found time out of his busy “being a psycho” schedule to get a really gnarly tattoo on his stomach (I thought you had to be 18 to do that.) 

The tattoo said “901 free at last.”  Apparently, the number is not his zip code, but rather the day that  .  . . wait for it . . . Ali disappeared.

To further complicate matters,  Hanna breaks into Jenna’s shrinks office.  (Oh yeah, she totally did that — because shop lifting, car theft/ destruction, and breaking and entering weren’t enough to quench future gangleader Hanna’s taste for crime.  She missed being crowned Homecoming Queen to do it too.)

I may look sweet and innocent, but I’m a totally bad ass MO FO!

Once there, she learns that Toby’s been sexing his stepsister, Blind Jenna . . .

. . . and was in town when Ali disappeared!

Back at the dance, Toby invites Emily to the chemistry lab “to talk.”  Things start out innocently enough, with Emily admitting to Toby that she may very well be a Big Ole Lessie.  But then they take a turn for the frightening, when Toby utters that one line EVERY heretofore mild-mannered serial killer says in movies, before he turns on you and literally eats your face off . . .

“We all have secrets, Emily!”

As if that wasn’t enough of a warning, Emily receives a text message at that moment from Hanna saying, “You’re with A’s killer now.”

Emily freaks out and backs away from Creepy Toby.  He lunges toward her.  Thinking fast, Emily knocks him into a glass cabinet in the chem lab, causing glass to shatter all around him.  Clearly Toby has the same superpowers as A (or IS actually A), because he recovers from the massive fall into glass in mere seconds, and chases Emily down the hallway.  She trips over something and falls . . .

But the final scene just MADE the episode for me.  In it, we see a sign that says, “Rosewood Population 3,488” (or something . . . I can’t really remember the exact number.   I just know it was pretty darn small).  Then, suddenly, a black jacketed hand sprays white spray paint over the final “8,” and uses black spray paint to change it to a “7.” 

The question is . . . who died?  And how does the vandal KNOW about it?

An Excerpt from Life Sucks, Death Bites: A Novel by Julie Kushner

Food Mart, Inc.                                                                                                                                             

2 Metro Corporate Drive                                                                                                                      

 Los Angeles, CA 90001                                                                                                                       

Attn: Fred Thompson, CEO

Dear Mr. Thompson:

I’m not usually the type of person who writes letters like the one you are reading right now.  OK, that’s a lie.  I’m exactly the type of person who writes these sort of letters.  But that is not really the point . . .

“The point” is that my most recent experience at one of your Food Mart stores (62 Blueberry Hill, Los Angeles, CA 90015) was particularly harrowing.  No, “harrowing” is not a strong enough word.  “Downright terrifying” is more accurate. 

 It was like something out of that awful horror movie franchise.  You know, the one where that crazy guy with the creepy mask, whose name I can’t remember (Bulls Eye?  Puzzle Piece?), makes people choose between doing something truly awful to another human being or dying an excruciatingly painful death.  Of course, you couldn’t pay me to watch such a movie.  So, I’m afraid that I cannot be much more specific than that.  But I think you catch my drift . . .

Anyway, as CEO of Food Mart, I believe that you have a right and a duty to know what is going on at your stores.  Furthermore, as a consumer, I believe that I have a right and a duty to make you aware that at least one of your stores just so happens to be a toxic death trap.

This past Sunday, around 8:00 AM Pacific Time, just as your store was opening, I drove to Food Mart for my weekly purchase of groceries.  Upon arrival, I exited my car, only to be attacked by a vicious shopping cart. Said shopping cart was clearly on the loose and out for revenge, against what I don’t know. (Perhaps it was angered about being shackled to such a dangerous, ill-kept store). 

Owing to the fact that it was a windy day (weather.com said winds could reach speeds of up to 50 mph that Sunday), and that none of your associates thought it worth their precious time to return said cart to its rightful holding pen, located mere inches away, the Errant Shopping Cart flew right into me at a frighteningly fast speed (50 mph?).  By some miracle, the cart narrowly missed squashing my body into the side of my car, arms and legs akimbo, as if I were a large fly.

Have you any idea how many fatal accidents have been caused by shopping carts in the past year alone, Mr. Thompson?  I’ll spare you the specific statistics.  But, rest assured, there were a lot . . . 

You see, I am in the business of evaluating risk, so it is literally my job to know these things.  If I told you what I actually did for a living I would have to kill you.  OK, that is a lie too . . . the “having to kill you” part, I mean, not the “risk evaluation” part.  I just always wanted to use that cliché for some reason.  But I digress.  Let’s get back to the Toxic Death Trap, shall we? 

Upon regaining my composure (In addition to almost dying, my morning brush with death nearly gave me a heart attack.), and selecting a shopping cart other than the one obviously intent on murdering me, I entered the store and hastened toward the vegetable aisle.  You see, I’ve kind of been trying to lose a few pounds.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m fat or anything, just . . . plump . . . chubby . . . overweight.  And, as far as risky behaviors go, being any of the three aforementioned things is probably right up there with bungee jumping, riding a motorcycle, or going hunting with Dick Cheney.

So I get to the vegetable aisle, and what do I see?  This teenage girl, with long, obviously unwashed hair, is fondling the tomatoes with her unclean hands!!!!  I stood watching the girl for nearly five minutes.  In that time, she must have slimed every single solitary Food Mart tomato with her greasy fingertips. 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she then starts having this really loud grotesque- sounding coughing fit.  So, there she is, sort of covering her mouth, but there are these little gaps between her fingers.  You can actually see the phlegm and mucus escaping right through them, coating the tomatoes with a sticky layer of germs (probably the Swine Flu or the Bubonic Plague).  After that, she goes back to fondling the tomatoes . . . AGAIN!

Now, to my knowledge, this woman was not an employee of Food Mart.  At least, she didn’t appear to be wearing one of those red smocks they always wear (which, by the way, always give off an unlaundered look).   But, nevertheless, shouldn’t there be some sort of policy against patrons of Food Mart touching unwrapped food with their bare diseased hands?  Studies have shown that our hands are the dirtiest parts of our bodies.  (You would think it would be our asses or our private parts, but that’s actually a common misconception . . .)  If, by 8 AM, Food Mart tomatoes have already been contaminated with the plague once, lord knows what state they are in by noon, or 5 PM.

Needless to say, I avoided the vegetable aisle completely after that.  I mean, I guess I could have sprung for one of those pre-packaged overpriced salad bags.  But those things are so riddled with pesticides and growth hormone that you could hardly call them nutritionally sound.  And my physician wonders why I can’t lose the pounds . . .

Suddenly overcome with an intense urge to wash my own hands, I finally located the “Employee Bathroom” in the corner of the store, but only after asking about five people where it was and getting no answer.  (So, let me get this straight, Food Mart doesn’t have public restrooms?  Better that your customers feel free to shit and vomit on the floor, after inevitably being taken ill upon eating bad tomatoes, right?)

In addition to smelling like the fetid armpit of a marathon runner, and being “unisex” (I despise unisex bathrooms because I am deathly afraid of tampons and the women who use them.  I mean, really, what kind of perverted SOB would invent such a thing?  A blood flotation device . . . on a string . . . beyond disgusting), there was so much dirt, empty rolls of toilet paper, and sanitary napkin wrappers (a bit better than tampons, but not much) on the floor  that I thought I had somehow landed in the flatbed of a garbage truck instead of a non-public restroom in a very public establishment. 

As I entered the bathroom, one of your employees was flushing the toilet (at least he flushed).  However, when he went to wash his hands, I noticed that he turned on the cold water (not the hot water, mind you, which is necessary if you want to actually kill any germs on your hands) for only 5 seconds.  FIVE SECONDS!  That is barely enough time to find a working soap dispenser (2 out of the 3 in this bathroom were completely empty), let alone thoroughly clean your hands prior to the preparation and handling of food.  Physicians say you should wash your hands for at least 20 seconds (roughly the length of time it takes you to sing the Happy Birthday song twice through) in order to properly cleanse your hands following a stint on the toilet.  After this encounter, I knew I had to avoid, not only the vegetable aisle, but any unwrapped food prepared or handled by members of your staff.

Despite coming to Food Mart with a shopping list that was two notebook pages long, I arrived at the checkout counter with just a six-pack of Charmin Ultra Strong toilet paper (less likelihood of leakage), a tube of Crest toothpaste, and a package of pre-wrapped Hersheys miniatures: three items (eight, if you count each of the Charmin rolls separately, which, I don’t).  Either way, I was significantly under the 15 item limit required to use the Express Checkout Lane. 

Apparently, however, I’m the only Food Mart shopper capable of counting, because the four people in line in front of me each had a shopping cart full of at least 16 items.  One person had 32 items.   I know because I counted them . . . twice.  Instead of politely directing these cheaters to another aisle, YOUR cashier proceeded to ring each of them up . . . very . . . slowly . . . one . . . item . . . at . . . a  . . . time.

To make matters worse, each of these patrons waited until the person in front of them had paid in full and exited the store to unpack their groceries onto the conveyer belt.  And the person before me purchased, you guessed it, among other things, seven diseased tomatoes that she didn’t even bother to put in a plastic bag prior to paying.   She then spread her items out on the conveyor belt, so liberally, that there was no room for my items at all (not that I could possibly use the grotesquely tainted belt now).  When it came to be my turn, I had to rush to unpack and bag my items (What?  No one believes in having bag boys anymore?) so that I could be finished in time for the next person to be rung up.  It was very stressful. 

By the time I exited Food Mart that morning, I felt like I needed a stiff drink.  But I abstained, because it was only 8:30 AM, and I am not foolhardy enough to drink and drive. 

So you see, the way things are now, I cannot possibly continue to shop at Food Mart if I wish to maintain my health and sanity.

Thank you for your attention to these matters.  Hopefully, they can be dealt with in an efficient and expedient manner.

                                    Cordially,

                           Gerald Blumenstein

Chapter 1

Happy Death Day to Me!

Risk Assessment Analysis:

Odds of being killed by lightning:       2,320,000 to 1

Odds of being killed in a plane crash:            52.6 million to 1

Odds of dying in your shrink’s office during some ridiculous therapy session involving a vampire bat:      Actually, that kind of shit tends only to happen to me . . .

            “Hey there, Mr. Blumenstein!  How was your day?”

            Every evening, when I return to my apartment building, the concierge, i.e. the lanky pimple-faced pubescent son of my landlord, asks me the above question, in his trademark faux – cheery, sounds like he’s been kicked in the nuts a few too many times, voice.  On most days, I refuse to answer this inquiry, because, personally, I find it offensive.  Now I know some of you readers out there are probably thinking I’m rude for snubbing Little Jimmy over there, who, after all, was just trying to be polite, right?  Make “conversation”?  Well allow me to explain myself.

              On principle, I resolutely refuse to respond to any question where the asker doesn’t give two shits about my reply.  Am I supposed to believe that Little Jimmy is truly concerned for my well being?  That he is actually expecting me to provide him with any sort of response to his question other than “Fine and Dandy.  How was yours?”  Because, honestly, most of the time, my days are total and complete crap. 

              But does Little Jimmy want to hear about that?  Does he want me to tell him all about the fact that I am nearly forty, and haven’t had sex in six years?  That my boss hates me?  That I’m a massive disappointment to my family?  No!  Little Jimmy wants me to lie, and I refuse to perjure myself for some snot-nosed kid.

                     And yet, on this particular day, circumstances have unfolded in such an extreme way during the past twelve or so hours, that I decide, just this once, to answer Little Jimmy.  And to his inane question, instead of merely grunting or simply ignoring him, like I usually do, I respond, “Well, aside from being brutally murdered, my day was pretty fucking fabulous.”

                  Now, technically, this too is a lie . . . well, the part about my day being fucking fabulous, at least.  My day, quite literally, sucked.  Nevertheless, this was the answer I gave Little Jimmy, or whatever the twit’s actual name is, just to see how he would respond.

                  “Ha, ha.  Good one, Mr. Blumenstein,” squeaks the boy wonder.  “You have a great night,” he chirps after me, as I head across the lobby to the elevator.

                  See what I mean?   You try to impart an important piece of personal information to someone, and all they do is laugh in your face.  Sighing, I reach into my messenger bag, pull out a tissue, secure it tightly over my pointer finger with a rubber band, and enter the already open double doors of the elevator, which, thank the Lord, is empty.  With my covered finger (Did you know that nearly 15% of all elevator buttons are covered with human feces?), I press the number 6, which responds to my command by lighting up.  Or at least it would, if my dipshit landlord ever got around to fixing the elevator.  Instead, the elevator door closes and I ride in utter and complete darkness for six floors, which I mind less today than I would under normal circumstances.

                 By the time I enter my apartment, I am dead tired (har de har, har).  Upon removing the tissue from my finger, triple locking my door, and fastening the chain across it, I then bend down to put my “doorstop” (a six by four inch cement block) in front of it.  Seem a bit excessive to you?  Did you know that the odds of having your apartment broken into by a gang of hoodlums are as small as one in 1,000?  And if that was to happen to me, who do you think would come to my rescue?  My 84-year old neighbor, Ms. Tingle?  My dipshit landlord?  Little Jimmy?  I’d rather take my chances throwing out my back (which I’ve done about five times since I moved in) with the cement block.  Thank you very much.

                           My apartment safely secured, I slouch dejectedly in front of the full- length mirror situated in my entrance foyer.  Staring back at me is a pasty, prematurely bald (although, I gather, once you pass thirty the “premature” label is debatable) paunchy loser in an ill-fitting suit.  “Still ugly,” I mutter under my breath at my mirror image, who, having taken offense to my comment, glares back at me as if to say “Pot calling kettle . . . “ or, whatever the heck that saying is supposed to be. 

                      For the record, all those movies and books that would lead you to believe that people who turn into . . . what I turned into . . . suddenly become all “Brad Pitt” in the looks department are a crock of shit.  That is unless, of course, you are Brad Pitt, in which case, more fucking power to you, I guess . . .

                    Without passing Go or collecting 200 dollars, I head directly to my bed and flop down on my mattress fully dressed.  But I can’t sleep, because my head is spinning and the wooden headboard hovering over me makes me feel as though I am sleeping in a coffin, which, while apropos of the situation, disturbs me greatly.  Thirsty, I head to my fridge, and take a swig of milk straight from the carton (which is actually statistically shown to be more germ free than glassware, especially if you live alone like me).  Even though the expiration date on the carton is still over a week away, the milk tastes rancid, so I spit it out and spill the contents of the carton into the sink.  I then pop open a can of non-name brand soda (I’ll be damned if I have to pay over a dollar for a can of pop when the fifty cent cans are just as good), but it tastes terrible too.

                  Resolved to my fate, I reach into my messenger bag and remove a bulky mason jar I received earlier that evening from Dr. Freenly.  Taking a deep breath, I open the jar, close my eyes, and pour its entire contents down my throat.  The red liquid is warm and thick, but it feels good going down.  So good, that I don’t even mind it when some of the liquid trickles down my chin and chunky globule lands on and ruins my brand new shirt.

                    Once I have finished, I forlornly rinse out the empty jar and place it with the rest of the recycling.  To my relief, I recall that Dr. Freenly has placed two more jars of the stuff in my bag.  I extract them and place them on my counter, staring at them in confusion. 

               Am I supposed to refrigerate these?  I think to myself.  Do NOT Refrigerate! reads a handwritten label hastily secured on one of the jars.  After putting the two jars away in a nearby cabinet, I slump down into a chair in front of my kitchen table and begin to ponder my last hours among the living . . .

___________________________________________________________________

Thirsty for more?  Find out how to purchase Life Sucks, Death Bites by clicking on the following link: http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/life-sucks-death-bites/6217003

Being Erica – The Best Show You Probably AREN’T Watching (But should be . . .)

 

If you had the opportunity to go back in time and relive any moment in your past.  Where would you go?  Would you change anything about the experience, or would you simply let things remain as they always were?  If you did decide to make changes, what would those changes be?  How would those changes affect the way your life is now?

Last night marked the U.S. premiere of Season 2 of the Canadian television show Being Erica.  The show airs exclusively on Soapnet, which is why many of you have probably never heard of it.  However, for those of you who are curious, you can catch the entire first season on Hulu.com.  New episodes will air on Soapnet Wednesday, nights at 10 . . .

The show chronicles the life of Erica Strange, a woman in her early thirties, who, like most of us, leads a life that is plagued by past regrets.  When we first meet her in Season 1, Erica’s regrets have paralyzed her, hindering her ability to find love and success in her life.  Sounds depressing, right?  Wait . . . just hear me out.

It is at this point in our story that Erica meets Dr. Tom, a therapist who specializes in managing regrets.  However, Dr. Tom isn’t just your average therapist.  He has the power to send Erica back in time to face her regrets head on.  During her time travels, Erica has the unique opportunity to either change her past, or simply come to terms with it, so that she can better cope with her future. 

Each week, Erica tackles a new regret from her past, usually in relation to some problem she is facing in the present day.  Part of the fun of the show is trying to pick up on all of the past pop culture references, as you watch Erica shuttle through different stages of her life  (bad eighties hair, and cheesy early nineties music are some of the show’s main staples).  Erica is a deeply flawed, but intelligent and highly relatable character.  The actress who plays her, Erin Karpluk, does an  excellent job of illustrating a wide range of ages and experiences.  Karpluk has a sort of agelessness about her that makes her believeable whether she is playing a grad student in her early twenties or a thirty something junior editor at a publishing company.  (Although, admittedly, she looks just a bit long in the tooth for those obligatory high school flashbacks.)

One of the cool things about the show is that, as viewers, we are given the unique opportunity to watch Erica evolve and change with each passing episode.  The result is surprisingly therapeutic.  In fact, it is difficult to watch the show without pondering your own regrets and the way in which they impact your life. 

And in this economy, free psychotherapy sessions are nothing to sneeze at . . .