Oh, nertz. I left my notes at home. And I can’t remember anything except Claire finally got the axe. Lauren flailed around and managed to stay, but not before Paulina called her Frankenstein. The judges are getting particularly nasty about Dominique-inique-inique and Fatima. Whitney is a size 10, which in the model universe is fattyboombafatty.

So I give you this, instead of a recap:

I had been sure that Lauren reminded me of some vintage blonde starlet, but I just couldn’t remember which one. And then, in a moment of serendipty, she appeared in some random story or another on TMZ… a where are they now thing. AHA! Lauren was separated at birth from Martha Plimpton!

Look, I tried. Really I did. I joined Blogging 365, and I wrote entries and I tried to keep up. But then.

I went to Arrowmont*, and despite the promises of wifi, the only place I could get a signal was outside the dining hall or in my studio. The entries slacked off. They were all there in my head, just waiting to be set to pixels and the publish button pushed. Really. Then the long ride home from Tennessee to Miami. Sixteen hours, more or less, during which time, I felt the first tickle. Sure enough, by the time we got home, I had a nascent bronchial infection. A-fucking-gain. Enough. I’m not even a smoker.

Last week saw me back on antibiotics, and nasal sprays and reflux inhibitors and steroid inhalators and who knows what else. Since I’d been out of the office for a week, there was crap piled up to the ceiling waiting for me to sort and answer and deal. The weekend was spent trying to find a cocktail dress for a woman of a certain age (me) who has not had plastic surgery or spent every waking hour in a gym for the past few years. I was offered tacky, mother of the bride wear, or ho-wear or totally, ridiculously over-priced baby doll micro minis. I explained, sometimes patiently, and sometimes not, that I am just a poor but honest working girl who had the good fortune to be named employee of the year, and therefor had to spend money I do not have (and which, unfortunately) is not part of the award, to buy a dress to wear to the event. I foolishly believed that I had shoes in my closet that could work with any dress I was able to buy. Needless to say, despite being Miz Shoes, and despite the better part of my closet being devoted to shoes, there wasn’t a pair in there that worked.

I was subjected to endless advice on the glory that is Spanx. Here’s an idea, people: instead of trying to cram my Rubenesque curves into a skin-tight sheath, why don’t you show me something with a full skirt? Non? OK, fine. I’ll just slip on that spandex sausage casing that goes from knee to under my bra (by design, I may add) and try on the shiny, stretchy things you throw in the dressing room. Here’s another tip: I AM beige. Do not give me a beige dress and tell me it’ll be fabulous. It will not. Nor will the newly popular yellow do my skin any favors. It will, in fact, make me look recently disinterred. Not a good look for anyone, and certainly not for someone being feted by hospice.

Finally, after throwing myself on the mercy of the snappiest dressed gay clerk I could find, I had my dress. Chiffon, print, floaty, snug in the bust, covers the shoulder tat and a multitude of other sins, and does not require Spanx. I then went downstairs to the shoe department. A young man with attitude showed me the shoes he thought would look good with my dress. What was apparent, but unstated, was that he also thought I was older than dirt and unable to hold my brittle bones upright in a pair of stilletos. He showed me a low, chunky heel with narrow little straps in pastel patent leather. I looked at him. He smiled sweetly at me and then at the shoes. They’d be perfect, he said. You’re right. They would be perfect, I said, IF I were playing bingo with Blanche Devereaux and the rest of the Golden Girls at the fellowship hall.

Very clever, he sneered and left me to wait on someone more fabulous and less clever. I found another salesman, one who rolled his eyes at the granny flats and sighed, Oh, puh-leeze gurl. Then he led me over to a pair of purple satin pumps with a pink/multi lizard trim around the instep. Fabu! I exclaimed. And bought them and a pair of magenta ombre patent leather spiked heel fuck me pumps. Just because I can.

Anyway, I’m sorry that I’m not keeping you amused in my usual style. Deal with it.

Day two at Arrowmont. It snowed off and on all day yesterday. Big fat, feathery flakes that didn’t stick. Except for about half an hour. Yesterday I made balls and disks and beads and tablet shapes and a cube. Today we learn how to merge elements and incorporate found (or otherwise acquired) objects in our felt objects. Here’s my work station, and a shot of the snow.

I’m waiting for the cafeteria to open here at Arrowmont. It’s the first day of my fiber/felting/ornament class. Whee. This is the strangest place. The school is across the street from the carnival of the vanities known as Gatlinburg. There’s a Hard Rock Cafe and Dollywood and Elvis impersonators. This whole place is like cheezy Amurikana Vegas on some pretty bad acid. Then, on this side of the street is an Arts & Crafts movement colony. I’m never crossing the street.

Ah, I smell coffee and bacon. Life has just gotten better.

This week we open with confessionals. Fatima is shocked, SHOCKED to have found herself in the bottom two when she knows that she’s so good. Dominique-inique-inique proceeds to eat up two minutes of my life spouting off about himself in the third person: Dominique is this and Dominique is that and Dominique has visualized himself winning and becoming America’s Next Top Tranny. Whitney tells us that Dominique-inique-inique is mind-boggling delusional, and a stank ho who never shuts up. And your point?

Whitney wanders off to the kitchen and offers some banana bread to Stacy-Ann, who squeaks that she isn’t interested in becoming “fat” like Whitney. Whitney doesn’t slap the squeak out of her, despite Miz Shoes best hopes. That brings us to the first Tyra Scrolling Excuse for Mass Squealing of the evening. You know your ABCs, but what about the three Cs? Carbohydrates, class and comprehension? Nope. It’s Benny Ninja and Vendela (supermodel star of Scandinavian Next Top Model) in a big old warehouse to teach the girls (and Dominique-inique-inique) how to pose in the big three Cs: catalog, commercial and couture. Benny Ninja asks for someone to bring it to the center and Fatima leaps forth to be first. Whitney denies that she looks like Anna Nicole Smith when Benny and Vendela try to peg her thusly. Lauren gives nothing, Marvita is all over the place with nothing. Then the drag queen and the ice queen announce that Dominique-inique-inique is the shit. Oh, great. Like he needs to hear that to pump up his head any fatter. Dominique-inique-inique says that vogueing? Posing? Something or other is what Dominique-inique-inique is all about. Enough with the third person, Mr. Bignose.

We head back to the loft for this season’s telephone drama. Big Whitney has drawn up a little roster so that everyone can get a guaranteed shot at the phone booth. We see the list, and that each person has gone in at their designated time, for their designated 15 minutes and scratched off their names. Except for Dominique-inique-inique. He’s hanging in bed waiting to be called. Only nobody’s calling anyone, it’s each model for her or himself. Consequently Dominique-inique-inique misses his time to call his child. This becomes Whitney’s fault. Of course. Which leads to much screaming and name calling. Whitney moves her neck at Dominique-inique-inique which sends Dominique-inique-inique right off the end of the plank. He says that Whitney shows him no respect, and Whitney says that’s because you have given me no reason to respect you. He calls Whitney a racist, and then confessionalizes a definition of racism that you will never find in OED. Or even the Webster’s College Dictionary, condensed and abridged.

Either way, this makes Whitney’s head explode with rage. I am from the South, she says, and calling someone from the South racist is fighting words. Also? Her BFF is Black, so back the fuck off. She’s ready to tear Dominique-inique-inique’s fat head off his pencil neck, but alas, this does not come to pass. Instead, we have this stinging putdown from Dominique-inique-inique to Whitney: You look all of 30 and you act like you’re 12. Well, snap. And also, Mr. Pot? There is a Mrs. Kettle here to see you.

Another Tyra Scrolling Excuse for Mass Squealing tells the girls to bring it to the center, and the LimoCab takes them all to the 5 Points section of Brooklyn, where they meet Benny Ninja, Vendela and the House of Ninja Vogue troupe. Work it, sisters. Like Jaslene before him, Dominique-inique-inique is delighted to be home among his own. The girls (and Dominique-inique-inique) are split into two houses and forced to have a Vogue-off, with BennyNinja calling one of the Cs and the drag queens picking the winners. The winning team will be taken to the swag tent, and the best girl on the winning team will get an extra prize.

Dominique-inique-inique squares off against Claire, and the queens declare a tie. Marvita says that Dominique-inique-inique was good, but well, also a drag queen, so you’d expect that. Lauren beats Marvita, Stacy-Ann beats Anya, Whitney drops a full split and beats Fatima (unfortunately, not about the head and shoulders) and Fatima gets all up in Whitney’s personal space with her own personal space, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Of course, the ever-elegant Fatima has this to say about Whitney: “She’s the girl in high school you hate because she’s the cheerleader and she sleeps with everyone.” Nice. Finally Katarzyna beats Aimee. And the winning team is Claire (who gets the personal best and a trip to Bora Bora), Marvita, Stacy Ann, Whitney and Katarzyna. Marvita is seriously stoked by the swag tent. Whitney is petty about Claire getting the trip to Tahiti.

Back to the house for an evening of practicing (Fatima) and drinking malt liquor (Marvita and Lauren) in memory of Amess. Fatima gets her prissy holier than thou face on again and calls Marvita six kinds of ghetto. Well, Miss Thing, it isn’t like she’s pretending to be anything else, you know. She is honest about it. Over in Baltimore, Salacious D is all stoked to be watching the make up get produced in the Cover Girl factory. She even gets excited to see a bar code. I wish I was making that shit up, but alas, I am not. Marvita wanders through the loft, being happy with the nicest surroundings she’s ever lived in and doubting her ability to stay. In a moment of self-awareness, she ponders if she is perhaps, too ghetto.

Tyra Scrolling Excuse for Mass Squealing brings us to the week’s photo shoot. Portrait. Tight close up of face, covered in garish make up, pieces of theatrical gels and dripping paint. What? It’s totally plausible.  Marvita has shown up for the shoot in a pulled down wool hat, enormous sunglasses and a turtle neck sweater. The only thing visible is the tip of her nose. This bodes badly. Fatima disses Marvita within Marvita’s hearing, because what’s the fun of trashing someone’s self assurance if they can’t hear you?

Photographer for the day is Peter Buckingham. Lauren rocks the shot and bites on her peals. Stacy Ann is reminded to bring the neck. Whitney is encouraged to be herself and to quit trying to suck in her cheeks for a shot. Dominique-inique-inique was depressingly not sucky. Fatima struggled and over-analysed everything. Marvita, despite a serious, Gurl, you gotta suck it up and compete pep talk from Mr. Jay, fades off our screen. Still another in a long string of strong Black bitches who were reduced to ashes by the steam roller of high fashion and Mistress TyTy. Remember Tiffany? Ebony?

Finally and at last, we end up at Panel, where the guest judge is the sort of rude and icey Vendela. The first picture is of Dominique-inique-inique, and Nigel calls her intellectual, which puts him on Miz Shoes shit list for a week. Everyone is surprised to see her look so soft. Hey, Photoshop and Vaseline. Works like a charm. Anya gets the squint with your eyes open lesson. See? I’m doing it now. Katrazyna is praised for being able to squint with her eyes open. Fatima is shown with one arm up and over her head, and we are treated to a furry little arm pit. I guess with her background, tender places and razors are never seen together. Well, the furry pit just sends Miss Jay, and Paulina and Nigel and Tyra into major fits. Their mood of disbelief in Fatima’s stupidity is not helped by Fatima’s explanation that she thought it could be airbrushed out. Paulina tells her that a razor costs a dollar and retouching costs a thousand.

Lauren steps forward and apologizes for being in high-tops, but her size ten pumps seem to have gone missing. Miss Jay suspects the drag queens from the House of Ninja. Tyra claims to have stolen them herself. Whitney is bashed for not being serious enough, and Claire needs more neck. Marvita’s shot is heartbreakingly sad, and Vendela loathes it, but Paulina loves it. Aimee is complimented on her photos, but told to shape up and start looking like a model at panel.

As the judges deliberate, Anya can’t carry a shot with only her face and Katarzyna is fading away. Fatima is old enough to know to shave. Whitney is boring Paulina, but Nigel is still loving her. Vendela just sniffs and says that Whitney just doesn’t have it. Period. Marvita has given up on ANTM before ANTM gave up on her. Aimee is a chameleon, but not in a good way. Stacy Ann is continuing to grow and Paulina loves Lauren.

Photos are handed out to Stacy Ann, Dominique-inique-inique (NOES! Stop encouraging him!), Claire, Anya, Lauren, Aimee, Katarzyna, Fatima. Marvita and Whitney are both lectured for a lack of seriousness, and Marvita is sent home for giving up early.

Next week? Mistress TyTy teaches a class, and the house comes down on Dominique-inique-inique, with Claire flat out calling him shady. Or is that he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow?

Good lord, how do people live? How does the average asshole I have to interact with day by day remember to breathe in and breathe out? To stand erect and not scratch themselves? I honestly don’t know. If I could, I would just go on a rampage today. I hate Verizon, and I’m not too happy with ATT. My beloved husband, the Renowned Local Artist, is a hair away from becoming my beloved husband of blessed memory. The computer guy at work set up the creative director’s computer, and checked a few things, but not the important ones, and consequently, she can’t work. Did I mention there’s a deadline and that she and I are going off to art camp next week, so if this job isn’t done by close of business tomorrow, it won’t be done at all? And she can’t work on her computer? I can’t find the internal IT guy, and my emergency call to my outside techies isn’t getting me help either. I have even called my old co-workers from Apple and not a damn one of them is answering their phones. I am ready to throw myself (and several other people) out of a window. And this is me on Prozac. Can you imagine what state I’d be in without it? Did I mention that it may snow up at art camp? And that we’re driving a vehicle that gets about 12 miles to the gallon. And gas is nudging $4 a gallon? And it’s (to the best of my computations) about 10 tankfuls, there and back? And that I HAVE NO FUCKING MONEY????

Yeah. Good times, people, good fucking times.