Thursday, December 18

Oceans Away

I’m being Single White Femaled.

No joke. Not sure how or when she had the time for this, but when Ocean showed up for Group today, her hair had gone from a close-cropped ginger to long and lustrous chestnut locks. Which she’d gathered back in a low, slick ponytail.


Yeah. Right. Exactly: me.

Look, when I (reluctantly) agreed to mentor her, I wasn’t planning on falling victim to identity theft. But Zac didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He was too busy passing out spiral-bound notebooks for us to use as “journals” for “expressing” our “feelings.”

(I mean, really: journals? Doesn’t he know that online is the new on-paper?)

The only use I can imagine for my journal is as a scrapbook. If I lose my mind completely and hack off a hank of Ocean’s flowing mane of hair extensions while she sleeps, I’ll know where to store it for posterity.

Kidding. Mostly.

Gotta run. To those of you who’ve offered to come see me (Kay)—visiting hours for me don’t open up until next weekend. But maybe I’ll catch you then?

location: the sauna. Thank goodness for the waterproof technology on this handy-dandy device

status: stalked, apparently. I am a stalk-ee.

stalkers: just the one

Monday, December 15

Two Strikes, I’m Out

Weirdness today.

For starters, morning zen meditation/vinyasa flow screeched to an abrupt halt when one of the 'rexics passed out. (I mean, really. What are they doing putting the starvers into an EXERCISE class? Hello. Rehab 101, people.)

If that had been it, I would have been okay. But no.

Zac of the Sensitive New-Age Fro hunted me down after lunch and asked if I’d be interested in joining his Creative Movement Group. I tried to demure, assuring him that a.m. zen/vinyasa is about as creative as I get with my movement.

Like, what does he want me to do—choreograph an interpretive dance to express my feelings about being tossed in here for crimes I didn’t commit? Please. It would mostly involve a lot of Tae-Bo jabs and uppercuts.

Resistance was futile. He wasn’t having it.

I pointed out that for what my 'rents are paying to keep me locked up in this incense-stanked wanna-be resort, it’s pretty much a do-as-I-please scenario. He countered that “do-as-I-please” does not apply to repeat offenders.

Apparently they want to make an example out of me. He even had the nerve to suggest that I buddy-up with the Incredible Shrinking Fainter, and act as a mentor or something retardo like that.

Her name is Ocean. YAK.

So, um. Sure. Why not? There’s lots I could show this Matchstick Mary. Starting with the best way to covertly access the pro-ana online community from the contraband 'Berry. LOL.

Just kidding. Maybe.

Also, Ocean was eyeing SoapDish during our dusk beach walk last night. I know I said I wasn’t getting involved while I’m here, but STILL. I called dibs. And girl is way out of her league.

Ocean oughta just let herself drift out with the tide, you know?

location: the spa. I don’t care if I am beholden to the sophomore schedule; sometimes a girl just needs to exfoliate.

status: patchy. hence the need for exfoliation.

emails from home: about six zillion—and they’re all from Kaylen. Dial it down, K! But she did have some juicy theories about a certain fashionista getting friendly with the golden girls’s BF most recently. So that was interesting. . . .

Wednesday, December 10

Me Times Three

This morning I was escorted to the Media Centre for a half an hour of e-mail. I tried to play surprised and grateful. Obvs none of the staff idiots here realize I’ve been checking the spare 'berry in my spare time.

(Side note: Kaylen, while I appreciate your notes and concern, I’m not sure I needed to know every last detail of what you did over the weekend, down to the earrings you chose for a fro-yo fiesta-lette with Mads. I mean, for reals?)

After a brief faux-flirtation with the real world via the interwebs, it was down to the open-air meeting atrium for an intro on Rehab Life. I got to meet the other miscreants who’ll be working the program with me over the course of the next 28-day cycle (two of whom will be coming soon to a theater near you, btw), as well as our Recovery Coach, Zac.

Zac. Z-A-C. The absence of a final “h” (or even a "k") is really unforgivable, in my humble opinion.

Zac’s job was to walk us through the Three Tiers of Recovery, Zephyr-style: body, mind, and soul. But since this is my second time 'round the wacky merry-go-round here, I allowed myself to tune out and take in the local scenery. That is: the locals.

One washed-up former soap star in particular caught my eye. His eyes are exactly the shade of our front lawn in Newport after a rainstorm, and his nervous energy is palpable. You could power a third-world country with the tension radiating off of him. Wonder what’s got him so wound up. Our first group session isn’t until later, so until then, I’m reduced to mere speculation.

Of course, I know better than to get involved while under lockdown.

I’m the type of girl who learns from her mistakes. So frankly, it doesn’t much matter what’s got green-eyes on red alert.

In here, it’s every (wo)man for herself.

location: enjoying a soak in the tub. at least my private suite has its own bath.

status: water-logged.

romantic prospects: what did I say about learning from past mistakes?

Tuesday, December 9

Paige, Interrupted

I’ve never been big on repeat offenses. Not with fashion, not with boy toys, and not with old rivals resurfacing with the intention of bumping me out of my hard-won Alpha status in the Bradford social register.

And yet. Here I am, back in the saddle at Zephyr again.

I can’t believe Spencer sold me out. I can’t believe that after everything she and I have been through, she buddied up with that washed-out California bitch and had me shuttled back off to rehab. Rehab. Again!

Who am I, Brit-Brit? Even she seems to have managed to clean up her rep somewhat. But not me. Here I am, falsely accused, scribbling away on my Blackberry Curve with only the glow of the screen to guide me. (Did I mention that lights out here is called for ten p.m. sharp?)

Look, it’s not like I’ve never indulged in any illegal or otherwise controlled substances. I’d never bother to deny that. But if I’m going to be carted off in handcuffs like a teenage prostitute on a rerun of Law and Order, it’d be nice if the substance in question, the one that had so conveniently turned up in my pocket, had actually been mine. (Guess Regan didn't like my little gift. Doesn't she know I have a No Returns policy?)

Meanwhile, Daddy couldn’t get me off the hook. WTF? Clearly Mom traded down when she married new money.

Nope, it was Zephyr or juvie, and at least here, there’s hydrotherapy and a personal nutrition consultant on hand. I got the hairy eyeball from the receptionist at intake (girlfriend could def use an eyebrow wax, pronto), but once I’m settled back in, I’ll be “working the program.”

Right now, I'm figuring out how to best finagle the sitch to my advantage. That’s what I do best, after all: work it.

So there’s the silver lining to the whole, “rehab, redux” scenario. I may be down, but don’t count me out, beyotches. Trust that your girl P will come out of this on top. It’s going to take way more than this scandal lite to drive me apart from my friendlies. . . .

location: cellblock 409. don’t even talk to me about the gazillion thread count sheets. it’s the clink, for reals!

status: locked down

mood: ready to “rehabilitate”—and turn this dramz around

Checking In

I can’t believe the suckers at Zephyr really thought they managed to confiscate all of my electronics. Bishes, pls.

More later.