Feb 12, 2019

I'm a Cronut and Proud of It

Today is Achievement.  I've eaten nothing except potatoes for 14 straight days. I've drunk only water, tea, and black coffee.

I've lost 18 pounds in 2 weeks as a result of following Ray Cronise and Penn Jillette's advice on how to transition my body from eating a Standard American Diet (S.A.D) in favor of a Plant-Based diet.

This isn't really a diet, but going forward I'm going to refer to it as The Cronut Diet created by Ray Cronise.

I don't think I really believed I could get through the 2 weeks since I've always been a voracious stress eater and my love of sweet & salty has made me a morbidly obese 49-year-old woman. I'm turning 50 next January and in order to achieve my goal of 140 pounds, I needed to drop so much weight that I'm truly embarrassed to tell you the specific number. I'm not there yet.

I read Penn's Book Presto! How I Made Over 100 pounds Disappear and Other Magical Tales maybe 5-6 months ago.  Entertaining as hell, but here's what this book meant to me in one word-Transformational.  His journey and reason behind doing something crazy drastic to lose a whole bunch of weight in a given timeframe really resonated with me. I got to thinking that maybe I could pull this off and see some great results really fast.

During these two weeks, you're not supposed to do anything that's really demanding because you're trying to place your body in a Metabolic Winter. Day 3 and 4 were supposed to be the worst in terms of low energy. I was expecting to feel lethargic so I decided to schedule the start of my diet on Wednesday so that my day 3 and 4 fell on Friday and Saturday of the first week.  I even took a vacation day that Friday just so I could do nothing. Days 1 and 2 found me eating maybe 3 to 4 baked potatoes, but as each day passed my appetite decreased.  Friday and Saturday were just like any other day for me and that vacation day was wasted. But the point is I was all in on doing this for my body. No regrets.

During Week 1 I lost 11.5 pounds and Week 2 I lost 6.5 pounds!

I weighed myself every morning.  Some nights I was so excited to get up the next morning to see the results on the scale that I had trouble falling asleep.

One steadfast rule of this diet is to tell no one you're doing it.  There are many reasons behind it, but I did break this rule.  My co-worker Lurdes knew I had been planning to do this 'crazy' diet for months as well as a few other people I see everyday at work.  Of course, I told my husband and sister-in-law, but definitely not my mother-in-law. I just needed to do this because I didn't want people constantly on my ass about why I was only eating potatoes for lunch.  Indeed their questions were exhausting, but in the end, it was their doubt that motivated me to complete these 14 days.

In my next post, I'll talk about how I felt during those two weeks on The Cronut Diet.

Sep 2, 2018

Nail Salon Be Like "We Can Do It"

OK - here goes:

All my life, I have secretly suffered from a condition called Dermatillomania. I pick at my cuticles sometimes so badly they bleed and I soothe myself by pouring peroxide over my wounds, smoothing antibiotic cream over the brutalized cuticles and hoping my ministrations help me avoid a future infection. The cuticles heal and then I start the cycle all over again... and again... and again.  Band-aids are a necessity and mostly hide my ugly secret. I'm mortified and embarrassed about this condition and often console myself with the thought that at least I don't cut myself. Things could be much, much worse.

I have a mental illness related to obsessive-compulsive disorder and I pick unconsciously at my cuticles in times of stress or anxiety. I manage the condition with medication, but it's not a cure-all.

In my case, the only thing that works 100% of the time is getting and keeping up with my acrylic nails. It's time-consuming, costly and expensive. I only do it when I feel completely off the rails. I look down at a couple of my bandaged fingers and just know...it's time.

Because of a particularly stressful afternoon at my volunteer job today, I desperately wanted to pick at my thumb. I was super angry and frustrated. My unexpressed feelings seemed to be overtaking me. I needed and wanted instant relief by doing a little self-grooming. (Unlike an alcoholic, I don't have a sponsor to call when this crazy compulsive feeling overtakes me.) But I know myself very well. One pick leads to another finger and another rip of a cuticle. What the hell was I thinking last week by removing my acrylic nails while driving into work deluding myself into thinking I could do better this time?

When I visited the salon this afternoon, she noticed that I had removed my acrylic nails. "Why you take off?" she asked. I explained that it's hard to secure the clasps on my necklaces as I'm getting dressed for work in the morning. She asked, "Too thick?"  But between you and I, that's only partially true.  I detest wasting 90 minutes of my precious life sitting in a nail salon because I have OCD and can't stop hurting myself. So the answer to her question is yes, much too thick.

Maybe a minute or two passed and apparently I was taking too long to choose my color when the owner asked me if I could use some help.

Let me pause here to say that I could never work in a nail salon because there are simply too many goddamned bottles of polish. The OCD within me tries not to stare at the racks with all the bottles out of sequential order in the gel section.  I itch to rearrange them during every visit. Most of the time, the people who work in nail salons are just sitting there mindlessly scrolling on their iPhones. If they're not busy, why don't they get up and start arranging the damn bottles? People, it's a simple concept. A place for everything and everything in its place. I also couldn't deal with vain customers agonizing over the importance of their color selection as if they were choosing the updated vinyl siding for their home. It's only nail polish!  Choose your color, get your ass in one of those uncomfortable faux-leather chairs and watch the freaking Food Network! You know you're never baking any of that shit anyways.

I remembered that I once saw a waitress with the coolest nail pattern.  The polish was almost like a cat's eye marble and she said it's done with magnets.  What kind of magic is this?  They looked so beautiful and I loved how the light reflected at just the right angle when she moved her nails. Simply mesmerizing.

Someday, I promised myself, I'm gonna be F-A-N-C-Y.

I asked my manicurist, also the owner, if she could do something like that magnet nail polish design. "Oh!" she excitedly exclaimed. "Pick a color, I make it like you like."

First things first, beloved reader of mine, you need to have a concept of the design I was hoping for to understand the end result. (pictured left)

Looks pretty fancy, right? I was going for a Star Sapphire look and sat down at her booth prepared to be amazed. You know where this is going, right? She didn't even know how to properly do it.

She applied a layer of gel polish and then got out this very tiny tongue-depressor looking thing that contained a magnet. She held it over my wet nail and sort of elevated her wrist upwards across it. We both looked closer and saw no change. Some technique.

This little 'magic wand' looked like this:

She tried to get the cat's eye effect several times and in frustration called out to her presumed husband, scrolling on his iPhone, for help.  He came over, smiled at me and inspected her work. Absolutely nothing was happening. She was just guessing how to do it. After saying something unintelligible, he left in frustration with her and returned holding another magic wand.  (I guess they were hoping the double magnetic strength would create the effect?)  She laid one tongue-depressor wand on top of the other and tried again.  Mind you, throughout all of this, my opposing hand was uncomfortably seated inside one of those 36-watt UV drying lamps. The top of my hands were getting, shall we say, crispy. I'm too young for Oil of Olay.  

I finally had enough and just told her to stop. Just give me another lick of paint and let's call it a day.  But her stubborn husband had other plans and returned to the booth proudly displaying a YouTube video he just found that showed how to do that magnetic cat's eye effect. I was dumbfounded because they are supposed to be the professionals in this situation offering a service to their salon customers.  A tutorial on your iPhone does not make a happy customer.

I pulled my opposing hand out of the lamp and started to push away from the table.  She indicated one more try.  Or at least I think that's what she said as she attempted the technique one last time on her own thumbnail. "You work tomorrow? Labor Day." she asked me while still failing miserably. I nodded my head yes and dropped my eyes so no further conversation could ensue.

Honestly, she always does a very nice job on my nails and I have never been disappointed with her services.  

The manicure cost $25 and I gave her a $6 tip.  She smiled at me as she was processing my credit card and proudly pointed to the receipt showing that she had only charged me $23.  "I do better next time, OK?"  

May 13, 2018

My Mother's Love

I had lunch today with my friend Cindy and it was my first time meeting her 4 month old grandson Jaxson. Being in the presence of this tiny, vulnerable little human has given me an entirely new spin on how to view Mother’s Day.  My relationship with my mother, who died in 2006,  was intense and complicated; fraught with emotional land mines that remain tightly tangled up in my head and my heart to this day. When Mother’s Day rolls around each year, I try to remember that my mom was a vibrant force who shaped my life and helped carve out my quirky personality.   But after being around this baby for an hour, I’m thinking about my mom in a way that I never have before.

This 21 year old woman gave me life on January 13, 1970.  She didn’t know it back then, but I broke her baby mold the day I was born – her only child whom she poured her everything into as a mom. 

I never thought about how this was the woman who made sure I was safe, warm, fed and happy. She clipped my tiny nails so I wouldn’t scratch my face.  She worried that I would stop breathing in the middle of the night. When I was a bit older, I remember she would rub my back when I was sick and vomiting in the toilet. I had lots of ear infections and colds when I was younger and she took me to all those doctor appointments with cab and bus rides all over the city because she couldn't drive.  She went after that guy at the Abdow's restaurant when he made a comment about my cute ass when I was about ten years old.  

My mother didn't have many friends so I became her best friend when I was a little girl.  It's not like I remember her having lots of conversations with me, but we spent so much time together that I wonder now what the hell we talked about so much. We would walk to Lincoln Plaza nearly every day while my dad was at work and shop for the afternoon.  On the way home, carrying bags from Zayre's Department Store, she would brag about all the things she bought me and didn't buy herself.  She always told me that she wanted her daughter to have a better life than she did growing up.

She had no problem slapping me hard across the face if I said something she didn't like and she loved slamming kitchen cabinets like a child to show me how pissed off she was at either me, my dad or my grandmother. She smoked up a chimney and drank coffee for breakfast. She slept every night with her bra on and she listened to Billy Joel records when she was depressed. She became jealous of my friends and didn't want me to grow up. 

In my teens, she tried to fit in by being one of the girls. She'd throw me lavish birthday parties and all my friends thought she was the coolest mother and all I ever wanted was for her to just leave me the hell alone.  I wanted space and distance.  I wanted to break free of her choke chain and hoped she'd get a life besides mine.

I moved out when I was 18 and couldn't get away from her fast enough. I remember the day I tried to explain to her that I just had to go. I told her we had nothing in common and I think that broke her heart.  I tried to make it up to her by visiting with her and my dad twice a week and doing everything I could to keep in touch.  I think it's around that time that I started to pretend we had this great relationship because it was easier than always fighting with her.  I couldn't stand the screaming or the drama of being her daughter.

I played my role of the good daughter up until her death in 2006. I loved her and hated her all at the same time.  I know I'm writing this on Mother's Day when everyone is celebrating their moms, but in my own way this is a celebration of what my mother meant to me.  I miss her alot and that's pretty hard to write because I've had my share of private moments when I thought that I couldn't wait to be rid of her so I could just live my life.  

I envy those of you who still have a mom that worries about you when there's a bad storm coming or you're taking a vacation on a plane somewhere and she doesn't like the thought of you being so far away from her.  Take the time to remember your mom on this special day and tell her how much you appreciate her sacrifices to grow you into the adult you've become today.  I know you didn't have a choice in the matter of being born, but remember that your mom did and she chose you.

Apr 20, 2018

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

2 years.  Well, it's taken me nearly 2 years attempting to become that future version of myself.  A middle-aged woman (gasp! 48 years old now) whose hair blows in the wind on a breezy day with a bathroom closet full of hair accessories that allow for sassy styling depending on how I think I'll feel that morning.  In reality, I never realized that it hurts like hell when your hair pokes you painfully in the eyeballs as the wind whips up around your face. (Thanks Lasik surgery!  Before you, I never realized my prescription glasses were actually meant for vision improvement AND eye protection.)  And that closet full of hair accessories?  Who am I kidding - I never knew what the hell I was doing with any of those gels, mousses and fancy argan oils.

I'm not fancy.

I'm meant to have short, no fuss hair that doesn't piss me off every morning if I don't hold my Dyson hair dryer at just the right angle when applying the blow.

I'm not meant to wear headbands to keep my floppy mop under control while secretly thinking that everyone who comes across my pie-hole chubby face is wondering if I actually thought that was a good look for me.  It wasn't.

Sure, I certainly liked the experience of being in the shower and pouring a shit-ton of fragrant shampoo into my hair and feeling like a secret Pantene model. It was fun bending forward under the shower head and gripping all that thick hair to squeeze out the excess water before exiting the shower.

But you know what wasn't fun?  Spending 10-15 long agonizing minutes in front of the bathroom mirror every morning trying to style my hair.  9 times out of 10 were bad hair days. And each time I walked away disappointed with what I'd done up there, I'd talk myself out of cutting off all my hair because I knew I was just going through that awful growing-out stage.

A few years ago, I had to replace the roof on my house.  While I was in the process of learning all of the particulars related to roof size, pitch, nails and layers of shingles, I found myself looking at other people's roofs and forming an unprofessional opinion on whether they should replace their roof. When I decided to let my hair grow, I found myself doing the same thing but with other people's hair. I'd find myself looking at coworkers with long hair and wondering about the process. How did they survive their own bad hair days? How did they break through to the other side of beauty?

It probably took me a couple of weeks of festering to realize I was never going to get there despite encouragement from my friends that my hair was looking good during the growing-out phase. I knew my decision was made when I started searching for pixie cuts on Pinterest.  I searched "Hair styles+Fat faces" and came up with so many hits related to Paula Deen, Kelly Clarkson, America Ferrera and Kelly Osbourne. Dear God. Really?

In the end, I sent an emergency Facebook message to my hair stylist Mille at Salon de la Rosa  that read as follows: "Hi Millie, I am in desperate need of your services. Can we schedule an evening for a color/style of this flop mop that's atop my head?"  She scheduled me for an appointment and last Wednesday I freaking chopped it all off.

After the chop fest, I shly asked Millie if I could take my hair home with me. We swept it off the floor and put it into a plastic Stop & Shop bag.  My plan, thank you again Pinterest, is to put all that shorn hair outside so my backyard birds can use it to make their Spring nests. Although at the end of my hair appointment,  I was thinking carrying around a bag of hair was kind of creepy. Like, imagine if I got into a horrific fatal car accident on my way home and the paramedics had to go through my purse to find information in my wallet related to my next of kin. They open my purse and find that bag of hair.

I LOVE my new hairstyle. Strangely, I'm not too disappointed that my little beauty experiment didn't work out and I'm done hopelessly pining after the fantasy of being a woman with long, thick color-treated hair.  It's just not me.  What I am is a simple woman who wants to spend as little time in the mirror as possible each morning fussing over hair.  Because after all, what really is hair?

"Human hair is a simple thing made of keratin and dead skin cells. Its function is to prevent heat loss from a person’s head, yet it also causes women to weep, men to buy Porsches and people to spend billions each year on its upkeep." 
quote courtesy of Ryan McKee 

I've got just enough to keep this old noggin warm and that's fine by me.

Mar 10, 2018

FML: Wired Smoke Alarm

Asking a Worcester Firefighter standing in front of you for help turning off the smoke alarms from your garage fuse box probably wasn’t the best idea at 2 am this morning. 



I roll over bleary eyed and look at my husband in the dark.  “Did you hear that?”


“I think it’s the smoke alarm.”  And then I recall it’s that very special high-pitched sound it makes to alert you to that annoying task of the battery needs changing.  “I’ll get it.”


I stand below the wired smoke detector looking up to make sure it was the one in our hallway outside our bedroom that was making the disgusting noise at 1 am. Seconds tick by and then…

I walk upstairs into our kitchen to pull out my pink fold-away step stool so I can reach the smoke detector because being 5’2 has never brought me an advantage except for slightly comfortable leg room at The Wilbur Theater in Boston.  But the additional height isn’t quite enough because when I press the 9-Volt battery flap, I still can’t seem to reach it to pull out the offending dying battery.


Time to get the big blue fiberglass ladder.  I go into the garage and pull out the proper household ladder navigating around our two parked cars careful not to take corners too quickly for fear of scratching the paint. I climb up the ladder, remove the battery and replace it.  And then…


Wait. It wasn’t the battery? I climb back up the ladder and hit the button “Press to Hush” but really it’s the same button as “Press to Test Weekly” and now all the wired smoke detectors in our house are shrilling the most piercing sound in the world while a lady that sounds much better than Alexa alerts me of “Fire! Fire!”  I press and hold the only big button I can see without my reading glasses on and after a few long seconds, all the smoke alarms silence themselves.
Well, that doesn’t work.  I rinse, wash, repeat several times with increasing frustration as the Beagle sleeps curled up next to our bed and my husband stays put because he knows I’m all kinds of pissed off now and it’s best to just let me handle it. I can hear our rabbit Mr. Winslow thumping his back paws upstairs in our office in confused frustration and still I can’t fix this fucking alarm.


I stomp upstairs, turn on the desktop computer and start Googling.  It’s 1:45 am and I’m sick of this shit. I pull up the Kidde website to read how to turn off a wired smoke alarm and I learn about the magic reset button.  I’m back up on the ladder with a flashlight, reading glasses and not finding a reset button on my Kidde model KN-COPE-IC Smoke and Carbon Monoxide alarm. I twist the unit off the bracket {chirp} and see the electrical wires connected to the component, but have no idea how to disconnect them.  The Kidde site suggests that sometimes the {chirp} indicates “…it’s time to replace the alarm.” Things I learn while in a panic: smoke detectors by Kidde have an average lifespan of 10 years and choose to die in the wee hours of the morning just to fuck with you.


I can’t turn this damn thing off.  I need to sleep.  How am I going to get to sleep tonight?  This is the point in time when I lose my shit on Google searches and just start typing random search terms such as the following:
  •          Wired smoke detector won’t stop beeping
  •          Turn off wired smoke alarm
  •          Why does a hard-wired smoke alarm chirp?
  •          Who do you hire to fix a faulty smoke alarm?
  •          Electrician emergency calls
  •          24-hour electrician
  •          24-hour emergency electrical service
  •          24-hour electrician 01606


There is NOBODY available in the middle of the night.  Despite the filter that Google provides telling you about businesses that are open 24-hours, the information is conveniently dead wrong.  I call every single business and get answering machines.  Seriously? I might as well page someone like it’s 1994. At least if they had a beeper, they’d feel some of the pain I’m going through right now at 2 am.

Remembering how I was making fun of some dumb bunnies on the local news earlier tonight who nearly died because they were running two generators inside their house after our recent Nor’easter, I get it in my head to call the local fire department.  (And no, I didn’t pull a Rob Gronkowski and call 911, thank you very much.) I find the local Greendale number of the firehouse hoping for some professional advice.


No answer.  Just great.

I visit The City of Worcester website, but their office hours somehow don’t align to my non-emergency.  

I call a different local fire department and a man picks up advising me my call is being recorded. But at least he’s a live human man and not a prerecorded greeting.   I explain my situation and all the things I’ve done to troubleshoot the issue.  “Well, I can send a truck up.”  Ummm.  That doesn’t sound like such a great idea to me and I restate this isn’t an emergency, I’m just looking for some advice about what residents do in the middle of the night when they can’t turn off their wired smoke alarm and really, really need to get some sleep.  “I’ll send a truck.” he says again and hangs up.
I change out of my Hello Kitty bottoms, slide on a pair of wrinkled jeans and throw on a brown sweater over my hedgehog t-shirt which jauntily reads ‘Over the Hedge’ because there is NO WAY I’m putting a bra on for this shit.  I’m too pissed off. Ten minutes later here comes one of the Worcester Fire Department trucks rolling up with three fire fighters in full gear walking into my garage. ]

The first thing the lead firefighter tells me is, “I can’t touch your smoke alarm.” OK.  I eagerly explain everything I’ve done to troubleshoot my situation and he stands there telling me what I already know.  I need an electrician and sometimes even though the smoke alarms say they last for ten years, they really don’t.  Did I mention that it’s with the commotion of three firefighters standing in my hall way that the lazy Beagle decides it’s time to rise from his cozy bed and sniff out the situation?  I find myself rambling on hoping he’ll take pity on me and make an exception to help me out. Having made his proclamation, he turns and starts heading out through the garage to leave.  It’s then that I get truly desperate and call out, “Well, maybe you can just show me on my fuse panel which switch turns off the wired alarms.”


Oh, to describe to you the look of sheer disgust on his face when he stares back at me and says authoritatively, “I am absolutely not going to do that.”  Then it dawns on me that I’ve just asked a representative of the fire department to help me turn off the very thing that is meant to protect me in my home from a fire. He continues, “You can do that as the homeowner, but I’m not touching it. I don’t recommend you do it either.”   I never wanted a five second time machine so badly in my life, but I can’t take back my request.  I thank them profusely and am so embarrassed that when I go to shut the garage door, I press the wrong button and open the second garage door by mistake.  I can only imagine their conversation about me as they head back to their fire house. 

But I told the dispatcher the situation.  Why in the world did they feel the need to send three fireman to my house in the middle of the night to tell me what they could have said over the phone?

So, I return to Googling and start calling the bigger 24-hour services that seem super sketchy like Mr. Electric and QuickResponseElectrical.net which appear first in the search results.  I’m that desperate for paid advertisements from my trusted search engine.  I get through on the phone to Mr. Electric and tell a very pleasant and perky Ashley of my circumstances.  She assures me they can help and will put a call out to a local electrician who will call me back shortly.  “How shortly? Like in fifteen minutes?”


She doesn’t know, but promises one will call me as soon as possible.  OK.  I turn off my answering machine so as not to miss the call on my landline and return to the computer.  It’s then that I find myself on YouTube watching videos of men dismantling smoke detectors and others installing them in barn lofts ‘cause you know, gotta protect the horses. I see this one man pull out the electrical connection from the smoke detector and marvel at how easily the device detaches from the prongs.  I wonder….


I’m back up on the ladder and pulling apart the connection rather forcefully because I’ve got nothing to lose at this point and then success!  Seriously. I did it.  I turned it off.  God Bless YouTube.  I now believe those people who claim to have taught themselves to rebuild a V-8 car engine from watching YouTube videos.  I am so pumped up from my achievement that I absolutely AM going to try to replace the motor on my GE washing machine when it goes on the blink. I am a woman and I can do anything with the power of a YouTube channel!

My resolution to this annoying problem hits me in a flash.  I don’t need Mr. Electric anymore.  I can just order a new smoke detector from Amazon and replace it myself.  Add to cart.  Problem solved.
I try to call back the 24-hour electrical service company, but somehow can’t find the right number so I say, “Screw it.” I’m tired.  I fixed the problem myself no thanks to the Worcester Fire Department.  I’ll just turn off the answering machine and go back downstairs to bed.  If they call me, I won’t answer because I won’t be able to hear the telephone from upstairs.  It’s nearly 3 am and the next issue for me is to calm down enough to fall back asleep.  I’m back in my Hello Kitty PJ’s with a sleep mask over my eyes and just starting to drift off when I hear it.


What the fuck? You’ve got to be kidding me.  It’s disconnected so why is it still beeping?  Did I leave it somewhere in the bedroom?

I look up to the hanging wires in the ceiling that are no longer holding in place my dismantled smoke detector and realize that now the 2nd carbon monoxide device that was placed next to the smoke alarm is chirping. Oh, hell no. 


I climb back up the ladder and twist off the alarm.  It is battery operated and not wired to anything so this should be easy to fix. I pull out yet another 9-Volt battery and throw it on the coffee table.  I’ll deal with it in the morning.  I need to get back to bed.  Just as I’m folding up the ladder, the goddamned thing chirps again.  How can that be?  I took the battery out!  I bring the detector into the light and see there is an additional section with a screwed in plastic flap that probably holds another battery which is causing the offensive noise. Luckily for me, I have a very small screwdriver kit that I bought at a dollar store that is meant for tiny screws so I unscrew the flap and remove a small rounded battery that I’ve never seen before but reminds me of the one that’s in my outdoor garage opener panel. There.  Done.  And then, unbelievably…you guessed it…


Now I’ve got a Zombie Carbon Monoxide detector.  I’m guessing it must have some remaining battery juice left which is causing the chirping-sort of like when a dead body has residual gas that causes spontaneous pooping on the stainless-steel table at the mortuary.

The chirp wasn’t as loud as before so I decide to move the device as far away from me as possible.  I walk into the garage, open the door to my Toyota Camry and place it on the passenger’s seat.  I shut the door and start walking away, but I can still hear it.  I return and wrap it in my slate blue Columbia Sportwear 590 TurboDown winter jacket thinking that if the coat can keep me warm in sub-Artic temperatures, the magic technology contained in the silver lining of this expensive jacket might just muffle the dying chirp of my Carbon Monoxide detector.

As I lay there in bed, I can still hear the chirp, but it’s not loud enough to prevent me from eventually falling into a fitful sleep.  I snooze for the remaining hours of the morning dreaming about a broken Roomba and renting an expensive house with a luxurious infinity pool.

And then it happens.



I’m wide awake. You’re not going to believe this.

The electricity in the house turns off and then on again. My Google Home on my nightstand resets itself with a pleasant ‘Bing, Bong, Boom’ sound.  My Bose Wave Music System spits out a CD and sucks it back in again. I hear the microwave beep in the kitchen upstairs and then I hear the familiar persistent Beep, Beep, Beep, Beep of my home alarm system going off in the garage.  It won’t shut itself off.  I must get out of bed to hit the reset button on the panel to quiet it.

As I walk to the garage to turn it off, all I can think is Fuck My Life. 

I’m sitting here blogging about this awful experience when I happen to glance up at the 1 message blinking on my answering machine in the office.  I press play and it’s some guy presumably from Mr. Electric who has left me an indiscernible message at 7:30 am this morning about my electric problem. I think to myself that it’s ironic that a 24-hour emergency service company has an electrician that can call me back six hours after my emergency.

And I think to myself, sometimes adulting is so hard. But that’s adulting for you and sometimes I really suck at it.

Oct 18, 2017

It's That Flossy Flossy Life

My regular hygenist Andrea is out on medical leave for like six months so my dentist appointment this afternoon was all kinds of weird. 

First I had to tell Chrissy the truth about my tooths - hell no, I don't floss. Obviously.  Andrea never asked me that kind of professional nonsense. Instead, she baked me Hello Kitty cupcakes and we talked between my spits about her feline population at home. Chrissy asked me, "Do you drink coffee?" and I immediately got all defensive about my stained brown teeth.  Look, lady, I just spent five grand for 20/20 vision with my Lasik eye surgery, this gal ain't got no time for fancy pearly whitening. I'll drink my coffee through carnival-striped straws, than you very much. She then asked me if I use mouthwash. Sigh. Chrissy, I already told you I had Mexican for lunch and like practically did your job for you by eating lots of gum on the way here. I got lots of the carnitas out of the crevices because I have the proof in a tissue in my car, OK?  Stop interrogating me with your health questions.

Don't get me wrong.  Chrissy was a sweetheart, but the whole time I felt like I was cheating on Andrea.  Andrea gets me.  She knows Halloween is my sticky ooey gooey time of the year.  She knows I take the lazy way out and use one of those water flossers 'cause I'm too damned lazy to floss and she certainly never asked me if I used mouthwash. What grown adult doesn't use mouthwash?  Even my dentist gave me the old nod to Pomegranate season when she stopped in to check out my mouth.

I supposed I would suspect Chrissy of being a bad dental hygienist if she didn't give me the whole roadshow treatment about taking care of my precious choppers. But I was disappointed in the one dental treatment that I consistently give myself every single morning that she NEVER asked about - I use a tongue scraper.  Doesn't that count for anything?  I noticed she didn't mention how fine my tongue was looking.  You should see the bodily yuckiness that I scrape off of my tongue every morning.  It's DISGUSTING and yet very fascinating all at the same time.  Sometimes I scrape my tongue so hard that I make myself gag.  (Note to self: I should post to the ladies about using tongue scrapers on a sub-Reddit bulimia board). Some mornings I drag down purple goop off my tongue and wonder exactly what I ate the night before?  Grape popsicle? Grape Jelly with my Peanut Butter Sandwich? Grape Skittles? Yea, most likely grape Skittles.

It's just a weird thing breaking in a new dental hygienist.  I mean, she seemed to like me and we did laugh a lot.  She told me about her love of animals and how she carried her pregnancy weight.  We had some moments of shared understanding like when she appreciates her 17-year-old son's bright smile and how she applauded me for getting my dog's teeth professionally cleaned because it's just so important. Chrissy passed the tooth test. She cared more about my teeth than I did, for goodness sakes.

She made me feel guilty enough to consider flossing with actual string vs. a burst of water.  I'll reconsider which mouthwash I buy, but somehow I don't see me sipping my java through a straw.  But she genuinely seemed to care about my oral health and was very nice by letting me into the sticker room so I could pick out a couple "Best Patient" Mickey Mouse stickers for my scrapbook.

After I left, I got out to my car and texted Andrea to tell her how much I missed her and that I felt like I had just cheated on her with Chrissy.  What better time to come clean than at the dentist's office?

Oct 15, 2017

The 20/20 Experience

Shout out to Justin Timberlake for my Blog Post Title.  Sorry folks, I couldn't resist.

But I have 20/20 distance vision after my PRK eye surgery on September 28th.

Bionic eyes.

Let's play some Johnny Nash, shall we? It was one of my mother's favorite songs and now it's just a little bit extra special for me.

I can see clearly now, the rain is gone,
I can see all obstacles in my way
Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind
It's gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright)
Sun-Shiny day. 

If my mom was still alive, she would have scared the hell out of me and I probably wouldn't have gotten this surgery. It's a funny thing once you don't have a mom or dad around to worry about you no matter how old you are.  I miss them every day in all kinds of different ways but being able to make such a big decision without my mother's fear and anxiety clouding my judgment was a good thing when I got this idea in my head that I wanted to not have to wear glasses 24/7. She would have told me to leave my eyes alone and scared me silly that I could go blind if I went 'under the knife' because she was a very fearful person by nature.

I think my dad would have been worried that it would all work out well, but he would have supported me having this eye surgery.  He was always a half-glass-full kind of guy and my mom's glass was always empty. I don't know where that lands me in the mix, but I'd like to think my glass is 3/4 full and I'm cautiously optimistic on most days. 

So I did the surgery and I can see clearly now.  

People have been asking me what it's like since the surgery. Well,  I never expected to feel air across my eyes as I'm walking around during the day and my muscle memory always has me reaching up to adjust my glasses that aren't on my face.  I don't reach for my glasses on my nightstand upon waking up in the morning and it's really weird not carrying around glasses on my face.  It's like everything is opposite now.  I have magnifier reading glasses in all the rooms of our house and two pairs in my purse. Some days I can see just fine without my readers on while looking at the computer.  I'm constantly lubricating my eyeballs and the cool bath feels pretty good when I'm done.  My jean pockets hold vials of lubricating eye drops and I'm trying to develop the habit of always having them with me so my eyes don't get dry.  Plus I'm told extra moisture helps with the overall healing.

My eye doctor appointment yesterday confirmed 20/20 vision.  I went out into my car after the appointment and just cried out of relief and sheer happiness. It wasn't an ugly cry, but more of a light smattering of my own body-manufactured lubricating tears dribbling down my cheeks. It was one of those countless moments since my parents died that I wanted to be able to talk to them to let them know everything worked out for me.  But instead I'm telling you and that's enough.

Oct 7, 2017

Eyes of the Tiger - My PRK Surgery

On September 28, 2017, I had PRK laser eye surgery at TLC Laser Eye Center in Waltham, MA. This picture of Cartman from South Park totally represents how I was feeling before my surgery.  Can you see that freaked out concerned look in his dilated pupils? That was me wondering if I was making a really big mistake messing with my eyes or if I was doing a really positive thing for my future self. And no, I didn't use a Groupon to make such a big decision, but there was a $1k TLC discount that swayed my decision to do the surgery this year vs. next.

I visited TLC for an initial free consultation to determine if I would be a good candidate for Lasik eye surgery.  I filled out their paperwork in the waiting room on a Saturday morning wondering how I would answer the question 'Why do you want to get eye surgery?'

My answer was simply that I was entirely tired of cleaning my glasses every five minutes with all the mysterious smutz that somehow gravitated toward my lenses during my every waking hour. I just must love touching my face a lot because I could never keep those glasses clean. I was fed up with buying moist wipes and having them be too moist which consistently left smears on my glasses that dried in weird patterns and never left me feeling like I had a clear view of the world through my glasses.

After going through many comprehensive tests, I learned that I had thin corneas which were probably a result of a lifelong habit of rubbing at my (dry) eyes using my knuckles. My dry eyes were most likely related to the long-term computer use over the years. While Lasik surgery involved cutting some sort of flap in my eyeball to correct my distance vision, my thin corneas increased the chances of that flap collapsing and causing vision complications. I didn't pay too much attention to the details of what I couldn't do but perked up when I learned that a safer surgery that I could qualify for was Photorefractive Keratectomy (aka PRK) which is a type of surgery where the surface of the cornea is reshaped using an excimer laser. The recovery time is much longer than Lasik which meant that I'd have to be out of work for 5-7 days and ultimately my distance vision could take up to one year to fully recover. 

Since I don't know if you're squeamish about eyeball stuff, I won't go into the details of what they did to reshape them, but know this - I didn't turn out boss-eyed and my surgery was a success. I was the perfect patient following all the instructions, went to visit my eye doctor every day to monitor my progressive healing and created a complicated spreadsheet to keep track of three different eye drops that were needed every day.

It's been 10 days since the surgery and I'm doing really well. My last eye doctor appointment showed that my distance was 20/25 which is freaking amazing considering how poorly I could see without my glasses before the surgery.

Here are just some of the positive changes in my life as a result of choosing to do this surgery:
  • Watching TV without glasses
  • Walking around the house and moving about the world without glasses
  • Driving without glasses
  • Stepping into the rain and not having my glasses get wet or fogged up
  • Not reaching for my glasses upon waking up
  • Being able to wear brightly decorated magnifying glasses for reading and PC work
There aren't really many troublesome downsides.  Sure, I still need to wear glasses for reading. I have to put lubricating eye drops in my eyes every hour and I'm down to one prescription eye drop three times a day which will most likely continue for a couple of months.  I'll have to buy a pair of expensive polarized sunglasses from either Ray-Ban or Maui Jim to replace my $19.99 pair that I bought from Walgreens right after my surgery. It's probably not a good idea to go crazy with the mascara because I shouldn't be rubbing my eyelids to remove unnecessary cosmetics, but I'll figure all that out with time.

I've worn glasses since I was 18 years old and have never thought that I looked attractive in them. In recent months, I discovered a discounted online site called Zenni Optical where I've purchased quite a few pairs of prescription glasses that didn't look half bad on me and were highly affordable compared to my eye doctor's office.  Who knew I'd love those cat eye frames so much?  But now that I'm presenting myself to the world sans lenses, I feel like my round fat face has gotten more pronounced and I'm self-conscious about it which just means that's the next big step to tackle.  

I know eventually, I'll get used to looking at myself in the mirror without glasses each day. It's going to take some time to truly become comfortable with myself.  So far, I  have zero regrets getting the PRK surgery and I'm glad that I didn't let my fear and anxiety prevent me from improving my life.  This was a good decision.

Aug 5, 2017

10 Oz of Coffee

10 oz. Ruination 
You simply wouldn't believe what 10 ounces of coffee has cost me this week.

Now this picture over here isn't an actual representation of the tumbler of coffee that wrecked my digital life this week.  But rather it's simply a then taken photograph of one of my favorite Hedgehog coffee mugs and some strong ass coffee that I like to occasionally enjoy when I need my coffee to have weird stuff in it like Chicory and Kahlua.  But I digress...

This past Tuesday morning I decided to forgo spending $1.75 for a large cup of work coffee and instead decided to make 10 oz of coffee using my trusty Keurig K-Cup machine and a cheap ass plastic tumbler with my company branded logo emblazoned on it.

I knew it wasn't air tight. Yes, I have an Amaon.com highly consumer rated Contigo coffee tumbler like every other modern professional commuter. And yet, and yet I used the cheap ass Corporate Branded coffee tumbler that had done me wrong before anyway.  I am a terribly stupid woman.

I will never know what possessed me to put the tumbler of coffee in my Dooney & Bourke designer purse before heading into Corporate.  I was carrying too much crap, maybe? My laptop bag is hideously bright, large, heavy and awkward to tote around.  It goes without saying that my purse must be it's twin in size and girth featuring trendy Springtime bright yellow poppies to hold all my other non-business related stuff that my laptop does not contain.

Incidentally, the thought has crossed my mind that maybe I have too much stuff that I carry around with me. Do I just want to be that prepared in all social situations?  (Side note: I love reading my RSS feeds that feature segments called, "What's In My Bag?" because it's interesting to see the things founders of Reddit or Google carry around in their messenger bags. I desire to know what's in their bags that they carry around with them throughout the day because these are the smart people I need to learn from in order to be a more productive person.)

I elevatored up to the fifth floor, put my purse down on my desk and heard...SLOSHING.

[Definition of Sloshing: (of liquid in a container) moving irregularly with a splashing sound.]

Peering inside my purse to find my coffee container had become horizontal wasn't shocking - it was full-on horrific.  Everything and I mean every little thing was  floating and soaked.

Let's take an inventory of ruin, shall we?

  • Kindle PaperWhite
  • Kindle Fire Tablet just recently purchased on Amazon Prime Day simply because it was yellow
  • iPhone 6S Plus that I just paid off two days before and also cancelled the insurance 
  • My beloved Luvcat designer wallet
  • A plastic tube of alcohol hand-sanitizer from Brigham & Women's Hospital that had exploded from the heat of the coffee
  • A copy of my home insurance because my mortgage had recently been sold and I had to deal with some crap about making sure I had enough fire insurance coverage.
  • The black pleather As Seen On TV wallet that held 24 sleeves of alphabetically-organized gift cards, business cards, list of RX medications, etc.
  • My trusty portable charger for my iPhone that had, of course, been fully charged
Did I mention that the red fabric liner of my Dooney & Bourke purse was soaked with all the liquid rolling back and forth?

And what did a supposed tech-savvy lady such as myself do when I pulled out my iPhone and wiped it off with my desk tissues?  I plugged it into the charger on my desk and tried to turn it on. The exact 100% opposite thing you're absolutely not supposed to do when you get your iPhone wet. 

Fortunately, my boss brought over some paper towels to help out with the situation and the first thing I did was berate him for giving me choose-a-sheet paper towels.  WTF, man?  I used them anyways along with all the desk tissues and still there was sloshing that needed to be dealt with post-haste.

I just returned to my purse and tried to decide how to dump out all of that coffee in a way that didn't mess up my desk too much. I emptied my purse of all it's treasures and carefully walked to the ladies room to dump out the coffee in the sink all the while trying not to make eye contact with anyone because I was nearly in tears.

  Here are some of my thoughts as I walked back to my desk:

  • Can you dry clean a Dooney & Bourke purse? Should I even waste my money? The outside of the purse was vinyl so at least that wasn't ruined.  Maybe just stick an air freshener in it and keep the spill a secret.
  • What about my phone?  It's not going to turn on.  Damn it.
  • Did I fry my Kindle(s)?  Why did I have to be carrying two Kindles in my purse?  What is freaking wrong with me?
When one experiences that much pain and personal stupidity, my first reaction is to lament and tell everyone within hearing distance of my personal tragedy.

"Did you try putting your phone in Rice?"
"Go down to the cafeteria and see if they will give you some rice."

Of course I didn't do either of those things. Instead I sat glumly at my desk and kept pressing the power button on my now paid-off iPhone 6S Plus without the insurance protection and hoped the technology gods would take pity on me and by some miracle my iPhone would dry out and turn back on.

But it never did.

To be continued...

Jan 21, 2015

Kismet at the Dentist's Office

Today I had to make an emergency trip to my dentist because I feared my newly installed crown had become infected.  The dentist that had done my crown wasn't available, but the office was able to fit me in with the head honcho for a 3pm appointment.

The assistant explained that she'd be taking a few X-rays so he could review the pictures to determine what was causing my pain.  As I was sitting in the chair after the X-rays were completed, I was listening to the radio and relaxing to the song 'Yellow' by Coldplay.  As the assistant wasn't very talkative, I decided to fill the silence with the this remark:

"Y'know, I always loved this song, but I have no idea what the hell it's supposed to be about."

Immediately a deep voiced man from behind me responded that he completely agreed with me, but wasn't it a a good song?  As he appeared in my line of sight, I was face to face with the head honcho. He didn't take the time to introduce himself at all, but rather got right into his speculation about what he perceived the song was supposed to be about.  I countered with, "I don't know about that, but it just reminds me of meandering on a beach somewhere pondering life and feeling sad."

His eyes widened in mutual  recognition and he exclaimed, "Right? No shit!"

And that was how I met my new dentist.

Our conversation bounced back and forth until we eventually lighted upon the interesting fact that he cheated on his religious exam while a student at Boston University.  I applauded his choice of deception in the one class where ethics might have played a pivotal role and I swear he would have high-fived me had he not been holding the needle containing the Novocaine. Again, our conversation continued about the exam he was cheating on and he asked me if I knew how Buddha was conceived from Queen Maya?  Ummm, no clue.  Obviously.  He explained that the woman was in a garden and was sat upon by an elephant with many seeds and that's how she became pregnant.  'Course I'm paraphrasing here, but all I was thinking about was the logistics of sex with an elephant.  I'm sorry, but that's just where my mind goes. Only later did I learn that the queen had a dream about a six-tusked white elephant coming to find her and then she was pregnant. Regardless, she got knocked up by an elephant and that's what's most interesting about how Buddha came to be.  As Mr. Head Honcho was a Catholic, he still thought the Immaculate Conception was pretty tame compared to the elephant and I would whole-hardheartedly agree with him.

Our chat continued....

and somehow we started talking about the Occult.  I recalled to him that in the 80's, I was a big fan of Hall & Oates and  I had somehow learned that Daryl Hall liked to read Occult books (maybe from TigerBeat?) so I started to take books out at the library to learn about it, too.  I said to him, 'Did you know that I named my two Guinea Pigs after Occult figures Alistair and Lilith?"  This time I didn't get a 'No Shit' out of him, but clearly he was enjoying our conversation because he still hadn't put the needle into my gums.

But eventually we had to get down to business and he began the work of pulling out the stray cement that was causing my inflamed gums all the trouble.  At times he was pushing so hard into my gums that I all I could think about is if he made one small slip, I'd have a very pointy sharp instrument impaled up into the roof of my mouth and lodged into my nasal cavity.  That would not have been good.  So after he was done, I told him of my fears and made sure to compliment him on his deft hand skills.  He thanked me and quickly said that even if he stabbed me through the roof of my mouth, he did have insurance and readily knew the billing code for an impalement.

I mean, how could I not love this guy?

Mr. Head Honcho had a great sense of humor and an easy yet confident manner while he poked and prodded my gums this afternoon. The cement caused an infection, but not an abyss tooth which was music to my ears.   He deftly removed the debris and provided me with a medicated rinse to help with the infection and sent me on my way with no charge for the office visit.

It's a special thing when you meet someone and instantly strike a rapport with them.  I suspect the feeling isn't always reciprocated, but for me it's like my brain lights up.  It reminds me that there are people out there waiting to be discovered and sometimes those encounters happen in the most unusual ways.

Today it started with ColdPlay and ended with a goddess getting knocked up in a sex dream with a white elephant.  What a day.

Feb 13, 2014

The Long Goodbye

Yesterday we had to say good-bye to our beagle Minnie. Making the hateful decision to put her to sleep was one of the hardest things we've ever had to commit to-how do you knowingly go about making arrangements to end the life of the thing you love most in this world?

First let me take a step back to tell you that we nearly lost her back on February 13th of last year.  In the middle of the night, we rushed her to Tufts after she collapsed and couldn't breathe. She was diagnosed with Chronic Valvular Disease & Congestive Heart Failure. Her cardiology team couldn't tell us how long she would live, but we were given the vague expectation that it could be anywhere from one to six months depending on how well we could control her symptoms with heart medications.

Ever since last February, we've been living on borrowed time with Minnie. It's been a long year of increasingly sleepless nights and constant worry. Living with a dog who has CHF means listening to persistent coughing, monitoring breaths per minute, maintaining a low-sodium diet and keeping up with ever-changing heart medications.

It's been a delicate dance to keep her as happy and healthy as possible this past year. She continued to enjoy her long walks with Spencer and still eagerly ran to the kitchen every time she heard the refrigerator door open or the turn of the electric can opener. She enjoyed Winter one last time rolling in freshly fallen snow and taking long lazy naps in all her favorite spots of our house. She was happy and content despite her failing heart. We helped her have a good quality of life this past year.  We never gave up on her.

But recently she began fainting as a result of her coughing and seeing her wake-up after a fainting spell struggling to breathe and not knowing if she would recover was unimaginably painful and we just couldn't put her through it anymore.  We loved her too much and knew it was time to say good-bye.

We let her go yesterday - nearly a year to the day when we first discovered her condition - our most loved 11-year old girl.

We were with her till the last beat of her broken heart.

Mar 23, 2013

Dear John: A Duran Duran Fan Letter

The above Duran Duran fan letter could have been written by me with one exception - I would have started off my epic fan letter with Dear Simon. 

I have been proud to call myself a Duranie since 1982.  I can't recall that exact pivotal moment when I first laid eyes on my Fab Five, but I do have a very distinctive memory of being down in the basement watching their videos on MTV.   I remember that my best vantage point was to sit as close to the TV screen as possible whenever a video came on and I simply could not get enough of Simon LeBon. I was hopelessly devoted and smitten to that blond-haired pop-star and it was a love that spawned such things as fan fiction that I would pass out to my circle of friends, about a thousand poster push-pin holes in my bedroom and early damage to my vocal cords from high-pitch squealing like a stuck pig whenever the band premiered a new video on MTV.

What's a 12-year old girl with raging hormones to do down in the basement all by herself late at night?  Wait. It's not what you think.  Well, OK, maybe it is.  I would watch the unedited full-length Girls On Film video as many times as possible and and pray that my mom didn't come walking downstairs to see what my young, formative mind was watching on cable TV: bare-breasted models engaging in all sorts of suggestively sexy activity with Sumo Wrestlers in a fighter's ring, girl-on-girl action sequences, massages involving copious amounts of squirting oil, a cowgirl riding a horse (who is actually just a hot guy with a horse head strapped to the side of his face), kiddie pools and apparent disco dancing in the center ring.   And while all this is going on, my boys are dancing around on the sidelines wearing head scarfs and make-up.  Talk about confusing.  Are You There, God? It's me, Kim.  And I don't know what the hell I'm feeling down there.

I'm ashamed to say that my love for Duran Duran once made me take advantage of a boy named Michael who really liked me.  He invited me over to his house to hang out in his parent's basement (again with the basement!) and rented a VHS tape of all the early Duran Duran videos.  Talk about teen cat nip.  I knew he had a crush on me and the only reason why we hung out is because he got that video.  I'm not proud of my actions with him, but back then I would have done just about anything to anyone to get my Simon LeBon fix.  (Does that make me a Mean Girl?)

I have snippets of memory visiting my best friend Lisa on The Cape and being totally psyched that I found Duran Duran's first album on cassette as an import.  It had an extended version of Planet Earth and I played it so much I'm surprised I didn't wear out the tape. (Still have it to this day!)  Back then I fantasized about what it was going to be like when I got my driver's license and could drive in my own car while playing Duran Duran cassettes as loud as possible. 

I remember being insanely pissed off at my mom because she wouldn't let me see the band when they came to the Worcester Centrum on their Seven & The Ragged Tiger tour.  She was afraid the place was going to collapse from all the people stomping their feet and banging on the backs of seats.  I think she heard somebody talking about the building's structure on AM radio one day and it freaked her out. Sadly, my mom was an anxious hot mess even back then.

Those were my early years of fandom. I'm proud to tell you that I've never stopped loving them even through their various side projects, break-ups, reunions and pop-star histrionics.  Duran Duran was and still is the soundtrack to my life.

Below is the actual transcription of the above fan letter in case you had trouble reading it.
Dear John,

I have been waiting 2 long, long years to see you in concert. I think Duran Duran are the best and are the most gorgeous. If you are reading this know that you are the most gorgeous guy in the world, and andy is the cutest guy in the world. You both remind me of adorable Cabbage Patch Kids. You are my favorite Duran man and I love you totally. My best friend also loves you totally. I'm writting this 13 days before the concert, I hope that you'll save it. Oh forget it, throw it out. Just that you know I exist and that you accually read this is enough. I love you forever and ever. I was the person who was screaming the loudest that I love you. Tell Andy I love him to.

(a faithful fan)

Happy Birthday!!

I didn't forget. I hope you had the best 25th ever. I listen to Z-100 radio, and tomorrow I will be because today is June 19 and I'll celebrate it.


DURAN DURAN rule+4ever!!!!!!!

1. Duran Duran are the most gorgeous.
2. But John Taylor is the most gorgeous.
3. Andy Taylor is the cutest.
4. Men who look like Cabbage Patch Dolls are a good thing.
5. Number of times she uses the word love: 7
6. Her best friend loves you, too.
7. I love you.

Mar 9, 2013

March Madness

There's a TON of things happening right now in my world related to my girl crush Justin Timberlake.

First he joined Instagram in early February. His first picture was of a shot of the non-existent traffic on the 101 in LA on his way to perform at The Grammy's.

On February 27th I nearly lost my mind because I couldn't pull the trigger on buying super expensive presale tickets to see his tour when it comes to Boston at Fenway Park in August.  At first I got all excited because Ticketmaster returned results that I had scored tickets, but then my brain kicked in and registered the price was $255/ticket and I simply couldn't justify it.  (Get it? Justify. OK.  We're cool. You got it.)  I kept refreshing the screen, tossing those PC cookies and hoping the results would be different, but in the end I even passed on the lesser tickets priced at $134.50/ticket because I wasn't exactly clear where I'd be parking my ass in Fenway during the performance.

On February 28th, the official sale kicked off at 10 am and I tried again. (I was at work and actually delayed a meeting so I could give it another shot) I got 2 tickets for $134.50 in Section 29.  Ticketmaster threw me into that 15 minutes of suspended time of temporarily holding my tickets and I feverishly tried to locate where I'd be sitting in the park. I Google'd a couple sites where people post pictures from their seats so I could see the view and I still couldn't do it.  I actually got up and asked my co-worker Brian to swing by and validate if my seats were any good.  He was in mid-nod and I was just about to buy the tickets when Michelle triumphantly leaped into my cube to exclaim, "Happy Birthday. I just bought us tickets."  At least, I think that's what she said.  It's still sort of hazy.  I think non-exercise related endorphin kicked into my blood stream because I just remember feeling this moment of sheer joy and happiness.  She ended up scoring tickets in Section 26 and later told me she knew I wasn't going to buy them because I was so upset over the cost.

Oh, Justin.  You're such a tease.
Sometimes you just need a friend to put her arm around you and drag your sorry indecisive ass over the fence.  I was so glad she did because now we're going to see Justin Timberlake and the great Hova. 

Things are progressing nicely in the Land of Crush. Tonight he's hosting Saturday Night Live for the 5th time and then next Monday through Friday he's going to be on Jimmy Fallon every single night as the exclusive musical guest.  The best thing about this is I watch Fallon anyways and I was thinking that at least he'll be visiting the show to promote his CD.  But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine he'd be such an unprecedented guest for five consecutive nights.

I'm on vacation the week of March 17th which is perfect because Justin's CD titled The 20/20 Experience is being released on March 19th.  I'll probably be at Target when it opens so I can get the CD with the two exclusive tracks on Tuesday.  Yes, people, this is how I'm spending my vacation.

So with all this excitement going on in the real world, there's still a ton of busy buzz happening online.  Blogs are exploding with all this information because like me, people are just losing their shit that he's back to singing.  Only recently I read a blog where this girl was just so incredibly pissed off about his straightened hair.  She insisted he was using a relaxer to tame his trademark N'Sync curls and didn't have any love for his Rat Pack coiffed hair one bit. I like reading stuff like this because it reminds me that I'm not the only person there that feels so disproportional about Justin Timberlake . These like-minded freaks give me perspective.  

Yesterday I read a really funny post that I had to share with you.  It's from the blog BuzzFeed and it's called The 32 Greatest Justin Timberlake Dance Moves of All Time.   They gathered 32 GIF's of him dancing and then created names for his dance moves to go along with the images.  It's perfectly hilarious. 

Here are just some of my favorites:
  • The Look I'm In A Puddle Twirl 
  • The Pow Pow Shimmy 
  • The Don't Look Now but Madonna Is Behind You Twist
  • The Michael Jackson Crotch Thrust
  • And the Full On Penis Quake
  • The Beyonce Body Sway
  • The Full On Shirt Twirl
  • The Timberlake Tornado
  • The Sass Monster Shoulder Twirl
  • The Ultimate Pelvic Plunge
My favorite: The Pow Pow Shimmy

The Timberlake Tornado

Forget the Shamrock Shake coming back for a limited-time only at McDonald's.  March is shaping up to be the best month ever.

Dedicated fans waiting to get inside 30 Rock