A-B-C. It's easy as 1-2-3

I've resisted basically as long as I can -- it turns out that I am way too much of a middle-school girl at heart to see one of these and NOT fill it out. Since this one made its rounds across the blogosphere last week, I really can't help myself... right? RIGHT?! Someone get me an intervention.

A : Age? 26

B: Bed size? Queen. I'd kill for a lovely, large California King, but then I wouldn't be able to get into my closet and really? That's just not acceptable.

C: Chore you hate? My first reaction was "dishes!" but, you know what? I was just thinking yesterday about how, for all the complaining I do about it, there is something very cathartic about washing an enormous pile of dishes. It's very satisfying to have a clean sink. So, with that said, I will absolutely pay whoever wants to come over and clean the tile grout surrounding the toilet. GEE-ROSS!

D: Dogs? Gahhhh, why must you torture me so?! I LOVE dogs (enough that I get stuck with a needle each week and have serum shoved under my skin in an attempt to control my body's horrible allergy to them), but we aren't allowed to have any yet. In the interim, Blaine and I have created a name, general profile and list of must-haves for our imaginary future pup, Trot Dirtdog Nixon. He's going to be a gross little pound puppy, preferably with wiry hair and a penchant for creating a ruckus. I've already started designing his Dirt Dog Red Sox jersey.

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E: Essential start to your day? No-brainer; putting in my contacts. I HATE my glasses and only wear them when I have to... like after falling asleep with my contacts in, so that my contacts dry out and scratch my cornea. Or after getting nasty, Jamaican spring break foam-pit foam in my eye.

F: Favorite color? I can never actually pick just one. Green, Blue and Pink all run high, with Red as the dark horse.

G: Gold or Silver? Gold -- I'm allergic to silver. Although that doesn't stop me if the silver comes in a pretty little blue box tied up all nice with a white (or red, depending on the season) ribbon! (The real answer? Depends on if I'm wearing black or brown as my base!)

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H: Height? 5'5 on the nose!


I: Instruments you play? I don't want to spoil an upcoming Friday Confession, but let's just say I have rocked a mean intro to Rhapsody in Blue in my time.

J: Job Title? Administrative Associate to the Director.

K: Kids? None yet, but I have the CUTEST little munchkins for my half-brother, niece and nephew!

L: Live? Boston, MA, after growing up north of the border in good ol' NH.(PSA: The capital of said state is pronounced Con-kerd, people! Like the grape, not the jet.).

M: Mom's Name? CrazyMa

N: Nicknames? Well, there's Caitie, of course -- although the funny part is, I was never called Caitie until I was a full-grown, working adult. I went by my last name for most of college (apparently, the parents of future sorority girls fell into a creativity vortex when it came to naming their spawn). Of course, there's the list of ridiculous things Blaine (a pseudonym unto itself) refers to me as, including, but not limited to: Lovebug, Bug, Bugzo, Tommy Noble, Doodle, etc.

O: Overnight hospital stays? None so far, at least not where I was the patient. Fingers crossed!

P: Pet peeve? The sound of silverware scraping across plates or bowls. I'm not kidding; it makes the hair on my arms stand up just thinking about it. Also, people who chew gum with their mouth open. Ugh. Lastly, and this is one I inherited from my favorite English teacher in high school: when the verb, "quote" is used in place of the noun, "quotation." I never claimed to NOT be neurotic!

Q: Quote from a movie? Ohhhh there are just. so. many! The following three are just off the top of my head:

"Tomorrow is a new day, with no mistakes in it." - Anne of Green Gables


"Of all the Charlie Browns in the world, you're the Charlie Browniest!" - Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown

"Oh my God, Karen! You can't just go around asking people why they're white!" - Mean Girls

R: Righty or Lefty? Righty.

S: Siblings? Oh, yes -- Sister K (23), Brothers B&B (21), Brother R (18) and Half-Brother G (1).

4/5.5 Ain't Bad!

T: Time you wake up? Weeeellll... that depends. If it's the weekend, when I have all the time in the world be be leisurely, I am bounding out of bed at 8am more often than not. But if it's a workday, and I absolutely need to be dressed and out of the house before 8 or else Blaine will kill me? 7:30. Life is so cruel sometimes.

U: Underwear? Uh, yeah!


V: Vegetables you dislike? You're talking to a girl who once proudly proclaimed to anyone that would listen that her favorite food on the entire planet was brussel sprouts. I'm not particularly fond of Swiss Chard, though.

W: What makes you run late? Those times when I wake up feeling damn fine, then proceed to prance around in front of my full-length mirror in my undies, examining how fine I look from all angles.

X: X-rays you've had? Tons, the most memorable being the time after tripping over my jeans on Friday night and falling face-first into the pavement, totally sober. I got my hands out in time, but my left palm was swollen and NASTY looking. I got to have my X-rays taken in an 18-inch chair in a pediatric radiology ward. Nothing says jackass like Curious George and a 3-year old in a cast sitting next to you.


Y: Yummy food you make? I roast a mean chicken. Well, I hope it was mean, anyway. You see why I'm giving up meat for Lent. The soup I make after, though, according to my Grandpa's secret recipe, is the real award-winner, though!


Z: Zoo Animal Favorite? Polar bears. No questions asked. They're awesome.

[Source]

Your turn! I want to know the following about you:
E- Essential start to your day 
P- Pet peeves
W- What makes you run late?

Friday Confessional: I'm a Binge Eater

Originally I had planned for today's confession to be moderately embarrassing, but I've interrupted your regularly-scheduled ode to [insert really amusing obsession of your choice; I'm not giving it away for free, people!] with a revelation that is a little more timely, given that this is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week here in the US. As a heads up, the following post could potentially trigger someone suffering, or recovering, from an eating disorder. Please take care of yourselves first, and if you think that you might have a problem, do not be afraid to seek help. I am not a health care professional and have no training on eating disorders, and this story is strictly my own.

So, as I sit here working, skinny jeans carving into my hips sharply enough to cause the kind of delirium one expects from, say, snorting nitrous oxide, only way less fun, I do solemnly confess:

I have gained 7 pounds over the past 3 2.5 weeks....

[And I ain't talkin' bout water weight, neither.]

You see, I suffer from a little problem we'll call binge eating, though I don't really talk about it much save for my "safe place", i.e. my former boss great friend and life mentor, and my online community of fellow weight watchers losers pals, and even then, it's usually because I'm giving them some context for the advice I'm doling out like candy -- I've been there; it sucks. 

Usually, I'm pretty good about taking stock of my mental state and catching myself before I plunge into the abyss of a full-blown binge. I've read dozens of articles and books on the subject, and I've experimented with all of the "classic" means of putting a stop to them once and for all: non-food rewards, structured weight loss goals, calorie counting, looking at my weight loss efforts as a "lifestyle change" rather than the dreaded D-word, journaling, eating intuitively -- you name it; I've done it. In fact, TCE was originally spelled "The Cait-IE Experiment", because I wanted a place to document my attempts at eating intuitively, a la Geneen Roth et al.. 

[Source]

I won't say that any of them were failures, because it's impossible to fail at something so focused on learning to NOT consider yourself a failure. Learning to overcome any kind of addiction is a life-long process -- and I've been addicted to both binging and calorie counting for a very long time. I will never, ever forget the moment about a year and a half ago that I realized I was only at the very beginning of a long road. I had been counting calories for about two years, and had successfully taken off about 30 pounds since I graduated from college. I had finally found a great boyfriend (my Andrew!), whom I loved, but was having a lot of turbulence on the friend and family front and work was stressing me to the max. My relationship was keeping me grounded, along with the only other stability I had: my calorie goal. 

One Sunday, I was over at Andrew's for the Pats game. Per our ritual, we had visited our hidden-gem, local pizza joint, which at the time offered $5, 18" cheese pizzas and the packie ("liquor store" to you non-New Englanders out there). Since Andrew wanted to have a few friends over, we picked up 3 pies, a 30+12 of Bud Light, chips and dip. Though I knew his local friends well, I had limited exposure to his friends from home, and I was slightly apprehensive because when we first met, A was that guy, the one who all his friends talked about with fond memories of his ridiculous antics, including, but not limited to, delivering a rousing Memorial Day speech to a crowd of minions from a dilapidated fire escape. His nickname from the cocktail waitress at the local dive was "The Wildcard." His carefree, "if they don't like me, eff 'em" attitude was one of the reasons I fell in love with him. Of course, his friends found this hilarious, and were constantly egging him on.

You see why I was worried.

Right before kickoff, one of his best friends showed up. We all talked and laughed and ate through the first half, then ran out at halftime for some 5hr energies (this was, of course, back when I didn't find the thought of ingesting mystery chemicals that don't even taste good totally, utterly horrifying). As we got back to the house, his friend made some comment, probably off-hand, about girls and football. I happen to know a fair amount about the sport (three brothers and a Big East ACC-alum dad will do that to you), but I let it slide. The comments just kept coming, though, and my self-confidence and composure ticked down right along with the game clock. 

Don't get me wrong; mixing beer with emotions, especially stress and social anxiety (another blog post for another day) + meeting new people/uncomfortable situations is something that I know better than to do. I didn't that day, though. Which is why, when Andrew didn't come immediately to my defense, and when he was sitting on the couch laughing along at the tv and pounding beers while his friend niggled at my nerves (to his credit, and the reason we are still together, he was NOT a participant), something snapped. I left them to their own devices and did something I hadn't done in a long time -- I headed to the dark kitchen, grabbed one of the pizzas and blacked out.

No, not that kind of black out; this had nothing to do with alcohol. It was an emotional blackout, the kind where you are so distraught, so completely, frantically confused, that as your mind speeds along at a million miles a second, doubting everything you have come to know not only about your relationships, but about yourself, all you can think about is making yourself so full that the physical discomfort overtakes the pain in your heart. Crouched in the darkened corner of the pantry, I felt so empty that I stuffed myself with pizza to fill myself back up. And by the time I realized what I was doing, it was less about the fight with A than it was about the fight with myself. Why did I feel the need to harm myself to feel better? How could I let myself get to a point of such total self-destruction? Couldn't I just learn to beat these demons, once and for all?

When I "came to", as they say, I was still there, crouched in a dark corner, tears streaming down my face, surrounded by crumbs and bits of sauce. I looked at the clock and assessed the damage -- in the span of 4 minutes, I had shoved 6.5 slices of pizza down my throat. I felt sick, guilty and stupid for once again letting my emotions get the best of me. And I vowed, like so many other times before, that it would be the last time.

Finally, an opening in the forest.

Binge eating is often written off by those who don't struggle with it as a "lack of self-control", or just another step in the cycle of bulimia. I'm here to tell you that it's not. Binge eating is a very real disorder, and it doesn't need to be followed by a purge to be considered one. It's an addiction unto itself. But it CAN be beaten, with the right combination of strategies on a very personal level. 

That big binge was not, of course, the last time that I ate when I wasn't hungry -- it wasn't even the most food that I've managed to consume in a single sitting, not by a long shot. It also wasn't the last time I ate as a form of punishment for some weakness or perceived flaw that I saw in myself. 

But it WAS the last time that I mindlessly allowed myself to be a bystander. It was the last time that I completely gave myself away to the binge, without setting some sort of standard by which the binge would be conducted. Am I completely healthy and binge-free now? Hell no! But I now give myself some parameters. I try to take stock of the situation before it starts -- what am I feeling? Am I hurt? Angry? Tired? Bored? I know that I tend to binge when I am feeling overwhelmed, and like everything else in my life is spiraling out of control. So I look out for those moments. And when I feel one coming on, I ask myself if there is anything else I can do that will make me feel better. The "Evil Voice" in my head says, "Of COURSE there is, you know food isn't going to do anything to make you feel better; you're going to feel stuffed and gross and you'll gain weight to boot. BUT YOU WANT IT AND DESERVE TO FEEL MISERABLE, FATTY!". I hate that voice.

More and more often, though, there is a second voice, who speaks louder than Evil Self, aka negative "Fat Talk." For awhile, this voice was silenced; I was in the depths of my food issues. Then, I stumbled upon the Healthy Living blogosphere, and the raw honesty and insights of others who have beaten their own monsters (especially Angela at Oh She Glows). Slowly, but surely, that "other" voice started to speak, and before long, it was in a downright screaming match with the Evil One. Eventually, I learned the most important aspect of breaking free of the binge cycle -- forgiveness. I'm only human, and I make mistakes. When I binge, it's because there is something wrong, and my brain is dealing with it the only way it knows how. It isn't trying to hurt me; it's trying to help me cope. I can only take it one day, one hour, and one moment at a time. I try my best. And then, after a little while, that Positive Voice started to overpower the Negative.

I still have negative bouts from time to time, but I make it a priority to look at myself in the mirror and turn those horrible statements into positive ones. "UGH my double chin is re-emerging!" becomes "My eyebrows have a really nice shape" and "My ass looks huge in that suit!" becomes "Check out how defined those curves are in the rear; spinning is working its magic!" And yes, I am the creepster saying these things out loud, in the mirror, to myself.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

 As I've said, my younger sister and her ridiculously adorable daughter came up here from Texas for the past two weeks. I have seen my sister four times in the past four years -- and this was the first time for longer than a weekend, and her first time up here since she's been 21 (she is now 23). It was only my second time seeing my beautiful little Princess, and I don't know about you, but there isn't much to do with a six-month old in freezing temperatures, save for eat and drink. We baptized the little one, and I'm now a certified Godmother! I spent a lot of time with my extended family, which was beyond welcome, since we all live close to one another but rarely take the time to visit. We're big, we're Irish, we're loud, and we love us some steak tips, potatoes and beer. As for working out? Why would I want to run on a treadmill of doom when I can crawl on the floor and make noises like a porpoise? That burns calories, right?

So after my sister left on Wednesday, and my pants felt a little tighter, I stepped on the scale, just to see the damage. 2.5 weeks. 7lbs. There you have it.

[Worth it.]

...But I mostly don't care.

  That's the real confession.  

Well, that was moderately terrifying. At least I get to check off some progress on a couple of my 2011 goals -- blogging more and doing things that scare me! So, tell me (if you want to), do you have an "Evil Voice?" How do you deal with it? How have you grown as a person the past few years?

The Definition of Insanity

No, it's not doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result -- I fully expect you guys to get annoyed with what are seemingly turning into weekly "OMG, guys, I swear! I am so, like, totally, unbelievably busy and don't have time to devote to things I love, like blogging and running and eating right and, well, showering and sleeping and stuff! Heehee, isn't that so hilar? Toodles!" posts.


It's planning the end of you sister and incredibly adorable baby niece's trip across the country to visit you, a baptism for said adorable baby while corralling a somewhat volatile family element, and the tail-end for your 5k training to coincide with what is your busiest (and most important, as in your salary sort of depends on it) work-week of the year.

Eww.

Oops.

Promise to be back by Friday at the latest with a good, real-life, possibly profanity-laden confessional. I <3 you guys.

Friday Confessional: I Hate Jodi Picoult

Similar to my new, non-structured series, I Go Back, I've decided that I want a more permanent "Theme Post" for everyone to look forward to, where I promise to post a little distraction from the regular topics (Note: Yes, I get that at the moment, my focus is rather... unfocused as it is. I hope for that to change with time!). From this point forward, on Fridays, I am going to do a little feature called "Friday Confessional". Each week, I will admit to, well... something. It can be controversial, ridiculous, or just plain embarrassing (believe me; there will be no shortage of topics). I figure it can be like Andy Rooney on 60 Minutes, which we all know is the only reason anyone still tunes in. Man, do I love that old coot. 

A few weeks ago, I confessed that even though I grumble and groan with the best of 'em, I secretly LOVE horrible weather. Pagophobia be damned (if you had to look that up, don't feel bad; I did, too), I get a little thrill out of knowing my entire city is going to be shut down and everyone will be inconvenienced. Evil? Probably. Fun? You betcha.

So, this week, without further ado, I hereby confess:

While I will cop to loving my fair share of chick lit, I LOATHE the collected works of Jodi Picoult.

[Source]

And I don't just mean, "wow, I can't believe I just wasted an entire day and a half reading this book," hate; I mean, "I not only want my money back but I want her entire advance plus royalties transferred to my bank account immediately as reparations" hate. A burning, fiery, throw-all-of-her-books-off-of-a-cliff-while-possibly-doing-some-kind-of-dance-from-the-netherworld hate.

There, I said it. Go ahead, revoke my girl license. I knew it was coming.

I can't stand the flowery, predictable dialogue. I can't stand the over-the-top cathartic moments. Most of all, I can't stand that I can read the first paragraph of one of her books and know that the entire story will play out as some emotionally-wrought parable about interpersonal connection, inner turmoil and the protagonist's attempt to cope with whatever dramatic event is unfolding in the crisis du jour.

"BUT WAIT!" I've heard a hundred times, as soon as one of my friends, acquaintances, or random person on the bus gets clued in to my burning hatred. "THIS one has a TWIST!"

This is my shocked face.

OF COURSE this one has a twist. Guess what? THEY ALL HAVE A TWIST! It never fails to amaze me how many readers I've talked who to have waxed on and on about how no one saw the twist coming. Really? REALLY?! I was going to go into a whole synopsis of all the twists I never saw coming in the five JP books I've read, except then I realized it's hard to synopsize zero.

Look, I'm not a literary critic. I'm not a professional writer or an agent, acquisitions editor or anything remotely connected to the world of publishing. But I do have a degree in English and I've been devouring books since the age of 2. (No, literally, I devoured them - there are incriminating photos of me with See Spot Run and bits of cardboard hanging from my three teeth).  I don't mind a little bit of bad writing (See: Coben, Harlan and Kinsella, Sophie), and I don't even hate books with contrived plots and dialogue (See: Weiner, Jennifer, and her last three offerings -- but don't mess with her earlier books; those are sacred!). But I want to at least love the characters, or the language, or some basic facet of the book. I get that there are tons of readers out there who totally LOVE Jodi and everything she stands for, but she is just not my cup tea.

In summary, in my opinion, Jodi Picoult deserves a throne in the inner circle of Writer Hell, right next to that other bastion of literary technique, Stephanie Meyer. Yeah, you heard me...

Suck it, Edward.

[Source]

Boom! Roasted!

So, readers, what do you think? Is Jodi a literary goddess or a writer who reeks? Am I the only one who gets creeped out by RPattz' colossal coiffure? What should I cop to next? Thoughts, comments, concerns -- feel free to send 'em my way! 

I Wish the Real World...

A few weeks ago, I chronicled the unusually vivid memories that a certain song brings back for me. Almost immediately after I hit, "Publish," on that entry, I had another "I Go Back" moment  (Holla atcha boy Kenny!) -- and decided right then and there that since I had so much fun writing that first post and re-living my awkward past, I wanted to make the chronicles of these tunes a recurring (but not regular) series on TCE. What better way to get to know someone than through her own recollections of her formative years, in all their awkward, angsty, horrifying glory, all set to a kick-ass nerdy an eclectic soundtrack?

Yet again, as I was wandering back into the building from collecting my lunch (cajun bowl, brown rice and white meat chicken, from Bolocco -- if you've not had one, get thine ass there NOW. Trust me; just do it.), the coffee cart downstairs was playing its usual easy listening, adult contemporary mix, and as I pressed the elevator button to mosey back upstairs, the words hit me like a ton of bricks:

I think I've already lost you; I think you're already gone...

Now, I don't know about you, but in high school, I was pretty damn sure that I was, in fact, living out a Matchbox 20 song. I would saunter down the hallways, randomly whipping my head around to make sure that Rob Thomas, in all of his broody, hot, shaggy-before-Bieber glory, was not literally following me around and penning his inspirational lyrics based upon my mediocre existence. I never actually caught him, but I'm still pretty sure he was there. I mean, he's pretty skinny. I bet he could fit behind a locker or something.

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Holy. Yum.


Ok, now that I have quit drooling long enough to type, I can admit: I first became a fan while I was glued to my tv, obsessively voting for the BSB on TRL (THAT'S another blog post for another day). And then Rob came about, leading a camel around a bowling alley and singing words that went straight to my 14-year old heart. Yes, I DID always wonder what it was like to be the Rainmaker, and what it would be like to know that I made the rain (side note: I am thoroughly saddened by the fact that an entire generation will think this line has something to do with dolla dolla bills, ya'll). Most importantly, I wished the real world would just stop hasslin' me. In that moment, I became an MB20 lifer.

Just shy of my 16th birthday, I got my very first real boyfriend. This was good for 2 reasons: 1) I was beginning to wonder if I would EVER get my first kiss, and 2) I was dating a guy that all of my friends had had crushes on in the months leading up to our coupledom, and they were all insanely jealous. Score one for me. I felt like sort of a scumbag at first, because he had dated another friend of mine before me, but I was honest and up front, told her I had the hots for him post-their-breakup, and she gave us her blessing. She'd moved on to greener pastures by that point, anyway.

A blissful high school eternity Three months and 26 days later, my heart was crushed when, as we carried on our nightly tradition of tying up our families' phone lines on both AIM and the cordless at the same time, he said something about how he just didn't like me much anymore and we were now broken up. Sobbing hysterically, I ran right to my room and did what any normal 16 year old does: blasted angsty music, ate an entire row of Double Stuf Oreos and began the laborious endeavor of making sad mix tapes -- which, at the time, entailed sitting next to your duel-cassette tape deck with the radio on, waiting patiently for Joey McIntyre's "Stay the Same" the song of your choice to come on and painstakingly hitting "Record" at just the right moment. As I sat there, cheetos falling like tears all around me, the song I'd been waiting for finally hit the airwaves.



"Can you help me? I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never, get put back together..." 

Right after "Bent" ended, safely embedded upon my cassette tape, I heard the DJ mentioning something about how MB20 was coming to a local arena in two weeks... "along with special guests, Lifehouse and Everclear!" At the mention of that, I nearly choked on my fifty-fourth Oreo. No, not because MB20 and Rob Thomas himself would soon my in my vicinity, but because the object of my defeated affections happened to be a HUGE Everclear fan. YES! THIS WAS IT! I KNEW HOW TO GET HIM BACK!

Aided and abetted by my crazy mother, along with a six-month sentence of increased indentured servitude, I managed to procure a set of four tickets to the upcoming concert. Ever so casually, I happened to mention it to the ex one day, which went as follows:

Oh, yeah, I'm going to Matchbox Twenty... did you know Everclear is opening? Wow, you're a fan? No way; I had no idea! Would you believe I have two extra tickets that I can't seem to get rid of? Yeah! Nuts, right? Oh, you would take them? Well, I mean, I have to think about it; I kind of have my toe in a few waters right now, you know... Hmm, on second thought, sure. Oh, did I mention Leah and Kat got tickets, too, and we rented a limo?"

The Bachelor is damn lucky I happened to be taken by the time I ever really got into watching it, because those other broads never would have stood a chance. Smooth like buttah; that's me.

Armed with nothing but some sweet butterfly hair clips, a few friends and a driver named Adam Geoffrey (at least that's what we called him, despite his insistence that it was not, in fact, his name), I set about my task. Of course, we missed basically all of Lifehouse, because we got stuck in traffic, but we were there for Everclear. Ex kept going onnn and onnn about how awesome it was to be there. I smiled and laughed, acted cool (because nothing is more lame and less attractive than a desperate girl clinging to her thwarted love interest, right?), and went NUTS when MB20 came on.

In fact, I might have managed to find the one time the entire arena went quiet to loudly declare, "ROB THOMAS I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY!"

Awkward.

[I'm the one in the black, with the sweet purse and butterfly hair clips, third from the right. Please note Geoffrey.]

Still totally amped about the awesome concert we'd just attended (and our brand-spankin' new black, rainbow-lettered Matchbox Twenty baby tees), we hopped into the limo and decided to play that old teenage standby, Truth or Dare. Finally! This was it! My friends knew of my ulterior motives for this little trip, and I was sure they would hook me up (no pun intended). Needless to say, you can imagine my expression when, after my friend picked "Dare," she ended up making out with MY ex-boyfriend right there in front of me. If you CAN'T imagine my expression, just watch Mean Girls and study LiLo when Regina starts making out with Aaron at the Halloween party. (Yes, 2 song recaps, 2 Mean Girls refs. Swish!).

And then they dated.

Cue "Leave".

 You know, I wish I could say that I had some kind of huge "EFF YOU" moment that came out of this, where the heroine is vindicated and wins a recording contract or book deal or something after furiously pouring her heart out onto the page. Unfortunately, AIM statuses (stati?) weren't exactly fodder for 6-figure book advances, so I really don't. In fact, I'm still good friends with that guy, to the point that we both usually forget the fact that we ever dated, unless it's brought up in conversation because we are standing in a circle of his ex-girlfriends (he was one of those guys who had a problem with dating "in the circle," if you will) and laughing about the hilarity of our misspent youth.

As for the friend who made out with him, I held a grudge for a few years, but by the time we got to college, it really wasn't worth it. She IMed me one day, coincidentally after another bad breakup on my end, and asked me to accompany her on a visit to Martha's Vineyard for the day. I did, we talked, we laughed, we cried -- and now we've had tons of drinks, crazy experiences and belly laughs over the whole teenage debacle. She's one of my besties, and affectionately known as my "boyfriend," since when we were both single and all our friends were obsessed with trolling the bars like trollops, we were content sitting at home, making pizzas and watching Rosemary's Baby, confident that we would find quality men one day, who were worthy of our awesomeness.  And then we did.

And I owe it all to Rob Thomas.

Swoon.

All You Need is Love!

This was just one of those mornings where I woke up, actually pretty damn overtired from a weekend of cavorting, and just smiled like an idiot. I am, in fact, still grinning:

 

I am a very lucky girl.

Truth be told, I've been having a bit of a rough time of it lately. Winter has ensnared me in its evil grip; it's cold, dark, gloomy and just overall depressing. I've been half-assing my healthy eating goals (actually, "out of control Bingemeister" might have crossed my lips as an accurate description of my eating lately). I've been eating more than my fair share of smoked gouda and not nearly enough green goodness... I literally dreamed of a Green Monster the other night. My half marathon training has been decent enough, but I've been getting bummed that I had to start running all over again, and am still at point of adding a quarter mile to my runs each week. I'm moody, irritable, irrational and totally exhausted, and if anyone dare say the three magic letters (P, M, and S), I might just haul off and sock them.

In short, of all the Charlie Browns in the world, I've been the Charlie Browniest.

[Source]

Good grief.

This morning, however, I just happened to wake up thinking of all the things I am thankful for, which brighten my day considerably and just plain make me smile:

- My brothers and sister, who have been there through thick and thin. We have a crazy family, but no one knows how to make me laugh (Or cry. Or scream. Or a lot of other things) like my sister, K, and three brothers, BB&R. You guys are my rocks. And to newcomer Baby Bro G, for being ridiculously cute and a reminder of all the possibilities life has in store for us!

[Note: One "B" is missing, but that's ok. Just imagine two of the tall, lanky dude in the middle. And BG needs permission to be featured, since he's, you know, 1.]

- My niece, Princess, and nephew, Ham. I love those two little monkeys like no one's business. I am definitely *that* Auntie, who sends them rompers declaring that all they want for Christmas is me, takes 300 photos on my camera phone, gives them a million slobbery kisses and is always aiming to make them love me more than anyone else in the world. ;)

[I need to get my brother's permission before posting pics of Ham. You know the drill.]

- A totally amazing and loving boyfriend, known to the interwebs as Blane, with whom I fall more in love each and every day. He makes waking up in the morning an adventure, despite his stinky socks.

 

- An amazing cast of friends, coworkers and family members, who have come together to make my life the adventure that it is. One day, when my memoirs hit the top of the NYT Bestseller list, I'll have all of you to thank.  From middle school misfortune to college craziness, workplace wonders to bar crawlin' buddies, you guys and gals are the family I get the gift of choosing. I love you all!

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- And last, but not least, my readers. Yes, YOU. I know that you're out there (stats don't lie!), and I just wanted to say that I am grateful for you. You guys rock!

Valentine's Day is about love, both romantic and neighborly. So even if you're not feeling the whole "Hallmark/candy/flowers/pukefest" that it's been made out to be, stop sitting on your sad sack and get out there and make someone else's day better -- your family, your neighbor, hell, even your mailman -- and give them a nice, big grin and a "Happy Valentine's Day."

(Side note: I'm so sick of people bitching and moaning about Valentine's Day. Seriously, people, it's one day about love and friendship, not some catastrophic apocalypse. If you are bitter enough to loathe a day dedicated to all the happy interpersonal relationships in the world, then I truly feel sorry for you and wish you all the happiness in the world. Now go forth and spread the love.)

You've Got the Cutest Little Baaa-bayyy Faaace!

I initially had a plan to roll out a fun new weekly feature today. Unfortunately, though, in true Murphy's Law fashion, my day became beyond crazy (how do Fridays do that?!). Sooo... you'll all just have to wait until next week to see what I have in store! In the meantime, here is an adorable baby to stare at:

 

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Winter Warmer

Unless you're in a foreign country (holler at mah peeps all over the world!), and even if you are, there's a slim chance that you've heard about this ridiculous weather that the entire United States has been experiencing. As evidenced by this post, I have been jubilant. I do love me some snow. However, when it starts to look like this:

 

and the snowbanks are over your head (please note the SUV behind me, and please excuse the terrible lighting. I busted my point-and-shoot and have been making do with my cell-cam all year!), and you can't even make a Target run for fear that someone will swipe the parking spot you've spent HOURS digging out every Wednesday, even I start to draw the line. Seriously, the snow is becoming a danger, and I would prefer to go to work each day knowing that there was only a slim likelihood that I will return home to find my ceiling caved in. Which did actually happen, last year, in my bathroom, but that's another story for another day.

Anywho, like the rest of the Northeast, I spent my weekend dodging snow bullets and reveling in the glory of 40 degree temperatures and precipitation that didn't freeze on impact. I had a fab happy hour Friday night with some of my more socially-minded co-workers which, if you remember my post on 11 ways to kick 2011's ass, is a big step for me. Checks on #10 and #11, thankyouverymuch.

I also took the rainy, dreary weather and used it to my advantage, taking the opportunity to take the 10 loads of laundry that we've been hoarding and visit with my friend, Juan Benito, at the laundromat. How two childless, working adults have enough clothing to encompass 10 loads of laundry (and I was SERIOUSLY squishing a few loads), I will never know. But I definitely felt like a baller when I folded the first half.

Yes, ladies and gents, those are shorts. Shorts that I had asked Blaine to wash back in, oh, I don't know, July, yet somehow found them stuffed in the back of a closer. (Sidenote: after my ode to junior high post a few days ago, Dear Boyfriend informed me that henceforth, he wants to be known as Andrew McCarthy. Nice try, darling. You're lucky I'm not calling you Ducky, aka "the wimpy one from Two and a Half Men". I did not become a master of code names in high school for nothing.). 

Being a LUNATIC football fanatic, and after having had a month to lick his wounds following the Pats' epic demise at the hands of the Dirty Jets, Blaine obviously had big plans for us to watch the Superbowl at his parents' house. I LOVE sports, especially football (and baseball. And hockey. Basketball is just ehhhh), and I LOVE free steak, so it seemed like a win-win. Since I didn't care about the outcome save for that Big Ben lost, I was pulling for GB and was psyched when they won.

As mentioned, I wasn't exactly in top form yesterday; I was overtired and mildly hungover. I mean, really now, who DOESN'T think it's a good idea to stay up after the Super Bowl, utilizing the in-law's cable package to catch up on DVRed episodes of Jersey Shore while simultaneously trying to kill a 12 of Harpoon Winter Warmer and carry on a conversation with this guy?

Overachievers, that's who. (An art project gone awry, Theodore, or Theo as I have come to know him, chills in the bathroom in the in-law's basement and, after a rocky start in which I screamed at first sight, I have come to love him, in a freaky, clay-head kind of way. Is that weird?)

Hurtin' for certain, I did what any professional does. I manned up, popped a few Advil, drank my weight in coffee and did a stellar job on a project. Then I went home, slipped into pjs, ate half a wheel of smoked gouda on sourdough and caught up on Gilmore Girls: Season 5. After screaming at Rory for being such an insipid prat and bemoaning the urge to hibernate until May, I hit the sack with a hint of a smile on my lips. I knew that this morning would bring the one completely made-up Boston holiday that can snap all of us out of our winter funk...

TRUCK DAY!

Source: Boston.com

  

Only in this Mecca of American Baseball do we allow ourselves to create not one, not two, but THREE holidays around annual sporting events: Truck Day, Opening Day and Patriot's Day (aka Marathon Monday). My glee at opening the Globe this morning was eclipsed only by the knowledge that soon, we shall go from this:

 
 To this:

 And this:

Bring it, winter!

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

Due to a combination of a super busy day at work, the impending arrival of my sister and 6-month old niece and what is, quite frankly, a particularly nasty hangover courtesy of the Green Bay Packers, today's scheduled post has been postponed until tomorrow.

In the meantime, I shall leave you THIS little teaser:

Get excited.

Truly, Madly, Deeply Dooo

Have you ever gone YEARS without hearing a song, only to have it pop up out of nowhere one day and then proceed to follow you around, its little earworm hooks creeping and crawling into you brain and bringing up all kinds of long-forgotten associations?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Savage Garden's Truly, Madly, Deeply. It's stalking me.

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Remember when, sometime around the time that scrunchies were on their way out, this song seemed like the absolute most romantic thing you had ever heard? I mean, come on -- "I want to stand with you on a mountain. I want to bathe with you in the sea?" That is poetic, lyrical GENIUS, people! Elton John himself couldn't write that shiz. I will forever associate it's bass-y, lilting chorus with wide-leg jeans, passing notes in the hallways and dancing awkwardly with the kid from the next homeroom over, at 3 in the afternoon, on a dirty gymnasium floor.

And my friend Sara's Bat Mitzvah, at which I realized that I was not living in a John Hughes movie and, if I were, I would be less like Molly Ringwald and more like Ally Sheedy.

First of all, I was kind of an awkward middle schooler. One day, if you're lucky, I will post my 7th grade photo. Though I have destroyed all copies of it, my best friends are bound to have one, as my yearbook that year was filled with comments about how they would save it until I became famous and then leak it to the National Enquirer. And yes, it IS that bad... Four words: Velour. Scrunchie. Side Pony. My mother also forced me to wear skinny ankle jeans which, though tres cool now, were about as hip as garbage at the time, prompting the secret object of my affection to ask me one day in math class why I "wore such ridiculous pants." Good question, D, good question.

Despite my closet full of wardrobe malfunctions, I wasn't particularly popular or unpopular; I kind of like to think I ran in the middle of the clique pack. I had a solid group of friends, and we paraded around the hallways like we owned them, arms linked in a miniature display of solidarity with our other socially-stunted brethren. So, when my friend Sara invited me to her Bat Mitzvah, I was super pumped and assumed everyone else in my little group would be in attendance, too. Um, no.

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Now, being raised Catholic, I had no idea what to expect. My understanding of Jewish tradition extended to my Uncle wearing that funny hat during his wedding, the lesson on the Maccabees that my 5th grade teacher gave during the obligatory "Multi-Cultural Holiday Celebration" phase and the fact that while my friend Nicole got 8 crazy nights of Tiffanys, I got three hours of Church and a second-hand bicycle. So, I wasn't prepared for the fact that no, my entire social circle wasn't invited. Or that, in absence of said friends, it was not polite to invite along my best friend and assume that there would be a pot luck buffet like my family had at our First Communions. I was 13, for heaven's sake; how was I supposed to know the magnitude of the cost of a single un-RSVP'ed plated dinner?! So, as I entered the Temple in my black velour Liz Claiborne dress (apparently, velour is the new black. Or was, back when the Fresh Prince ruled the fashion scene), Things Remembered jewelry box engraved with "Mazel Tov!" and gate crasher best friend in tow, you can imagine what I was thinking as I saw all of the girls up front in their pastel semi-formal dresses, giggling at one another and making intricate hand gestures to the boys they knew from Hebrew School on the other side of the room, the basket of yarmulkes for the men and Sara, looking like a movie star sitting solemnly with her parents.

Oh. Shit.

The ceremony itself was very interesting. I love learning about other cultures and religions (and have the $180 text book to prove it), so I thought it was so cool to discover that they do their readings backwards. And that Sarah could speak another language. And that after all the traditional, ceremonial stuff was over, we got to go to a bitchin' party complete with glow-in-the-dark masks, a dance troupe and more shiny beads than Mardi Gras. Sure, I didn't know anyone except for a small handful of school chums and my gate crasher best friend, but that didn't stop me from tearin' up the dance floor during the Hava Nagila or taking second place in the "Chubby Bunny" contest.

And then, with a single resonating beat of bass, Savage Garden and their ode to everlasting teen angst ruined my night.

Normally, I had a group of guy friends who would have asked me to dance -- whether out of true desure or the fact that they couldn't find anyone else who would tolerate their clumsy big feet, I'll never know -- but this was uncharted territory. I didn't know ANY of these guys, save for the very few I knew from school. Most of these guys went to the junior high across the river, and they had no interest in doing the hands-on-shoulders sidestep with someone they'd never met.

So, while literally every other girl there was out on the dance floor, swaying in sync with the magical tempo of T,M,D and imagining the arms of whichever hunk they were dancing to helping to bathe them in the sea (which, by the way, I always pictured as more of a waterfall), I sat at my table, staring wistfully and waiting for the picture-perfect Andrew McCarthy or, at the very least, Jon Cryer lookalike, to come sweep me from my solitude and twirl me around the dance floor, declaring his undying love for me and that we would, of course, be together forever.

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My Pretty in Pink moment never happened, but a hot guy from the other school DID trip over his own two feet and spill the red punch that smelled vaguely of vodka all over my precious velour ensemble. And that is why I will forever wrinkle my nose and try not to let the chubby, forlorn teenager inside of me tear up whenever I hear Truly, Madly, Deeply in an elevator or blaring softly from the soda cart downstairs.

Damn you, Savage Garden, for building me up and then tearing me down. Millions of little girls had their hopes and dreams of romance dashed because of the high bar that you set. For the briefest of moments, we believed that perhaps we were the Chosen Ones, and that one day, a dreamy Australian man with spiky hair and highlights would find us and sweep us off to our destinies.


And then Titanic came along, and Leo and Kate and Celine made us forget allll about those crazy Aussies.

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Swoon.

Scale, Schmael... And Other Random Musings

I was planning on writing this whole post about something really important. It had to do with how I've managed to push through my stupid treadmill workouts the past two days (HINT: the words Jersey, Shore, Saved and Bell might have been involved). But then I got to work, and in between elevator eavesdropping overhearing people bitching about the impending snow storm, I swear that I heard no less than three of my colleagues discussing their weight, their diets, their appearance and themselves in a hurtful and negative manner.

Seriously, people. Don't even GET me up on my soapbox.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

This is a PSA for everyone who is getting frustrated with their scales. I just checked my weight chart, and I currently weigh the exact same weight as I did on January 15th of last year. At that time, I was just getting back into the swing of the weight loss game. I'd taken off the first 30 pounds and kept it off for awhile, but after a fun visit with my new PCP, I was basically told that if I didn't lose more weight, I could count on the blood starting to spurt out of my eye sockets like some B-slasher flick in the very near future, due to my borderline high blood pressure. Figuratively, I had shown such an improvement - I only had one chin! - but physically, despite the positive change in my pants size, I was sorely lacking. I could do maaaybe ONE straight-leg pushup. I could only run .25 miles at a time, and my first straight 5k time on a treadmill was 46:43. I let my asthma and allergies completely dictate my workout schedule, and I was still angry about "letting" myself get back to the unhealthy state in which I was currently residing.

Well, a year has passed. Over the past 12 months and change, I did the 30DS 3 times, ran a 5-miler, lost 12lbs somewhere along the line, lost my mind to the calorie numbers game and spiraled quickly towards a bout with an eating disorder, had a very good friend intervene and suggest a few sources where I might find some literary help with my battle, learned not to be afraid of a box of Cheez-Its anymore, gained back those 12lbs, took my first Spin class, started taking Pilates at least 1x/wk, ran my first 5k and here I am again.. same exact weight. You'd think I'd want to beat the hell out of something, because I just put in a year of work for the same stupid number.

BUT...while I am technically "the same", I am so, so different.

Now, I can run through 5 songs on my iPod without stopping. I take Spin every Saturday morning (that I actually drag myself out of bed by 9am), and have become a regular at Pilates to the point that my teacher uses me as a live example for Swan pose. I cut my "official" road 5k time by almost 10 minutes, and, had it not been De-freakin'-CEMBER when I ran it, it would have been an even bigger deficit. I can now run an 8:47 mile (Ok, so it was only that one time on Christmas Eve. But now I know I can escape if I was ever, you know, chased by zombies who run 8:50 miles). I can do 31 straight-leg pushups in under 5 minutes, and that's improving every day. I have gained confidence in myself, and made peace with my body - I no longer blame myself for gaining weight in the first place, and I don't have an arbitrary deadline by which to lose it. I'm living my life, without waiting for weight.

In short, I feel great. And no stupid number on a bunch of metal and plastic is going to tell me otherwise.

You shouldn't let it, either.


~*~This weight-related rant post brought to you courtesy of an overwhelming bout of self-righteousness. Your regularly scheduled snark will resume tomorrow.~*~