Friday Confessional: "Hit it or Quit it, Bro"

Given yesterday's surprise Thursday Confession, you won't be surprised at all to know that today, I do solemnly confess:

Hell, Yes.

I love this picture enough to use it twice.

I DID Wake Up and Watch.

Most importantly, I LOVED the dress. One of my best friends went with lace, and to be honest, my eyes kept bugging out when she'd send me possible dresses. But the one she found was GORGEOUS, and she looked stunning -- and I think Kate did, too.

[Source]

Am I the only one who:

-Started humming, "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?" while Kate was making that epic journey down the aisle? And by "humming" I obviously mean "texting the lyrics to my aunt, who was texting the next line back to me, etc.". I was half expecting a little child to be swinging from the bell tower as they left the Abbey.

-Played the, "what did Harry whisper to Wills" game? My bet is on my friend Susan's theory, which is, "Hit it or quit it, bro." Send other hilarious lines my way!

-Took her inspiration while dressing today from the Royals? Puffed-sleeve button-down? Check! Loose curls, rather than flat-ironing this normally untamed beast? Check! Jeweled headband holding back half my hair? Check! Oh well. At least I left the tiara in my purse at home.

Yes, my hair naturally does that if I put it in a bun for 10 minutes after blow drying.

-Is taking bets on Harry and Pippa engaging in some stereotypical best man/maid of honor drunken hookups? Because please, did you see them up on that balcony? I put the over/under on 6 shots before the toast at the "young people's dinner party".

-Choked on her coffee when one of the ABC commentators described Beatrice and Eugenie's getups as "Ugly Stepsister?" Think the Brandy version of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Cinderella, now picture them singing... "Why would a fellow want a girl like her..." (and yes, they're Wills' cousins, but you know what they say about those Royals....)

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-Thought the kisses, both first AND second, were totally appropriate for the occasion, yet still secretly hoped that the two of them would buck tradition and just make out like high schoolers??

[Source]

Andrew was a sport from the time I woke him up for work at 6:15 until he left for work. Impressively, he only had one "Don't tread on me!" moment, along with belting out, "My country, 'tis of thee", to "God Save the Queen" as loud as he could in our paper-thin-walled apartment building at 6:30am. He then informed me that if we get married, he and his brother will lead a rousing rendition of the national anthem from the alter. Unfortunately, knowing the two of them, I don't doubt they'll follow through.

On the plus side, though, during our text-convo, my Aunt assured me that I can have bugles and timpani at my wedding. Unfortunately, though, she had to nix my request for a flyover.

UNLESS, of course, I manage to time it perfectly with Opening Day...

Also, it became clear to me that I'm definitely ready for my Confirmation tonight, for two reasons. 1) When the minister raised his hands, I definitely expected him to belt out an "In the name of the Father...."; and 2) I found myself wondering why the actual wedding ceremony was going so quickly. You mean it DOESN'T take everyone an hour to get their vows said?!

Alas, as much as I want to just sit in front of a TV and the internet all day gawking at All Things Royal, I unfortunately have actual work to do, and then have to go home to get ready and apply three pounds of concealer under my eyes so that my children don't see photos of me later in life and wonder why a zombie was present. In the meantime, though...

CONGRATULATIONS, WILLIAM AND KATE! And thanks for bringing the world a bit of happiness amidst the horrors and devastation of everyday life.

Special Thursday Confessional: Letters to a Colleague From an Obsessed Fangirl

"You know we fought a WAR and dumped a bunch of tea in our harbor so that we DIDN'T have to watch this rash, right??"

Over the past two weeks, this has been an oft-repeated sentiment in the Caitie Experiment household. Andrew, it seems, is not amused by my lingering teeny-bopper ways, and is just about ready to book me a one-way ticket to London. Because, you see..

No shame in my game:

What do you mean normal people don't bring a tiara to the beach?!

  I have Royal Wedding fever. 

To be fair, I'm not some bandwagon Royal Watcher -- I've had a thing for Prince William Arthur Philip Louis Mountbatten-Windsor of Wales since I was eleven (and, you know, committed that name to memory so that, when this day came, I wouldn't have to resort to the interwebz to find it). It's funny, really; I've had no less than six (SIX!) texts and facebook messages from friends who have known me forever, all of whom have expressed variations on the sentiment of, "omg, I knew you would be totally excited -- you had the BIGGEST CRUSH on William when we were little!!!"

Um, duh. That was before the whole "I lost all my hair and somehow puberty robbed me of my mother's fabulous good looks and turned me into a clone of my father" phase.

Such potential. Swoon.

But I digress.

You know what? I'm sick of people trying to rain on my parade just because for once, I am not focusing all of my energy into the negative, horrible things happening in the world. And I'm sick of people going on and on about how it's poor form and a disgrace that we are building this wedding up to epic proportions and "setting the women's rights movement back decades" by "indulging the 'Princess Fantasy.'"

I UNDERSTAND that there are people suffering all over the world, and that natural disasters are piling up at an alarming rate (Alabama and the rest of the South, I love you and God bless). And I GET that it's unfair to ask the taxpayers of Great Britain to foot the security costs for this whole big shebang.

But that won't stop me from waking up at 5 am tomorrow morning so that I can tune in and spend three hours mindlessly ooo-ing and awww-ing over the nuptials of two people I don't know. I've dreamed about this day since I was a little girl (ok, maybe I pictured myself, instead of Kate Middleton.) As for the Princess thing -- look: Kate Middleton, from everything I've read about her over the past eight years, is a strong, independent woman who has managed to keep her autonomy while dating, arguably, the world's most eligible bachelor. She is educated, worldly, beautiful and charitable (and has the best hair in the entire world). So she happens to be marrying a prince, thereby making her a princess. Why should she be punished for that, simply because of "some title?" 


As you might guess, I am not the only one of my friends who feels this way, and the Royal Wedding has dominated many a conversation these past few...months. Here, for example, is a sampling of email discussions held between colleagues and myself (off the clock, of course):
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To: Wedding Obsessed Colleague
From: Caitie Wannabe Mountbatten-Windsor

OMG SO. AM. I. Like, seriously, I’m moderately embarrassed by my love of all things Wills-and-Kate. I was going nuts last Friday, all, “OMG ONE MORE WEEK! THE ROYAL WEDDING IS NEXT FRIDAY!” to which Andrew’s mom went, “Um, isn’t your CONFIRMATION next Friday?”

“Oh… uh, yeah, I guess that too. I wonder how she’ll do her hair….”

I kind of hate Pippa and Carole Middleton. They’re blatantly social climbing by urging people to “have a traditional street party to celebrate the coming of Spring!” on their business website. Because everyone has a street party at 8am on the day the Crown Prince happens to be getting married. Duh.

Over-under on how many drinks Harry slams before the toast: 6.

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To: Caitie Wannabe Mountbatten-WindsorFrom: Wedding Obsessed Colleague

Congrats on the upcoming Confirmation, Caitlin! I can only hope it doesn’t interfere with the Royal Events! Hehe.

Yeah… throw your own spring party because you’re not cool enough to be invited to the Royal Wedding. Haha.  Kate is clearly the top Middleton. Also, she has the best hair. Of anyone in England. Or in the world. I have serious hair envy.

Oh, Harry’s going to be waaaasted. P.S. Rumor has it that Chelsy Davy is wearing two dresses – one for the ceremony and one for the reception.

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To: Wedding Obsessed Colleague
From: Caitie Wannabe Mountbatten-Windsor

Thank you! And don’t worry, if anything, I’m hoping my Confirmation doesn’t interfere with the Royal Events! And you, with your marriage certificate; so exciting and such a cute coincidence to tell the children!

I can’t even discuss Kate’s hair. Katie, did you hear me ARGUING with Adam over how gorgeous she is?! He said she’s too “Boston-looking with potential for horseface.” Um, I was born here, and if Kate is “Boston-looking,” then I want to have a word with the big Man upstairs, Mayor Menino and the entire delivery staff over at the Brigham, because something just ain’t right.

I both love and hate Chelsy Davy for a myriad of reasons, one of which being the lack of “e”s where they should be in her name. But props to her for the two dresses. Will there be a third dress for reception #3? Also, do you think the hoopla will turn her TO or AWAY from Harry, since the rumor is that she doesn’t want to marry him because of all the drama that comes from being part of the royal family??

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To: Caitie Wannabe Mountbatten-Windsor
From: Wedding Obsessed Colleague

I enjoy the coincidence that you are being confirmed Catholic on the same day that Wills takes his Princess. It’s like you and Wills both just gave up on each other. I mean, you would have converted for him, right? ;)  

Potential for horseface? What!? He can’t be serious. Have you shown Adam a picture of Pippa, so he can compare?

I agree. Chelsy Davy could use a few more “e”s. I think Chelsy and Harry will get back together in some sort of drunken royal hook up. She’s been around too long, and it would be too difficult for Harry to find someone else at this point in time.
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My favorite part of this exchange is definitely this part:

I enjoy the coincidence that you are being confirmed Catholic on the same day that Wills takes his Princess. It’s like you and Wills both just gave up on each other. I mean, you would have converted for him, right? ;) 

My response was: "Of course not. I would have been the woman to single-handedly bring the Royals back to the Vatican. Anne Boleyn ain't got nothin' on me (especially, you know, a head)."

So yes, I DID stop drinking coffee this morning after a single cup. And I WILL be going to bed early, so that I can wake up at 5:00am. And I WON'T be ashamed of it, NOR will I let those sippin' on the Haterade harsh my Royal Wedding buzz.

And if someone has a problem with it? TOUGH! :)

For the record, I have a supply of 7th grade notes and printed IMs (don't pretend you didn't do that, too) in which I put forth my ideal plan, which was to either "become PW's woman-on-the-side (worked for Camilla, didn't it?!) or to say eff it all and marry Harry, because he was the real hot one anyway". I've always had a thing for gingers. 

Friday Confessional: I Am a.....

Howdy, friends! Last weekday of the Lenten Vegetarian Challenge -- I have mixed emotions on this one, but have no fear; I'll be doing a whole VegChallenge recap next week, most likely on Tuesday. I might also have a fun guest post, so stay tuned!

Ok, let's cut to the chase. It's Friday. On Fridays, we wear pink confess our deepest, darkest, most embarrassing thoughts, obsessions and musings. 

Inevitably, given my About Me and About the Experiment pages, one of the questions I get asked the most via email is, "What sorority were you in?".


So, without further ado, I do hereby confess:

I AM A K! 

 

I am a K! (I am a K!)

I am a K! (I am a K!)

I am a K-A-P-P-A-DE-L-T-A (DE-L-T-A!)!

I am a K-A-P-P-A-DE-L-T-A in my heart,

And I will L-O-V-E KD F-O-R-E-V-E-R,

I am a K!

Phew! Am I glad THAT'S over!!

I was totally a little bit hesitant to divulge my Panhellenic affiliation here on the blog -- mostly because I like to keep it real, and I am a firm believer that once one becomes a member of a sorority, those letters really are for life. Anything that she says or does reflects back on that organization, regardless of whether she wants them to or not. I had some good times in college, and I had my share of troubles too. I would hate to have anyone take things I write here out of context and use them as a basis for judgment, either on my house or on me.

But then, I realized, those years, that house, and those girls all contributed IMMENSELY to the person that I have become. And I'm 200% not ashamed of that, both with respect to the fact that yes, I was in a sorority, and yes, I AM ME. I'm proud of both of those facts, and wouldn't trade either for the world.

I'm third from the left -- Homecoming 2007

When I came home from school after pledging in Spring 2005, wearing the obligatory black hoodie with green-and-silver letters the size of dinner plates emblazoned across my chest, I don't know what I was expecting. Excitement? Congratulations? A little bit of curiosity and some questions, even?

I can tell you what I was NOT expecting: the barrage of insults, chorus of stereotypes and litany of sneers that came from some so-called "friends" and even some family members. Even post-grad, there were people who took a look at my resume and asked if I was sure I wanted to list KD in my activities and leadership positions. If I had a dime for every time I heard, "But you're just not the type who would be in a sorority!", I'd be blogging full-time without any sponsors or book deals, because I'd be one rich bitch. 

Anyone who has gotten "that look" from peers/coworkers/employers knows what I'm talking about; stereotypes are usually born from some sliver of truth, but it never ceases to amaze me how people think Animal House is the definitive standard for Greek life -- that's like saying that since I lived in New Jersey for a summer, I got my GTL on in the Smush Room with the cast of Jersey Shore or because I'm Irish-American, my life must be modeled after The Boondock Saints. In the words of my favorite animated LSD lizard,** "Yeah, right. Yeaaaaaaah, right. Get real."

So to all those people who have given me the, "you're just so not the sorority type!" line, I say:

Really? I'm "not the type" who would:

• Spend hours licking envelopes for St. Jude's?
• Mentor Girl Scouts on body image, peer pressure and general coming-of-age biz-nass?
• Give up a huge chunk of my free time to become the Panhel Academics Chair?
• As such, institute a Greek-wide GPA initiative and mentoring program which, by the way, did NOT win me any popularity contests? (Please, I dare you to be the person who puts a house on academic probation, aka no social events. I dare you).
• Sit up for countless hours with a friend who was going through a tough time? 
• Spend my "coast" semester of senior year executing the largest student-run philanthropic event on campus and generating over $6500 for Prevent Child Abuse America?
• Graduate Phi Beta Kappa, at the top of my major class, to boot?
• Be able to make small talk with virtually ANYONE for ten minutes, regardless of whether we have anything in common?
• Advocate for other women to "be themselves," and tell anyone who has an issue with it to go to hell?

Honestly, if you don't think I'm THAT type, then it turns out you don't know me very well at all.

There's obviously a bigger story here -- why did I decide to Go Greek in the first place; how did I wind up sporting olive green and pearl white; was it totally weird sharing a dorm room with my best friend, who had pledged another house (she went AXO; our room looked like Christmas had exploded year-round with all the green, white and red) -- and I'll eventually write about that. But that's another post for another day.

And thus, I leave you, clapping, snapping and ditto-ing away:

Re-mem-mem,

Re-mem-me-member

Kappa Delta, good friends forever

Laughing, singing, doing whatever,

We like best, always together

Fun and laughs, good times with sisters,

Cruises, dances, parties and misters

Being together, you and I,

Hope we never say goodbye...

In AOT,

Caitie

**Warning: that video is most certainly NSFW. Just a heads up.

Victory Enough

On the heels of my last post about how I spent this year's Boston Marathon, and after Friday's confession about embracing our body images, I wanted to  write a quick post about something I realized on Monday, a sort of "wall-bustage" during my own personal life-marathon.

As I was walking home from spectating, the cheers of the crowd still faintly reaching my ears, I got a text from my friend Leah (aka "Boyfriend"). I had invited her down earlier in the week to day drink spectate with me, as she's a lot of fun and, really, I didn't want to do it alone. She wanted to let me know that she was so sorry she hadn't gotten back to me before the marathon, but that she'd had a really rough weekend. I told her I was sorry to hear about her troubles, and to please not worry, because I went by myself and had a fabulous time cheering on the runners anyway. Her response came a few minutes later:

"That's great, I can't believe your change since you moved down there!"

It stopped me, quite literally, in my tracks. I thought about the implications of her words. And then, staring at 11 simple words on my cell phone, a grin that could have rivaled the ones crossing the finish line at Copley spread across my face. Then I fist-pumped the sky.

Honestly, there was once a time in the not-so-distant past when I NEVER would have even considered spectating by myself. It might seem insane to some readers (and I know it seems nuts to people I know in person, particularly my colleagues), as I've been told I tend to come across as a self-assured, outgoing individual, but I am actually extremely shy. At times, debilitatingly so.

I've always been this way; I used to dread going to Church not because I didn't want to sit still for an hour, but because the thought of turning to my pew neighbors, shaking their hands and mumbling, "peace be with you," literally made me break out into a cold sweat (I still have to psyche myself up for it, to this day). "Stranger Danger" takes on an entirely new meaning when doing ANYTHING involving the unfamiliar, ranging from a simple phone call or handshake to participating in a new experience in which you might look "imperfect" or non-conformist, causes you to have nightmares, dry mouth and panic attacks.

I should probably note that the basis of this problem all started before I ever had a conscious inkling about image perception, bodily or otherwise, but I'd be lying through my teeth if I didn't admit that it became infinitely worse in college when, after spending a year thinking I had a great set of friends with whom I was thick as thieves, they dropped me from their social circle for no apparent reason, the night before room draw our freshman year.

That hurt, and the implications of wondering what had gone wrong to make me deserve to be on the receiving end of such a mean act did a real number on my psyche. Was it something I'd said? Something I'd done? Was I too fat? Too clingy? Too something? Whatever it was, trying to pinpoint it sent me into the tailspin that ended in the best way possible: a ton of therapy, a good set of friends and a new appreciation for the only person who will always be there to stick up for me: myself.

I still slip sometimes. In my heart or hearts, I know that those first years here in Boston, it wasn't just that I "didn't want to deal with the hassle" of going down to the race course. It was because I was so self-conscious about my body that I convinced myself that among this sea of accomplished athletes, I would stick out as a poser -- the girl who wanted to run but couldn't even manage a mile, even if she tried, whose body and mind literally seized up at the prospect of all those people watching her, judging her -- and thus had no right standing in the presence of such greatness and ambition.

The funny part is, two years ago, I was using the c25k while running regularly, and a good 20lbs lighter than I am right now.

Yet this week, I took myself on a field trip on a huge stage. I screamed for people I didn't know with abandon. I chatted with the constant parade of people next to me, helping them spot their friends and relatives among the sea of champions. I now have the honor of saying I ran on Beacon during the Boston Marathon (ok, I was on the wrong side of the street to get home, and a nice policeman let me race across the street during a small gap of runners, but running on the street is still running on the street).

Maybe someday, I will have the honor of saying I ran it all.

In the meantime, I'll take just being there as victory enough.

One if By Land, Two if By Sea

Thanks so much for all of your sweet comments, tweets and emails about Friday's confession -- I'm so glad that there are other people out there that feel the same way I do about taking a stand against what is, it seems, a totally accepted form of bullying. I'm happy to say that I made "The Kirstie Factor" a mantra throughout my weekend, not just for weight-related anxieties (which only plague me occasionally), but any time that I needed that extra boost of confidence and daring and "Don't like it? Tough sh*t!". (I'll be writing about that tomorrow!). So again, I say, thanks, Kirstie!

*****

As you may or may not have heard, yesterday was the 115th running of the Boston Marathon. It's possible to have missed my obsession with  love of this event, but what may surprise you is that I have actually only attended the race twice: this year and last year.

Growing up north of the border (Live Free of Sales Tax or Die!), I obviously never got school off on Patriots' Day. Actually, like the majority of the country, I didn't even know it was a real holiday -- just that my cousins, etc. that still lived in Boston got it off, and that the Boston Marathon was the same day. My dad, a proud BC alum, kept promising to let all five of us skip school to come down and cheer from Heartbreak Hill, but between the divorce and a bit of an attendance problem with my other siblings, we never did get to go.

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My first two years here in Boston, despite living within "hear the crowd roar" distance of BC and Cleveland Circle, I opted to skip the festivities. Most of my friends lived in Somerville and didn't get the whole "trek into the city to watch a bunch of people run" thing, and I didn't want to deal with the hassle. The first year, I just stayed home by myself in pajamas. All. Day. Long. The second, I actually FORGOT about the Marathon, until I ran outside and duck-and-covered under our patio table because 4 fighter jets flew so low over my apartment towards downtown that I was convinced we were under attack (You should be in my office during a ceremonial flyover -- they literally pass our windows. It's insane and awesome).

The only Jets you ever want to see at Gillette (Pats Home Opener 2010)

Last year, however, Andrew decided that enough was enough, and it was time that I finally experienced the legendary Boston Marathon properly. We went to the Sox game, and through his connections, we ended up upgraded to the Monster, which is always a treat. Everyone always says, "Oh, I wouldn't want to be up there, since you can't really see any left field plays." I know, because I used to be one of them, and I'm here to tell you it's total BS. The Monster is the Monster, and once you're up there, you're thanking the baseball Gods for the experience. Or taking photos of the Patriots in full regalia, and spying on the marathon at Kenmore through the chain-link fence between plays.

After the game, we headed down to Kenmore to meet up with some friends at the One-Mile To Go marker. Since we went to the game, we caught the middle of the pack. Talk about inspirational -- I remember turning to Andrew and saying, "Seriously, if I took off running RIGHT NOW for the finish line, I'm 99% sure these people, who have already run 25.2 miles, would beat me to Copley."

Of course, it might have been the 7-11 cups and the bag of Fraaaanzia (whoever named box o'wine with such an elegant name deserves a medal) in our friend's purse talking. Or the lubrication that comes with an 11:00am Red Sox game. Either way, it was then that I vowed to run my first 5k by year's end (which I did, on December 4th!). But I can say with certainty that I would have teared up at the soldiers who make the trek with their rucksacks without it (I was screaming, "THANK YOU!!" between choking back sobs this year, too, and I was 100% adult-soda free).

A true Patriot, indeed.

After the pack thinned out, we joined our friends on an impromptu pub crawl of the Fenway. We went to the Cantina for lunch, where we eventually got kicked out because we were on the patio afterward and, apparently, there's a law that you have to have food in front of you to be on the patio while drinking. We moved the party to Jerry Remy's, more beer was consumed, hilarious stories were told, new friends were made.

Then, after leaving there, one of our pals, who is about 6'5 (I might be exaggerating) and very openly gay, suggested we hit up the Machine, a gay bar across the street. As the straight male of the group, everyone turned to Andrew, who yelled, "BUCKET LIST!" while fist-pumping, and we therefore made our way over and had a fabulous time sipping cosmos (our friend wanted us to get the "stereotypical full-effect"; it was awesome. Just wanted to clarify in case anyone was offended or anything). I had my picture taken in the unisex bathroom with an Adam Lambert look-a-like, and found out that hair cement really is JUST like it sounds (I wish I had the picture).

[Source]

Funny story -- somewhere along the pub crawl, I realized that I kept getting all these high-fives from people, and that I kept getting handed beers along with those high-fives. It wasn't until I was in that bathroom that I caught sight of myself in a mirror, and remembered that at the Cantina, I had found a Marathon number discarded on the floor and pinned it to my Sox shirt. My free beer was a direct result of the level of BadAss everyone thought I was for partying like a rock star after running 26.2. (Hello, my name is Caitie, and my ongoing shin splint problems are probably punishment from the running Gods for my blasphemy).

So yeah, that was last year.

THIS year, I've apparently matured as a person, because after watching the beginning of the BM coverage at home (am I the only one who was pissed off that WBZ chose the middle of THE NATIONAL ANTHEM to interview Ryan Hall? Seriously. It's America on Patriots' Day, people. Have some respect), I set out to meet up with Katie in Kenmore Square (the scene of last year's crime) right when the elite women hit the half-mark. Honestly, we timed it perfectly -- about 25 minutes after we got our spot (right on the fence), this came onto the horizon:

2:16:19 -- you can see it on the regular-sized photo!

We went nuts -- at the time, we still didn't know that Kim Smith had pulled out with calf cramps, so we were expecting her to be first. I got this awesome photo of the neck-and-neck race for first between Caroline Kilel and Desiree Davida.

Neck-and-neck until the finish -- a mere 2 seconds separated them!

And you better believe I screamed "GO KARA!!!" as loud as I could when Kara Goucher ran RIGHT PAST US. She heard me and smiled!!!

Can we discuss how this woman had a baby a few months ago?!

My camera memory card filled up right after that, and I ironically missed taking photos of the men, and Ryan Hall, because I was busy deleting off the photos of the 5k Katie and I ran back in March. Somehow, it seemed slightly trivial when these ridiculous runners were pounding out world records and completing a full Mary in the time it takes most of us to run a half! We also saw the famous Joan Benoit Samuelson, which was amazing. Then Katie left to catch her train, and I stayed to cheer on more of the runners.

Once my friend CC's cousin-in-law passed me at Kenmore, I decided to head back towards BC because a friend of mine had just passed the half mark. She was in the third wave, so I knew I could catch her if I hit the D line to Cleveland Circle. I made it, and though I didn't manage to spot her in the sea of runners, I know she DID indeed pass me while I was there, and I had a great time watching drunken buffoons getting wrestled by cops when they managed to jump the barriers and get onto the course.

All in all, I spent a good 3 hours alone, cheering for random strangers, calling out the names of those who looked like they were struggling and high-fiving runners with massive grins on their faces.

But more on that tomorrow.

With that said, CONGRATULATIONS to all of the runners yesterday -- you're all winners, and not in a Charlie Sheen kind-of-way. And to those of you across the country still riding the high of this acclaimed athletic event and, like me, are wondering if you've got what it takes to do it , I have two words:

BAA Half.

Gotta start somewhere, right?!

Friday Confessional: Shake That

Ok, let's cut to the chase. It's Friday. On Fridays, we wear pink confess our deepest, darkest, most embarrassing thoughts, obsessions and musings. 
 
So, without further ado, I do hereby confess:

 I've been shakin' it

Shake it, sh-shake it...

EVERY SINGLE YEAR I make the same vow to myself: I will 100%, absolutely, no way in hell, become involved with any reality TV competition shows. This year, I finally managed to tear myself out of my dysfunctional relationship with The Biggest Loser.... only to wind up sucked in to not only American Idol, but also Dancing With the Stars.

I was once involved in a passionate affair with AI -- I religiously tuned in and voted from seasons Ruben-David Cook. Then I broke up with it the next season, out of the blue, because it just wasn't working for me anymore. It was a whole, "it's not you; it's me" scenario, and by "it's me" I totally meant, "It's Kara DioGuardi".

Despite being in its 12th season, though, DWTS was never on my radar. Perhaps it was because my 87-year old grandfather thought it was the second-best show on television, right after CatholicTV, but I just never had any interest in it. And then, one fateful Monday night late last fall, I came home from a class around 9:30 and tuned into ABC, patiently waiting for Castle to come on.

[Source]

One waltz later, I was hooked. And, despite my vehement declaration that I wouldn't be, I'm hooked again this season. #Damn.

Last year, I didn't really give a rat's heiny who won -- but this year, I have a definite favorite, and I don't care whether or not they're actually the best dancers; I love the star for reasons that reach far beyond the dance floor. Kirstie and Maks were two of the first people I started following on Twitter. Not just because Maks is rather droolworthy with abs of steel, but because as a kid, I was desperately on a mission to obtain Kirstie's fab head o' hair. I probably funded half of Pantene's stock options solely with the amount of their product I used to lather all over my head.

[Source]

Kirstie is, in short, my girl. But her hair isn't the only reason I admire her.

I'm talking, of course, about the issue of her weight, which I never really thought of as "an issue," but, judging by some of the vicious comments that are being made on comment forums and tv shows around the world, it has become one. Apparently some of the American public and some stupid late-night comedians think it's just totally ok to malign a woman for not being ashamed of herself for her extra fluff, and not letting them stop her from participating in something fun and good for her, and oh, btw, might even cause her to drop a couple pounds.

Because, you know, if you're overweight, you obviously deserve to be hidden away in a back room somewhere, and God forbid you do something enjoyable. Because you're barely human and don't deserve to feel alive, or good about yourself, or participate in anything that thinner people do. Heavens, no.

Seriously. Grow up.

Note to all you asshats out there pouncing on Kirstie's weight and using it in your jokes: YOU ARE THE REASON that people who want to get in shape are afraid to hit the gym/streets, and YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES far more than they should be.

As a self-conscious, overweight woman, I can tell you that a large part of the reason I gained so much weight in college was because I was embarrassed that I had let myself get to that point, and I was terrified that if I went to the gym, or even went for a run on the street, people would make fun of me. Or worse, they would pity me; "Poor fat girl", they'd say to their companions, a hint of sympathy and concern in their voices, "honey, if you'd only put the cheeseburgers down and exercise some self-restraint, you wouldn't be red-faced and ready to die after two blocks at 4 mph."

I voiced my concerns and insecurities to a few close, trusted people, and I almost inevitably received the stock answer: "It's all in your head; no one is looking at you." I WANTED to believe them, but my eyes and ears were telling me otherwise -- people whom I thought of as "friends" would comment on overweight joggers; "OMG, if I were that huge, I'd NEVER be out running on the street; I'd kill myself!" is a real direct quote from someone I used to count among my friends. "Wow, should that lady REALLY be eating that donut? Maybe she should try a salad" was a frequent refrain. Not to mention, of course, the barrage of insults and fat jokes that are made every day in the media; George Lopez is not the first, nor will he be the last, to hurl them.

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Oddly enough, though, those people's voices always sounded suspiciously like my own, echoing throughout my head to the point that they were all I heard. So, instead of hitting the gym, or going for a simple walk, I would hide myself under baggy clothes, break out the Double Stuf Oreos and settle into my dark dorm room and a marathon of Law and Order: SVU. Wasn't that what a fat girl was supposed to do?

When her phone call came, Kirstie could have taken the same road. She easily could have said, "Oh, you know, I'd love to do Dancing With the Stars -- and as soon as I lose 25 lbs, I'll do it, but right now I just can't...people might make fun of me." Because she's a strong woman, though, she didn't; she told her naysayers to eff off, decided NOT to wait for some arbitrary day when she's "good enough" and to LIVE HER LIFE RIGHT NOW.

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And because she did, I found the confidence to go and, for the first time, really let go at Zumba on Tuesday night. Honestly? I probably was one of the biggest girls there. Yet when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I didn't see the lithe, tight-bodied former dance team members around me.

I saw a girl having a fabulous time, burning over 550 calories in 45 minutes and shaking her size 14 ass like Shakira.

A-ooooooo!!!!

Thanks, Kirstie.

Ooooo gurrrrlll....

A few weeks ago, Meredith Goldstein, the Love Letters advice columnist over at the Boston Globe, did a contest where she asked her readers to email her with the "best/worst compliment you've ever received about your appearance". The prize was a set of tickets to a production of Reasons to be Pretty, which was playing at the Boston Center for the Arts. My friend CC won with her own best-ever insult, and invited me to be her date. The play was pretty good and had a lot of subtext, and I started writing a review the next day, only to find out that what was so easy for me to discuss in person was incredibly hard to put "onto the page" without seeming like a contradictory bunch of hullaballoo.

So, naturally, I instead channeled my energies into rehashing my own "Compliment Highlights". There have been great ones and really terrible ones, running the gamut from, "Your eyes are so mesmerizing they even manage to distract me from your perfect butt" (Andrew, that sweet man) to, "Dude! You make a perfect backboard for straw-wrapper basketball!", in reference to my decolletage (high school was an awkward time for all of us).

The best compliment I've ever received from a random stranger was, though, and I quote, "Oh, Lordy! We got Christina Hendricks in the house!". Normally, I'd assume that this comment was made either a) in jest or b) sarcastically, but it was shouted in that flattering, non-sarcastic appreciative tone that only a flamboyantly gay male hairdresser can muster (or Bruno from Dancing With the Stars, but I digress).

Can't complain. Girlfriend got it goin' on:

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Guido (I swear, that was his legit name) then proceeded to finish up the customer he was working on, scurried over to my own stylist, and spent the rest of my visit peppering me with questions about my hair color history and trying to convince me to let him make me Joan Holloway red. He even loaded me up with coupons and promised me that if I agreed to let him "enhance" my natural color, I wouldn't be sorry.

I didn't... yet. But the thought still tempts me every now and then. I've been red before, ranging from a fabulous auburn to Claire-Danes-My-So-Called-Life-Fire-Engine-Red. Plus, it's true; I totally DO aspire to the whole 1960s/curvy bombshell/Marilyn/Christina look.

If ONLY it were a little longer and therefore work appropriate!!

Yes, I want to lose weight, and part of the reason isn't just health, but vanity. However, I was blessed by my Mama with a natural hourglass figure and a large part of the reason I DON'T want to get all the way back down to my high school weight is that when I was that thin, I still had the hourglass, but it was pinched funny and I looked like I was perpetually stuck as the reflection in a FunHouse mirror. Which would have been awesome if I were 5, but not so cute at the age of 26. I've grown up with my curves (see: backboard comment), and I've grown to love them. If I could ever manage to work them the way Christina Hendricks does, while still remaining healthy and having guns peeking out of my sleeveless work dresses, I'd be one happy lady!

Incidentally, the most backhanded compliment I ever received was, "Oooo, gurrrrrl, you gotta be one a' them plus-size models or somethin'!" from one of the valet guys near my place of work. He kind of looked like Flava Flav, though, so I decided to take it as a good thing and just go with it, and offered a simple, "ummm... thank you?"

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Close second: Andrew's adorable little 3-year old cousin, last Christmas:

Little S, looking very confused because Andrew's sister, E, and I bear a slight resemblance to one another: "Wait a minute. YOU'RE E, but SHE'S E, but YOU'RE E."
Me: "No, S, I'm not E; I'm Caitlin. Remember? I'm friends with Andrew; we had a tea party at Thanksgiving!"
Little S: "OH YEAH! You're LARGE Caitlin!"

The actual "Large Caitlin" from days of yore

Me: "You better thank God in heaven right now that you're only 3."
Little S's sweet 16-year old sister: "OHMIGOD!! I'M SO SORRY! We have another cousin Caitlin who is her age, so she just meant you're the grown-up Caitlin, as opposed to Little Caitlin. OHMIGOD SORRY SORRY SORRY!"

Heh.

Time to Face the Music

Thanks, ladies, for letting me know that I am not alone in both being intrigued and slightly repulsed with my recent case of The Twitter. All I know is that I'm still there, my cell phone battery is rapidly depleting, and I felt slightly dirty and mildly ashamed as I tucked myself in to bed last night.

But I digress. For today, my friends, it is time to face the music with respect to my totally bizarre iTunes library.

Obviously, I think music is important and plays a bigger role in our lives than we sometimes give it credit for; I have an entire section of this blog dedicated to those songs that evoke strong emotions/identifications for me, for crying out loud!

To me, music is like scent -- a certain song or genre can transport me from wherever I am, whatever I am doing, and put me into a completely different scenario. A few well-placed notes, and suddenly I'm 16 again and watching, horrified, as my very own Regina George goes in for the kill, right in front of my face. A bass hums, and I'm 13, left aching for the day that I'll finally be one of the Chosen Ones, those girls to whom boys flock like Canada geese on the Common. Or, on spring days when the sun is shining through the window just right, and the hint of summer is caught in the air, a few loud guitar riffs and I'm happy, figuring out who I really am, and who I am going to be.

I'll never be that girl who quietly takes a photo, that's for damn sure.

Earlier today, Melissa over at MelissaNibbles posted her latest playlist for her workouts. One of the things that I noticed, and loved so much about it, was how totally and utterly random it seemed to me -- but that it's totally what floats her boat at the moment. I have a pretty varied taste in music, so I think that playlists are a HUGE advantage when it comes to, well, anything. I have workout playlists, running playlists, house cleaning playlists, solely Britney playlists, holiday playlists, Disney playlists, driving playlists... and it goes onnn and onnn and onnnn (Yes, there's some Queen in there, too). I have a playlist for everything, it seems -- which is what got me thinking about something I haven't done in awhile: random iPod shuffle on All Music.

So, I took my iPod and, without filtering anything, set it to "Songs" and then wrote down the first 20 songs (out of 1333) that came on. I found it amusing, so thought I'd share [Edit: I should note that I SHUFFLED them first; apparently SOMEONE, (and we shan't name names, Andrew), is feeling picky today and missed the implication of shuffle above]:

"Scar Tissue" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers
"My New Philosophy" from You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown!
"Break Stuff" by Limp Bizkit
"From a Distance" by Bette Midler
"Winter" from Vivaldi's Four Seasons
"Don't Be Stupid" by Shania Twain
"Hey Ya" by Outkast
"Thank God I'm a Country Boy" by John Denver
"I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" by Elton John
"Satellite" by Dave Matthews Band
"There You Go" by Pink
"5gether" by 2ge+her
"Beat It" by MJ
"Stand by Me" by Marvin Gaye
"Girl on TV" by LFO
"Like a Virgin" by Madonna
"Magic Stick" by 50Cent
"Just the Two of Us" by Will Smith
"I Do Not Hook Up" by Kelly Clarkson
"Over and Over Again" by Nelly

I know, I know. I'm amazed that not a single Britney, Backstreet Boy, Destiny's Child, Matchbox 20, Kenny Chesney or Justin Timberlake song made it in there, too.

But I want extra credit for the 2Gether track... don't pretend you're not jealous.

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And now I must go point at people at the gym and awkwardly cross my arms in a plus sign, pretending that I'm the lost 5th member of 5gether (since poor QT died. Sad face.). Because what is Zumba for, really, if we're not going to embrace our inner pop star?!

Brevity is the Soul of Wit

Today's post will be inspired completely by my newest foray into the digital  Big Brother universe, as I was going to write out a whole long Weekend Update post but have now decided to cram each element into a tiny little bullet of 5 lines or less. Eventually, I'll get down to the 140-character limit.

- I have to practice brevity because I now have The Twitter. Doesn't that sound like some kind of horrifying illness? "Sorry, I'd love to go out with you but I can't, because I have, you know, The Twitter. Excuse me while I go Tweet." Feel free to follow my incessant ramblings -- @CaitieXperiment.

- Said new source of entertainment is a direct result of Andrew deciding, after ten beers at the Sox game, that he is going to become a Twitter fanatic. That's right; the man hasn't had Facebook for almost three years on general principle, but he's totally cool being a Twit. Whatever. He's pumped.

- After a little coercion from a coworker, I made a snap decision on Friday to purchase tickets to the Red Sox/Yankees game last night. I want to point out that I bought them when they were still 0-6, and I got them for $50 each. #Score. As usual, despite swearing not to go nuts on the beer, we ran into a friend and then, well, you know. Let's just say that these two conspiracy theorists decided to join Twitter, and leave it at that.

- My very first follower was Jerry Remy. I even took a picture to commemorate it:

- Am I the only one who is mildly perturbed by the fact that random strangers managed to find and follow me within literally MINUTES of setting up my account? While I am flattered that RemDawg thinks I'm worthy of following up on his newsfeed, I don't know about the other randos. Shit's creepy. Just sayin'.

-In the meantime, Jerry, if you want to give me a shout-out on NESN, that would be sweet. Except I don't have cable. Damn.

- I decided to give coconut water another whirl, this time as a hangover cure (See: Red Sox/Yankees). I bought a little juicebox of Zico and immediately threw up in my mouth. To make matters worse, I made the mistake of tweeting my attempt, and within minutes had a shout out from VitaCoco asking how it went. Apparently they didn't scroll up enough to see the words, "Slimy spit, #Gross." Whatevsies.

- Between the beef jerky debacle last weekend and this morning's epic purchase consisting solely of coconut water, a mesclun goat cheese salad and a box of Nature's Path Organic Optimum Slim cereal, I'm putting myself on a hungover shopping timeout. I just can't be trusted.

- There is a pretty high likelihood that I am going to get creeped out enough that I go back to being Tweetless. Seriously. Is it normal to feel totally ok blogging to a world full of strangers, but get really awked out by the fact that people I don't know, who know NOTHING about me, have decided to listen to my short, pointless ramblings? That's the whole point, isn't it? Yet I still can't manage to shake the feeling that I'm stuck in that dream where I get to school and go about my day, only to look down and realize I forgot to put on a shirt. Awksauce.

Friday Confessional: If A = B, then B = Whaaa??

Greetings and salutations, friends! :) Thanks for stopping in today; I know there are more of you out there than comment regularly (XOXOXO to my commenting peeps; what was it that Shakira said..."Stats don't lie?"), so I wanted to take an opportunity to say hi to the lurkers, whoever you are, and that I hope you have a great Friday (or Saturday. You know, if you're that person from Australia.). I'm also working on getting a commenting platform with the "reply" feature, but can't download anything at the moment, so stay tuned.

Ok, let's cut to the chase. It's Friday. On Fridays, we wear pink confess our deepest, darkest, most embarrassing thoughts, obsessions and musings. 

So, without further ado, I do hereby solemnly confess:

B ≠ B. 

B = A.

As you all know by now, math is not my strong suit. In fact, one of my most humiliating high school memories involves my Advanced Math class (which is basically Pre-Calc, aka Trig, at my ridiculous public high school). Now, Advanced Math is typically a class for seniors -- the progression is generally Algebra I freshman year, Geometry sophomore year, Algebra II junior year and Advanced Math senior year. HOWEVER, if you happen to do well enough in junior high or, apparently, if you are straddling the fence between a B- and a B in 8th grade math and your moron teacher hasn't figured out you've been taking advantage of the formulas some industrious future Wall Street exec has engraved onto your desktop, you can end up a year ahead of the "regular" high school math schedule, finding yourself in Geometry with a bunch of sophomores when you're only in 9th grade.

Guess which side of the fence I ended up falling face first into?

Hint: I'm Tac, and my math skillz are responsible for the #highschoolsexjoke FAIL.

I wasn't ready for Geometry L3, but I took it, failed a few tests, then busted my ass (and a LOT of tutoring from my friend Meghan, who is now getting a PhD in chemistry) to get by with a B. Over the next year, I had a lot of ups and downs with Algebra II, getting a D the first semester and a B+ the second (I had a good teacher who worked with me), and, after a brief fling with Advanced Math L2 in which a member of my class said the fractional equivalent of .5 was 1/4, I ended up in Advanced Math L3, right back with the other juniors I'd started the advanced track with and a whole bunch of impressionable seniors.

As the majority of my classmates were preparing for graduation and gossiping about colleges, there was a small subset of us who needed to get our Class Selection sheets for the next year signed off on by our teacher. Of course, since Advanced Math is usually a senior class, the only option beyond it is Calc I. Reluctantly, but ever-conscious of the "you'll never get into college with only three years of math" rubric, I put it on my sign-up sheet, knowing full well I wasn't going to get approved by my teacher, Beelzebub McSatan. (The penalty for taking a class you weren't approved for was that you couldn't drop the class without taking an F, an awesome little "I told you so" from The Man.).

One day, class finished early and I was finally chatting with a cute senior with whom I'd been half in love since I first laid my bespectacled eyes on him freshman year. Just as we were getting past the whole, "hey, can I borrow a pencil?" part, this annoying, nasally squawk called out:

"Caitlin?"
"Yes (Prince of Darkness)?"
"Are you planning on taking a math next year?"
"Uh... yes, (Lucifer)."
"I suggest you don't."

Oh NO he DI'INT!

The entire class went silent, I turned the color of a blood orange and squeaked out, "thanks", and that was that.

MORTIFYING.

But not as mortifying as this. #Noshame

That was a really long-winded way of explaining that Geometry has been screwing with me since my formative years. And that the foundation for most of life's problems can be traced back to the fact that I never really understood the whole Transitive Property.

Until now.

As you all know, I blog-named my boyfriend "B" short for "Blaine", because I compared him to that moment in Pretty in Pink when Molly Ringwald finally gets the guy. But there is a problem with this alias. You see, I have a coworker named B, whom I refer to as such in work emails, etc., and it was getting really awksauce for me to write, "and then I went home with B!" on the blog. It's like saying you went home with your brother. Icky. Besides, I fear the day some colleague finds this blog and starts some scandalous rumor about how B and I are secretly shacking up. So, I decided to let the cat out of the bag (with the imposter "B"'s permission, of course): the man you have all come to know and love as "B", short for Blaine, is not, in fact, B at all.

He's A!

Princess loves her "Uncle 'Roo!"

As in Andrew!

He's basically the most awesome dude alive, so I figured it was time to have his formal debut -- as himself. :)

Thank goodness THAT'S finally out of the way. Henceforth, "B" will be known as either "Andrew", "A", "BF", "My Love" or "Jackass", depending on my mood and, most likely, the lunar cycle.

Oh, and Calculus? I took it. I got a D the first semester and a B+ second semester (Yes, I know it's highly improbable for someone to get a B+ on integrals after a D on derivatives. Shout-out to Mrs. F, who came in to school at 6:45 EVERY SINGLE MORNING to tutor me, coming up with countless ways to explain concepts until I finally understood the material. That woman is a saint and deserves tenure and a raise!).  I also not only got into college, but aced Calc for Social Sciences my freshman year. So, to Professor Damien McLucifer, I say this:

KISS MY FACE AND I'LL SEE YOU IN HEAVEN!

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So, tell me: Do you create code names for people in your life (and/or on your blog!), or do you just refer to them by their regular names? In high school, my friend and I were Code Name Masters -- on the blog, I kind of do a hybrid; if it's someone I'm going to be talking about a lot, I try to get their permission to use their name/photos, etc. on the blog. If not, I sometimes just use their first names!

Postscript: True story: Andrew decided to shave his beard last night (which he started growing LAST APRIL for the Bruins post-season run, and only shaved it totally in June for the wedding we went to, where the top pic is from), so that he can re-grow it this post-season. Half asleep, I rolled over and freaked out, wondering who this clean-shaven man was!