Veni, Vidi, Vici

I'M A MARATHONER!!!

I don't even know where to begin processing my thoughts and emotions on this one -- I think I've spent the majority of the last 72 (ok... 300) hours on the verge of tears, laughter or high-fiving any and everything that moves...occasionally all at the same time.

I started out as the person who said I wouldn't run if you chased me. Throughout my teens and early 20s, I proclaimed that, should the world ever be plunged into a zombie apocalypse, to steer clear because I'd have a craving for brains since I'd be caught about 30 seconds after the rampage started. Then, at 23, I was dealing with the post-college "adjustment period," and after dealing with some particularly ridiculous friend drama, left my apartment in a huff and somehow wheezed my way to the end of the block. That simple act sparked a two-year "self-improvement" project, leading to my first half marathon in 2011. In spring 2012, I injured myself five weeks before my second half, leading me to spend almost an entire summer in a walking boot. Vengeance was mine this past May, when I ran that half and PR'ed by 21 minutes. With that feat under my belt and the liquid courage from a few well-timed mimosas, I found myself training for "a marathon," with no actual race in sight.

As the summer sun turned to the foliage of fall, the Anthem Manchester City Marathon came into sharp focus.

I came, I ran, I conquered.

I want to take the time to really put all of the images, thoughts and sentence fragments in my head into words, so I won't recap the race right now. Suffice to say that while every bit as challenging as advertised, I don't have a single regret about choosing a small, hilly, 500-runner marathon as my first, and I will cherish the memories of my family and friends popping up to cheer me on while I ran all over the city where I grew up for the rest of my life. 

Thanks, guys.

XO,
Caitlin (Your newly-minted marathoner)

An Ode to the Road

Long time, no chat.

For those who don't know (which I suspect is most, considering I've become a bit of a quarterly updater), I'm running a marathon in a little under three weeks. It started out as a half-cocked idea over a mimosa (or two) at brunch with Andrew, when he suggested using a training plan as a way to force ourselves to get back into running but with no real, concrete goal race waiting at the end. At that point I was approximately two weeks removed from the sweatiest 10k in history (B.A.A. with a heat index of 92 and 83% humidity), and six removed from my second half marathon (where I did, in fact, get my revenge on The Run to Remember by PRing my previous half time by 21 minutes. Still slow, but after being sidelined in a boot for what seemed like an eternity and my first race back on the streets, I'm proud of it and nothing can take that away). Initially, I planned to just run whatever mileage Andrew ran and maybe run a half sometime this fall as a "reward."

Somewhere along the endless miles of road, though, that all changed.

Which is how I find myself here, three weeks away from a marathon.

Since July 1st, I have run 382.9 miles, for a duration of 82 hours and 27 minutes. I've burned 52,282 calories, or about 15 pounds (which sounds swell, but since training also makes me eat like a horse, I've actually maintained my weight. I was terrified of falling into the "race weight" trap but have been determined to listen to my body and feed it what it wants, and so far, so good). For a girl whose furthest prior distance was 13.8 miles (thanks to weaving/not hitting the tangents during the R2R), I have now run the half marathon distance six more times, including once on a Friday night after work. I've woken up early to squeeze in 10 miles before heading to work on a Wednesday, and left a bag full of my clothes under my desk overnight to do the same a week later. This past Saturday, I ran 20 miles and climbed almost 1300 feet in less than an hour longer than it took me to run 13 two years ago.

Prior to starting this, I looked at the Hal Higdon Novice 1 Marathon Plan and rolled my eyes. "It isn't even good for my legs to run two days in a row; there is no way in hell I could manage three plus a long run." Yet here I am, having not missed a single run in almost 15 weeks. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday, I am out on the road (or, in a few very limited circumstances, on a treadmill). Rain or shine, blazing heat or unseasonably cool, I'm there. It has been hard and painful and, at times, I really thought I might collapse into bed at the end of the day in a heap of tears and never lace up my sneakers again.

But I do.

I knew that marathon training would be physically exhausting. The part I didn't count on is the mental toll it takes, as well. For the past four months, every. single. thing. I. do. has centered around this one goal, to run 26.2 miles without collapsing in the street. Every choice, from my bedtime to my diet to my freakin' footwear, has been dependent upon the question, "will this hurt me come race day?" I know this is something I signed up for, and I am still amazed at my capacity to pursue a goal and see it through; to say that it hasn't been physically taxing and mentally draining, though, would be lying. The copious amount of time this has afforded me in my own head is both a blessing and a curse, in that I now have thousands of ideas but just as many doubts. It's an interesting balance, and I am excited and terrified to see how it all plays out.

So, that's my update. Maybe once I have a marathon medal around my neck, the thoughts and ideas that come so clearly out on the street will find their way to the page. Until then: ciao, bellas!

Friday Confessional: I Am an Odontophobe, Or: How the Dentist Used to Reduce Me to Tears

Friday, Friday (Gotta Get Down on Fri-da-ay).

Long time, no chat, friends.

I swore at the beginning of the summer that I was really, truly going to find the time and make the effort to write more often. Then the sun came out, a cold glass of chardonnay appeared in my hand (or Mich Ultra, or Miller Lite, or Sam Summer, or...you get the picture), and I promptly forgot all intentions of spending a single second more than I had to in front of a screen.

But alas, all good things must come to an end, and it is with this post that I bid adieu to summer. Yesterday evening it was a breezy 65 degrees here in Boston, I've brought a cardigan to work the past three days and, despite a somewhat volatile dewpoint reading, my hair has started to cooperate on a semi-regular basis. Also, it seems like every blogger I read either grew up, attended college or currently resides in The South, which both warms my former Big East-lovin' heart and simultaneously makes me sad because around these parts, football doesn't start for another week (Go Pats!). 

So here we are, another autumn upon us and me in front of a screen with that insatiable urge to put words down because hey, it's September, other peoples' children are all packed off to school and if I had a million dollars, I would be a perpetual student as a career. And so I figured, what better way to break back into the internet than with a long-winded Friday Confession?!

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.
 

Hello, my name is Caitlin, and I am a recovering odontophobe.

(Hiiiiii, Caitlin)

For all you Classics scholars out there,* you can probably discern that, "odontophobia" comes from the Greeks. The prefix, "odous," meaning "tooth," and suffix, "-phob," meaning "fear of," are pretty self-explanatory.  And there you go (watch out for the Windex).

I should probably put it out there that this term is a bit of a misnomer. Contrary to the literal translation, I do not, in fact, have a fear of teeth; I have a fear of people who deal with teeth. Specifically, I'm afraid of dentists. And dental assistants, dental hygienists, and the occasional judgmental dental practice administrator.

According to that bastion of verifiable and accurate information, Wikipedia, approximately 75% of Americans experience some level of anxiety when dealing with dental professionals. As for the other quarter of the population who apparently finds nothing intimidating about some individual poking around the inner recesses of their bodies without even buying them dinner first, well, bully for them. Freaks.

Although as much as it pains me to admit, I used to be one of them.

Unlike my fear of loud, sudden noises, I did not always tremble at the thought of leaning back in that awkward, sloping chair; in fact, I actually used to like going to the dentist. As a pale, freckled, pigtailed kid who closely resembled Punky Brewster during her heyday, I had a lot going for me from the ages of 4-8. My mom, seizing this golden opportunity, enrolled me in modeling school in Boston when I was five. I had a small measure of success, even appearing in a couple of really terrible retail catalogs and commercials (which, to my knowledge, no longer exist so don't even waste your time combing YouTube). Anyway, my teeth were a large part of the package -- straight with a small, charming gap at the front -- so when it came time for my bi-annual cleaning, I was more than happy to settle back and let the hygienists do their thing. I even suffered the horror that is grape-flavored fluoride and sealant with a smile.

And then we switched dentists.

My new dentist, to whom we shall refer as "Dr. Incompetence" from here on, seemed nice enough at first. He or she (I don't want to alienate said dentist, as I've already complained in every other fashion about him/her and that would be overkill) seemed nice enough at first -- lots of smiles, decent hygienists who didn't hack apart my gums with the wild abandon of that guy in the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, etc -- but then the actual procedures started, and my fear of dental professionals was born.

For the record, my siblings and I are all genetically predisposed to weak teeth. Our parents have weak teeth; our grandparents have weak teeth, and I think between the lot of us we are single-handedly responsible for a large portion of dental premiums paid in the northeast. I've actually gotten scolded for flossing too much. You read that right: I have repeatedly been told to SIMMER DOWN WITH THE FLOSS ALREADY. I've also been known to carry a toothbrush and paste around with me in my purse. Unfortunately, I just have very crevacious teeth, full of little nooks and crannies, as well as thinner-than-normal enamel. So despite getting four cleanings per year, cavities and the occasional crack happen.

It was during a repair of these nefarious injuries that Dr. Incompetence first earned his or her name. Working on a tiny filling in a bottom molar, Dr. I managed to drill straight through the crown of the tooth into the nerve. Given that I was not yet afraid of the dentist and it was supposed to be a routine filling, I was on the bare minimum amount of local anesthetic. You can imagine what it's like to have the tip of a dental drill assault your nerve endings full-force. This incident led to a two-stage root canal, during which Dr. I managed to both prescribe me medication to which I am allergic (you'd think a medical professional would know that anyone with a penicillin allergy is allergic to all mold-based drugs...), leading me to a 4am ER call on Martha's Vineyard with debilitating chest pain, as well as to give me a shot of anesthetic DIRECTLY INTO THE NERVE, causing a jolt of what felt like electricity through the front of my jaw. This  also provided me with the delightful sensation of drowning for an hour and a half, since I was numb from my eyeballs through my neck and could not, therefore, feel myself breathing or swallowing.

And so began my fear of the dentist.

Actually taken last week specifically for this post, not numerous years ago

Following this horrifying escapade, it was a long time before I let anyone near my chompers. In fact, after the root canal was done and the temporary filling was placed, I never went back to Dr. I again, choosing instead to live with a temporary filling in the hole she'd made. In retrospect, this was obviously foolish; I should have just found another dentist and had him or her finish the job. Hindsight is 20/20, however, and in my defense, I was suitably traumatized.

Fast-forward a few months years and I admit that, while I was a pro at the whole brush-floss-swish-spit-repeat act, I needed to get in for a professional cleaning. My fear had escalated with each passing month, expanding now not just to actually invasive dental procedures, but also to every aspect of care. Dentists were all sadists who liked torturing me for money, and hygienists were all judgmental and insistent that all of my problems were my own fault (the latter was, however, true; up until this point every hygienist I'd ever encountered had invoked the dental version of chicken-and-the-egg: "Did you just brush and floss before you came in?". Answer yes and they criticize your brushing skills and ability to remove the vestiges of your frosted flakes from your teeth; answer no and they question your entire commitment to satisfactory oral hygiene. There is no right answer, my friends...only a lingering sense of shame).

I mentioned this all to a colleague, who said that the practice she goes to specializes in dental anxiety and is basically full of unicorns and puppies. As I was running out of options and suspected I was a few months away from full-on dentures (which would ironically mean MORE dentists), I called and was shocked when the the cheeriest, most soothing voice of all time answered the phone. Taking a huge breath, I muttered something like:

"HiImcallingbecauseImafraidofthedentistandIneedacleaninganditsbeenawhilewhichisreallyembarrassingandumImighthaveachipinafronttoothmyfriendtoldmeyouguysaregoodcanyouhelp?
 
The Angel Voice on the other end of the line said, "Oh, I so understand. Here's a secret: I'm afraid of the dentist, too. Why don't you tell me a little bit more about your fear and we'll see who we can match you with to help?"

To quote a great scholar:

Two days later, I found myself in The Chair, mouth wide open with a woman my own age measuring the pockets of my gums. Despite my worst fears, she did not make a single comparison between my mouth and that of a Civil War-era soldier's, which I took as a good sign. She kept stopping her work to make sure that I was doing ok, but didn't ever say "tsktsk" or make snide remarks, which was particularly refreshing considering how many judgmental hygienists I've encountered in my time. When she was done, in walked my new dentist, a guy in his 30s with a friendly face who immediately put my fears at ease when he said, "so, I notice you live in the city. I met my wife at a dive bar in Brighton. Have you ever been there?"

My kinda guy.**

It's been almost four years, and I can't count the amount of dental appointments I've had since that first fateful visit to my current practice. Even after my beloved dentist left the practice to pursue a new opportunity closer to home, I decided to give his replacement a shot -- a guy my own age who was only two years out of dental school. And, despite the amount of crying, shaking and doubting I did before my first appointment with him, he turned out to be pretty good, too. I'm even contemplating letting him rip all four wisdom teeth out of my head with nothing but some novacaine and a pair of pliers (he insists this will not be the case; I remain skeptical at best).

And so, to all you other odontophobics out there, I just wanted to tell you that there IS a chance it can get better. Sure, I still have a momentary panic attack while I'm sitting in the waiting room, even if it's just for a cleaning -- but as soon as I am in the chair, head back and doing everything I can not to make awkward eye contact with the hygienist, I calm down because I know that they know I'm like a battered puppy who is trying very hard to trust my new caretakers. Oddly enough, this makes the 40-minute one-way commute to their office absolutely, 100% worth it in both my time and gas money.
_________________________________________________________________

TL;DR version: I used to be terrified of the dentist, finally found a good practice and am now pretty much obsessed with them. If you're scared, too, just take a Xanax first and you should be fine. The end.

______________________________________________________________

*which I hope there are, since I not only took Honors Ancient Drama in college but also three semesters of Latin, which I found to be horrifyingly fascinating and in which I would have dual-majored if it hadn't taken me so damn long to translate a single sentence from Catullus that my English grades started to slip. But that's another confession for another Friday.

**Andrew and I also met at a dive bar in Brighton.

My Intriguing Life: 8.13.13 and Ornery Edition

Time for another edition of My Intriguing Life! See earlier versions here, here,  and here.  So without further ado....
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Currently: In the WORST MOOD EVER!!!

Current books: Nook: A Duty to the Dead by Charles Todd. Paperback: Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin as my beach book, as well as On Writing by the venerable Stephen King when I'm feeling something a little heftier.

Current music: I was making an I Go Back playlist on Spotify and, while adding the song that started this whole series, I got sidetracked by the collected works of Savage Garden. Let's be real here; though "Truly, Madly, Deeply" definitely evokes the strongest emotions of all, the entire Savage Garden tracklisting hearkens back to 7th grade and immediately leaves me angsty and craving a Surge.

Or a Krispy Kreme

Current guilty pleasure: Aside from the above, I think I have to go with Pretty Little Liars on this one. The show has gotten downright ridiculous over the last two seasons but I just can't seem to quit it. I actually tried, skipping last week and this week (because I was at the gym... who am I?), but I kept seeing all these tweets on Tuesday night and then my friend told me Tuesday's episode was loaded and... I obviously went home and immediately caught up. And while I am completely loathe to admit this and will likely hate myself for it, I have a feeling I'm going to get sucked into Ravenswood in the fall. Because, like, clues, y'know?

Current nail color: My fingernails (what's left of them, anyway) are currently nude as always. Toes, on the other hand, are a kind of red-orangey hue. I really need a pedicure, but the last time I went the lady went a little wild with the pumice stone, so I'm nervous to go back. Mama didn't earn these calluses overnight!

Current drink: Water, water, water, water. I realized over the weekend that aside from coffee and tea, I don't really drink anything that isn't either water or some sort of boozy beverage. Thankfully, those two are symbiotic in nature.

Current food: I've been digging plain yogurt lately. Before anyone starts in or makes a gagging motion, please note that I happen to like the taste of sour cream, so that comparison is lost on me. Also, I've discovered that if you mix in a tablespoon or so of Jay Robb's vanilla whey protein, it tastes like boxed cake mix straight from the bowl. This is a concept I can get behind. Add a scoop of peanut butter and I'm there.

Obviously not the exact breakfast mentioned above, but taking a new picture seemed like work.

Current favorite show: Still slowly purchasing all of last season of The Vampire Diaries and Andrew and I are almost done with the latest season of Arrested Development. I started Scandal awhile back and only made it two episodes, but I was hooked and can tell that it will be my new guilty pleasure once I finish up TVD. LASTLY, because I don't spend enough time sitting on my rear, we're also watching John Adams. I've already seen it, but Andrew is a giant history nerd and hasn't, so there you go.

Current wish list: For all of the stuff on my To Do list to do themselves. And for the fire alarm to stop going off.

Current needs: I can't even answer this question right now. Everything. Nothing. I don't know. 

Current triumphs: I managed to run 7 miles on Saturday morning, in brand new, NEUTRAL-GAIT shoes, and my ankle doesn't feel like it's going to crack in half. Sure, my calves are more sore than usual and my IT bands have been recently discovered, but the point is that I'm finally running in a shoe that is NORMAL! (sort of. I still have a custom-fit orthotic in it, but that's neither here nor there). The true test will come this weekend, when I attempt to double-digit in them. I did ten a few weeks ago in my old shoes, and that was the nail in the coffin for my beloved Sauconys. Almost every distance runner I know swears by Brooks or Asics, so despite the Ravennas-that-ruined-my-race-season, I'm giving Brooks another go. Ghost 6s, don't fail me now!

Current bane of my existence: The universe. I'm not exactly a super-positive person on my best day, but there's a good chance I am going to earn my spot in hell for the commentary I've been making this morning (both inner and outer running monologues).

Current celebrity crush: I don't know if I've ever disclosed the full extent of my teenage obsession with celebrity crushes, but let's just say that at one point, my BFF and I had a website dedicated solely to cataloging photos and facts about men ranging from "the kid standing next to Ryan Merriman in Smart House" to Michael Jordan. Want to know how deep this mental funk I'm in goes? I CANNOT THINK OF A SINGLE CELEBRITY CRUSH RIGHT NOW. I'm pretty sure if I had Ryan Gosling in front of me, Crazy, Stupid, Love-style, I'd manage to look at him, say, "meh," and go faceplant into a bowl of Cheez-Doodles. THAT, my friends, is a dark, dark place to be, indeed.

Current indulgence: Iced coffee.

Current blessing: That this mood will pass. I don't know when or how, but something is going to break it. Even if that something is the Broadway channel on Pandora. Because I will go there, folks -- do not test me.

Current slang: None. Although if darling heart Andrew says the word, "terri" for "terrible," one more time, I cannot guarantee that you won't spot me on the 10pm news.

Current outfit: Black capris that are 1.5 sizes too large, a silver tank that somehow makes me look like I weigh 400 pounds, a black cropped jacket and my running shoes, because I thought it was high time I fulfill my fantasy of becoming one of those soccer moms on the subway. H-O-T hot!

Current excitement: It's 10:40am, which means there are ~7.25 hours until I can get back into bed and hibernate.

Current mood: 

[Source]

Current link: My friend Katie's blog, because she has had to put up with my incessant whiny, terrible, I'm-Going-To-Hell-style Gchats all morning long.

A Quick Note Re: An Alarming Trend

Greetings from Boston, the muggiest place on Earth!

During my TCE hiatus (I have to use the qualifier because I have been writing elsewhere), I've made it a priority to really think about what draws me to follow a particular blog. In general, I'm more likely to hit "Follow" if a blogger meets the following criteria:

- I know him or her in real life and do not, for the most part, want to stab said person with a pickaxe;
- I can relate to him or her in some way, in that we have at least a few common areas of interest;
- He or she has a firm grasp of grammar as well as of the written English language as a whole.

It's that last one that is most often the dealbreaker -- I have unfollowed more blogs than I can count on the sole basis of a writer's inability to accurately express herself without sounding like a 16 year-old Valley Girl.

Which is why today, I'm writing about people (bloggers, in particular) who, in an attempt to sound either sophisticated or quirky, use phrases without fully understanding what they mean or, in some particularly egregious cases, what they apparently think they mean. Case in point: case in point.

Generally, it's "case in point," not "case and point".
Unless you're hoping to provide your readers with the image of you stalking the perimeter of some unsuspecting citizen's home while pointing out all of their lovely possessions you're going to steal, the phrase you are looking for is "case in point," not "case and point".  While both technically admissible in the Court of Idiom Law, the phrase is "derived from the ancient Anglo-Saxon/French phrase, 'en point,' in which point could variously mean a condition, state, situation or plight" (Source). Basically, this phrase is meant to provide a specific example pertinent to the greater discussion at hand. See above (see what I did there?).

It's "without further ado," not "without further adieu".
In the deepest part of my soul, I wish that I had only seen the latter in a solitary offense. Unfortunately, though, I've now spotted it on a number of blogs and, in the case of one, in several posts ironically calling others out on their written mistakes. Aside from making me want to grab these people by the shoulders and scream, "HAVE YOU NEVER READ SHAKESPEARE?! OR SEEN THE SOUND OF MUSIC?!," this just makes me sad. If this phrase gives you trouble, try to remember it as, "The Bard's classic comedy, Much Ado About Nothing, is about making a big deal over a trivial matter; The Von Trapp children say, 'auf wiederschain adieu' when they don't want to leave the party." Thus, if what you're trying to convey is, "let's stop being blowhards and get to the point already," the word you're searching for is ado.

A wild, unrefined hooligan-type person is a Yahoo, not a "Yahooligan," "Ya-do," "Ya-dude" or "Yay-hoo".
The term "Yahoo" was coined by Sir Jonathan Swift in his satirical masterpiece, Gulliver's Travels. If you think back to high school English class, you may remember the gangly, awkward little beings roaming around the countryside looking for shiny stones -- those were the Yahoos. I'm actually working on a theory that Tolkien based Gollum off of these creatures but haven't had the time to Google it yet so don't steal my intellectual property if it hasn't already been done.  Essentially, this word is used to describe people who lack an understanding of basic decorum, have no self-awareness and are, simply put, bumpkins. Swift's mastery of the English language is undisputed, so do yourself a favor and don't bastardize literary genius.

There you have it: three prime examples of what not to do while writing for the masses (unless, of course, the masses for whom you are writing aren't quite as discerning [read: bitchy] as myself. In which case, carry on). Don't even get me started on the concept of omitting the "-d," which seems to be pervading every aspect of life these days. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY AND SACRED, "Use to" should only be utilized when giving instructions, usually in some kind of manual situation, ie., next to a diagram of a screw, "use to fasten these two pieces of wood together." Under no circumstances (and I do mean NO circumstances) is it appropriate to say, "I use to" as in, "I use to try to pass myself off as a semi-intelligent, sentient being but then people's heads started to explode when they realized that someone gave me an elementary school diploma despite my total and utter lack of understanding of the English language."

I told you not to get me started.

That concludes today's lesson, brought to you by the letter F and number two, with promotional considerations by the Foundation for Crotchety Bitches Who Are Sick Of This Nonsense. 

My Intriguing Life: Version 5.31.13

It's been awhile, hasn't it?

Suffice to say, April was one of the most stressful months of my life. In addition to the Marathon bombing and its subsequent aftermath, there were a lot of other circumstances clouding my headspace (thank you to everyone who tweeted me during the lockdown; you have no idea how helpful it was to know that I had a connection to people in the outside world who weren't, you know, crying hysterically halfway across the country [hi, Mom!]). After my last post, I took a few weeks to gather my thoughts, spend time with friends and family and, perhaps most importantly, get back to some semblance of "normalcy."

Which of course begs the question: what, exactly, is normal?

I suppose the answer is different for everyone. For me, it has entailed getting back into the daily swing of things by watching downright horrible television, drinking copious amounts of wine, driving Andrew crazy with my hypochondria and making lists of all nature, including lists of lists I need to make. Also on that list? Writing. As I contemplated how to "jump back in" to blogging, I remembered a few other posts I had written, conveniently spaced two months apart, and thought this was as good a way as any. Enjoy!
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Currently: On my morning coffee break.

Current books: Since I am hardly ever reading only a single book at a time, I've decided to split this question into categories.  Nook: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides; Paper: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt.

Current music: It's Friday, so..... but that minor detail aside, I'm currently jamming to a playlist I created that mashes up every song from 2000-era chick flicks that I could think of. We're talking Six Pence None the Richer, Letters to Cleo, Sister Hazel, etc. (fun fact: the 10 Things I Hate About You soundtrack is still one of my all-time favorite albums. I love every single song on the track list!).

This list goes on. And on. And on some more.

Current guilty pleasure: A grande iced coffee from Starbucks. I'm usually pretty miserly when it comes to buying coffee, particularly because I have a Keurig both at home and at my office. It is, however, 80 degrees at 10am, and if that doesn't call for a cold treat, I don't know what does!

Current nail color: Still naked. If you remember, I suffer from some pretty serious allergies (I take two different meds 365 days per year, plus supplement with prescription eye drops, nasal spray and OTC benedryl from April-May and mid-September through mid-November, and I get allergy shots on top of all that). I'm in the middle of another hyperallergic episode at the moment, so nail polish is a no-go until the skin on my face stops feeling like it was rubbed down with sandpaper.

Current drink: The previously mentioned iced coffee, but after that I will switch to the three liters of water currently occupying my desk.

Current food: I haven't eaten breakfast yet, but soon I will be eating my standard weekday fare of 1/2c eggbeaters, 2 slices chopped canadian bacon and a laughing cow cheese wedge. I've had this breakfast every morning for all but four days since March, and it still hasn't worn me out yet. What can I say? It's ridiculously easy both to transport and make, and I'm a creature of habit.

Current favorite show: Andrew and I are a little more than halfway through Season One of Arrested Development. I'd say I (literally) laugh out loud at least twice per episode, particularly when Andrew refers to Lucille as my grandmother ("They're only heels, Lindsay; you can only expect them to support so much weight.") On nights that he has softball, you can find me curled up on the couch still marathon-viewing The Vampire Diaries. I'm a sucker for the nice guy in real life, but I can say that Damon Salvatore has somehow managed to fill the Chuck Bass-sized bad boy hole in my heart.

Current wish list: Money has been somewhat tight this month, so my current wish list is rather extensive. Judging by my Amazon and Barnes and Noble bookmarks, I'd be in heaven if I had some new running gear, the collected works of William Shakespeare and a pre-approved mortgage. I'd settle for a larger bank account, though.

Current needs: To eat breakfast, for starters. I also need to bring my week-old Galaxy S4 to Verizon, because I am apparently cursed when it comes to new cell phones and received one of the phones that has a defective back-facing camera (it keeps crashing the camera app and when it does open, it refuses to focus). After that, I need to plan out my weekend with respect to workouts, fun and errands. It's supposed to remain in the high 80s through the weekend, which means if I want to run, I need to get it done earlier as opposed to later. It's been a really stressful 10 days for me and I haven't been able to workout since Sunday because my quads would barely support me as I tried to sit down. Which brings me to....

This is mile 13, hence me looking like I want to die.

Current triumphs: In my March update, I had just run my first race, a 5k, since I was injured last year with peroneal tendonitis. In my May update, I'm happy to say that I ran my second race -- the same half marathon I was training for when I got injured! While I'm still not quite as fast as I was or as I'd like to be, I cut over 22 minutes off my previous time! My splits were crazy because I was so focused on holding back during the first eight miles, but if RunKeeper is to be trusted, I ran Mile 13 in 8:50...proving that I can, in fact, run (much) faster than I ever thought I could!

Current bane of my existence: Obviously, the annoyance with my phone's camera is rather vexing. Aside from that, I'm annoyed that my current DietBet weigh-in is on Monday or Tuesday of next week -- one of my very best friends is going to be in town this weekend for a wedding, so we're planning to hit all of our old haunts on Sunday. Courtesy of the water-weight following the half, I'm juuuuust on the cusp of making my goal for the month, which means that in order to get my money, I'll have to be a bit more well-behaved than I want to be this weekend. ;)

Current celebrity crush: I'm really feeling David Beckham lately. He just seems like such a good dad, and the video of him and Harper on the LA Kings Kiss Cam makes my heart melt every time I watch it!

Current indulgence: When we were in New York for a mini-vacation back in March, Andrew and I stumbled upon 2Beans, which is an adorable coffee/chocolate shop located right up the block from Grand Central Station at 100 Park Ave. My coworkers and I have a tradition of bringing sweets back from vacation, so I bought a sample-pack of their most popular in-house chocolate bars. Well, suffice to say that as soon as I tried a bite of the bar I bought for myself, I squirreled away the sampler and gave my coworkers something else instead. I've been having one square of the Sea Salt Dark Chocolate bar each night for the last week, and will be breaking into the other bars in the not-so-distant future, for sure!

Current blessing: I usually say my friends and family, but this month, I'm going to go with both my mental and physical my health. I've been really focusing on myself the past three months, and I'm really lucky to say that it seems to be paying off in spades.

Current slang: I've been taking a Tom Haverford-style approach to slang lately, returning to my college days and abbreviating basically every word I say, even if it then makes it four times longer to say it. Ie., saying I had a ban-ban with peabs translates to, "I had a banana with peanut butter." I mostly do it to annoy unsuspecting friends and family, but I hope the abbrevs don't work themselves back into my vocabulary on a permanent basis.

Current outfit: It's 90 degrees outside, yet my office is around 60. Regardless, I'm enrobed in a navy linen skirt, black lace tank, light blue H&M snap-up and black flats. And shades, of course!

Too cool for school --er, work.

Current excitement: IT'S FRIDAY!! This weekend I'm excited to see one of my bffs, LC, and to possibly squeeze in a little bit of relaxation. My weekends have been insanely hectic the last month or so; not having concrete plans is the most exciting news I've heard in weeks!

Current mood: If you couldn't tell: excited.

Current link: I've been getting my money's worth from Netflix this month, for sure.
___________________________________________________________________
Well, that's it. Have a great weekend, everyone!

Safe, Sound and Thankful

I know I've gone dark the past few weeks and (hopefully) it's understandable why.... even though it has been almost two weeks, I still haven't figured out a way to appropriately articulate what I want to say and in the meantime, it feels weird to write about my opinion of Justin Bieber's pet monkey and how addicted I recently became to The Vampire Diaries.

I've received a few emails and tweets from people wondering about my safety, though, so I wanted to check in and assure everyone that yes, I am safe and well, as are all of my friends and family members. I was at a watch party a few miles away waiting for a good friend of mine to run by when my cell phone started buzzing out of control. My friend made it to mile 25, her family and all my other friends running are all safe and sound, and for that I am so supremely thankful.

If you've lived in Boston for awhile, though, you know that despite it's status as a major city, it can feel very small. I think I speak for a lot of people when I say that it seems like everyone knows someone who knows someone who was directly impacted by this despicable, heartbreaking act of hatred, and that most of us, in our heart of hearts, are now intimately acquainted with the words, "what if...". It's going to take some time to wrap our heads around that, and for me personally to finish thanking my lucky stars not only that my Boston family is safe, but that my Texas one is, as well.

And so, for the interim, I'm taking a little break to gather my thoughts, re-prioritize my life and (hopefully) get back into the writing mood. In the meantime, I hope you're all taking the opportunity to sniff the flowers, savor the sunshine and be thankful for the little things in life.

Because they are the most important.

Friday Confessional: Gotta Get Down on Friday

Greetings from sunny, temperate Boston on this glorious Friday morning! It's finally starting to feel like Spring and, despite being my least favorite season, even this bad-weather-loving lady is ready for some sunshine and Sam Summers.

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.

I have never made a secret of my adoration of terrible, horrible, no good, very bad pop music. Is it embarrassing? Sometimes (and by sometimes I more accurately mean never). I am that girl at the bar who interrupts your regular Friday night Pitbull dance party by putting old school *NSync on the jukebox. And you know what? Seven times out of ten, I am not the only one singing my head off, nor am I alone in recreating the choreography of "Everybody (Backstreet's Back)" and "Baby One More Time."

My only fear is that the 21 year old younglings think of these contemporary pop classics as, "vintage party jams," much like my friends and I freaked out every time "Take Me Home Tonight" and other songs of that ilk came blaring through the TKE basement speakers, spurring everyone to break into spontaneous Pat Benetar-inspired windmills and generally creating a ruckus ("Can you describe the ruckus, sir?" ::coughcough:: "Was that the ruckus?" Oh John Hughes, how I miss thee).   

It is with this love in mind that I must make the following confession:

Every Friday, without fail, I listen to Rebecca Black's "Friday" at least twice.

I KNOW.

The vocals are robotic, the tune is annoying and the lyrics are complete rubbish. These are all the exact qualities that draw me to it. Make of that what you will.

When the song first debuted, I initially thought it was meant as clever satire. With the likes of Ke$ha's "Tik Tok" dominating the Top 40, it was a perfectly-crafted mockery of the ridiculousness spewing from our radios, worming its way into our ears and causing us to bungle totally bizarre lyrics such as, "drop my keys, brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack," and bringing nonsensical words like, "sizzurp" into the modern-day lexicon. Surely, I mused, no one could have ever penned the words, "tomorrow is Saturday, and Sunday, comes afterwards," without tongue planted firmly in cheek. I'm still not entirely convinced that they didn't.

Yet I love it anyway.

I tried to hate it. I really, really, realllly tried to fight against this ...noise... but I couldn't. It's just so perfectly awful and campy that it appeals to my inner sixth grade nerd who is painstakingly applying eye glitter across her brow bones and parading in front of a mirror while warbling into a hairbrush. Though there is no amount of money in the world that you could pay me to repeat that era of awkwardness, I do occasionally miss those simpler times when my biggest weekend stressor was figuring out which seat I could take on the bus. Now I have to juggle errands, laundry, cleaning and long runs while maintaining a social calendar that involves a decent amount of day-drinking.

Sometimes, being a grown-up is hard work.

I also feel less guilt about this little pleasure because, despite getting off to a bit of a rocky start, Rebecca Black seems to be doing alright for herself in the grand scheme of things. She's appeared on one of those vocal voting shows and has something insane like 50 million views on YouTube. And if nothing else pans out for her, she can rest assured that someday down the line, there is a high likelihood that people will have figured out that it's way more annoying to Friday-Roll their unsuspecting friends than to surreptitiously lead them to that other classic earworm.

[Source: UrbanDictionary.com]

And so, I shall continue my little Friday tradition of gifting my coworkers and Andrew the masterpiece that is "Friday," while reminding them that it could be way worse. Harlem Shake, anyone? 

PS- You're welcome.

PPS- Happy Easter to those celebrating this weekend, and Happy Passover to my Jewish friends!

My Intruiguing Life: Version 3.20.13

Remember back in January when I wrote this post? WELL, you're in for a treat because a) I'm sick today and b) I have writer's block, so I thought to myself, "Self, what better way to kickstart something besides the Veronica Mars Movie than to write another Intriguing Life post?"

So here you go.
________________________________________

Currently: On my couch.

Current books: Royal Flush, A Royal Spyness Mystery by Rhys Bowen (don't judge, clowns -- sometimes a lady just needs some fluff reading, amiright?); The South Beach Diet by Arthur Agatston, M.D. (more on that in a minute).

Current music: The solid 18-hour "We Heart the 90s" playlist that Katie and created on Spotify a few weeks ago.

Bring me back to TRL, why don't you?

Current guilty pleasure: The Vampire Diaries. I'm halfway through Season One and, thanks to all of your tweets encouraging me to stick it out, I am finally hooked. Ian Somerhalder can bite me any time. 

Current nail color: Naked. I hate having naked nails (I'm a barely reformed biter -- so gross), but it turns out that my funky eye allergies might actually have been caused by polish, so I have to dare to bare for the moment.

Current drink: So much water that I'm surprised I haven't transfigured myself into some kind of marine mammal by now, McGonagall-style. I was a little ... underhydrated?... over the course of the weekend and am playing catchup now.

Water, water, everywhere.... I've probably managed to drink this much water, yes.

Current food: Eggs. I can't get enough of them lately. Thankfully, the FDA took them off their shtlist again, but I'm still sticking with 'beaters for the most part (who am I kidding, the only reason I use eggbeaters is because it's too hard to transport and cook real eggs at work!).

Current favorite show: 30 Rock, which Andrew and I started over from the beginning almost immediately after the series finale aired; Pretty Little Liars because the season finale is tonight and there will be hell to pay if they are mirroring the books; Castle because Nathan Fillion is hot; Shark Tank because I have no life and do my long runs on Saturday mornings, so I might as well spend my Friday nights watching poor people squeeze money out of rich people.

Current wish list: So easy -- to go back on vacation! NYC this time around was even more fun than I expected. I've been stalking deal sites to try to plan a quick weekend getaway either with Andrew or one of my gal pals. Any suggestions?

Current needs: The same as last time -- more sleep! I've gotten an exorbitant amount of Zs over the past 36 hours, but I still can't seem to get enough. Also, I need for the two pounds I've jumped up over the past two days to fall back off, because I was all set to add fruit back into my life and now I'm stuck in Phase 1 for an extra two days, courtesy of St. Patrick.

In case the complexion wasn't enough, I thought I should broadcast my heritage on my shirt.

Current triumphs: I ran my first race since last year's injury, which is a triumph of sorts. Sure, it was my slowest 5k time ever and I was disappointed for a hot minute once the results posted, but then I reminded myself that a little less than a year ago I was in a walking boot and physical therapy, then patted myself on the back (Also, I'm down more pounds than days I've been dieting, so that's a win).

Current bane of my existence: Is of my own doing: disorganization. I need like an hour alone with a notebook and a really great pen so that I can make a bunch of lists so I can focus my attention where it needs to be, rather than being distracted by the 40,000 ideas/thoughts floating around my brain.

Current celebrity crush: Rob Thomas. Actually, BOTH Rob Thomases, because I am still trying to wrap my head around the fact that my beloved Veronica Mars is FINALLY going to receive the ending it deserved.Oh, and Ian Somerhalder, as previously noted... like Chase Crawford, only less cradle-robby.

Current indulgence: 1/2c ricotta cheese with a dash of vanilla extract and a half tablespoon of slivered almonds. I haven't missed dessert once! Also, on a beauty level, I'm considering splurging on this Macadamia Oil that I received in my March Birchbox -- OBSESSED. I've used it twice and both times, even my second-day hair looked like it had been blown out that morning.

[Source]

Current blessing: My darling and wonderful boyfriend.

Current slang: Nothing too offensive -- although as I type this, I'm listening to "No Scrubs" by TLC (thank you, 90s playlist), and I really think it's a term that needs to make a comeback. I've noticed a recent uptick in the amount of people attempting to holla at ladies on the street -- they hide under the guise of hipster, but perhaps we should just call them what they are: carless scrubs. 

Current outfit: It's a lovely shade of, "wintery mix" here in Boston, so I'm scrubbed out in Forever 21 jeggings, a fuchsia cowl-neck tee, a loooooong drapey sweater and black flats.

Current excitement: Andrew and I are hosting a brunch at our place on Saturday for some friends -- also known as, "the daycation kickoff party." The last time we all daycated, we ended up doing karaoke, so here's hoping the party is the smashing intro everyone hopes it will be!

Current mood: So bummed out about this weather. It's a mood that my baby brother, G-Unit, refers to as, "awww draaaaps!" which Andrew and I appropriated for ourselves because, really, what is funnier than a three-year-old thinking that, "drat" is pronounced, "draps" and then whining it whenever things don't go his way?

Current link: www.newyorker.com -- My stepmother makes fun of my dad and me for reading The New Yorker on a regular basis, but I've been doing it since I was ten and I still maintain that you would be hard-pressed to find a periodical with such consistently provocative, yet well-informed, articles. I love it.

Back 2 Good

We parted last as I embarked, post-freak snowstorm, on a questionable two-hour car ride to Uncasville, CT to see the best band of all time perform at Mohegan Sun.

A short one hour and fifty-five minutes later (just long enough to listen to both North and my "Matchbox Twenty Rules the World" albums in their entirety), Andrew and I pulled into the parking lot of the scenic Microtel Inn and Suites by Wyndham. At 7pm, we were pushing the limits of our time frame (the concert started at 7:30, and I wasn't sure if there was an opening act or not), but I managed to check in, shimmy into better jeans, spritz and smear (perfume and lipstick, respectively), forcibly yank Andrew off of the bed and get back out to the lobby to meet the next shuttle at 7:20.

It took us about seven minutes to get to the casino, during which I glanced at my cell phone's clock no less than 42 times. Thirty seconds after pulling up to the door, I had bounded out of the back seat, sprinted to the entrance and was huffing impatiently at Andrew as he jogged to catch up. As I navigated the crowd with my ninja-like skills (and by that I mean, "politely tried to push people who looked like they could handle it out of my way while avoiding the urge to frantically shout, 'IT'S 7:32 AND I WILL CUT YOU!'"), I caught a whisper of music floating out of the concert venue. Upon realizing that it was not, in fact, coming from my beloved boys, I heaved a huge sigh of relief, released my death-grip on Andrew's upper arm and followed him to the concessions area before proceeding up to the seats I'd purchased on StubHub 48-hours before.

A quick word about our seats: if you follow me on Twitter, you may have seen this:

The tix that I paid $50 each for @matchboxtwenty @mohegansun after mine fell through Wednesday are now going for $19 each. Someone hold me.
— Caitlin (@CaitieXperiment) March 8, 2013

Obviously, when Andrew informed me on Friday afternoon that the seats I had purchased for $50 apiece on Wednesday were going for $19 due to Winter Storm Saturn, I was a little bit, shall we say, peeved. Upon emerging from the staircase leading into the arena, however, every bit of that animosity faded into distant memory when I saw this:

Actual seats, sans zoom. These seats were like a rear-view mirror: closer than they appear

I've made the decision to buy "possibly obstructed view" seats for concerts in the past, particularly those that are located in the sections directly next to/slightly above the stage. Of probably eight concerts, I'd say only one or two of them has disappointed; this one, of course, did not. In fact, we were closer to the band and had a better view than at least half of the arena, which is, admittedly, larger than I expected it to be for a casino in the middle of Connecticut.

Matt Hires, whom I am sorry to say I had never heard of before, was the opening act. Despite my Twitter snark, I actually managed to put my urge to start a, "WE WANT ROB" chant aside and took the time to really listen to Mr. Hires' set. He's very talented, and even Andrew commented after he was done that he "would pay that guy five bucks if he handed me his cd on the street in NYC" (Matt Hires, if you're reading this, don't get a big head over that; Andrew is also the proud owner of a $5 EP by a wannabe rapper named Mustafa, so...).

I have to give it to the production people -- they really knew their audience, and spent the twenty-five minutes between sets playing a blend of Rob Thomas' solo works and Top 40 hits from MB20's early '00 heyday (my personal favorite being "Flavor of the Week," because what Millenial Girl did not, at one time, blast this song alone in the car and dedicate it to that poor friend who had no idea that her boyfriend was a raging dbag sending inappropriate IMs to other girls? I know I certainly did).

Because our seats were above stage right, we had the opportunity to watch all of the behind-the-scenes activity as MB20 prepared to take the stage. Once Paul Doucette (henceforth known as Charlie Day, because that's how Andrew keeps referring to him) finished tuning his guitar, it was pretty evident that the headliners were about to start. At 8:30 on the dot, the lights went down and the opening chords of "Parade" rang through the arena.

Too much awesome to handle.

And then I went nucking futs.

For the next 130 minutes, I was in a state of euphoria that is probably only achievable via drugs or seeing your favorite high school band live again after twelve years. You could have told me that I was dying of some terminal illness and I would have looked at you with a stupid zombie grin on my face and said, "THAT'S GREAT! LOOK, IT'S ROB THOMAS! ISN'T KYLE COOK AWESOME? DID YOU KNOW PAUL USED TO BE THE DRUMMER? EEEEEE!"

I'm aware that this is not normal.

I do not care.

The set list was exactly what I would have put together if I were in charge of such tasks. In fact, the only song that I didn't see coming was the Encore cover of David Bowie's "Changes" which, despite what the MassLive review I read said, was awesome. All of the old classics were intermingled with songs from North, which provided an interesting audience dynamic in that you could tell exactly which faction each member of the crowd was from: old fan, new fan or diehard. The woman to our left, for example, was old-school, enthusiastically singing every lyric to, "Bent" and "Bright Lights" but sitting contemplatively during the newer songs from North. The two mid-20s guys very enthusiastically trying to catch Rob's attention and bopping along to "She's So Mean" and "How Far We've Come" were a little quieter during "Disease" and "Back 2 Good". And the middle-aged man in a mock-neck zipup who spent the entire concert screaming along with everything from "3am" to "English Town" and regaling us with some of the sickest aisle dance moves I've seen outside of tv? Well, let's just say that I witnessed my future and leave it at that.

A little more than halfway through the concert, I had a mini-moment in which I was just completely, utterly overtaken by emotion. As the band transitioned from "I Will" (a pretty little number that is one of my favorites from North) into "Unwell," I took a second to just close my eyes and take it in. Then I burst into tears.

But really though.

I always say that "Bed of Lies" is my all-time favorite MB20 song, but the one that means the most to me is, without a semblance of a doubt, "Unwell." Throughout the past twelve years, through break-ups, make-ups, crises both professional and personal, this one short, 3-minute-something long song has reminded me that no matter how unhinged I feel, no matter how off-the-rails circumstances seem to be headed, I will be ok and come out of it alright on the other side. When I was unraveling in college, when I realized a few years later that I had to put myself first and that doing so would mean losing a lot of my friends, when I felt like my very grasp on reality was slipping through my fingers, I put "Unwell" on repeat and cried until I didn't have a single tear left to cry.

So when those first few recognizable notes resounded throughout the arena, all of those emotions that I associate with MB20, from the teenage angst that led to that first concert to the unbearable heartbreak of a dissolved long-term relationship to the utter helplessness and anxiety while falling into a quarter-life crisis, they all came to a spiritual crescendo of sorts. After almost thirteen years of identifying with this music, these words, these feelings, I closed my eyes to experience it all over again, and opened them to see thousands of people like myself who were similarly, but not identically, moved. I looked around at them, then at the band and then finally at Andrew, sitting there observing and pretending to know the words while singing along, holding my hand and then trying not to laugh as he leaned over and shouted, "are you CRYING?"

And in that moment, I just felt thankful. 

RT killing it on the piano

I know it seems silly to place such importance on a song, a band, a brief series of events in one's life. At the end of the concert, though, I was reminded again of why I love not just Matchbox Twenty, but music from the late 90s-early 00s  in general. As a teenager and early 20-something, we're all a little bit lost, whether we choose to admit it or not. It's that weird time in our lives when it feels like everything will last forever, but there is also an underlying awareness that we are all, in fact, speeding towards the end of... something. It's a time of simultaneous exhilaration and terror which forces us not only to wonder what our futures hold, but also daring us to do something about it. It's sink or swim at its finest.

Most of us, in one way or another, find a way to stay afloat. At 16...18...22...I had no idea who I was, what I wanted or in which direction my life was headed. The countless hours of TRL, the painstaking precision of hitting "record" on a dual-cassette player to create the perfect mix tape, the destinationless drives with the windows down and the Weekly Top 40 blaring loud for all to hear -- at times, these were the life rafts tethering me to reality. Now at 28, an age when I expected to have everything together, the husband, the house, the 2.5 kids and the fantastic job, it's ironic that I have none of those things but find myself perfectly, for the most part, content. I have a loving and generous boyfriend, an apartment that feels like home, a gaggle of nieces and nephews to spoil and a career that allows me to do something I enjoy while still pursuing the activities, hobbies and travel that leave me truly inspired. Despite all of those moments where I felt like I had fallen apart and would never get put back together, I did. I do.

So when the lights came up and Andrew grabbed my hand, and the two of us left the arena to grab some food at Bobby's Burger Palace and lose all our money playing slots, I continued to grin like an idiot. In fact, as I sit here typing, I still am. 

Because I have come so far, and I am happy.

And Matchbox Twenty reminds me of that.

PS - Thank you. Andrew, you dear, sweet man, for putting up with me. I promise that the next time we go see Kelly Clarkson you can comment on how hot she is and pontificate the perfect fit of her jeans for a full 48 hours afterward. I am nothing if not fair.

That Time I Multi-Tweeted Rob Thomas

As some of you may recall, I have a bit of a thing for Matchbox 20. It's not really an obsession; it's more of a one-sided relationship. I am like Helga; MB20 is like Arnold. (If you don't understand that reference, you're probably too young to be reading this blog).

[Source]

Anyway.

So, about six weeks ago, Andrew asked me to meet him for "happy hour" (quotations used because the state of Massachusetts does not, by law, allow happy hour, because the state of Massachusetts hates fun). I willingly skipped my planned date with the elliptical and instead settled on a date with my boyfriend. After a few pints, we met up with some of his friends at the kind of bar I would be embarrassed to admit going to, but since we went at 8:30 (and were home by 11), I didn't hate it.

After our first round of tequila and tonics (don't look at me; I'm not the pervert who ordered them), someone (who might or might not have been me) put "3AM" on the electronic jukebox. Because we were The Old People at the bar (ages 25-28, respectively), our motley little crew of four guys plus me started belting out the lyrics with reckless abandon, occasionally subbing out, "it's 3am I must be lonely" for, "It's 9pm, I must be tipsy." Personally, I live by the mantra, "when Rob Thomas sings, you warble along." It's just, like, the rules of feminism (and clearly, my guy friends are all feminists. Or something. Just go with it)!

A few minutes and another round later, it was brought to our attention that said bar had a live Twitter feed scrolling across the bottom of the 49,000 televisions adorning every surface. Like any good, buzzed citizens, we took it upon ourselves to then hijack the twitter feed. 

By this point, my second song ("She's So Mean") came blasting through the speakers. Somewhere along the line, my synapses kicked into overdrive, and my thought process went something like this:

She's So Mean --> Matchbox Twenty --> Mohegan Sun --> Rob Thomas --> Twitter --> Tweet Rob Thomas

All of this in the span of under two seconds (don't be alarmed; this is par for the course with me).

Like any mildly-intoxicated modern American, I sometimes don't think before I act. Unlike my previous 20 tweets, all directed towards the lame bar patrons surrounding us and imploring them to join our impromptu karaoke party, I directed my next one towards Mr. Rob Thomas himself, asking why the closest MB20 is getting to Boston is a 2-hour drive away in Connecticut.

I also addressed the next one to him, inquiring as to whether Boston was on the short list for any future tour stops.

And the next one, wondering what it was like to be the rainmaker, and what it was like to know that I made the rain (and wondering why I was naive enough to think my friends/family would listen when I told them all I wanted for Christmas was tickets to this concert).

And the next one, avowing my 10+ year love of the band and directing them all toward the I Go Back post.

You get the picture (this is where I would literally allow you to see the picture; during my next-morning shame spiral, however, I deleted all but one of these classic tweets). So, I give you this:

@thisisrobthomasWHY arent you comingto Boston? It's a major city that loves #mb20 & the closest tix for your fans are $200 in CT..#sosad
— Caitlin (@CaitieXperiment) January 27, 2013

Fast-forward a few weeks, when we're in the midst of #Blizzard2013, aka Nemo (and an impromptu kegger thrown by one of Andrew's friends, but that's another story for another day. Clearly, inclement weather brings out the best of Boston). I was, once again, browsing The Twitter. I saw this, and promptly texted Leah to tell her that we should just buy tickets through a third-party vendor, stay up all night gambling, get some McMuffins and drive home the next day. She agreed, then we both promptly forgot about this half-assed plan.

Until her coworker, who is a VIP at Mohegan Sun Player's Club, learned of our obsession and kindly offered us her two gratis tickets to tonight's concert.

To say we were thrilled is an understatement; I screamed at my desk when I got Leah's text. We spent the past three weeks giddily texting each other, planning on how to get to Uncasville, CT by 7:30 during Friday rush hour and, in the past few days, trying to figure out how to navigate the ever-changing forecast. As of Wednesday, our plan was set; our tickets were secure and our hotel room was booked. The stars were aligning perfectly in our favor.

Until, that is, the motherfluffling house of Saturn felt the need to rise on New England and not only meet, but exceed expectations. Suddenly, the woman who had so generously offered us her VIP tickets couldn't go pick them up, because her bus wasn't making the trip (and apparently Mohegan hasn't latched on to the whole"Will Call" craze that started sweeping the nation in, oh... 1985). So we didn't have tickets. Being the internet-savvy individual I am, I immediately went to StubHub and bought two, which had dropped in price from $200 to $50 in the past six weeks. Then, Leah's car needed a new battery and she ended up dropping a chunk of change into that, sapping her MB20 budget. So, I didn't have a partner to join me. Seeing how bummed out this was making me, Sir Galahad himself (aka Andrew) offered to be my date, despite making fun of my MB20 obsession for the duration of our four-and-a-half year relationship. He said that instead of spending $$ on a hotel room, we could just round-trip the drive to and from Boston.

I once again had tickets, a friend and a mode of transportation/accommodations. Everything was coming up Milhouse.

And then Saturn. 

As of right now, I'm not 100% positive that we will actually make it to the concert. Actually, I was all for throwing in the towel, eating my $100 and calling it a wash. I figured Rob Thomas would understand, given the 15+ inches of snow outside (plus, it's partly MB20's fault for not coming to Boston in the first place; after the previously mentioned kegger, our little crew ventured out in the middle of a blizzard to see a Bruce Springsteen cover band. That's right; A COVER BAND). Andrew, on the other hand, insists that we try. The snow has stopped, the roads are clearing up, and with any luck, everyone else and their mother will have already gotten out of the city, paving the road from Boston to Uncasville, CT with gold (records. Zing!).

I'll be sure to let you all know how it turns out.


Side note: I am aware that this is an incredibly petty, whiny post, epitomizing the cliche of, "privileged problems." People in towns not too far from here are afraid they will lose their homes, and there are thousands of people without power here in MA alone. My "problem" is completely vapid, insignificant and pales in comparison to those very real, heartbreaking issues. This was written somewhat to satirize my own stupidity, so take it for what it is. Carry on. 

Letters From a Late-20s Blogger to the Universe at Large: Part the Third

No confessional today because, though I could probably go into hypnotherapy with my shame spiral in general, I'm having one of those unusual mornings where everything is rainbows and sunshine and I maybe-ok-definitely shouted, "GOOOD MORNING!!!" at a coworker randomly on the street. So, rather than dig through my past for your entertainment, I will instead leave you with some little letters that I began drafting yesterday, when my mood was a bit more, shall we say, sourpuss. Here we go!

WTF?! Letters of the Day:

Dear Young, Perky, Judgmental Coed Across the Bar,
Wipe that stupid smirk off your face. One day, in the not-so-distant future, you will find yourself at a much-needed happy hour, blowing off steam with one of your biffs. I assure you that you, too, will be a acting a little bit tipsy, laughing a little bit too loud and being a little bit too Billy Joel in general. You, too, will find it hilarious when the 19-year old bartender cards you and you will giggle at his attempts to flatter you into a bigger tip. So retire the stinkeye already, because those two ladies you're gawking at? Consider them your crystal ball.
WTF?!
Welcome to your future,
C

Dear Fluorescent, Only-the-Super-Can-Replace-You Kitchen Light,
Your current state of blinking, flashing and outright mocking me needs to stop. While I do appreciate a good disco now and then, I also live in fear of negligence lawsuits. Seeing as I'm worried you could give someone a seizure, it's time to get your act together.
WTF?
Shape up before I blow a fuse,
C

Dear Federal Government,
WHY YOU NO STANDARDIZE SUBMISSION PLATFORMS ACROSS THE INTERWEBS?! I am a willingly taxed citizen of the US (no, seriously -- I live in MA, where we voted against decreasing the income tax a few years ago), so I only ask for one thing: can one of your highly-paid, steadily employed "people" come up with a standard system for submission? It's bad enough that securing government funding is like pulling teeth; does the submission process really need to make me prefer a root canal, too?
WTF?!
Get with these economic times,
C

Dear Closet,
Sorry you're so mad at me for keeping you full of last season's wares, but I am of the small faction of human beings who admits to getting a tiny rush from paying my bills in full, on time (or early!). So when Momma sees a little extra in the bank account, she does not wanna blow it on shoes. Call it residual Stockholm Syndrome from back when student loans kept me in a bunker of solitude, but you're going to have to get used to sharing the wealth.
WTF?
We'll see who's laughing when I'm bathing in cash like Scrooge McDuck,
C

Dear "Fashion Community."
Overalls. Enough said.
WT-EVER-LOVIN'-F?!
Really, though?!
C

And a Love Letter:

Dear Katiebelle,
Thank you for being my friend and assuring me that one day, our parody novel will be a bestseller. Also, give me a glass of your finest, cheapest chardonnay.
Four for you, Glenn Coco!
You go, Glenn Coco!
C


And none for Gretchen Wieners.