Five Rant Friday -- 2.14.14

Happy Valentine's Day, my friends! 

A few weeks ago, I decided that instead of my regular Friday Confession (I use the term "regular" loosely, considering I don't think I've written one in about a year, but that is neither here nor there), I was going to take the opportunity to hijack the "Five Things Friday!" trend and put my own little pessimistic and curmudgeonly spin on it. Enter: Five Rant Friday, where I take the opportunity to air my superficial grievances of the week with the world wide web. So, without further ado...

Five Rant Friday

~*~ Valentine's Day Edition ~*~

1.) I mentioned awhile back that, after three YEARS of curiosity, I made a New Year's Goal to bite the bullet and try Group Power (GP) at my gym. Well, despite my strong track-record of making goals and promptly refusing to commit to them, I actually did accomplish this one on January 16th and, of course, I totally loved it. GP is very similar to the blog-ubiquitous Body Pump, in that is a 60-minute class using a bar and clip-in weights of varying sizes, and each muscle group is worked for the length of one song.

 

I know that these group lifting classes are considered sissy-weights by most "hardcore" gym rats/fitness buffs, mostly because they're high-rep/low-weight and it spawns poor form. I can definitely see how there are some valid criticisms there. For THIS Cardio Queen, however, GP was exactly what I needed to start strength training -- sure, I've done the Jillian workouts with my baby dumbbells at home, but I've always suspected that my form isn't that great and that I'm not motivated enough to push myself to a limit that will actually change my body. I'm lucky in that my instructor is a Form Czar, and is constantly hawkeyeing around the fitness studio studying us and yelling, "ELBOWS! ELBOWS!" while I'm squatting and "THE ONLY TIME YOU SHOULD BE ON YOUR KNEES IS IF YOU'RE GETTING PAID!" during the tricep-pushup track. So if you're going to tell me about how terrible GP and Bodypump are, please note: while I'm really thrilled that you love to pick things up and put them down, spare me your rant for the time being -- I'll probably be too busy admiring my baby biceps in the mirror to hear you, anyway.

WTF, IOC?!

2.)  The Olympics are obviously very near and dear to my heart (and spawned a post that made my dad cry) -- which is why this year's Spectacle in Sochi makes me so indescribably angry on a multitude of levels. Here you have people who have given every minute of every day, a lot of sweat, probably some blood and countless tears to reach the pinnacle of sportsmanship and athleticism, and the IOC has sent them to a place that is, by all accounts, Shanty Town. I find Russian history and culture to be positively fascinating and have been very fortunate to interact with a lot of individuals who are products of the former USSR (sidebar: if you ever need a Wikipedia rabbit hole, look up the dissolution of the Soviet Union. You'll look up and six hours will be gone, guaranteed). As a whole, the Russian people are good, kind and compassionate folks. Which is why it also annoys me that an entire populace is forced to stand by while the rest of the world makes jokes and generalizations at their expense, with no one giving a rat's ass about what is going to happen in their community once the rings disappear and the torch goes out. Think of it this way: if the government couldn't even go out of its way to put up a facade for the international community (I'm looking at you, Beijing), what in the hell do you think the people who live each and every day of their lives there are going to have to deal with?! I don't have an answer or really a point to this rant other than that it makes me really confused; I'm so full of happiness for the athletes and the sense of nationalism on display at the Olympics but also so disgusted with the IOC for not ensuring that they awarded the Games to a community that had the infrastructure to maximize the opportunity to the benefit of its people. /endrant

3.) The rampant use of the word "epic" where it isn't warranted is going to drive me to drink.

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4.) I haven't had any professional diagnosis or anything, but I'm 95% sure that I have either severely bruised or outright fractured my coccyx (also known as my tailbone). When I was about 10, I was sneaking downstairs after my bedtime to eat some cookies and slipped, hitting every single step with my ass on the way down. Thank God it was still August, because I can't even imagine the ridicule I would have faced for having to sit on a rubber doughnut at school (fifth graders can be so cruel). This feels similar -- a constant dull ache at the base of my lumbar spine that gets worse when sitting for extended periods of time and the occasional whimper when I do squats at Group Power -- the kicker is that I have absolutely no idea how I could have literally broken my ass, aside from a possible stress injury, which I didn't even know was possible. Before any of you get all sassy, this started BEFORE I added GP to my routine and therefore was not caused by my new-found love of clean-and-press. Either way, Dr. Google has informed me that coccyx injuries are one of those annoying maladies where it basically comes down to pain tolerance, so why waste medical premiums on xrays in the country's most expensive market when the most they can tell me is, "yup, it's fractured. Don't do things that hurt. Bye!"? I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing and add it to the ever-growing list my personal physician is so lucky to get handed every six months.

5.) The reason I have to keep exercising even with a broken butt is because my colleagues are all in on some twisted scheme to get me fat. They've somehow deduced that, since the marathon, I have not met a baked good that I did not immediately shove into my pie-hole. I was on a solid cookie kick through Christmas, but eventually hit a point where the mere thought of a Nestle morsel made me gag. Then it was on to cake and, though our love affair was brief, it was memorable. I've since moved on to "breakfast bread," starting with when my friend passed on some Amish Friendship Bread starter and progressing into me going ham on a load of my mother-in-law's amazing oatmeal something or other bread. Regardless of the varietal, if I don't get my carb-tooth under control, I'm going to be busting a lot more than my butt at the gym.

"...but I WANT it." -- My three-year old niece, who really GETS me.

TL;DR: Group lifting classes might be for sissies but my middle finger is just as strong as yours; the Olympics are somehow managing to both inspire and depress me at the same time; the term "epic" doesn't mean what you think it does; I'm 99% sure that I broke my ass and my coworkers' method of fixing it is to make it wider. The end.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! 

Upon the conclusion of this week's #99bottles beer chat, hosted by the venerable Gary Dzen of the Boston Globe and in which we drank and discussed Oskar Blues' Scotch Ale Old Chub, Andrew informed me that he's jealous of my ranting platform (all six of you), and asked for the opportunity to guest rant. Since it's Valentine's Day, I thought I would indulge him. So here you go:

Special Bonus Guest Rant:

Hi. Handsome Andrew here. Here's what I'm honked off about this week: Valentine's Day. Dear single people, I know this is a bullshit Hallmark holiday and it was all made up to sell cards and chocolate and waah waah waah. Stop posting about it on Facebook. You know what Valentine's Day is? Valentine's Day is a good excuse to spend more money on a bottle of wine than I would on a normal night and to have a better dinner than I can justify most of the time. If you're sad about being single, see a therapist but quit complaining to the world at large about how its designed to make you feel bad. Insert Andy Rooney picture here.

 It's my blog and I can do what I want. So here's a picture of beer instead of Andy Rooney.

See why I love him? 

This concludes this week's edition of Five Rant Friday. I'm Caitlin Rooney, and tune in next week for more of my wrath.

Loyal Sons

As a born and bred New England girl, there are some elements of my person that aren't very surprising. When I'm under stress (read: exhausted or inebriated), my speech pattern resembles that of Amy Adams in The Fighter. I suffer the famous "Irish Whisper" (also known as, "sometimes I yell when I talk"), a gift that I blame on competing with my four younger siblings to get our parents' attention (She who screams loudest gets answer -- ancient Irish proverb). In high school, I smoothed my very wavy hair with an actual iron so it would lie flat against my head (still have the scars), and the amount of F-bombs I can drop in a single sentence could stun even a well-seasoned sailor (I try to restrain myself on the ol' blog for my readers' sakes).

We New Englanders take a lot of pride in our Pro sports teams. I could name the starting lineup for the Red Sox beginning at the ripe old age of five. I don't really care about basketball, but I know most of the rules and the major players for the Celtics and once, in the fourth grade, I forever sacrificed my pinky finger's range of mobility in an effort to show the boys that yes, girls can TOO play (and thus ended my illustrious basketball career). I followed the Bruins BEFORE they made their run for the Stanley Cup, and in a region where college hockey might as well be pro, I went to a university that lives, breathes and bleeds Hockey East glory (NCAA titles, on the other hand....not so much. GO WILDCATS!).

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As for the Patriots? The vaunted, love-em-or-hate-em, did-they-or-didn't-they? enigma that is the New England Patriots? I love them, too, and spend every Sunday next to Andrew in jeans and a Brady jersey, cheering and screaming and sometimes swearing louder than he does (see above). Our neighbors probably hate us, but tough shit -- if you want to fit in 'round these parts, you learn that In Bill We Trust and how to live the Patriot Way. Or else.

The thing is, while I do love the Pats and lust after our shagadelic quarterback (though the entire world knows that physically, I'd take Matt Cassel), I harbor a dark little secret. One that a lot of my northeastern-bred friends just don't understand.

Because while it's true that I learned to love football growing up, the Pros had nothing to do with it.

My pigskin loyalties were bred with the other kind, the BEST kind, of football:  

COLLEGE football.

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The loyal son of a proud Rutgers alumnus, my Dad grew up in Nawth Jerzey in the same town where The Sopranos was filmed, screaming, "Up stream, Red Team!", eating hoagies and sporting a sweet Donny Osmond haircut. At 18, he packed up his belongings and set out for the only other acceptable football mecca in the northeast, Boston College.

Those were the pre-Flutie years but needless to say, once a hundred whispered Hail Marys were answered and that famous football arched through the sky and landed safely in the endzone, college football exploded in these parts for the first time. The day after I was born, Dad barely made it back because he was busy cheering on his alma mater at the BC-Notre Dame game. I spent my childhood Saturdays eating chicken fingers and real NJ hoagies, screamin' for the Eagles and swearing never to attend no stinkin' Syracuse. In our world, Saturdays were for football; Sundays were for Church.

One of my favorite traditions was the annual BC/Rutgers game, an event that included either a 5-hour pilgrimage to Gramma and Pa's or the invitation to join them at their hotel here in Boston, depending on who had home field advantage. Once a year, my mom, dad, brothers, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and I were all together, sitting in a parking lot, eating a meticulously packed tailgate and laughing over beverages (beer for the grownups; soda for us kids). Though one of my Aunts had followed my Grandpa's footsteps to Rutgers, the BC crowd always had the advantage; I always suspected the reason Dad had so many kids was so that he could create a miniature army swathed in maroon and gold, destined to dominate on GameDay. We stayed until the end, no matter the score, because as Pa would say, "you never desert your team" and you ALWAYS stay to listen to the marching band play "Loyal Sons", regardless of who won.

The man responsible for my refusal to EVER leave before the end!

It was at these games, college games, that I learned the rules of a game that would some day, over a series of Sundays, impress Andrew enough that he asked me to dinner.

Back in those days, Dad had season tickets. He kept them straight up until BC deserted the BigEast and our favorite foes, opting instead to funnel their dollars into the pockets of the ACC. At that point, he gave his tickets up in protest, because he didn't want to watch his team play a bunch of far-away schools with big-name talent. If he didn't have to explain to his kids what the eff a Hokie was (a big orange loser, that's what!), he wanted no part of it. It also didn't help BC's cause that when I received my lifetime-awaited envelope from them eight years ago, it was of the small, thin "We had an impressive pool of applicants..." variety rather than the big, fat, "Welcome to the Class of 2007!" kind.

We He might still be bitter.

Between that, attending a college where hockey games sell out in minutes but football is a forgotten afterthought and dating a man who seriously would have cried if the NFL lockout didn't end in time for the season to start, I've drifted away from my collegiate football roots. Andrew has never been a fan, and "just can't understand the appeal of rooting for a team of a school you didn't even go to", and most of my friends either went to private colleges within a 5-hour drive or attended the same hockey-centric public university that I did. I know that I could watch on my own, but 90% of the fun of college football is sharing it with your fellow fans. Plus, I just don't have the time anymore.

Now, Saturdays are for long runs and errands; Sundays (and Mondays, and sometimes Thursdays) are for football.

My good friend, Katie from Once a Southern Belle, Always a Southern Belle, is a born-and-bred Texan. As such, she is the epitome of all that is right about college football: gameday snacks, cute outfits in coordinating colors with diehard loyalties and friendly rivalries shared amongst family and friends. Her excitement and enthusiasm for last weekend's NCAA kick-off weekend, as well as that of all the other fab Southern-school bloggers she has gotten me hooked on, was palpable.

And on Saturday, as I was scouring the internet for two tickets under $300 for next Sunday's Patriots home opener (an anniversary present for Andrew), my Twitter feed filled at an impressive rate with #GoBigSchool!, rankings and Heisman predictions. The streets of Boston and the T were full of obnoxious Northwestern students and drunken SuperFans stumbling home from BC's home opener. And in the midst of all this, three words crossed my mind.

Color me jealous.

The Summer Wind

This past weekend was "Family Weekend" down the Cape with Andrew's family. We've all had a crazy summer, and they are good people and always have a revolving door down there -- so it was really nice to just kick back and relax with some good friends, food and fun.

Andrew and I drove down Friday night after a pitstop at not one, but TWO Marathon Sports locations to pick up new running shoes. I was hoping to make it until early September with the pair I had but, unfortunately for my wallet, my super flat feet said otherwise. :( I'm planning to do a full review of my new sneaks soon, but since I've only run one long, 5-mile run in them, I want to give them a fair shake and need to do some more mileage before sharing my opinion with the world.

After a bright-and-early wakeup for that 5-miler, we had big plans for the day: a real, true, New England-style Clambake! We loaded up the truck with SO MUCH STUFF, then schlepped it all to a local island. One large hole, a bunch of rocks, some newspaper, seaweed, a wet tarp and 6 hours of fun in the sun later, dinner was served!

The "oven" -- SO COOL!

Cheesecloth packages full of lobster, mussels, clams, shrimp, onions, potatoes and corn.

But it wasn't a rock... it was a rock LOBSTER!

Butta melted in a tin pan over hot coals.

Because Andrew and I don't really care for lobster (it's not that we hate it, but it's "wasted on us", really, because neither of us particularly love it), his mom made us separate bags full of vegetables and the most perfectly, juicy and delicious swordfish. We also each tried a mussel and a clam drowned in butter (still just "eh" to me. I'm going to have my Boston card revoked), and then I gorged myself on shrimp -- both his mom and dad felt bad because they didn't know I LOVE shrimp, so there was none in my bag o' tricks, and they very generously shared their portions with me!

We were all STUFFED afterward, but my family has a saying that, thankfully, Andrew's clan subscribes to as well: There's ALWAYS room for ice cream dessert! After indulging in that classic campfire delicacy, the Smore, it was getting pretty late, and so , salty and satisfied, we packed up and set off into the sunset.

The food, the weather, the company, the sunset, the stillness that settled over the water in the moonlight....

Saturday was sheer perfection.

Chopped! Tiny Apartment Edition

When it comes to the grocery bill, I'm the first to admit that I have a pretty... liberal interpretation of the word "budget."

As in, I regularly spend $65 at Stop 'n Shop, $25.50 at Whole Foods and $19.99 at Trader Joe's. In a single weekend. For the two of us. Oh, plus the farmer's market and Friday dinners out, but Andrew usually pays for those so they totally don't count.

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If you couldn't tell from my killer Fat Bastard impression, I love me some food.

As you might suspect, because of this compulsive food shopping addiction, the cabinets in our meager little kitchen are literally sagging under the weight of all the random crap we have amassed in the past year. Take, for instance, my apparent blind terror that we will one day run out of pasta or canned beans. Laugh all you want, but if a bean-less, noodle-less zombie apocalypse is upon us, see if I share my stash during the big carbo-loading party when the time comes to outrun them. NOT TO MENTION that while your glycogen stores deplete and your brains are being chomped on, I will have enough slimy, stringy leftovers to cleverly divert the zombies and get away.

Unfortunately, while I personally would have no problem blowing my entire paycheck on gourmet wine and cheese treats, the company that holds my student loans and my landlord seem to think otherwise.

Bloody buzzkills.

So, in an attempt to help rectify this "shelving problem" AND fatten our wallets, Andrew and I agreed to abandon our usual Supermarket Sweep-style antics this week and try to only eat meals created with the random shit we have accumulated in our kitchen. We gave ourselves a $20 budget on Sunday to buy whatever fresh ingredients we needed. A bag of romaine, a bag of spinach, two grapefruit, two bottles of soda water, a bag of Hoodsies, a loaf of bread and some sandwich thins (and a box of mac n cheese because we ate our last one on Saturday, and both feel very... exposed... should we ever not have one in stock) came to $19.64.

Now let me tell you what (CRo, I hope you read this and say that line in your hubby's Texan twang. I did while I was writing it. Creepy? Maybe. Hilarious? Definitely.). Spending under $20 on food is a MAJOR FEAT, PEOPLE. As has been the actual art of turning our hoards of random boxed goods, leftover vegetables and assorted culinary accessories into meals that are nutritious, satisfying and don't taste like dirt. Particularly considering that we somehow didn't have any meat in backstorage and ran out of milk on Monday.

Basically, we've been pretending we're contestants on Chopped.

You know, the show on Food Network where celebrity chef Ted Allen, formerly known as, "the one from Queer Eye that my Dad always suspected was straight", finds four chefs to compete with each other and is all, "Congratulations.... you have 30 minutes to make a meal out of the following ingredients: Spam, hard taco shells, cocoa puffs and frozen asparagus! Ready? Go! ... sorry, your meal sucked. You have been CHOPPED!"

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Not gonna lie, I'm really enjoying this little challenge. So far, I'm totally winning, because Andrew took one look at our "surprise ingredients" and declared, "spaghetti" and "stir fry" our only hope for the week. Yours truly, however, has a distinct advantage due to that time I stopped eating meat for 47 days, and has whipped up some pretty snappy suppers so far, if I do say so myself (say that 5x fast!).

Monday: Scrambled eggs and pan fries. Used up: the last 3 eggs, scrambled with 1/4 can of organic black beans, some sauteed frozen green pepper, dash red hot, half of the jack cheese in the fridge (which I gave about 2 more days before it becomes a science experiment), and 2 morningstar maple "sausage" patties that have been in my freezer for 2 months, crumbled. Side of pan fries made with 3 small white potatoes, swirl of EVOO, salt and pepper.

Tuesday: Black bean tacos. Used up: the rest of the can of black beans mixed with 1/4 jar of Trader Joe's Roasted Corn and Chile Salsa (which we became obsessed with after sampling it at the Brookline Food Festival), simmered on low with a hefty dose of chili powder, cayenne pepper, cumin, s&p. Served in five hard taco shells (3 for him, 2 for her), with remnants of the lettuce we bought, half of the cherry tomatoes we had left, 1/4 container of sour cream that has 5 days until it expires and all but the last .5oz of the jack cheese as accouterments.

To his credit, despite his lack of imagination in the kitchen, A-man has been a real contender. He has managed to compile lunches for each of us (as well as my breakfast), every day but today (and he did make his own today). Yes, that may SEEM unimpressive, but given the amount of food I require on any given day, it's not something to sneeze at. He informed me this morning that I have run out of cinnamon raisin Ezekiel bread (travesty), my natural pb supply is dwindling (good thing I've run out of toast to put it on!),  I'm on my last grapefruit (I enjoy cheating the system and have one decorating stashed at my desk), we're down to one banana (dibs! dibs! I need it for my GM), our spinach supply is completely depleted (oh, cruel world! I guess he can have that last banana after all), and the remains of our coveted leftover-from-Sunday-Pre-Challenge slices of Pizzeria Regina extra-cheese pie are now out of stock.

We might also be out of raspberry vodka, which is a real shame, seeing as I owe it some of the credit for my sparks of genius in the culinary arena of late.

Sad day.

I haven't taken full stock of the situation for tonight, but I saw a can of chickpeas lurking during my hunt for adobos last night, and A has a dinner date with his Aunt (I'd say he's cheating on our deal except I totally didn't bring lunch and resorted to a miniature cup of mediterranean pepper soup and a bag of baked Lays from Au Bon Pain for lunch). Because he hates curry and I'm slightly ashamed of the amount of canned tomato products I've managed to compile (perhaps to aid in my "this spaghetti is really brains" diversionary tactic? Blood substitute?), I'm thinking some kind of riff on channa masala is in order. Plus, there's a glass of wine left in my fridge taking up space that I really need to get rid of.

Oh, and brownie mix. I HAVE to use up that shelf-space usurping brownie mix.

Thank God for flax "eggs"! :)

What's the most creative meal you've cooked/eaten lately?

What the French Toast Did I Get Myself Into?!

First off, I'm getting more and more annoyed with my inability to reply to comments here on Blogger -- I know I could install a third-party system or just finally make the switch to Wordpress and all, but the fact that I currently update from whatever computer I can get to, and don't want to download anything on them since they're not, you know, mine, makes that hard. Besides, can't Blogger get with the program already and get on that shit?! It's 2011, for crying out loud. (Sidenote: if there's some way to do this without downloading anything, and I'm just an idiot, kindly let me know. I'm somewhat technologically inept).

And now for the really fucking terrifying exciting news (as mentioned on Twitter).... I just spent 38 minutes going back and forth over actually going there and registering for the Boston Athletic Association Half Marathon.

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I mean, do I really want to run 13.1 miles? In just over 3 months? And essentially give up all other forms of exercise, just when I'm finally getting my head back into the game, spinning and Zumba-ing and yoga-ing my way through the week and really pushing to get my blood pressure back to a normal level? Do I really want to do that? Really?

Then I remembered Maura's post from Friday, when she wrote about how thankful she is to have her trainer and how she has been pushed to try things she didn't think were possible before. In the comments, I asked her if she ever felt intimidated or embarrassed to try new things at the gym, because I find that I have MAJOR anxiety over looking stupid and/or not knowing what I'm doing. Being the fantastic and sweet person that she is, she replied:

I feel you on the “gym shy” factor, but I bet you if you took that BodyPump class you’d be stoked because a) you’ll have tackled a fear, and b) you’ll probably sweat your ass off. Win/Win situation baby! I fought the fear to do spin and even though I’m still a little nervous, who cares. I would have missed out on a new hobby if I kept being afraid. Now go find out when the next class is and tell me how it goes

Ok, so maybe I haven't signed up for my gym's version of BodyPump yet, but I figured that this is actually something I'm even MORE scared of: a medium-term commitment, fear of failure and the bodily aches and general uncomfortableness that come whenever I run more than 2 miles at a time.

So, naturally, I put my hand on the mouse, moved it to the left of my screen and hit, "Register."

Sorry the pic is so huge but you couldn't see it unless I made it XL.

I did it.

Then I got a massive case of the, "OMG WTF DID I JUST DO?!"s because, to be honest, I am SCARED OUT OF MY MIND.

I don't do hills well -- and as Stephanie pointed out via Twitter, the course is known to be pretty hard, all downhill the first half and all uphill the second. I also haven't run more than a few miles at a time since, well... ever. I think my max, all-time, is 5.2 and it took me an hour of run/walking on a flat route to do it. Courtesy of my father's genetics, I was cursed with some of the flattest feet in the universe, so I'm constantly fighting to find the balance between the right speed, the right elevation levels and shin splints. Oh, and I can thank Dad for the asthma, too, and should probably remember to buy stock in Ventolin for the next few months.

To be frank, this challenge is going to be a real bitch.

But, as evidenced by this post (and this one), I decided back in January to take my fears into my own hands and made a list of all the things I hoped to achieve in 2011. I know that I haven't been giving my goals my all for the past few months, and I'm owning up to the fact that it's been out of a combination of sheer laziness and fear. I'm terrified of setting out to accomplish something and then failing to reach my expectations of it -- whether writing, a new gym class, or running a half-marathon is the task at hand. If I never try, then I never fail, and the dream lives on.

But it stays just that: a dream. A big, huge, "What If?"

So I'm trying. Place check marks in boxes #3 (Run a Half Marathon), #8 (Control My Reactions), #10 (Push My Limits) on your "Caitie's Kicking Ass And Taking Names in 2011" scorecards, please.

On a sidenote, I know that I'm very lucky for this opportunity. There are far scarier things in the world than being fearful that you won't be able to finish running a certain distance in a certain amount of time, and I absolutely acknowledge and own that this is kind of a WGP. Plus, I can take solace in the fact that I won't be doing this alone!

Because once I had my registration # up on the screen, I went back to the "Participant Registration" and hit it again, filling out the top part of the form, the part for "personal information", with a different name, the same address, and a different gender.

That's right! I registered Andrew, too (with his explicit permission, of course!).

So, now the two of us have each other for motivation and inspiration. I'm choosing to ignore the fact that he is a former varsity athlete who can whip 10-minute miles straight out of his ass whenever he feels like it, or that I have a bunch of other accomplished runner-friends who signed up this morning (I cheered one of them on during the Marathon in April!). I'm extremely lucky and thankful to have so much talent and wisdom to draw advice and inspiration from!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go look in to having one of those gas station-sized ice receptacles placed in my apartment...

It's the Little Things

Welcome back from your long weekends! (Well... my American and Canadian readers, anyway!)

Andrew and I kicked off our holiday weekend the best way we knew how: by celebrating with a big fat ol' check and a fancy dinner out!

I haven't mentioned it really on the blog, but about a month ago, Andrew had an interview for a new job. He'd been working full-time in shipping and receiving for a high-end retailer for the last eighteen months or so, and between the long hours at the store, the 45-minute commute each way and his full-time school schedule, we barely got to see each other! My poor guy was exhausted all the time, and with the price of gas these days, he was spending a HUGE chunk of each paycheck just to get back-and-forth between his two huge commitments (his school is in his hometown, which is, of course, 35 minutes away in the OTHER direction!). He had no set schedule, other than that he went to school all day Tuesday and Thursday and worked 8-hr shifts the other five days of the week (his shifts could be 7:30-3:30, 9-5, 10-6 or 12-8:30). It was putting a huge strain on us, both financially and emotionally...there were some days where I literally saw him when I woke up and that was it!

Well...HE GOT THE JOB!! It's a little bit less money at the moment, but because he can commute to and from via the T, it's going to end up SAVING us money in the long run. He's also close to the commuter rail, so if there's a car at his parents' house for him to use, he can actually take the train to school rather than drive, which is awesome (and less wear-and-tear on my car, since we're currently a 1-car family!). The best part? He FINALLY has a steady, 9-5 schedule and has weekends off! Honestly, he hasn't had a regular schedule since we met almost three years ago (he was raking in the big bucks at Fenway Park back then, and was at the mercy of the Red Sox and their schedule!). He started his new position last week and we couldn't be happier about it!

Luckily, His former employer let him cash out his earned time, so he ended up with a final paycheck that was double the amount he would normally bring home. We celebrated by going to the Met Bar, which is a pseudo-fancy restaurant that serves gourmet burgers and steak-type dishes. We started off with the Asian-inspired chicken tacos, two Sam Summers, and the bread basket. The tacos were SO good -- crispy little wanton squares with tangy kimchee slaw and saucy chicken. We actually split the last one right down the middle with me taking one of the biggest bites possible. Andrew had the fish and chips, which he deemed, "the best he's ever had" (and trust me -- he's a TOTALY fc snob), and I had the Mexico City burger, which had jalapeno, salsa, chipotle and pepper jack. It was pretty good, but for the amount it cost, I would have liked more of the toppings and maybe a sliiightly bigger burger (portion control is for the birds!).

Saturday morning, we headed down to his parents' Cape house for some 4th of July fun. It normally takes us an hour and ten minutes to get there from Boston, but it took 2.5 hours!! I didn't mind, though, since we were rocking out to the radio the whole time. Plus, as soon as we got there, we suited up and met his dad at the dock for some boat fun -- which is my FAVORITE way to spend an 85 degree day. His whole family was there, which is always a recipe for hilarity -- outdoor showers, barbecued ribs, more than a little beer, and hanging out ensued, and Sunday was more of the same... culminating in a loud Patriotic sing-a-long on the back porch at around 11pm with the entire family. I'm sure the neighbors love us.

And now for the real reason for this post: I'm beside myself with excitement -- after MONTHS of seeing all the southern bloggers rave about the whole do-it-yourself-froyo trend, and being insanely jealous, I FINALLY FOUND A DIY FROYO SHOP NEAR OUR APARTMENT!!

Enter: Berry Freeze.

I scarfed it too fast to snap a pic, but I enjoyed a tasty treat of coconut froyo with a teeny sprinkle of crushed oreo, a few mini pretzels, pineapple chunks and sliced banana. It might have been the highlight of my entire weekend.

It's the little things.

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!

[Source]

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!