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.

Sheep and Kings

I've always loved cheese. Unfortunately, I'm allergic to most varieties of it, particularly those that are soft (I have a severe mold allergy in addition to a host of other allergic ailments). For that reason, for most of my life, I tended to stick to the harder, more mild cheeses, such as cheddar and jack. Then last year, while complaining about how I'm not supposed to eat feta but it's in basically every delicious-looking salad I've seen, my allergy nurse asked why I didn't just use goat cheese as a substitute. I'd always assumed I couldn't eat it, but apparently a lot of people who can't eat soft cheese can get away with mild goat cheese. After years of passing it by without a second thought, I realized exactly what I had been missing.

Goat cheese, to me, is like that boy you knew your entire life and always thought of as the kinda-cute-husky-kid in elementary school, who then blew your freakin’ mind by showing up on the first day of junior high looking like Adonis.

Which is, of course, how you proceeded to refer to him as you professed the pains of your unrequired love to all of your twittering girlfriends. You never know when Gretchen Wieners and that hair are lurking around the corner, just waiting to spread the news of your totally-out-of-league crush.

Did I mention I was really, really awkward in junior high school? Another story for another day (or forty). Lucky for me, most of my friends had the same taste in guys that I did. At fourteen, we were prototypical pubescent balls of hormones-run-amok. Although we all had secret little code names for our crushes, as I think most teenage girls do, my friend TBB#1 and I took the process of creating them to a completely other (borderline disturbing) level.

Now, we’re not talking about some cutesy little “omg! Teehee! I heart APM!” and “Caitlin + Crush = Lurve” doodled all over our notebooks. We are talking about a complicated system involving numerous names for the same person, deliberate red herrings created to throw inquiring minds off the scent, entire notebooks devoted to keeping track of the objects of our affection (complete with AOL profile details and photos of them taken over each other’s awkwardly-posed shoulders) and, of course, a ridiculously intricate method for developing descriptive, yet non-specific, codenames for our crushes.

There was The Joker, termed as such for his inordinately massive smile. There were The Butlers, whose parents had taken it upon themselves to spell “J” names with "G”s, forever relegating them, in our Fresh Prince-influenced minds, to the status of house servants. The Mustang, The Rainbow, Dodger, Therapist, FM Radio – all created to keep the identities of our crushes clandestine and, in part, to drive our male friends wild as they tried to figure out exactly to whom we were referring at any given time.

Of these dozens of carefully coined nom de plumes, the one of which we were most proud was The Sheep. Seems innocuous enough, right? What you don’t know is that to reach this pinnacle of our awkwardness, we first had to create three other coded names, put them together in a twisted equation that would have made even the algebra teacher that flunked me proud, then take the resulting letters (B.A.), pronounce them phonetically and, finally, use that sound to create our masterpiece. He had numerous other aliases, including, but not limited to, The Artist, The Royal Sheep and His Highness.

Despite all of the desperate measures we took to hide it, The Sheep et al. had to have been aware of our madness. My propensity for turning bright red in the presence of boys notwithstanding, the fact that TBB#1 and I appeared in their lives at "random" intervals almost every day was probably a bit alarming. So for that, I want to issue a public apology and thanks. Men of my high school from years 1999-2002, I am sorry that I was so awkward. Thank you for putting up with the shenanigans of two silly teenage girls and, more importantly, thanks for not calling us stalkers to our faces (or the police). Facebook tells me that you are all leading healthy, normal lives with beautiful people by your sides. I promise not to take unknowing photos of you for my scrapbook at the reunion next year.

And to my dear high school friend BowlCut, I'm really sorry that TBB#1 and I mistakenly took your lost fleece because we thought it belonged to The Sheep. May it provide you some comfort to know that though you probably froze that spring, it had a place of prominence in the center of our shrine.

For my parting words today: TBB#1, if you are reading this, I believe we both missed out on a very lucrative career in the CIA.

(Disclaimer: Though based on recollections of my very awkward high school years, this piece was written in jest. I am not, nor have I ever been, anything close to a stalker, and I don't find the subject of actual stalkers funny in any way. It goes without saying that if you or someone you know feels threatened, you should alert the authorities.)

Dawson’s Creek 1:1

So, another year is upon us. And by that I mean simply that, “football season is back!” While we all know that I enjoy the whole Sunday ritual of donning various Pats paraphernalia, tossing chili on the stove and engaging in some serious smacktalk on Twitter, by the 8 o'clock game I'm usually done. Don't even get me started on Thursday and Monday Night Football. Unfortunately, the networks LOVE the Pats, and as such, we get saddled with an ungodly amount of night/national games this year. In the midst of this insanity, I have struck a deal with Andrew, whereby as long as the Pats aren't playing, I get to control the remote. What does this all mean? A marathon re-viewing of the standard for young adult television, Dawson's Creek, of course. (A lady has to have her happy place, y'know?).

I started two weeks ago. Coincidentally, I was about ten minutes into the premiere (and halfway into a glass of wine) when I felt the need to text Steph about how I never noticed how hot Dawson's dad is. This set off about ten minutes of running commentary from me. Right around the time I finished that glass of wine, I had the bright idea to record my analysis in perpetuity, rather than relegating it to 160 character texts. After a short marathon viewing session at my house on Thursday night, Steph convinced me to post my Dawson's Creek Premiere Recap here. It's really long because I don't have time to fully edit it, but it appears as though a lot of other bloggers are on the DC bandwagon lately, so here we go. Enjoy!

Dawson's Creek, Season 1, Episode 1
We open, of course, with fifteen year old Dawson Leery and his trusty femininely-challenged galpal, Joey Potter, watching a movie. Because when I was fifteen, I was obviously allowed to have boys not only in my room, but in my bed. For the love of all that is holy, I basically had Amy Poehler’s character from “Mean Girls” for a mother when I was fifteen and even she didn’t ok that right away. But I digress.

After musing over the injustice that is E.T. losing the Oscar to Ghandi, we find out why Dawson’s mom seems to have no issues with her hormonally-ravaged son hanging unchaparoned with the cute little thang next door: she has made a career of sporting ghastly 90s hair while delivering the nightly news and giggling flirtatiously at her over-coiffed co-anchor.

Dawson is mystified that Joey won’t sleep over, since, you know, he is blind to her unrequited love-crush and doesn’t understand that she has been ogling him awkwardly this entire time. Going with the whole early 00s theme of, “we really need to just talk everything to death,” she informs him that they can’t sleep together anymore because of their burgeoning adulthood and lusty natures. Katie Holmes is already so good at delivering the obvious with just the right amount of self-righteous indignity. “I have breasts! And you have genitalia!” Look, Jo, if we’re really being honest here, you should probably mention that unfortunate mop bucket on top of Dawson’s head. Get a haircut, you bum!

“I just think our emerging hormones are destined to ruin our relationship and I am trying to limit the fallout.” I credit lines like this for the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend until my sixteenth birthday. Thanks a lot, Kevin Williamson. Dawson uses Joey’s tomboyish reputation to lure her into bed by threatening to call her Josephine. Oh, the horror! Our heroine falls (make that jumps) straight into the trap, in a not-sexual-at-all tickle match on top of the comforter. Take that, Dawson!

We cut to the original, weird opening theme song. This is not the legendary Paula Cole. I do NOT like this. I don’t like it one bit.

More weird song with same footage as classic theme. This is so bizarre. I got all amped up for my, “I DUN WANNA WAIT!” and it never appeared. I hate everything.

After what I remember being a long commercial break advertising Tamagochis or Jenga or JNCOs or some other awesome thing I wasn’t allowed to have, the show returns. Joey lounges on the dock while Dawson films Pacey, in full seamonster regalia, prematurely pulling Joey into the water. Dawson goes apeshit. “It’s a three count you gotta wait for!” he shrieks. What a pretentious douche.

One of my favorite Pacey lines ever, his very first of the series, as Joey climbs out of the creek:
Joey: “You did it again! You grabbed my ass!”
Pacey: “Like you even have one.”

At this point, mysterious new girl Jen arrives in a yellow cab and just nonchalantly strolls up to this motley crew of strangers, one of whom is dressed as a dripping seamonster. Nice. The boys act like pubescent assholes, Pacey making moderate sexual innuendos and Dawson forgetting how to speak, mumbling about God knows what. Meanwhile, Joey McKayla Maroney’s the situation and when Dawson says Jen’s changed, rolls her eyes and mutters, “puberty.” ZING!

P&D head to casa de leery and catch the parents en flagrante. Pacey makes a not so subtle attempt at flirting with Gail Leery, which I think is supposed to indicate some kind of foreshadowing. I’m not really sure because I've been too busy ogling Dawson’s hot dad. Pacey drools on the floor and Gail calls Mr. Leery “Mr. Manmeat,” to which I readily concur.

Because we need to establish some kind of backstory for the rough-around-the-edges heroine, we next see Joey arriving home. Her sister’s African American, living-in-sin boyfriend, Bode, walks out to let her taste some pasta sauce. Racial diversity alert!! A very pregnant Bessie then emerges from the house, bringing about our very first glimpse into what the producers of this forward-thinking show have deemed, “unsavory people.” Also the first time “orgasmic” is used as a totally unneccesary adjective. A true turning point in American culture, for sure.

Dawson and Pacey both work at the local video store. Awww, remember when we actually had to go to separate stores to rent stuff, rather than just streaming old episodes of decades-old shows directly to our wireless-enabled tvs? So quaint!

OMG the first Tamara scene. Here we have Pacey making a complete ass of himself as he attempts to flirt with this mature, sexual “older woman.” On first glance, I would probably peg her for 38, but then again, that’s about as old as the Leery parents look, so what do I know. The cheesy 80s saxophone music is killing me. The seductive voice, the barely there dress, the reference to “The Graduate.” These writers! So subtle!

Oh Charlie Conway, how far you have come (nice vest, btw).

After work, Dawson rounds the corner of his house, a stack of videos in his hand, to a picturesque view of the new girl, aka Michelle Williams when she was first pretty, before her awkward duck stage. Dawson goes into some douchey spiel about classic movies, blah blah blah, and I continue to serenade my wine glass with the stellar music from this show. “As I lay me, down toooo sleep. Yes I pray. That you will hold me dear...”

Ever the suave operator, Douchebag Dawson drops a casual, “Hey, wanna see my studio?” into the conversation. DMoney, you dog! Although on second thought, if some guy invited me to hang out and then had a shrine to Steven Spielberg on his walls, I think I’d cut my losses and invest in a cat.

After hearing her name bellowed from next door, we find out that Jen has to hide the fact she’s hanging out with Dawson from her Grams. How totally not suspicious at all; I’m sure it is just a freak coincidence and has nothing to do with her backstory at all. Meanwhile, Joey, window climber extraordinaire, appears crestfallen as she pauses outside the window in her too-short shorts and overhears Dawson and Jen having a very intimate moment, aka discussing something totally innocuous like Dawson’s only passion in life. Because obviously, a guy with a shrine to Spielberg never talks to anyone about movies but you, Joey.

After Jen leaves and Joey has assumed the usual position on the bed, Dawson observes that his mother uses “soft Bs” when talking to her co-anchor, and is therefore obviously having an affair. “Back to you, Bob!” he mimicks. Now I’m going to be on the lookout for soft B’s everywhere and assuming the speaker wants to get in my pants. “Bring the bagels?” That’s sexual harassment and I DON’T have to take it! (thank you, 90s commercials).

Back to Jen, who is having a tender moment with her incapacitated Gramps. Grams squashes that shit right quick, telling Jen she needs to eat or else she’ll be late for school. Over eggs, Jen interrogates Grams about Dawson and Joey, both of whom the elder refers to as “the wrong element,” pointing out that Joey’s been climbing into Dawson’s window at all hours for years. Wait, an adult that makes sense? What is this, the Waltons?!

Jen diverts Grams’ attention by declaring that she hates church and doesn’t believe in Jesus or God. Apparently she has either never invoked the wrath of religiously-oriented Grandma guilt or she’s just plain crazy, because no sane person would ever want to bring that upon themselves a second time. On a related note, remember how revolutionary it was to have an ATHEIST on tv?!

God-fearing Grams aside, Jen starts school wearing a white skirt and a button down double-breasted, very short sweater. Very Catholic schoolgirl, indeed, as demonstrated by Jen’s statement to school huss Nelly Olsen that she “likes to have a good time, drug free.” Give me a break, Jen.

Thank God for Chumbawumba. My life doesn’t have enough of it.

The kids all take their seats, and Tamara, aka “Ms. Jacobs” strolls into English class and Pacey figures out that he’s been keeping his teacher in the spank bank. Oh God, this is so much better than Aria and Ezra. Pretty Little Liars basically wouldn’t exist without this show. Gold. Standard. Television.

Pretentious Asshat, aka Dawson, is all mopey and emo because he was denied admittance to a class he isn’t eligible to get into because he’s an underclassmen. He spouts of some extra douchery by insulting the school’s only film teacher, accusing him of “denying students their education”. I bet his parents gave him a trophy for peeing in the potty as a toddler. Assholes.

Out in the hallway, Jen asks Joey if she and Douchson are a couple. Cue Joey and her sneer and a sob story. Nice way to slip in that your dad is a jailbird, Potter. “Oh, conspiracy to traffic marijauna in excess of 10,000 pounds”. AND her sister is having her black boyfriend’s baby. THAT should intimidate the girl from New York, alright.If someone hasn’t made a meme out of Katie Holmes’ faces from this show, they should. Comic gold.

Meanwhile, Pacey is hard at work seducing his English teacher. WHY IS IT ALWAYS THE ENGLISH TEACHER?! After trying to coerce Dawson into crashing Tamara’s date, Pacey informs him that Cosmo says older women are just itching to bang high school boys. “I have three menstrually diverse sisters. I get Cosmo, ok?” Dawson, ever the wordsmith, tells him to go home and walk his dog because it’s never going to happen.

On the way home from school, Dawson rides up to Joey, sporting a backwards, ADJUSTABLE Yankees hat, might I add, and begs her to act as a fifth wheel on his date/Pacey’s stalking mission. This brings about yet another eye roll, both from Ms. Potter and from me.

So as it turns out, despite all “unsavoriness” in Capeside, Grams is willing to let Jen out in public as long as she goes to Church on Sunday morning. Christ will cure your rebellious nature, Jen! She promises to go to Church when Grams say the word ‘penis.’ BAM!

Not to be rude or anything, but Grams needs some root touch-ups, stat.

Here’s hot Mr. Leery again, talking about condoms and foreplay. Meanwhile, the fifteen year old asks why sex is so important and uses the fact that Spielberg has never had a sex scene in his movies as proof that it’s lame. Holy fuck, Dawson, just stfu and let your dad keep talking about stuff that grown ups do.

I am old. So, so old.

Bessie, in a move meant to indicate that she fears Joey is going to grow up and die alone with her cat collection, grabs Joey and smears some lipstick on her omnipresent pout. Now that her crooked smirk is all accentuated and stuff, Joey can go crash Dawson’s date. GO AND CATCH YO’ MAN! RAAAAR!

This might be one of the best scenes in television history.
Jen: “Hey Joey, I love your lipstick, what color is it?”
Joey: “Wicked red. I love your hair color, what number is that? By the way, are you a virgin?”
Jen: “Yes…. and you?”
Joey: “Please. Years ago. Trucker named Bubba.” I had that quote hanging on my wall for like five years in junior high. I wish I were kidding. I am not.

WHO WEARS SHORTSLEEVE BUTTON DOWNS, PACEY?! Ugh. Just... ugh.

Slick Dawson keeps trying to grab Jen’s hand during the cartoon before the movie. Whoa there, tiger! Joey, mature as ever, interrupts the moment to continue interrogating Jen, asking her if she’s a size queen and if she “noticed the long fingers.” To the guys of my 8th grade class, this is why we all asked you to hold out your hands. Now you know. God, it feels good to get that off my chest.

Dawson, apparently not amused by his bffl’s antics, pulls Joey out into the lobby to engage in the kind of dramatic screaming match known only to sexually-charged middle school friends of the opposite sex. I can say that because I had this exact fight with my own unrequited teen love, coincidentally referred to as “Dawson” in notes from that era, approximately 3209 times.  “OMG YOU IGNORE ME WHENEVER SHE’S AROUND AND YOU CAN’T EVEN SEE WHAT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!” Joey storms off, and I feel so much second-hand embarrassment for my thirteen year old self.

HAHA Jen shuts Dawson DOWN as he leans in for a goodnight kiss. And yes, D, if anyone wasn’t already convinced, making the L on your forehead just REINFORCES that you are, in fact, a loser. Nice sweater, you clown.

Pacey sulks past Tamara at the marina after getting socked in the eye by her date. He calls her out on her unbridled, middle-aged desire. “I’m the best sex you’ll never have!” says fifteen year old Pacey. I remember that line being way less hilarious as a teenager, but I have to pause the tv to stop laughing and pour myself more wine. AND THE BEST PART IS, SHE FALLS FOR IT! The two share a passionate-by-cable-standards embrace. WOOHOO, it’s gettin’ HOT up in HERE!

On the other side of the creek, Dawson comes home to find Joey lurking on the floor of his closet. Normal. Realizing that he was kind of a jerk, he apologizes for being such an insensitive male and says he remembers thinking she looked pretty with her lipstick at the movie theater. Joey admits becoming jealous of the hand-holding Olympics, saying that she didn’t want to be the one holding his hand, but just didn’t want Jen to, either. Dawson just accepts that explanation, despite Joey’s wounded puppy eyes and the fact that it MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER.

In yet another attempt to show Dawson that they can no longer be friends like, I dunno, mature adults, Joey dares him to tell her about his masturbation habits. This is the second reference to “walking the dog” in twenty minutes. Haaaaahaha. Awesome.

After being blown off in a fit of awkward laughter, Joey leaves through the window, her relationship with her best friend in shambles. Ohhhh, why you look so saaaaaaad? The tears are in your eeeyes, come on and come to meeeee now. Doooon’t, be ashamed to cuh-ryyyyyyyy!

Appearing in his backlit window, Dawson saves the moment by yelling, “usually in the morning, to Katie Couric.” Joey, apparently not making the obvious mommy issues connection, laughs as she rows away... just in time to see Gail making out with her co-anchor.

Well, that’s that. I know this recap isn’t the best, but I figure it’s a start while I get back into the ol’ reviewing groove. I hope you’ll come back and check on my progress as I feel my way around this little universe.

In the meantime, I’ll stand by YOU, Creekers.

Thankfully Back

Guess who's back... back again... (you're welcome for the earworm). I took an impromptu hiatus for a few weeks because I was feeling so stale you could have used me for stuffing, but now I'm rejuvenated and writing again. I hope that those of you here in the US had a fantastic Thanksgiving! Mine was... eventful, beginning with a 5k for which I was completely underfueled, progressing to a gig as Chief Spectator and Keg Girl for A's family's annual touch football game and culminating in a mad dash to the bathroom, mid-feast, due to a wily stomach virus courtesy of the two rugrats we babysit for.

A happy Thanksgiving, indeed.

Though it was (thankfully) only a 24-hour bug and I was recovered enough to eat my weight in beef wellington and 16-year old wine at the MIL's 50th birthday party on Saturday night, I'm still in a lot of physical pain as a result of my bout with The Demon. Perhaps it has something to do with the 22.5 hours I spent in bed between 3pm Thursday and 3pm Friday (half hour in the car to get home, 2 hours on the couch the next day), but for the past four days, my back has been absolutely throbbing.

I wish that I could blame it entirely upon the whole bed rest thing, but in reality, that's only half the story. The kink in my neck? Sure, that was from only moving my upper body enough to hit rewind on the DVD remote over and over again (I'll get back to that) while spooning wonton soup broth into my mouth. And it was easily solved with some ibuprofen, a couple hot showers and some active stretching on Sunday. The lower back/hip/glute pain, on the other hand, is a far more sinister presence with a few harder-to-fix roots.

It all started when I was 18 and kind of a bitch. On a frigid New England Sunday, not long after New Years 2003, I was sitting in my living room with my dad and stepmom drinking hot chocolate. I was a senior in high school, coasting into that last semester when the college applications are out, Early Decision results are in, and you're hedging your bets that you're going to get into the school of your dreams even though you got deferred as a legacy (damn you, BC). Per usual at the time, what started out as a nice little chat about the holidays and my life rapidly devolved into a screaming match of epic proportions. As my stepmother and I took turns screeching about my plan to finance my private secondary education through loans and black market sale of vital organs, my poor father just sat there with a vaguely dazed look on his face and the occasional, "HEY!" thrown in for good measure.

After hurling my final insult (something revolutionary and poetic, probably along the lines of, "I HATE YOU, WHY ARE YOU RUINING MY LIFE!?"), I proceeded with my next demonstration of maturity: grabbing my coat and storming out of the house in a fit of hormonal rage. Clad in my new couture Payless ankle boots and black leather jacket I'd saved months to purchase, stomping through the door without a thought to the artic temperature and fact that it had raining, it was an exit that would have made James Dean proud.

I think you know where this is going.

Those first 30 seconds were some of the longest of my life. As I lay prostrate on the front steps of my father's house, the icy slabs of cement nestled cozily against the soft tissues of my lumbar spine and neck, I had one of those moments that people experience right after they receive word of some life-altering event. I'd like to say it was some kind of divine enlightenment, complete with insight into the future and a desire to mend my ways, but really, it was something a little less spiritual than that. In fact, I remember the message with distinct clarity: "I just paralyzed myself over a fucking harpie bitchsnit."     

In those initial moments after I slipped, I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't even cry; these huge sobs were wracking my upper body but there was no sound, not even the faintest squeak. My brain said, "move!" and nothing did. After what seemed like forever (probably a second), my fingers and toes complied and I thanked the good Lord that at least I wasn't paralyzed. I was still terrified, though, and didn't move a micrometer for fear that I would somehow do more damage than I'd already done. My brother, having seen my failed double axel through the foggy glass window of his bedroom, flew outside with my dad on his heels. Together, they managed to calm me down enough for me to slowly (oh, so slowly) push myself up. It was better than the very best Christmas present, leather jacket and acceptance letter combined. I could breathe; I could sit; I could move!

Obviously, I went on an intimate emergency date with my doctor as soon as possible following the slip. I know I can be somewhat overly dramatic, but in 100% honesty, I'm very lucky that I escaped my little teenage tirade not only with the occasional flare of lower back pain, but with my life. The official diagnosis was a bruised spinal column at both the base of my neck (from hitting the top step) and the base of my back (bottom step). Ever the bedside specialist, my doctor bluntly told me that if I had fallen a hair to the left or right, I would have probably snapped either my spine or, even more horrifying, my neck.

Thankfully, it didn't come to that. With the help of a good chiropractor, some strong muscle relaxants and a sweet little device composed of electrodes and wires that made me look like ET post-discovery, I came away from it without a ton of lasting damage. Every so often, usually once or twice a year, I'll inadvertently do something that causes little spiderwebs of pain to radiate out of my lower back, around through my hips and crawling down my legs. It's hard to treat with regular methods, because most of the time I don't know where exactly the pain is coming from. Ibuprofen, heating pads, hot showers and rest are typically the only relief I get during these little spells.

As annoying as it is, I know that I am very lucky. I am thankful both because mine was a minor injury with negligible repercussions and because I don't live in chronic pain, where so many others do due to one reason or another. It definitely gives me a greater appreciation for what those people go through each day, and in a weird way it's a good reminder that while I act like a paper cut is the end of the world, there are people out there who deal with constant aches and pains on a daily basis. It's an interesting perspective that I think a lot of us don't stop to think about very often. Not to say that we don't hurt sometimes -- just that it's always nice to keep in mind that others do, too.

************************
Well, true to form, I started writing this post on Monday. It is now Thursday, and I'm happy to say that thanks to my friends IcyHot, Advil and Memory Foam, my back feels as good as it ever has. I even managed to go for another run on Tuesday, and it was honestly the best run I've had in months. Part of it, I think, was telling myself during the hard parts that it didn't hurt as badly as my back had, and also being thankful that I have the ability to run at all.

So yeah, that's my Thanksgiving post. A week late. Oh well. I hope you all had a great Thanksgiving and are now happily ensconced amongst the throngs of overly-caffeinated holiday shoppers out there clogging all centers of commerce. Deck them halls! ;)

Also, can we just talk about the Chuck/Blair scene from the Gossip Girl Season 4 finale for a second? I know I'm like an entire half season behind and all, but for the love of Bendel's, I couldn't decide if I should cry, scream or swoon. As much as I hate the stupid combo name, Team Bluck has my heart forever and always.

The end.

Tips For Holiday Shopping: Part the First

First off, I want to wish each and every single one of the brave men and women who have and who continue to fight for our freedom here in the US a Happy Veteran's Day --- thank you so much for all that you do. My grandfather, an 88-year old World War II vet, is one of the most determined, inspiring and wise men I have ever known, and to him, I wish a particularly Happy Veteran's Day and heartfelt thank you for all that he has given to his country. We love you!

....There is no appropriate segue into the next topic, so on that note, let's just dive in.

So, as I was showering the other day and singing "Dominick the Donkey" (long story short: a homeless man had serenaded the entire green line train with it the night before... and now that you've remembered it exists, YOU try getting it out of your head), I realized that the holiday season is, crazily, almost upon us. The upsetting part here isn't that we are barely ten days into November and I am already pontificating on the true meaning of Christmas (and all other holiday seasons), but that this season inevitably brings about a minor panic attack, triggered entirely by my memories of holiday shopping hell.

You see, I worked in a major national department store from the age of 16 until I was 20. As anyone who has ever worked in retail can tell you, those four years basically qualified me for "Lifer" status -- a true honor, I assure you. I met some of my best friends and made some of my best memories at that job. In fact, I even chose it as the inspiration for my final work for my Creative Fiction class in college, aptly titled Retail Therapy. While serving my time as a credit-application shilling underling, I worked in every department but mens' suits, window dressing and catalog, including, but not limited to: shoes, stock, visual, lingerie, women's, kid's, petites, juniors, fine jewelry, fragrance, accessories and dresses. Fun fact about your author: I am qualified to fit you for both shoes and jewelry, and am also a certified bra fit specialist.

I know what you're thinking, and yes, I am a real blast at parties.

Aside from giving me the opportunity to hone these talents, my stint in retail taught me a lot about people in general. I know the prevailing thought is that nothing can teach you more about people than food service, but given my experience, I'd venture a guess that retail is a very close second... particularly around the holidays. Which is why I have taken it upon myself to offer up some tips for the upcoming holiday shopping season, from the perspective of a former retail slave employee:

- Don't bitch to the dude at the register about the Christmas music that started playing the day after Halloween. I'd be willing to wager any amount of money that the employees hate it even MORE than you do. Look, you're in the store for what, an hour, tops? Those poor saps are stuck there between four and a half and nine hours at a time, making $7/hr. Know how long that soundtrack lasts? Two hours. It's six years later and I can still sing "Frosty, the Snowman" in four different styles, including calypso. Don't even get me started on "Santa Baby." And remember: it's not Christmas music. It's Winter Holiday Sounds. 

- Trust me, I get as annoyed as you do when an item rings up at a higher price than the sign said it should, but that does not give you a license to take it out on the clerk. As a consumer, this is one of the most frustrating aspects of shopping. You get all excited over a seemingly too-good-to-be-true purchase, get to the register, and BAM! The item rings up at twice the price you expected. Quel horreur! Just remember: it isn't the sixteen year old behind the register's fault; the store has an entire stock/pricing/visual team in charge of these things. Homegirl is just trying to scrape enough pennies together to afford a really fancy date with her boyfriend. At Chili's.

- Don't assume that the creepy man selling you your shoes has a secret life as a pervert. He might just be really socially awkward, and his colleagues might be in the midst of a plot to set him up with the crotchedy old cat lady from the lingerie department (true story).

- Also, don't assume that the person behind that counter is any less intelligent and/or accomplished than you are. There is this pervasive mentality from before the dot-com bust that retail = college dropouts/teenagers/lower middle-upper lower class. In the event that you haven't read Bitter is the New Black, by my idol, Jen Lancaster (in which case, why are we even friends?), let me enlighten you: Times are tough. A lot of people lost everything when the market crashed and are now doing anything to try to make ends meet. Aside from the facts that it's the holiday season AND there is never a reason to treat anyone like shit, keep in mind that your condescending 'tude could be directed at the former head of a company who is one step away from climbing back to the top... where he could become your boss. Plus, it's just rude.

- Parents, don't threaten your kids with, "the lady is going to get mad at you" unless you want me to tell your kid he just won a free supply of  chocolate bars, then hand him a bag full of the sugary goodness left over from a previous Willy Wonka-style sale. This used to drive. me. NUTS. While adorable little Johnny is spitting in little sister Susie's face, causing her shrieks and snarls to echo throughout the cavernous walls of the store, please don't tell them to behave, "or the lady will yell at you." This rule is multiplied by infinity when it comes to you asking me to "tell him! If he doesn't behave, you're going to send all of his clothes right back to those racks!". I don't have kids for a reason, and I sure as hell am not going to discipline yours. Parent already.

There are plenty more, which I am working on compiling into a second post, but those are five of the more valuable nuggets of wisdom that I have to bestow upon my fellow holiday shoppers. I urge you to keep them in mind over the next seven weeks or so, and to remember to treat others as you would want to be treated. Which is why I am now going to leave you with a little something that someone recently left me.



Hee-haw! Hee-haw!

As Long As They Ask

You know, this whole half marathon experience has definitely been humbling. I'm not the type of person who likes to admit that I'm not good at something, or that I don't know what I'm doing. In school, I tended to focus on the things I was actually good at (textual analysis, communication, music, parsing arguments, biological sciences etc.) and did just enough to get by in the areas where I was weak (physical sciences, sports, economics, math of all kinds). Gym class was my worst nightmare come true -- I didn't lose  weight (the first time) until my junior year, so those fall semesters that I was forced to engage in physical activity with my peers were spent being picked last for team sports and taking the elective classes that would minimize my wiggly bits. I'd like to thank Walking for Fitness and Line Dancing for saving both my humility and my classmates' eyes.

Thinking back, even with all the bitching, backstabbing and bullying that accompanied those years (and I don't mean of the, "OoooMG, you guyz, sum biddy totes called mah purple ankle jeanz ugly, yo" variety), one of the worst memories I have is of running The Mile (it warrants capitalization).

[Source]

Apparently, most high schools only make you do it once a semester during the Presidential Fitness Thingie, but not mine. No, we had to run the mile EVERY. SINGLE. FRIDAY. for half of the semester, and if we didn't cut our time by a certain goal, we got a zero for the day. I only took gym the fall semester of my freshman and sophomore years, so as I wheezed my way around a park three and a quarter times, I was on the heftier side. Twice, I didn't even finish; I collapsed on the ground next to Coach Beiste and cried about my blood-soaked socks. At the time, I was unaware that Keds are not really the best sneakers for running (or, you know, for a millenial high schooler to be wearing, period. But we'll get into my total social ineptitude and utter fashion misfortune some other time).

To make matters even worse, I happened to have a gym class full of those harpies from hell, the "athletic" girls. Sure, they weren't as morally corrupt as the other bastions of high school hierarchy, the cheerleaders; they were a hundred times worse. These girls were smart. They were skinny and gorgeous. Perhaps worst of all, they were NICE. "C'mon, you can do it!!!" they'd chant, clapping and throwing out encouragement as I puffed along the sidewalk a solid ten minutes after they'd finished their final lap. And then, when I was finally done, they'd make these ridiculous saccharine statements about how, "when I first started running, it took me twenty minutes to run a mile, too!".

Bitch, please. It's not quite the same when you're seven.

I've been called a lot of mean things in my life, but few of them ever made me feel more embarrassed than feeling like some kind of charity mission for those more athletically gifted than I. Sure, I knew they meant well, but in the end all that their "you go, girl!"s did was make me even more aware of the fact that OTHER people were aware of my struggles. While I appreciated the sentiment, I really wished they would've just let me run my tortoisely slow mile in peace, sans comment. Or maybe actually invited me to their parties, rather than just commenting on my weaknesses, then completely ignoring my existence when I saw them in my own element.

In my element a few years later.

I really haven't changed much. When I go to the gym, I still don't like when people watch me or make it a point to say they've noticed whatever I'm doing. If they want to strike up a conversation about something else, that's totally fine; I'm more likely to cultivate a friendship or feel comfortable in a new class if they start out by cracking a joke about the decrepit state of the spin bikes or the spastic Zumba instructor rather than making some asinine comment like, "oh wow, you must be new at this!". I also try to keep this in mind before I open my mouth to dispense my own workout encouragement and advice.

Because while it might take me 2.5 hours to run 9 miles, I can shake my ass like Shakira. A secret which I am happy to share with anyone.

As long as they ask.

The Fun House Effect

I've always been the kind of girl who always felt a bit left out. In elementary school, I was the smart kid who had friends -- until I figured out that all they actually wanted to do was copy my homework. In junior high, there were the music kids but, as Mean Girls will show you, cliques exist even in the very depths of the popularity Inferno.

High school was better; I managed to run with a variety of crowds (we ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud. Sorry, couldn't resist!), most of whom I still maintain as casual Facebook acquaintances. I was kind of a bitch,  but we'll get into that some other time. College was more of the same friendships, in that I won some, I lost some, hell, I even bought some, but suffice to say that I was never "that girl", the one for whom the crowd waits to get their parties started.

So you can see why I've become slightly insecure, now that I've noticed a trend among some of my friends.

Apparently, there was a close-out sale on Fun House mirrors, and someone forgot to invite me. 

[Source]

For weeks now, ever since the sun started to peek out from behind the clouds and shorts and bikinis became the weekend wardrobe of choice, I've been hearing it all over the place. "My legs look fat!"; "My nose has a weird bump!"; "Shamu had less blubber around his midsection!"; "My hips are too thin!"; "I look like a little boy!" (Sidenote: I hate how common an assumption it is in this little blog niche we have here that everyone's body issues stem from the same perceived "flaws." There are plenty of people out there with concerns that they are too thin, too short, too tall, not womanly enough, et al., so shut up and stop assuming that everyone and their mother thinks their thighs look like cottage cheese already).

It's funny. My friends apparently look at themselves in the mirror and see circus freaks; I look at them and see smart, beautiful, hilarious individuals. Some of them have hair I would kill for, others have mile splits that I'm pretty sure would leave my poor little lungs curled up in the dirt resembling the fetal version of Voldemort. A few of them who have cared to share their writing have completely blown me away with their words. The sheer talent that flows through so many of my friends' veins, whatever the arena, is something that I often find myself stopping to think about, and counting myself lucky to have them in my life.

You know what I almost never think about?

Their size.

I say "almost never" because basically, the only thing that makes me say, "HEY! So-and-so is a size X!" is because I'm secretly planning to plow through her closets like a preteen boy on a panty raid.

"What do you mean, this is your shirt?!"

If you were to go through my dresser, closet, undergarment tower and/or workout/goingout/pajama bin, you would find clothes that range from a small to an extra large. You'd find a size 18 business suit from Macy's that I wore to my first "grown up" job interviews and enough "suits of armor" (aka spanxx) to get the Klumps on the cover of Shape magazine. Loads of tshirts in every color, cut and size imaginable litter my hamper and those rolly-things that go under the bed. There are jeans in every size from 10-16, with one pair of 12s that I can't wear for fear of running the risk of plumber butt, and another in the SAME SIZE that I can't even yank up past my thighs. Somewhere, in the very depths of a box that's probably hidden in my living room closet, there is a pair of shorts in a size 7 from the summer I left for college, 130lbs and too thin for my frame. 

Maybe I should just lay off this whole writing thing and consider making my claim to fame via Hoarders.

I'm definitely not a saint myself when it comes to the whole "fat day/skinny day" phenomenon, but I have noticed one thing in the past year or two: while I still suffer from negative self-talk, that second little voice in my head has, bit by bit, begun to grow bolder. When I think, "jeez, I weigh the same thing I did when I was a size X, but these feel WAY tighter on my thighs!", there's another voice that overrides that one, saying, "yeah yeah yeah, but you were totally lazy at the time and never moved; you've been running and spinning and ok, so maybe there is still some extra fluff in the lower region, but your endurance at the track and resistance on the bike don't lie." It's a slow process, but it's happening.

Like a briiiiiidge overrr troubled, watterrrssss....

At the Blake Shelton/Brad Paisley concert last weekend, I'd be lying if I said that I didn't, at one point, look around at all the uber-tan, straight-haired, belly-baring ladies in cowboy boots and daisy dukes and think, "I don't belong here." But then one of those "perfect" chicks next to me ended up engaged in a bitchfight with a posse of 15 year-olds, the "what? what?" hand snap in the face and accent straight out of The Fighter included.

Then I realized that, while I might have been comparing my pasty white calves to her golden gams and wondering why I couldn't be "perfect" mere moments before, Girlfran had her own set of issues to deal with. One does not feel the need to "step up" to a group of little girls nine years her junior if she's secure with who she is.

I felt a lot better about things once I took that in to account. It reminded me how grateful I am for what I've got, both inside AND outside, and how proud I was to have made a distinction that a year ago, when I was 20lbs lighter, was so far outside the realm of reality for me that I probably would have said, "I'd rather be a size 2 and trashy than a size 14 with friends." It's crazy what a year, some therapy and a bit of perspective can do.

Anyway, not to get all Operation Beautiful on you or anything, but seriously, ladies (and gents, if you're reading): stop getting all down on yourselves because of the number inside your pants. Chances are, your friends and acquaintances don't care about whether you're a size 2, a size 12 or a size 20.

Unless, of course, they happen to be the same size, in which case, they probably just want to steal your pants.

Friday Confessional: I Go Back to Being F**ing Perfect

Wow, it's been awhile since my last "I Go Back..." post. I originally started writing this as a memory-related post, but as I wrote, it took on a tone of a Friday Confessional, so I decided that this week, I would change the format up a little bit and combine the two.

So, this week, I do hereby solemly confess:

If I'm being 100% honest, the reason there haven't been any "I Go Back" posts lately is because I've been way too guarded lately to let anything -- even music -- really get to me, because I was afraid that if it did, I would simply fall apart.

That simple.

Fall.

Apart.

Shattered, like the wine glasses that inevitably slip from my fingers as I wash dishes.

And then, I was driving home from dropping Andrew off at work about a week or two ago (we're a one-car family at the moment... they don't tell you this, but it ain't easy bein' green!). I don't even know what I was thinking about. Maybe I was worried about the rain clouds glowering at me as I crested each hill of Rt. 9, thinking about how amazing it must feel to have a similar view at the halfway point of the Boston Marathon, and how I've really been slacking on my running lately.

Perhaps I was going over my ever-growing "Weekend To-Do Wish List", thinking that there was no way I would ever accomplish everything I wanted to get done, and beating myself up for wanting to get home, do Ripped in 30, go for a run, shower, get dressed, run to Target, get my nails done, take a GRE practice test, make a nice, healthy lunch, read some of my book, clean the bathroom and finally tackle the (I can't believe I'm about to type this, because it's seriously f--ing disgusting) two months' worth of laundry that is currently hiding in my walk-in closet.

All before 7pm.

It might have been the feeling of time slipping away, as I creep closer to 30 and now knowing what I want to do, both professionally and on the side, but not yet finding the motivation to actually go out there and do it.  That feeling of treading water, of not being present or in control of my career, my weight, my relationships, my family, my life.

I suppose I could have been agonizing over the impending reunion with my own mother, with whom I haven't had the best relationship this past decade, and who I've actually only seen 4 (yes, 4) times in the past 7 years, for a maximum of 4 days at a time each visit.

Maybe it was all of it.

Maybe it was none of it.

Who knows.

I sure as hell don't.

All I know is that as I hit the Shaw's on Rt. 9 in Brookline, P!nk's "F--ing Perfect" came on the radio and I found myself in a super market parking lot, sobbing in the manner that gives you a tension headache and basset-hound eyes for days afterward. You know what I'm talking about.

The ugly cry.

And what was worse, I just. couldn't. stop.

In high school, my friend TBB#1 and I used to drive around in her car (was it a Subaru? God, I'm old), code-naming crushes, devouring pints of Ben&Jerry's with wooden, tongue depressor-style sticks and washing them down with Snapple, and belting our lungs out to P!nk. No, it wasn't cool, even back then.

But, much like Matchbox 20, I connected with the lyrics of her songs in a way that made them applicable to my life. They spoke to me and said, "it's ok that your family is nuts". "It's ok that you aren't willing to give it up for free just to get a boyfriend." "It's totally ok that you have no idea who you are yet, and that you're scared that you might be someone different than you think you are."

That sentence makes no sense, I know.

But neither does life, really.

It's 10 years later, and I'm still scared of being someone different than I think I am, especially since every time I start to think I might have figured it out, I go and change on myself. It's like Jekyll and Hyde; I'm Caitie and Caitlin. But even Hyde had some value, because without his darkness, we never would have come to know Jekyll's light. Without the deep, questioning voice of Caitlin, I wouldn't appreciate the lilting laughter of Caitie half as much. They're I'm the same, but different. Two sides of the same coin, both equally valuable in worth. 

And I find myself asking, "Is this normal, or is this schizophrenia?" Because, you know, WebMD is the best thing ever invented for over-thinking hypochondriacs.

As I wrestled with... well, with whatever "it" was -- that phantom ache in my heart that would start to bubble up, only to have me shove it as far back as I possibly could -- there was something in these words:

You're so mean when you talk about yourself; you were wrong.

Change the voices in your head; make them like you instead.

So complicated, look happy, you'll make it

Filled with so much hatred, such a tired game.

It's enough; I've done all I can think of,

Chased down all my demons, I've seen you do the same

that didn't just break the dam -- they released the entire f--ing ocean of emotion.

Over the past few years of my life, I've been creeping, ever-so-slowly, towards self-acceptance, but it's never as easy as they make it sound in chick lit novels or in the 90-minutes of a RomCom. There are too many facets of any single person to be everything, to everyone, or even to themselves. But I'm trying. And I think from now on, there will be a note stuck on my bathroom mirror that simply states the following:

"You're F--ing Perfect to Me"

So thanks, P!nk, for not only getting me through high school, but for reminding me that I don't have to know exactly who I am yet. More importantly, thank you for writing songs that manage to speak to me, saying the exact right thing at the exact right time. That's pretty f--in' perfect if you ask me.

Plus, those Boston stereotypes aren't entirely made up --- I try not to curse a lot on the blog, but IRL I swear like a sailor and truly love me a well-placed F-bomb! Also, you know I slightly teared up when Kirstie came out with it queued up on the finale of DWTS. I couldn't help it!

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

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

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

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

B ≠ B. 

B = A.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh NO he DI'INT!

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

MORTIFYING.

But not as mortifying as this. #Noshame

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

Until now.

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

He's A!

Princess loves her "Uncle 'Roo!"

As in Andrew!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Wish the Real World...

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

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

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

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

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Holy. Yum.


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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awkward.

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

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

And then they dated.

Cue "Leave".

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

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

And I owe it all to Rob Thomas.

Swoon.

Truly, Madly, Deeply Dooo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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Swoon.