Operation Pink Herring

I also heard the concierge tell someone where to pahk their cah.

I'm a little bit ashamed.  When I asked for suggestions of fun things to do in Boston, I was not really expecting you guys to give me great suggestions.  Because, you see, if someone were to ask me for suggestions of fun things to do in Baltimore, I would say something like, "You should not go to the Inner Harbor, it is full of tourists.  But I guess it's nice, if you're a tourist, so maybe you should go there after all.  If you do, you should go to the Chipotle for lunch, but don't go at any time that could be considered a reasonable hour to eat lunch, because it will be packed full of people and you'll have to wait an hour to get your food and by that time you'll probably be so hungry that you'll blurt out that you want a chicken burrito when your turn FINALLY comes, even though you actually wanted the steak burrito with guacamole, and then you'll spend the rest of the afternoon wondering why you always freak out under pressure.  So maybe you should go to Panera Bread across the street instead."

I thank you all for your lovely and thoughtful suggestions.  Duck Tours are lots of fun (Oh, I've been on them before.  You are not alone in your geekdom), and all those restaurants sound so lovely that I almost want to hop on a plane right now and go to every single one of those cafes, except I don't know where Beacon Hill or Newbury are, I was staying in the "Financial District" and I'm not even sure where that is.  Maps, what are those?   What can I say, other than "I suck."  I feel unworthy.

Sometimes I forget that business trips aren't just a free plane ticket and hotel room; I'm actually expected to go to meetings and do work, and often that leaves precious little time for doing any of the fun things suggested by your savvy readers.   It's sort of tragic, but not to worry!  I did manage to go to one place, thanks to my wonderful boyfriend who knows me well enough to send turn-by-turn directions when he emails me a place to go.  And I didn't totally miss out on the Boston experience.  No, siree!   I had a delicious lobster salad for dinner on Wednesday night.  Fine, the lobster was actually from Maine, but close enough.  And after my meetings concluded on Thursday, I did some shopping before leaving for the airport and I picked up some delightful things in a quaint little New England boutique.  Maybe those of you from the area have heard of it?  It's called the Ann Taylor Loft.  I hear they only have them in Boston, so it sure is a good thing I snatched up this dress, because I never could have found anything like it in Maryland. 

I'm off to New Jersey for the weekend, leaving Joel home alone with the cats for a Boys Weekend.  Have a great weekend, Internet people!

Hotel Room Dispatch with Excessive Use of the Word "Awesome"

My flight this afternoon was on one of those awesome 50-person puddle jumpers.  And by "awesome", you know I mean "puketastic", right?   Everyone with a briefcase-sized or larger suitcase dutifully gate-checked their bags and boarded the plane, Air Force One style. 

There must have been something in the air today, or maybe the sweat through your clothes weather just had everyone on edge, but the passengers on this flight were CRANKY with a capital "bitch".  First, the woman next to me freaked out about some condensation on the air vents inside the plane.  Even after the flight attendant assured her that it was completely normal and everything was fine, she still felt compelled make a stink about it, and then elbow me the entire flight whilst huffily typing Very Important Things on Her Very Important Laptop.  Awesome.

Another passenger became extremely agitated when he learned that there would be no pretzels available to him on this 90-minute journey.  Dude, we had a choice of cheesy cracker sandwich things OR the trademarked Delta biscotti crackers.  That's like a choice between an hour-long foot massage and $100 gift certificate to Ann Taylor Loft.  You just can't go wrong. Forget the damn pretzels and get over yourself.

But Pretzel Lover didn't even come close to the rage exhibited by the guy I saw approach one of the construction workers inside the airport.   "Delta Service Counter", he said to a construction worker in the temporary walkway we were ushered through to get to the main terminal.   First of all, I love it when people who are pissed off can't even be bothered to form their words into a question.  "Where is the Delta Service Counter" would have been far too much trouble for his angry lips to utter.  The construction worker, who was clearly NOT an airline employee (and also clearly did not speak much English), did not know where the Delta Service Counter was, shockingly, but in an effort to be helpful, he asked the man what was wrong. 

"I want to complain about this service!  This is unbelievable!  They just leave your bags lying out on the runway!  They just throw them on the ground!  Anyone could take my bag!"

The precious bag in question?  Pink. Paisley. Garment. Bag.

Awesome.  And even more awesome was the fact that he made such a big deal about the mistreatment of his pink paisley bag that everyone in Logan Airport took notice of his fashion statement.

Boston Tea Party, anyone?

I have a crapload* of travel coming up this fall. Some work-related, some just for fun, and some combinations of the two. The result?  There is a high probability that I will not work a 5-day week (in the office, that is) until after Thanksgiving. Awesome. I’ll also rack up quite a few frequent flyer miles. And come December, I’ll probably have to lock myself in the house for a full weekend just to recuperate.

Trip 1: Boston.  (Um, TOMORROW)

The Good: Since my flight departs in the early evening tomorrow, I’ll have the morning free to run errands, go to yoga, and pack for the trip.  I am a very efficient last-minute packer… unless “the last minute” is during the morning hours.   Then I’m guaranteed to forget my toothbrush, my laptop charger, my cell phone, or something of similar importance.  Once, I forgot to pack a bra.  That was a good time. (Oh, stop looking at me like that.  No one in their right mind wears a bra on an early morning plane ride.)

Even Better: I’ll be working on my laptop in Boston on Thursday, which means I’ll either be in Starbucks (or similar establishment with free wifi) or in my hotel room catching up on Days of Our Lives and Passions while I work.  If I could work like that every day, I’d be a much happier person in general.  I actually get a ton of work done, too.  Chalk it up to the power of a positive attitude... or the power of room service.  Whatever.

The Bad:  I won’t be getting home until late Thursday night.

The Ugly: Even though I’ll have plenty of comp time, I’ll be coming in to the office on Friday.  And Casual Friday is officially in hibernation for the winter.  (Wah!).

So… does anyone have suggestions for anything fun to do in Boston? Anything that’s going on, uh, tomorrow? 

*(Side note: I’m typing this in Word today, instead of directly into Typepad, and when the little Red Squigglies of Improper Spelling showed up under “crapload”, I actually went back and re-typed it.  The squigglies showed up again and I was stumped for a few seconds.  Hmmm… l-o-a-d, that’s right… OH.  “Crapload” isn’t actually a word.  RIGHT.)

Becoming a girly girl, one blister at a time

Last week I came to a realization: I need some more shoes.   

I think this makes me a strange person.  Women my age are supposed to be all, "OMG I am totally not allowed to buy anymore shoes, I have three hundred pairs already but I saw these cute little slingbacks and and I just HAD to have them so OOPS I bought another pair of shoes!"  Right?  I mean, that's what it was like on Sex and the City, and everyone knows that Carrie Bradshaw was a completely realistic and accurate portrayal of the modern woman.

I think my problem is just that I'm lazy.  It takes enough effort to throw a presentable outfit together in the morning; an outfit that hopefully includes clean pants and a shirt in the same color scheme and if I'm feeling really crazy, maybe even a belt.  Shoes?  No time to worry about those, gotta run out the door.  I have a black pair and a brown pair that live under my desk at my office.  I wear sneakers in to work, rocking what I like to call the Waitress Look, because it's a mile-long walk - uphill - and I just cannot do that in fancy shoes.  Plus, I need my running shoes for going to the gym after work and those bitches are bulky.  I don't feel like carrying them.  It just makes more sense to wear them on my feet, and if I lose a few fashion points... so be it. 

And if I "forget" to change out of my sneakers once I get to work and end up wearing them all day?  WHOOPS.  My bad.

But no more!  Operation Cute Shoes began this weekend.  It is a three-pronged assault.

1. Buy new shoes
2. Get rid of old shoes that I never wear to make space in our teeeensy little closet for new shoes.
3. WEAR NEW SHOES (as opposed to letting them sit in the closet, withering away in loneliness) 

Number one was accomplished on Saturday with a trip to Filene's Basement.  I got not one, not two, but three new pairs of shoes!  GO ME!

And number three was accomplished this morning when I actually remembered to pack my new pair of patent leather red flats in my tote bag and THEN actually put them on once I got to work.   I now have a massive blister on my left heel, but damnit, THEY ARE WORTH IT.

Unfortunately, this little Operation had a tragic casualty: my monthly budget.  Shoes like that call out for a cute outfit.  And so after our trip to Filene's (where I also somehow spent $100 on new bras), we trekked on over to Ann Taylor, where I took home three pairs of pants and two shirts and a credit card with a hole burnt through it.   So tell me, how do you like my new Business Pants?  I hope you think they're as cute as I do, because I bought them in capri length and full length.  May the Lord in Heaven bless Ann Taylor forever and ever amen for making petite sizes that ACTUALLY FIT PETITE PEOPLE.   Petite people who are not rail thin and have hips and are freakishly short, not like some other stores I know, AHEM JCREW.  AND GAP.   YOU ARE DEAD TO ME.

So, that was my weekend.  I also dropped off my car for some service and I might possibly have to consider returning everything I bought on Saturday if the repairs to my trusty chariot end up being expensive.  But we're not thinking about that right now, because the blister on my left heel is precluding me from thinking about anything but how badly I want to put my sneakers on right now.

Part 2: Max is watching you

Being able to run again was bizarre.  I’d gone through the five stages of mourning my life as a runner, and I’d accepted that it just wasn’t a part of who I was anymore. I was OK with it.  I had come to see that the mentality that had been drilled into my head during college training (you MUST run every day or the world WILL fall apart) wasn’t necessarily healthy. I enjoyed the extra free time that not having to run every day gave me.   People don’t think of time when they think of running, but let me tell you – a Sunday long run takes up the whole day. You have to psych yourself up for it, plan your meals around it, actually run for an hour or more, and then stretch, shower, and lie on the floor for at least an hour to recover. And then you have to EAT.  Next thing you know it’s time for bed. Honestly, I didn’t want to get back into the grind of guilt, constantly thinking about when am I going to run today. But I did want to get some semblance of exercise back in my life, and the only real exercise that I five minutes is running.

I started out in small doses on a treadmill, as recommended by my (very) personal medical professional.  I joined the gym, and immediately became addicted to the cable television and Gilmore Girls reruns from 5-6pm.  As it turns out, running on a treadmill is not bad, as long as you have cable TV at your disposal.  Not bad at all!  In fact, it’s wonderful.  There is no guilt over watching crappy TV, because I’m exercising, dammit. 

But with the recent influx of students at the gym, space has become a real issue.  I do not enjoy fighting with people for my 30 minute maximum time on a machine.  Plus, the almost-fall weather is beckoning me to just do something outside after being locked in my office all day.  Fall is tied with summer for the prized position of being my Favorite Season, and that’s only because fall leads to winter and I hate winter.   If fall led directly into spring, it would be miles ahead of summer and its sweaty, three-showers-a-day humidity. I resolved to run outside more.

And it felt good. It felt GREAT.

I’m not giving up the gym, because hey – I paid good money for that stupid membership and there was a 6 month minimum and with God as my witness, I will get my money’s worth, even if it has to be 30 minutes at a time.  But there is something spiritual about running outside, about seeing actual people and the world around you that not even Gilmore Girls reruns can live up to.

(Except for maybe the episode where Jess and Dean fight. That episode is awesome).

I came home after a particularly brutal day last week in desperate need of blowing off steam. I should have gone to the gym, but I just couldn’t deal with it. Instead, I put on my running shoes and went out for a sunset run, and it was better therapy than the half bottle of wine I drank after I got home and showered.

God, I missed running. Real, simple, outside running.  Where you can see the sun actually setting, people walking their dogs. Homeless people playing cards by the harbor. I was so inspired by the sights and sounds (not the smells, because... fishy.) of this place that I live, that I take for granted and bitch about on a daily basis, that I took the camera with me on my next run.

(Yeah, I went running with our not-iPod in one hand and a camera in another.  What of it?)

Sunset over the harbor, city skyline in the background.

Sailboat race. (Regatta!)

BIG BOAT. (Ship?) Ladies and gents, that is a WAREHOUSE next to the front of it (bow? stern?)

Speaking of BIG, is this not the biggest car in the history of cars? It was kind of scary. My head came up to the sideview mirror. (So a normal person's head would have been about a foot above that.)

Some boats sitting quietly, city skyline in the background post-sunset. 

Happy Friday, internet.  It's been a long week, so kick your feet up and enjoy the sunset.

Max orders you to.

And he's watching you.

Post 1 of 2 in which I wax poetic about... running.

Lately, I have been making an effort to go running outside more often.  It’s been going well, since it’s easy to do something more often than never.  Hey, I like to set achievable goals.

Back when I was a “real” runner, I firmly believed that running outside was the only way to run.  It was the way the gods of running intended things to be.  I ran on a treadmill once in a blue moon, if the weather was really bad and if I had access (ie, when I snuck into the YMCA using my friend’s ID card over winter breaks from college) (sneaking into gyms is nothing new here, my friends).  Every time, the experience was awful.  I felt like a hamster on a wheel, the run felt harder than it was, and I couldn’t stop staring at the seconds ticking by ever….so….slow….ly.  Or even worse, watching the little blip make its way around the agonizingly tiny circle. 

And then… I got hurt.  The getting hurt is a long, long story, but to sum it up: I somehow busted myself up real good.  No one is sure how, but the reigning theory of the day is that I broke my coccyx when I gracefully fell on my ass while drunk one night while I was studying abroad in Spain.  Of course, like any good runner, I just rain through it, figuring I’d get myself checked out by the trainers when I returned to school, do a few sessions in the cold whirlpool and be good as new in time for the Spring track season. I tried just about everything that semester, from tri-daily sessions in the cold whirlpool (my own personal version of hell, sitting submerged waist deep in an ice-filled tub for 20 minutes at a time), to ultrasound massage, stim (I don’t even know what “stim” technically is, but it feels like pins and needles and involves some sort of electric stimulation of your muscles – it’s very strange), acupuncture, physical therapy, all kinds of stretches and exercises, and finally cortisone injections.  In my butt.  NOT COOL.  I ended the season by dropping out of my last race in tears, spending the rest of the day with a bag of ice strapped to my ass.

Over the next five years, I went to at least 20 doctors in every specialty from chiropractic to orthopedics, with a slew of sports medicine docs and a rheumatologist thrown in for good measure.  For a long time, I couldn’t exercise at all, and having to give up running altogether truly broke my heart.  Not only did I love it, but I was addicted to it.  I thought I’d go insane when my coach told me to take a day off after that last race.  A day turned into a week, then two weeks, then I conceded that I’d just miss the first preseason Cross Country race in the fall.  Pretty soon I realized I was going to be out for the whole season, but I still held out hope for Winter Track, and certainly thought I’d be back for Outdoor Track.  Of course, neither happened.   Eventually I just started to focus on not being in pain every day.  Even that didn’t happen.

I graduated from college, started working, moved in with Joel, and just generally accepted my new status as a non-runner.  I went for walks when I felt burning need to get out and do something.  Sometimes we went hiking.  I got dreadfully out of shape, but there was nothing I could really do about it.

Then, about two years ago, the pain went from “daily presence, but tolerable” to making it so that I couldn’t sleep at night.   I decided to go for another soul-crushing round of doctor visits.  They sent me to physical therapy again, and this time instead of stretching out my leg and then slapping some ice on my ass, the PTs actually made some progress.  They asked the right questions and came to the conclusion that my coccyx was bent out of shape, and fixed it.  We’re not going to go into how they fixed it, because that is between me, the PT specializing in women’s health, and God.  It wasn’t a magic cure, but it helped a hell of a lot.  And all of a sudden, I could run again, at least a little bit. 

To be continued... when my wrist stops cramping up.   

(FADE TO BLACK)

Now with video content!

Hey, guess what else happened this weekend.  We got a video camera! I took this video five seconds after pulling it out of the box, you know, just to make sure it worked. And it does! I sense that this is going to be a lot of fun. For me. Possibly boring for everyone who is not me.

And supposedly it is now working, NO THANKS TO VIMEO, YOU ARE NOW DEAD TO ME.  Except it's not working for me.  Is it working for you?  This is making me tired. 

Weekend recap, posted on a Monday! Imagine that.

This weekend was lovely.  I did a million errands, vacuumed the whole house, crossed things off my to-do list left and right.  When I woke up on Saturday morning to get to my 9am hair appointment, the air was crisp and cool and by god, it felt like fall.  It felt wonderful.

After my appointment, I picked up our new video camera at Fedex (more on that later), picked up my truffle brown shoes at David's Bridal, went to Walmart for an oil change, got reject by Walmart because my car has an oil leak (they were not swayed my my "I know it has an oil leak, what does that have to do with changing the oil?" logic), took my car to the MVA for its biannual emissions inspection, ignored the signs that said not to have your emissions inspected if your car is leaking oil BECAUSE YOU WILL FAIL, passed the emissions inspection while simultaneously leaking oil, and made it home in time for some lunch before we headed out to peruse the annual neighborhood flea market in the park. 

I am not kidding at all when I say that these are my favorite kinds of weekends.

Only one thing threatened to spoil my weekend of productivity: IKEA.  Evil, evil Ikea.   

I have some issues with Ikea, mostly relating to their penchant for selling me lovely items for my home at a reasonable price, making me fall in love with said items, and then immediately discontinuing them.  For instance, we bought some delightful magazine holders that saved my relationship with Joel.  Joel enjoys saving every back issue of each of the four magazines he subscribes to, just in case he might ever desire to go back and look something up in the May 2003 issue of Men's Journal.  I, on the other hand, become extremely agitated when things look messy.  It's a disease, it's a neurosis, it's whatever you want to call it.  Clutter makes me nervous.  We used to have a conversation daily that went something like this:

Me: Are you done reading this four-month old copy of Rowing News? 

Joel: No, I haven't finished reading it.

Me: Well, when are you going to read it?  It's four months old.

Joel: I don't know.

Me: I'm throwing it out.

Joel: No, I want to keep it.

Me: WHY?  YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO READ IT! OMG!

Then we went to Ikea and found these adorably sheik magazine holders that completely solved the problem.  Joel got to keep his magazines, I got to sort them by date and file them away.  The colorful spines actually look nice on our bookcase!  Joy to the world.  In fact, I loved them so much that I went back to buy more.

Can you guess what happens next?  Ikea stopped making them, of course!  The ones we bought were very similar to this:

Except the ones we got are a different sheen of black, and are designed to have the spines of the magazines facing out, while the new versions are designed to have the back of the file facing out.  Ugly cheap Ikea-fasteners are on the other side.

This probably sounds like the most insignificant gripe you've ever heard.   I'm sure I could buy the different sheen of black and have the fasteners facing out and no one would notice.  BUT I WOULD KNOW.   And it would drive me insane.

Many moons ago, Joel and I re-did our living room, complete with a new bookcase/entertainment system, the design of which we agonized over for weeks.  The final plan we devised to maximize storage space and minimize cost consisted of three bookcases, a TV stand, and two bridging shelves to tie it all together.  When we went to Ikea to buy all the supplies, the bridging shelves were out of stock, so we decided to come back for those another day.

We were so naive.   

When I wrote about this back in May, I was frustrated but hopeful.  I called Ikea faithfully every Friday to check if those damn shelves were back in stock, and every Friday they told me they were still out of stock, with no ship date listed, but don't worry!  They're not discontinued.  In fact, we have some in birch that you can pick up right now, if you'd like.  Then I'd explain that birch shelves don't help me because our entire system is dark brown, and they'd tell me to call back in a week or two.  Which I did.  For months. 

Finally, when the 2008 catalog came, there were new! shelving! options!  In dark brown!  In the exact length we needed!  Screw the old shelves, in with the new.  Even though the new shelves cost $50 each, while the ones we originally wanted were only $14.99.

So we got the shelves home.  We tried to hang them, and HOLY HELL they were heavy.  One of us had to stand underneath like Hercules, holding up the shelf (at the right height) (and level), while the other stood on a stool to try to screw it into the wall.

Guess what!  The shelves are actually an inch longer than the specs said they were.  No problem, Joel will just move one of the bookcases over an inch! 

Guess what!  The studs in the wall don't line up with the pre-drilled holes.  No problem, we'll (and by we, I mean Joel) drill new holes. 

Guess what! The screws that came with the shelves are not long enough.  No problem, we'll go to the Home Depot for new screws.

In the meantime, the shelves can just sit in the living room.  And serve as a cat condo.

I declared that come hell or high water, those shelves were getting attached to the walls this weekend.  There was much angst, much cursing of all things Swedish, and my arms are SORE.  But the bottom line is: Joel is my hero, the shelves are up, and WE WIN.  TAKE THAT, IKEA.

Sometimes TGIF just isnt' strong enough

This has been a particularly hellish week at the office, if only because of the quantity of things that need to be done RIGHTTHISVERYMINUTE.  There's no way to avoid these times, sometimes the stars just align to drop thirty-seven emails in your inbox, all with the dreaded little red envelope icon.   Red envelope icons that actually mean red envelope icon, not just red envelope icons from people who send ALL their emails out with red envelope icons because they think that everything they have to say is just that urgent.  God, I hate those people.  Doesn't everyone hate those people?

That's my excuse for not posting, for not reading, for not doing laundry, for being in a terrible mood all week.   Today my coworker asked me about a meeting I'd promised I'd attend for her tomorrow in New York, and I was completely befuddled.   "No, I went to New York last weekend," I told her when she asked if I was going to do anything fun in the city tomorrow, "This weekend I'm staying home and catching up on everything and it's going to be gr...", to which she responded with a shocked look, realizing that I had completely forgotten about her meeting.

It's not the end of the world, and I'm not going.  Hotel rooms have been canceled, the usual excuses about "scheduling conflicts" have been made, and everything is fine.  Except it's not.  I NEVER do this.  I stress over trips, I send myself reminders to check in for my flights and leave post-it notes on my dresser reminding me to bring home my good shoes from work.  I forget my lunch in the morning, I forget to look up the  number of the plumber that my friend asked me for, but I don't forget MEETINGS, for cripe's sake.  Now I'm frantically looking through my calendar, trying to figure out what else I might have mistakenly dropped off my mental to-do list.

I have a list a mile long of things I want to do this weekend, and as counterintuitive as it may sound, just looking at it is making me feel so much better already.  I am looking forward to getting my oil changed, picking up dry cleaning, getting my emissions test done, putting up the shelves that are sitting in our living room and cleaning the house, because this, this is not me.  I am a person who is on top of things, dammit, and that's the way I like it.

Weekend Recap, posted midweek. Leave me alone, it's been a rough couple of days.

This past weekend was a fun-filled extravaganza filled with bridal showers, bachelorette parties, drag queens, a whole lot of alcohol, kick-ass friends, freaky near-encounters with people from The Internet, and very little sleep.  My calendar says it's Wednesday, but my brain says DURRRRRR.

So, let's just pretend it's cool to post a weekend recap on a Wednesday, and while we're at it, let's also just pretend that I've been posting more often than twice a week.  Thanks, that would be great.

Anyway!  Weekend recap!  It was crazy, let me tell you.

On Friday night, my friend Jenny (there was a time when I decided to use fake names for all of my real life friends, but now I can't remember what all those names were, so... yeah) arrived at my house so that we could wake up in the pre-dawn hours on Saturday and drive to a SURPRISE bridal shower for our mutual friend's bridal shower.  In New Jersey.  I thought we should leave at 6am, but Jenny thought it would be fine to leave at 6:45 or later.  I reminded her that we would need to be stopping somewhere for breakfast and we should budget in some time for that, and she responded NOT TO WORRY, I brought granola bars.  I clarified that for me, breakfast means COFFEE and we would need to be stopping for my COFFEE.  The moral of the story is, we stopped for COFFEE and we still made it to NJ in time to stop at our friend's house to change out of our pajamas (PLEASE, as if we were going to drive 3.5 hours in the wee hours of the morning in our cute little dresses), and run my trusty flat iron that I've only used two other times through our hair.  We arrived at the shower, we stayed awake at the shower (thanks to more COFFEE) and then we headed into NYC to prepare for the real fun: the surprise bachelorette party.

This is my first time being a bridesmaid, and this was my first real bachelorette party (I have been to one other bachelorette party, technically, but since it involved going to crappy bars in PowerPlantLive! that even college sophomores are too cool for, I don't really think that counts).  There was a full agenda for the evening, and since we'd gotten up at 5:30am, we did the only sensible thing: started pounding back Mike's Hard Iced Teas while we decorated the hotel room with giant inflatable penises and pin-the-macho-on-the-man and waited for the Bride-to-Be to arrive.  Oh, and we changed into our matching tank tops, because everyone knows that it's not a real bachelorette party without matching tank tops.

Have I mentioned that I don't drink much anymore?  And that I had three Mike's Hard Lemonades before we left the hotel room?  And that I hadn't slept much the night before?  By the time we were ready to leave the hotel, I was feeling mighty good about life.

We ventured out into the city at large, and I had almost forgotten how much I love New York. 

There's just something magical about it. 

I mean, where else can you find sidewalk art like this:

Artist: Me, Medium: Broken pieces of a candy necklace and my foot, Text: "Clippy" (Bride-to-Be's nickname), as if you couldn't tell, Inspiration: Many, many Mike's Hard Iced Teas on an empty stomach.

We soldiered through a drag show that left me horrified and delighted, five bars, skeeball, a video game where I proved to be a kick-ass duck shooter (thanks to hundreds of hours of Nintendo Duck Hunt in my youth, I'm guessing).  During the evening, we ran into an old friend that one of the other bridesmaids used to work with AND a random person from high school.  New York is a big city, but it's a small world. 

And as if that weren't enough, on Monday I got a comment from LSass joking that she'd seen a crew of bachelorettes at the corner of Avenue B and 6th wearing matching tank tops on Saturday night, hahaha, maybe it was you.  I immediately pulled up the Google Map I'd made of our pub-crawling route and saw that we had been exactly at that corner, and I emailed Laurel a picture of our outfits, because NO WAY.  That's just not possible, right?

Oh, it's possible.  NYC is one freaky place sometimes.

The night and the weekend overall were just a blast.  I loved every sleep-deprived minute of laughing hysterically with the best friends in the world over a Chili's commercial for honey-dipped chicken (you had to be there), cheering our bachelorette to victory in a lap dance contest (again... sort of had to be there), ordering pizza at 3am and then sending it back because it was mangled, and driving on the New Jersey Turnpike the next morning suffering the effects of having been awake for nearly 48 hours and having consumed a wee bit of alcohol. 

Yes, I just said I enjoyed driving on the Turnpike.  Obviously there were a few brain cell casualties this weekend as well.

Take me out to the -- wait, are we in Boston?

Guess where I went last night.  I'll give you a hint: it was a place where you could get a free set of bobbleheads with just the low price of a season ticket!  What a bargain!

Yes, I, disdainer of all things relating to professional sportsmanship, went to a baseball game.  And it was fun!  Mostly because it was free.  And because my $6 Italian sausage was delicious.

This was only my second time attending an Orioles game during my tenure in Charm City.   Shame on me!  I should really be out there supporting the home team, right?  Apparently not.  There were more Red Sox fans at this game than Orioles fans by a loooong shot.  Every time the crowd would cheer, I'd instinctively cheer too (even though I had no idea what had just happened because I was too busy watching the Crowd Cam on the big screen or planning what kind of delicious overpriced dinner I was going to get (hot dog or pork BBQ sandwich?  Sausage or pizza?  French fries?) to actually pay attention to the game).  So there I'd be, cheering away, rooting for my team, when all of a sudden I'd realize, hey, why are those guys in the Orioles jerseys over there giving me dirty looks?  BECAUSE I'M ROOTING FOR THE WRONG TEAM.   Well, you know what I say to that?  Joel got a totally unfair parking ticket yesterday, so I MEANT to root for Boston.  Screw Baltimore.  Yeah.

Besides the danger of dying of boredom during a 3-inning stretch where no one got even one run and the risk of being crushed by the crowd trying to leave the stadium (what?  I'm the only one with a paralyzing fear of crowds?), baseball games are just a lawsuit waiting to happen, if you ask me, because DUDE -- they players cannot keep the balls on the damn field.  I swear, I was wishing I had a pith helmet... or at least a bike helmet and some body armor.   People just sit in the stands and act like a beat up old baseball glove is going to protect them from a 100-mph foul ball.   People actually seemed to WANT these deadly projectiles to come for them!  They fight over them!  Seriously, this kid was PISSED that he didn't get any balls. 

 

There were at least 3 fouls that came right over to us (stupid Joel's work, giving us tickets in the third row with no regard for our safety) and the ball girl (whose job it was, apparently, to stand around near third base for three hours just in case a foul ball rolled into her vicinity, and then pick up the ball and give it to someone in the stands) didn't choose him to receive the precious ball.  He was outraged, completely incensed by the unfairness of her choices.   He was all, WHAT!  THAT GUY WITH THE BABY IN THE ORIOLES ONESIE GOT A BALL?  THAT BABY DOESN'T EVEN KNOW WHAT A BALL IS!  THIS IS SO UNFAIR!

When someone pointed out to him that he might not be getting chosen because he was dressed head to toe in Red Sox gear, he responded by turning his shirt inside out.  Yeah, that really fooled 'em. 

Who knew?  Baseball is kind of fun.   

I am sick of this.

I am officially sick.  I thank a certain person who was coughing all over the place on Friday, who assured me "Don't worry!  I'm not contagious!".  He lied.  And I spent my weekend feeling like poop as a result.  My THREE DAY WEEKEND, people.  This is not OK, as Dr. Phil would say.

The weekend started out well enough.  I went to the gym on Friday, and guess who was at the desk.  Just guess.  He didn't even notice me come in and swipe my totally legal, paid for in full, ID card.  What a let-down.  And by let-down, I mean PHEW, I DIDN'T HAVE TO FACE HIM AGAIN.  I had an excellent run, all pumped up on the adrenaline of doing something wrong (still, even though now technically I'm not doing anything wrong at all!)  And then I snuck out the back entrance so I didn't have to walk past him on my way out.

All day Saturday was spent grouting the wall.  People, I wish I could tell you that this thing was done, but alas, I fear there is still much to do.  All the grout is officially ON THE DAMN WALL, but now I have to go over every tile with a scrubby sponge to get all the little bits of grout off the tiles.  And then I have to spray sealant on every square inch.  Jeebus.  I took a break at 6pm so I could go to a yoga class, and I'm pretty sure the instructor was high as a kite.  I mean, I accept that all yoga instructors are going to be a little fruitier than the general population (and I say that as a person who adores yoga and is considering becoming a yoga instructor herself), but this chick was just so... happy.  The sort of happy that screams "I just smoked a fat joint before I came in here".  Not that I would know anything about that.  Not that I was jealous of her, either, because by this point I was having trouble breathing through  my nose.  But I wasn't worried, since I "never get sick" and all.

By 2am, when I was still unable to breathe and my head had started to ache, the kind of ache where your teeth and hair hurt, I had to admit that I was sick.  And just in time to attend my first blogger meetup with bags under my eyes and the "I haven't slept in 48 hours" glazed look!  Excellent! 

Luckily I felt OK on Sunday morning, and Joel and I trekked to DC to meet Isabel, Janet, Erika, Lindsey, Lauren, and Sarah.   It was a lovely day in the capitol, and all of these ladies are even better (and prettier) (seriously) in person than they are on their blogs.  I've been reading Isabel and Janet's blog since before I even had my own site, and I started reading Erika's a few months ago when Isabel told me she'd be at this meetup.  I was not given sufficient warning to go back and read all of Lindsey, Lauren and Sarah's archives, and that is truly a tragedy because they seemed like my kind of peeps.  The whole experience was sort of surreal and wonderful, and as a bonus the pizza at Matchobox was divine.  So I've now officially met people from The Internet and lived to tell the tale. 

These picture stolen from Erika and  Lindsey because (SURPRISE!) I forgot to bring the camera cord with me today. 

The best part was possibly when we realized that we were all wearing some form of flip-flops.  And to think of all the time (um, maybe like 10 minutes?  But those were an excruciating 10 minutes) I spent fretting over what to wear.   These girls are awesome.

Ok, I lied, the best part was when Janet and Isabel re-enacted the Larry Craig scandal for us.  Dare I admit that I hadn't heard about this before?  Seriously, I need to stop living under a rock.  I'm going to get right on that.  (Link AND pictures stolen from Lindsey).

 

The rest of the weekend was spent feeling craptastic and hoping like hell that I didn't get any of my new blog real life friends sick.

I hope you all had fabulous long weekends, devoid of sneezing/headaches/stuffy noses.  Now pardon me while I go and my three new favorite blogs and snort some Afrin.