A Very Good Year.

Ah, Kins. I love you more than words. (Just like my favorite Extreme song!)

Together, we've created a world of limitless possibilities.

Thank you for an amazing four years. Today, I raise a glass from Cheyenne Mountain, and give my patented, eloquent, heartfelt toast:

To you, babe.

Happy anniversary.



Make sure you have sound!

Countdown.

Our thumbs, plus two glasses of wine I didn't need.

Last year at this time, J and I were getting settled in Punta Cana.

(Did I say getting settled? I meant J was trying to sober me up to make it past dinner. Sadly, he failed.)

Er, where was I?

Oh. It's been almost a year.

An incredible, surprising, exhilirating, adventurous year.

Wow.

Back from Canada, Hosers!

Remember when I told y'all I was escaping to Canada for a day hour?

Well, I toetally rocked that. And I learned a lot during my stint out of the good ole US of A.

Let's see, shall we?

My first inkling that I would be entering a foreign land was this sign. It says STOP in English, you see, but then it says ARRET en francais. Well, shit. They speak French here! This is exactly like visiting France.

More French! Sacre bleu! Luckily, I was ready with my passport and a big American grin. Get at me, Customs.

Hey - Customs here is legit! I was asked about 25 questions:

Where are you coming from, Ma'am?

You live in Buffalo?

What kind of work?

How are long are you there for?

Where do you live?

Did you drive in?

Car's got CT plates?

What rental agency is the car from?

What exactly will you be doing in Canada?

How long will you be staying?

An hour? Really?

Frazzled, I actually said: "Er, I really just came for a stamp on my passport."

D'oh!

I parked quickly, then learned a harsh lesson about Canadian ATM machines (hint: they do not dole out U.S. currency. Ugly American jackass.)

But look! A "washroom"! We ain't in Kansas anymore, folks.

It was time to feast my eyes on the glorious falls of Niagara. But wait - the hell? What's that boat doing in there? By God, it's a suicide mission! No, boat, no! Turn, turn, MAN!

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Excuse me? Maiden of the wha? Oh.

Oh, I see what they did there. Here is a lovely picture of me and some boats filled with delightful tourists such as myself.

And then... I fell in.

Ha! You guys, it's just a camera trick.

(Also, my mobile? Unspeakably high quality photos.)

After a full four minutes of looking at the falls, I had seen all there was to see. So I stumbled into a gift shop, where I found a mecca of absolutely fabulous blog subtitles splayed on tee-shirts:

Classic HV!

And to drive the point home (or possibly because I can't figure out how to delete):

Why I never!

Isn't it?

Tell it, sister.

(Seriously, which one would you choose for this here blog? I have my opinion - which you are all entitled to, btw - but open to suggestions.)

And finally, no trip to Canada would be complete without one sparkling souvenir mug, to remember the precious, precious minutes spent.

Godspeed, Canada. Godspeed.

Late Night Phone Calls

The scene: 10 PM last night, in bed, nearly asleep. The phone rings. Baby Brother Ryan on other end of line.

"Hey - you here the news?!"

*Blogmistress stops breathing, loathes calls after 9 as tends to think of horrendous catastrophes only*

*is quite macabre, really*

"Jesus - what?"

"I broke my wrists!"

"The fuck?"

"I'm on my way to the ER now - I was trying to grab a basketball rim, and I slipped. The left one is BROKEN - you should see it - the right one is messed up too!"

"Shit - are you in a lotta pain?"

"No - do I sound like I am?" (Er, no. Dude sounds like he just won the lottery.)

"Who's taking you to the hospital?"

"My friends."

"No one's been drinking, right?" (Holy shit: Am old.)

"Nah."

"Do you have your insurance card?"

"Nope - lost it."

"Oy. You call Mom?"

"Yep - she's pissed. We're almost there"

"OK - call me if you need me; my phone's on."

"K."

*blogmistress hangs up, turns to J in bed*

"You see? This is why you must keep the phone next to the bed. Emergencies such as this!"

"Emergency? How did you help there?"

"I asked about his insurance card. Obviously. And now I'm informed."

*husband snorts*

"Fuck. I am going to be ridiculous when we have kids. I may never sleep again."

**********************************************************************

The scene: 11 PM last night, in bed, absolutely asleep. The phone rings. It's Far-Mor (that's hardcore Swedish for "grandmom", y'all).

*blogmistress has heart attack. Someone is most certainly dead this time.*

"Number one granddaughter?" (eat that, sisters and girl cousins)

"Hi Grandpop - what's up?"

"Why did you answer?"

"My brother broke his wrist and he's at the hospital; I was waiting for him to call."

"Oh no! I'm going to get Far-Mor on the other phone."

*goes to find Far-Mor, tells her Michael broke his wrist*

"Melissa? What happened? Michael broke his wrist?!"

"No, Far-Mor, Ryan. Ryan broke his wrist."

"How?"

"Playing basketball. Uh, what's up, guys?"

"The reason I'm calling," Far-Far begins, "is to tell you that when you land in Denver on Thursday evening, call my cell phone. That way we'll know what time to expect you."

"K."

"Do you have that number?"

"Yep."

"It's 719..."

"Got it."

"The girls have no idea you're coming! Well, I might have slipped today. But I'm pretty sure they didn't hear me," Far-Mor assures me.

"Great."

"So what happened to Ryan?"

"Um, guys, I'm gonna go now. I was sleeping."

"Sleeping! What time is it there? Oh - 11? Oh, okay, well, we'll let you go. We can't wait to see you! Love you lots!"

"Love you too. Night."

*blogmistress turns to snoring husband. says to self: the hell?*

Seriously Serious.

Lo, I find myself at a carbs-crossroad once again.

It seems that my foray into the land of no-carbs, but mmmsugar has warranted less than stellar results. I managed to lose 2 pounds in two weeks, but for real? My weight fluctuates more from late morning to early afternoon.


It's time to get seriously serious. Fruit: I bid you adieu.


J and I escaped to the beach this past weekend. I put on a bikini, felt spectacularly unfit , and remedied that by eating and drinking everything in sight. I gorged on bagels, cheeseburgers, fajitas, pizza, chardonnay, doritos, cheese fries, doughnuts, Reese's peanutbutter cups, chicken parm, penne alla vodka, crab cakes and multiple beers, for good measure.

(!!!)

This morning I quickly purchased The South Beach Diet as I ran to board my 6:32 AM train to New York.

And so it begins. Again.

Only Human

At 3, I was traumatized by the "Thriller" video.

From what I recall, Dad took my brother and I to the Zappacostas to watch the world premiere on MTV. One look at that fucking werewolf and I was running for the door. Afterwards, I spent nights paralyzed on the edge of my bed, convinced that if I stepped down onto the rug, that damn beast was sure to grab my ankles and attack (as he was no doubt hiding beneath me). I am no fool, Wolf!

At 8, I played with family friends in their living room in Wilmington. We repeatedly put on "Thriller" , turned off all the lights, and proceeded to run around like maniacs, trying to escape the monster.

Some days, I would pull our old records off the bookcase and pour over the album covers. I distinctly remember examining Thriller... Gazing at the handsome man on the cover, pouring over each word of the enclosed song lyrics, memorizing Paul and Michael's parts in "The Girl is Mine."

At 13, my mother presented me with the Dangerous CD. I wore the thing out, blasting "Black or White", "Remember the Time", "Keep it in the Closet" over and over again in my room, furiously dancing about, imagining I was on stage performing for my adoring fans.

At 15, Grace and I would stay up nights listening to HIStory, attempting to guess which song was next hearing only the first chords. Grace still doesn't knew the words to "Man in the Mirror", though I quite prefer her version with its questionable phrasing.

At 21, I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge armed with Invincible. The man still had it, as far as I was concerned, and proved it with tracks like "You Rock My World".

At 28, J and I, along with all of our friends, rocked the eff out to "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" and "You Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'" one stifling evening at a resort overlooking the Caribbean.

At 29, I couldn't tear my eyes away from CNN last night. Gobsmacked, I answered the phone when my brother called. "I can't get over this," I say to him.

"Who cares? You're upset that a pedophile died?" he demands quickly.

I try to explain to him that there was another MJ I knew, before all of the baby-dangling and the nose jobs and the skin-bleaching and the molestation allegations. He was a man of indescribable, awe-inspiring talent; a soft-spoken young man who was undoubtedly different than the rest of us. In his latter years, those differences became increasingly alarming.

But before, man. Before, it was really something to see.

The pervasive coverage is a testament to his self-proclaimed moniker: The King of Pop. Here was arguably the most controversial, strangest, most famous man in the world. A person who means something (for better or worse) to everyone on this planet. None of us can possibly imagine that life, and how profoundly it must affect an undoubtedly fragile soul.

I'm not sure which man you'll remember, but I know this: some of my happiest memories are courtesy of MJ.

And for that: a sincere thank you, Michael.

Thank you.

One of my absolute favorites here.

Snippets, Hosers!

1. If you don't immediately go when the light turns green, you have about 1.5 seconds before I give you the honk. It may be a courtesy tap; it may a furious bleating. I mean, come on, sirs. I've got tuna tataki to dig into back at the hotel.
2. "Oh - I heard you're trying to have a baby," sayeth Mom, pesudo-casually. "Excuse me?! Who did you 'hear' that from?" questions Daughter. (Word on the street?) Mother implicates aunt. "Wha? It's not true." insists daughter. It's not true. And when it is true (it's not true), no one gets any details, besides maybe my best good friends on the Interwebs. Sheesh.
3. I am quite frightened of hotels with outdoor room access. I'm lookin' at you, Residence Inn, East Syracuse.
4. Driving on the PA Turnpike yesterday, I was nearly struck by an errant, fast-moving flying tire. Gobsmacked! It was a brief moment of heart-stopping terror. And also a great excuse to use the word "gobsmacked".
5. Why can't you spell "definitely"? It's not definatley. Damn.
6. Am studying for the GMATs, yet again. Apparently, am not as bright as I think I am. (spelling skills remain impeccable, however).
7. Gobsmacked means "extremely shocked" in the Queen's English.
8. Made the mistake of mentioning my irrational completely justified fear of high fructose corn syrup at The Retreat restaurant today during lunch. Apparently Syracuse? Not really ready to discuss the perils of the HFCS. Pass the ketchup, asshole.
9. Today a coworker asked me if I'd like to carpool to Buffalo tomorrow. "Can't," I replied sheepishly. "I have to go to Canada."
10. Am totally serious. I have my passport in my bag; I'm going to Canada tomorrow. Figured I'd check in and see what those dudes are up to.

Cheat.

Feeling incredibly guilty this morning, as the vino got the best of me last night... And the vodka stole my soul at the Carolina Ale House... And, in the vein of full disclosure, a martini beckoned me at the airport on Wednesday night, when I was waiting to board my delayed flight home, and stormy weather had me unnerved. Lo, that was self-medication.

And I am feeling icky about it.

I knew that alcohol would be the trickiest part of my diet, as it's so ingrained in my lifestyle. At work functions, the liquor flows freely. I am usually very moderate at professional events, but it is still difficult to turn down a glass of sauvignon blanc when all of your colleagues are imbibing.

Personally, J and I have a favorite spot we visit for cocktails, and it's one of our favorite things to do on a Friday or Saturday night. We also keep our fridge stocked with Miller Lites, or often some fancier imported brew. And I always manage to keep our shelves filled with alluring bottles of red and white.

It's not difficult for me to refrain from a glass of wine at home during the week; but socially, I am finding it extremely challenging. Last night J and I met Grace and Rousseau for a delicious sushi dinner in Northern Liberties. And while I can eschew carbs like it's my job, I can't turn down a glass of vino. Or 4.

Ick.

I feel dreadful this morning. Possibly because while I want to commit to at least 30 days of absolutely no alcohol RIGHT NOW, I know we have a wedding to attend tomorrow night. I'm not sure if I can make that statement this morning and mean it. On Sunday morning, we'll talk.

Going out for a long run now to think and to sweat the booze out of my system.