Chronicles of a Deadbeat Bride

Neglecting a blog is bad, don’t get me wrong.  One minute you’re carefully cultivating posts, monitoring page views and beaming with pride that your run-on sentences are beautifully displayed in a free template provided by Blogger.  The next, you can’t remember how to spell the bizarre Italian name you gave your blog and you realize that the last time someone posted a comment, Justin Bieber was in kindergarten and people (besides you and your sister) still cared about the Spice Girls. 

All the same, infrequent posting has its advantages.  From one post to another, I can usually reveal a big piece of news – new job, new haircut, new views on why eating Cheetos for breakfast is scientifically proven to help reduce your risk for osteoporosis.  But this next one is a biggie – I’m getting married!  Yes, just a few posts ago I was lamenting about my Liz Lemonian lack of dating skills, and shortly thereafter I happened to bump into an old acquaintance from elementary school and went on a long overdue first date.  By a particularly bizarre and lucky twist of fate, he did not head for witness protection after said first date, but actually stuck around and asked to spend the rest of his earthly days with a constantly snacking, accident prone, hyperactive chatterbox….I mean, a lifetime of wedded bliss with yours truly. 

The future Mr. Chiacchierone and I were engaged on Christmas Eve in 2011. I figured setting a summer 2013 wedding date meant that we had the luxury of taking our time in planning the event’s details.  Matt took this to mean we would be attending the first bridal expo of 2012. 

In fact, my future husband was so adamant about our attending that he pre-booked tickets for the event online (“Laur, this is the 2nd largest bridal expo in Southern New England – I don’t think we should take the chance that we won’t get in!”).  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I actually did hope we wouldn’t get in, so we ended up in line at the convention center at 9:00 AM sharp on a Saturday morning.   Matt had brilliantly created a new “wedding-only” gmail address to provide potential vendors with a centralized communication point and was carefully dissecting a map of the convention center with a compass and various cartographical tools.  I was eating Skittles for breakfast and people watching.  Perhaps the first thing I noticed was that Matt and I were one of the only couples in line.  Every other group appeared to consist of one girl (typically wearing a tiara or a sash or a portable neon sign pointing out that she was the BRIDE) plus a posse of about 12 to 17 surrounding girls.  I took a discerning look at the group of girls behind me – everyone had on matching velour tracksuits, bejeweled with their names and their position in the wedding.  I counted 14 bridesmaids in the group, then started wondering if Matt and I should have worn matching get-ups too (Spartan cheerleaders?  Our homemade Charlie Brown and Lucy costumes from the previous Halloween?) Before I could pitch the idea to Matt, it was time for us to pass through the turn-style and enter the exhibition hall. 

The hall was a sea of different vendors – caterers, florists, photo booth companies, limo services, bakeries.  I spotted a pyramid of white cupcakes and actually started to come around to the idea of the expo.  That is, until I was (way too purposefully) approached by the very first vendor to solicit me.  It all happened so fast.  One minute I was borrowing Matt’s map to strategize a route that would allow us to pass the cupcake pyramid at least 7 times.  The next minute, I’m getting accosted by a 7 foot, 90 lb woman holding a pamphlet for laser skincare, liposuction and cosmetic waxing.  She literally leapt over two tables to make sure I was aware that her pamphlet contained a coupon for a free consultation and 20% off (apparently sorely needed) services for brides.  I stuffed the coupon in my purse and bee-lined for the cupcakes.  Thus began our journey in wedding planning. 

Matt and I have spent the past year getting pumped about becoming a Mr. and Mrs.  Between choosing a venue, practicing YouTube-worthy choreographed moves and making some tough wedding decisions (DJ or band?  Buffet or sit down dinner?  Fraggle Rock or Muppet Show theme?) – things have been fun, but busy. 

Here’s what has been crossed off as “done” on the list:
1.) My wedding dress: 
Other than the story of how Matt and I met (and how he proposed) this is my favorite wedding planning story so far.  My wedding dress is from the Goodwill store in North Attleboro, and it cost $100.  No, I didn’t forget a zero and no, it doesn’t look like something a computer science major would wear to a Renaissance fair.  It’s beautiful, classy, and it’s all thanks to my dream team that ventured out one Saturday morning in April to help me say “yes” to my (super-awesomely cheap) dress:

My mom:
Don’t let her day job as a preschool nurse and her sweet, grandmotherly demeanor fool you.  This woman moonlights as a member of a NASCAR pit crew in her spare time.  Mama Santos applied her speedy tire-changing skills and amazingly got me zipped in (and unzipped out) of about 20 wedding dresses in 6 minutes. 

My future mother in law:
Actually, she was the one that found out about the Goodwill event and suggested we go.  As the mother of three boys, she watched a lot of professional wrestling throughout the late 80’s and early 90’s and graciously offered to brush up on her moves and put any pushy brides in a sleeper hold. 

My twin sister:
Despite being several months pregnant at the time, my sister arrived with a backpack full of snacks and a mean left hook for anybody that came close to any dress that fit my wildly specific guidelines (around a size 8, no turtlenecks, less than 30 lb. of tulle). 

The result:
We acquired a $100 beauty of a dress that miraculously zipped without needing to wear 3 layers of Spanx….and we still had time to eat breakfast before 10:00 am. 

2.) Wedding fitness regimen:
January 1st of this year didn’t only mark the start of 2013 – it was also 200 days (exactly) until I would be publicly vowing to love and to cherish Matt in front of our families and friends…and be in 3,000 high resolution photos…in a strapless dress.  This meant one thing (no, NOT European liposuction, crazy pamphlet lady from the expo) – it meant a serious return to the gym. 

My usual routine (riding the stationary bike at level 0.5 while yelling out answers to Jeopardy and munching on Swedish Fish) was not going to cut it.  If I wanted a wedding-dress-worthy body, I had to push myself and take some group exercise classes.  For any fellow brides out there looking for fitness inspiration, here are my takeaways from each course I’ve taken in January:

Zumba: 
Hot Latin music provides the perfect background for a booty-shaking, calorie-burning dance party for any* bride (see disclaimer below). 
*If you’re a Latina back up dancer for Janet Jackson. 
**If you’re an awkward white girl who has problems differentiating between left and right, it’s also for you because you (read: me) won’t be able to tell you look like a dork – you’ll be thinking you’re one class away from quitting your cubicle job and starring in the next “Step Up” movie.  Shake it sister! 

Spinning:
Biking in place.  No lights on (except for a black light).  This means, as you’re pedaling to nowhere and enjoying some bass pumping house music, you can (literally) flash a glowing smile to your classmates.  I would recommend this class to a bride that is curious about how a hamster would feel racing in his wheel at a rave. 

Body Blast: Core Conditioning:
For brides that have not competed on American Gladiator or are not currently employed as personal trainers, I would strongly discourage you from taking any course with the words “core” and/or “blast” in the description.  After taking this class, I was unable to laugh, sneeze, breathe, chew anything crunchier than pudding or operate my car for 10 days.  Matt had to install a chair lift so I could get upstairs. 

3.) Bridesmaid dress shopping
I am blessed that my two sisters and two of my dearest friends have happily agreed to be part of our wedding party.  And no, I don’t refer to them as “my girls” as many brides are wont to do.  I did not give birth to them, nor did I win them in a poker game, so they are not actually “mine”.  (Okay, rant’s over).  

When it was time to pick out their dresses, we all walked into David’s Bridal with only one condition – everybody leaves with a dress.  Any dress not made of gold foil, leopard print pleather or feathers was fair game. 

It turns out I was way off.  I was supposed to walk into the shop with a four-inch binder, a headset hooked up to my bridal blackberry, and an entourage of people-  my “I Do crew” (composed of J.Lo’s bouncer, Randy from “Say Yes to the Dress” and Grizz from “30 Rock”).  I should have also arrived with an excruciatingly specific color palette (example: “my colors are cornflower blue and ecru with an accent color of granny smith apple green”) as well as a carefully and strategically pondered theme (“my theme is boho chic with casual country flair”). 

Instead, I walked in wearing chucks and glasses, and had the appointment date/time written on the back of a piece of paper towel.  When the consultant asked about my color palette and theme, I panicked.  I didn’t expect a pop quiz.  I tried to make a joke about a Lisa Frank color palette and a rodeo theme, which tanked (my fault).  I ended up mumbling something like “Um, any color really – pink…or maybe yellow?   I don’t know, what do you guys want?” I asked, looking back at “my girls”.  I went on to dig myself further, “Um, and, I’m going for like a, ‘Yay, I’m getting married’ theme…?” 

Still, despite my total bridal ineptitude, the day went well.  All four girls picked dresses they were comfortable in, and we decided on a color we all liked, and (wait for it) we were out of there and eating pizza together in 35 minutes. 
Bam.  In your face, color palette. 

What’s still left on the “to do” list:

I’d rather not number this list.  Instead, I’ll just say there is a lot left to do - we haven’t yet picked out flowers, booked a limo or bought a cake.  And still, I know that no matter what details we forget, I will wake up the next day with an endlessly caring, sweet, thoughtful and funny husband who loves me to pieces.  So, if I end up with a bouquet of plastic petunias; if we roll up to the church in the Oscar Meyer mobile and we cut into a Hostess cupcake in front of 100 people, I’ll still be the happiest bride around. 

The future Mr. and Mrs. Chiacchierone, performing some serious quality control tests on a photobooth at the wedding expo, January 2012.

#usingsocialmediawithoutbeingatool

While it's easy for many people over the age of 55 or 60 to assume everyone younger than them is a technological junkie that lives their lives out in a series of tweets, I would ask that they look a little closer.  I am not even 30, but I still clearly remember a time when cell phones and the Internet were not part of daily life.  I remember using a quarter and a pay phone to call my mom after school.  I remember VCR's and Blockbuster stores.  I remember using a phone book to find a number instead of using Google.  In many ways I'm part of a lucky generation - we are old enough to remember life without these technological advances but young enough to adapt and benefit from them. 

No, I don't think the world is going to hell in a handbasket just because people don't dial each other on roatary phones anymore.  All the same, I do think that technology and social media have changed us, and not entirely for the better.  While I myself am part of this Facebook "generation" I can't help but feel concerned, puzzled and downright peeved at some of the nonsense that pops into my newsfeed on a daily basis. 

So, I decided to do what I do best: make a list.  I make lots of lists every day - shopping lists, to-do lists, superheroes-I'd-like-to-be lists.  Today's list is a series of ground rules for the modern gal or guy using Facebook and/or other social media sites.  I call this list: "Lauren's super-awesome guidelines for using social media without being a total tool". 

1.) Facebook is a social media tool to keep up with friends, share pictures and make connections with others.  It is not a forum for detailing your daily grievances with your life.  It does not exist to provide you with an audience for the thrilling play-by-play of your most recent bout with a stomach virus.  If you're truly so sick that you want to climb under a rock and curl up and die, then I'd be pretty surprised if there's Wifi under said rock.  Go to bed, drink some tea, and stay off of Facebook. 

2.) You're = you are.  Your = a possessive adjective.  Your just knot getting it write. 

 

3.) While you're Instagram-ing the world a picture of your breakfast (with some ridiculous caption like "Egggsssss #protein #morning #incredibleedibleegg) it's getting cold on your plate.  While you're busy checking yourself in to the restaurant you just arrived to, you're missing out on a fun game of crayon/placemat tic-tac-toe with your spouse.  While you're tweeting a picture of the "sick sunset" on your vacation, you're.....missing your vacation.  Yes, catch up your friends on the fun stuff you're doing.  But don't replace the experience with a tweet/post/status update. 

4.) #istilldonotgethashtags.  I'm not joking about this.  Hashtag comments annoy me almost as much as this:

5.) Whyyyyy do peopleeee addddddd letterssss to the endddd of their wordsssss?  Seriously, it's like a typographical speech impediment.  Cut it outttttt. 

6.) This one goes out to the ladies.  Gals, we can vote now.  We are no longer required to wholly dedicate our lives to making meatloaf, making babies and wearing pearls (not knocking pearl necklaces, meatloaf or babies....I'm a fan of all three).  

My point is, we've socially progressed far enough that we can be appreciated and praised for our ideas, our opinions and that grey matter between our ears (#brains).  So quit un-doing all that good work by posting ridiculous pictures of yourself on Facebook (and elsewhere) that suggest that you're anything except the well-educated college student or the young professional lady that you really are.  Yes, I'm talking to you, girl who takes 4000 shots of your cleavage with your webcam.  Or you, girl who stands in her bra and snaps a shot in the bathroom mirror with a look of feigned shock.  Seriously, let's save something for the imagination - your girlfriends will thank you and the classy dudes out there will appreciate it too.  Oh, and smiling in pictures never hurt either - you've got to stop making that stick-out your lips like a duckbill platypus face.  It looks like a collagen treatment gone south. 

7.) (And this is the big one, people) 

We're lucky to live in a time that allows us to stay connected with family and friends that live far away.  We're lucky to have Facebook to find new connections with people around the world that share our hobbies, read the same books and watch the same movies.  We're blessed to be able to see the children of friends and relatives grow, even if we're not able to visit them in person very often.  Let's harness these amazing capabilities and use them for good.  Use Facebook to spread the word about a worthy cause or to gather people together to do something helpful and useful. 

But, let's also remember that liking a status doesn't take the place of giving a hug; that having 4,000 virtual friends can never take the place of having even one true friend.  And that poking people (online or in real life) ....is just creepy.

Act your age, not your shoe size.

I am 26 years old.  This means that, legally speaking, I've been an adult for the past 8 years.  Occasionally, I'll be driving to work munching on my Cocoa Puffs from a ziploc bag (what?) and this fact dawns on me, out of the blue.  See, sometimes it's a little weird to think that I'm rapidly flying through adulthood while in many ways I feel like a 9 year old who happens to spend a lot of time in a cubicle, with limited recess breaks. 

As I sat at my desk today, chomping on some Bubble Tape and enjoying an introspective/slacker moment, I realized that there are many facets of my life that are decidedly un-adult-like.  I thought I'd see how many of you blog readers sometimes feel like you act your shoe size instead of your age.  So, grab yourself a Fruit Roll-Up and get commenting. 

1.) Domestic adventures:

(Attention: Martha Stewart, Mom and/or you sassy British ladies from "Clean House": Several topics on this list may be too much for you to handle.  Please just skip ahead to the section on Greek yogurt). 

(a) Vacuuming:
Sometimes I don't feel like dragging the vacuum up the stairs. By this, I mean that I NEVER feel like doing that. Most times, I reason that you can't really see the particles on my floor because I have dark carpet in my room. Or, I just take my glasses off and everything looks pretty fantastic. If we're really being honest, I will admit that (in one rare case) I did spruce up a small patch of carpet with a lint roller. I shouldn't have been proud of this.  But I was.

(b) Dishes:
You may think it's really badass to pretend you're Wolverine while you're pulling clean plates out of the dishwasher, placing them between your fingers and busting out a few ninja moves in your kitchen. This is a bad idea; I really can't stress that enough.

(c) Laundry:
Much to my mother's horror, I do not separate my laundry with regard to color, temperature, or fabric type. I have a sophisticated system termed the "sniff test" which allows me to discriminate between dirty and clean laundry, then proceed to wash those articles that do not pass said sniff test.  Plus, I've seen enough "Friends" reruns to know that you can't mix a red shirt with all your white underwear and wash in hot water (unless you want all of your whites to look like they were dipped in Pepto Bismol, and/or you want Ross Gellar to kiss you in a laundromat). Other than the sniff test and the Rachel Green rule, there's really not much more to doing laundry.  Don't let those fools at Tide tell you any differently. 

2.) Personal finances

(Suze Orman, avert thine eyes, girlfriend). 

Most (fine, all) of financial jargon goes completely over my head.  I blame a lot of the confusion on the constant use of complicated acronyms.  ARM, FDIC, IRA, WTF.  And, because it's frustrating for me to feel constantly out of the loop, I just make up my own translations.  Why should APR stand for "Annual Percentage Rate" when "Awkward Portuguese Relatives" is so much funnier? 

3.) Greek yogurt

Every morning I start my day with a protein-packed Chobani sprinkled with organic wheat germ. No, I don't. But every couple of months, I find myself in the dairy section of Stop & Shop, having an intense inner conflict over which Limited Edition Edy's ice cream to buy (I mean, seriously - I don't want to have regrets in my life). And I think to myself, "Lauren - it's time to (wo)man up and get serious about your protein intake." I pick up a half dozen Chobani yogurts, and even let out an "Opa!" to celebrate my healthy choices. 

The next day, I'm at my desk at work and reality hits. This is not yogurt. It does not taste like yogurt. It tastes like your Aunt Doris' sour cream chip dip mixed with brownish strawberries. And let me tell you something else: it doesn't matter what you mix into this shit (Cinnamon Toast Crunch, sugar packets, Hershey's syrup). It won't taste like yogurt or any type of delicious breakfast treat. The remaining 5 cups of Greek dip will remain in your refrigerator for the next 12 to 14 weeks, until it expires or you find an alternative use for it (ie: facial moisturizer, denture adhesive, spackle). 

4.) Doing my taxes

Seriously, TurboTax - stop likening your software to a GPS unit. It's NOT that easy, because I've tried 5 times to do my taxes on my own and every time it goes something like this:

Step 1: In which state do you work?
Me: "Oh, awesome - this is easy! Massachusetts!"

Step 2: Great. In which state do you live?
Me: "Damn, I am a tax-filing goddess. Rhode Island!"

Step 3: Ok. If your state of employment and state of residence both have an odd number of letters, please refer to section US-01-86410 for information on how to obtain state and federal regulatory exemptions for each of your dependents, provided they live in your household a minimum of 10 months of the year. 

Me: "Do I count the space between Rhode and Island as a character?  Is my dog a dependant?  Can someone get me a bottle of tequila?" 

You see, dear readers and fellow children-at-heart, perhaps the best solution is to embrace our inner kiddo and accept the sobering fact that (at least some of us) will never fully "grow up".  We will never buy a $900 Dyson vacuum cleaner.  We will never know for sure that our taxes will not result in a soul-crushing audit by the IRS.  We will never start the day by casually munching our Greek yogurt, while reading the WSJ and trading tips about how to wash spaghetti sauce out of an off-white blouse.  Suddenly, we realize that maybe Woody Harrelson was right when he said "A grown up is just a child with layers on." 

Team Santos: We want to pump YOU up!

From kindergarten to the last day of high school, if you asked which class was my least favorite, I always had the same answer: gym.  I would have voluntarily taken a dose of obscure Russian literature in the 2nd grade, rather than suffer through 45 minutes of Red Rover with my classmates. 


Why?  It wasn't that I was a lazy kid, or even that I didn't like to be active.  My sister and I spent all of our childhood summers riding our bikes, running around the neighborhood (fine, we were chasing the ice cream truck), and choreographing some pretty sassy routines on our roller skates to several Mariah Carey hits.  But taking physical education was not about staying active.  Gym class meant throwing on a pair of city-issued mesh shorts and running around with your peers, all while trying to pretend you weren't profusely sweating in front of that cute boy from English class.  Gym class meant learning the rules to needlessly complicated team sports  (Ultimate Frisbee?  This game was created by Satan).  And, while I attempted to use several hundred excuses to get myself out of gym class ("I sprained my finger overusing my graphing calculator"; "My poor circulation makes my legs look purple in these gym shorts"; "I'm allergic to spherical objects"), I still showed up for every class.  Because my parents had this thing about me graduating high school. 

So, I even surprised myself when I decided to join a gym last year as an adult.  I mean, this was voluntary and (what's worse) I was now forking over money to have the privilege of going back to gym class.  My search for the "right" gym included several key requirements: it had to be cheap; it couldn't be in Cranston (for fear of constant interaction with former high school classmates) and it had to include a free t-shirt upon registration.  My search led me to a Planet Fitness in Warwick, where I am now a (surprisingly) active member. 

My gym experience last year was marked by several highlights:
1.) I bent down to scratch my ankle while using an elliptical machine and hit myself in the face with the moving handle. 
2.) I found the fishbowl full of Tootsie Rolls on the registration desk.  I re-fuel every ten minutes or so, to avoid low blood sugar. 
3.) I winked at the handsome personal trainer.  This man now assumes I have a facial twitch. 

Just when I started wondering how I could possibly spice up my workout routine in 2011, I was joined by my first workout buddy: my Dad.  For those readers who have not met Pops Santos, let me paint a brief picture.  My Dad is a Portuguese version of Jack Byrne (Robert DeNiro's character on "Meet the Parents").  Though he's got a heart of gold and is an awfully likable guy, he's got a very firm "don't f*%@ with me" outer shell that constantly catches new boyfriends and telemarketers by surprise.  In his 20's, Dad used to move pianos for work.  Now, despite the fact that he's over 50 and has had both of his knees replaced, he could still pick up a refrigerator and toss it (with relative accuracy).  He casually throws this fact into conversation when meeting any potential boyfriends. 

Naturally, I was thrilled to have a new gym pal for 2011.  In fact, I may have gone a little overboard (how atypical for me).  I had "Team Santos" jerseys made.  I figured we should look sharp in case Nike is looking for a couple of intergenerational spokespeople, now that Tiger has blown his chances at the "family friendly" angle.  I kept envisioning our first Nike commercial:

There are folks working out, as normal.  You can hear the occasional clang of a dumbbell, some shuffling on a treadmill.  Then, out of nowhere, "Eye of the Tiger" starts to jam over the speakers and (BOOM!) the doors open with a bang.  Fog and neon lights fill the room.  In slow motion, "Team Santos" walks into the door in perfect step: a hauntingly beautiful 20-something girl with perfectly non-frizzy curls blowing in the wind, joined by her tough-as-nails Pops with silver (don't call it grey) hair.  They high five without looking at each other and flash their badges to the front desk.  Then, they each go run a 4 minute mile and bench press 600 lb. 

Just do it.  

While I was jogging and rehearsing this scene in my mind, Dad was getting his bearings and learning the ropes in his new gym.  Wanting to keep my gym pal motivated, I provided lots of verbal encouragement ("NO PAIN, NO GAIN, Pops!") and inspirational gestures (I attempted to do the wave by myself while running - not a good idea).  I guess he couldn't hear me because most of my motivational comments went unacknowledged, despite several dirty looks by the folks on the stationary bikes. 

Although Nike has not yet drawn up our official contracts, I am happy to report that we have been getting to the gym several times per week since the beginning of the year.  I can now run a 42 minute mile and my nose has healed quite well after the elliptical machine incident.  Dad is doing great as well: he is biking several miles each workout and lifting weights.  I figure that, by the time the personal trainer realizes my winking is not a spasm and winks back, Pops Santos should be strong enough to throw a treadmill at him, using only his pinky. 

2011: Year of the Chiacchierone

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe once said, “What is not started today is never finished tomorrow.”

With the arrival of a new decade, this wise German playwright's words remind us that it's important to have solid, achievable goals - and to get started on them right away. Then again, I also read (by this I mean, I "read") Faust in college and recall thinking, "Wow, Goethe is on some serious crack."

Aside from this profound literary analysis, his quote makes me think a lot about my own personal goals (ex: stop wearing those sweatpants with the obvious holes...in public...weekly). So, without further ado, I present my faithful blog followers (Hi, Mom) with my list of 2011 resolutions:

1.) Write more:
Just as I'm sure "all" of you enjoy reading my blog o' nonsense (Ma, you still there?) I really love to write. Whether it's a blog post, a love letter to my boyfriend Fabio (yes, the Italian supermodel with the Christy Brinkley hair), or the first page of the next great American novel (sorry, Steinbeck) - writing is my favorite way to go on a mental vacation from my real life. For this year, I'd like to keep the writing going - and to make Goethe happy, I'll make it concrete: I will blog once a week*.

*Restrictions apply: This goal is likely too lofty. See, right now, it's cold out and there's nothing better to do - there's no Monday Night Football anymore, Netflix hasn't sent anything worth watching, and I'm too comfy under three blankets to get up and go to the gym. Also, I'm all swept up in this early January season of self-improvement which may pass by January 10. The blog posts may return to a sporadic sprinkling by Valentines' Day. Or Martin Luther King Jr Day.

2.) Floss. Well, keep flossing:
This is more of a continuation of a current good habit that has become routine. I'm not trying to ride the moral high horse here. I floss daily (sometimes twice daily) because my fillings from the past three years have provided my dentist with a couple of Mercedes, diamond cufflinks, a twelve-bedroom vacation villa in southern Spain and an upgraded, better looking trophy wife. And, if I don't continue to neurotically floss, I will literally run out of teeth to develop cavities. Plus, I know that smug bastard is thinking he can buy his own private island if I get 5 more cavities, and I won't give him the satisfaction.

3.) Cut the road rage:
Sure, it depends who you ask. But I can say with reasonable confidence that if you ask around, most people would say I'm a nice girl. I have a strict WWFHD policy (What would Florence Henderson do?). This typically steers me toward buying polyester pantsuits and baking cookies. But, although I never intend for it to happen, my work commute brings me from WWFHD to WWF in about 2.5 seconds. There's just something about a 93 year old lady in the passing lane, doing 47 mph, during rush hour, with her left blinker on that completely sends me into a road rage spiral. To make matters worse, I am a genetic perfect storm when it comes to road rage - I've got an Irish temper and a not-so-shy Portuguese mouth. Before I know it, I've amassed enough money in my imaginary swear jar to buy Boardwalk and Park Place (with hotels) and I've pulled a muscle in my middle finger. But this year, I vow that Florence will win. I will toss homemade cookies out of the windows of my Focus at those who cut me off (to later drive 10 under the speed limit). I will blow kisses and wave like the Queen at those that don't use their blinkers or mirrors. All while rocking a Carol Brady lady-mullet.

4.) Get better at dating.
I suck at dating. You might think you understand what I'm saying, or even think you can sympathize with me. But you can't, unless you are my fictional counterpart, Liz Lemon. For those who do not watch 30 Rock, shame on you. Many times, when I'm watching the show, I get a creepy feeling that Tina Fey is following me around, watching me embarrass my way through adulthood and then writing it into the show. An example:

Liz Lemon and her friend Jenna are out at a bar.
Dude: "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Liz: "Really, dude? There are like, 4 other seats down there - can't you be cool?"
Jenna: "Liz, that guy wanted to buy you a drink."
Liz: "Really? I already have a drink. You think he'll buy me mozzarella sticks?"

Oh, Liz - how could you have known that this was a pick up line? I too am continually thrown by the often-confusing musings of dudes and my constant need for a snack. But not this year. This year I plan to miraculously transform my accident-prone awkwardness into super smooth sex appeal that will have all the eligible bachelors in the 401 weak at the knees. That's right - look out, Rhody. Cause I'm coming - and I'm wearing a Florence Henderson pantsuit that's snug in all the right places.

From the desk of...

...that girl who needs more time-consuming hobbies. Or a shorter commute. Or a quieter inner-monologue.

In the interest of keeping the art of letter-writing alive, I've penned a few myself. Please imagine all of these letters voiced-over by Susan Sarandon (you know, Wonder Years-style). I think that her voice might possibly convince everyone that what I'm saying has a shred of substance.

Dear teenagers of America,
Stop calling everything "random", as in:
"Ohmygod, that's SOOOO totally random."
If you call everything and everyone random, nothing is random. Think about it.

Dear every episode of "How I Met your Mother," banana pancakes, Stevie Wonder, Christmas Eve, my 10 year old pair of Levi's, Red Sox, the smell of sun block, my passport, ice cold beer, and irregular Italian verbs,
Dang, you are awesome. All of you.

Dear native-speakers-of-English-who-should-know-better,
You are misusing the word ironic. I think we all remember Alanis' ode to the topic (sure, I was rocking it in a pair of overalls and pink jellies). But what we failed to grasp while singing along (and checking our braces for pieces of food) was that the "ironic" situations in her song aren't ironic. She actually makes a long list of shitty things that could happen to you. Rain on your wedding day? Traffic jam when you're already late? That's just a crap day. Just for good measure, I'm providing some examples of actual irony:
Exhibit A: The fact that nobody in my office thinks "The Office" is funny.
Exhibit B: Getting cut off and flipped off by a Prius with a "Coexist" bumper sticker.

Dear Always,
Your slogan is, "Have a happy period." Seriously? There must be a lot of dudes in your marketing department.

Dear Kanye,
Thanks for providing me with thematic one-liners for my everyday life:
On the road: "So I parallel, double-parked that mother-$@^#&! sideways...."
At the office: "You should be honored by my lateness...that I would even show up to this fake shit."
On personal style: "So if the devil wear Prada, Adam Eve wear nada, I'm in between but way more fresher. With way less effort."

Dear Boston,
Thank you for the city, the band, the cream pie and the baked beans. You really rule. I could do without your lettuce though...it's kind of lame.

Dear Eminem,
Shut up.

Dear autumn,
Your changing leaves are breath-taking. The cool, crisp air makes me excited for the upcoming holidays. But you took away the beautiful, bronzed tan I took all summer to acquire. My skin is now the color of a peeled potato and I'm wondering if apple pie was an even trade.

Dear late-20's,
Please rock. Big time.

It's time to come clean.

St. Augustine wrote his "Confessions" in 398 AD. A few years later, so did Usher. Today I'm joining the club. Yup, it's about to get real up in here.

1.) What I say: I try to eat healthy foods and exercise regularly.

Confession:
I only buy rice cakes so I can cover them in Nutella. I started jogging because I like buying colorful shorts in Target. And I can eat more Reese's peanut butter cups in one sitting than anybody I know. Try me.

2.) What I say: I have a funky, varied taste in music - all different eras, languages, styles. I enjoy the fact that a lot of bands on my iPod aren't very well known and that most have not graced the cover of Tiger Beat.

Confession:
I cannot get enough of Sean Kingston. And while we're on the topic, I have Frankie J's entire debut album in Spanish, a dance mix of a Justin Bieber song and a track by Jazzy Jeff. Basically, my greatest fear is that I will misplace my iPod and someone will actually return it, and I will have to face them. I'm also beginning to understand the need for the Witness Protection program.

3.) What I say: I am a mature, professional young woman.

Confession:
My finest professional skills include:
- Breaking it down and rocking out to Phil Collins while I'm on hold
- Accurately tossing peppermint patties over the cubicle wall at Maria
- Bending the dress code to include my chucks

4.) What I say: I'm a sociable gal who loves the spontaneity of a random encounter with all sorts of acquaintances from my past.

Confession:
I avoid running into people because most of the time when I do, they fall in to one of these categories:
(a) Someone from high school that doesn't remember my name. Alternatively, they may recall that I am "one of the twins."
(b) My ex-boyfriend's parents. Score.
(c) Someone I actually do want to speak to. In these cases, I am usually coming from the gym and covered in sweat. Or I'm running out to grab a loaf of bread and wearing my glasses and a t-shirt from 1991 with a Troll on it.

5.) What I say: I am a really responsible car owner. I own lots of Armor All products and vacuum the carpets during my lunch break. And I always schedule regular maintenance when needed.

Confession:
I am a horribly negligent mother to Frank the Ford Focus. Poor Frank has not been vacuumed more than two times in two years. His cup holders contain a horrifying array of Dunkin' straw wrappers, loose change, bobby pins, and even a can of aerosol hairspray. (What? I'm from Cranston.) I have more pairs of shoes in the back seat than I do in my closet. And I have situation-specific amnesia when it comes to oil changes. Despite the fact that I spend 2+ hours every day staring right at the little sticker that indicates the mileage for my next oil change, I routinely forget to bring it to the mechanic until it's 200* miles over the mark.

*200 miles is a total lie. If I put the real mileage in here, I would lose friends.

Confessions concluded for tonight. Damn, I feel better.