You know it's time to dye your hair when....

...the neighbor of your sister (the sister who is only 2 years younger than you) sees you holding your cute niece and says, "And this must be your mother..."

Time froze. I kind of stared at her in shock, fighting back the tears, as my sister said, "this is my sister" and the neighbor continued the conversation without an "Oh, I'm sorry" or "it's awfully bright out here so I didn't get a good look" or anything.

Because apparently getting mistaken for being in your fifties (at a minimum) when you're only 35 isn't a big deal to some people. I have a kiddo only a year older than my niece, for goodness sake. So yes, I'll be breaking out the hair dye and covering the gray this weekend. And trying not to cry while I do it.

Rocking the body of a 50-year-old

When I was a 24-year-old spring chicken, I sometimes played six soccer games a week. I remember looking at those old ladies in their thirties who complained about their knees hurting them and thinking, "that will never be me." I figured I would just keep playing multiple games a week and prevent my age from ever catching up to me.

Ha! That plan-- and that schedule-- was kept up for a few years until my knees, hips and back needed more than a day to recover before I beat on them again. And now-- somewhere in my early-ish thirties-- it doesn't even take a full soccer game to put me out of commission for a few days.

A few weekends ago, I was up and down a ladder as I powerwashed our house. Having lifted equipment around and twisted in funny ways, I wasn't surprised to wake up with a sore lower back. A few days later, while my back was still bothering me, I somehow pulled a muscle in my upper back. I'm also sporting a massive gouge in my arm from where the dermatologist removed a suspicious-looking mole. Then, today, while driving home from the grocery store, I experienced a really bad burning pain in my back.

Thinking it was a muscle cramp, I tried to grit my teeth and sit still until it passed. Which it didn't pass. Swiping at my back (while somehow staying in my lane of traffic), I grabbed a wasp off my back and discovered upon getting home that it had stung me twice through my shirt.

I don't need to play soccer six days a week anymore. These days, I would consider two full days without pain a success.

This explains why I didn't major in math

An anonymous source is reporting that I allegedly turned 34 last week (I can neither confirm nor deny that rumor...) And while it's a little older than I would like to be right now, I'm way too busy with FunnyKid to think, let alone worry about how old I'm getting.

So everything was fine and I went along through the day feeling no older than I had the day before. Until kat's lil brother took me out to lunch for my birthday and casually asked, "So what do you want to do for your 35th birthday next year?"

Wait, what?!? 35? Is it possible I'm almost 35?!? That's, like, mid-thirties. Which is-- gulp-- almost 40. I can't possibly be almost 35, can I?

Funny how dessert seems to be a theme every time SJ and I get together-- Happy birthday, my friend!

To mark this very special day-- the anniversary of SJ's birth-- I thought about doing something similar to last year, where I broke into SJ's house and left dessert in her fridge. The only problem I foresaw with the plan was the fact that SJ doesn't actually own that house anymore, which would have been weird not only for me to be walking around in it, but probably a little unnerving for the new owner when SJ walked in to get her dessert out of the fridge.

So, in the interest of not getting either of us arrested (and since she gave me a key to her new house, but not the alarm code...), I guess I will have to trade in chocolate-covered break-ins for one of those traditional birthday letters SJ and I have become so good at.

So, SJ, this is it. The last birthday either of us gets to celebrate without kids to distract us from the partying that should go on not only on our birthdays, but whenever we feel like it. Somehow, I have a feeling that your best gift next year won't be a blog post from little ol' me, but the fingerprint-covered card that gets handed to you by a drooling, grinning kiddo. But that's how it should be.

What a year this has been. You moved, I painted, I got knocked up, you got knocked up, J painted... I think that about sums it up. But it leaves out the important parts, like our "Pregnant Woman Support Group" on Thursday when we made fruity "mocktails" and talked about symptoms that probably would have had our husbands abandon us if they had ever heard about them. Or the Saturdays spent going to tag sales and spending hours in the car talking about everything from what life was like to what it's going to be like later this year. Or the many, many hours of dinners and Setback now that we live only 4.2 miles apart.

It's been quite the journey, SJ. From poor reporters at a local newspaper (one of us who wore clothing with funny patterns and the other a snob who "knew" she could never be friends with someone who dressed like that) spending Friday and Saturday nights hanging out at bars (you were dating and then engaged, but never had a problem being my wing man), to moms-to-be who consider it a wild night out when the Setback games last beyond 10 p.m. I have a feeling that self-imposed curfew is going to be getting even earlier, but I'm not worried. We'll just have to pack the fun into a shorter amount of time.

And it has been fun. I can't imagine what my late twenties and early thirties would have looked like without you in them to listen to me, to keep me grounded, to cry with me, to make me laugh time and time again, to tell me when I'm wrong, to understand what I'm going through, to be such a good friend you went and got knocked up so I would have someone to go through pregnancy with and to always be willing to help me finish the extra ice cream in my freezer.

Speaking of which, when are we going out for ice cream to celebrate? Happy Birthday, SJ!

Dude, five times in one night!

Back when SJ and I started this blog (waaaay back in aught five), that title would have been pretty self-explanatory. Either my crazy single self hooked up with that many guys or SJ (engaged at the time) was bragging about the number of shots she had done.

But, alas, it's been a busy four and a half years for us. Marriage, moving into multiple houses, dogs galore... oh, and that part where I got knocked up and SJ found herself with child. We've left behind those crazy girls nights filled with chocolate martinis, the random use of tiaras and some epic hangovers the next day (I learned my lesson the time I spent an entire funeral willing myself not to throw up in church).

Instead, we make mocktails out of juice and sip them out of martini glasses. And we discuss which pregnancy-related symptoms we have rather than which dude I should grant a second date to. And the only shopping I've been doing lately is for a cute outfit for the FunnyKid rather than cute shoes for myself.

And that title? Well, apparently, the FunnyKid thought my bladder made a nice, soft pillow and that's how many times I got up to pee last night. *Sigh* My, how times have changed.

The embarrassing part is that she also has way more friends on Facebook than I do...

The Pretend Husband and I were laying in bed chatting yesterday morning as the dogs slept curled between us. At some point, Molly groggily lifted her head to look at us. And we both burst out laughing because that poor peekapoo had the worst bed head. Combined with the nasty look she was giving us, we surmised Molly had a pretty rough night. Speaking in the voice we created for her, Molly confessed to sneaking out of the house after we went to bed and attending a rave. She also admitted that she "gothed" herself up (she had black lips and nails) for her night out on the town. Then she told us both to "shut the eff up" because her head was killing her.

The PH and I laughed about it and traded jokes, finding ourselves very, very funny. That is, until I thought about the fact I had worked until 11 p.m. the night before and then gone straight to bed when I got home (very similar to most nights for me these days), and realized my dog's social life is more exciting than mine.

With apologies to SJ, who has heard this story a dozen times since it happened (but wouldn't you tell it a lot too?)

I was helping out at my church on Friday night when I had the chance to meet the father of one of the members in the youth group I lead. Upon meeting me, he started to talk about how great it is that someone so young is leading the group and how the kids can relate to me a lot better than they can relate to someone older, etc. Then he stopped and asked my age. When I told him I'm 33, he got a shocked look on his face and said, "I thought you were 22!"

A few minutes later, he didn't seem to be paying attention to what I was saying and said, "I'm sorry. I can't get over the fact that you're 33." Yeah, that pretty much made my year right there.

SJ's birthday "if only..."

Oh SJ, what's with having your birthday fall on a Tuesday (and during my busiest week at work)? What's with that? If only you could have scheduled it for a weekend or something, I could have made you something decadent to celebrate, like this:

(grasshopper bars: creme de menthe, chocolate and sinful deliciousness)

And I wouldn't have given them to you in a glass dish with the knife still in it. No, I would have wrapped them up nicely, like this:

And, if I had the time like I usually have on the weekends, I could have bought a funny card, written something funny in it and put it with the grasshopper bars, like this:

And then you could have put them into your fridge to keep cold until you ready to eat them, which would look sort of like this:

No, wait. Actually, it would look exactly like that. Or, if you stepped back, like this:

Check your fridge when you get home, SJ. Because no one should be without alcohol and chocolate on their special day. Happy Birthday, my friend! Hope it's a good one.

Just substitute "soda" for "margaritas" and "spaghetti sauce" for "guacamole"-- being practical can be no fun

I'm becoming an expert on aging. I feel like getting old is becoming something of a theme for me around here. And this post is not going to help dispel that.

Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo. Ole! The traditional Mexican celebration of... "I'm not sure, but bring on the Coronas and margaritas." We got together with the BAC family, as we do once a week during the "American Idol" season (before you judge, you should know that only Mrs. BAC and the Pretend Husband actually watch the show-- BAC and I are just there to get yelled at for making comments and talking while people are singing).

Anyway, we commented about how it was Cinco de Mayo and we should definitely order out for Mexican food and the guys would go to pick it up and stay for a margarita or two while the food was being prepared. And then we got all logical (this is where being old comes in) and thought, "But the Mexican restaurant is going to be so busy on Cinco de Mayo. But you know what won't be? The Italian place. Let's go there!"

So we celebrated the old Mexican holiday of Cinco de Mayo... with linguine in clam sauce and eggplant parmesan. But the PH did put a lime in his beer-- does that count for anything?

Some marketing person thinks I'm old

It happened. A J. Jill catalog came in the mail yesterday. This morning, I started flipping through it. And while some of their stuff is nice, I guess, I am definitely not in their preferred demographic. Because, for example, I'm not 40 and planning to live at our summer home at the Hamptons for three months. So there's no reason for me to have "shimmer linen cropped pants" and "Wearever tunics" and "raffia totes." Especially not at J. Jill prices.

Being a J. Jill target, on top of the Lands End and LL Bean catalogs I've been getting lately, has started to get me down a bit. I'm not quite ready for high-rise mom jeans. No, I don't need summer white denim with flowy cardigans, perfect for those cool evenings by the ocean. And I see no need for sensible shoes when chasing after the little ones (partly because of the lack of "little ones" and partly because I'm still in a "completely insensible but totally cute" shoe phase)

And I wondered what purchase I made lately that tipped off J. Jill that I'm rapidly approaching the age where $139 linen tunics seem like a good idea. But, just as I started to feel too old, I flipped over the catalog. It is addressed to the Pretend Husband. I'll just put it right over here next to his latest membership offer from AARP.

It distracted them from continuously hinting about us providing them grandchildren...

The Pretend Husband and I joined forces this weekend to host the family holiday dinner. We cleaned, we moved tables around, we shopped for food, we cleaned some more, we set tables, we cooked... it was a beautiful thing (and fun and tiring, too). The one thing we hadn't counted on-- and which will be done better-- is the timing of the meal and the draw of the kitchen.

I was in charge of the mashed potatoes and had planned to have them made before anyone arrived, but the PH convinced me it would be better to time the cooking of the potatoes so I mashed them just before dinner and they stayed hot. We also thought the island in the kitchen would be the perfect place to lay out the appetizers. Which is how I ended up with an audience as I finished making the mashed potatoes-- an uncle even commented that it was like a cooking show as everyone stood around and watched me with the potatoes and the PH carve up the turkey and the ham.

And it wasn't so bad until I stirred the pan of corn very vigorously, sending some flying across the counter and onto the floor. The "audience" all started talking at once, ribbing me for my lack of culinary skill. And the PH started yelling at me because-- and I'm not even sure how he made this leap in logic-- he thought I had turned the stove up too high and the corn had started popping. Next year: potatoes made in advance and appetizers laid out in any room other than the kitchen.

Another amusing thing was the Pretend In-laws and Pretend Aunt and Uncles playing Wii after dinner for more than three hours. They went off into the other room to play that while the PH, his sister and I sat and talked without having to be interrupted by the "kids" and their video games. Normally, we would have cut them off before that but they were playing so nicely together and it gave us adults a chance to socialize without them bugging us every five minutes to ask about dessert.

How to get your house egged in three easy steps

Since we moved into our new-old house, we’ve been dealing with a “situation.” I have been transformed– kicking and screaming and with a lot of whining to the Pretend Husband– into the neighborhood witch. You know, that mean lady down the block who would keep your ball if it accidentally got thrown into her yard? That’s apparently me.

 We have a pond in our yard next to our house. It’s a nice pond that was one of the reasons I was most excited to move back to that house… and one of the reasons the PH was dreading it (silly lawyer with all his worrying about lawsuits!). It all started this winter when I looked out the window to see someone shoveling off the pond while his four kids ice skated around him. Wait, what?!? I hadn’t been on the ice, hadn’t checked to make sure it was safe and definitely hadn’t invited anyone to skate.

We let it go because we weren’t sure if my dad had given anyone permission to skate (and we were sure the ice was safe). But after talking to Dad and finding out he hadn’t given anyone blanket permission that would extend beyond him owning the home, then finding out a school vacation day had brought a whole bunch of kids onto the pond (without adults) while we were at work, we decided to needed to set some rules. For the record, I was all, “But not everyone is lucky enough to have a pond in their yard and it would be a good way to meet people and…” (The PH was all, “All we need is someone breaking through the ice and suing us! We could lose the house! How would you feel if someone got hurt in our yard?!?”) (The PH is a lot more logical than I am, obviously.)

I was all for holding neighborhood skate parties… until I looked out the window to see someone clearing the ice with a snow blower he had dragged down the road from a quarter-mile away and then was extremely dismissive when I went out to talk to him about our concerns. Then it was on like Donkey Kong.

So it’s been a struggle the last few months (until, thankfully, the ice melted) with a plan of attack that included me enlisting Neighbor Lady Z to keep watch (we have awesome neighbors who keep an eye on things for us and are willing to not only put up with us, but to lend us things and do things for us like moving our piano), me having to chase two 10-year-olds off the ice (“Did you know this is private property?” “Noooo.” “Really? Did you think it was a park? No, it’s my yard.”) and us having to consider asking the police to swing by our yard on school vacation days (which we luckily never had to do).

And I thought this had all ended (without me bitching and moaning about it on the blog even!) until I had a dream the other night that I looked outside to see that someone had set up those bounce house things on the edge of the pond. When I went outside, a couple of girls were hang gliding over the water and Neighbor Lady Z’s husband and kids were swimming in the pond. Then I got in a fight with Neighbor Lady Z’s husband because he thought I was being mean for asking everyone to get off our property (when in reality, he agrees with our concerns).

If we make it through the summer without having our cars broken into or our house egged, I will be shocked. And yes, I AM keeping your ball. Maybe next time you’ll be more careful where you throw it.

My cheeks are burning as I type this...

In lieu of amusing you today, I'm going to confess something completely and utterly embarrassing (which, come to think of it, probably will amuse you). Did you ever have a dream (perhaps even a dream where you are-- ahem-- getting intimate...) about somebody that you would never, ever think about-- ahem-- getting intimate with in real life?

But you have that dream and the next time you see them, either in real life (or say... on the news), you're completely embarrassed and can't even look them in the eye (or even look at them on the screen...)? Yeah, I had one of those last night. And I soooo don't want to admit who it was because I do find it incredibly embarrassing. But, I can't think of anything else to write about today, so I will share. It was...

Barack Obama

Augh! I can't even type it without my face turning totally red. I'm not even sure why I'm so mortified by this confession of mine (except who dreams about getting lucky with politicians--  and does not having this dream about a rock star or a model make me old?!?), but I do know one thing. I will feel so much better if you tell me something embarrassing about yourself. (And if you do happen to know Michelle Obama, could you tell her I apologize for dream macking on her husband? Thanks.)

As if I didn't feel old enough already...

The Pretend Husband woke up Saturday with a pain in his foot. Although he had been drinking with a friend the night before, he couldn't remember falling or kicking anything. The pain continued through the weekend with the PH rebuffing my attempts to get him to see a doctor. At one point, as he winced in pain, I asked him if it was worse than labor pains, but he said he couldn't determine that.

The pain got worse over the next three days until he couldn't stand it any longer and got an appointment with the doctor this morning. And the diagnosis? He has gout.

GOUT! As in, the disease usually only seen in old people or movies about life in the 1800s. I didn't even realize you could get gout anymore. I thought it had gone the way of the mumps or those Victorian-era vapors or something.

But he has it... and to save you a trip to WebMD, I'll tell you that it's a build-up of acid in the joints that causes extreme pain. And the kicker? (pun totally intended) It's actually described on the Internet as just as bad, if not worse than, labor pains (which the PH has mentioned so much I threatened to punch him in the head the next time I have to hear it...)

And the other thing? The pain is made worse by excessive alcohol intake and large amounts of protein. So the steak and beer the PH consumed on Sunday to take his mind off the pain may not have been such a good idea after all.

Well, at least SJ will have someone to wait with at the ER...

I don't know if it's from getting older or hanging out with SJ too much or what, but my lack of coordination has been increasing lately (although it probably says something that I just searched our blog for "fell off chair" and three posts came up, including this oh-so-coordinated moment when I fell off my office chair).

Well, yesterday was a good example of why I maybe need to be wrapped up in bubble wrap and made to sit on the couch with SJ instead of, say, playing soccer or, you know, walking. It started when I not once, but twice, smashed my ankle against a chair while trying to stand up. The Pretend Husband just shook his head as I writhed in pain.

But it was even better (and in public!) when I lost all coordination at my soccer game last night. The first incident was while I was on the field and got tripped by a woman from the other team. It was one of those slow-motion times when you try to catch yourself, almost do, start to fall over again, writhe around trying to keep yourself from falling, start to stand up and then fall flat on your face (or, in my case, right on the ball). It felt like it took a full 20 seconds for all this to happen, although I'm sure it wasn't quite that much of a show. 

Then, while standing on the side of the field, the ball was kicked toward me and instead of scooping it up like a normal person, I took a step back to get out of the way. Except my soccer bag was right behind me and I fell backward over onto my butt. Well, except there was a huge net behind me that caught me and left me in an awkward crouch flailing around trying to stand back up. It would have been fine with me if no one noticed, but of course everyone was looking toward the ball at the time (and the dude from the other team coming over to get the ball had to ask me if I was OK, drawing even more attention to the flopping fish of a woman trying to de-tangle herself from the net).

I sat on my office chair verrrrrry carefully this morning and plan on staying here, without trying to walk or move around, for the rest of the day. I think it's safest for us all that way.

I would have been sweeping entire displays of Breyer's off the shelf into my cart

The Pretend Husband and I hit up the grocery store on Sunday morning, something we always try to avoid because... well, you've probably all been to the grocery store on a weekend so I'm sure I don't need to explain any further. I have to admit that it wasn't that bad because the PH pushed the cart around the outside of the store while I darted up and down the aisles, but still, so.many.people.in.my.way.

Well, in the midst of our shopping, a store employee made an announcement that some lady and her kid had won  a 60-second shopping spree and were going to be running through the store in a few minutes. Then, they warned everyone to clear a path for her, gave a countdown...  and she was off.

We watched from about halfway down the store as this woman came (somewhat leisurely) running out of an aisle and booked for the seafood department. Am I the only one who thinks it's a bad idea to hold this kind of contest when the store is packed and it just snowed (so the floors are wet from boots tracking it all in)? This poor woman was probably concentrating more on not breaking her neck than getting a bunch of free food.

We watched as no one moved out of this woman's way and she threw a couple of different cuts of meat into her cart then ran (in a sauntering manner... I would have done so much better) toward... the syrup aisle? We didn't see if she grabbed some maple syrup or perhaps some cold cereal, but would that really have been your next stop? Someone obviously never watched "Supermarket Sweep."

And you can add this one to the list of "How I Know I'm Getting Old" because my thought while watching this poor woman try to score some free meat wasn't "Oh, how fun," but rather, "Oh my gosh, what if she slips and falls? Hasn't anyone thought of the store's liability if something happens?" (Can you tell I'm married to an attorney?)

Maybe when I'm 40 he'll believe I've finally grown up...

I’m feeding two beagles while my dad and his fiancée are out of town (note to burglars: their house is not empty; it is filled with gun-toting men and Pit Bulls). Because my dad is my dad, he wrote out pages of instructions for me (note to Dad: I’m 32! I can handle this!)

 The instructions included notes on how to use the alarm system, how to use the garage door opener, what to do if the alarm goes off and which lights and doors to use while I’m there. (Strangely, it included no instructions on what food and vitamins to give the dogs… I had to just remember that stuff.)

On top of the novel filled with instructions, my dad walked me through the house to point out the alarm keypads, to talk about the times he’s accidentally set it off and to imitate it for me at the top of his lungs (“INTRUDER! INTRUDER! LEAVE IMMEDIATELY!”) Oh, and he gave me the invaluable advice that if I ever pull up to the house and the alarm is going off, I should not go into the house (Uh, thanks Dad. Because I was going to pull my shotgun out from under the seat of my car and go teach those burglars a lesson?) After about an hour, I got a little antsy with the process agreeing to feed the dogs had turned into, so I started getting a little smartass.

Me: Dad, I might use your Jacuzzi while you’re gone.

Dad: Definitely. You and [the Pretend Husband] should come over and watch TV, eat whatever you want and you can even stay over if you want (note: he lives 5 miles from our house, but whatever…)

Me: Can we have friends over?

Dad: Well… you can have one friend come over.

Me: One? What if we want to have SJ and J over?

Dad’s Fiancée (catching on to what I’m doing): Yeah, what if it’s a married couple? Can they have a another couple over?

Dad: OK. You can have one couple come with you.

Me: But what if I want to have a few friends over?

Dad: No. Just two friends.

Me: Please? C’mon, Dad. If your parents go out of town, you’re supposed to have a party.

Dad: No. No parties.

(Yup, 32 years old and I own my own house... and I still have to be warned not to go after burglars and forbidden to have parties while my parents are out of town!)

Since when does "cheap crap" not include balloons and party hats?

We had a surprise dinner for my dad's birthday the other night (at the Chinese buffet... because we're classy like that). When we got to the restaurant, I was lamenting the fact that I hadn't had time to pick up some party hats and balloons for our little group (because the only thing classier than celebrating a birthday at the Chinese buffet is looking like an idiot while you do it). My little brother (who is actually more than six-and-a-half feet tall) offered to run into the discount place next door and buy hats.

Lil' bro comes running in a few minutes later without hats or balloons and starts to bitch about what happened.

"So, I walk into the store and there's color everywhere! And of course nothing is organized, so I walk up to the woman at the front and say, 'Do you have party hats?' and she looks at me like I just asked the most inappropriate question ever and says, 'Party hats?' I say, 'Yes, hats you would wear for a party?' and she says, with the biggest attitude, 'If you want party hats, you're going to have to go to one of those party stores.'" (Oh yes, because apparently a party store is the only kind of place that would carry party supplies... because you can't find that stuff in a Wal-Mart or a Target or almost any other discount store, oh no)

So lil' bro goes running through the store ("I covered that place in about 45 seconds.") but, to his chagrin, "There was nothing, not even a tiara I could make Dad wear."

We are still wondering how the discount place doesn't carry party supplies, but as one of our friends pointed out, "How much can you discount a 39-cent balloon?" So, Dad didn't get a ridiculous hat to wear for his birthday, but the Chinese buffet staff made up for it by playing a version of Happy Birthday on the restaurant sound system that sounded like it was being sung by a Mexican Mariachi band. And if that doesn't say, "Dad, we love you and hope this was the best birthday yet," I don't know what does. 

I have a little crush on the Pope.

okay. not the real pope. because that would be wrong.

but i mean the pope from the Connecticut Renaissance Faire. i spent some time chatting with the pretend pope when i was hiding from the various random men that tend to ogle you when you wear outfits like the one i was wearing. (totally my fault i realize, but you cannot authentically sing sea shanties in jeans and graphic tees.)

that dude (the pope, i mean) is living the dream. i mean, really. he's an entertainer who makes a living out of entertaining. i find it incredibly admirable. i wish i had a sustainable talent that would allow me to do that. but alas. i don't, ergo, i have a day job.

but today my day job let me do something rather fun. namely: go talk to little kids about the value of newspapers. today is national newspaper week, so in honor of that, i went to talk to a classroom of fifth graders all about their newspapers.

andy, you'll be happy to know they still read them.

i was a little nervous that i'd walk in with a pile of newspapers and the children would stare blankly at me like i was holding some obscure thing from the past -- like perhaps that spoon that was invented in the 1790s that was designed to shoot medicine to the back of your throat to circumvent the horrid taste as this was before the discovery of high fructose corn syrup?

you know. something like that.

but no. they totally got it. but how alarmed was i that the children didn't seem at all impressed that the first online newspaper "recently" debuted in 1994? likely because they, in fact, were not born until 1998. 1994 was 14 freakin' years ago. that's a freshmen in high school.

when i was a freshmen in high school, the extent of our technology was message boards on prodigy. (anyone? can i get a holla back for message boards?) i can't imagine having a high school relationship in the days of instant messenger.

there is *no way* i would have sustained a relationship longer than an hour.

Zicam is *Not* flavorless

i have my first cold of the season. dammit. i HATE having a cold. and i haven't been sick since april, so i'm a huge baby about it.

but i'm powering through it because i want to go see this singer tonight in New Haven because i just love her and i'm trying to set up two friends. so i'm loading up on various kinds of drugs. most recently, i took some motrin to treat the body aches and sore throat. this morning, i took tylenol cold and sinus.

and last night? i took the most disgusting medicine i've ever had: zicam. it's like the equivalent of rancid sprite syrup in your juice and then sucking it down.

nasty. and they market it as "virtually flavorless." whatever. if that's the case, then i'm virtually a supermodel millionaire.

bah! i'm going to go curl up with my vicks-scented tissues now. wake me when it's time for me to drag my carcass out to a bar in new haven.