Wow...I'm exhausted. 2016 was quite the year. I don't know about you, but when I go back through my calendar, and take a look at what I have done and seen and experienced and accomplished in 365 days, I smile and feel proud...and tired.
2016, I'm actually sad to leave you behind. Before you are totally out of the rear view mirror, let's take a ride down memory lane, shall we?
In no particular order, I have...
* seen and felt Joy (the former starring Jennifer Lawrence)
* been snowed out of NYC, sadly
* shared meals and drinks with the best of the best
* showered Tristen, Katrina, and Jenny with love and best wishes for their next adventures
* disregarded all sorts of acceptable hygiene standards during Girls Weekend down the Cape
* "ran" two 5ks
* cheered at PawSox games at McCoy, Sox games at Fenway, and Revs games at Gillette
* taken a pole dancing class in...Vegas? No. NYC? No. Portland, ME, of all places
* spent all of my saved HSA dollars to get a scar on my left arm and the pity of loved ones
* been named Blue Angel of the Year for my work in the community
* been entertained by Dave Matthews Band, World Premier Band, TransMission, Wayz and Means, Elf the Musical, Disaster, An Act of God, and La Reve
* said goodbye to Big Papi...and cried on the way to and from the game in the car...while listening to One Moment In Time
* danced at the weddings of Marissa and Adam, Katrina and Corey, and Jenny and Marco
* interacted with plenty of animals at
Roger Williams Zoo, The Big E, and OKCupid
* proudly voted for Hillary...and I'd do it again
* upheld longtime traditions at The Fort
* developed a healthy obsession with Scientology
I hope that 2017 is super competitive and tries to beat out this past year.
May you all have a happy and healthy 2017!
Monday, January 9, 2017
Sunday, January 1, 2017
Burst Bubble
All of us have had our sights on something for hours or days or months or even years, and just when you think you have it within your grasp, it slips away. The bubble bursts.
Sometimes it is a promotion, a new relationship, a new home, or a big, lofty personal goal.
Other times, it's a burrito bowl.
I woke up this morning craving a burrito bowl...badly. As a responsible, sensible adult, I held off until late afternoon before placing an online order to be picked up an hour or so later.
After placing my dream order, I changed and freshened up before venturing out into the winter cold, and happily exited my condo. I made two quick stops before hopping on 95 South.
I made my way towards the holy grail and as I pulled into the parking lot, I quickly got discouraged and annoyed. The restaurant was dark. Closed.
Why would the restaurant app allow me to place an online order if the restaurant wasn't open? Why weren't holiday hours posted within their app site? Don't they know that I passed two other tasty Mexican restaurants to get to them?
Maybe it's the universe holding a Mexican food intervention for me...?
Sometimes it is a promotion, a new relationship, a new home, or a big, lofty personal goal.
Other times, it's a burrito bowl.
I woke up this morning craving a burrito bowl...badly. As a responsible, sensible adult, I held off until late afternoon before placing an online order to be picked up an hour or so later.
After placing my dream order, I changed and freshened up before venturing out into the winter cold, and happily exited my condo. I made two quick stops before hopping on 95 South.
I made my way towards the holy grail and as I pulled into the parking lot, I quickly got discouraged and annoyed. The restaurant was dark. Closed.
Why would the restaurant app allow me to place an online order if the restaurant wasn't open? Why weren't holiday hours posted within their app site? Don't they know that I passed two other tasty Mexican restaurants to get to them?
Maybe it's the universe holding a Mexican food intervention for me...?
Saturday, December 10, 2016
Yellow Jacket To The Rescue
Yesterday afternoon, I drove to downtown Providence to pick up a Christmas gift for a family member.
I was lucky enough to find on-street, metered parking right out front without a problem. My only "problem" was that I did not have any quarters or other change on me.
Luckily for me, Providence parking meters take credit cards. I tried to finagle the meter for a bit to pay for only 15 minutes, knowing that my errand would not take very long. I could not get the duration to change from the two-hour maximum.
I asked a passerby if it was a requirement to pay for the full two hours while using a credit card. He seemed to be from out of town and did not know the answer. I thanked him anyway as he shrugged his shoulders and continued on his way.
I messed around with the meter a bit more, and was just about to bite the bullet and pay for the two hours, which would have cost me a whopping $2.50, when a gentleman in a Providence Street Team yellow jacket came walking towards me.
I asked him the question of the hour, the same question that I asked the initial passerby. He said that the meters in the city assumed the maximum time duration when dealing with cards.
That's when he completely shocked me. He pulled out a quarter from his pocket and put it in the machine for me. 12 minutes for free.
I realize that this is such a small gesture, but it really meant a lot to me. He could have just said "too bad, lady" and walked away. Instead, he went above and beyond to be kind and generous to a complete stranger.
Thank you, Mr. Yellow Jacket for your good deed.
I was lucky enough to find on-street, metered parking right out front without a problem. My only "problem" was that I did not have any quarters or other change on me.
Luckily for me, Providence parking meters take credit cards. I tried to finagle the meter for a bit to pay for only 15 minutes, knowing that my errand would not take very long. I could not get the duration to change from the two-hour maximum.
I asked a passerby if it was a requirement to pay for the full two hours while using a credit card. He seemed to be from out of town and did not know the answer. I thanked him anyway as he shrugged his shoulders and continued on his way.
I messed around with the meter a bit more, and was just about to bite the bullet and pay for the two hours, which would have cost me a whopping $2.50, when a gentleman in a Providence Street Team yellow jacket came walking towards me.
(Not actual man I saw.)
I asked him the question of the hour, the same question that I asked the initial passerby. He said that the meters in the city assumed the maximum time duration when dealing with cards.
That's when he completely shocked me. He pulled out a quarter from his pocket and put it in the machine for me. 12 minutes for free.
I realize that this is such a small gesture, but it really meant a lot to me. He could have just said "too bad, lady" and walked away. Instead, he went above and beyond to be kind and generous to a complete stranger.
Thank you, Mr. Yellow Jacket for your good deed.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Scallops And A Side Eye
A recent dining experience got me thinking about at what age parents or caretakers should bring young children into restaurants...or public, in general.
As a single woman, a lover of children but mother to none, I smile at kids on the street, wave to them in stores and restaurants, and enjoy being silly with them. That being said, I think there are some places and in some situations where it's better to keep them at home.
I recently went to a local restaurant with my father. We were seated at the front of the restaurant with a great view of the quaint street and the passers-by. It was an Indian summer night so the windows were open. It was lovely.
Unfortunately, our conversation about work, recent travel, and the upcoming holiday season was interrupted by the sound of plastic toys hitting the wood floor and sliding across the room into the legs of other tables. I couldn't understand why the mother would get up, pick up the toys, and hand them right back to the young boy...without any reprimand. Her doing that, obviously, turned this into a game.
For several minutes, this went on with a side of childlike, bloody-murder screams. At one point, I turned and gave a side eye to the mother.
Once they finally left the restaurant...many toy tosses later, I said to my dad that that type of behavior NEVER would've been tolerated in our family in the early eighties. I grew up with a healthy amount of fear of my parents. My parents never would've allowed me to behave that way in a nice, softly-lit, quiet restaurant.
I can understand how hard it must be to marry parenthood and being a human who enjoys leaving the house. I sympathize with you...really.
On behalf of singles and parents on a rare date night country-wide, if you bring the youngsters out and they are not well behaved or well trained, we'll gladly accept a free round (or more) of drinks as an apology.
As a single woman, a lover of children but mother to none, I smile at kids on the street, wave to them in stores and restaurants, and enjoy being silly with them. That being said, I think there are some places and in some situations where it's better to keep them at home.
I recently went to a local restaurant with my father. We were seated at the front of the restaurant with a great view of the quaint street and the passers-by. It was an Indian summer night so the windows were open. It was lovely.
Unfortunately, our conversation about work, recent travel, and the upcoming holiday season was interrupted by the sound of plastic toys hitting the wood floor and sliding across the room into the legs of other tables. I couldn't understand why the mother would get up, pick up the toys, and hand them right back to the young boy...without any reprimand. Her doing that, obviously, turned this into a game.
For several minutes, this went on with a side of childlike, bloody-murder screams. At one point, I turned and gave a side eye to the mother.
Once they finally left the restaurant...many toy tosses later, I said to my dad that that type of behavior NEVER would've been tolerated in our family in the early eighties. I grew up with a healthy amount of fear of my parents. My parents never would've allowed me to behave that way in a nice, softly-lit, quiet restaurant.
I can understand how hard it must be to marry parenthood and being a human who enjoys leaving the house. I sympathize with you...really.
On behalf of singles and parents on a rare date night country-wide, if you bring the youngsters out and they are not well behaved or well trained, we'll gladly accept a free round (or more) of drinks as an apology.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Into A Million Pieces
Something happened to me this week that has changed the course of my life forever. Everything that I have ever known about myself and what makes me tick has been turned on its head. I have one person to thank for this revelation. Let me explain.
I've always been a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup super fan. I remember even convincing my younger new-to-trick-or-treating brother that chocolate was different from candy, and that he liked candy. I did him the favor of switching out Reese's and Milky Ways for Smarties and Mike & Ikes.
Peanut Butter Cups are my ice cream topping of choice and I stock up at the holiday egg and tree times. (The ratio of chocolate and peanut butter is ideal at the holidays.)
This was a truth in my life until Monday.
I was reintroduced to Reese's Pieces by a colleague. They blew my mind. I loved the crunchy candy shell more than I thought I would.
Have they changed over the years or have they always been life changing?
I've always been a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup super fan. I remember even convincing my younger new-to-trick-or-treating brother that chocolate was different from candy, and that he liked candy. I did him the favor of switching out Reese's and Milky Ways for Smarties and Mike & Ikes.
Peanut Butter Cups are my ice cream topping of choice and I stock up at the holiday egg and tree times. (The ratio of chocolate and peanut butter is ideal at the holidays.)
This was a truth in my life until Monday.
I was reintroduced to Reese's Pieces by a colleague. They blew my mind. I loved the crunchy candy shell more than I thought I would.
Have they changed over the years or have they always been life changing?
Friday, August 5, 2016
12 Gnarly Stitches: A Cautionary Tale
My last name ends with a vowel. Because of that fact, one might think, without meeting me, that I am Italian with flawless, olive-toned skin.
They would be wrong.
I am 75% Irish with pale, freckled skin to match.
From a very young age, I learned not to play with the Sun. I am far too fragile and delicate for that. In fact, some of my most vivid childhood memories involve peeling layers of skin and the scent of aloe.
A bottle of green aloe remained in my childhood refrigerator for as long as I can remember. I am willing to bet that my mother has one in the door of her refrigerator at this very moment.
In middle school, I got an undiagnosed case of sun poisoning. Luckily, it was in a discreet location...just above my upper lip. Always the way, right?
I have never really been a beach bum. I enjoy the beach, but the aftermath has always trumped the actual experience. I don't enjoy the sand and crashing waves enough to willingly make it difficult to move around or sleep.
I never really considered the thought that these adorable freckles of mine would morph into something more serious. That happened to older people...careless people who went to tanning salons or went to the beach armed with coconut oil.
I was careful. I would always be the suntan lotion wielding friend. You know, the annoying one asking, "can you get my back?" The one that would, after 10 or 15 minutes, get too hot, reapply and reapply, and lay the rest the day under an umbrella or hiding underneath long sleeves and long pants.
It wasn't until 2014 that I went to the dermatologist for the first time. She took photos of two freckles and advised that I monitor them. A very difficult task when they are on your back.
In late April 2016, I developed a small bump on the back of my neck. I shrugged it off as nothing to worry about. After a few weeks, it started to grow and became a bit more tender to touch. I made an appointment with the dermatologist. I was in and out of that office in 20 minutes, but not before they emptied the cyst. Painless!
Two weeks later, I went back for my follow-up appointment. At that time, they did a full body scan of my skin. They checked the size of the two freckles from 2014 and those had no significant changes. Phew!
Not so fast! What is that?
The staffer pointed out a small freckle on the back side of my left arm. She took photos and then ask another nurse for a second opinion.
She confirmed that it looked suspicious, and they immediately did a biopsy on the area.
A few weeks later, I was sitting at work during a ridiculously awful day, and my cell phone rang. A phone number that I recognized...the dermatologist office.
The woman on the other end of the phone said the phrases "pre-cancerous cells", "moderate-to-severe", and "plastic surgeon". Oh great! Cue the tears.
A week or so later, a local plastic surgeon's office staff gave me a call to schedule a consultation. Once I met with the doctor, he confirmed that it was, indeed, pre-cancerous cells and explained the procedure that I was to have at the end of July. He explained that the incision would be in the shape of a football so that when stitching me back up, I wouldn't have an unruly scar.
On Friday, July 22nd, my friend and emergency contact picked me up at my condo and brought me to my appointment. I told her many times that it was not necessary, but that's what friends do.
My procedure was relatively quick and painless. The size of the incision, however, surprised me a little bit. I had no idea that it would be as large as it was. Especially because the size of the biopsy area seemed so much smaller.
The following days were very low key. I stayed in the air conditioning, and propped up my arm. It was a day or two before I felt comfortable enough to change my bandages on my own.
Having a medical procedure on your arm in the dead heat of summer may not have been the best idea, but I did not want to put this off. So, there I was, the only chucklehead at work or in Providence, really, that was wearing long sleeves the last week of July and first week of August. Had I not, hundreds of people would have asked about why I had a huge bandage and a large bruise on the back of my arm.
On Friday, July 29th, I went back to the doctor and my stitches were removed. He confirmed that the initial procedure had wiped out all of the precancerous cells from the area, and I was good to go.
I am still covering the area because the bruising is still there a bit and I am helping secure the stitches with butterfly bandages. I am thinking a couple more days will do it.
I realize this was a really long narrative about something relatively minor. Luckily, my story ends there...just a few checkups later this year to make sure that all is well.
My reasoning for sharing this story now is that, as things were happening, I did not tell many...just my family and closest friends. Because I didn't know what I was looking at, if I had told people what I knew, they would be asking for the results. That was a conversation that I was not ready to have, if I had needed to.
Luckily, this is simply a cautionary tale. Be sure to wear your sunscreen, and make sure you go to the doctor and dermatologist on a regular basis.
They would be wrong.
I am 75% Irish with pale, freckled skin to match.
From a very young age, I learned not to play with the Sun. I am far too fragile and delicate for that. In fact, some of my most vivid childhood memories involve peeling layers of skin and the scent of aloe.
A bottle of green aloe remained in my childhood refrigerator for as long as I can remember. I am willing to bet that my mother has one in the door of her refrigerator at this very moment.
In middle school, I got an undiagnosed case of sun poisoning. Luckily, it was in a discreet location...just above my upper lip. Always the way, right?
I have never really been a beach bum. I enjoy the beach, but the aftermath has always trumped the actual experience. I don't enjoy the sand and crashing waves enough to willingly make it difficult to move around or sleep.
I never really considered the thought that these adorable freckles of mine would morph into something more serious. That happened to older people...careless people who went to tanning salons or went to the beach armed with coconut oil.
I was careful. I would always be the suntan lotion wielding friend. You know, the annoying one asking, "can you get my back?" The one that would, after 10 or 15 minutes, get too hot, reapply and reapply, and lay the rest the day under an umbrella or hiding underneath long sleeves and long pants.
It wasn't until 2014 that I went to the dermatologist for the first time. She took photos of two freckles and advised that I monitor them. A very difficult task when they are on your back.
In late April 2016, I developed a small bump on the back of my neck. I shrugged it off as nothing to worry about. After a few weeks, it started to grow and became a bit more tender to touch. I made an appointment with the dermatologist. I was in and out of that office in 20 minutes, but not before they emptied the cyst. Painless!
Two weeks later, I went back for my follow-up appointment. At that time, they did a full body scan of my skin. They checked the size of the two freckles from 2014 and those had no significant changes. Phew!
Not so fast! What is that?
The staffer pointed out a small freckle on the back side of my left arm. She took photos and then ask another nurse for a second opinion.
She confirmed that it looked suspicious, and they immediately did a biopsy on the area.
A few weeks later, I was sitting at work during a ridiculously awful day, and my cell phone rang. A phone number that I recognized...the dermatologist office.
The woman on the other end of the phone said the phrases "pre-cancerous cells", "moderate-to-severe", and "plastic surgeon". Oh great! Cue the tears.
A week or so later, a local plastic surgeon's office staff gave me a call to schedule a consultation. Once I met with the doctor, he confirmed that it was, indeed, pre-cancerous cells and explained the procedure that I was to have at the end of July. He explained that the incision would be in the shape of a football so that when stitching me back up, I wouldn't have an unruly scar.
On Friday, July 22nd, my friend and emergency contact picked me up at my condo and brought me to my appointment. I told her many times that it was not necessary, but that's what friends do.
My procedure was relatively quick and painless. The size of the incision, however, surprised me a little bit. I had no idea that it would be as large as it was. Especially because the size of the biopsy area seemed so much smaller.
Having a medical procedure on your arm in the dead heat of summer may not have been the best idea, but I did not want to put this off. So, there I was, the only chucklehead at work or in Providence, really, that was wearing long sleeves the last week of July and first week of August. Had I not, hundreds of people would have asked about why I had a huge bandage and a large bruise on the back of my arm.
On Friday, July 29th, I went back to the doctor and my stitches were removed. He confirmed that the initial procedure had wiped out all of the precancerous cells from the area, and I was good to go.
I am still covering the area because the bruising is still there a bit and I am helping secure the stitches with butterfly bandages. I am thinking a couple more days will do it.
I realize this was a really long narrative about something relatively minor. Luckily, my story ends there...just a few checkups later this year to make sure that all is well.
My reasoning for sharing this story now is that, as things were happening, I did not tell many...just my family and closest friends. Because I didn't know what I was looking at, if I had told people what I knew, they would be asking for the results. That was a conversation that I was not ready to have, if I had needed to.
Luckily, this is simply a cautionary tale. Be sure to wear your sunscreen, and make sure you go to the doctor and dermatologist on a regular basis.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Taxi Cab Lottery
About a month ago, I flew from Las Vegas to TF Green Airport. After an unexpected delay in Las Vegas and a scheduled layover in Chicago, I did not land in Rhode Island until after 11 p.m.
I took my carry-on and swiftly made my way to the taxi line. I was fourth in line, which was pretty good positioning to get out and home at a decent hour. Unfortunately, there were no cabs waiting.
After several minutes, I called the cab company that had driven me to the airport earlier that week. When I told them about how many people were in line...many people lined up behind me...they stated that they would be sending some of their drivers. It was a Saturday night so it was fairly busy.
Slowly but surely, the taxis started to arrive. When I approached the front of the line, finally, a yellow cab pulled up to the curb, assisted me with my luggage, and proceeded to ask the people lined up behind me if they were going in the same direction. This process took way longer than I would've liked.
A couple from the complete other side of town got in the cab, apologized to me, and buckled their safety belts. The taxi driver notified us that he would be dropping the couple off first.
I immediately turned into a raging bitch.
Excuse me? This was my cab! It's freakin' late and I want to go home. The last thing I want to do right now is take a tour of the city (in which I reside) in the middle of the night, see the outline of Mary and Steve's new house, and listen to you try to calm me down, sir.
Also, I don't appreciate you trying to distract me by forcing small talk or by saying that it'll be worth my while, charging me just $10 for the tour. I should already be in bed! I hate you.
It wasn't poor Mary and Steve's fault. Hell, I don't even know if those are their actual names. Probably not.
That being said, I can't help but resent them for winning the taxi cab lottery.
And, you, sir, if I ever lay eyes on you again and actually recognize that it is you, you're in big trouble. Big. Huge.
I took my carry-on and swiftly made my way to the taxi line. I was fourth in line, which was pretty good positioning to get out and home at a decent hour. Unfortunately, there were no cabs waiting.
After several minutes, I called the cab company that had driven me to the airport earlier that week. When I told them about how many people were in line...many people lined up behind me...they stated that they would be sending some of their drivers. It was a Saturday night so it was fairly busy.
Slowly but surely, the taxis started to arrive. When I approached the front of the line, finally, a yellow cab pulled up to the curb, assisted me with my luggage, and proceeded to ask the people lined up behind me if they were going in the same direction. This process took way longer than I would've liked.
A couple from the complete other side of town got in the cab, apologized to me, and buckled their safety belts. The taxi driver notified us that he would be dropping the couple off first.
I immediately turned into a raging bitch.
Excuse me? This was my cab! It's freakin' late and I want to go home. The last thing I want to do right now is take a tour of the city (in which I reside) in the middle of the night, see the outline of Mary and Steve's new house, and listen to you try to calm me down, sir.
Also, I don't appreciate you trying to distract me by forcing small talk or by saying that it'll be worth my while, charging me just $10 for the tour. I should already be in bed! I hate you.
It wasn't poor Mary and Steve's fault. Hell, I don't even know if those are their actual names. Probably not.
That being said, I can't help but resent them for winning the taxi cab lottery.
And, you, sir, if I ever lay eyes on you again and actually recognize that it is you, you're in big trouble. Big. Huge.
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