Today I had to go to the dentist. I’ve never been a huge dentist hater – 6 years of braces & various orthodontic work will make you very numb to that sort of thing- but these last few visits have been torture. Despite my fantastic oral hygiene my gums are acting as though they’ve never seen a piece of floss in their life, so I get a lot of “tsk tsks” and I now have to come in every 4 months. You know, to make sure my gums are not receding faster than a has-been Hollywood star’s hairline. It is awesome. Also: cheap! (Sarcasm font….)

I’ve tried everything to make these visits less miserable and now I’m at the point where I put in my iPod headphones, turn on my Glee mix, grip the arm rests and hope for the best. Today was particularly brutal and when I emerged from the chair, pale and sweaty and swollen all around my precious teeth (and by precious I mean huge) I headed straight for my happy place. Sephora, the land of sparkles and pretties and cosmetics with sleek packaging all promising to make me beautiful for a mere $45.

I decided to try red lips.

I am undecided as to how I feel about them. No judgies on the unbuckled seatbelt (I had just hopped in a cab and was stuck at a red light and don’t you worry I buckled up right after) or my silly pose. I didn’t want the cab driver to think I was some weirdo who was taking pictures of myself so I was busy pretending to stare at Trump Tower while fiddling with my phone. Also pictured, my crazy Brooke Shield’s eyebrows. Not pictured: my huge teeth.

Sephora did the trick, after a few spritzes of perfume and a free sample or two and perhaps a purchase of some rather promising illuminating cream I felt much better. I’m also left wondering if I go back and buy the red lipstick. Sure, it was a fun distraction while my gums are all swollen but I’m undecided as to whether or not I can consider this an everyday look.

Then again, the shade is called Cruella and…..well……

Close enough.

Subjective Taste

My bio page acknowledges I have bad taste in movies and music. It isn’t that I mean to have bad taste, but how can you explain what you like? I don’t pressure people who eat mushrooms, olives or strawberry flavored ice cream to explain why they like something so foul it should be banned by the FDA. I ask for no pressure in my bad taste in movies. Which is why I readily admitted that last night I watched Twister after dinner.

Some people, (aka awesome people) agreed with me.

Then I remembered that Jen and I are constantly being made fun of for not liking good movies and/or never having seen any “classics” – an accusation I’d fully deny except someone (cough, Jen, cough) has never seen Sixteen Candles and that just kind of hurts my soul deep down inside.

Other people were less than kind:


Of course this is where I admit we didn’t just order one copy of Twister in Blu-Ray. Nope…a double order was placed, for two copies. One for us….and one for the Namby Pamby.

If I’m going to be accused of having bad taste I’m not going down alone.

Speaking of taste, I do have good taste in books…and I’m over at BlogHer today talking about Terry McMillan’s latest novel, Getting to Happy. Come join in the conversation!

Foot In Mouth

B & I have some good friends who have spent the last 8 weeks with their daughter in the NICU (neo-natal intensive care unit) due to some issues that were discovered after she was born. It has been a tough journey and we have been trying hard to be good friends during this time. We spent Saturday evening with them (after visiting their little miss in the NICU the evening before) and they were telling us all the absurd things they have been told by friends and coworkers during the past two months. There were a few gems but the best is easily one of their coworkers, who, after hearing their daughter had been in the hospital for eight weeks and replied:

“Oh yeah…I mean, that isn’t bad. I mean my friend had a baby yesterday and she is still in the hospital.”

Head. Palm. Face.


Between this (travel), that (bike riding) and the other thing (life, being a klutz) I am suddenly covered from head to toe in bruises. The most notable one of the heel of my hand makes me look like I was in a mean street fight:


Subtle, right? Sadly the only story to explain that shiner is that my heavy, steel encased suitcase fell out of the overhead bin per the flight attendant’s warning “Caution, items may have shifted during flight” and I caught all 3o pounds on the corner, with my hand. It felt great, thanks for asking. I also have bumps and scrapes on my entire right arm (bike riding, bike wrestling, hotel latch thingy doodad), my left foot (I think I might have a stress fracture I’m ignoring LALALALALALA and then I dropped my suitcase on it at the airport)  and my right thigh from who knows what.

Do I even mention that my fire ears caused blood vessels to burst in my right ear? No? Ok then. I’ll keep that one to myself.

I think the phrase I’m looking for here is “falling apart” or “train wreck” or something similar. TGIF!

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