There is No Title that Could Possibly Sum Up the Greatest Night of my Life

Saturday night, one of my wildest dreams came true.

Your eyes do not deceive you. That is New Kids on the Block, live in concert, blanketed in smoke machines and sexuality.

While most of the concert I looked like this:

the night did not start off as smoothly as I would have hoped. When our tickets got scanned at the door, we were informed that our section had been shut down and they were moving our seats from the front-row-of-the-upper-level-box-closest-to-the-stage, to the floor, three quarters of the way back from the stage. Meaning that instead of having no one blocking our view, we'd have three quarters of the floor space full of people blocking our view.

This is my "Oh hell no" face, and as you can see by the vomit face on the lady behind me, I wasn't the only one upset.

When calm rationalization didn't seem to effectively make my point to the lady who was giving us our "new and improved" seats, I felt my eyes welling up and a lump in my throat. We had purchased our tickets at the absolute first second they went on sale six months ago. We had strategically chosen the best seats at our price range, selected for our optimal viewing pleasure with no big heads in our way.

No way was I being bumped to the floor waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay back from the stage without a fight.

I planted both hands firmly on the table in front of me, leaned forward and forcefully pleaded my case. Thank goodness Nicole was there to document the moment.

"Listen, listen lady!!We bought these tickets specially advanced because we used an American Express card! We picked the absolute best seats we could afford.
We bought these tickets six months ago.
(Sniffle sniffle, dramatic pause for effect)
But I haven't just been waiting six months to see New Kids on the Block.
I've been waiting my whole life."

I'd like to thank the Academy. Now bring on the New Kids!

This was my face when Jordan came on. He was hands down my first love. I had dangly earrings that said "I Heart Jordan", I had the Jordan doll (and Bone Senior had the Joey doll - don't believe her when she tells you she didn't love him), every single trading card in existence, and a semi-pornographic poster hanging above my bed of Jordan with his shirt half off and his braided rat tail over his shoulder. So hot.I think they had about fifteen costume changes. Here we see Sensitive All-White Sexy Men. Here we also see Jordan's pained expression as he hits those falsetto notes.
This picture is just for Bone Senior because deep down I know she still has love for Joey.
Every time his face was on the big screen or he did a solo, I turned to my friend and screamed, "He is SO CUTE!!!!" And PS - When did Donnie Wahlberg become sexy??And oh my gosh I just about peed myself again when Jordan came out and did this solo, as you can tell by the way I scream at the end. I'm such a little girl.
(Please forgive the poor audio)

And now, the moment you've all been waiting for. The New Kids in all their old school glory, and me, screaming like a fourteen year old girl on a roller coaster. Please to enjoy.

I screamed myself hoarse and my ears were ringing for two days. Hands down the best concert I've ever been to, and totally worth the fifteen-year wait.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

Last night I was staying overnight to babysit two little girls that I used to sit for a few years ago. They wanted to watch "Hairspray", and since I love me some Zac Effron, who am I to object. We were about halfway through the movie when the seven-year-old turns to me thoughtfully...

Girl: You know, I think this movie is teaching us a lesson.

Bone Junior: Yeah? What's that?

Girl: Fat people? They can DANCE!

And here I thought the lesson from "Hairspray" was that Zac Effron is a total dream boat.

In Which Cinemark Messes With the Wrong Bee-yatch

You know I love me some movies. I've blogged before about how particular I am about my seats, how I can't miss the previews, how a loud nose breather can ruin the movie for me, etc etc. I'm even particular about the theaters I go to - there's a certain one that I refuse to visit because of the terrible seats and leg room. In other words, I'm a total movie snob, and I'm OK with that.

Last Friday, Nicole and I decided to check out the grand opening of a new theater nearby. I'm a fan of Cinemark theaters, so I thought it would be a nice change of pace to drive the extra few miles and see how well New Theater measured up to Favorite Theater. Favorite Theater is less than two miles away, has covered parking, and is part of the mall. It was going to be tough for New Theater to woo me.

We bought our tickets and commented on the distractingly bright carpet, but otherwise it was so far so good. New Theater was stacking up well against Favorite Theater... digital marquis outside each theater, memory foam seats, "new smell" in the lobby. Nicole and I got our favorite seats - front row behind the railing, middle of the row. Ok, New Theater, maybe you have a chance.

Correction. New Theater had a chance until about halfway through the movie when an usher came in and stood directly in front of us. She said something to me, and being fully invested in the movie, since, you know, it was still playing and it was right in the middle, I didn't understand what she said and asked her to repeat herself.

Usher: Please take your feet off the railing.

Blink. Blink.

Bone Junior: What??

Usher: Please take your feet off the railing.

Bone Junior: Why??

Usher: It ruins the paint.

Oh hell no.

I slowly took my feet down and narrowed my eyes at the usher. At this point in time, I didn't fully comprehend what had happened, because I became too distracted by the usher as she made her way around the theater and asked everyone who had their feet up on the seat in front of them to put their feet down.

Yes, really. She went around to each and every person in that theater who had their feet up on the seat in front of them. If no one is sitting in front of you, when do you NOT have your feet up? I couldn't believe what was happening.

For the rest of the movie, I sat there and stewed about it. Never in my life have I been told to take my feet off the railing. What is the point of the railing if you can't put your feet up? Isn't that the whole reason for its existence - to create the highest level of comfort for me at the movies??

I couldn't even concentrate on the end of the movie. That snooty usher had managed to completely ruin the movie for me, and I planned on having words with the manager afterwards.

Which I did, and which did not have the desired effect that I had hoped. Said manager was a young guy with a fancy ear piece that he kept messing with as I was talking to him. Thank you, manager, I realize you're sooooo important at the MOVIE THEATER that you need an earpiece.

I asked if it was Cinemark's policy to have ushers come in and rudely interrupt the middle of the movie by disrupting patrons and telling them to take their feet off the railing and seats. He said, "Sometimes."

Sometimes? Sometimes they're anal about the paint on their railings? It's not like I was wearing baseball cleats or tap shoes and scraping away on their precious railing. Although next time I think I might do just that.

Extremely Important Manager was extremely unimpressed with my complaint, which I'm totally not used to. Just ask Yanaj - usually if I raise a fuss, I get what I want out of it. She's been aparty to many embarrassing episodes of my shaking fist that more often than not result in discounted meals, movie ticket rainchecks, or chocolate syrup in my water ice / custard combo for only twenty-five cents more instead of the advertised dollar more because there's no way I'm paying a dollar for a squiggly little ribbon of chocolate syrup!

My point being that Extremely Important Manager's Extreme Lack of Interest in my dissatisfaction was making me even more irritated. So I decided to pull my final card.

I looked him square in the eye, pointed my finger in his face, and said in a low, threatening voice, "I am never coming back to this theater again!" Then I turned on my heels and marched out of there with my head held high and said confidently to Nicole, "I think I made my point."

And just in case I didn't, I emailed the owner of the theater and gave him an earful about my Extreme Dissatisfaction with his New Theater. In my email, I told him that I was a writer for a "popular entertainment outlet", and that I was going to tell all my readers to never patron his theater.

So, readers of this "popular entertainment outlet", never go to the Cinemark University Mall in Orem Utah.

Now I think I've made my point.

He's Baaaaaaaaaaaack!

Who wore it better?

Ozzy or Samuel?

Tinkie Winkie or Samuel?

I think Samuel pulls it off splendidly. However, due to the fact that his head is made of plastic, Samuel could never pull off a classic face like this:
Can you tell how I feel about this guy? If my face doesn't make my feelings obvious, then the fact that I posted this video should leave no doubt in your mind:

No words necessary. Score one for the Bone.

You Can Be Joyus, You Cannot Be a Jackass

There have been very few moments in my life where I've cried tears of joy. Most of them have happened in the past year or so. These moments include:

- when Li'l Mil was born;

- when I got my new Mustang;

- when I got my new ginormous bazoombas;

And finally, this momentous occasion:I literally sobbed tears of joy last night when the Phillies finally won the World Series. Now if only the Eagles could get in on a little championship action, I could die a happy woman with an adorable nephew, a sweet Mustang, and ginormous bazoombas.

I Suppose I Should Be Flattered?

Yesterday I was at a stoplight being noticeably eyed by two guys in a Jetta next to me. In case you didn't catch that, it was two guys in a Jetta. A Jetta. There's nothing wrong with a Jetta if you're a 19-year-old blonde girl with a Roxy sticker in the back window. But this was two guys.

And also they both looked like this:Meaning they both had the swept-back-Gotti-boys hairdo, not the pouty lips and nice skin tone. And they were both wearing headbands. Headbands!

I was staring straight ahead to avoid eye contact, but I could see the driver give me the standard head nod out of my peripheral vision. Unfortunately my window was down so I couldn't ignore him when he started shouting across the traffic lanes, asking my name. It's so awesomely embarrassing to see the looks on the faces of other drivers who overheard me shouting my name three times because he couldn't understand me.

And to answer your question, yes, I shouted my phone number to him. Sure he drives a Jetta and has amazingly bad hair that I'm sure he believes to be amazingly awesome; but at the very least, it gives me something entertaining to blog about. Stay tuned.

Catch Me If You Can...And Apparently You Can

You know what's funny? Getting pulled over on the SAME ROAD twice in 48 hours.

You know what's annoying? Getting a ticket the first time, but a warning the second time.

You know what's really freaking sweet? Having the second cop ask you if you're aware that it's a federal offense to deface official state documents...Oh, you mean this defacing of official state documents, officer?
That's right. Permanent marker on my license plate.

I told the officer that the real crime here was the defacing of my beloved Eagles, not the defacing of official state documents. He didn't laugh, then told me to get some Goof Off and get rid of it.

Thanks again to the superintendents I work with for helping me to create this post.

I Won Too!

I've won a major award! It could be a bowling alley! Or just the deed to it...

Not quite as tangible as this major award, but it will do. And since I'm not feeling witty or creative, I will plagiarize verbatim Andi Mae.

Somebody loves my blog and has awarded me the honor of answering a few questions...with only one word. For being a verbose chatterbox, we'll see how this goes...

1. Where is your cell phone? I was going to say, "Right in front of me," but then I remembered that these are supposed to be one word answers, and this quiz is going to be harder than I thought so... close? My cell phone is close? Is that right?
   
2. Where is your significant other? Hahahahahahahahahahaha. Does that count as one word?
   
3. Your hair color? dark
   
4. Your mother? pale
5. Your father? tan
   
6. Your favorite thing? Mustang
   
7. Dream last night? pastries...cinnamon rolls to be exact, but that's two words...dumb rules. And stop harping on the fact that I'm using more than one word - the point is that I actually dreamed about cinnamon rolls, people.
   
8. Your goal? fame
9. The room you're in? office
   
10. Your hobby? movies
11. Your fear? SPIDERS
12. Where do you want to be in 6 years? famous
    
13. Where were you last night? work
14. What you're not? unfunny
    
15. One of your wish-list items? Reverse-C door stripes for my mustang - I'm sorry, there's no way to condense that into one word. Deal with it.
    
16. Where you grew up? C'Ville
    
17. The last thing you did? Typed. Duh, I'm doing this survey, aren't I? What else could I be doing except typing? Brainstorming?
    
18. What are you wearing? Double D's hahahahahahahahah I crack myself up.
    
19. Your TV? big
20. Your pet? FatDragon. See how I made that into one word?
    
21. Your computer? slooooooooooooooow
22. Your mood? PMSsy
23. Missing someone? sister
24. Your car? HOT
25. Something you're not wearing? A's! hahahahahahah. Reference #18 if you don't get it. I still crack myself up.
    
26. Favorite store? Buckle
27. Your summer? tanorexic
28. Love someone? Elvis
29. Your favorite color? purple
30. When is the last time you laughed? today
31. Last time you cried? today

I'm supposed to give this major award to more people, but...I fear that no one will be quite as witty and clever as myself, so I'll save you all the trouble of trying to live up to my standards. And yes, today I really am that cocky.

Check Me Out in All My Majesty

This week, I realized that I am featured in four other blogs! How's that for cool points?

Here I am, mentioned on my sister's blog.

Here's the report of the first official meeting between two bloggers - myself and $teve. (scroll down down down)

Here's me in the background of a birthday BBQ that I crashed in Philadelphia. (in the video at the bottom...keep your eyes peeled!)

Aaaaaaaaaand here's me being called out publicly because my beloved Eagles lost to the Bears AGAIN this year. Luckily I didn't have to remove any stickers from my car this time. I simply had to endure hours of trash-texting from Hizznizzle, his brother, the landscaper, and then some guy I don't even know who was a Bears fan. Talk about a sausage party... but really, when Hizznizzle is involved, is it really any surprise that there are sausages aplenty?

Thanks for all the shout outs! Enjoy your sausages, Hizznizzle!

In My Face

So I guess you're tired of watching me and Zac doing the dance of love...

I steal most of my good lines from the tv show Scrubs. In your endo, the moth joke, etc. One of my favorites is the number one best comeback of all time: "So's your face." I say it to almost everything, especially when it doesn't make sense.

When the accountant told me that my budget was off? "So's your face."

When the excavator said that the house we're working on is ugly and lopsided? "So's your face."

When the superintendent texted me that he saw me staring at my own boobs? "So's your face."

After delivering all these primo insults, I was a little taken aback when the Spanish-speaking tile guy (who last week, when he asked if I was Mexican and I said no; then asked if my mother was Mexican) used my own line against me.

Bone Junior: The tile in the kitchen looks really good.

Tile Guy: So's your face.

Bone Junior: Blink blink. Um, what?

Tile Guy: Your face looks good.

Bone Junior: I don't speak Spanish...

And that's how well I take a compliment.

In the Meantime

As much as it shames me to admit it, I'm so gay for Zac Effron. But my heart belongs to Batman. And apparently I'm twelve.

Please to enjoy.

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A Physics Equation

Super sweet Mustang + 80 mph + giant rubber tire in the middle of the freeway =

And the correct answer is: cracked & scratched bumper, busted AC condenser, dented radiator, broken scratch guard, broken fuel line clips, and the grand finale - lower grill completely gone.

Total damage = $1,113.51

I am so glad I didn't pay to have my bumper fixed when that sweeper attachment jumped out in front of me...

The only thing that made me feel better was when I was leaning across the table to help a 3-year-old girl color, and she exclaimed, "Hey! Dem your boobies!"

Yes they are, sweet child. Yes, they are.

Thanks, Dad.

Last night, I was talking on the phone to my dad, when he felt the need crack open an egg of wisdom over my head.

Bone Daddy: Dear, if you want to get married, you have to do two things. First, stop being such a wise ass; and second, stop being so flip. Those things can be intimidating.

Bone Junior: Really? Because I happen to find those qualities quite endearing.

First of all, I don't even know what it means to be 'flip'. Then again, this is coming from the same man who on the night of my senior prom, told me I looked 'very sharp.'

And here I thought I wasn't married because I don't cook. Thank goodness for the wisdom of fathers.

In Your Face, Hizznizzle

Today I found an article on MSN that ranked the ten best fan bases in the NFL. Hizznizzle, and all Cowboys fans, please to enjoy the results.

#10 - Dallas Cowboys

This fan base, which was really a bunch of bandwagon jumpers during the Aikman-Irvin-Emmitt dynasty, transformed into diehards. With fans in every city, "America's Team" has become wildly popular. Simple folks flock to the star and seem to be enamored with it, but the rules about cheering for a team you have no connection with is still a violation.

#9 - Chicago Bears

Where else can you not put any kind of offensive threat on the field for 20-some years and still have a packed stadium every season? Bears fans come out regardless of the terrible management keeps rolling out players such as Grossman, Orton, Griese, Benson, Salaam, Enis, etc.

And the number one fan base in the NFL IS.....

#1 - Philadelphia Eagles

Some might call this biased, but the most passionate fans in all of sports are without question Philadelphia Eagles fans. They're cold-blooded and probably give KC a run for their money as being the loudest. They are by far the most knowledgeable fans in the league, and invented the perfect "boo." What cemented Philadelphia fans' reputation as the most amoral, loathsome collection in sports is famously called The Booing of Santa Claus. You would boo and throw snow balls too if Santa came out drunk in a half-done costume. Eagles' fans must deal with sports owners whose actions have not produced a champion in 25 years. The Eagles haven't hoisted a championship flag in 48 years, but the waiting list for season tickets is so long that you could sell out three stadiums full of Eagles fans for games.And this is where my gloating begins - it's officially football season!!

The Park City Mustang Show: Where All My Wildest Dreams Came True

Saturday morning I got a call from a co-worker, telling me that I had to get my butt up to Park City because there were about two hundred Mustangs lining Main Street.

A few hours later, I was strolling down Main Street with a huge ridiculous grin plastered on my face, oooh-ing and aaah-ing at all the different Mustangs, and getting amazing ideas to pimp my ride. Mirrors!! On the inside of the hood!!!

This one was my hands down, absolute favorite. It has all the common elements of things that I love: purple, sparkly, bad ass, and has horses on it.

Let's take a closer look...

Aaaaaaaand let's take an even closer look...That's right. I'm not above shamelessly drawing attention to my little ta ta's.
Really I just wanted you to be able to see what my shirt says.
Find your own variation at www.savethetatas.com.

Finally!!

Something amazing and incredible happened this morning. Something I'd been waiting for months to say finally came to be.

In our weekly team meeting, as per usual the conversation had become peppered with "That's what she said" lines from the estimator.

Mitch: Hey guys, can we please stop with all the sexual innuendo?

Bone Junior: In YOUR endo!

So I admit that I totally ripped this line from "Scrubs", but I've been waiting for SO LONG for the perfect opportunity to use it, that I don't care if it's stolen - the pay off was worth it.

Snooty? Snotty.

It's fair to say that I get made fun of on a daily basis for the way I pronounce certain words. (Anyone from Pennsylvania will identify with what I'm talking about here). For example, 'horrible' is 'harrible'; 'orange' is 'ahrange'; 'forehead' is 'farhead', etc etc. My crowning glory is 'wood-er' (water).

Whenever I use any of these words at work, a co-worker will immediately stop and say, "What's wood-er?" My typical response is, "Oh, I'm sorry. Waaaaahhhhhhhhhter." Sigh. Eye roll. It drags out a lot of conversations.

I'm so tired of being "corrected" and I'm so arrogant that I called into a morning radio show to correct the on-air host for her pronunciation of "Reading Railroad", a la Monopoly. Unfortunately, instead of sounding educated, I sounded just plain pompous.

"Um, hiiii. I was just calling to tell you that it's pronounced Redding? Not Reading Railroad? Yeeeeah. It was originally the Philadelphia and Redding railroad, before the Redding company split off in the 1920's?....yeah, and there's a city in Pennsylvania named Redding, and there's even a baseball team called the Redding Phillies.... I'm from there? So, you know....yeah."

I am such an ass.

Character Witness

This weekend, on our way home from the pool, Nicole and I were comparing sun damage. She gets cute freckles all across her shoulders while I am uniformly the color of deck stain.

Bone Junior: I wish I got freckles like you. It adds character.

Nicole: (Sigh) Bone Junior, if you had any more character, I don't know what I'd do with you.

Case in Point: If you ever get pulled over for going 64 in a 35, make sure the cop has a sense of humor before handing him this when he asks for your license and registration:Otherwise he might threaten to slap you with falsely identifying yourself along with a hefty speeding ticket. Hypothetically.

Because I'm a Grownup

My recent "Anonymous" post got a lot of attention, hence the comments. And while it warmed my heart to get everyone's general agreement that Anonymous isn't worth another minute of my time, there were some hilarious, strongly worded comments that I loved, but I chose not to post.

Why? Mostly because I don't want to start some kind of underhanded war with Anonymous. I just want to let it lie, because I made my point. Posting those comments would be juvenile.

And then I emailed the comments to my friends so that we'll have one more thing to laugh about together. Because that's the mature thing to do.

Mobile Shout Out Part 3

Happy Anniversary Hoss & Rose!

Here's to another four years of student hood!

It seems like just yesterday I was looking at these pictures and peeing myself and making everyone at work come look at them and peeing some more from laughing so hard. This is my favorite memory of you, which might be kind of weird, since I wasn't even there... maybe it's because my sister is cracking up as you're suffering and dry heaving, and I know that had I been there, I would've done the exact same thing. The exact same thing as in cracking up, not as in dry heaving and suffering.

Here's Looking at You, Anonymous

You know what's awesome about having Sitemeter on your blog?

Let's say, hypothetically, "someone" named "anonymous" looked at your blog and left a really mean comment; hypothetically, saying that you should have gotten lipo instead of getting new boobs.

Hypothetically, with the help of Sitemeter, you'd be able to find out exactly who the person was. You could find out their IP address, their longitude and latitude, their server provider, what time they left the comment, how long they looked at your blog, how often they look at your blog, where they were before they got to your blog, and where they went after.

And putting all these elements together, you'd be able to find out exactly who the person is that feels the need to anonymously post his opinion about your body. But instead of posting that information, you could choose to take the high road. Because it's someone that you actually know, and now he knows that you know it's him - because he reads your blog regularly.

And your best defense is to take pleasure in the fact that you know he's not worth another second of your time or thoughts.

Hypothetically.

Mobile Shout Out Part 2

Happy Anniversary, Andi & Adam!It seems like only four years ago that we were playing bachelorette games in your grandma's basement. Remember this handsome fella?

Good times, noodle salad. Happy four years!!

Mobile Shout Out

Happy Anniversary, Barbie & Mike!

It seems like only yesterday when I was sleeping on the couch at the colony and you came home from a date and didn't know I was on the couch and I awkwardly heard you making out at the door.

Congrats on your anniversary - you've been able to awkwardly make out whenever you want for seven years now. Way to go!

This is What 1380 CC's of Saline Looks Like

I decided to forgo posting the 'before' pictures because they were so unflattering; and really, the less everyone sees of my small, sad little boobies, the better. Suffice it to say that it didn't look like I had boobs until I put on my padded uplift bra. That being said...

Ta da!
There is still some swelling, so I'm wearing an ace bandage to strap them down for another week. But not too shabby for two weeks after surgery, eh??

It's Been a Tramautic Week

During the course of the past seven days, I have done the following:

- Thrown up in Erin's car;

- Had nightmares that a small man was sitting on my chest suffocating me;

- Nearly passed out when the nurse yanked the surgical tape off my brand new boobs, ripping the skin off in the process and causing blisters;

- Didn't poop for six days;

- Slept sitting up every night;

- Had an emotional breakdown when I took my first post-surgery shower (three days after surgery...I know. I'm gross) and saw my bruised, battered, and broken looking new boobs in the mirror. Crying and wailing continued when I tried to raise my arms to wash my hair for the first time;

- Had an emotional recovery when I bought my first cute new bra and rejoiced at the size.

And then... there was last night. I don't know if I can recount the details of the most horrific, traumatic, terrifying thing that's ever happened to me.

First I need to explain that for the past week (and for the next two weeks) my brand new boobs are wrapped in an ace bandage (otherwise they'd pop out the top of my turtleneck) and I have to wear a granny bra on top of that. It's quite the attractive combination.

Last night, due to the fact that I live in the desert, I was sleeping on top of my covers in my skivvies. And by skivvies, I'm referring of course to the sexy hot granny bra and ace bandage. I was thisclose to falling asleep when in my semi-sleep stupor, I felt something crawling on my hand.

I sat straight up in bed and flailed my hand before leaping up and turning on the lamp. If it was a fly, no big deal. But if it was the alternative...a spider...I had to have a visual, hone in on the target, and destroy it.

I spent several minutes scouring my bed and all surrounding areas, but didn't find whatever had been crawling on me. Which made me feel even more unsettled. If I could just see it and know what was there...

I finally convinced myself that it had only been a fly and went to turn the lamp off. When I looked down, I nearly fainted from fright. There, on my brand new boob, was a huge crusty spider. Right. On. My. Boob.

As you can imagine, I let out a manly wail and started to flail, except it was more of a panicked waving motion, as my boobs are so sore, I didn't dare touch them. Not only did the spider not fall off, but it proceeded to crawl across the ace bandage towards my brand new cleavage.

At this point, I started to cry and flail more violently, except this time I bent forward at the waist and did some kind of shimmy (which I'm sure was incredibly attractive and all sexy like) in an effort to stop the spider from reaching my actual skin. Which somehow incredibly shook the spider off my body to the floor, where I promptly grabbed a sneaker and bashed the living hell out of it, crying the whole time.

I'm amazed that my neighbors didn't come over to make sure I hadn't been raped and pillaged.

Then again, judging from the screams they heard, they probably thought I was a man.

Still Alive

I'm still alive, and almost four pounds heavier!

As I'm still coming out of my percocet-induced haze, I haven't been doing much except for laying around and having nightmares that someone is sitting on my chest trying to suffocate me.

And I owe a million thank-you's to all the people who have called, texted, and emailed to see how I'm doing. And especially to Erin and Nicole for their round-the-clock nursing duties. And also sorry to Erin for puking in her car.

"After" pictures to come as soon as my chest doesn't look like a battered wife anymore.

My Car Got Gang Banged

I looked out the office window today and was not at all surprised to see the latest stunt of three superintendents:And yes, I am one of "those people" who parks way far away from everyone else to avoid door dings, and now, gang bangs.

In Which I Become A Woman

"Dad, now that I'm twenty-six, and an adult, I've made the decision to get a boob job."

Blink. Blink.

My sixty-year-old father sat across from me last weekend and stared at me as if I'd just told him that I'd eloped with my twice-my-age boyfriend at the Little Chapel in the Woods at Graceland, and by the way, I'm having his love child and can we stay with you for awhile? Then he proceeded to unload on me all of his fatherly "wisdom"; and by "wisdom" I mean, "I'm your father and I know everything about everything and there is no way in hell I'm supportive of the fact that you're making a huge mistake that you'll regret for the rest of your life."

Suffice it to say, breaking my big news to my dad did not go well.

But for the rest of you, I hope that breaking my big news goes much better.That, my friends, is a preview of the "After" result of my boob job which is happening...IN ONE WEEK! Yes, really. And everyone is invited to a "Bon Voyage Bone Junior's Boobies" dinner this Saturday night.

So if I don't blog much for the next little bit, it's probably due to a combination of the following reasons:

- My stomach is in knots as the surgery gets closer;

- I'm working on a eulogy for my sad little boobies;

- I'm shopping for all my post-op necessities: a large bra, lots of water, crackers, Benadryl, Step Up 2: The Streets on DVD, and lots of Percocet;

- I'm recovering from the pure exhilaration of seeing the midnight showing of The Dark Knight this Thursday;

- I'm so freaking excited to finally get ginormous bazoombas.

Where Do These People Come From and How Do They Always Find Me?

You know what I don't understand? I don't understand why some people think its okay to go up to a stranger and just blurt out whatever they're thinking.

Like when I was waiting for my two-hours-delayed flight at the Philadelphia Airport on Monday, quietly enjoying a peanut butter cup blizzard thingy from TCBY, and an older black businessman comes right up to me and says, "You know you shouldn't be eating that."

Blink. Blink.

Bone Junior: Are you saying that I'm fat?

Businessman: Um, no, ahem, no no no, I'm just saying it's bad for you.

Bone Junior: (shoving another spoonful into my mouth) Right, well thanks for the heads up, but its frozen yogurt, so it's not that bad, and I'm going to keep eating it disirregardless of your opinion.

At this point, any normal person would take the hint that they've already crossed the line with me and would go away. Not this guy. He continued to stand there and tried to engage me in conversation to the point of calling me a Phoenician from ancient Mesopotamia because of my skin coloring. Other topics touched upon include Barack Obama, my nose, my birth order, my age, him asking me to guess his age, and his opinion that if he had lived during the times of slavery that he would have been an ideal candidate for breeding. Yes, really.

The conversation ended when he told me that he believed we were kindred spirits and that he could see it in my eyes.

Buh-bye.

Let the Crying Commence

Final Score:

Sweeper attachment = 1

Bone Junior = 0

Thank You Sir May I Have Another?

I had my first appointment with my new lady doctor today, and I have to say, I'm not sure I'll be going back to her.

First of all, the paper robe they gave me was more like a bolero, and I managed to rip the sleeves off at the seams from trying to pull it tighter around me. I tried to arrange myself somewhat gracefully, but by the time the doctor came in, my butt was sticking to the deli paper on the table and I looked a crazy mess with my torn paper bolero and bare butt hanging out.

She told me to put my hands behind my head for the breast exam, and then she said the words that immediately made me decide that I wasn't going back to her:

"Well! You have such small breasts! That's ok - it makes these exams so much easier!"

Really, lady? As if I need someone else confirming the fact that I got the concave end of the gene pool when it comes to boobs.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah. Can you just...not? Thanks."

Which just confirmed my decision that instead of buying these:
I'm going to buy these:
Yep, I'm really doing it. In the near future. Stay tuned - Erin and I have already planned out the before & after pictures.

Love/Hate

I recently started going to a physical therapist because I tweaked my neck pretty bad a few weeks ago and Lortab did absolutely nothing for me. I was kind of disappointed - I didn't get high or anything, and at the very least I was hoping to have an excuse to be loud, obnoxious and bossy. Oh wait. I already am. How about that.

So when the muscle relaxers and Lortab didn't help and I was still having to turn my entire upper torso, a la Batman, just to look to the side, I started seeing Dr. John. I've seen him three times now and I kind of love him and hate him at the same time.

I only hate him for the same reason I hate all doctors/dentists/gynos/waxers: they ask questions that make me feel like I'm supposed to know the right answer, but I don't think I do. Like when he's rubbing my neck so hard that my whole body is moving and he asks, "How does that feel?"

Um...hurts? But... good? Hurts so good? How do I explain that the knots in my neck are so tight that my eardrums are throbbing when he rubs it, but it doesn't necessarily hurt per say.

"How are you feeling today?"

Uh...good, I think? My neck was sore this morning? But...it's getting better? Right? Is that the right answer?

I hate him because the way he pulls on my head and stretches my neck back and forth gives me vertigo and static hair, and smears my eye makeup; so I stagger out of there like I'm doing the walk of shame at seven in the morning.

I also hate him because his seventeen-year-old male assistant squirted the ultrasound gel all over my back and up into my hair. Personally, I don't buy into the whole ultrasound on my neck thing. I don't think that machine is really doing anything.

But I love him because getting my neck rubbed for twenty minutes is oh so wonderful, even if it makes my eardrums throb. And I like to mess with his stuff when he's out of the room - like the controls for the tabs he sticks on me that send pulses to my neck and shoulder muscles. I like to turn up the strength so that my arm is bouncing all over the place. It just cracks me up. They probably wonder why I'm laughing so much when they leave me in there alone.

Then again, if they knew me at all, they probably wouldn't wonder at all.

Bruce Declares It; It Must Be So

When I was in high school, my tennis coach Yaquim, used to yell at me all the time. Most often he'd be screaming, "Moo ya feet, Sair! Moo ya feet!" Somehow he always made my name into a one-syllable word. Other times it would be, "Loo where you standin! You in NO man's land!" Then he'd call me Meeda because I looked like a Mexican, and make jokes about how he thought I worked at Ray's Boom Boom Room on the weekends.

The point is that in between all his crazy ramblings, sometimes Yak actually had some good advice. He'd say, "Its jus that simple." Oh, is it? Is it really just that simple, Yak? Ok. Next time I'm getting my butt handed to me by the number one ranked singles girl, I'll remember that it's just that simple to beat her and I'll do it, instead of just not moving my feet.

Which brings me to Bruce. Bruce is Bone Senior's father in law, so I'm not really sure what that makes him to me, other than my number one all time fan. How do I know this? Last week I got a phone call from an unrecognized number. The man on the line asked if I was Bone Junior, then said that he'd seen me driving around in a blue mustang, and that he'd been trying to find out who I was.

Given my recent track record with guys and driving around, naturally my interest was peaked. But I was still a little suspicious, so I set a trap, a la Stallone in Lock Up ("A-Block? There is no A-Block!" Anyone? No? Never mind).

The trap being that I asked if he'd seen my plates and he said yes, but wait! At the time, there were no plates on my car, so I knew this guy was full of baloney. Gotcha, sir. Then he revealed himself as Bruce and I felt a little awkward for kind of flirting with him at first when I really believed that he'd somehow tracked me down after seeing me drive around. How sad is that.

The reason for his call being, in a nut shell, that he thought I should be famous. I always wanted to be famous for winning a mayonnaise eating contest, but Bruce thinks I should be famous for my writing.

He went on to tell me exactly how to accomplish this fame, and made me take diligent notes:
See? It's jus that simple.

DDYS GRL

That's what my plates say: DDYS GRL.

Just kidding. I would sooner die. However, along with the grand unveiling of my license plates, which finally arrived this weekend, I thought it would be fitting to give a shout out to my dad - after all, he's the one responsible for the name on my plates.

Drum roll, please...

... and cue the sigh of disappointment and confusion from those of you who don't actually know me in person.

My dad says that when I was learning to talk, I could repeat back almost any word he'd say, except when he'd try to get me to say my own name. He'd say, "Ok, say 'Sarah'..." and my response would be to pause, get a huge cheesy grin on my face, and say, "Sasheeeeeeeee!" And it's stuck ever since.

Those who know me, get it. Those who don't, I'm sorry for the months of anticipation that have led to this huge moment of disappointment. At least now you'll know if you ever see me on the road.

Speaking of seeing me on the road, I hung out with my Man Cub last night... and I think I have a crush on him. Seriously. All week we'd been texting, and in my mind I expected him to be monosyllabic and to bow to my every beck and call. But he's actually really, really funny...and really, really skinny. Still really, really cute...just really, really skinny.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. Riding on the back of his bullet bike (sigh, yes, really..I know, I know, just let it go), I felt like I had nothing to hold onto. Like I was going to pull him right off the back of the bike with me. At least he'd have me to pad his fall comfortably.

There's nothing wrong with skinny guys, I just don't like the feeling of looking like the number ten when we stand next to each other. Not so crazy about that.

But I totally got my flirt on with the Man Cub. I'm talking full on, no holds barred, cougar-style flirting. I was a predator, and if I got into it, you'd feel retarded for me. So I'm just going to let it go at that.

But we'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I'm honing my predatory skillz and hoping to see the Man Cub again.

I Shall Call Him My Man Cub

Let me begin by saying that when my team morale is down, I'm not above calling a certain bullet biker even though I didn't think he was cute and his texts kind of freaked me out. Ladies, help me out here - we all like a little positive reinforcement, and Friday night, positive reinforcement was exactly what I needed. I'm sure you all have "moments" that you're not proud of...

He asked if I wanted to go for a ride so I said sure and arranged to meet him at Starbucks nearby. As I pulled up, I saw that not only was my biker boy there, but there were four other biker boys all with girls on the backs of their bikes. Ick. Those kind of girls. I know you know what kind of girls I'm talking about. I was on the phone with Yanaj at the time and she said, "Just keep going, man, don't even stop. Just keep going." But they'd already spotted me, so I climbed aboard and became one of them. That's right - I totally blended in with their tight skinny jeans and butt cracks hanging out as they crouched over their boyfriends. Not really.

Not the point. The point is that I wasn't even bothered by those girls and they're skinny jeans and little butts - I wasn't even bothered when biker boy's spittle flew back in my face as we were riding - because on my way there, I'd met a new prospect. As I was driving on the freeway, I noticed a Mazda 3 trying to race me, so naturally I smoked him (listen to me, I'm such a snob now) and then he pulled alongside me and I thought, hey he's kind of cute, so I smiled at him and let him pass. Then he started waving for me to follow him off the exit, and I thought, hey he's kind of cute so what the hell, and I did. And guess what - he was really cute and he asked for my number. Even better is the fact that he's got a bullet bike too...so maybe I'm becoming one of those girls, minus the skinny jeans and little butt, of course.

He texted me five minutes after I met him and then I found out...that he's only twenty two. Which kind of made me shudder and at the same time made me feel awesome. I know that four years isn't that big of a deal, but there is a big difference between a twenty two year old guy and a twenty six year old guy.

I call him my Man Cub, and I kind of want him to be my boyfriend so that I can be his puppet master and mold him and make him into exactly what I want. I have visions of us out at dinner and me teaching him which fork to use and then when he drips food on his chin, I tilt my head to the side and give him a knowing smile and say, "Oh, Man Cub. You are just adorable!" as I use his squared hankerchief to dab his chin.

Then I'll take him to a fancy wedding reception and teach him how to tie his tuxedo bow tie and he'll step on my toes when we're dancing but I won't mind because I am his older woman and he idolizes me.

Then we'll be sitting on his bike parked at the pier and between kisses I'll say, "Maverick...you big stud...take me to bed or lose me forever." And he'll say, "Um, my name isn't Maverick..." and I'll say, "Shhhhh shhhhhh shhhhh....." and I'll die a little inside because I'll realize that he's too young to have seen Top Gun and he totally doesn't get my fantasy.

I think the whole thing could be really fun. After all, isn't it my duty as an older experienced woman to crack open an egg of wisdom over the head of my Man Cub? Or several eggs, since in my fantasy, he doesn't even know which fork to use?

Yes...this is gonna be good.

That Shirt Just Paid For Itself...And A Restraining Order

Here's how it happened: My friends convinced me to buy a hot pink top. Let me clarify: a hot pink, short sleeved, cropped jacket with lapels and everything. For those of you unfamiliar with myself, I rarely wear anything other than black, and I never ever have worn a cropped jacket with lapels and everything.

So, the hot pink top. I wore it, got flagged down by a guy on a bullet bike who asked for my number and said he'd take me for a ride. Sold. Mostly because he looked cute - at least, the part around his eyes looked cute because he didn't take his helmet off. Then I remembered that any guy in either a helmet, baseball hat, or sunglasses looks cute. It's the trifecta of good looks tom foolery.

I totally got picked up by a complete stranger who liked my car and I liked his bike. Except I didn't know what his face looked like, so when he called me that night to go for a ride, I was a little nervous. I met him at a gas station and was relieved that when he pulled off his helmet and he looked OK. He wasn't bad looking at all, he just wasn't my type. [Read: huge bald guys with biceps as big as my head.]

He took me for a ride on his R6 and he smelled really good, but I thought I was going to die. It wasn't until later that I found out he'd been going 120 MPH on the freeway with me on the back. And also that he was Mexican. Lit'rally.

After about an hour of riding, I knew it was time for me to go because my butt and thighs had fallen asleep and my back and neck were kinked from being hunched over. He took me back to my car, and up until that point, I thought to myself, "This guy's OK...I should spend more time with him before ruling him out. I'd go out with him again."

Then I got home and he started texting me. And as I read the texts to my roommates, I knew I'd never want to hang out with him again.

I think ur really cute, I would love to keep hanging out with u, and date u and maybe become more than friends with you, I don't think u think the same though.

Ick. Shudder. I can't stand when people write "ur" or "u" or "2 cool 2 b 4 got 10". It gives me the retarded tingles. But it didn't stop there. After I didn't respond to his first charming text, he spent the rest of the night sending me the following messages:

So, is that ur answer to what I said? Lol.

What's ur answer to the first text, I sent though? I am confused, did u get it? Or do I have 2 say it in a different way? lol.

Hopefully we can get to know each other better so it can go somewhere, what r u doig tomorrow?

Would you b down to watch a movie?

N e way goodnight sexy.

You guys. Ew. Ew. N e way??? Really?? It was all just...wrong. I just don't even have time to tell you all the things wrong with this situation. And to think it all started so well, but at least I got a free near-death experience out of it, right? And a huge boost to my ego.

There was only one thing I could do to erase the stench of his poor texting etiquette: count down the minutes to ten o'clock this morning and buy my New Kids on the Block tickets.

The New Kids always make me feel better, but I don't know if I'm going to wear that hot pink top again.

So THAT'S What It's Called

Bone Junior: So, I did something tonight that I've never really done before.

Yanaj: Mmm hmmm?

Bone Junior: I shamelessly and successfully flirted with the guy at the car wash so that he'd give me a free air freshener. And he gave me two air fresheners!!

Yanaj: So, you blatantly traded your sexuality for a free air freshener?

Bone Junior: Two free air fresheners!

Yanaj: Yeah...Bone Junior? That's what we call a whore.

Note to self: Maybe being a whore isn't so bad if you get free stuff out of it?