This morning I woke up with a wicked headache. After I cried into my pillow a little and nearly yakked in the shower, the Captain decided to buy me some Excedrin. I think he felt guilty since I was subjected to “the goddamn Titanic song.”

Suffering aside, I did learn a few things from last night’s concert experience:

1. Celine Dion is not actually ugly in person. (Who knew? Besides the Captain, who was highly offended that I had believed she was horse-faced until last night.)

2. However, she makes a whole range of ugly faces when she sings. (See, I was partially right.)

3. But you may not notice if you’re distracted by her gorgeous hair and smokin’ body. (Jealous? Yes.)

4. Celine speaks with an accent. (Honestly, people expected me to know this?)

5. And apparently has not mastered the English language. (Even the Captain admitted she’s not particularly articulate. Grammar? Pshaw!)

6. She also needs to enunciate. (I couldn’t understand 85% of the lyrics she was singing. During one song it wasn’t until she got to the chorus that I realized it was in English.)

7. Celine sucks at air guitar. (Seriously. I was embarrassed for her.)

8. She has a very powerful voice. (See migraine complaint above.)

9. And the venue had great acoustics. (See migraine complaint above.)

10. Yet I still loathe her music with a fiery passion. (See migraine complaint above.)

Having to endure a Celine Dion concert several hours after receiving a summons for jury duty.

Yay, weekend.

• Freaks. Apparently because of this post and this one I now rank very high for “locker room naked” and its variations in Google. My blog has also been found with such interesting searches as “How much pubic hair would a eleven year old girl have if she already has breasts” and “at least my thighs funny email forward.” Kinda makes me miss the good ol’ days when people stumbled upon my site looking for the “boob fairy.”

• Weather. For the first time in five years, the Captain doesn’t have drill (or isn’t deployed) on the weekend of our local Harvest Fair. I’ve never been, so he’s excited to take me. Of course, it’s raining. Wet livestock anyone? I guess I don’t get my first taste of fried dough this weekend. Murphy’s Law, you know.

• Drama Queen. I have a birthday coming up, which is making me go batshit crazy on the Captain. Yesterday I started crying about being almost thirty and I’m not even engaged and then when I finally am it takes how long to plan a wedding and then after that I’d want some time alone with my husband before starting a family and then who knows how long it would take to be able to conceive and by the time I get to the point where I have kids I’ll be too old and there will be complications if I can even have kids at all. Yeah, I know. (In my defense, I’m menstruating. Totally not my fault.)

• Speed Reader. I’ve already blown through all my new books. There are plenty of books on my shelves that I haven’t looked at yet, but I think you’ve got to be in a certain mindset to tackle On Politics and Education by John Locke. Oh well. There’s always The Brothers Karamazov.

No Olympics, no Grey’s Anatomy, no House, no Desperate Housewives, no CSI, no Prison Break, no Family Guy, no Jerry Springer, no Heroes, and no South Park. Why? Because we don’t have cable.

The Captain’s explanation for this self-inflicted horror goes something like: if I got cable, I would want all the premium movie channels and I’m not home enough to justify the cost.

So for the most part our television is mute, screen blank, rabbit ears stretching lazily towards the ceiling. I think we might actually get two channels, but I don’t know which ones because they both come in fuzzy.

A few times I’ve offered to foot the bill for the glorious Comcast service we could be enjoying, but my generosity was met with contempt. So rather than insult the Captain, I’ve soldiered on knowing that never will I see a single episode of Project Runway, Dancing with the Stars, or Lost.

It makes things awkward at work. What else it there to talk about?

“Oh my God, did you catch The Office last night?”

“Hahahahaha. Yeah. I love that show. Steve Carell is hilarious.”

“I want to have Steve Carell’s babies!”

“Me too!”

“Stacey, isn’t The Office the best show EVER?”

“Um . . . I don’t have tv.”

[awkward silence]

“What . . . well . . . what do you do at night then?”

“I have two cats and a laser pointer.”

“Oh, honey . . .”

Most people cannot possibly fathom how anyone could exist without Friends reruns. They look at me with a mix of confusion, sympathy, and disgust. I have even been treated like I have a terminal illness. My life is a reality show I’m not even able to tune in to.

But wait! I have Netflix! I can watch all those popular tv series episodes too . . . when the whole season is released on DVD. You’ll still want to talk about it then? Right?

Right?

No?

Alright, well, you enjoy the season premiere of Gossip Girl. I’m, um . . . I’m going to go read a book.

This morning I finished reading Bitter Is the New Black by the delightfully snarky Jen Lancaster. She has officially replaced Augusten Burroughs as my favorite author. (Sorry, Augusten. I do love your books too.) I picked up Bright Lights, Big Ass and Such a Pretty Fat before withdrawal symptoms could set in.

While I do regret being friends with men who likely do not understand nor appreciate the literary value of these volumes, on the bright side, they won’t ask to borrow my copies! (I’m still waiting for my brother to return my Christopher Moore books. It’s been a couple years.)

Being the impulsive person I am, I very nearly emailed Ms. Lancaster. You know, just to tell her how awesome her book is like she isn’t aware of it. Then I reminded myself that the few times I’ve spoken with writers, I’ve made a complete ass of myself. So no “Hey, you write good!” email from me. (And, yes, I do know “good” is grammatically incorrect in that sentence.)

Anyway, as I can’t stand to think such an oversight could possibly occur again, please, if you think of any other amazing authors I may be missing out on, do tell!

That is precisely the reason why at 10:45am yesterday morning I was already showered, dressed, coiffed, made-up, and far from home standing on a train platform waiting for the 10:55 to Grand Central Station. My mother quietly bubbled with excitement behind me while my father, I expect, was surveying the grey New Haven skies and imagining the joys of walking around Manhattan in the rain.

Since realizing how easy it is to take a train into the city, “purchasing tickets to Broadway musicals” has been added to the list of “Stacey’s Impulsive Behaviors.” It’s an expensive habit, but no matter how I look at it, I just don’t see the downside. For example, when I failed to procure an anniversary gift for my parents by the day of their party, a few minutes online and I was all set. Now I’m the generous daughter providing them with a wonderful life experience instead of the dipshit that nearly forgot their anniversary because it took me two full weeks to realize it was August already.

Luckily the weather was considerably more pleasant in New York than it was in New Haven. Although humid, it was sunny, which meant that a.) we could walk to the theatre instead of having to pay for a cab and b.) we had the opportunity to look like idiots because both my mother and I were carrying umbrellas.

We didn’t even need to use our umbrellas as weapons because the streets were relatively empty compared to past visits when we could barely move for all the people on the sidewalk. My father pointed out the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, and Radio City Music Hall to my mother as we navigated our way to the theatre district. In no time we were outside the Ambassador Theatre, taking instructions from an usher who spoke some of the most garbled English I’ve ever heard.

“Peez arrrvywunn faaaarmmm a larrrrnn arrruuudd da teeeeatttta annn huvvv yeeerrrr tkttttttttz awrttt.”

“What did he say?” my mother asked.

“He said we need to form a line around the side of theatre over here and everyone needs to have their tickets in hand.” (I worked with preschoolers for two years. Bartenders are also good interpreters.)

I passed out tickets as we lined up.

“Stacey said not to look at the price on the tickets,” my mother told my father (something I warned her about several days ago when she watched me order Little Mermaid tickets for my sisters for their birthdays and saw the price on those). Of course, my father immediately looked.

“Is she insane?! Why do you let her waste her money like that?”

Fortunately, I missed this discussion. Probably because I was too worried about whether or not they’d like the show. I picked Chicago, which was one of their favorite movies for awhile. I was pretty sure my mom would love it, as she’s easy to please. Put anyone singing and dancing in front of her and she’s happy. My father is harder to gauge. However, if nothing else, I figured he’d enjoy it for the same reason I was convinced the Captain agreed to come along - to see women cavorting about the stage dressed like this:

What? It’s theatre. It’s classy.

I think everyone would have enjoyed the show much more if we hadn’t had to deal with the latecomers. About thirty or so minutes into the performance, half a dozen people showed up to try to slip into the row in front of us and four more needed to squeeze into the middle of our row. This caused a great deal of standing and shuffling in both rows, meaning that a hell of a lot of people missed a couple minutes of the show. My mother told one of the tardy theatregoers, “Next time try to be on time.”

“Our bus was late, thanks very much,” the woman snapped at her.

My mother was wholly unsympathetic. “We came from out of state, and we got here on time,” she ranted to me during intermission.

When one of the latecomers returned from intermission ten minutes into Act II, forcing the row in front of us to do the stand and shuffle AGAIN, I thought we may have to bail my mother out of prison. (I don’t think the “It was a murder, but not a crime” defense works in the real world.)

Not that I blame her. Had I been in charge, I’d have a strict policy on late seating: If you dare show up L-A-T-E, you are S.O.L.

Punctuality-challenged people aside, I think my parents really liked the show. After all, my mother thanked me for bringing her almost as many times as she complained about how rude New Yorkers are. (It was a lot of thank yous.)

Afterwards, walking back to the train station, I had an epiphany. “Hey, I’m already wearing black underwear! If we just find me a bowler hat, I could perform one of those numbers.” (Yes, I announced this in front of my parents. I suffer from doesn’t-think-before-she-speaks disease.)

Everyone stared. Finally the Captain piped up, “Please do.”

Just in case that precious moment wasn’t excitement enough, when we reached track 27, we discovered that our train (or something under it) was smoking badly.

As I watched them evacuate the cars I suggested, “Let’s go to track 21.”

“Doesn’t that train leave a half hour later?” my father complained.

“Yes, but it’s not on fire. I think that’s an improvement.”

Just as we reached track 21 and wondered if the empty train could possibly be the one we’d be taking, we heard an announcement that the 5:07 was switched to our track. Score! We were the first ones on the train and secured a section of seats that faced each other so we could all talk amongst ourselves on the way back. This turned out to be a very bad plan when the topics my mother chose included, again, the rudeness of New Yorkers, followed by stories of how I couldn’t wear diapers as a baby because they’d cause my ass to crack, peel, and bleed. I’m sure the Captain was captivated by such tales. I’m hoping my mother’s anecdotes were drowned out by the big mouth of little Julio, who sat several seats behind us. The child had such a set of lungs on him that even as he screamed, “Bridgeport! Look, Bridgeport!” I’m sure they could still hear him in Harlem. (He did eventually get quiet, which my mother informed me was because his mom fell asleep and he was busy poking her eyes.)

And so we made it to NYC and back without serious incident (only a few minor confrontations and a possible train fire - totally not our fault). I call that a successful venture.

I can’t help but notice that all of the three times I’ve run into you, you’ve been naked. Yes, I realize that every time I’ve seen you we’ve been in the locker room, but still, you don’t find it odd that I’ve never seen you in a stitch of clothing?

I am also perceptive enough to have picked up on the fact that no matter how many other ladies are in the locker room, you choose to speak to me. The first time it was just us, so I didn’t think anything of it. But the last two times? There were other strangers to chat with. What’s up with that?

It could be because the last two times our lockers were practically next to each other. Do you recognize my green lock? Or do you always use the same locker and I’ve unwittingly picked your area both those times? I’ve started using the lockers on the other side of the room now. No offense. Just giving you space.

I have to admit I’m still confused by our last conversation. You said that normally you’d be wearing a bathing suit (I’ve never witnessed you in said suit, by the way), but the pool was closed. Ok . . . so why does the pool being off-limits necessitate nudity? Did you not bring any other exercise clothes? And what fitness routine did you plan to do in your disrobed state? Are you coming on to me, naked woman? I’m all for naked exercise, but in the privacy of my own home . . . with my boyfriend.

I want you to know that I do appreciate that you’re trying so hard to get my attention, but I’m not really ready to follow you back to your colony. Please understand. It’s not you, it’s me. I like pants.

Sincerely,
Stacey

“Stacey - Hi. I am bad at these yearbook writing things and that sucks cause reading this is how you’ll remember me. I wish I learned to write better in UCONN English. Oh well, maybe college. But it’s been great knowing you for 4 years. You’ve always been a good friend and I will always remember you. I wish you luck in everything forever and ever. C-ya.”

Oh yes, it’s that dreaded time. I just got an invitation to my ten year reunion. Ack! When did I get so damn old?

“Stacey - Thanks for helping me get a good grade on our project. The best of luck to you in the future.”

No wonder I’m suddenly picking up all these friends on Facebook. And here I thought I miraculously got popular.

“Stacey - Calculus is over forever! Have a great time in college, but don’t forget to study - right?”

Seriously, am I even going to remember these people? It’s not like I had a huge social circle in high school. Would any of them remember me?

“Stacey: Are you sure Karl wouldn’t be a great mate? Think of the offspring! I’d love to teach them! I can only hope you both enjoyed yourself and took some Spanish out of here (B217). The best to you in what you’re about to make happen.”

Oh God, do the teachers come to these things? They must all expect me to be running some Fortune 500 company by now. Dammit. Why couldn’t I have invented MySpace?

“Stacey, remember, life doesn’t stop after high school. Keep it up . . . you’re gonna be somebody.”

Wait a minute. I hated high school. Everyone thought I was the biggest geek ever. Even my friends thought I was a dork. I had to go to the junior prom with our neighbor’s son. I didn’t find a date to the senior semiformal. High school was one of the worst experiences of my life.

“Stacey, hey, you were allway a cool chic. I’ll always look to you! You’re an awsome student! Good Luck in college, even though you don’t need it.”

What if I’m attacked by an assassin by my old locker and have to kill him with a pen? Just cause I saw it in a movie doesn’t mean I’m prepared for it. And you can never be too careful.

“Stacey, I will not trade report cards with you, I don’t care if you beg me!”

Is there a real reason to go to these things? Besides wanting to see if the cheerleaders got fat? Will there be an open bar?

“Stacey - Congratulations - you made it. I wish you the best of luck in all that you do forever. Always be yourself and success is sure to find you. St. Joe’s is waiting for you - hopefully it will still be standing when you leave!!!”

Well, if high school reunions are anything like yearbook messages, everyone will be all nostalgic and way nicer to me than they ever pretended to be in the hallways back in our teens. Oh . . . and they’ll say “forever” a lot.

Somehow I’m still not convinced it’s a good idea. I’d like to phone a friend.

Have you attended any of your high school reunions? What did you think of the experience?

“I fluctuate a lot. But all told, in the last several months I’ve lost a net of . . . um, four.”

“Well . . . you go to the gym. You’re probably just putting on a lot of muscle weight.”

It’s a good thing my goal is to have the ass of a Brazilian supermodel. Cause if it was weight-loss, I’d totally be discouraged. (I am making progress on the Brazilian supermodel thing though. I bought a bottle of self-tanning lotion. Brazilian supermodels don’t have pasty behinds.)

Ok, to be honest, I took about a month off from any serious fitness efforts. However, with the army prom thingy looming in the not-so-distant future, I’ve decided it’s time to get my decidedly un-Brazilian ass back to the gym. Because a.) I’d really like to fit into the clingy red dress without having to duct tape my thighs together, b.) I’d like to mitigate the effects of this disease I have whereby I instantly gain thirty pounds in photographs (it’s called “Photo Bloat” and it’s real. The Captain has it too), and c.) I’m still paying for the membership.

After my first couple days back, I remembered why I stopped going. My motivation is seriously lacking. I’m bored. I’d happily blame it on the fact that the televisions in the cardio room are perpetually set to ESPN, Fox News, and the Rachael Ray show, but something tells me that’s a cop out. So rather than piss and moan, I decided to try something different. Shake things up.

Oh boy.

I didn’t want to take things too far out of my comfort zone, so I began my workout on my favorite elliptical, #6.

When I first joined the gym, the trainer who gave me the tour explained to me this “favorite machine phenomenon.” I rolled my eyes and wondered how anyone could really think one treadmill was so much better than all the other identical treadmills. Losers. Now I pout if I see someone else on #6. In my defense, I fully understand that #6 works the same as the other ellipticals. However, from #6 I can see my reflection in the office windows across the way, where the blurriness creates the illusion that the poles to exercise my upper body are somehow attached to my thighs. Which means I spend my entire twenty minutes trying to jog myself out of my imaginary leg braces, mentally crying, “Run, Forrest, run!”

What? It’s a very emotional part of that movie.

Ahem.

Anyway, I thought to change things up a bit I would try the “x-train reverse” program. My sister has mentioned she does this and she has a body to die for, so I figure it’s got to be good.

For the first five minutes of the workout I jog forward as I normally would (Run Forrest!). Then it’s time to go backward.

Oh lord.

At this point I should pause to mention that it took me four days to coordinate moving my upper and lower body in sync walking forward. Backward was not pretty.

I decide it’s best to watch my feet, as if that alone is enough to keep me from falling off the machine and making a fool of myself. After ten seconds my thighs are already starting to burn and my body is freaking out trying to determine where the hell my center of gravity went. At the end of two minutes, it’s time to jog forward again.

Now I am completely fixated on the clock, wondering how long until I have to repeat that crazy backward business. The five minutes blow by and the machine instructs me to reverse. More burning, swearing, and trying my best not to fall down.

It’s only two minutes, I tell myself. Two minutes isn’t a long time.

The two minute mark comes and goes. I’m still in reverse mode.

Maybe it gets a little longer each time. I bet now it’s three minutes.

Three minutes go by. Then five.

Did I miss it? It must be time to go forward.

I’m gasping for air. I look at my reflection. I appear to be taking a casual stroll. And those polls on my legs? Might as well be a walker. Oh yeah. Bet I’m burning a hell of a lot of calories now.

Screw this.

For the last minute and a half I jog forward. I let out happy sighs when the machine beeps with my workout summary. I descend the elliptical trainer not so much by my own power, but by the force of gravity. I wonder if there’s a club rule against napping on the couches. My ass hurts.

And I still have the rest of my workout routine to go. Shit.

In conclusion: forward good, backward bad.

You’re welcome.