Dear Crabby

Well, no rest for the wise and all-knowing, I guess! Here are a few more responses to your burning questions!

Hi,

I was searching online to find more info about massage therapy and I came across your information.
Can you tell me, are you still involved with massage therapy services? If you are, how are things going for you?
Please let me know as I may be able to help you get a lot more customers in a very short period of time.

Sincerely,
Chris

Dear “Chris”,
Thanks for your spam inquiry. Okay, I am still involved with massage therapy services. And by “am still involved” I, of course, mean “have never been involved”. I once got a gift certificate for a massage at a fancy spa place from an old boyfriend. I hated it, if I’m being honest with you, Chris. I spent the whole time praying the woman wouldn’t touch my feet and feeling bad for her as she kneaded my back fat. So, Chris, things are really NOT going anywhere with my massage therapy information you apparently found somewhere. But hey! Thanks for promising to get me more customers to my non-existent business! Let me know how that works for you…

Pharon Square,
Have you ever used something like Proactiv? I’m a 25 year-old girl who hates breaking out, but I don’t know if I should go to such extreme measures as ordering something the TV tells me to order.
Thanks!
-Good Skin to Win

Dear Good Skin to Win,
I am currently suffering through an odd phase of Post Adolescent Adolescence in terms of complexion. Last night, I had broken out on my cheek so quickly that I convinced myself I had the mumps. So, I’m not your go-to gal for this one. Yes, I tried Proactiv once in my early twenties, mostly because I loved Jessica Simpson, and happily did anything SHE told me to do (Note: I usually follow any advice given to me by the TV. It’s almost never steered me wrong, so I wouldn’t call listening to TV’s advice “extreme”). Two weeks later, my face was all red and itchy and, well, SO not Jessica Simpson-y. I cancelled the auto-refilling nightmare post haste. Blech. I don’t know WHAT you should do, GSW. I’m the kind of girl who will have blemishes until the day AFTER I start getting wrinkles. So if YOU find a solution, let ME know.

Dear PharonSquare,
I really want to make the most out of this Spring and Summer. Every winter I swear I'll do more fun things outside but then I get lazy and sweaty and before you know it, it's snowing again. Any tips on how to stay active and entertained with the good weather that is upon our doorstep?
Signed,
Waitin' For Spring

Dear Waitin’ for Spring,

I’m with you. I’m lazy and I hate being sweaty. That said, Spring and Summer are awesome times of year to camouflage that lazy/sweaty thing. My most important tip is to get a hammock. You can enjoy the weather while lying down and/or napping in the middle of the day. But because you’re on a HAMMOCK, no one can say squat about it. Secondly? There are lots of ways to hang out outside while also enjoying cocktails, so that’s definitely a way to get me off the couch. I suggest doing activities that combine those two things. Activities like: Golfing, happy hours, going to the park with your kids, BBQs at a lake, walking to the bar, rollerblading, reading on your hammock, going to the Farmer's Market (put a margarita in your travel mug and the Farmer's Market will turn into a Mercado Fiesta!), or just laying out catching some rays. Summer is pretty much the only time people make PLANS to go LAY DOWN, so I like to take advantage of that. As long as you try and do one of those things almost every day, you'll feel great!

Listen, people, I know you guys has some burning questions. I know you have problems, because you tell them to me all the time on the phone, or on gchat, or you post incessantly about your problemos on Facebook. So, make it easier on yourself (and all your friends) and shoot me an email at pharonsquare@gmail.com and I'll fix your problem, no charge. Unless it's like a crazy-weird problem. Then it's like $0.50 cents a sentence.

Kickin' This Cold!

I'm in MUCH better shape this week after my kickboxing class than I was last week. Okay, so I WAS sweating like a pair of feet in tights and heels on a 90 degree day, but the recovery period was much quicker. And just like last week, I felt sooooooooooo good. The following things really helped:

* Tony (who is German, not Russian. Whoooooops) was impressed with my fighting stance. Yeah, my hands are constantly up at my chin, so what? So WHAT if I'm perpetually in attack mode, what of it? So when Tony said "Niiice! You'll be ready to spar in 2 weeks!" I was hardly surprised. I DID grow up with 2 brothers and 2 sisters, you know. I'm like a cat: always ready to pounce. I was pretty stoked - and a wee bit scared - that it came pretty natural to me.

* I'm still pretty dern flexible. Okay, so I haven't bent down to even tie my shoes in a couple years (stilettos have no laces, you know) but shockingly, I still got it. Tony had me demonstrate a stretch and almost laughed when I sat on the ground and leaned all the way between my legs and basically kissed the ground. Aw yeah!

* We learned how to wrap our wrists like real live boxers! Sanna and I agreed that having our hands wrapped up made us feel more coordinated and controlled. Plus, I got BLUE wraps and they were totally cute with my pink fingernails!

* I have recently decided to abandon all plans to lead a nice, normal life and start training to become a professional kickboxer. I'll be the greatest senior citizen to punch the bags in the world.

The problem is, after class, we stood around talking to Tony and the cold I thought I had successfully squashed reared its ugly head and I left in a fit of hacking dry coughs.

I had a nasty little realization today, you guys. It's bad. So my sister Prinna is due with baby Alec, like, ANYDAYNOW. While yes, THAT is great news, I won't be able to get my germ-ridden body anywhere near the hospital or a newborn until my immune system bucks up and kicks this stupid cold out for good. Rude! I wanna snuggle that baby so much! I need to get rid of this stupes cold! STAT!

I'm going to take a kickboxing approach to this, I think. I'm not quite sure what that means, you know, because I've only ever taken a total of TWO classes as of yet, but I imagine it'll go a little something like this.

* For the stuffy nose: One-Two Punch approach. First I'll blow my nose, then I'll punch myself IN the nose.

* For the hacking cough: Breathing and Stretching approach. I'm going to have to learn how to breathe in air to my lungs, but bypass the back of my throat 'cause that's where the problem seems to be. Then I'll just stretch it all out until it's all nice and loose and then my chest won't feel so tight and congested.

* For the watery eyes: Hydrate. I know that as I sweat, I need to rehydrate. I think my eyes are just really sweaty.

* Finally, for the incessant sneezing: Two words. Roundhouse Kick. I'm not sure how that's going to stop the sneezing, but I'm pretty sure it's going to work.

So, I've got a plan now, and that's the start to any positive recovery. Now, I just need PRINNA to take a little tip from my kickboxing expertise: PATIENCE. (Get it, Prinna? Just wait a few more days!)

Alright, time to get this aged - yet still very flexible, might I remind you! - body to bed. And Good News! We here at Pharon Square continue to get pleas for help and advice, so if you have any questions or need advice on anything, Dear Crabby will be back tomorrow! Send your inquiries to pharonsquare@gmail.com. If you have any questions on kickboxing or treating a cold, though, I encourage you to wait a few weeks until I understand either enough to confidently make fun of your question.

Sick in Stepford

Well, hello there, Martha Stewart. When did you jump into my body? Look at me - I’m all in an apron and makin’ dinner for mah man when he gets home from work. What’s gotten into me, you ask? I don’t know, guys. I think the medical term is “nesting” but I’m waiting on a second opinion. Geo’s been travelling a bunch lately, and just last night got home from a week-long “guys trip” which typically wouldn’t leave me feeling all sorry for him. A week-long funfest with your friends? Poor thing! (/sarcasm). But sadly, Geo was sick the whole time and is still sick today. Pretty much the only time I snap to Good Girlfriend Attention is when he’s sick. So, I’m making him one of his favorite dinners and I’m going to try and not make fun of him for repeatedly commenting on his “chills.”

Meanwhile, I’ve also come down with a cold. Is there anything more annoying than only having the capacity to breathe in and out of ONE nostril? Guh. It’s turned me into a mouth-breather, and that’s not a good thing. Although, I usually like to take advantage of a cold. Meaning: because my voice gets all deep and gravelly and raspy, I like to re-record all my voicemail greetings. I sound like a late-night DJ who encourages listeners to “have a sensual night while you listen to jazz…after dark.” I sound wiser or something. And instead of my shrill cackle at any old poop joke, my laugh becomes a stifled, wispy thing that says to people “I understand the humor in that amusing anecdote, but I also love Jack Kerouac.”

Plus, what with all the mouth-breathing I’m doing, my lips get chapped and I’m forced to remember to put on some lip balm. Then they’re all shiny and I look like I’ve done it to look nice, and not because I’m freaked that my lips will split open at the mere sight of a chilly wind.

But back to my nesting. Maybe it’s the light-headedness, or the fact that I’m all gravelly-voiced and lip-balmed, or maybe because I ran out of clean pants wore a nice, black Banana Republic dress to work, but I feel like it’s my duty to be all perky and Rachael Ray about everything. Birds chirping? Lovesies! Get to use my new umbrella today? Yummers! Making Geo something nummy for din-din? Zippy!

The problem, though, is that he wants chicken. And anyone who’s anyone knows that that’s pretty much one of the many the only meat I cannot cook. I like my steaks and burgers bloody, but the slightest hint of pink in a chicken breast sends me into a Salmonella Frenzy and I inevitably overcook the hell out of the little bugger. Determined (and slightly medicated), though, I’ve decided to tackle the elusive Well-Cooked Chicken Breast in the form of Chicken Cordon Bleu. Since I’m playing the role of a domestically-capable human tonight – and wearing an APRON, might I remind you! - it was destined for success.

And here's the proof!

Geo even casually mentioned, as I brought him his plate of food at the dining room table wearing an apron, "Hey, have you ever seen the show Mad Men? 'Cause back then, women did this whole dinner thing all the time..." I spit in his food.

Okay...not really, but my hacking cough probably made its way into his food at some point, so I guess we're even now.

First Rule of Fight Club

I'm struggling to write. Physically, I mean. My arms are all jelly-like and my fingers are shaking from being clenched for a couple hours straight. Them's the brakes of a being professional fighter, I guess. Tonight, Sanna and I went to our very first kickboxing class. We. Were. Terrified. We spent a good hour freaking out about what it would be like, if we'd be able to do it, what the other people in the class would be like, if there were going to be boys in the class, what to wear...all that stuff.

Being anxious, we arrived at the class a good half hour early. We sat in the car, nervously checking our phones and trying to research some reviews on the gym we were going to (an ACTUAL BOXING GYM). Finally we pysched ourselves up and walked in to the gym. First thing we see: two other girls, grasping the very same Groupon we were holding. They were like golden tickets, and we all had 'em. It was also a sign that they, like us, were n00bs. Yes! So a total of 5 chicks sat around waiting for God-knows-who to come in and whip our saggy scrawny butts into shape. While we waited, we sat watching some dude who may as well have been Rocky Balboa, punching the crap out of the bags. He bopped around, listening to his iPod. He looked positively focused and determined. I knew my inspiration.

Then he walked in. Russian Tony. He was late, and he breezed in the gym in a suit, and said "One minute, ladiezz, I've got to go change eento somesing a little more appropriate for bohxing." Twenty seconds later, Tony reappeared. "Let's get to wohk ladies, come out here. No shoes. I once [something non-understandable because of his accent] and my ankle just POP! Anyway, line up." We all uncomfortably lined up, facing a mirror. I immediately regretted my clothing decision which consisted solely of clothes that accentuated anything that bounced - purposely or not. Gross, I thought. I shifted uncomfortably as Tony stared at me and said "First eez the jab. Watch my stance." Turns out, I caught on. He pointed at me and said "Yes! Yes. Good!" I beamed, unfortunate clothes be damned! Five seconds in and my Xbox Kinect Dance Central skills are already paying off. Score! And only once did I make an uncomfortable joke (Tony: "Clench your feests like zees, and punch like zhat." Me: "What about this? What's this called" - I start playfully girl-slapping the air in front of me. Tony was not amused. "Zhat's nothing".)

I was like a troll in that class, though. I was roughly 3 feet shorter than everyone else, and I am, uh, sturdy. But I will tell you one thing: I can punch and kick with the best of them. And thanks to my extensive (read: 2 years) training in cheerleading in high school, I can kick and balance and control my bod. So, yeah. I stopped dissecting myself in the mirror and started punching right at my own reflection and exhaling a little "Oosh! Oosh!" with each jab and cross, just like Russian Tony did. It felt great.

Then came the best part. The GLOVES. While I was utterly gnarled out at the sweaty, grainy insides of the gloves, Tony insisted, "Yes, theeeze gloves are sweaty, but they are a DIFFERENT kind of sweaty! Eeet's a GOOD sweaty!" So I sucked it up and clenched a loose fist inside the glove. First, we had to pair up and one person punched/kicked, and the other blocked. It was not ideal, as my partner (NOT Sanna) was def not as coordinated as me and kept getting too close to me. Space, woman! Don't make me TKO you! (I don't know what TKO means, btw.) But OMG, you guys. The punching bags! Punching a giant bag with giant, padded gloves on is positively empowering. I felt stronger than ever. Plus, Tony kept saying "Excellent!" to me, so I'm pretty sure he's going to recruit me for a women's boxing team. Coooool!

So we punched bags and kicked bags and I wiped my sweaty brow with the back of my gloves. I felt like a pro. Tony strolled around, fixing our techniques, and then declared "Eet's too quiet in here! Let's leesten to some music!" And cranked up something pounding and loud. "Eef you don't like techno, get out now! Hahahahahahaha!" Did I mention I love Tony? 'Cause I do. My hips, shoulders, calves, and big toes were aching. An hour after we started, we were already finishing up. I was beat, but I was so into it that I wanted to keep punching and kicking and checking out my "mean face" in the mirror. Tony ran through some totally awesome things we'd learn "in the next couple classes". Little things like, oh, ROUNDHOUSE KICKS and some move that allegedly could break someone's back. Yes, yes, yes! When is the next class!?

Luckily, Sanna and I have agreed to go every week for the next ten weeks (NOTE: Sanna is NOT as beat as I am. She is in markedly better shape than me). By the end I will probably be the best boxer ever. That is, if my legs ever stop shaking and my hips ever stop aching. I have sore muscles that I didn't even know I had, and they are clearly muscles I haven't worked in, oh, the past decade. But I'm hungry for more already. I don't know if it's the aggression I worked out, or the bod I worked out, but whatever it is, I feel good.

Gimme a Break!

The current count of my friends who have had the flu in the past week or so is up to about five now. I should count myself lucky. I woke up on Friday, sure I was getting sick. Sore throat, congested beyond all get out, and just generally yucky. I called in sick to work and braced myself for a weekend of whining and crying and overall pukiness. Alas, I made it through the weekend flu-less (thanks, flu shot!) But it didn't change the fact that I am, in fact, sick. Of this winter crap. And now everyone is talking about their Spring Break, which is something I desperately need. A week in a hot climate with not a care in the world.

The last time I went on Spring Break, Geo, Perek and his wife Leah, our friend Chad and his girlfriend Angie, and I went to Puerto Vallarta. It was glorious. We sat in the pool, swam in waterfalls, rode horses (that were very malnourished, I should add), went on a booze cruise, and spent a whole week in flip flops. In the middle of February. It was like an alternate universe. I want to go there again. The sad thing was that that was my first actual vacation that I had ever taken without parental supervision.

I went to Puerto Vallarta for the first time with my family as a freshman in college. I was 19, and of legal drinking age in Mexico. Yet, every time I'd be out to eat with my parents, I'd have to order a Coca-Cola light. Nope, no cerveza for this chica. Boo. But I returned home with a wicked tan and a zillion braids in my hair (against my better judgement), so that's all that counts.

In high school, I went to Hong Kong with our high school band for our annual tour. Yeah, when most seniors were perfecting their pre-tans and buying new bikinis getting ready to go Cabo San Lucas together, I was packing up my flute and getting my band uniform dry cleaned. But THAT was a fun trip. We visited night markets, went sightseeing, lived it up in our fancy hotel robes, and, get this, they put corn on their pizza! EXOTIC!

Before that, we never really did too much on Spring Break. My parents and Perek and I visited Gulf Shores, Alabama one year and I was about 5 yards away from a crocodile (alligator? I don't know. What's the diff?) on a golf course and drank my first "Sweet Tea". But everyone else was brushing up on their Spanish or Balinese or whatever and going somewhere real tropical-like. The contiguous 48 states aren't exactly "tropical".

I used to watch "MTV's Spring Break" every year and be all, "Aw man, I want to be in that disgusting mess of drunk people trying to eat 50 jalapeno peppers while being dowsed in foam!" It all seemed so fun...so magical. Now, I just want endless margaritas, a forced absence of internet access, and a quick dip in a cool pool after baking in the hot sun. Plus, now that I'm old enough to drink beer in every corner of the world, I'd like to go there. Anywhere. Now.

I need a break. I need a Spring. I would love to take off for a week and leave my cares behind, but I haven't got a thing planned. Today, I got a manicure with Claire and I chose the brightest, most obnoxious pink color I could find, as if that would suffice. But now I'm looking at my nails as they peek out of my fingerless gloves and, alas, it's not enough. They would look beautiful if they were building sand castles. What can a girl do, though? With no vacation in sight, and no relief from the 6 foot drifts of snow still hindering my walk to the bus, what can I do to feel all spring-breaky? The answer, of course, is to just wallow and hope for some sun. I should also consider doubling-up on the tequila.

Crazy is the New Black (I Hope)

Okay, fine. I’m crazy. I get it now. My head, whirring around with constant thoughts of celebrities and shoes and schedules and lists, has taken over and it’s turning me into madwoman. Randomly, in the past month or so, I’ve just been kind of a mess of racing thoughts. I can convince myself to be paranoid about car rides or brain tumors or diabetes. I’ve literally talked myself into having everything from headaches to acne. So, natch, I decided that I’ve snapped.

Last month, I finally bucked up and visited a doctor and explained that “Doc, I've lost it, I think. I am driving myself crazy,” and then I just cried for no reason - Ugh, what a girl. She listened, was very nice, and explained that I am probably suffering from anxiety attacks. I helpfully suggested that maybe they should do a full body scan and maybe do some sort of extensive neurological testing to pinpoint exactly what is going on and how I can quit . She laughed off my suggestion and said “It’s really not uncommon. It’s not.” And then, as if to add insult to injury, she suggested that maybe working out would help. I was all “What are you, Jillian Michaels?” Instead of explaining to her that I simply don’t like working out and I don’t think it will make me feel better to do something I hate, I kind of just hung my head and nodded. Accepted my punishment.

So the doc was all “It could be stress” and “It could be a seasonal thing” and “It could be the fear of your future” and, my favorite, “It’s probably nothing.” So…uh…riiiiiiight…okay. None of that is really helping, here, lady. None of that changes the fact that all of a sudden, I’m freaking out over the protests in Wisconsin because I’m assuming they are going to lead to mutiny and then how will we stop the anarchy?! Wait, what? How did I get THERE, you ask? I have no idea…my mind just wanders and then BOOM. The worst-case scenario just sort of pops up and suddenly the purse I just bought isn’t cheering me up like it did yesterday because Wisconsin is ruining everything. RUDE. You can see why I think I’ve gone insane, right?

Anyway, so back at the doctor’s office. The very nice, patient, understanding doctor suggests I take some good ol’ anti-anxiety pills for the road. I interrupt her Rx writing, in protest. I explained that I don’t WANT to take medicine. I don’t know what it does exactly, and I’m worried it may interfere with my very infrequent use of Advil and cause a blot clot or something. She says, markedly less patient now, “You are the exact opposite of patients I typically see. But I’m giving you the lowest dose humanly possible. It’s not going to do anything except calm you down and interrupt your racing thoughts.” And, she assured me, it won’t turn me into a zombie, when I explain that my sister takes anti-anxiety medicine to fly, and then she just falls asleep for hours and that’s why she can’t fly alone.

Does this happen to any of you? Do you guys ever get into these modes where you just can't, like, LOGIC your way out of it? Good lord, I hope so because otherwise I'm a medical anomaly which greatly adds to my anxiety. I would love to hear your stories/reactions/suggestions if you've ever cartwheeled down the steep anxiety slope. You know what they say: insanity misery loves company!

Evil Eye

Wednesdays. Geez, it feels like every single week there’s a Wednesday. But, you know what? It’s nearly over, which means the week is almost over, which means the weekend is almost here. I can almost see Saturday from here. ALMOST. I’ll bet it’d be a lot clearer if I had better vision. (Oof, that transition was rough. Even for me. Gimme a break…it‘s Wednesday for crying outloud.) At any rate, I was at work this afternoon when my contact just straight up fell out of my eye. Bloop! Right there onto the floor. Luckily, I found it right away, because I would have most certainly been ruined for the rest of the day with just one working retina. How limiting! Geez, if my contact fell out while, I don’t know, driving, I’d have to pull over or drive with one eye shut. Whoops! There goes my depth perception!

I have suuuuper bad eye sight, and I’ve worn glasses since 5th grade. I. Loved. My. Glasses. They had giant round lenses, rimmed in a gold tortoise shell. They were Nickelodean brand. I used the little spray and cloth that came with my glasses to clean them compulsively. During my yearbook pictures in 6th grade, the photographer made me take off my glasses because there was a glare. When I got my yearbook, I looked at my picture and was horrified. By that time I was so used to seeing my face framed by the giant gold rims, that I felt like I looked like I was missing my eyes altogether. So I took out a pen and drew the glasses on myself. I ruined the picture, and thus, the only photographic evidence that I attended 6th grade.

Then, sometime around 8th grade, my mom must have looked at me, with my big silver braces and gold ginormous glasses, and thought, “Well, you just look ridiculous.” She took me to get contacts. Yay! Contacts! Or so I thought. I have a disgustingly vivid memory of that first eye exam. In order to test the amount of natural tears I could produce (you need tears for contacts, FYI), they took these pH strip-looking pieces of paper and slipped one INTO the corners of each of my eyes. I sat there and waited for the test to be done, closing my eyes with paper sticking out of them, and thinking “This is torture. This is ridiculous. How am I going to ever put things in my eyes after this?!” Needless to say, I had enough tears. Well, duh! I was ACTUALLY CRYING because those paper things hurt so bad. (If ANYONE ELSE had to go through this, please TELL ME! Everyone is convinced this is a “false memory”, but I remember it like it happened 20 minutes ago.)

These days, you’ll probably never see me with glasses. My contacts are every bit a part of me as my finger nails. I never take them out. And by “never”, I mean “NEVER”. I sleep with them in. It’s a really bad habit I got into in college. Waking up and not being able to see the alarm clock frequently resulted in many missed classes, so I learned to just sleep with my contacts in. People with 20/20 vision will never understand the panic and frustration of waking up and not being able to see past your own hand. So now I sleep with my contacts in my eyes rather than in their little case where they belong. Apparently, though, you’re supposed to take them out because when you sleep your eyeballs roll back in your head, making it very easy to lose a contact inside your brain. (Does it help you read minds? No.) But it’s never happened to me, so why fix something that ain’t broke?

Okay, I’m not the greatest at taking care of my contacts. But today when my contact fell out, I gave in and thought “Well this is a sign that I might need to go back to glasses.” Unfortunately, the glasses I have NOW are not exactly the bomb Nickelodean frames I used to drool over. I love the look of them…they are thick, black rectangular frames, but because I have a child-sized head and my glasses are made for ADULTS, they just slip off my head anytime I look down. Not exactly ideal (Eye-deal? Oooh, dumb. Sorry.)

But now my eyes are watering - either because I’m tired or because I’m having flashbacks to the Paper Strip in the Eye Nightmare - so, I’m gonna go attempt to take out my contacts and go to sleep. I just hope no one breaks in in the middle of the night…I won’t be able to see them and will probably mistake them for a roommate and just go back off to sleep. I wouldn't exactly make a suitable eye witness...

Take Two and Call Me in the Morning

I went to pick up a prescription tonight. Usually when I go - which is not often - the line is long, I’m in a hurry, and I’m angry I have to be there in the first place. As I’ve mentioned, I’m old school when it comes to curing what ails me: ice it, heat it, take a Tylenol. I just don’t hit up the pharmacy too much. So, when I do have to hustle my bustle over there, I’m already annoyed at my body’s vulnerability and just want to get in and get out at any cost. Tonight for some reason, though, I wasn’t so biatchy. So, you can imagine my surprise when I actually PAID ATTENTION to what I was paying for my prescription. Apparently, the sticker price is $123.00. I saw that on the package and my internal Outside Voice started screaming bloody murder “Have I paid that much before and not even REALIZED it!?” But the pharmacist shut me up post haste. “That’ll be $15.63” And that included a diet Coke. I strolled back to my car, in a pleased little daze. I’m not going to sit here and get into a health care debate. No way. But I will say this: whatever kept me from having to pay over a hundred stupid dollars for a stupid prescription is fine by me.

You know what’s scary? ALLLLLLL the things that can go wrong in a body. I’m a closet hypochondriac. Well, “closet” in the way that a lot of people know about it, but they don’t know just how serious it can get. I can keep myself up all night wondering if I’m slowly going blind, or maybe I’ll spontaneously go blind. The possibilities can be endless. Then again, I picked a blister on my hand today, and it’s already healed. Pills? I don't need no stinkin' pills. Maybe I’m magic.

Magic or not, though, I am not immune from advertising techniques. Have you noticed that like every other commercial is advertising some drug to “ask your doctor about”? The very UNhelpful thing is that they don’t exactly explain what the drug is for. Like I said, I generally don't like to medicate that which does not need medication. But, I like fancy packaging and catchy slogans. So, I wouldn’t put it past me to go to my doctor and ask her about something that ends up being a male enhancement pill, or something to ease the effects of menopause. The point is: how can I ask my doctor about something if I have no idea if I seriously need to? That’s probably how they get you.

Think about it: Every person in every drug commercial ever made in the history of time features a non-descript, vaguely middle-aged person, who is, like, super happy. I can’t help but think, “Is that how I’m supposed to feel? ‘Cause I have no desire to take a bath outside or play beach volleyball or ride a tandem bike. Clearly, I need to start taking whatever they‘re on.” Then I find out the drug is for like male-patterned baldness.

Then they come atcha with the SIDE EFFECTS! Are you kidding, drug companies? I’ll never forget the time I saw a commercial for a drug that supposedly alleviates social anxiety. The side effects were: excessive perspiration, gas, bloating, and nausea. Yeah, nothing says Socially Confident like a gassy, smelly person who pukes on your Pradas. Isn’t there a point where the scientists are like “Um, I think this is making the situation worse,“ and then they pack up their mice and microscopes for the day?

Between all the problems and all the solutions that are apparently available, it’s a wonder anyone can walk around with any maladies, let alone operate heavy machinery. There is medication for everything like restless feet, adult acne, short eyelashes, occasional perspiration, and bad breath. It's hard to take it all so seriously, especially when apparently "everyone" needs it. Here’s what I’d like to see the scientists get on, though. Cancer. That’s a biggie. Let’s cure that. Or, on a personal note, something to make you grow a few helpful inches taller. Or maybe a pill that makes your wallet fatter and your hips skinnier. Simultaneously. I feel like that would be pretty awesome. I’d totally suffer through some intense B.O. to get me some of that.

Well, none of those things come in pill form. Yet. For now, I’m going to dry-swallow a really big pill (yeah, I’m cool like that) and hope I don’t have to suffer through any of the vague side effects promised on the bottle. But I guess even if I do, someone makes a different drug to cure them. Meh, I probably wouldn't take it anyway. Sounds like a job for Tylenol to me.

Who is Lange Zyne, and How Old IS She?

You knew it was coming, didn’t you? Like I said before, I don’t typically make New Year’s Resolutions, so I guess maybe these should be considered a To Do List for 2011. Or, maybe more like “Pseudo-Challenging Goals Most People Do Anyway”. I feel like resolutions are so, I don’t know, final and scary. I would list things like “Learn Chinese” or “Shower Everyday” but everyone who knows me knows that those are impossible, and therefore won’t make any list I ever compile, unless it’s a list of things I’ll never do.

Without further ado, here’s my List of Things I Will Really Try and Do This Year, But Don’t Quote Me On It:

* As I’ve previously mentioned, learn how to put on makeup. As I write this list, I am relishing in Day Two of no makeup, and I will be sad to see these days go.

* Stop doing my laundry at my parents house. (NOTE: I KNOW how to do my own laundry. I’ve been doing it since I was 16, and in fact DO my own laundry, just at my parents house.) Here’s the thing: I HAVE a washer and dryer in my house, but I’ll admit it. I’m very afraid of our basement. It’s dark and scary and full of storage stuff. I just KNOW there are mice hiding down there. And mice are scary. It’s time I stop avoiding the little buggers and just wear football spikes down to the basement.

* Learn how to change a car tire. I don’t know why, but I have always wanted to be able to do this. I think it has something to do with the fact that I know a lot of guys who can’t do it, and need to call AAA. But how awesome would it be to pop out of the car, take off my Louboutins (which I will also buy this year), and change a tire myself? Answer: Very awesome.

* Be more spontaneous. Typically, Monday-Friday, my hours are planned out down to the minute, until 6 p.m. when I just park it on my couch and write. I have GOT to stop doing that. “Pharon, do you want to go to a movie that doesn’t START until 9:30 p.m.?” Old answer: No way, too late. New answer: Fine. Well, unless there’s one at 7:30? No? Okay, count me in.

* More happy hours. I can’t believe I have to actually WORK on this. I love Happy Hours, but as of late, I’ve really been slacking in the post-work drink arena. Must remedy this soon.

* No more roommates. I think I’m finally at the age where it’s getting a little weird to live in a house with 3 people to whom I’m not related. I really hope this is the year I move out of my favoritest house in the world into a small, crappy place in the ‘burbs probably, because I can only afford my sweet pad right now with the THREE roommates. No, I think it’s time to downsize and grow up.

* Stop watching TV marathons. Or at least limit them. I can sit and watch America’s Next Top Model marathons for 4 hours without even thinking about it. And God help me if there’s a Bridezilla or True Life marathon on. I may as well grow roots in the couch. But no, I must stop doing this.

* No. More. Clothes. From. Forever. 21. No more. They are cheap and only good for one or two wears. Unless it’s for a costume or something. Nope. I’m going to focus on QUALITY clothes over QUANTITY of clothes.

* Stop eating like a guy. I need more veggies and fruit in my diet, plain and simple.

* Keep blogging. If you guys promise to keep reading, I promise to keep blogging.

Those are my goals for 2011. What are yours? What will you change? What do you want to KEEP doing? (And HEY! If one of your resolutions is to write kick butt Cheesy Movie Storyline, don’t forget to send it to pharonsquare@gmail.com for your chance to win an authentic Pharon Square t-shirt AND your story featured on an upcoming blog!!)

Be safe out there guys. Have fun ringing in the new year, and I hope you have the night of a lifetime!! I’m sad to see 2010 go, because it was a pretty darn good year. I hope next year is as good, if not better. For me AND for you! See you all in 2011!

Sars about the video below, but it’s the only thing I could find with my favorite version of the New Year’s Song! Close your eyes and dance…

Sweet Tooth

If I ever see sugar again, it will be too soon. Like, way way way too soon. I spent over 7 hours baking cookies today with Prinna and my mom. We always start all gung-ho crazy, and about halfway through, we really start hurtin'. Quality suffered. We slowed down. But eventually we finished, and we're pretty proud of the results. Without further ado, here's a photo journal of what we accomplished today.









Then I got a little crazy. I spent an obscene amount of time making "couples" with the gingerbread men. Prinna was about to toss me and my "couples" out the window, because while I dawdled away placing each little piece of sprinkle hair on one-by-one, there were literally hundreds more to decorate. But, behold! The adorable results!

Geo and Me


Prinna and Chris


My mom and dad - look! He has a little stethoscope on, and my mom has reading glasses on her head!

So, I think we did a pretty kick-butt job. We divvied out all the cookies and we each took home a thief's ransom in sugar. I almost dumped mine off our balcony though. I couldn't look at them anymore. Plus, I don't need anymore sugar - I'm sweet enough as it is. ZING! But, I kept them and I'm sure my roommates will have no trouble eating them. Meanwhile, this is the carnage that remained after all the cookies were packaged up.

Footsie

Had dinner with Kim tonight. It took forever to meet up because of all the snow and cars and idiots. First and foremost, let me tell you that Minnesota drivers are, far and away, the dumbest people on the planet. When there is snow piled on snow, piled on cars, piled on top of more snow, the solution to finding a parking spot on the street is NOT just parking in the middle of the street. I mean, I don’t know if that’s for sure on the driving test, but you’d just assume that’s a bad solution.

So, finally I meet up with Kim. She was halfway done with a beer by the time I took my coat off. It had been a loooooong day for her. She just had one of those generally really crap-filled days. She texted me this afternoon, and was frustrated and stressed out. My response? I sent her a very detailed text about how much my feet smelled. Yeah, she laughed. I was glad to have helped her out a bit.

At dinner, we both kind of loudly dumped our respective bad stories onto each other. After we had purged our bad news, we went back to discussing my feet. I explained to Kim that it is a little disturbing when you’re sitting there, wearing socks and winter boots, and you can still smell your own feet. At the time, it seemed like a bigger problem than work drama. Kim disagreed.

I don’t know what’s better, though: Enjoying a good dinner with a friend, or discussing the validity of whether or not people’s feet and armpits are in any way connected with each other, thereby distributing a finite amount of the smell glands. I explained to Kim that I must have all my sweat glands in my feet because I don't have ANY in my arms. I don’t sweat there, and I don’t smell (Perek once helpfully suggested, during an extended period of me living the single life, that maybe THAT’S why I didn’t have a boyfriend. No pheromones or something. Jerk). There are people you can smell a mile away because of their armpits. I’ve moved away from these people on the bus. Ew. No thanks. But I wonder if they sit around at home wearing their boots all night because they don’t want to offend people’s olfactory glands by taking them off. I think it just might be a trade off, then. Armpits or feet…choose your stinky weapon.

Chances are, if you’ve got cartoon stink lines coming from your armpits, you probably walk around barefoot like it’s no biggie. Is that right? Does anyone know if there’s any science behind it?

Well, back to dinner. I wish I went out to girl dinners more often. Usually, I’ll go out with a few girls, and we all get tangled up in different conversations, talking over each other, and recapping stories when one of us goes to the bathroom. But the one-on-one girly dinners are easier to manage. You’re either talking or listening. You give and take. There’s not as much interrupting, and you can end up having a really good, solid conversation about whether or not people sweat the same from their feet as they do from their armpits. We departed company and made promises to hang out again this weekend. See? That’s what I love about friends like Kim. We sat together for a couple hours, complaining and whining, and talking candidly about how much we smell, and yet? We make plans to hang out AGAIN in under 48 hours. I’m hoping by then, she’ll have had a better day at work. She’s probably hoping that by then, I will have showered.

Well, you guys? That’s all she wrote this week! Hope you all have a fabulous and fresh weekend!

P.S. No plans this weekend? How about spending some time writing an award-winning script?! Check out the current Lifetime Write Off Challenge for your shot at winning pride, glory, and your very own Pharon Square t-shirt!

Side Effects: Drowsiness, Insanity

I sneezed a total of 23 times at work today. Yeah, I counted. That seems a little excessive, don’t you think? And I couldn't even hold them in like I usually do. I just kept letting ‘em fly. I went through this little phase where I’d go “eeehhh…” and then hold in the sneeze, and end it with a high-pitched little “tchew!” It was annoying. Plus, my mom always said I’d blow my ear drums out by holding in sneezes.

When I was hanging out at my parents a couple weeks ago, my mom almost divorced my dad over his sneezes. He was Thor, and his sneezes shook the house. “AaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…..CHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” My mom yelled back at him, “What is with your sneezes?! You don’t need a drum roll!” regarding his thunderous sneeze set-ups. Thirty seconds later, he’d do the exact same thing. It was like Spite Sneezing. Glorious.

The point is, though, if my 23 sneezes are any indication, I think I might be getting a cold, which would really, ah hem, blow. All that sniffling and words sounding all dumb - Wait, Pharon. Did you say DUMB or DUBB? I can’t understand you with your nose all stuffed up like that. One of the definite pluses of having a cold, though, is the NyQuil. Sweet, sweet NyQuil. That cherry flavored, oozy, thick, slippery wonderful treat. Yes, a treat. I can’t take it very often, as it gives me suuuuuper messed up dreams. They are the wonderful hallucinations of a mildly sick young lady. There was the one where I was sinking into a giant ice cream cone (bacon flavored, if I remember correctly), that was guarded by a wart-covered parrot who squawked "Eat it allllll up, Buttonface." Then I had to eat my way out of it but found it difficult to breathe in all that ice cream. I vaguely remember waking up briefly to discover my pillow in my mouth, further complicating my breathing.

When I finally DO manage to wake from my codeiney slumber, I feel like I’ve got a hazy new lease on life. My nose is unplugged, but I have developed a trippy case of vertigo. I’m like a baby fawn. And though my head is no longer tight with cold germs, it’s cloudy with delusions of grandeur. I’ll be standing in the shower, crank it all the way up to scalding and proclaim that my skin is made of metal (or, “betal” in Cold-Speak) and I am unburnable. Only after the NyQuil wears off will I realize that the itchy redness that is my skin is but the skin of a mortal.

I have the same reactions with DayQuil, too, but to a much lesser degree. So it’s like not even HALF as fun as the gooey goodness of a great NyQuil trip. And the best part of taking NyQuil vs. Dayquil is that for most of the nighttime remedy, you’re just layin’ there, sleeping in the safety of your own bed, not operating heavy machinery, and gettin’ healthy.

Despite the obvious perks of being able to snooze away in a mushy, cold-medicine fog, I really don’t want to get sick just yet. It's my dad's birthday on Friday, and I got him a pretty awesome gift, so I'd like to see him open it WITHOUT paranoia that it will come to life or crazy hallucinations. "Happy Birthday Dad! Holy crap, watch out for that murder of crows wearing bow ties that are dive-bombing the room!!!"

Have a great (and healthy) weekend, everyone!

Footjoy

My foot is killing me. It’s been hurting for like a week. I chalked it up to wearing too-high, pinchy shoes that I squeeze into, despite the inevitable wobbly pain I’ll be in later. I simply don’t care though. I love the high shoes. I love that they put me at a towering 5’5” or even 5’6” if I’m lucky.

Naturally, I thought my foot was staging an uprising against the masochism in which I force it to live. So, when I felt the pinchy stab under my right foot, I simply ignored it. Just like I would a screaming toddler. Ignore it, and it’ll stop whining and leave me alone. But, it’s still hurting. And okay, so YES I’m currently wearing 4-inch wedged heels that are ADORABLE, and it’s probably not exactly “helping” the situation. But what am I supposed to do? NOT wear heels? Pshaw. Not a chance.

Finally, on Saturday afternoon, I bent down and decided to take a peek at the mysterious pain. (Why did I not take a peek right after it started hurting? I don’t know. Why does anyone not do anything?) Right there, at the exact spot of the pulsing pain, was a sliver. Deeeeeeeep in my foot. It’s almost like WALKING on it made it worse somehow. I don’t know; I’m not a doctor.

So after I spent Saturday night in 5 1/2-inch patent leather stilettos for a party (yes, despite the horrible throbbing pain), I think my injured foot finally had had enough. I went to my parent’s house on Sunday and I hesitantly mentioned the problem to my dad. I started with, “So, my foot has really been hurting for about a week now.” And he interjected with “Well, your shoes…” and before he could finish I said, “It’s NOT the shoes. I have a sliver way deep I think, and I can’t get it out.”

Unlike me, my dad IS a doctor. And he’s a pretty cool one, too. At a high school football game, Claire got hit in the head with a huge wooden toy airplane, and he stitched her up right there – WITH HER OWN HAIR. Baller! Anyway, he’s much less creative when it comes to family care, though. There are exactly 3 remedies for anything that ails you, according to my dad: Tylenol, icing the pain, and, as in the case of my foot, soaking it. Anything that requires more than that is, well, nothing requires more than that.

The most frustrating thing about it all is that He’s right. I’ve NEVER been to a doctor for anything other than a check-up. When I get the flu, I take some Tylenol, put some ice on my forehead or a heating pad on my stomach, and get through it. That exact same treatment also works for: cramps, broken toe, back pain, sprained ankle, headaches, hangovers, sliver-in-foot, and probably gingivitis for all anyone knows. The point is: I’m going to go ahead and trust my dad on this one. So I spent the night “soaking” my foot in the hopes that the sliver shimmies its way out of my achin’ foot. There was no shimmying. None. Impatient, I performed my own version of surgery, despite my dad's warning that "the treatment should not be worse than the injury". People? It didn't go very well.

Well, what do I do now? Hopefully I didn't give myself tetanus or something. I'm pretty sure I'm not up to date on that shot, and I don't know that applying a cold compress will help with that kind of thing.

I Can't Believe It's Not Popcorn

Today at work, I was sitting at my desk, mindlessly snacking on a bag of SmartPop popcorn. Just minutes before that, I was plopping little blobs of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter into the bag. I shook the bag of hot popcorn around and headed back to my desk. Cut to 30 seconds later, when I’m sitting at my desk, mindlessly snacking on a bag of SmartPop popcorn. I picked up a healthy handful of popcorn and shoved it in my mouth. Seconds later, I thought, “Wow, this popcorn is nasty. And cold. And soggy. And, this isn’t popcorn. This is a giant blob of butter. And I just swallowed it.”

My mind is just playing tricks on me, I guess. Today, I woke up, pretty determined to conquer all obstacles that fell in my way. My brain was all, “Yeah! Pharon! You can DO this!” And I left the house. Forgetting to button my pants. That's just not okay. Whether I’m eating butter, or having difficulty figuring out how many hours are between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. (BRIEFLY!), I’m just, I’m off today. My iPod ear buds are only working in one ear. Maybe that’s the reason for my imbalance.

Also? I definitely didn't win those Twins Tickets I wanted. In FACT, I’m not even sure where I got the idea that I COULD win them. I’m extremely unlucky when it comes to all that, how do I just keep forgetting that? What’s going on here, people?

Maybe it’s the time of year. This is my last week of Summer Hours at work, and maybe the long days and half-day Fridays have just burned my brain out. Or maybe it’s the fact that I brought my Kate Spade bag in to be dry cleaned on Friday, and I still haven’t heard back as to whether or not it’s even POSSIBLE to dry clean. My new, substitute bag is just a mess of crap. There are no convenient pockets, and I’m constantly digging around for a pen or my wallet or a taser.

I hate feeling off. Tonight all I made for dinner was vegetables. Say whaaaaaat? I’ve really got to pull myself together. I can’t go on constantly worried that I have put on two different shoes, or that I may eat a stick of butter. It’s inhumane. For now, I’ll blame the changing season and my M.I.A. Kate Spade. Once order is restored, and it better be restored soon Pilgrim Cleaners, I’ll have my life back. I hope.

Baby Got Back (Pain)

"You are saying the change has to first occur in the brain?"

Great googly-moogly, people. The above quote is in an article attempting to explain lower back pain. That’s right. Back Pain. I clicked through to the article because my stupid back hurts again, and I thought I’d find some helpful hints in the article called “Low Back Pain: Is It Really All In Your Head?” I was, of course, expecting the answer to this rhetorical question to be “OF COURSE NOT, YOU POOR SUFFERING SOUL!” But no, no, no. That was not the case.

Blah, blah, blah, the article was all “the suffering starts in your head because that’s where movement begins: in the brain” or some such way of complicating the fact that your brain controls your body. If you don’t already know that, I don’t know how to talk to you.

I find both great enjoyment and frustration in articles like this. On the one hand, sometimes these articles provide very helpful information (make gentler movements). On the other hand, there’s a lot of jargony nonsense that can suffocate the factual text and confuse readers (said example of it being in your head).

I don’t know if any of you has back pain, but mine started in high school and randomly and angrily flares up without warning. Sure, the lifting of heavy boxes and walking a couple miles every day in high heel wedges may not help, but I’m certain the pain existed long before any of these other things happened. It’s a back spasm that shakes me into a contorted position for a few seconds, and is followed by anywhere from an hour to 5 days of soreness.

But enough about me. Back (ha!) to the articles. More and more people are visiting websites for help and treatment of pain. You just can’t visit the doctor every time something comes up, though, right? Sometimes, one must Google. But I’m scared for people who don’t take the time to rummage through all the prosaic babbling to get to the proverbial meat of the matter. For instance, Web MD’ing “dark bruise” suggests that I may have rectal problems. What? No, try again, website. Mongolian Spots? Nope. In this case, I’m guessing it’s best to rely on our own brain. (Then again, can I trust my brain? I mean, it may be the thing that’s responsible for my back pain, after all.) It takes a bit of thinking. “This deep dark bruise on my thigh has been there for a few days now. Hmmm. Maybe it has something to do with repeatedly running into the corner of the dining room table whenever I sprint into the kitchen for a slice of cheese.” Guess what, Contestant! You’ve won a million dollars.

Don’t get me wrong, though, I’m all for healing yourself in the best way possible. If it’s medication, meditation, or ignorance, I say go with what works for you. I’ve always been fascinated by the ways in which people diagnose and heal themselves. When I was very young, my parents gave me the Mayo Clinic Family Health book. It was chock full of diseases and pictures. My favorite? Hairy Tongue. Yeah, that one’s a doozy. But the language is so methodical and technical, I trusted it. There was no suggestion that any physical disfigurement may simply be due to the way I think. It was just the facts. And it was a great relief to know that I wasn’t suffering from internal bleeding. (I used to think, “How would I ever know if I was bleeding INSIDE?! I can’t see in there!” Thanks to the book, though, I realized it is highly unlikely that there would be no physical manifestation of said bleeding. Case closed.)

None of this helps me with my back, though. I don’t want to visit a doctor; it’s a recurring pain that I can handle. Googling “back pain” is useless, as there are too many causes and treatments for me to sort through. And I definitely won’t stop wearing high heels. I don’t know. I guess I’ll just request a new chair from HR and hope that fixes it. And if that doesn’t work, maybe I’ll head into a clinic for a lobotomy and get the masochistic part of my brain that is causing my own pain removed.

NO WIRE HANGERS!

At the risk of sounding crazy, I have to tell you guys something: I think I’m crazy. Today at work, for zero reason at all, I just got overwhelmed with questions and sounds, freaked out and just mentally shut down for a few hours.

Everything and everyone was agitating me. And it’s not even like normal annoying stuff either. For instance, I was really really upset that the air conditioning at work was giving my legs goose bumps because I just shaved this morning. All those seconds of hard work and razor burn for nothing! GOD!

Also, I was wearing pants that were too big, and a shirt that’s a bit too small, which caused major annoyances at my waistline. And whoever made these pants also sewed the stupid buttons and zipper on the wrong side and slightly off-center. Don’t they know anything?

Suddenly my skin felt too small for my body, my fingers wanted to throw up, and it was not out of the question that I would start hurling profanities at the biography of Mister Rogers that sits on my desk.

Why do I get like this? Is it the weather? The long work week I’ve already had? Biology (you know what I mean, ladies…)? Or is this like the first sign of insanity? I AM at the age where all kinds of mental disabilities come to the surface, after all. Is this how schizophrenia starts? There was definitely a moment today when I think I may have heard a voice in my head saying “God, you’re weird.” What if, when I thought I was out to dinner with Geo, I was really by myself? I mean, things definitely calmed down as soon as I got home and started talking to Geo and Sanna. Ohmygod, what if Geo and Sanna are just alternate personalities manifested as roommates?! Surely someone would tell me, though. Right? RIGHT?

I can just see it now. Years from now, people will tell stories like “Well, I knew she was crazy back when she started talking about her ‘roommates‘ all the time, when she really lived alone,” or “Remember the summer of 2010 when she was still pretty normal, but she got super angry at buttons and zippers??” I would hate to end up on E! True Hollywood Story (why I’d be on, I don’t know….) and hear my mom tearfully say something like “She was such a happy girl. And then all of a sudden, she would only wear spandex and she never shaved her legs again.” My dad would hold her hand, and say something like, “Martha, we did the best we could. The girl was just never quite right.”

Then again, maybe it’s stress.