It's raining on my Saturday

Quite the appropriate weather for my last day in Rhode Island, no? I don't mean in a gloomy, metaphorical sense, signifying that my summer has come to an end and nostalgia is due to set in as I leave for Boston tomorrow. No, I just mean that the rain will keep my butt inside packing all day, instead of stealing a few last hours of sunshine in order to tan a tiny bit and try and convince people that I really did venture outdoors this summer.

So I should be packing, but of course I'm not. I do everything so last minute. I'd love to be able to justify it, give some proven explanation that I'm really ahead of the evolutionary curve or something, but I can't. I procrastinate and there's nothing else to it. Although, I will say that I feel I do my best work, writing-wise, when I'm under a time crunch. Unfortunately, this rule does not apply for packing. 

Regardless of my enthusiasm to box up my life, I could not be more excited to move back to the city. Call me a dork, but I'm even excited to start classes. I'm taking French, Newswriting & Reporting II, Introduction to Philosophy and Introduction to Cultural Anthropology. The journalism class is the only one that I'm really and truly looking forward to, but I just love taking classes so I'm looking forward to the whole schedule, even the required courses. 

I can't believe it's my junior year of college. I feel like it was yesterday that I moved into my freshman dorm room, ready to explode with jitters about making friends and spending time with my roommate. Both turned out well, I survived and even made a great friend in my roommate. We lived together for two years and are now only a few floors apart.

Here's Tori and I on Day 1, soon to find out that she cleans when she's stressed, and when I'm stressed, I just let the clothes on the floor pile up and the bed go unmade. We may not have been identical personalities, but we did, and still do, have fun.

I can't wait to see her and the rest of my friends. Three and a half months of summer is too long to go on text messages and phone calls alone. We'll start up our TV nights soon enough and all will be restored. I'm looking forward to Grey's Anatomy nights and getting back into the rest of my BU routine: going to the gym, walking to class, eating in the student union and getting "Good Mail" from my Papa and "Mediocre Mail" from my Dad (the latter lacks a certain green currency that the former provides).

If I sat here and listed everything I'm excited for, I would never pack and then, consequently, never leave. So I'm off to eat breakfast and fuel up for the rest of the day. Tea is in order. Yes, I'm definitely going to need some caffeine. 

Anniversaries galore

This video pretty much speaks for itself. My cousins are beyond adorable, wishing my grandparents a happy 50th anniversary, which we celebrated last weekend. 

Here's the cute couple in front of a vintage car.

Yes, both of my sets of grandparents were married in 1959, which has made for a fun summer, full of family get-togethers that rival those of major holidays. 

My dad's parents met in college and my mom's were married when my grandmother was just out of high school and about a month shy of her 19th birthday, my grandfather only slightly older. The fact that they were all so young, yet managed to stay together for 50 years, raising loving and successful families, is truly a testament to their strength and commitment. I'm proud to be both a Lane and a Kavanaugh and I wish them the best for the next 50 years.

IKEA, I love thee.

I don't own a home. I don't own an apartment. I don't lease, rent or even crash on the couch of one. I can't even manage to keep my bedroom organized at home. 

So why, out of all stores, do I have an infatuation with IKEA and all of its glorious Swedish home furnishings? 

Upon driving up 1 Ikea Way in Stoughton, Mass., the flags are visible beyond the horizon, standing at attention in front of the massive blue building. No, treasure chest. The flags mark the territory of the expansive treasure chest of trendy unassembled chairs, tables, desks and Swedish meatballs. Well, maybe the meatballs are assembled, but leave it to IKEA to create the first cook-it-yourself lunch.

Ok, so we've driven up, we've been in awe and now we're inside. The rooms upon rooms of assembled and organized faux family living make me giddy. I lounge in each space, imagining that this really is my living room, that those really are my family photos and that I really do own a $900 leather couch. Moreso than just wishing to purchase the contents of the room, I long to buy the actual home. Maybe the whole Swedish ownership thing is just a façade. Maybe IKEA is really a front for real estate agents everywhere to subconsciously lure innocent furniture shoppers into investing in their own properties. While I have no actual proof to back this up, I would bet an IKEA cinnamon bun (and anyone who has ever tasted one will know how serious a bet this is) that 9 times out of 10, shopping at IKEA results in closing on a home in less than a year.

So maybe I'd lose that bet and that cinnamon and icing laced bun from heaven, but I have five more and only spent $5 on the complete set of six. Because that's another one of IKEA's tricks; everything is ridiculously underpriced. Sure it's got some divas among its kitchens and bathrooms that require hefty price tags, but the rest of the furniture is extremely down to earth. It's got that "end table-next-door" appeal. The pieces are the Jennifer Anistons of the furniture world, except they don't whine about Brad Pitt or have to pose nude on the cover of GQ to get attention.

So with the low prices, it's easy to get carried away and furnish a home that may or may not actually exist at shopping time, which makes me wonder: What do the employees' homes look like? Whether there is an employee discount is irrelevant. Unless they specifically hire people with iron clad will power, you can bet there are some major shoppers among the cashiers and ottoman consultants. Their houses probably look like the catalogue, they're probably the official IKEA gift giver of their group of friends and they are probably loved more by their families than the average human who can't be the furniture fairy for their clan. 

So with a sigh, I wait. Until I have an apartment in which to install organizational shelving and decorate. Until I have a need for lamps of varying sizes and a drawer with a plexiglass top to showcase and organize my bracelets, necklaces and earrings. Until I really and truly have a need for a vase, a big white one with gorgeous flowers sticking out the top. They may even be fake flowers, because IKEA sells those, too. 

IKEA sells everything you'll ever need in life, including happiness, but as always, there's some assembly required. 

Remember a while back when I committed to writing more than one post a week? Well, you may have realized that the promise was sort of a wash. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that working three jobs while still trying to maintain some semblance of a social life does not exactly warrant much time for sleep and eating regularly, let alone supporting my new blogging habit in all its vanity. 

Unfortunately, my workout schedule has also fallen by the wayside. I've been running since middle school and absolutely love it. I was captain of the track team in high school, but I definitely wasn't the fastest, nor will I ever be. Running just makes the day better, makes me feel healthier and more energetic. So while it is definitely an important part of my lifestyle, I haven't made the time for it this summer and for that I'm a bit bummed to say the least.

It doesn't help my self-esteem that I recently interviewed a man who lost 194 pounds in one year and his trainer, who has lost 65 pounds herself. (Humor my shameless self-promotion and read part one of the two article project: http://www.valleybreeze.com/Free/MAIN-Jodi-Lamagna-personal-trainer--pics-from-bruce- ) They were so excited to talk about working out and the importance of exercise. I sat there, wondering if they were looking at me, knowing that occasionally carrying a 24-pack of Poland Springs water bottles in from the car is the only reason my biceps are as defined as they are...I kid, but no, really.

So since I don't see anything changing for the rest of August in terms of my schedule, as soon as I get back to Boston I will be starting a workout schedule in which I actually exercise. I am surrendering my excuse gene. My asthma is not that bad and I will be stocking up on yummy, yummy Albuterol just in case. My fall semester schedule can spare an hour a day for the gym. 

But to really commit to getting back in shape, I will be registering to run a 5k. I'm looking at one for November, which would give me 3 months from now to get into shape. The 3.2 miles won't be a problem, I would be able to get through it now even with Yodels and Double Stuf Oreos running through my veins. But I'd rather feel good about myself while doing it, rather than being reminded of my lack of effort. 

Who knows, maybe I can even recruit some of my friends to do it, too. Any takers?

The following message is brought to you by the makers of Writer's Block.

So here I am, a trashy reality TV show addict, staying in for the night to sit on my couch, eat Yodels and judge those who have signed their souls over to cable television networks.

Because that's what the Sabbath day is all about, right?

Now, I don't usually discriminate when it comes to trashy television; I love it all, or maybe I'm purely fascinated by it all. I enjoy watching the insane and irrational compete for love, money and who can disgrace their grandmothers the fastest. It's my way of clearing my head, a way of feeling better about myself when I've had an off day. Plus, it's not like I try to emulate any of the behavior. My dad has always said that if I didn't have good grades, I'd be forced to watch PBS on a continuous loop.

As a reality TV aficionado, I tend to watch most shows at least once, but some are just too ridiculous to sit through. 

Case in point: VH1's Daisy of Love. 

While I find Bret Michaels wickedly entertaining, anyone who competes to be his girlfriend, and then comes in second place, should not be allowed to have her own dating show. How can America trust the judgement of a silicone-injected Tattoo Barbie who wanted to be Mrs. I'm-balding-but-you-can't-tell-because-I-have-hair-extensions-and-a-bandana-glued-to-my-scalp? The answer is that we can't.

As she simultaneously dates Cage, Chi Chi, Professor, 6 Gauge, Brooklyn, Fox, 12 Pack, Sinister, 84, 85, 86, Big Rig, London, Torch, Tool Box, Weasel, Cable Guy, Flex and the most appropriately named Dropout, (and yes, she renames them for memory purposes) she searches for someone with whom she can share her life and love of tattoos and eyeliner. One by one, these sweet gentleman are sent home and the remaining celebrate avoiding elimination by raising their flasks in appreciation. Classy, classy, classy.

I tell myself I can get through the hour of programming, but without fail, I can only physically make it halfway. There's just something about this one that I can't stomach. It could be the unnecessary violence, swearing and alcoholism or maybe I've just logged too many hours of mind-rotting television and my brain has reached its limit.

Criticisms aside, when a skunk happened to wander into the mansion (while the suitors were all conveniently drunk and clothed only in their leopard-print undies) and sprayed 12 Pack in the face, I smiled, appreciating the impromptu family reunion, or average hunting day for these guys, depending on how you look at it. Either one works for me.

Long story short, I'm holding out hope for Megan Wants a Millionaire, which premiers in two weeks. Until then, I'll have to ponder one of life's greatest questions:

"Will you stay in this house and be my rockstar?"

I'm sorry, Daisy, but no, I definitely will not. To quote the infinite source of wisdom that is Fox, "I'm out like sauerkraut."

A perfect weekend

Step one to having the best weekend of the summer so far? Having absolutely no work for two full days. Saturday and Sunday were completely mine and I spent it with some of my favorite people, who are so special that I'm going to introduce them to you. 

Saturday I woke up early to spend the day with Christine, one of my best friends. We've known each other since we were six years old and always have a good time. We drove down to Narragansett and beached it all morning and afternoon. (Yes, "to beach" is a verb, all the cool kids are using it, duh.) Lying in the sun and eavesdropping on fellow beach goers is one of our pastimes of choice, and the conversations we overhear never disappoint. 

After the beach, I stopped by the pool club to visit some coworkers since work is always better when you're not actually required to be there. And to round off the day, I vegged on the couch and watched "You've Got Mail" with my mother and Laura, Christine's twin sister and also one of my biffles. Meg Ryan movies are cheesy as a fondue restaurant (baha I'm a dork) but I watch them whenever they're on TV. 

Today, err I guess yesterday since it's technically Monday now, I slept in then spent the afternoon beating my boyfriend Corey at cards and annoying him by taking lots of pictures. I hadn't used my camera in a while so I was a bit snap happy. I was able to catch him mid laugh, high five for me. 

The best part of my weekend? Going to the Inn at Castle Hill in Newport with my entire family to celebrate my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary. I assumed the role of unofficial photographer was pretty successful in sneaking some great shots, if I do say so myself. I'm planning on putting up an album on snapfish or some other photo site, but for now here's a sampling. 

This is the first time I've ever felt like I looked like anyone in my family. I see a great resemblance to my grandmother this photo.

And here they are, 50 laughter-filled years later. 

The Kavanaugh clan.

And one last picture, this one of my mother who is too adorable to not include.

Overall, the best 48 hours I can remember experiencing in a while. Spending time with people I love and having gorgeous, sunny weather for the first time all summer? Absolute perfection. 

The healing powers of capitalism

I'm a firm believer in retail therapy. Sure therapists can be helpful and spa days can be heaven, (trust me, my aunt paid for me to get a facial last year so I'm well aware of its healing powers), but there is just no substitute for spending a day in and out of stores, trying on clothes. I don't even have to necessarily buy anything to feel better. Of course, I say necessarily because I have the willpower of, well, a girl shopping at the mall. 

While I'd love to relax and de-stress to free activities like an hour of yoga or cleaning my room, those methods simply don't work for me. To be perfectly honest, I've never understood how cleaning can help anyone relax. Small tasks like cleaning off the top of my dresser actually stress me out more than leaving the piles of jewelry, price tags and empty water bottles where they lay.

But I digress. 

So in participating in my therapy sessions, I accumulate quite a few articles of clothing. Rest assured, I shop at cheap stores so I get a lot for my money. (Forever21, H&M and Express, especially with the sweet associate discount, are oh so kind to me.) Since I'm a habitual shopper, I tend to buy what's trendy so I tire of it quicker than most. Couple the huge quantity of textiles with my ability to hoard crap like a squirrel before winter and I'm left with a very full closet and drawers that can barely open. 

Starting last summer after my freshman year of college, I donated two large garbage bags of very gently worn clothes to Big Sisters of Rhode Island and gave some to my younger cousins, who were eager to raid my wardrobe. I finally got around to unpacking my clothes from school this year (yes I moved home two months ago, stop judging me) and realized I was in dire need of purging my closet again. Then just like that, nostalgia hit. The overflowing laundry basket at my feet is full of tops worn on first dates, message tees bought as jokes and a shirt worn for well over 24 hours when I went to Paris for a week on a senior class trip and my luggage went to Mumbai and Milan, courtesy of Delta, the greatest airline in the world. 

It's so hard to let go of the memories that the clothes carry. I'm well aware that it's probably shallow and overly dramatic. Some people scrapbook, I shop. So I'll give the clothes away, for a cousin or a complete stranger to maybe wear on her first date. And I'll continue to do what I do, creating a nice little cycle. It may be a weak justification for spending money, but what other kind of therapy is reusable?

Sleep deprived, but in a blogging sort of mood

So my 20th birthday has come and gone. I spent the day trying to wish the cloud cover away from the beach (I succeeded for a glorious 15 minutes), scoffing at teenagers (who are now obviously immature wretches who don't respect their elders), and getting stung by bees for the first time (birthday surprises rock). Seeing as I'm older and wiser now, it is only natural that this birthday was one of learning. Turns out that putting pennies on bee stings sucks all the hurt out like a mommy's kiss on a boo boo, a big thanks to my grandfather for that trick. 

After reading a few of my articles in the paper, my uncle gave me the gift of Katharine Graham's autobiography Personal History, which so far has been an interesting read. Sure, I'm only up to page 15, but her writing style already has me hooked. I've been thinking about this one line about her mother's career decision all day: As she wrote later, when she told her family that she intended to do newspaper reporting, "My mother wept and my father said solemnly: 'I would rather see you dead.' " Sometimes I wish I could see what it was like to live back in a time where opportunities were not as readily available as they are now. It just makes me wonder what I would fight for.

Segue. I'm tired and "That 70's Show" is distracting me from being more creative or skillful.

Since I've been home from Boston to rural suburbia, I've rediscovered the therapeutic powers of driving my truck at night with the windows down and singing loud and quite well if I do say so myself, and with no witnesses to refute me, my statement will stand strong. At 10 o'clock at night, seeing more than 4 cars on the road is a rarity and drivers run the risk of being swallowed whole by the so-called "potholes" that, if filled with water, could serve as a child sized swimming pool. There's just something freeing about being the only one on the road, nevermind being one of a few still awake, so a celebratory sing along to Eddie Money's "Take Me Home Tonight" is more than appropriate. 

For the sake of continuity, I think updating more than once a week will be beneficial. I'm going to hold myself to that with Blogspot as my witness. There's nothing more binding than that.