Tinsel Teeth


Part two of my mouth saga continues. This week I journeyed into my orthodontist’s office for the bottom set of braces. It’s best to get my bottom teeth exactly where they need to be, in order to help my top set along.

I’ve been trying to embrace this whole ordeal as some sort of delayed adolescence, so I’ve refused to to get worked up about anything or research the process endlessly like I’m prone to do.

What to expect:
– Polish and mouth grit (much like the dentist)
– UV lights (much like the nail salon, but on your teefuses)
– Bondo (yuck!)
– Brackets (glued to your teeth…wha?)
– Bands (in all colors imaginable)
– The feeling of something stuck in your teeth (for instance…braces)
– Itchy Teeth (from tooth movement and metal items adhered to your mouth)

To be honest, it’s not all that bad. I’m not keen on the idea of being Metal Mouth for the next 1.5 years, but I do look forward to being the brightest smile in the room (whether it’s from the reflection of metal remains to be seen).

I can’t complain though, this is after all, a first world problem: The bruised ego of a working professional adult who can afford dental care. Besides, if you haven’t heard, this look is all the rage in Asia.

I Have a Thinking Problem.


Hello, my name is Trish, and I have a thinking problem. 

From to-do’s, to to-don’ts, I have a tendency to obsess over the tiniest, most insignificant details of life. It produces a lot of anxiety that I tend to suppress, only to find it bubble up at the most inconvenient moments. 

So I took a class on meditation. Which, I have to say, is one of the most positive decisions I made in 2013.

Learning how to acknowledge and appreciate every moment without over-analyzing it has been incredibly liberating. 

It’s an ongoing effort to take the time to stop and slow down, but I’m a work in progress and that’s ok. 

Plus, it’s cheaper than therapy! Cheers and OM.


Shuper Shweet.


Two weeks ago, for the first time in my life, I was put under for surgery.

It all started a few years back when I visited the orthodontist to address my slight crossbite and minor crowding. I thought it would be easy. I could snap in some Invisalign trays and be on my merry way.

Unfortunately, upon closer professional inspection, my orthodontist informed me that he could fix my mouth, but would have to perform surgery. *sunk*

Did I mention the visit was two weeks before my wedding? No way was surgery happening now.

What did happen was that life got in the way, as well as home renovations, and baby creation. 2.5 years later and life finally opened up a “convenient” window of opportunity to undergo surgery, because let’s face it, is there ever a convenient time to have your jaw mutilated?

Long story short, I had to undergo SARPE surgery (surgically assisted rapid palatal expansion). Because I’m an adult (boo) and my bones are solidified and no longer growing (boo) and I have to have my gums peeled back and my upper jaw severed in multiple places (multiple boos). Next, they affix a rapid palatal expander thing-a-ma-bob torture device to my teeth for several months. Every night my loving husband has the extreme pleasure of inserting a key and turning the contraption so it widens my upper jaw. And yes, there have been plenty of jokes and innuendos involving keys, holes, and difficulties between the two.

Insert this for instantaneous coolness and popularity.

Insert this for instantaneous coolness and popularity.

I was pretty excited about the whole process and finally having it done. Smiling should feel easy and natural and not something I should be self-conscious about, so at the age of 31, it was about damn time. The worst part about it all, other than the cost, was the recovery. Like I said, I’ve never been put under before and had no idea what to expect.


Notice lack of teeth in photo?

Notice lack of teeth in photo?


Two days after surgery.

Two days after surgery.

My face had swollen to unknown proportions. Eating consisted of liquid items and Percocet. For the first 48 hours I regretted my decision and wondered how I could let my vanity get the best of me.

But here I sit, a little over a week later. My face is back to normal, my food intake is almost back to normal, and my speech pattern is nowhere near normal. Yet, I’m once again excited about the process. I can’t wait to grin like a mother effing chesire cat when this is all done and over with. After 31 years, what’s a few more months?

Cupcake McFrosticles


Last week, I thought I would be productive and change my name officially after 5 months of marriage. It’s surprising how easy it is to do. No one questions your sanity, your motives or your name (and it’s FREE!)

I really considered changing it to something involving cupcakes and She-Ra right there on the spot. The only thing stopping me was all the subsequent paperwork I would have to complete to do so: taxes, bank accounts, etc.

With common sense dominating the greater part of my morning, I changed only my last name to include a hyphen and my new married name. And keep in mind, when I say common sense, I mean, there has to be a grander way to shame my whole family. A social security card isn’t one of them.

Regardless of practical revenge grounding my name musings, I walk up to the counter, paperwork in hand, and promptly pass the clerk my Living Social cupcake coupon.


It’s soon apparent that I need to clean my purse, and my Id is sabotaging any efforts from my Super Ego to retain some level of normalcy. Luckily, I DID have the correct paperwork in hand, but I still felt a fool. A cupcake lovin’, disorganized fool. Luckily still, they let me change my name regardless of my mental level of output for the day.

So, Social Security Office, thank you.

Princess of Cupcake-Power

The Best Laid Plans of Trish and Monday.


Yesterday started with good intentions. After a long, arduous weekend filled with work, I walked into Monday look for a break.

Not so much.

Punctuated with surprises throughout the day, some pleasant and some not so pleasant (both work and personally) I was ready to take out my frustration in spin class.

Again, not so much.

I couldn’t get anywhere within a two-mile radius of my class due to event parking. And yes, I DID consider walking to my exercise class, those looking for irony here, but that would have made me 20 minutes late. A sin not to be trifled with in a class run by a trainer with a military background. Not. Happening.

Deciding not to be defeated, I headed home with visions of workout videos and Wii dance in my head. I was determined to undo the morning’s breakfast sandwich snafu.

Again not so much.

I drove home, 40 minutes through traffic, only to realize my husband has the house keys. That’s a longer story, so we’ll just cue the Napoleon Dynamite sigh. Also, said husband isn’t due home for another four hours. Sighing interjected with a few eff bombs.

What now? Why, I finally admit defeat. Monday has claimed its prize. So, I venture to El Molinito, determined to turn my frown upside down with a margarita and enough carne asada to provide me with temporary amnesia. And it’s at this point I realize, all in all, not a bad day.

p.s. The waiter keeps calling me baby. I beg Tuesday to bring me good tidings.



Obviously, Tucson was subjected to an enormous tragedy this weekend. It’s difficult to put into words all the feelings, emotions, thoughts, shock, panic and heartbreak that are occurring simultaneously. Unfortunately, the healing process is being overshadowed and drowned out by the deafening noise of political pundits. So I won’t even touch that topic here or discuss all else that has gone wrong in the wake of this event. I refuse to add to the noise. My focus is elsewhere…

But I will say this: I’m incredibly proud to live in Tucson. The heroes who reacted in such selfless and brave ways to minimize more loss at this tragic event, are nothing short of angels. Since that awful day, I’ve witnessed an outpouring of love, sympathy, and empathy throughout the Tucson community as we band together to make sense of all that is senseless.

This laid-back town of Sonoran hot dogs, killer cacti and cowboy boots, is right where I belong. I stand with the victims. I stand with their heartbreak. And I stand with all of Tucson because there is always an opportunity to rise from the ashes, heal, and become stronger than ever before. So let’s be stronger.

This is my Tucson. And I love it.

Ok – enough words, time for action.

I want one calendar.


One calendar to rule them all.
Gollum has promised to take care of it forever. However, Gollum’s phone syncing capabilities leave much to be desired. I just want to input a birthday, anniversary or what have you, without the difficulties of re-syncing, re-installing, and re-duct taping it to a screen in order to make the blasted thing work.
At this point, my grandmother has two birthdays. She may be excited for double presents, but I can guarantee, not for double age.
My fix is to go back to paper. But these hip new programs with shining widgets of fulfillment keep calling out to me. Reminding me that paper is a commitment only lesser beings fiddle with. So I’m sucking it up and throwing in the towel tonight. The fancy internet cloud better have this all sorted by morning, or I’m resorting to middle-earth tactics to get what I want.
Trees up in yo’ hood, knockin’ out windows. Woodland creatures assaultin’ yo’ gardens, hobbits causing mischief in yo’ shire. It could get ugly.
In the meantime, if you receive two Christmas or birthday cards this month, it’s because you’re just that important to me.