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.


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.



Is it really November? I think I need a slower calendar.
I’ve been noticeably absent for the past several weeks, but with good reason.

I got hitched! Graeme and I tied the knot on September 26, at the Stillwell House. 13 months of planning, two dresses, and one bridezilla moment later I made it down the aisle!

I heard over and over from friends and family, to really enjoy the day, because it flies by so quickly. And it’s true.

However, I was able to enjoy every fleeting second of it. From the moment I woke up (not from an eye punch) to the moment I placed my weary made-up face and false goopy eyelashes on that soft pillow and fell asleep, I relished every moment.

We just received the photos this week, so once I have a moment to sort through all the double-chins (mine), half-closed eyes (mine) and awkward, off-camera glances (again, mine), I’ll be sure to post them to my flickr account.

So far, married life is grand and nothing has changed except for the amount of metal I carry on my finger 9 hours of the day.

And if you ask me when we’re having babies, please understand the nature of my response in advance. It’s just the look of pain I give each time an ovary cringes.

Tattoodle Loo


Unfortunately, I don’t have a cool prison story to accompany this memory. Not that I did for others either…

Anyway, I’ve always been too incredibly fickle to desecrate my body with primitive adornments of the ink variety. Not only fickle, but frugal. $50 goes a long way in the refrigerated cookie dough section of the supermarket.

My fear of permanent ink may have also stemmed from the idle threats my Dad would always dole out regarding tattoos and cigarettes. Yes, threatening to turn someone over their knee at the age of 22 works wonders.

So of course, what better way to honor my father’s memory than by inscribing his siggy forever on my wrist? Perf.

I had thought about this idea for months and decided it would be my birthday present to him.

My biggest fear was selecting a parlor and a permanent location on my body (nothing tantalizing!). Luckily, my co-worker is a plethora of knowledge in all things hip. She instructed me where and, well, where to get tattoo. May 1st, was a perfect day to get a tattoo (pay no attention to the three-month timeline behind the curtain…). This had nothing to do with attitude or planetary alignments, but everything to do with payday. As long as withdrawals and debits are aligned, my attitude is no issue.

Waiting was the hardest part. Sitting in the lounge, watching customers come and go, perusing previous masterpieces all made for higher than expected anticipation levels. Did that guy really just get an entire sleeve colored in? Yes. Does it look gross? Very.

It was finally my turn. I sit. I watch needles. I watch needles as they are dipped in ink. I watch needles as they are dipped in my skin.


I am now fully awake and completely aware my perusing hours are over.




The girl who perfects swirls on her cupcakes is getting a tattoo. Or should I say muthafuggin’ cupcakes? I’m officially on the road to being a monumental badass (it’s all relative. shuddup.).

I start planning my biker bar hopping escapades and how I’m going to break in my soon-to-be new leather jacket. Does my hair look best peroxide blond and windblown? Or perhaps completely shaved? Do I know how to re-build a carburetor? Who will accept my collect calls from prison?

Ten minutes later and the tat is done. Yes, I said tat. I’m cool now, remember? It looks amazing and makes me feel two inches close to complete again.

Cartharsis. In a tattoo parlor. Try it.

So I saddle up the hog (read: entry-level 4-cyclinder Jeep Patriot in Rudy Red (birthstone!)) and drive to the nearest pub (read: grocery store) and seek out my latest victim (read: chocolate chip cookie dough).

As I’ve found out, there’s always room for a little of everything.

Except in prison.