I’m Moving!

And that’s why I haven’t posted in two weeks. Apologies, all. Until yesterday, there was a slight chance I’d be homeless starting tomorrow, so I’m sure you can understand the delinquency. In any case, I’ll remain homed, and you can look out for a post next week.

Have a great Labor Day weekend. Commit lots of labor.





If you checked the news today, you know the latest: Beyonce updated her Tumblr. (Seriously, it was on every entertainment show and news site…it’s like no one even cares about Jennifer Aniston)

If you were not aware that Bey put new pictures on her social media website, then a) Pull yourself together. Honestly, what do you do all day? and b) Allow me to guide you through the treasure trove that is iam.beyonce.com.

It’s like we’re the same person.

First, you should know that a lot of thought went into the name of this blog. She wanted to use “Beyonce=me.com,” but Tumblr wouldn’t allow the character, even when she attempted to Skype negotiate with 12 year-old founder, David Karp. She thought about a few others, “i.be.bey,” “Callme.Ishmael,” but settled on the current title, because it was the easiest to remember.

What I like most about Beyonce’s Tumblr is that it shows how similar the pop superstar is to people like you and me. One photo is of her husband, Jay-Z, walking onto a concert stage with Nas. I was like, “I totally get it.” Then there is one of her and her friends (read: Solange’s friends) wearing jean shorts and posing beside a private jet. And I’ve been on a plane, so…

Later, we see Beyonce jumping outside of a fake Prada store that she found in the desert. Obviously. Really, the best part of the picture is that she’s wearing fake glasses (Is there anything sillier?). Next, there is shot of her hand, three inch purple nails, wrist being attacked by diamonds, holding a jalapeno. Admittedly, I didn’t really connect with this one, because I don’t love jalapenos.

She follows up with a few friends of “her” friends wearing trendy clothes in desolate settings. I got confused, because I’d been on the Urban Outfitters website, and I couldn’t tell which was which. Don’t worry, I figured it out quickly (Beyonce’s page was the one with the black people).

There were a few photos of Beyonce’s younger sister, Solange, whose braids touch the backs of her knees. Pretty sure it’s all real. Things get dramatic for a minute with a sister shot, Beyonce being glam sis, Solange playing the role of hippie sis (later there is a family pic in front of there house that proves my lifelong theory…Tina Knowles is Satan), before we see Beyonce doing what she loves most: riding a rusty bike in short sleeve fur coat. Per. Usual.

Beyonce then takes a trip to a food truck, walking away with a plastic basket of fish tacos. The truck vendor must have been so confused. Best of all, there is a sign on the truck that reads “Cash and Checks Only.” The next time I buy a taco, I’m going to attempt to write out a check and see what happens.

Next, Beyonce hangs out with some horses, before she hops on an old wooden swing, sans makeup, and just breezes through the afternoon sky looking like a supermodel. In the next shot, it is revealed that she is being pushed by her Jay-Z. “Just like me!” There is also a chocolate lab in the background. I nearly vomited.

By this point in the blog, Beyonce remembers that she has a baby. Here, we get a lovely shot of Beyonce feeding Blue Ivy Carter (or BIC, as she’s commonly known), with a bottle. BIC is sporting a Watch the Throne t-shirt. This is when I lost it. This whole Tumblr I’ve been looking at Bey wearing cute little rompers and silly boots, dripping in diamonds, but she can’t even put the kid in some Gymboree? They didn’t even have to pay for that shirt. That was a freebie. You know who wears freebie t-shirts? Me. When I’m sleeping. Bey, I was with you as you pretended to have a visual disability. I was fine with you feigning interest in a horse. But this? You’ve gone too far. I can only assume that this is the only item of clothing that belongs to the child…and this makes you just like other mothers I know–you are like us!

So you see, Beyonce is normal. It doesn’t matter that her husband is friends with Ye or that she hasn’t done her own hair in 12 years. It doesn’t matter that she has a professional photographer follow her around to snap artsy looking shots so that you and I can spend 50 minutes looking at said pics, while she sips champagne on Diamond Planet. What matters is that sheis.Beyonce, and youare.jealous.

Massage. Therapy.

Wait, do these people have my credit card info…?

On Saturday, I found myself under the sturdy hands of a woman whose name I can’t recall. And it all started with a Groupon.

I had a bit of back pain in June, and so when a Groupon email for a chiropractic massage popped up in my inbox, I high-fived myself. “Heck yes!” I promptly purchased the deal ($30 for up to $600 worth of services…which seems like a lie, in retrospect) and went to their website to make an appointment. There weren’t any slots available until, you guessed it, last Saturday (two months later). I signed up, but I wasn’t really having any pain by the time of my visit. This is the same thing that happens when I go to the doctor/email the IT department at work/call the police. The problem is always gone by the time the Fix-It Man comes.

In any case, I went to the center, a lovely oasis that played “Eastern” music and sold a wide selection of herbs and oils. The first part of my visit was a chiropractic consultation, at which time I explained that my problem had disappeared a month ago. The doctor had me lay on a little chair-bed, cracked my neck, back, and ribs within about two minutes.

“Well,” he said as we returned to his desk, “you’ve got a lot of problems.”

You should talk to my analyst! I wanted to say. Instead, I made this face :\

He said some words to me, but I may have fallen asleep with my eyes open. The next thing I knew, I was being greeted by a buxom middle-aged woman from Long Island (not a European, as I’d hoped). It was time for my 50 minute massage.

A 50 minutes massage might sound nice to most people, and when I was suffering from my back pain months ago, it sounded like a great idea. But regular, pain-free Lauren, isn’t much for massages. I’d only had one professional massage previously, and the whole time I’d made lists of things I needed to do upon leaving. This time, I promised myself I would relax.

I did quite well in the beginning, letting the sounds of pan pipes and wind chimes lull me into a zen state. The pressure was great. I was feeling alright. But 50 minutes is a long time. After about 30, I found myself paranoid in the way I imagine crystal meth addicts become.

What is that sound? Is she filing her nails? No, she can’t be. I’m still being massaged. Wait, maybe there are two people in here! Oh, geez. I’m naked. Are there two people in here while I’m naked? No, there can’t be. Wait, what if she’s naked?! 

I was underneath a sheet and a blanket the entire time, so it wasn’t like I was exposed at all. The masseuse only moved the blanket when she needed to reach different areas, like my lower back and legs. As she made her way down my right calf, I began to panic again.

She could break my ankle right now. She could break ’em both, and then what would I do?

I wiggled my toes to let her know I still had my wits about me. Pretty soon, I was on my back, covered except for my arms. She’d placed a warm cloth on my forehead, not over my eyes. I took this as a good sign (she wasn’t trying to obstruct my view) but failed to relax completely. Soon thereafter, the massage was over. I hadn’t felt so relieved in ages. She asked me how it was. I told her, great, thank you.

I never need to receive a 50 minute massage again (and certainly not one with essential oils…I was slippery for the rest of the day). 10-20 minutes is good enough for me. I would rather spend the remainder of that time writing blog posts and eating frozen yogurt. Even if I can save $570, I would prefer to leave the  massage behind and maintain my sanity.