boy cryingOw.  I am miserable.  Every part of my body hurts, but especially my legs. I’ve done a week of personal training and am seriously beginning to question my sanity.  Why did I agree to such torture?

I have never felt pain like this before, which is saying something because I am a mess and constantly hurt myself.  I even successfully did P90x last year.

The most painful part of that workout being listening to Tony Horton and his generic jokes every work out.

I expected some soreness after that devil-man trainer gave me the work out of my life, but I also expected to be able to move my legs and have overall control of my muscles.

Not so much.  Rather, I have extreme difficulty doing regular tasks, like lifting my legs to walk.  I had no idea I would be so miserable.

This morning when my alarm went off, I awoke to extreme pain in my legs, even before I placed them on the ground.

I took some time sitting up and tried to ignore the stabbing pain in my abs.  I put on my orthopedic shoes and tried to stand up, but my legs refused to cooperate.

wheelchairInstead, they turned to jelly, and not the delicious grape jelly inside of donuts.  That jelly is probably what led to the need for a personal trainer.

As I stumbled to the bathroom in my “magic shoes”, I realized I had to pee and would inevitably have to sit down (yet another curse of being a woman).  That was a lot harder than it sounded.

My legs wouldn’t allow me to sit, as they were boycotting my workouts and in a state of mutiny.  So, I had to use other measures.

I looked around my minuscule bathroom, and for once, was happy it was so small.  I was able to put my hands on both sides of the doorknob and lower myself onto the toilet, like a crane lowering a large object. In this case, it was my fat ass.

I screamed profanity and probably woke up everyone in the neighborhood, but I was ultimately successful.

After a few moments, I realized although I was able to sit down, there was no way I could get up.

I contemplated asking my husband to bring me my laptop, and a tall boy, and thought about working from home from the comfort of my tiled restroom.

working on floorAlthough sitting down was sweet relief, I knew I couldn’t stay there all day, as employers typically frowned upon working from a toilet seat.

I looked around for any possible avenue to assist, and found the bathtub was my only option.  I was also wishing I had done more than lightly clean it the week before, but realized that was no time to evaluate my inability to clean.

I pushed with everything I had and was able to stand up, amidst screams and inappropriate comments about whether my trainer was born out of wedlock.

I now appreciate the simple tasks in life that I took for granted…like sitting.  Although I’m a fan of sitting, and prefer to do that instead of any kind of physical activity, I have recently found myself contemplating if sitting is really worth it.

I try to do the math and calculate if sitting down  is worth the agony of getting up again.

It usually isn’t.

toddler bent overI also recently discovered if I drop something on the floor, it’s gone.  It’s as if I dropped it into that crevasse between my car seat and the console.

It’s gone forever and I’m never getting it back.

If I try, I know I’ll look like the guy from There’s Something about Mary who had the leg braces and lacked control of his lower limbs.

I have decided to stick with the training, because clearly I’m a sadist..or a masochist…(which one is it?).

I have also contemplated suggesting the gym include a personal assistant with training packages, because after a training session, one will need an assistant to do the easiest of tasks, like getting the mail and cooking dinner.

The good news is that since I have difficulty walking, it has hindered my ability to go to the fridge for snacks.  But that’s okay, because I know a few choice restaurants that deliver…

couple on grass

We have NEVER done this.

On Saturday night, after a work out that made me think of nothing but Mexican food, I knew there was only one option for dinner:  Mexican.

I advised my husband that he could either join me at our favorite local Mexican restaurant, or he could stay home, but either way, I was planning on shamelessly stuffing my face with fish tacos and copious amounts of salsa.

Although I’m sure the thought of refried beans inevitably dripping down my face was less than appealing to him, my husband agreed to go to dinner with me.

He had plans with some friends to watch “the fights”, but said he would rather hang out with me instead.

I have no idea what “fights” he was talking about, and for all I know, he and some buddies were going to watch a debate on the merits of paper versus plastic.

I can only suspect this was the case, as if it really was fights where two men were beating each other up, my husband prefered to watch that over observing me spill guacamole on my dress….and yes, I will spill guacamole on my dress…every time.

couple at dinnerFor some reason he thought it would be more fun to hang out with me than with with his friends at a smoky bar.  Although I was certain that wasn’t true, I knew either way, the night would end with him assisting a stumbling person to his (or her) car.

In the date scenario, that stumbling idiot would be me.

We made it to our favorite restaurant and got a great spot on the patio where we observed a young couple who appeared to be approximately 13 years old.

I realize they may have been older, but the older I get, the more I think everyone under the age of 25 is in junior high.

They were on a date and although I thought they looked too young to drive, they each had alcoholic beverages, so either they were old enough to drink, or they had a great fake ID.

I debated carding them and telling them I was with liquor patrol, but then my food arrived and I got sidetracked.

eavesdropMy husband and I eavesdropped on the lovebirds for most of our date night, which was fine with us, as their conversations about Bobby’s kegger and

Melissa being a slut were far more entertaining than our discussions about the need to fix the attic fan and get the dogs in for their vaccinations.

We finished our dinner and headed home, as we were full and needed to slip into something more comfortable…that is…something with an elastic waist.

We got home and were greeted by three rambunctious dogs who licked our faces and threw toys in the air to celebrate our arrival.

We were glad to have such a welcoming party, especially since we were feeling a bit down about our boring lives in light of the young college couple living the dream.

After changing into sweatpants and t-shirts, Matt and I found our favorite places on the couch where we proceeded to watch TV for a bit.

couple in bed waking upEventually, we retired to bed at 10:00 where we laid in bed with the dogs and turned on Forensic Files on Tru TV.

We watched two episodes of that show on our 10 inch TV/VCR combo that I still have from college.  I’m sure we will need to increase our contact prescriptions after that viewing.  Nothing says “I love you” quite like true stories about murder and kidnapping.

Before the night ended, I asked my husband for a rub down….of BenGay.  I was sore from my workouts and knew I needed another application of BenGay if I had any hope of getting out of bed in the morning.

After the liberal application of BenGay, we put on our glasses and climbed into bed with our respective books that we read until about midnight, at which time we turned off the light and went to bed.

kiss imprintThe next morning I woke up feeling refreshed and a little embarrassed that our Saturday night was so lame.

I thought about those college kids who probably stayed out all night, and I wondered when it was that we got so old.

It could have been when I started wearing bifocals, but since that was in the fourth grade, I don’t think that was it.  Seriously, the fourth grade!

Whenever it was, I realized that maybe getting older wasn’t so bad.

I had a great night with my husband, and although it wasn’t glamorous or super exciting, it was relaxing and comfortable, and that’s just how I like it.

dancing peopleIn an effort to deter the constant throbbing in my legs from my recent personal trainer visits, I decided to attend a Zumba class at the gym to work it out (and to channel my inner Latin dancer).

I have gone to a Zumba class before and was never really that interested in it, but once I learned I could burn 800 calories in a one hour session, my mind began imagining the burritos and cheeseburgers I could have for lunch if I went to this class.

My skinny friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name), typically does the Saturday morning Zumba class and always tries to get me to go, but each week I invent a new excuse for why I can’t go.

Last week I alleged I “slept through it” which meant I woke up, ate Lucky Charms, and waited for the class time to pass before I texted her to say it was too late.

I think she was on to me and my excuses though, as I’m pretty sure she knows I don’t have a prostate and it definitely wasn’t enlarged two weeks ago.

girls in tutusSo this weekend I told her I would join her and she was excited about it (probably because standing next to me in the class would definitely make her abs pop more than they already do).

I arrived at the gym the same time she did, and we walked in together.  She looked adorable in her tiny tank top and yoga pants and as we walked into the gym, I told myself I needed to find at least one fat friend.

I figured I would find someone I could cozy up to at the Zumba class.  I like walking into the gym with Pajama Jeans because I feel like it gives me “street cred” at the gym.

We scanned in and headed downstairs for the class.  Not good.  My thighs were already on fire from the walk from the car and my legs felt like jelly as I tried to walk down the stairs without falling on my face, and without looking like I had a muscle disease.

My jelly legs made me think of jelly donuts and how many of them I could eat after the Zumba class, so I found the inner strength to make it down the steps.

yogaWe walked into the class and I surveyed the room.  It was an interesting combination of fit moms and crazy women who clearly didn’t look in the mirror before going to the gym.  ‘

At least I brushed my teeth and put on some lotion before arriving.

I saw an older woman who had to be at least 70 years old, so I decided to stand by her, both because I thought she wouldn’t make me look bad during the class, but also because I knew CPR and felt confident I could catch her when she inevitably peeled over from the exertion.

I had my place and I was ready to zumba!

Just then, the music started kicking in and the class began.  It was loud Latin music and the bass was pumping.  Everyone started moving and dancing to a routine that I was clearly supposed to know.

Um, was there a study session before this class?!  Why did all these women know these dances?  Fortunately, I was a dancer and a pommer in high school. Yeah, it was kind of a big deal to do both.

old woman in turtleneck

This is NOT the old woman. She wasn’t wearing a turtleneck.

Because of my history of dance greatness, I was able to quickly pick up the moves.  I kept my eye on granny to my left, just to make sure…

As I did the dances, I stayed focused on the instructor to ensure I was keeping pace and doing the moves correctly.  I couldn’t help but notice the pants she was wearing had tassels on each butt cheek and tassels on the legs as well.

They moved and twirled when she did the steps which made me somewhat uncomfortable.  I was already feeling strange about staring at her behind the whole time, and the dazzling tassels made me feel like I should tip her afterwards, or at least buy her a drink.

As I looked closer at her tassels, I realized that each one said “Zumba!” on them.  I also noticed that her tank top also boasted “Zumba!” as well.  Yes, with the exclamation points.

Now, I used to be an aerobics instructor in college and I can assure you that no one in the gym where I worked ever wore shirts that boasted “Aerobics!” or “Jazzercise!” on our breasts.  It made me wonder why this woman felt inclined to do so.

Did she think that without this comment on her naughty parts I wouldn’t have a clue what she was doing?  Did she have a t-shirt and pants for every single task she did in life?

When she cleaned the toilet did she wear pants and a t-shirt that said “Toilet Time!”?  I hoped not.

cleaning toilet

Why is she so excited about cleaning the toilet?

I also noticed that frequently throughout the routines, the women would randomly yell out “Zumba!” together as a group.  Again, was it to remind them what they were doing?

I decided the next time my trainer makes me do squats, I’m going to yell out “squats!” really loud during them…just to see if it gives me more motivation.

As we jiggled through the workouts, I noticed that all the routines were done to Latin music that sounded like something I would hear in a Mexican restaurant.

I immediately began to salivate at the thought of chips and salsa, and imagined myself in an air conditioned Mexican eatery with a frozen margarita and a bowl of guacamole.

Was anyone else getting thirsty for a cocktail?  How could they not with the music? I could practically taste the melted cheese as I twisted my hips in circles around the floor.

I then looked over at granny to make sure she hadn’t gone into cardiac arrest. My daydream of chimichangas made me temporarily forget my sworn duty to protect granny from danger.

Much to my surprise, she was rocking it out and swaying her hips to the beat.  She was actually making me look bad!  I had to step it up.

woman with towelI made it through the workout without any embarrassing moments, which for me, is a large victory with anything I do.  As we walked out of the room, I was already imagining some fish tacos for lunch, at which point Pajama Jeans asked me if I wanted to go upstairs and do ab work.

Seriously?!  Did we not just do an hour of sachets and hip moves? Why was she torturing me?  I definitely needed to find a fat friend pronto.

I agreed to do some ab work, because clearly, I love to torture myself.  We blasted our abs for a while and then we headed to our cars.

I was dreaming of a salty lunch and not really paying attention, so when Pajama Jeans asked me if I wanted to do another class the next day, without thinking, I replied that I would.

So, tomorrow I will be back at the gym for another round of Zumba where I might just yell out that word sporadically from time to time.

I’m planning on going tomorrow, of course, that is unless my testicular cancer starts acting up…

physical therapistClearly, I am a sucker for pain.  (Oooh….a sucker..that sounds good).  Today I did one of the most ridiculous things a person can do to themselves…I went to a personal trainer.

I know, I know, what was I thinking?  Clearly, I wasn’t and the result was disastrous, and very embarrassing for me.

My tiny friend, Pajama Jeans (not her real name), caught me off guard the other day while we were sunning ourselves at the pool.  S

he said something about the personal trainer she uses, and asked if I wanted to join her for a personal training session.

I would like to think this suggestion wasn’t directly related to how I looked in my swimming suit (complete with a skirt of course), but I have a feeling it was.

The fact that I ate all of her pita chips at the pool probably also didn’t help.  Maybe it was the sun on my back that made me say yes, or maybe it was the rush of energy I felt from eating a half a bag of pita chips, but I told her I would go to a personal training session with her.

Obviously it was a moment of insanity, and one my thighs are cursing me for even as I type this.  But I am getting ahead of Chick using weight machinemyself…

I agreed to try out a personal training session at her gym, which, coincidentally, is also “my” gym.  The reason I use quotation marks about the gym is because although I pay a monthly membership fee, until today, I never stepped foot inside the building.

My husband goes to the gym everyday, so his membership is well used, as evidenced by his lean body and flat abs.  I would hate him if he wasn’t so cute.

They told him I could join for a few extra bucks a month, so we threw me on the membership as well.  So, for the last seven months we’ve been paying for a gym membership I don’t use.  I like to call it my fat tax, and I have been happy to pay it.

Every time my husband suggested canceling it over the last several months, I give him a death look of death and remind him I’m going to get back on the wagon soon.

MH900399741Although I had serious concerns as to whether I could launch my fat butt onto the wagon…and if the wagon could actually hold my weight.

So, today I headed to the foreign place that has been making a monthly debit (or is it a credit?) on my credit card each month.

I pulled up to the gym and found a parking spot close to the door.  I quickly snagged it because I didn’t want to have to work out before the training session started.

I grabbed my excess pounds and headed to the front door.  Then I saw the steps.  Really?!  There were steps to the gym?  Two sets of them?

Why was this gym intent on giving me a workout before I even entered the building?

No wonder I never cancelled my membership….it would require a workout just to get inside the facility.

I walked inside and scanned my card.  I had the card on a key chain, proudly displaying the gym’s name and logo.  Over the past several months, I’ve felt bad, as I’m sure people have seen the card and thought only negative things about a place that could crank out a body like mine.

woman taking picture and fan in backgroundI probably owe this gym a lot of money for all the business I deterred with my flabby arms and double chin.  I didn’t bring my wallet, so they were just going to have to deal with it.

Apparently when you scan your card, a photo shows up on the computer to confirm your membership.  Since I’ve never been there, they didn’t have a picture.  Great.

My hair was in a messy ponytail with a large bump on the top of my head that looked like a shark fin. I like to think I was celebrating shark week a few weeks late.

I looked like a disaster, and I’m pretty sure remnants of my Fiber One bar were stuck on my chest.  Hey, I like to be regular.

After getting my mug shot, and avoiding judging glares from the size 2 woman at the front desk, I looked over and found my friend Pajama Jeans.

Immediately I wanted to pull that cute ponytail right out of her head.  She looked adorable in her cute workout pants and tiny fitted tee.

bench pressI was already panting from my walk up the stairs, but she looked glorious and I swear a fan was blowing her hair in the breeze.

I walked over to her, cursing her small waist and asking myself why we were friends.  She greeted me with a cheerful “hello” and asked if I was ready to get started.

Before I could even fake a cramp, or a stroke, our personal trainer walked over….and he was amazingly good looking!  What?!

Why would Pajama Jeans torture me like this?  I was expecting an older man with glasses and nose hair.  What I saw before me was a tall, dark and bronzed guy who knew how to fill out a t-shirt.

For purposes of this blog, I will call him Marbi, as he is the equivalent of a male Barbi.  Calling him Ken just wouldn’t be right.

I glared at Pajama Jeans and told her we would discuss this later.  I then followed her and Marbi to the weights area.  I was hoping to buy time with chit chat, and was prepared to speak very slowly.

Marbi wasn’t interested in hearing my life’s story.  He ordered me to do squats…lots of them.

woman curling

After completing my squats, and stalling during a water break, he had me go to rows.  And they weren’t even seated rows…they were standing rows.


What kind of a rower stands in the boat and rows?  No one I know.


I tried to point this out to Marbi, but he seemed unmoved by my arguments.  He then assigned me five more for my argument.  Geez.  This guy was for real.


I knew I shouldn’t have looked over at Pajama Jeans at that time, but clearly I love punishment, so I looked at her only to see she was working with a kettle ball that weighed about as much as my sweet scooter Lola.


I was happy to see she was at least breaking a sweat, but it just glistened on her face and made her look even better.

Meanwhile the sweat poured off my face and I looked like I spent the afternoon doing yard work.  Why was I friends with her again?

woman yawningWe worked on my form, and once we got it perfect, he made me do approximately one million squats.  Okay, I’m exaggerating…it was only half a million.


I began the squats, and within about 30 seconds, sweat was running down my face.  I glanced over at Pajama Jeans only to see her doing full push ups, with a row in between with weights.  Seriously?!


I could barely plop my fat ass down for squats and she was hard core training.  The worst part was that she wasn’t even sweating.  It looked like she was just getting warmed up.

I finished the illogical standing rows and figured I was done, as I had done something for my legs and arms, which I thought was a good start.

Once again, Marbi disagreed.  Who was this guy?

He made me do squats with weights (as if my sizable ass wasn’t weight enough for these torture moves).  I began the squats with the weights, cursing Marbi the entire time, and making comments that suggested his mother was less than pure.

I finished those and he told me to go on to push ups, but he told me he would cut me a break and I could do “girl push ups” which required me to do them on my knees.

push upsI asked if there was a small girl form…like a toddler with no muscle mass, but he told me to get to the push ups before he added more to my count.

I knew he wasn’t kidding so I got into position.  I began pushing and immediately felt the burn.  Then, I felt a gentle hand on my back, pushing me down further.

I looked up through my sweat-filled eyes to see his gigantic arm pushing me further down.  Okay, this guy was going to get his knees knocked out after the session…Nancy Kerrigan style.

It was the only thing that kept me going.

We finished the rest of the session without incident, unless you count my heart palpitations and near stroke.

He  gave me a recovery drink, which tasted good, but he knew I was crabby and obviously an eater.

I stumbled to his office with Pajama Jeans. She practically sprinted there, and he asked when I wanted to come in again…as if I enjoyed the pain and torture he put me through.

Maybe it was his biceps, or maybe he put something in my recovery drink, but I found myself agreeing to do another session.  Clearly, I love torturing myself, which is probably why I watched Desperate Housewives for as many seasons as I did.

I know I need to do these sessions, if anything, to keep my friendship with Pajama Jeans.  So, I will attend another session with Marbi, where I predict more cussing and maybe even some crying.

But then again, that just sounds like every date I had in college…

Shady Jack is normally a very happy dog…the happiest of dogs, actually.  He has a zeal for life that puts a smile on my face, although his farts will clear a room.  Seriously.

They’re toxic…but it’s secretly another reason I love him so much.

Shady Jack is a simple man, who likes to always have a toy in his mouth and another dog’s genitalia near his nose.

These are the things that make him happy, and although the crotch sniffing is a bit disturbing, I’m okay with it if it makes him happy.

So when we made appointments for the other two dogs to go to the groomers, we thought Shady Jack would be fine.  In fact, I thought he would enjoy his day home alone with me.

Shady Jack is a short haired dog and doesn’t need to be groomed, although the other two do.  However, he needs to be Furminated about every 20 minutes, as that guy sheds fur worse than a college freshman sheds her convictions that first semester of college.

My husband leashed up the other two dogs on Saturday morning, as Shady Jack ran around the house doing a victory lap. Hhe clearly believed he would be the third dog to be leashed.

Back CameraWhen he skidded to a stop on the kitchen floor, he discovered my husband didn’t have his least.

Always the optimist, Shady Jack followed my husband to the door, confident he would leave with them, despite the lack of leash.

When we first got him he escaped our house twice, and both times resulted in my near heart attack and Shady Jack coming back covered in dog poo.  He literally returned with a shit eating grin.  He should have known there was no way he was leaving the house unleashed ever again.

My husband grabbed Bentley, who was shaking profusely and looking at me with pleading eyes, begging me not to let him go.  He also grabbed Max, who seemed blissfully ignorant that something unpleasant might be about to happen.

I watched my husband take a trembling Bentley and a jubilant Max to the car and then they drove away, noses pressed to the glass…the dogs’ noses.  Not my husband’s.  That would just be weird.

I then turned my attention to Shady Jack, who seemed to be a different dog entirely.  Gone was the constant wagging tail and the skip in his step.

Back CameraInstead, he was somber and sad, and looked at me as if I had just shredded his favorite squeaky toy right in front of him.

I knew the best way to cheer him up was with a toy, as he loved to prance around the house with a toy in his mouth, showing the toy all the cool places in the house.

He is especially fond of the back of the couch, and takes all his toys there to show them the view from the window. I like to think he enjoys watching the freakshow across the street, but I’m pretty sure he’s just watching squirrels.

I figured this would make him happy, but when I tried to give him his favorite toy, which is an actual sized foot with painted nails.  I’m pretty sure he has a fetish.

He wouldn’t even take it.  He looked at me as if to say “You’ve taken my friends away, what’s the point in going on?”  D-rama Queen!!!!!

I spent the rest of the day trying to console him and failing miserably.  I gave him a fake pig ear to chew on, and he ate it and then went to his kennel to sulk. Clearly, dining on swine didn’t do the trick, although it always seemed to work for me.

I thought maybe a walk would cheer him up.  I put his leash on him and we went for a walk, but all he did was wander aimlessly on the walk.  He didn’t bother to mark his favorite trees, which is usually the highlight of his walk.

It was if he had given up.  His heart was officially broken.  When we came home from the walk, he went into the bedroom and this is how I found him.

If he was capable of opening a bottle of Scotch, he would have done so to drown his sorrows.  He was inconsolable and I knew I should just let him have his time to grieve,

Just about that time my husband arrived home with our two freshly bathed and groomed dogs, and Shady Jack’s world changed immediately. 
 as clearly there was nothing I could do.

He jumped off the bed and greeted the dogs at the door with crotch sniffs, and even a lick or two.  He chased Max around the house and even allowed Bentley to nip at him briefly.

The wag in his tail was back and I couldn’t have been happier, although I was a little heartbroken that I couldn’t fill the void the dogs did.

Clearly he would prefer to sniff the other dogs’ crotch than my crotch, and after thinking it through, that’s fine with me.

Now he’s back to happy Shady Jack, and the world is as it should be.

matt and lisa at a weddingFriday night I went to a happy hour for work.  Honestly, it was my true definition of “happy” because the food and drinks were free.

And since the food and drinks were free, we know I stayed far longer than an hour….it should have been called “happy evening” or “happy 3 hours of indulgence.”

Does it get any better than that?  Not for this girl.  I headed to the bar for the happy hour, and wore one of my favorite dresses from the Liz Lange maternity collection.

I was ready to get my drink on in my comfy, flowy maternity dress.

I arrived at the bar and discovered I wasn’t the first one there, which was shocking, as I’m usually first in line for these types of things.

Someone saved me a seat right next to a bucket of beer, so I snagged it.

I ignored the suggestion that the perfect spot at the table for me would be next to the alcohol.  I was sure it was just a coincidence.

We sat around and chatted as I drank the beer.  However, although I like beer, my true love is vodka, and I didn’t feel comfortable cheating on him with beer, even if it was a Michelob Ultra.

I like to drink Michelob Ultra and pretend I’m one of the people in the commercial who drinks Mich. Ultra after biking or running, even though the only strenuous exercise I did was walk briskly to the bar.

Either way, I worked up a sweat.

Although I enjoyed daydreaming of an alternate lifestyle where I chose clothes based on their cuteness and not on their ability to hide my flabby arms, I decided I had enough Mich. Ultra and wanted to switch to my true love…vodka.

I made the switch and wasn’t sorry.  Soon, the drinks were flowing like water and I was relaxing after a long week.

I walked over to speak to a friend when I looked down at the table and saw there was a plate of mozzarella sticks sitting on the table in all their glory.

vodka drinkI couldn’t believe who would abandon a plate of mozzarella sticks, but whoever they were, they were clearly no friend of mine.

I decided to punish the owners of the food by devouring the fried cheese.  It was the best way to teach them a lesson.  I put away the remainder of the mozzarella sticks, and casually walked away.

As if everyone in the bar couldn’t figure out that the stumbling girl in the maternity dress just downed the rest of the fried food.

Like it took Nancy Drew to solve that mystery.  The fact that I dropped marinara sauce on my dress also didn’t help.

After refreshing my drink, I realized I had been drinking for a few hours and hadn’t used the restroom yet.

I was a firm believer in not “breaking the seal” but I was getting a little uncomfortable, so I made the decision to use the restroom.

I walked into the restroom and saw there were two stalls.  The large stall was occupied, hopefully not by the person whose cheese sticks I stole.  I took the smaller stall.

toiletI realize I’m a larger gal (despite my ingestion of Michelob Ultra), but when I entered the stall, I couldn’t turn around and close the door, as the space between the toilet and the door could have easily fit in my purse.

Only a contortionist would be able to easily maneuver between the door and the toilet, and although I pride myself on being able to put my legs behind my head, that wasn’t the type of skill needed here.

As the woman in the other stall appeared to be drafting a novel in there, as a peek under the stall suggested she was setting up camp for the evening, I knew I had to make the small stall work.

I re-entered the shoe box and immediately moved myself as close to the toilet as possible without making contact with it.

I used my left hand and reached behind me to shut the door, doing everything I could not to dislocate my shoulder.  When I heard the door shut, I turned around and realized I successfully closed myself into the stall.

I did a small celebratory dance, but was then immediately reminded of why I was in the restroom in the first place.

splasing waterAt that point, I felt something wet on my leg and foot and looked down only to discover the fall out from the small stall incident.

Apparently, in my attempt to maneuver inside the stall, somehow my flowy dressed managed to land in the toilet.

Yes…the bottom left side of my dress had dunked in the toilet and was dripping toilet water from a bar all over my leg.

I muffled a scream and immediately looked at the toilet to see if the water was “clean” or a remnant of a drunk patron.

Fortunately, the water appeared to be clean, although I certainly wouldn’t want to drink it, and definitely didn’t want it dripping on my leg.

I was so repulsed so I wrung it out to get the dripping to stop.  However, in my vodka haze, I didn’t think to wring out the dress over the toilet.  Rather, I did so exactly where I was standing.

It made a loud sound and water began spilling on the floor, running out of the stall and into the main area of the bathroom.

girl covering faceI was relieved to have some of the foul water removed from my dress until I realized the woman in the next stall most definitely thought I missed the toilet and relieved myself all over the floor.

I was horrified and standing in toilet water.

I walked carefully out of the stall and disinfected my hands in an effort to remove some of the germs that most likely contained vomit from the last night’s drunk girls.

I also moved quickly, as I didn’t want the woman in the other stall to come out and see my face, although I’m pretty sure she would be able to identify me in the bar since I had a soaking wet dress.

I exited the restroom, trying to look normal, as if I hadn’t just dunked my dress in a cesspool of fecal germs.  I  located my husband and told him we needed to go.

He knew something was up, as I don’t typically leave events early when there are free food and drinks.

chinese take outI’m usually the last one at the party asking the wait staff for a doggy bag for the left over crab rangoon.

He knew something disastrous had happened.  I quietly told him of the melee in the restroom and pointed to my dripping dress and the line of water I left from the bathroom to where I was standing.

Surprisingly, my husband didn’t respond with shock or dismay at my story, but rather responded with “Of course you did” and proceeded to say his goodbyes to everyone.

We quickly left the bar before someone could piece together the trail of water and my sopping wet dress.

We headed home where I threw the dress into the washing machine with approximately a gallon of detergent.  I debated burning it, but determined the dress was too cute for such drastic measures.

I wanted to change and go back to the bar but knew that wasn’t in the cards.  I comforted myself by making a box of Kraft Mac and Cheese.

The faux cheesy goodness alleviated some of my disappointment, although some remained.

I did learn a valuable lesson that night…if I want to wear a flowy dress to a bar, I need to be more careful about not dunking it in the toilet.

Normally, one would think that lesson would go without saying, but in my little world, these things are normally learned the hard way.

pink carI spend a lot of time in my car.  Not as much as the guy who “lives in a van down by the river,” but a lot, although if I keep going through drive thrus, I will soon have a belly the size of that guy.

I drive a lot for my job and sometimes my car feels like my home away from home, only my car lacks the ever-present sound of dogs barking that my regular home possesses.

Over the last few days, I’ve noticed a strong smell in my car.  It’s difficult to describe and not easily identifiable.  No, it wasn’t the smell of stale farts…that’s a smell I am familiar with.

At first I took the approach I take with my credit card bill, and ignored it in the hopes it would go away.  But, just like Citibank and their quest for my money, the smell persisted.  It actually got worse.

I found myself getting into my car and subconsciously singing the Rolling Stones and “Ooh that smell…”  I knew something needed to be done about it.  A girl can only belt out Mick Jagger lyrics for so long.

This morning I got in the car and I felt like I was punched in the face by the atrocious smell. In an effort to air it out, I drove to work with the windows down.  It resulted in a wind tunnel in my car that was most likely an F2 on the tornado scale.

winding traffic signMy hair also paid the price, although let’s face it, I didn’t put much effort into my Monday morning hair style, so it wasn’t a huge loss.

Before I exited the car, I sprayed Elizabeth Arden’s Green Tea perfume in the car to hide the smell.  I was confident that would do the trick, as it served me well in college when I  used it to cover up the smell of Virginia Slims and bottom shelf vodka.

I was sure I would return to a good smelling vehicle after the work day.  I had a long day at the office and headed to my car, certain the smell had diffused, and Elizabeth Arden had done her magic.  Instead, the smell was worse than ever.

Once again, I drove home with the windows open, although this time I opened all four windows in an effort to air it out.

Since it was the end of the day, I didn’t care about the effect it had on my hair, although I didn’t care so much about it in the morning either.

I was more than a little embarrassed when I pulled into my subdivision and the neighbor on the corner looked at me quizzically when he heard Michael McDonald pumping through my stereo at full blast. I was rocking out to “Sweet Freedom” and I’m not sorry.

cow's noseI pulled in my driveway and decided to get to the bottom of the smell, as I was starting to suspect the stench was permeating my leather seats.  I got out of the car and knelt down to look under the driver seat.

Immediately, I had a flashback to the last time I did this, which resulted in an unfortunate library discovery.

I found a Fiber One bar, paper clips, a bobby pin, and a rubber band.  Although I’m sure Mcgyver would have made something amazing out of these items while regulating his bowels with the Fiber One bar, these items were useless to me and not the culprit of the foul odor.  I forged ahead.

I went to the back seat, which is typically reserved for things I need to take to the dog shelter where I volunteer.  At any given time I have a variety of blankets, towels, sheets and dog bones, and today was no exception.

If I’m ever trapped somewhere in a storm, I could survive for days from the warmth of old towels and nutrients from rawhide bones.  I’d also keep minty fresh breath from the dog treats.

Not that I’ve ever tried the dog treats.  That would be gross…

dog sniffing flowerI also had a banner from the shelter that was marked by every dog who came through its doors.  But I knew the smell of dog pee wasn’t stinking up my car.  My rug in my living room?  Yes.  But my car?  No.

I didn’t find the smell in the back seat, but I did find my favorite pair of black flats and the dreaded Spanx that I tore off in a fit of rage a few weeks back.  I cursed the Spanx, threw them to the other side of the back seat and moved on.

The only option left was the front seat, but all that was on the floor there was more paper clips, a used napkin, and a spare dog leash.

I bent down and sniffed the floor and was immediately repulsed by the smell.  I moved closer and looked under the passenger seat and discovered the culprit…an empty Slimfast can.

My attempt at dieting once again failed me, and caused me days of pain and grief, only this time it wasn’t constant hunger pains and feelings of irritability, it was a foul odor in my vehicle.

Apparently I finished the Slimfast one morning (and was undoubtedly still hungry) and before I could throw it away, it fell under the passenger seat where it became lodged.

As I have the attention span of a 3 year old hyped up on sugar (or on…well…a Slimfast drink), I probably forgot about the can, and there it sat, starting to smell.  If only Slimfast could hold off hunger as long as the smell lasted, it might actually be an effective weight loss technique.

I removed the offender and once again sprayed the car with Elizabeth Arden, although her scent was most likely not meant to cover up the smell of foul milk and a failed diet.

Hopefully after a day or two the smell will go away, and my car will return to its normal smell of Diet Coke spills and Starbucks scones.

Until then, I will chalk this up to yet another way dieting causes me nothing but trouble.


Last night my husband and I attended a Fry-Day the Thirteenth party.  This wasn’t a typical Friday the 13th party, for starters, because the party was on Saturday the 13th.

There were no scary costumes or horror movies shown, and no one jumped out of dark places to scare anyone, although a game of hide and seek did get a bit out of hand.

I also got a little frightened when I saw the level of  vodka getting dangerously low, but that was quickly rectified with a quick trip home for more.

009As you know, we have an amazingly fabulous friend, St. Frick (not his real name), who lives an amazing life with his amazing friends.  We’ve met several of his friends, and for some reason, they like us, or they at least pretend to.

Matt seems to think it has something to do with my low cut tops, but we don’t really know.  So I continue to wear revealing clothes and we go with it.

Some of St. Frick’s closest friends and most fabulous, are the Pepperwomens (not their real names).  They are an adorable married couple who are so much fun to be around.

The Pepperwomens recently purchased a double frier, and decided to christen it with a party to celebrate all things fried.

Naturally, they invited us, as one look at my double chin lets anyone know I’m a girl who likes fried food.

We were ecstatic to get the coveted invitation to the Fry Day party, as not just anyone gets invited to the Pepperwomen’s parties.  At least that’s what we told ourselves.

007I decided to wear one of my new Liz Lange maternity dresses to the party to allow for maximum eating and minimum discomfort. It also was booby, so that was an added bonus.

We followed the smell of boiling grease and headed to The Pepperwomen’s for a night of artery clogging good times.  As we approached, I could actually feel my cholesterol levels rising and my waist expanding.

We arrived, said our hellos, made ourselves a drink and settled in to observe the frying in action.  Although I’m a fan of fried food, I’ve never actually fried anything, nor have I observed things being fried, so this was an exciting time for me.

It was kind of like watching laws be made in Congress, or Heidi Montag’s face be constructed by plastic surgeons (only the result in this case wasn’t nauseating).

The Fry-Day the Thirteenth invitation encouraged us to bring anything we wanted to fry, so people were frying lots of different foods.  From toasted ravioli to spinach, the fryer was at full speed, creating delicious foods that most definitely would result in heartburn for all involved.

008Mr. Pepperwomen was hard at work at the fryer, timing the food to ensure maximum crispiness.

He rivaled any 16 year old zit faced boy working the frier at a local fast food joint, only he didn’t have a math test on Monday or a closet full of stolen Victoria’s Secret magazines (or at least I hope he didn’t).

Now I’m no stranger to fried foods, and I’ve had fried mushrooms and fried fish, but I have never had fried spinach, so I was excited to try it.  Let me tell you, it did not let me down.

Who knew vegetables could be so good when dropped in boiling grease and smothered in Parmesan cheese?  If this was used in salads, I think I would eat a lot more of them.  Delicious!

As I stuffed my face with fried spinach and chased it with sweet potato fries, I observed the other guests at the party and noticed one thing (aside from the fact that all of them were amazing and worldly)….they were all thin.  What?!

How were a bunch of thin people at a party where the main courses were fried?  I was shocked.  Not that I was expecting the guests to look like contestants of The Biggest Loser, but I expected at least one or two of them to look like they may get winded from walking up a flight of stairs (aside from myself of course).

I was disappointed but then realized the thin people probably wouldn’t eat much, which would leave more food for me.  I quickly forgave them for their toned arms.

The night was so much fun, and we left with full bellies and indigestion.  The only thing I would have changed had it been my party, is I would have passed out complimentary Tums as party gifts.

All in all it was a good night, and I’m pretty sure I gained at least 5 pounds that I will wear with pride.  And I’ve never been so grateful for Liz Lange and her maternity dresses!!!

target dart boardThe other day I made a quick run to Target to pick up a few things.  Now, I realize that a “quick run to Target” is as impossible as identifying a healthy Mexican entree or a thought provoking episode of One Tree Hill, but I thought I would try.

I headed to my favorite catch-all store for some deodorant and laundry detergent.  The two things may have been related after an unfortunate sweating encounter that resulted in some embarrassing sweat stains.  Hypothetically of course..

I went into Target and found myself in the jewelry section, which was overtaken by head scarves.  I’m anything but fashionable, as I still think I can rock the mall bangs look, but when did head scarves become the fashionable thing?

And when did I start getting my fashion advice from Target?

I tried on a few scarves and was reminded that head pieces make me look like an old house maid, so I moved on.

I looked at the clothes and found myself drawn to several long, flowy, maxi dresses that looked comfortable and washable.  Since I spill something on everything I wear, the washable factor is a huge plus.  I grabbed a few of the dresses and headed to the dressing room.

putting clothes on a manequinAt the dressing room, I encountered Michelle, who was about as friendly as the customer service representative at a car dealership.  She advised me I could only take 5 items into the dressing room.

As I had 8 items (don’t judge, I like to shop), she told me I could only take in 5 items.  Naturally, I asked if there was any flexibility in that rule and she looked at me as if I had just asked her to perform a strip tease right there on Target’s floor.

Clearly Michelle was a fan of rules. She told me it was non-negotiable, and I could only take 5 items.  I wanted to remind her that simple math would suggest I could take the tag with the number 5 and the tag with the number 3 and that would properly account for my items.

However, Michelle wasn’t in the mood for a math lesson so I moved along with my 5 items, leaving the other 3 in her domineering hands.

I tried on the maxi dresses and discovered they were amazingly comfortable.  They were flowy and roomy, and somewhat slimming.  If only they could reduce the appearance of my arm fat.  Apparently only the Shake Weight can do that.

choosing topsI walked out to Michelle, clad in a flowy maxi dress and asked her for my other items.  She took one look at my dress and commented on how well she liked it.  I was taken aback by her comment, as she was so abrasive previously.

I decided she was just a stickler for rules (or not very good at math), so I gave her the benefit of the doubt and began chatting with her.  I told her how much I loved the maxi dresses because they were comfortable and roomy.  I also told her I couldn’t believe how great of a selection Target had of those dresses.

She responded by saying “I know, I love that Liz Lange Maternity line.”  WHAT?!

Did she think I was trying on maternity clothes?  Michelle was clearly more crazy than I initially suspected.

I grabbed the other 3 dresses waiting for me and casually glanced at the label.  Yup.  Sure enough.  I had apparently stumbled into the maternity section and was trying on all maternity dresses.

pregnant bellyNo wonder they were so roomy….they were for a pregnant belly, not a belly full of Starbucks and string cheese!

I was mortified but couldn’t admit to Michelle that I was just a fatty who liked comfortable dresses.  So, when she asked me when I was due, I rattled off a random date.

After I said the date, I worried about whether the date I gave was appropriate for how far along I looked.  But then I figured that Michelle clearly wasn’t a math genius, so she probably wasn’t going to count the weeks to see if I was lying.

After all, who lies about being pregnant in the maternity section of Target?

We stood there discussing the miracle of childbirth and the new life growing inside of me, and I didn’t know how to get out of there f

This is how glorious it felt to wear those dresses

This is how glorious it felt to wear those dresses

ast enough.  I finally told her my husband was waiting, and that I had to go.

I grabbed three dresses and practically sprinted to the check out.

As I stood in line with my cute maternity clothes, I debated whether I should even buy the dresses.  Yes, they were cute, but was it right to buy maternity dresses when I wasn’t pregnant?  Was I taking the cute dresses away from someone else who needed them?

Ultimately, I decided that there are a million stores for pregnant women to shop, and me buying 3 maternity dresses from Target wasn’t going to keep expecting mothers from being fashionable.

So I bought my dresses and headed home with my new purchases.  I was excited for my new clothes and then I got to thinking.  Don’t maternity pants come with a built in panel for your belly that stretches out?

Thanksgiving is right around the corner…

woman doing downward dogIn an effort to prove to the world I’m actually mature and grown up, and to counter the fact that I eat children’s cereal for breakfast, my husband and I decided to increase our life insurance policies.

Well, that was my thought anyway.   Maybe he wanted to increase the amount so he could off me and turn the basement into a man-cave with the insurance money.  He knows my dead body is the only way he’s getting his man-cave.

Regardless of the reason, we decided to increase our life insurance policies.  I called our broker and was advised we would have to undergo physicals and blood tests since we were increasing the amounts.

Don’t go getting ideas about offing me blogger fans!  It’s not that big of a policy!

I left the task of scheduling our physicals to my dear husband. Sometimes I like to give him tasks so he feels important.  He told me he scheduled the appointments for Wednesday morning.  He told me this on Tuesday afternoon, after I stuffed my face with a cheesy salad and a personal pizza.

I knew I couldn’t drop 100 pounds in less than 24 hours, at least not without an extremely strong laxative and a 24 pack of toilet paper.  However, I was delusional enough to think I might be able to give the doctor the appearance I lived a healthy lifestyle.

blood pressureI was determined to do so, but knew I couldn’t do it without the help of my friends.

First up, I called my friend Downtown Christy Brown (not her real name).  She is usually my go-to friend when I need to drown my sorrows in cheesecake, or when I need to celebrate with cheesecake.

She’s pretty much my go-to friend whenever food is involved, which let’s face it, is all the time.

I knew if I wanted to win her over to help me get healthy for one night, I would have to bribe her with food.  I called her and started off by telling her that I wanted to hang out and get dinner that night.

After she finished devouring the candy bar she was noshing on, she agreed to grab dinner with me.  Perfect.  Then I went in for the kill.

I told her the price was that we had to exercise before our dinner….it was paying the piper of sorts.  Like the work before the reward.  It was as if I had punched her in the face.

I had to call her back at that moment because we mysteriously got disconnected.  It was strange because I swore I heard profanity in the background just before the disconnect.

measuring tapeShe said she would agree to my terms for dinner, but that we had to go somewhere extremely fatty after the work out.

I knew I had to eat a healthy dinner if I wanted to convince the doctor my stomach rolls were water weight and not vats of queso dip, but I didn’t want to give her even more bad news.

So, I did what any good friend would do.  I lied.  I agreed that we could work out and then get a fatty dinner.  She was on board.

I then called my friend Pajama Jeans for further support, hereinafter referred to as “PJ” (not her real name).  PJ is one of my thin friends whose thigh is the size of my right arm, and who thinks a belly roll is some kind of exercise you do at the gym, not what hangs over my pants.

As if her being thin wasn’t offensive enough, she is also adorable, which makes me want to punch her in the perfectly complected face.  Despite all of these downfalls, I like her anyway, and I try to look past these obvious flaws.

Instead of telling PJ that I wanted to get together to eat, I lead with the exercise part, and said I wanted to work out with her.

dog with leashShe was ecstatic that I wanted to get together and work out, but probably not because she wanted to hang out, but because she’s sick of looking at my flabby thighs at the pool.

She asked which kickboxing class we would be attending, and I broke the news that although I wanted to inflict bodily harm on someone, I advised that physical violence would have to wait for another day…or at least until after I had a few drinks.

As I knew going to the gym might actually kill me, I suggested we ease into the workout with a walk in the park.

I was hoping it would be better than a rigorous workout at the gym and would be like…well…a walk in the park.  She was agreeable.

DCTB came to my house and we drove to PJ’s house together.  DCTB had a skip in her step and a smile on her face, as she dreamed of pizza and wings.  I thought I could actually see mini T-ravs in her eyes.

We arrived at PJ’s house where she greeted us by bouncing out of her house in tiny yoga pants and an adorable tank top.

She walked up to us just as I successfully convinced DCTB that punching PJ for her cuteness wouldn’t get us any closer to eating dinner.

salad and tongsWe began our walk, and within 30 seconds, DCTB and I were sweating like crazy and panting like dogs.  PJ, on the other hand, appeared to be glistening as the sun bounced off her toned arms.

I decided I wanted to do a kickboxing class with her at a later point, as I wanted her to be my sparring partner so I could hopefully give her a bruise or two.

The three of us walked for an hour in the heat, which was no small feat for two of us.  PJ seemed unaffected by the walk and was ready to start doing lunges, as she thought the walk was just the warm up.

DTCB and I let PJ know we were done with the workout for the day (and for the week), and we were ready to leave and commence eating.  PJ was agreeable, as was DTCB, who was ready to dominate some nachos.

It was then that I told DTCB that we needed to eat something healthy so my blood test in the morning wouldn’t consist of two parts grease and one part cheese.

She was not happy, but at that point she was hungry and too weak to argue.

woman sleepingWe agreed on Bread Co and got salads, which DTCB and I inhaled in 3 minutes flat.  We sat and chatted while PJ ate her meal, all the while wishing we ordered a pastry for dessert.  DTCB suggested we get some frozen yogurt to reward ourselves, but I strenuously objected because of the blood test.

I was actually fairly proud of myself for saying no and decided I would reward myself the next morning with a milkshake (after the blood test, of course).

I headed home and spent the rest of the evening trying to sleep and ignore the hunger pains.

I couldn’t sleep so I tried to talk to my husband, but we couldn’t hear each other over our rumbling tummies, so we gave up and went to sleep, starving and irritable.

We got up early and got ready for work and waited for the doctor to appear at our house to do the physicals.

too lateHe told us we couldn’t eat in the morning so my husband and I sat around the house waiting, talking about all the cereal we were going to eat once the blood was drawn.

Our appointment time came and went, all the while the hunger pains becoming more intense.  Then, my husband broke.  He headed to the kitchen and I heard the familiar sound of cereal hitting the bowl.

I asked him what he was doing, to which he replied that he was doing “what he had to do.”  I heard the sweet sound of milk hitting cereal and knew I was a goner too.   I caved and ate cereal with my husband.  It never tasted so good.

We both left for work, realizing the doctor wasn’t coming and our physical wasn’t going to happen.

Apparently there was a mix-up and the doctor thought he was doing the next morning instead.  Later that day, when the error was discovered, we agreed we wouldn’t reschedule the physical for a while longer.  We were still irritable from the 12 hour fast, and my feet weren’t ready for another bout with PJ and her zeal.

So, we are holding off on increasing our life insurance for now, mostly because we don’t want to go without our Frosted Mini Wheats.  Here’s to hoping we don’t get hit by a truck in the meantime, well….unless it’s a donut truck…