man's hand driving carSometimes my job requires me to travel.  They are usually day trips and I never mind, as I get to expense my meals, which includes snacks, soft drinks and Laffy Taffy.  It’s really the simple perks that make me happy.

Today I had to travel and after a long day, I arrived back in St. Louis around 8:00 p.m.  I was starving and since I’m trying to be healthy, I decided to go to Subway for dinner.

If Jared Fogel could eat subs and lose weight, surely I could too.  He smothered his subs in Ranch dressing, right?

I headed to my local Subway where I stood in line for 5 minutes listening to a man complain to the cashier about something completely irrelevant.

A woman was standing in line behind him with the strangest butt I have ever seen.  It actually had a large indentation in it and I found myself staring.

After a few minutes of being mesmerized by her behind, I was sure I was in a trance…and still hungry.  No one else came out to make my sandwich, despite the efforts of the zit-faced kid wiping down the tables displaying his heart filled boxers yelled repeatedly to “Jason” in the back to come out.

sandwichObviously Jason wasn’t interested in being my sandwich artist.  Clearly I was not meant to eat Subway.

I left in a huff, taking one last look at that strange ass, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice my fascination with her backside.

I drove away, contemplating how one obtains an actual dent in her butt, my hunger intensified.  I reached into the glove compartment for my emergency bag of peanuts to ease my pangs.

Some people have an emergency kit with road flares and sand.  I have Planters.

Unfortunately, my husband polished off the bag last week without replenishing my stash, so I was left nut-less and hungry.  Now I knew how Lance Armstrong felt.

I called my husband to scold him for pirating my peanuts and he said he was full because he had Hardee’s for dinner. Apparently when I’m gone he is incapable of using the microwave to heat up food.

cheeseburgersNormally I’m not a big Hardee’s fan, but my desire to eat was strong and overpowered my determination to eat well.  It sounded good.

I headed to the closest Hardee’s and hit up the drive thru.  If I was going to eat fried food and trans fat, I didn’t want to have to do any exercise to obtain it.  That would just be ridiculous.

I pulled up and heard a strange mumbled noise.  It sounded like someone was suffocating, potentially from their arteries clogging.

I realized the horrendous noise was coming from the speaker at the drive thru.  I wasn’t sure if it was a recording or an actual person, but I didn’t care.  Mama wanted her food and she wanted it now.

I loudly belted out my order to ensure the she-bot in the speaker heard it correctly.  There’s nothing worse than regular fries when you have your heart set on curly.

My order displayed on the screen and the suffocating person on the other end inquired as to whether I wanted to increase the size of my order.  Of course I did!

But I wanted to be conservative so I agreed to a medium.  After all, I was trying to be healthy.

I pulled around to the window to pay, and to see if the woman was still breathing or if she followed the light.  The woman was alive and well, complete with the bad attitude all fast food workers have when working a Friday night shift.

She also looked at me with judging eyes as I salivated at the smell of fried imitation meat.

She passed me out my bag of food and I did my best not to snatch the goodness from her tiny hands.  I figured she had a rough day and I didn’t want to make it worse by assaulting her.  I looked down at the bag of food and this is what I saw:

hungry.jpg

Was this serious?!  Did Hardee’s really make a bag advertising how fat its patrons were?  Surely this was a joke.

friesAs if Hardee’s needed to explain that the person purchasing food was hungry. That was a no-brainer.  Putting it on the bag somehow made it mean.  I felt like they were mocking me for eating their product, and for eating such a large quantity of it.

I wondered if when I unwrapped my burger, a voice would call me “fatty” and then punch me in the face.

Why couldn’t they be discreet about the contents of the bag?  Why did they have to suggest the contents were large amounts of food?  Why not put a statement that says “This large bag contains fruit and a side salad“?

Okay, I realize that might not be reasonable, as my fat hands carrying the bag suggested I wasn’t eating a salad and fruit.

But did Hardee’s have to be so obvious and crude?

Why didn’t they just write “This person has clogged arteries and is on her way to a triple bypass.”  Or maybe “This guy hasn’t seen his manly parts in 3 years.”  Or how about “This person eats her feelings“?

What was Hardee’s doing to me?  I already felt bad enough about eating their food.  The only reason I went there was because the teenager who couldn’t afford a belt at Subway couldn’t get his act together to make me a sandwich.

I felt chastised for my purchase.

I drove home and took the bag in the house quickly, before the neighbors could see me touting a bag from yet another fast food restaurant.  I went inside and shamefully ate my burger and fries.

To make myself feel better, I turned on an episode of The Biggest Loser.  For some reason, watching people diet while I stuff my face is quite soothing.

I finished my meal as a wave of self loathing swept over me.  I decided I just needed to get over it and embrace the fact that I ate Hardee’s.  I waited for the diarrhea to set in while reminding myself tomorrow is another day, and I will do better.

I also realized I was happy other products didn’t make obvious statements on their packaging.  Imagine the embarrassment of purchasing a pack of toilet paper with a label that says “This person has the runs and a chapped ass.”

It’s all about perspective.

girl with chocolate milk

I’m a fricking mess.  The fact that I walk around without inflicting serious bodily harm to myself is a miracle I will never understand.  I also will never understand why “minute rice” takes 15 minutes to make.

A little misleading don’t you think?

I try hard to be normal and not make a mess of things, but it doesn’t always work out that way.

cookies and milkTonight I curled up on the couch with a blanket, a glass of milk, and the most recent episode of Project Runway.  Okay, I also had a 100 calorie pack of Hostess cupcakes….or two packs.  Don’t judge.  Those packs are small.

My husband was in the other room, as he doesn’t like to watch Project Runway.  I think it’s because he hates my Tim Gunn impressions of “Make it work” and “Thank you Mood.”

Either that, or he gets annoyed when I yell “Sew bitches!” as the designers work on their looks.

I like to think I’m motivating them, and since I stood outside the tents at Fashion Week a few weeks ago, I feel a connection to them.

Tonight, I tried to slowly eat the cupcakes, but considering they’re the approximate size of a stick of gum, I went through the desserts quite quickly.

I downed my milk in an effort to convince my stomach I was full and not still craving more chocolaty goodness.

I then picked up the remote control to move it out of my way when I heard a splash.  What was that?

I looked down and saw I dropped the remote into my large glass of milk.  Oops!

water drop splashingHoping it wasn’t lactose intolerant, I quickly removed it from the glass.  And by “glass” I mean a free plastic cup from Shakespeare’s Pizza.

The first thing that crossed my mind, aside from the immediate question of whether I could still drink the milk. was my curiosity as to whether my husband heard the debacle.

If he came out and saw the mess I made, he would kill me.

My fear of death was magnified because I was already on the verge of being forbidden from eating or drinking outside the kitchen.

Honestly, I don’t know what the big deal was: the wine-stained couch cushion that precipitated the ban easily turned over and no one can even see the stain.

I froze in fear and listened for movement in the other room.  The sounds of my husband’s snores were a welcome relief, and I’ve never been so happy he falls asleep in 30 seconds.

After celebrating that my husband wouldn’t discover my mistake, I realized I needed to save the remote.  I was hopeful if it broke, I could blame it on him, although it would be a tough sell.

I’m such an easy explanation for anything broken or stained.

pouring milk into glassI needed to save the remote.  But how?

I used to be certified in CPR from my days of teaching aerobics, but the remote wouldn’t respond to chest compresions to the beat of Rhianna.  I needed another remedy.

I held it up and began shaking it.  Milk flew out of every button, landing all over me and the rug.

I wasn’t worried about the rug, as it was predominately covered with dog pee.  A top coat of curdled milk wouldn’t hurt anything.

I began pressing buttons to see if they worked, and was delighted to discover they did.  I wasn’t so happy to learn that in my frantic button pushing, I accidentally changed the language choice to Spanish.  Seriously?! 

Although I’ve recently started taking a French class, I wasn’t fluent in other languages and had no clue how to change it back to English.  Matt would figure out the new language choice was my doing.

close up of remoteI decided that frantic button pushing got me into this mess (along with my love of chocolate), so frantic button pushing would get me out.

Fortunately it worked, and I was able to change it back to English without purchasing anything on Pay Per View.  Or at least I hope so.

I’m not sure how I will explain the purchase of Klitty Litter on the cable bill.

I am currently airing the remote control out on the window sill and praying the neighborhood cat doesn’t sniff it out and try to break through the screen.  She’s really feisty.

I’m also trying to figure out what excuse to give if the remote doesn’t work tomorrow.

I’m keeping my fingers crossed he won’t read my blog and I can blame the broken remote on global warming or the bankers on Wall Street.

remote

people and question markAs know, I started working out with a personal trainer, Marbi (not his real name).  You may know this because I complain about it constantly.  However, the only way I trust myself to consistently work out is to pay someone to force me to do so.  Enter Marbi.

This trainer tortures me regularly and  I think he gets satisfaction out of it.  Although, I don’t blame him because I frequently cuss at him and wish evil things upon him; like a horrible bout with diarrhea.

I had a training session tonight that was especially brutal.  Although I didn’t tell him what I ate over the weekend, Marbi sensed I was less than faithful to my diet and he forced me to work out even harder than normal.

Hey, diets are no fun unless you cheat, right?  Same with board games…and math tests.

As I felt a burning sensation race through my thighs, and the familiar feeling that my leg muscles might actually rip apart, I looked for a diversion.

free weightsI needed something to keep my mind off the fact that I was going to need a cane to assist me to the car.

I looked around the gym and found my diversions.  Instead of locating one distraction, I found several.  At first I wondered if these people were “plants” in the gym, as it seemed some of them were typical stereotypes at any work out facility.

After further analysis, I realized these people were real and quite serious about working out.  Clearly we had nothing in common.  Here’s what I saw:

Creepy Moaning Guy

man with free weightThis was the first person I noticed, probably because I initially thought he was passing a kidney stone.

My eyes followed the horrific sound over to a slight man leg-pressing approximately 50 pounds of weight.

I’m not the epitome of strength, but I’m pretty sure I could rock out more than the weights this miniature man was pressing.

I was also confident  I owned the same pair of shorts he was wearing.  I bought them in the women’s section at Target.

As I listened to him grunt I looked around to see if anyone else noticed the inappropriate sounds coming from that corner of the gym.

It sounded like he was in the restroom after a night of eating hot wings and White Castle.

girl covering earsAs I tried to take my mind off the ripping pain in my legs, I wondered whether he grunted and moaned at every activity he engaged in.  Did he moan when he opened the car door, made his protein shake, or prepared his Hot Pocket for one?

He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, which didn’t surprise me.  If he made those horrific sounds while working out, one can only imagine the sounds that must emanate from him when he’s in the throes of passion.

All 3 minutes of it.

What’s strange is that no one in the gym seemed to notice his grunting.  Perhaps they were all desensitized to him and his short shorts.  I hoped I never grew to such complacency.

I moved my attention elsewhere, before I had a chance to grab my rape whistle and have him removed from the premises.

Inappropriate T-shirt Guy

I can't show you the whole t-shirt.  It's that inappropriate.

I can’t show you the whole t-shirt. It’s that inappropriate.

There’s always one of these at the gym, and tonight, it was a kid who looked like he couldn’t have been more than 14 years old.  I suspected his mom was waiting for him in the minivan in the parking lot.

He was scrawny and wore a shirt with an arrow pointing up that said “Mr. Right” and an arrow pointing down towards his crotch that said “Mr. All Night.”

Judging by the looks of this teen, the only thing he did all night was play Dungeons and Dragons and spank it to old episodes of Saved by the Bell.

I doubt this kid sprouted pubic hair yet, let alone a libido that would allow him to “go all night.”

I wondered if he even knew what it meant, as I suspected he never actually touched a woman up close.  Maybe that’s why he was at the gym; to beef up to attract the ladies.

I wanted to tell him he should probably get a haircut and lay off the Axe body spray, but I didn’t want to be called a “poopyhead” or some other childish term, so I refrained.

The old wrinkly woman who thinks she’s hot

shar pei puppyWe’ve all seen this lady at the gym.  She spends several hours a day working out, flaunting her  body and fake boobs…which would look great if they weren’t covered in sun-damaged skin that looks like a shar pei.

This woman had so many wrinkles that I was sure she kept her keys and wallet secure under some of them.  Yet, there she was, pounding it out on the treadmill in her short shorts and mini tank top.

I feared her workout would induce the hot flashes of menopause, but after closer examination, I realized menopause was but a sweet memory to this gal.

Although her body was definitely in great shape, her face looked like Dog The Bounty Hunter’s with all those wrinkles and sun spots.

I considered asking her to say “bro” (pronounced by Dog as “bra”) but reconsidered after realizing one of her silicon breasts could knock me out in one swift move.

The meat head lifting weights and staring at himself in the mirror

man lifting weightsI almost missed this guy, but caught a glimpse of him when I limped to the water fountain after my workout.

He was sporting the typical douche bag attire: a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and the sides ripped to expose his sweet obliques.

He was also wearing the other requirement for this type of guy; an arrogant attitude and a smirk of pure happiness.

He was lifting a weight the “creepy moaning guy” wouldn’t even dream of lifting, all the while watching his muscles flex in the mirror.

He never took his eyes off himself in the mirror, and for a moment I wondered if he was going to walk up and caress himself softly.  He seemed like the gentle type.

I was confident that’s how he treated his blow up doll at home…after all, she could easily pop with too much force.

colorful weightsI was careful not to disturb him as I didn’t want to see his disgust when he saw my flabby stomach and realized I ate the two things he hadn’t eaten in years: carbs and sugar.

Perhaps that was why he was so enamored with himself…he’d never known the good things in life, like Oreos and Krunchers potato chips.

He also didn’t seem to be familiar with deodorant, which is another reason I stayed away.

Fortunately these freak shows gave me the focus to get me through my torturous workout without passing out or throwing anything.

As I left the gym I wondered if any of them would go home and write a blog about the type of people they saw at the gym.  If so, they would write about the chick screaming profanity at her trainer while sweating and dreaming of cookies.

At least I was easy to identify!

kid being told secretI must have a face that says “Tell me your problems.”  (I definitely have a face that says “I love brownies…and ice cream…and pie…”).

I say this because wherever I go, in the strangest of situations, I always seem to be confronted by a stranger who feels compelled to tell me his or hers life’s woes.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind it.  I’m flattered people think I appear normal enough to tell about their problems.

Either that, or maybe I look just as crazy as they do and they feel like they’ve found a friend.

The disheveled hair and lack of bra probably greatly lend credence to this argument.  It’s compounded by the fact that I am always covered in dog hair and faintly smell like dog pee.

The stories I hear are always good for a chuckle or two, once I get in my car, out of earshot, and out of gun firing range.  I also like hearing strangers’ problems because it makes me realize mine aren’t so bad.

Although I wish they’d bring back My So Called Life, that problem isn’t nearly as bad as the guy who was accosted in his truck by a flying turkey.  (This is really a story someone told me.  No joke).

woman in skirt at grocery storeWhatever the reason, I embrace strangers randomly telling me things.  I listen and provide suggestions if appropriate, or nod in agreement if the person looks like they might cut me up and feed me to their cat.

Tonight I stopped by the grocery store to get a few things for dinner.  (And by a “few things” I mean a cart full of food). And yes, I realize several of my stories involve trips to the grocery store.

News flash: this girl likes to eat, which necessitates multiple trips to the store.   Try to keep up.  And don’t judge.

I grabbed my items quickly. I was hungry and that pasta wasn’t going to make itself.  I immediately skipped the self checkout, as I’m still not allowed back in that area after my last encounter.  This left me with no choice but to proceed to a regular lane where the line was long.

pushing shopping cartAs I waited for the line to dwindle, I found myself rocking out to the Muzak.

Steve Winwood really knows how to get my juices flowing, and although the sight of Boy George makes me nauseous, he sings some catchy tunes.

When I approached the checker, humming Rick Astley and stifling a fist pump, I looked up to see who would be checking out my groceries (and who would be judging me for the large amount of Hostess products in my cart).

It was a young guy who was anywhere from age 19-25.  I’m not good with guessing people’s ages, but that’s my best estimate.

He could have been in the 9th grade for all I know, but I’m pretty sure he at least had a learner’s permit and drove himself to the job.

He was tall and on the heavy side (which made me happy, as I figured he wouldn’t judge me for the amount of trans fats in my cart).

He wasn’t particularly attractive, although the Shop N Save polo he was wearing was less than flattering on everyone.

juke boxHe commented that he was sick of listening to the songs over the speakers.  Immediately, I realized this kid was a moron, as he didn’t notice the pure joy that came over my face when Barry Manilow’s voice filled the store.

I tried to hide my excitement at the new song and told him the music probably appealed to several different groups of people.

He then advised me that he particularly didn’t like when they played Taylor Swift, as that reminded him of his ex-girlfriend.  What?!  Taylor Swift?  The long haired blonde girl who clearly hasn’t met a Chi iron?

The singer that looks like an alien?  Her music brings back memories of your ex-girlfriend?  I had to know more.

I asked him how long they had been broken up, and he said it had been “a while.”  I had no idea what that meant but didn’t want to waste my time with this guy discussing time frames.  I wanted to get to the juicy stuff and ask why they broke up, but Chubs McGee was ahead of me.

sad guyHe blurted out that they broke up because she cheated on him, but he still wanted her back.  Seriously?!

How could a chubby guy who likes Taylor Swift have a girlfriend who cheated on him?  He was clearly a romantic, and that hoe bag of a girlfriend was too blind to see it.

He said he wanted her back and that he missed her.  I immediately asked myself WWOD (What Would Oprah Do?).

I knew she would yell advice at him and then give him a new car. I couldn’t give him new wheels,(unless he wanted the old minivan I drove in high school, which probably wouldn’t make him a chick magnet).

However, I could give him some dating tips.  I told him he shouldn’t waste his time with someone who doesn’t appreciate his value, and that he’s better than that.

I also told him if he went back to her I would “cut him” which may have been taking it to far, but I got lost in the moment.

He said he understood, but a part of him was so caught up in Taylor Swift’s third grade lyrics, that I swear I saw a tear roll down his face.

holding hand3I promptly paid for my groceries, told him to stay strong, and headed to the bagging station where I proceeded to bag my own groceries.

Don’t judge.  I’m not made of money, so I shop at Shop N Save where I bag my own groceries to save some cash and time to reflect on my glory days of working at Hy-Vee as a star checker.

As I threw several bags of frozen broccoli into a bag with eggs and toothpaste, I wondered why I seem to always be the person that random strangers talk to about their problems.  Is it because I always have an idiot grin on my face?

Or maybe it’s because I smell like a dog shelter most of the time, which leads people to believe I’m a hoarder?  Do I look like someone who is actively participating in psychiatric treatment?

Whatever the reason, I realized that it’s just the cross I have to bear and I am burdened with this gift.  That, and the ability to guess the price of nearly anything within 10%.

Maybe I should quit my job and become a therapist who regularly appears as a contestant on The Price is Right.

Even then, I’m pretty sure Drew Carey would stop his hosting gig to tell me about the wart he can’t seem to remove from his left toe.

Although these confessions from strangers are odd and frequently uncomfortable, it always makes for interesting stories, which I pass on to you…all three of you who read this blog.  You’re welcome.

I’ve recently had some struggles with my contacts.  Now I realize I struggle with just about anything that a normal person can handle with ease, but my contacts seem to be out to get me lately.

From tearing into pieces in my eyes to drying out my eyes, these tiny lenses have really started to annoy me.  (That, and anything that comes out of Carrot Top’s mouth.  How did that guy become popular?)

Yesterday I woke up and my eyes were especially tired and dry.  I definitely wasn’t up late catching up on episodes of America’s Next Top Model and then watching naughty infomercials.  Nope, definitely not.

I rubbed my eyes and noticed my vision was a bit blurry.  Since I didn’t drink the night before, I was puzzled by my vision difficulties, and proud of myself for abstaining.  I’m such a rock of strength.

I figured it was just because my eyes were dry from my contacts, and the blurriness would pass.

It didn’t, and when I saw two of my double chins in the mirror (which for you math geniuses makes a total of four chins), I decided I would wear my glasses for the day and give my eyes a rest from the contacts.

They probably needed it, and I look sassy in my glasses.

using magnifying glassI sported my glasses all day, but noticed my vision still wasn’t good.  Was I getting old?  I recently went to the eye doctor and my prescription changed.

Could it have changed again so rapidly?  Almost as if it was overnight?  Was I losing it?  Was this a symptom of a worse ailment, like a stroke?  Naturally, I began thinking of all the horrible conditions I could have that would cause my vision to be blurry.

I tend to overreact when it comes to medical issues.  It’s not because I want to have a medical condition. Well, except for a tapeworm. I’d like to have a tapeworm for a while so I could lose some weight, and then have it removed…you know, before it kills me.

I just figure if there is someone who will have a strange diagnosis that will lead to even weirder side affects, it’s this girl.  (What other 5th grader did you know who had bifocals?)  And since I seem to have bad luck with other things in my life, I just assume the worst.

As the day went on, my vision failed to improve and I contemplated my fate as a blind person. The more I thought about it, I realized my rapidly declining eyesight wasn’t really that bad.

woman with magnifying glassI could have someone drive me wherever I needed to go, so my road rage would diminish, and maybe I would be allowed back in the City of Normandy.

I would also definitely get one of those seeing eye dogs and take him everywhere.  I would name him Monocle.  And since I had a cute dog (Monocle would be adorable and great with people), no one would notice my horrible fashion sense.

I could also blame my lack of fashion sense on my poor vision.  You know, this wasn’t turning out to be too bad.

That night I drove to the gym, thinking about how I would need to rearrange my furniture to accommodate for my developing disability, when my glasses slipped down on my nose.

Before I could push them up again I realized something.  Wait a minute….I could see better without my glasses on.  How was that possible?

At first I contemplated if I had super powers and if I was morphing into a super hero like my husband suspected I would earlier this summer.

But then I thought about it and realized that I didn’t have the ability to fly (or even to do a slight jog) and I figured that would be one of the first powers I would attain if I was a super hero.

That, and the ability to say the word “kumquat” without giggling like a school girl.  Seriously, that’s a funny word.

I pushed my glasses back up and it became blurry again, and then pulled them down and my vision improved.

What?! Before I began to panic, I reached up and placed my finger in my right eye…and felt a contact.  I did the same with my left eye and found a contact there as well.

Apparently I slept in my contacts and didn’t know it, and put my glasses on as soon as I woke up.  No wonder my eyes were so dry.  There were contacts stuck to them!

I quickly removed my glasses, folded them up, and placed them in the console of my car, hoping no one saw me. I  also quietly vowed not to tell my husband about this, as he would ruthlessly make fun of me.

I also took a moment to say goodbye to Monocle.  Although our time together was short, it was great, and he was loyal, even to the end.

Tonight I will be sure to remove my contacts before I go to bed to avoid this issue in the future.  Next time my vision improves without glasses, I will  know I’m gaining super powers.

For some reason, Matt and I seem to have amazing friends.  I don’t understand how we have such great people in our lives, but I won’t knock it.

I think it’s one of those great mysteries, like how the pyramids were built or how Tyra Banks ever got a talk show.

I’m pretty sure we are the “token commoners” that our fabulous friends feel obligated to have; it’s probably their service project for the year.

Whatever the reason, I just hope they never realize we aren’t that cool and that we are actually super lame (although I’m pretty sure Matt’s love of graphic novels and my lack of fashion sense puts them on notice that we are losers).

Recently, our fabulous friends C-squad and his wife Kvothe (not their real names), invited us to a reception at a very nice hotel in the city.   C-squad works at a very prestigious law firm which was hosting a reception for potential clients.

invitationI would never have anything of value that would ever need to be litigated, so I knew there was no way I could ever be a client.  The value of my estate when I die will consist of a tube of Chapstick and all the seasons of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

I’m pretty sure no one will be suing to gain ownership of this sweet estate.  I will also most likely have a collection of various dog toys in varying stages of destruction.

I knew there was no way we would ever be clients of this firm, but C-squad said that didn’t matter, so we agreed to attend.

This firm hires only the best of the best and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t hire me for anything, not even to clean their toilets, so I knew this would be the closest I would ever get to this firm.

We inquired as to the attire for this event and were told the attire was “cocktail.”  To me, cocktail attire is a pair of dirty sweatpants, a t-shirt from college, my couch and a bottle of vodka in which to drown my sorrows (bra optional).

little girl in pink frockI figured this firm probably didn’t have the same idea of “cocktail attire” as I did, so I decided to go with a more appropriate cocktail dress.  After all, I had people to impress.

My trendy friend Scissorhands recently informed me that the side ponytail is back in style.  I had no idea, and was delighted to learn this hair do was back.

I decided that a cocktail party was the perfect place to try out my new ‘do.  It would demonstrate to the fabulous people at the party that I was fashionable, which would suggest I had a clue about trends and style.

However, I’m pretty sure my dress from Dress Barn may have clued them in to my lack of fashion sense.

I donned my dress and jewelry and spent far more time than I should have putting my hair into a side ponytail.

Although it may sound simple, mastering the side ponytail was no easy feat, and after wrestling with it in the bathroom for 30 minutes, and approximately 30 f-bombs, I emerged with a side ponytail that was rocking.

drivingAs per Scissorhands’ request, I snapped a picture of myself in the side pony and texted it to her, just to make sure she approved before I left the house.  She texted back her approval, so I was free to leave.

We met up with C-squad and Kvothe and rode together to the reception.  After all, we love the environment and wanted to be green. Although, if we really wanted to be green we would have walked. but I have a hard enough time walking in heels on carpet, let alone the cracked sidewalk.

We decided to avoid an injury and take the car.

We pulled up to the hotel, which is connected to a casino.  As we waited for the valet to come around, we looked over at the casino and noticed two “hefty” women sitting on the bench against the window.

You know what?  They weren’t hefty, they were just straight up fat.  What was particularly disturbing about seeing them was the fact that their ass cracks were completely hanging out.

I don’t mean that we could see the top of the crack, or an inch or two.  I mean we could see their entire asses.  No joke.  They were mooning the world and they didn’t seem to care.

After we composed ourselves from laughing so hard (and I threw up a little in my mouth), we discussed the significance of this, and if it was a premonition of things to come for the night.

We decided to take it as a good omen, and we forged ahead.  We figured seeing two women’s bare butts at a casino was akin to a sighting of a rare bird in nature.  Although those cheeks seemed far from extinct, we took their presence as a suggestion that better things were to come.

shake handsAfter all, you could only go up after being mooned by two fat casino-goers.

We arrived at the reception and were provided magnetic name tags, only after we affirmed we didn’t have pacemakers.  Yet another reason this law firm is the best!

I considered telling them about the metal in my right ankle after an accident on vacation in Mexico, but I was pretty sure they weren’t interested in metal in other parts of my body. Although the scar is pretty cool, this crowd just didn’t seem like the type who would be interested.

Immediately after donning our name tags, a man arrived with glasses of wine.  Silly man.  Wine?  Pft!  This was a reception with free drinks.  I wasn’t going to waste my time on wine.  I headed straight for the bar where I ordered my delicious vodka.

The bartender made me a stiff drink, most likely because he didn’t want me to return to lean on his bar again and tell him he looked sassy in his bow tie.  I was grateful for the extra shot no matter the reason.

We walked around and chatted with our friends, the entire time keeping our eyes on the food station.  There were waiters walking around serving appetizers, which was great, but I had my eye on the prize…the dinner.

One waiter asked if I wanted nachos with a spicy chicken dip.  Um, yes.  These thighs should tell anyone who looks just how much I love nachos.  He then presented me with a nacho with a small amount of dip on it.  What?!

Where was the heaping pile of chips slathered in dip?  I delicately took the nacho and did my best not to inhale it in one breath.  After all, I needed to be classy.

It was delicious and I found myself casually stalking that waiter for the rest of the evening, determined to get the equivalent of a full plate of nachos.

I’m pretty sure he began to fear me, but at least he could hear me coming since I clunk when I walk in heels.  I gave him fair warning of my arrival each time.

They finally rolled out the food and it consisted of meats and a few cheeses, individual meatballs, and veggies.  Okay, I get the meat and cheese.  Since there was wine there, that was acceptable.

But individual meatballs?  Who eats just one?  Where was the old crock pot from 1982 that was rusty on the side, but filled to the brim with delicious meatballs?  Instead, each meatball was placed on a separate small serving spoon.  Atrocious.

boy with spaghettiAlthough I’m not Italian, if Jersey Shore is any indication of Italians, they would have been offended by such a serving size and display.  I silenced a fist pump and placed two meatballs on my plate.  Naturally, I skipped the veggies.

I returned to our group and attempted to eat my food slowly, all the while trying to look professional and not spill anything.

I also kept one eye out for the waiter with the individual nachos, although by that point I’m pretty sure he was in the back room avoiding me.

The food was delicious despite the small portion sizes.  Matt and I agreed that we liked the food, but a trip to McDonald’s was definitely in our future later in the night.

I grabbed another drink and joined the conversation, attempting to sound refined and intelligent (and hoping there was no sauce on my mouth).

By this point, my side ponytail wasn’t doing so well.  It was sick and tired of being on one side of my head.  It kept attempting to migrate to the middle of my head, where it probably thought it belonged.

I kept gently pulling it back every few minutes, which probably made me look like I had a nervous tick of pulling on my hair when I was uncomfortable.

fat+kid+screaming.jpgMy hair kept falling out of the side ponytail, and eventually, the entire left side of my head had hair hanging down, while a few pathetic strands of hair hung on to the ponytail on the right side, the way Heidi Montag is trying to hold on to her five minutes of fame.

Like Heidi, my side ponytail didn’t make it.I eventually went to the restroom (which was nicer than my house by the way) and I took out the side ponytail and repositioned it.

I also scolded it for making me look bad and reminded it not to embarrass me, all the while praying no one was in any of the stalls to hear my rant.

The rest of the evening went great, and I was shocked to discover I managed to get out of the reception without spilling anything on myself.

I realize this is a task that is accomplished by most people over the age of 8, but for me, I can’t ever seem to leave a place without at least a small remnant of food somewhere on my body.

I like to call it a souvenir.

friesWe went to the hotel bar after the reception and continued to drink free drinks, which always taste better than ones paid for with my money.  I was still fighting my side ponytail, but it was starting to fall in line and realize who was boss.

When the night was over, our friends took us back to our car where my husband drove us around the city looking for a McDonald’s that was open.

After our third stop at a closed McDonald’s, we decided the world was against us and we needed to go home.  I was pretty sure my trainer might actually kill me with squats if I ate McDonald’s, so my sadness was outweighed by relief I wouldn’t have to do squats.

We arrived home where I immediately tore out the side ponytail and removed the heels that were causing my feet so much pain.  I then proceeded to eat the leftover pasta in my fridge, all the while thanking myself for making it earlier in the week.  I was obviously a genius.

Matt and I went over the events of the night, and the fact that we have no idea how we manage to get invited to such cool events with amazing people.

Maybe it’s because when people think of an open bar and all you can eat food, my face is the first that comes to mind.  Or maybe they just want to see how long it will take me to spill something or fall.

Whatever the reason, we were so happy to have been invited, and are looking forward to the next event…and the next time my hair will not be in a side ponytail!