shadow fightI love food.  This isn’t a newsflash.  In fact, if you know me at all, or read this blog regularly, you would know that my love of food transcends time and space.

It also transcends and a “Sorry We’re Closed” sign.  Yeah right.  You know you still have burgers in the back.

Being on vacation at an all inclusive resort is my definition of heaven.

Since I’m super important and demand luxury, or really just a room with free cable, we are staying at a fairly nice resort.

Don’t get me wrong.  Our standards are low, so when we say a “nice resort”, we mean it’s a place that requires you to wear pants to dinner.

NOTE:  This rule is non-negotiable, as I learned earlier this week.

Since Matt and I don’t like to spend money on things that aren’t liquor or pet-related, we made a conscious decision to make sure we get our money’s worth out of this vacation.

Naturally, we’re drinking like fish, although I don’t think fish drink, except for Phish heads. Those guys know how to party.

So I guess it can be said we are drinking like Charlie Sheen this week.  Only we don’t have hookers or drugs…or an annoying sitcom.

kids on beach eating ice creamUnfortunately, we feel like our incessant intake of liquor just isn’t enough to recoup the cost of the trip.  So we are making up for it in food.  Lots and lots of food.

I don’t want to tell you just how much we are eating because it’s completely embarrassing, but by my estimate, we are gaining a pound or two a day.  Okay, maybe that’s just me.

Part of the reason we are eating so much is because the food is absolutely fantastic, and I have an ongoing love affair with guacamole.

There are restaurants and an extremely large buffet for every meal, but we like the buffet for obvious reasons, so we usually stick with that.

We arrive at the buffet for every meal, focused, and ready to gorge ourselves.  It’s like a battle of sorts, and we treat it like one.

The objective is to get as much food as possible while expending as little energy as possible.

We begin each meal by ensuring we are wearing comfortable clothes that are expandable and don’t dig into our stomachs.

people planningThis is where those Liz Lange maternity dresses really come in handy, although Matt finds the dresses less than comfortable.

We descend upon the buffet together, in order to appear as a unified front.  We do a walk around first to scope things out and learn our options.  Recognizance is key, and we don’t take it lightly.

If only we took this same approach to purchasing a TV for our bedroom we would have a TV that stayed on when we walked across the room.

Unfortunately, a waiter seats us so we don’t get to pick out our exact seating location.

However, even though many of these servers speak minimal English, one look at the two of us clearly tells everyone we are there to party.  And by “party” I mean eat until we feel sick….and then get dessert.

After being seated, we begin the battle.  We head up to the lines together and each takes a plate or two.  I like to tell people I’m making a plate for my child, who is back at the table.  I get fewer stares that way.

We then elbow our way through the lines to get the best dinner we can.

boxing glovesA buffet line is one of those places where I won’t defer to children.  When it comes to a lot of things, I will sacrifice something for a child.

The glitter stains on my dining room curtains can attest to that.

I will give up my spot on the train for a child, or I will let a mother with a screaming kid go in front of me in the grocery line.  (Partially to get that kid out of the store).

But I won’t make any special accommodations for kids when it comes to a buffet line.  From eight to eighty, I don’t care what age you are.

Nothing stands between me and a second helping of mashed potatoes with a side of grits and pasta salad.  Nothing.  Not an artificial hip and certainly not a speech impediment.

Ma ma ma move out of the way.

Matt and I take our eating quite seriously on this trip, even though we know the chances of fitting into our work clothes when we return are slim to none.

In fact, the only thing that’s slim between the two of us right now is the distance between our stuffed bellies and the table.

We want to feel badly about shoving people aside to get the last quesadilla, but no matter how hard we try, we just don’t.  Maybe it’s the knowledge that they will make more, or maybe it’s that we are trying to teach these kids patience and sharing (we really are such givers).

Whatever the reason, we will continue eating our way through this vacation until we have gotten our money’s worth…or we get diabetes.

Deck the ballsMy husband and I are spending the holidays on a beach, avoiding the annoyances that come with the holidays, like Christmas cards bragging about the lives of people we barely know, obligatory parties where the liquor isn’t top shelf, and endless viewings of Elf.

Instead, we have discovered an entire new set of annoyances in Mexico, the worst of which is the Speedo.  These things must be considered festive wear because it seems that every overweight grandpa on the beach is rocking this look for the holidays.

I’ve never been a fan of Speedos.  I’m not talking about the brand of swimwear that makes bathing suits for Olympic swimmers. which also makes the females who wear them look like they have the breasts of eight-year-old boys.

I’m talking about the small piece of Lycra that houses a man’s junk and accentuates it like a push up bra…only it doesn’t push anything up.

If anything, it assists everything in hanging down.

These banana hammocks are disgusting, and I’m not exactly sure who finds this look appealing.  Definitely not this girl.

Normally, you can expect to see a Speedo or two on the beach while on vacation.  It’s one of the “cons” of enjoying a beach vacation.  (A “pro” is definitely the endless fruity drinks filled with liquor and the sassy men who deliver them).

But this vacation seems especially Speedo-filled, and it’s not making for a happy holiday.  Matt and I wondered why there is an abundance of Speedos on the beach this Christmas and we can only conclude that these men feel it’s the best way to celebrate the holiday while on the beach.

man divingPerhaps the Speedo for men is like the tacky Christmas sweater for women.Whatever the reason, these tiny trunks are taking the beach by storm.

Perhaps these men feel like it’s festive to show off their Yule logs in a sea of red and green.

However, the men who seem to fancy these penis pinchers are those that shouldn’t go near them at all.

It’s always the old men with flabby butt cheeks and saggy balls that seem to think this look is in style.  It’s never the hot 25 year old soccer player with the rocking abs and the tribal tattoo.

Yes, your tattoo is misspelled and it means “boring” in Spanish, but flex those biceps again and no one will care.

These old-timers stuff their crotch into these Speedos so tightly that it looks like they shoved two turtle doves into a small amount of Spandex and Lycra, and then suffocated them to death.

I look for the partridge in a pear tree whenever I see one of these geriatrics emphasizing his genitals, as I’m sure it isn’t far behind; Neither is their oxygen on wheels and the stench of old man farts and Stetson.

paradiseIf that were my husband, there is no way I would let him wear a Speedo on the beach…or anywhere for that matter.

That’s one package I definitely don’t want to see under the tree…or on my couch…or in my bathroom…or anywhere near my body or anything I own.

And yet, these men continue to jingle their bells at us all in the name of the holiday spirit.

I’m pretty sure baby Jesus didn’t envision celebrating his birthday with Spandex, elastic, and a large amount of back hair.

I just don’t see how these things are festive.  And maybe they’re not.  Maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself so I won’t be scarred forever from returning to the beach.

All I know is there better not be this many men in Speedos the next time I come to the beach.

If so, maybe I will give them a taste of their own medicine and show up wearing a string bikini and let them see how they like looking at fat rolls hanging over Lycra.

I’m serious.  I’ll do it.  But until then, I’ll just have to slam a few more drinks and numb myself from the pain of seeing a Vietnam War Vet’s scrotum wrapped around a small piece of Spandex.

Merry Speedo to you!

dauchaund with santa hatI’m not a Christmas person.  With all the hustle and bustle, it’s just too much.

That and I truly have no idea what bustle is.  Maybe if I did, I would like Christmas more.

Because I’m a Scrooge, my husband and I go on vacation every year for the holidays and it’s delightful.

This year we decided to head to sunny Mexico, where the sun shines, the drinks flow, and it’s perfectly acceptable to be drunk and passed out by noon.  My kind of place.

beach1Since I’m a procrastinator with everything I do, I waited until the last minute to pack.

Around 9:00 the night before we left, I started packing, which basically means I threw random things in suitcases and hoped for the best.

I hate packing, and it’s kind of fun to open the suitcase when I get to my destination and see what’s waiting for me.

It’s like opening a present. if the present was bundled up clothes I already own and a half eaten Fiber One bar.

As I gathered the things we needed, I headed to the area where we keep our passports.

It’s right by where I keep the Grey Goose, so I got sidetracked.  After taking a few delicious drinks, I returned to the passport area to retrieve the documents.

I located mine immediately but couldn’t find my husband’s anywhere.  I asked him where it was and he told me it should be up there.  Yeah, it should be…but it wasn’t.

There’s a lot of things that should be, and they’re not.  I should be 120 pounds and dancing with the Rockets, but instead I’m fat and can barely bust a move on the dance floor at a reception at the VFW.

passport1I ever so sweetly told my husband that his passport was not in the designated spot.  He grumbled, came out from the other room, and gave me one of his looks.

No, not a “Sexy time” look.  It was the “Why can’t you do things the way that I do them” look.

I pointed to the area where his passport was usually housed, and asked him to locate it.  I felt like I was engaging in a Where’s Waldo adventure, only I wasn’t looking for a creepy guy in a scarf who most likely was a pedophile and forbidden from going within 50 yards of a school.

He looked frantically for the passport but couldn’t find it.  Duh.  I already told him that.

He said it had to be somewhere in the house, which was his nice way of saying “Obviously you moved it.”

My husband is very particular and a bit of a neat freak.  He has a spot for everything, and a routine.

Me?  Not so much. I’m like a whirlwind of activity with no direction or plan.  Kind of like Paris Hilton, but without the hollow insides.


messy girlsI’m a mess and quite absent minded, so it wasn’t entirely unreasonable for him to believe this missing passport was my fault.  I scanned my brain for any memory of seeing the passport, hoping I wasn’t to blame.  Deep down, I knew I wasn’t.

We tore the house apart looking for the passport, while I watched our sunny vacation go down the drain.

In the frantic search, I imagined staying home for the holidays, with the cold weather and nothing but my burning anger about the lost passport to keep us warm.

I couldn’t let that happen.  I knew I had to find it…our marriage depended on it.

We continued to search and although we didn’t find the passport, we found my lost iPod, Neil Diamond’s Greatest Hits and a gift card to Chili’s, so at least there was a silver lining.

Or more like a grayish one.

After searching in every logical spot, we agreed the passport was gone.  Since Mexico isn’t in the United States, as any Arizona congresswoman would tell you, we knew we would have to cancel our trip.

woman on beachNaturally, I considered going without him, but realized that would make me look bad, so I decided not to bring it up.

I was getting more and more mad, and knew I was on my way to being as mad as I was on our recent trip to Naples.

It was then that he had an epiphany.  He said the only other place he could imagine it could be was his office.  Of course…because everyone needs their passport to go to their desk job.

Why didn’t I think of that?

I didn’t have high hopes for this idea, as taking your passport to work was about as logical as voluntarily attending a hot yoga class.  It just didn’t make sense.

He left in a hurry for the office and I called the travel agent to see about cancelling our trip.  I also made another drink.  That Grey Goose was calling my name…it was actually screaming it.

Shortly after his departure, I received a call from my husband advising that he couldn’t get into his office because he didn’t have an access card.

lockedThis immediately irritated me and I flashed back in my mind to when I told him to get an access card for his office for after hours.

He told me he didn’t need it.  “Why would I need to come to the office after 7:00 at night?” he asked.

Apparently to find your passport jackass,” is what I should have replied.

I was jolted back to the present when I heard him say there was no way he could get inside, and since our flight left at 6:00 in the morning, we wouldn’t be able to get it in time to leave.

No.  No.  No.  There was no way I was letting that vacation slip away.

The sun, the daiquiris, the cabana boys.  Okay, maybe there weren’t cabana boys, but in my fantasy there were.  In my fantasy I also was an exotic Brazilian named Lolita.

I told him to figure it out, and call someone.  He couldn’t let Lolita down.

He called a coworker who told him to call security, which he did.  A painful 30 minutes later, and a few more drinks later for this girl, he called with joyous news; he located the passport.  It was in his satchel.

little boy lookYes, that was his word.  Apparently when he went to the office he transported back to 1952.

I was happy he found his passport, but irritated that it took so long and ruined our night.

Thankfully, I had my good friend Grey Goose to assuage my irritation.

He came back home, passport in hand, and did everything he could to try to blow off this disaster as if it was no big deal.

Of course, when I put the water bottles in the fridge the wrong way, it was the end of days…but this?  No biggie.

He resumed packing and I resumed drinking.  We were able to leave in the morning as scheduled, and are currently in Mexico enjoying the sunshine.

I still don’t completely know what I packed for this trip, as I’m scared to peer too far inside the suitcases.

Hopefully there’s more vodka…or at least a gift certificate for a cleaning service, as our house is a disaster from the passport debacle.

shopping bags and girl in jeansAs you know, my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name) has the amazing item that inspired her namesake, and I’ve been forever jealous.

My jealousy stems not only of the fact that she owns the jeans, but that she looks great in them.  Why are we friends again?

I’m not sure why I’ve never bought a pair myself.  Maybe it’s because I was afraid they wouldn’t be as comfortable as I hoped they’d be, or maybe it’s because I wasn’t up until 2:00 in the morning watching infomercials.  (Wait a minute…yes I was).

Whatever the reason, I’ve been hesitant to buy them.  Then that fateful phone call occurred and everything changed.

Unfortunately, I missed the call.  Isn’t that the story of my life?  I looked at my phone in the middle of the day on Sunday and realized I missed a call from Downtown Christy Brown (not her real name).

She left me a message, so I knew it had to be urgent, as she typically can’t be bothered with modern technology such as voice mail.

I assumed she was calling to tell me about a buy one get one free offer at Baskin Robbins.

I walked towards my closet to grab my sweat pants for my upcoming binge, and listened to the message.

girl with phoneShe sounded out of breath, which I assumed was just excitement about the prospect of double chocolate brownie sundaes smothered in whipped cream.

But she had something else to report:  K-mart had Pajama Jeans!  What?  K-mart?  As in Martha Stewart’s K-mart?

I was puzzled because the infomercials I had seen stated these items were only available through the TV offer and I was confident they wouldn’t lie to me about something so important as comfort.

I told her she must be mistaken, as they couldn’t be found in stores.  She assured me this was the real deal and asked if I wanted a pair.

Really?  Did I want a pair?  What kind of question was that?  That’s like asking if I wanted a second cupcake, or if I’d prefer not to see my personal trainer ever again.  Of course I did!

I was a bit disappointed in her questioning as I thought she knew me better than that.  Clearly the days of stuffing our faces with chocolate lava cake and wishing for expandable waistbands meant nothing to her.   I cherished that time and thought she did too.

I collected my thoughts, telling myself I could drown my misery in a milkshake, and told her I wanted a pair of Pajama Jeans asap!  She said she would buy me a pair and my heart skipped a beat.  Could it be that I would soon be the proud owner of a pair of the famed jeans?

credit card

I knew I needed to have a pair, as I couldn’t be the only one of my three closest friends that didn’t have them.  After all, I was a bit of a trendsetter.  People looked to me for the newest fashion and style updates.

I was like Vogue magazine for our friends, only I didn’t smell like perfume samples, nor did I find myself wearing a cocktail dress while perched on the top of a mountain holding a designer purse looking like I hadn’t eaten in months.

Wait a minute, perhaps I was more like the Mad magazine of our group.

Whatever.  I had to have the jeans.

DTCB called me after the purchase to advise she had them in her possession. I  told her to come to my house immediately or risk termination of our friendship.

I knew with such high stakes, she would make it to my house in record time, despite her bad driving and jerky automobile.

She arrived quickly, and my dogs alerted me to her presence by barking when she got about a half mile away.  I could barely contain my excitement.  This was better than Christmas! I got exactly what I wanted and didn’t have to sit through an hour of Christmas carols and Aunt Betty’s gallbladder stories.

blurry shot of jeansSomeone needs to tell that woman to lay off the fiber.  Seriously.

As DTCB opened the door to my house, I swear a ray of light shone down on her and I heard a chorus of angels singing.

It may have actually been my porch light and the sound may have been my dogs’ incessant barking, but whatever.  Don’t detract from my moment.

She came in holding the bag as if it was a delicacy, and in some ways it was.  Could it be possible that a pair of jeans could be cute yet comfortable?

I figured it was just a myth, like Bigfoot, or honest politicians.  But there they were, waiting for me to find out.

I opened the bag and saw them in all their glory, folded in the cardboard packaging.  At first I wondered why they were in cardboard, but then realized that some of my favorite things come in cardboard containers.

NOT: My favorite things aren’t raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens, although I wish they were. If those things brought me joy I wouldn’t cringe every month when the credit card bill arrives.

guy in jeans with dogSome of my favorite things allow me to be lazy and entertained, which is the best way to be.  Items such as  TVs and blue ray players allow for this, and they come in cardboard boxes, as do refrigerators and boxes of cereal.

It only seemed appropriate that something so amazing as Pajama Jeans would come in the same packaging as frosted Lucky Charms (they’re magically delicious after all).

I couldn’t contain my excitement anymore, and the jeans I was wearing were digging into my stomach causing an indentation, so I ripped open the box and took out the jeans.

I looked them over and was excited to discover they looked like real jeans, just as the infomercial boasted.  I ran (okay, walked) to my bedroom to try them on.

I slipped them on and immediately felt more comfortable.  They were perfect.  And there was a drawstring!  A drawstring!  You know something is comfortable when it has a drawstring.

I emerged from the bedroom and modeled the jeans to DTCB and my husband (who couldn’t care less about the purchase).

They were comfortable and fashionable all at the same time.  It was at that moment I realized that anything is possible.

If I can find a pair of jeans that are more comfortable than lounge pants, then anything is attainable.  So maybe I could lose that 100 pounds in a few days time.  If not, I will still be comfortable in my Pajama Jeans.

And maybe this means I can stop shopping in the maternity section of Target.  Well, let’s not get crazy…

What the woman in the -12 Days ofIt’s the holiday season, and with that comes eating pounds of candy in the name of Christmas and drinking large amounts of alcohol.  I don’t need an excuse this time of year to get loaded, but it’s nice to have one anyway.

Although I decorate my house with a few holiday items (and by “items” I mean store bought sugar cookies and candles that smell like I baked them in my house), I’ve never been a big holiday person.  I especially don’t like Christmas music.

It’s the only type of music I know where people of all ages rock out to the same songs year after year.  Well, Christmas songs and anything by Hanson.

Have you really ever stopped to think about the lyrics to these holiday songs?  Some of them are downright ridiculous.  Take “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

I didn’t even know there were 12 days of Christmas.  Obviously my parents have been screwing me over for years by telling me there’s only one day of Christmas.

And looking back now, that day smelled a lot like bourbon, so maybe it was best for every one’s livers that it was only one day.

Whenever I hear that song, I always think about what that woman was thinking every day she got a gift.  So I’ve decided to be her inner dialogue for each of the 12 days.

1.  A partridge in a pear tree

partridge snowflakeUm, thanks honey.  Just what I wanted…an animal that shits everywhere.  At least a puppy is cute.  This thing is scary and looks mean.

And you thought since I love cleaning up after you, that I would love cleaning up after a bird as well?  And why a partridge?

Is it because it’s a fat bird?  What are you suggesting?  And a pear tree?  Where am I going to put this?

Considering we live in a 3rd floor condo, I’m not sure where a pear tree will go.  Why not just buy a mini school bus for the partridge to live in?

If it was good enough for Danny Bonaduce, it’s good enough for this bird.

nest with eggs2.  Two turtle doves

Oh goody…more birds.  Is it going to be 12 days of birds because that’s how it’s looking.

Don’t get me wrong, I like our avian friends, but I’m not sure I want them flying around in our condo (and I’m pretty sure our landlord doesn’t either.)

I’ll just say goodbye to our security deposit now.

3.  Three French hens

eiffelFrench Hens?  They couldn’t just be regular hens?  You know the French are such snobs.

How do you know they’re French?  Was it their condescending glare or their stench that gave them away?

You know these hens aren’t going to bathe regularly, and they probably won’t shave their pits either.

Thanks for the smelly gift.  If I wanted to deal with a rude, obnoxious European, I would ask my Uncle Frank to come over.

4.  Four calling birds

Seriously with the birds again?  You know that we live inside…in the city?  What am I going to do with all these birds?

Perhaps one of the presents you could get me would be some bird food to feed these animals.  Have you ever heard of “Angry Birds?”

Well that’s what we’ve got on our hands with seven birds in this one bedroom condo and no food.

And while you’re picking up bird food, pick up several scented candles, room deodorizer and some ear plugs.  And some Grey Goose.  Now there’s a bird I could get on board with.

5.  Five golden rings

ring.jpgFinally, some jewelry!  But really with the five rings?  And they don’t have any diamonds on them?

Why not just get me one golden ring but throw a stone on it or something?  And what am I going to do with five of these rings?  I can’t wear them all on one hand; I’ll look like a pimp.

6.  Six geese a laying

We’re back on this birds again? And this time they’re procreating…because nothing says “Merry Christmas” quite like half a dozen geese shitting out eggs in a one bedroom condo in the city.  Fa la la la clean it up.

goggles7.  Seven swans a swimming

Okay, you obviously have a bird fetish.  I’ve suspected it for a while now, what with the strange gift giving and your love of the band Flock of Seagulls.  But enough with the birds.

Although I realize the gesture is nice, if you give me one more bird, I’m going to give you two birds….one on each hand.

8.  Eight maids a milking

milk.jpgThis is quite confusing.  Although I’m happy not to add yet another bird to our overcrowded condo, I’m curious if these maids are milking themselves or others.

If you tell me they’re milking cows, I will kick you out of this condo right now.

But if they are milking themselves, I’m not sure that’s a better option.  And why maids a milking?  You know I’m lactose intolerant.

9. Nine ladies dancing

Are you seriously giving me the gift of strippers?

Why not add a pole and a pound of glitter to this gift, turn on “Pour Some Sugar on Me” and call it a night?

What would I possibly want with nine ladies dancing? (Aside from an STD and trailer full of meth.)

And don’t even think about calling them “ladies”.  Ladies of the night maybe.

10.  Ten lords a leaping

leapingLords of what country exactly?  We live in America and there aren’t any lords that I’m aware of.

The only lord I know is Frodo from Lord of the Rings.

Although he’s creepy, and probably smells like a sewer rat, he’s more welcome in my home than these ten “lords” who are most likely either male strippers, or homeless men looking for a place to stay for the night.

11.  Pipers piping

Pipers?  What year is this?  Why would I want pipers in my home?

Do you realize how loud it is already with all these birds and dancing people running around?

The only piping we need is new plumbing to support all the waste that’s being deposited and flushed in our condo in any given day.

12.  Twelve drummers drumming

drums.jpgAre you trying to start a band?  And do you understand a band takes more than one instrument?

You can’t just add twelve people playing the same instrument and call it a band.

Sure, the Spice Girls made it work, but they had boobs.  You’ve got some man boobs and hairy nipples.  It’s not the same.

Are you finally done with the “gifts?”  Please tell me you got something nice for me that doesn’t involve purchasing human beings or fowl from a farm.

What ever happened to some good old diamond earrings for Christmas?  Or maybe a gift card?  Next year we are definitely doing a spending limit…and a requirement that none of the gifts be breathing.

And I’m totally taking back that sweater I got you from Banana Republic.

Last week I went to a soiree fundraiser.  Yes, a soiree.  I’m a big deal.

I may not know how to pronounce the word soiree, but the way I pronounce it is “open bar” and I like the way that sounds.

This soiree was a fundraiser for a local dog rescue group, so naturally I was interested.

The fact that it included food, drink, and a doggie fashion show was an added bonus. I want to dislike dogs in costumes but I can’t.  They’re adorable.  It’s the same way I feel about Dakota Fanning

Because I’m so important, I obviously needed an entourage for this event, although Turtle was nowhere to be found.  Pajama Jeans and Downtown Christy Brown (not their real names) and I went together and left our husbands at home to miss us.  Hopefully they would fold the laundry).

car on roadThe attire was cocktail, and as I’m a pro at cocktail parties, I knew it would be fine.  You are probably asking yourself “Has she gone to 2 cocktail events in the last 6 weeks?”  Why yes, yes I have.  Didn’t I tell you I was a big deal?

DTCB drove us to the event, and the entire way there her car would lurch forward randomly and make very uncomfortable sounds.  I wondered why she was driving like an 85 year old blind woman when she told me she needed an oil change.

After further investigation on my part, I discovered that what she meant by “oil change” was that she needed actual oil added to her car.

Because I’m a good friend, I wanted to distract her from the upsetting sounds her car was making, so I decided to fill the inside of the vehicle with noxious gas…my own.

I must admit it was quite pungent and did the trick, as soon the focus was on gasping for air and not on the jerky vehicle.  Mission accomplished.  My friends are so lucky that I’m so caring.

We arrived at the event and the valet guy was more than enthusiastic about parking our car, that is of course, until he got inside and the smell burned his nostrils.

guy holding stop signAs he directed DTCB to drive into the valet position he locked eyes with her and used hand gestures to move her closer to him.

When we were fairly certain were centimeters away from crushing his femur, he dramatically pulled his arm down in a strong motion, signalling “stop.”

Clearly this guy was a drama-major working the valet for an extra few bucks.

We headed inside and found our assigned table.  We were happy to discover it was up front, located next to the stage where the fashion show would take place.  Didn’t I tell you I was important?

We were unhappy to discover it was far away from the bar.  I understood it was a charity function and they didn’t want to lose all their money on my vodka addiction, so I didn’t fault them for making me walk a bit to get my fix.

We headed over to the drinks and I gave new meaning to bellying up to the bar.  I wasn’t wearing Spanx  because they are dreadful, so my stomach was hanging out, and I knew the only way to mask it was to douse it in liquor.

Oh wait, that’s the way I help myself forget about it.  Whatever, I didn’t have to look at myself all night, my friends did.  Suckers!

oliveIt’s no secret that I’m a vodka girl.  I love it.  I swear I would bathe in it if it wasn’t so expensive.

I will also admit that I am a bit of a vodka snob.  I like the top shelf stuff and I don’t mind paying extra for it.  The lack of hangover the next day more than justifies my bar tab the night before.

The bartender asked me what I wanted and I asked him what kind of vodka he had.  I expected him to provide me the names of several top shelf brands, but instead, he told me he had Seagrams.

Seriously?!  Was this bartender kidding me?

How could he tend bar if he didn’t know the difference between vodka and whiskey?  They aren’t even the same color!

I told myself he was color blind, as that was the only way I could excuse his behavior.

I reminded him that Seagrams isn’t vodka, and it seemed as if this was a revelation to him….like discovering that Captain Morgan isn’t really a captain, and that Ru Paul isn’t really a girl.

His response solidified my initial belief that this guy was someone’s paroled cousin who just got out of prison for cooking meth in his pick up truck, and this was a job he could report to his parole officer.  (Hey, I watch Oz).

bar stoolsI asked him again what kind of vodka he had, all the while giving him an ocular pat down to ensure he wasn’t sporting a weapon of any kind.  He pointed to various flavored vodkas in a brand I’d never heard of.

He tried to convince me it was a new brand but it was “all the rage.”  Um, did he think I wouldn’t know my vodka brands?  Vodka I know.  There was no such new thing.

It was probably something he cooked up in his basement now that his meth lab was on hold, at least until after his probation period ended.

My head was hurting with all this knowledge I was imparting on the felon, so I told him I would take a cherry flavored vodka with water.

He poured my drink and handed it to me in a cup the size of the Dixie cups at pre-schools everywhere.  Really?

I realized this was a charity event, but the price of the ticket was the approximate cost of 2 tires so I figured I’d at least get some top shelf vodka in something other than a sippy cup.

It was not to be.  Fortunately for me I have no shame (or class), and I promptly ordered another one “for my husband.”

Seriously, can you see the size of my drink?  Tiny

We walked around looking at the auction items and I spotted something I wanted.  I wrote down a bid and decided to watch it the rest of the night to see if anyone else would bid on it.  I mingled and talked to people, all the while keeping my eye on the prize.

Then I ran into a few of my friends who were also headed to the bar. I didn’t tell them it was my third trip, although they suspected it was when the bartender handed me my drink…before I ordered it.

auction bidsOne of my friends is a bit of a local celebrity.  I know….how cool am I?  She was emceeing the event, so she wasn’t drinking.  I decided I would drink her share of liquor.

We began talking and I had two drinks in my hands, as I didn’t want to run low on the precious substance.  Since I’m incapable of talking without my hands, I began flailing my hands about and spilled vodka on the floor.

GASP!  I was devastated.  Not necessarily about the loss of liquor, but that I would have to return to Jailhouse Rock to get another one.

My celebrity friend grabbed some napkins and cleaned up my spill, all the while silently asking herself why she was friends with me in the first place.  I’m sure it’s for the street cred.

The night continued and the food wasn’t that great, although the dessert was amazing, and that’s all that mattered.

After dessert, it was announced that the silent auction would be closing soon.  I stumbled back over to the auction table and made sure my bid was the last bid on the item I wanted.

It wasn’t, and I saw a guy writing in his bid under mine.  Whatever.  There was still time.  I stood back for a few minutes and then swooped in and wrote in a new bid about a minute before the auction ended.

shock.jpgIt was then announced that the silent auction was over, and I looked down to see I had won the item I wanted.  Woo hoo!

As I did my victory dance (being careful not to spill my drink), I looked up to see the guy who outbid me last time writing in a bid.  Oh no he didn’t!!!  The auction was over.

I spoke up and asked why he was writing in a bid when the auction was clearly over and I had won.  He pretended not to hear me, but I could see him holding his head in shame.

How dare he steal that item from me?  I mean, he paid for it, but whatever.  Some people have no class.

Shortly after losing the auction, we left.  I was devastated about losing and our feet hurt from our heels.  We found the drama major and had him pull our car around.  We tipped him with enough money for him to buy some new mascara, and we headed home.

As we rode back to my house, the car jerking forward and backward at random times, we decided that although we had dinner and dessert, we were hungry.

We hit up McDonald’s where we definitely looked a little overdressed.  We tried to convince the employees we were high rollers and just came from a soiree, but the fumes and smell coming from DTCB’s car told a different story.

I’m waiting to see all the pictures from that night and I know some of them will be posted on line.  I will scour the web looking for the identity of the person who broke the rules and outbid me on the auction item, and then I will send him a bottle of flavored Seagrams vodka.

It seems like the perfect gift for that idiot, and I know just the ex con who can make the delivery.

to doFor those of you that know me, you know I can’t stand cold weather.  You would think that I would love it, as it’s an excuse to wear baggy clothes, stay inside and eat and drink.

Don’t judge.  Liquor keeps me warm.  I hate winter.  Although my body is anything but swimsuit ready, my favorite place to go is the beach, and any bar on the beach.

Since I live in the Midwest and there are no beaches, unless you count the bank of the Mississippi where dead bodies and used prophylactics wash up, I have to take trips to get my precious beach time.

With the holidays, I thought it would be the perfect time to get some sun and sand.  So my husband and I are headed to Mexico next week.  I just realized that we leave soon and I have so many things to do before we go.

As I’m a huge procrastinator, I usually wait until the last minute to pack. This inevitably leads to my discovery at the resort that I only packed 2 bottoms of a swimsuit, no tops, and 3 deodorants but no underwear.

This combo makes for interesting…and smelly…sexy time.

Every time I tell myself I will pack earlier next time, and every time I don’t.  So this time I decided to make myself a list to ensure I’m prepared for this trip, or maybe it’s just another way to procrastinate. You decide.

Here it is.

putting on sunblock1.  Go tanning

This might sound like an easy task, but it’s not as easy as it sounds.  I absolutely love going tanning, as it’s an excuse to lay in a warm bed and take a nap.  However, it’s a bit time consuming, and I have to strategically go when I’m not gassy

Those farts really echo in the tanning bed.

Since I’m always gassy, it’s difficult to go tanning not only because of the loud sounds, but also because the noxious gas stays locked in the tanning bed with me, and I fear suffocation might occur.

Because I don’t want my obituary to read that I died from smelling my own farts, I refrain from hitting up the tanning bed.  However, tanned fat looks better than white fat, so I know I need to go.

2.  Lose 100 pounds

scale.jpgI have a little over a week until I leave for the beach, so if I lose 12 pounds a day, I can reach my goal.

I’m pretty sure half of my body weight is composed of carbohydrates and melted cheese, so this might be a difficult task.

Losing weight also requires me to (1) exercise and (2) eat healthy, and I think we all know how I feel about those two things.

What if I just cut out carbs? (GASP!) Nah. I’d rather be fat on the beach with a belly full of carbs than thin and wishing for some chips.

3.  Find some good books to read

dog and bookI love to read intellectual books and non-fiction books, although I’m sure you figured that based upon how cultured and proper I am.

But when I go on vacation, I like to read mindless novels.  It’s the only time I find it acceptable to read anything by John Grisham.  I still won’t touch a Nicholas Sparks book.  I have standards.

The problem with finding some good books to read is that I don’t want to spend money on these books, and I definitely don’t want to go to the library.

After my recent smackdown with the horse-loving librarian, I try to avoid that place at all costs (plus, I suspect I may be served with a restraining order the next time I go).

4.  Find a bathing suit that hides my problem areas

boy in trunks

This kid has horrible posture.

I realize this is more impossible than #2 on this list, but it’s still a goal I have.

I would probably have more luck getting world peace to happen (or even convincing those beauty pageant contestants that people don’t care about world peace as much as they care about getting free cable).

I understand a bathing suit that hides my problem areas would also cover my entire body, so maybe what I’m really looking for is a stylish body bag.

5.  Get a manicure

polish.jpgI can’t lounge on the beach and relax knowing my nails look bad.

Of course, I have no problem doing my daily activities with chipped Tinkerbell nail polish and an excessively long pinky nail that my husband calls a “coke nail.”

But how can I be expected to lay on the beach and be pampered if my nails aren’t completely flawless? Plus, the rest of my body is a complete disaster.

From my white, razor-burned legs to my frizzy hair and bad bathing suit, I need at least one part of my body to look good on the beach. I wish it was my actual body that looked good, but I will settle for some nicely manicured nails and a margarita.

What am I doing writing a list of things that need to be done? I need to get up and make this happen.

Maybe if I complete all the items on this checklist, I will make a new checklist for the things I want my husband to complete around the house. Wait a minute…maybe I shouldn’t push for a complete miracle.

plane in blue sky

I travel for work sometimes because I’m super glamorous and important.  And because other people don’t want to do it.

Although napping in airports and cruising around in subpar rental cars coated with stale cigarettes and cheap booze might sound exciting, it’s really just a bunch of  smoke and mirrors.  Sorry to disappoint.

Flying doesn’t make me nervous.  What does make me nervous, however, is how long the chicken lo mein at the airport has been sitting under the heat lamp.  Hello salmonella.

But it tastes delicious.

I hate checking luggage because it takes forever and I’m not entirely sure the baggage handlers don’t go through my stuff and make fun of the number of “emergency snack items” I pack.  I prefer to take my emergency kit with me, even if it results in judging glaces from security.

When I arrived for my most recent trip, I headed to the security line to get fondled and groped, or at least I hoped I would.  I also hoped a cute TSA worker who would do the groping; although based on my past experience, it would be a 62 year-old Marge.

Her goatee is prickly when it brushes against me and she could benefit from a Tic Tac.  Or fifty.

As I walked toward the line I noticed there were two.  One line was for economy class and the other was for first class.  Economy class?  Isn’t that what used to be called coach?

I love how they changed it to “economy class” so it sounds like those of us who can’t afford better seats are making an economical decision.

As if we all want to sit in cloth seats that smell like body odor and STDs from the 47 year old stripper in Vegas trying to live her dream.

long shot of airportYes, I believe STDs probably smell somehow.

Well, at least “economy” is better than the word “coach.”  Naming the cheap seats after a person whose job it is to be surrounded by sweaty men in jock straps doesn’t exactly scream comfort.

I got in the line for economy, and held my head in shame.  Maybe some day I would make the big bucks to afford to travel in style, but for now, I would have to settle for flying economy and begging for free drinks on the plane.

I’m not above it.  Seriously.

The economy line wrapped around the room and was far longer than the first class line.  In fact, the first class line had no line!

Those a-holes just breezed right through, without a care in the world, or a dollar in their pocket, if the price of the ticket was any indication.

woman with gumI stood there in the long line for the economy seats while the first class passengers walked down their red carpet covered pathway to comfort.

To add insult to injury, while standing in line for my economy seats, I stepped in gum.

I figured the first class passengers didn’t step in gum in their non existent line, or if they did, it was name brand gum like Clorets. You know, classy stuff.

Miraculously I made it through security without incident, despite my death stares to the first class passengers.  Perhaps the TSA workers could feel my resentment so they let me through.  That, or they were scared of my crazy eyes.

Either are viable explanations.

airport screenI headed to my gate so I could at least snag a seat before boarding began.

Before I was allowed to board the aircraft, the flight attendant repeatedly announced over the loud speaker that the first class passengers could board, and no one else could.

She kept saying it every few minutes, as if she was rubbing it in our faces.

I half expected her to end the sentence with “Nana nana boo boo.”

We get it.  You’re special.,,and rich…and clearly comfortable in your seat.  I scowled at each of the first class passengers as they did a victory dance and arrogantly walked to the plane.

I considered tripping one of them, but didn’t want to extend my foot and its two week old pedicure.

I let the privileged pass me without incident, although I attempted to fart in an effort to make their boarding miserable.

As if watching the first class passengers get on the plane first wasn’t torture enough, I was then forced to walk past them lounging in their comfortable seats when getting on the plane.

airplane seatsThere they were, sitting in their spacious leather seats with their comfortable blankets and refreshing drinks.

Most of them were trying to look important with their newspapers and iPads, flaunting their reading capabilities to those of us commoners in economy.

One of the men clearly had no idea we reached the 21st century, as he seemed impressed with himself and his shiny Bluetooth.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him and his acid washed jeans that there were these cool things called  iPhones that were far more advanced than what appeared to be a laser on his ear.

I decided not to tell him.  He’ll learn about the iPhone in due time….in 2032.

I continued on my walk of shame, although I noticed it was a little different than the walk of shame in college.

At least this time I had showered and didn’t smell like cheap beer.  I smelled like cheap vodka.  I was moving up.

I located my seat which was next to a crabby woman who obviously must have been upset about the flaunting going on in first class.  I arm wrestled with my carry on, summoned all my strength, and lifted it above my head like a professional.

seat beltI then looked at my tiny, cloth seat and mentally compared it to the plush seat I saw in first class.  I wondered what caused the brownish stain on the seat, but figured I didn’t want to know, and quickly sat down before I considered it any further.

I plopped down into the seat that was clearly designed for a size 6 butt, or an 8 year old, as both are the same size in my mind.   I felt smashed in the seat like a stuffed sausage, which is appropriate since that’s what I had for lunch before boarding the plane.

I attempted to put on my seat belt, because I’m a fan of safety.  Of course, the seat belt was also made for a third grader.

As if my shame wasn’t already buried somewhere in stowage, I had to let out the seat belt to allow it to go over my large belly.  Frickety frick.

Since I was one of the last to board, we got ready to take off shortly after I smushed myself into the seat.

Fortunately for me, I was exhausted and immediately fell asleep within minutes of smashing myself into the small space.

I awoke as we were landing and was happy to know that I would soon be exiting the plane where I would no longer be in a caste society.  I would emerge into the airport as a regular person, and would immediately commence my normal routine of judging people.

It felt good to return to the top!

The case of the shrinking clothesI’ve been the victim of a horrible crime.  No, I wasn’t robbed at gunpoint, although the amount I pay for cable each month is pretty close.  They know I need my Gossip Girl.

Somehow, the clothes in my closet are shrinking and I don’t know how it’s happening. Such a travesty!

This morning I went to my jam-packed closet to look for clothes.  I was getting ready to leave for a business trip and I needed clothes for my suitcase.

As I tried on various outfits (a girl has to have choices), I noticed one very obvious consistency; all my clothes were quite snug.

In fact, some of them were busting at the seams…much like my closet was.  This also reminded me I needed to take over my husband’s closet as well.

This is not the kind of news I needed just before a work trip, so I tried to ignore it, much like I continue to ignore the pile of laundry stacking up in my closet, and anything that comes out of Kim Kardashian’s mouth.

I went to the kitchen to grab a snack, and to drown my sorrows in sugar.  As I ate my holiday cookies with chocolate frosting, I wondered what could be going on with my clothes.

cookies.jpgNaturally, I looked for a way to blame the snug fit on my husband.  Maybe he was throwing all my clothes in the dryer and shrinking them.  That was a possibility.

I knew he wouldn’t tell me if he shrunk something of mine, as I’m not sure our marriage could last another laundry debacle.  The wool sweater incident of 2009 is still fresh in our minds.  (R.I.P. cream J.Crew wool sweater.  I miss you and your sassiness).

As much as I wanted to blame this on my husband, I knew it wasn’t logical to do so.

This time…but the next time my Us Weekly goes missing, it will definitely be his fault.

It didn’t make sense that he was shrinking all my clothes, as some of the snug items were dry clean only.  Unless he was in cahoots with our dry cleaner, that wasn’t the answer.

If he was in cahoots with our dry cleaner, then he’s a horrible negotiator, as our dry cleaning bill should be a lot lower.

piggy bankAs I finished off the holiday cookies and made my way to the S’mores cupcakes, I wondered what other logical explanation there could be for my shrinking clothes.

I poured myself another hefty glass of milk and thought about other options.  Were they making lower quality clothes because of the sinking economy?  Maybe that was it.

After one cleaning, all the new clothes shrink because of the poor quality of fabric.  Yeah, that was an option.

I was sure the Occupy Wallstreet people would agree with me there.  It was obviously the manufacturers’ fault.

As I made my way to the bag of chocolate covered pretzels, the realization hit my like a pound of cheddar cheese.  It wasn’t the manufacturers’ fault that my clothes were so snug.  That was illogical.

Nope.  The real reason my clothes were so tight was because criminals were obviously coming into my closet at night and shrinking my clothes.  Yes.  That was the logical explanation.

Sheesh!  How illogical could I be thinking it was the manufacturers’ fault?  Sometimes I swear I live in a dream world.

break inSo every night while I was fighting for leg room with my dogs, a crazed maniac was coming into my home, shrinking my outfits.

Although I should have felt violated knowing I was a victim of a horrible crime, in some ways I felt relieved.  Finally there was a logical answer for why my clothes were tight.

But who would come into my home at night just to play a mean prank on me?  And then I remembered something…I remembered the kid who came to my door a few months ago looking for a “lost cat.”

I knew he was staking out my house but I didn’t know why.  Duh.  How could I be so blind?  He was clearly the criminal playing this cruel joke.  I was totally on to him.

Excited that I figured out the mystery, I treated myself with chocolate lava cake and ice cream.  But then another possibility washed over me.

Was I gaining weight and getting fatter?  Could that be the reason my clothes were shrinking?  Maybe they weren’t shrinking at all, but rather, I was expanding instead.  How could that be?

chocolate chipsI wiped the chocolate sauce from my mouth and considered this possibility.  Perhaps it could be weight gain.  But that couldn’t be it because I had a personal trainer.

Granted, I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks and the people at the gym probably forgot who I was already, but weight gain just didn’t seem like a logical explanation.

Or at least it didn’t seem as logical as the criminal sneaking into my room at night theory.

And how could it be weight gain?  Everyone knows that holiday calories don’t count.  Surely my clothes got that memo as well?

I grabbed a bag of peanuts for a snack and headed back to my room to take another look at my closet.

I figured I needed a way to lock it each night to prevent such crime from continuing to occur.  That was really the only way to stop it.

I was happy I knew the cause of the problem, because as GI Joe would say “Knowing is half the battle.

Although I don’t think that’s the case for the girls in my Econ 101 class in college.  For them, knowing wasn’t half the battle, but rather “big boobs and slutty clothes won the war.”

At least I knew what was causing the discomfort in my clothes.  I could rest easy knowing I got to the bottom of this mystery, and to the bottom of the box of Cheez-Its as well.

I decided to celebrate my discovery with some homemade pasta…and a pair of sweatpants!

birthday+balloon.jpgToday I attended a birthday party, although it wasn’t the typical birthday party I’m accustomed to.

My husband and I don’t have kids, so the only birthday parties we attend involve Jell-o shots, inappropriate gifts and complimentary cab rides home (barf bags not included).

So when we got an invitation for a 2nd birthday party for our friends’ twins, we were excited, but a little nervous.  We didn’t know what to expect.

About an hour before the party, I headed to the store to get the gifts, as is my usual custom for birthday parties.

Since the kids are turning two, I didn’t think a bottle of wine and a month’s subscription to online p0rn was up their alley.  Or maybe it was.  I wasn’t judging.

I texted their mom and asked for gift ideas, to which she responded “books.”  Um, okay.

I didn’t want my friend to know that I had no idea what a two-year-old reads, so I decided I would figure it out myself.

I wasn’t sure if they would like Wuthering Heights but I thought Grapes of Wrath might be up their alley.  After all, what two-year-old doesn’t love grapes?

little girl with butterfly wingsI headed to my bookstore and asked the clerk what books I should purchase for 2-year olds, and it was immediately clear she was not a people person.

It was also clear she was color blind, as no color viewing person would die their hair the color she chose.

She walked me around and showed me several options, although I noticed she was getting more and more nervous with each suggestion.  It was as if her life depended on it, or at least her job.

Maybe that was true, as I suspected she may be on her last chance at the store if her hair color and sweaty pits were any indication.  She just didn’t scream “employee of the month” to me.

However, the inner voice in my head screamed “Cling tightly to your purse“.

After choosing a few books. and paying way more than I should have for them, I headed home to pick up my husband so we could go to the party.

bulldog with birthday hatWe arrived for the festivities the same time as our friends C-squad and Kvothe.  I eyed their wrapped gift to size up whether our gift was better than theirs.  Duh.  Of course it was.

We arrived at the house and walked in to an explosion of party decorations and streamers.  I looked for the stripper, but realized it may still be a bit early for that, as I wasn’t sure strippers were even awake at 1:00 on a Sunday afternoon.

Obviously they would come later.

We stood around and chatted for a while, hovering over the appetizers.  I wasn’t so much hovering as hoarding the appetizers, and chastising anyone who came within a 4 foot radius of the chocolate pretzels.  I knew I wasn’t setting a good example for sharing, but I didn’t care.

We ate lunch and as soon as lunch was over, realized it was time for cake.  Honestly, I was eyeing the cake the entire time, and just went through the motions of eating the lunch.

We were sitting at various card tables around the dining room and our table was definitely the bad kids.

We started chanting “Cake, cake cake” and pretty soon the kids were chanting it too.  We were proud of ourselves for starting a trend.

My friend Sally Albright (not her real name), cut the cake and passed out the pieces.  She cut an especially large piece with extra icing, plopped it on the plate and gave it to me, telling me that piece had my name on it.

boy and birthday cakeApparently my name was Fatty because that cake had about a pound of icing on it…just the way I liked it.  The slice weighed down the plate and I nearly dropped it because it was so heavy.

Although I had started working out with a trainer, I hadn’t been going the last few weeks and my biceps weren’t feeling the burn so much as they were feeling the tightness of my sleeves.

I really needed to get back to the gym, but not now.  There was cake to eat.

I downed the cake and the pound and a half of icing.  I also may have eaten the icing my husband scraped off his plate too.

It would be rude to be wasteful, and I was nothing if not considerate…and gassy.

After the cake came the opening of presents.  I worried what the kids would think of our presents of books, but when I saw they were more excited about the boxes the presents came in than the presents themselves, I knew we were in the clear.

Had I known that, I would have raided our storage unit for moldy boxes instead of spending 30 minutes with the awkward sales associate with orange-ish hair and a nose spray addiction (I was pretty sure she was holding…Afrin).

gifts.jpgAt one point the twins wanted the same toy and an episode of biting broke out, although it was a different kind of biting that I was used to seeing at a birthday party, it was still a bit intense.

After a few minutes of crying, I wiped my tears and joined the party.

I thought about where my life was going.  I went from all night birthday parties with liquor and lap dances to middle of the day parties with crayons and cupcakes.

But I truly had a great time at the birthday party, and when I left, I was sober and capable of driving myself home.

I also knew where my shoes were, which was a first for me.  Maybe getting old isn’t so bad.  I still get birthday cake at parties, and then I get to come home and take a nap.

I just have to be awake in time to catch 60 Minutes and the early bird special at Denny’s.