Oh shit!I recently had an embarrassing moment.  I realize I have these regularly, and at least once a day I discover I’ve either been talking to someone while sporting a milk mustache (or a real one if I’m not careful), or I’ve managed to inadvertently flash an entire city.

So telling you I had an embarrassing moment is kind of a no-brainer.  It’s like telling you that Donald Trump has a lot of money, or that Jessica Simpson can’t understand fractions.  It’s just something you know.

But recently I managed to step it up a notch with my embarrassing moments.  (I’m such an overachiever).  Of course, this story involves food, and it’s somehow bathroom related, which given the amount of gas I have on a daily basis, isn’t that shocking.

So let’s just get this story started.  Let the shame begin.

A few days ago I went to lunch with a couple coworkers.  I was on a lengthy conference call prior to the lunch and to keep myself awake during the call I drank copious amounts of Diet Coke (and no, it wasn’t combined with liquor…much to my chagrin…and my emergency stash of liquor was depleted during the last call).

Since I consumed approximately 2 liters of cola during the call, (and I’m not a camel despite my love of the desert), I needed to use the restroom.  However, my coworkers were ready to leave, and they would clearly be devastated if I didn’t come with them, so I left without using the facilities.

We went to a trendy restaurant where the entire place was open and everyone could see everyone else because of the layout.  I was happy as it made for good people watching and I was ecstatic because I could judge people from the comfort of my own table (while inhaling pretzels with dipping sauce.)  I hate to be judgmental while standing.  This restaurant was so accommodating.

We were seated on the second floor looking down on the other patrons.  I felt like a queen on her throne.  And the thought of a throne reminded me that I needed to go to the restroom soon.  I immediately asked the waiter where the restroom was located.

Okay, well, maybe not immediately, but after I ordered my drink (and asked about the specials…and ordered the pretzels.  Don’t judge.  I was hungry).  The waiter pointed to a door that was around the balcony on the second floor and before he could tell me anything else, I bolted towards the door.

I walked up to the trendy door that overlooked the restaurant and noticed it appeared to be a single restroom.  I was happy to know I’d have some privacy, but at that point I really didn’t care as nature was not only calling, it was texting, instant messaging and posting it on Facebook.  This girl had to pee.

woman bathroom signI opened the door separating me from sweet relief and was shocked at what I saw.  The restroom was apparently a make shift restroom complete with a toilet and sink stationed in what was originally a broom closet.

I had more space in my glove compartment, and that was stuffed with crackers, nail polish, and an emergency brush in case I was chased by the paparazzi.  (I’m waiting for them to realize that I’m famous and important).

The space was tiny, but that’s not what was particularly shocking about the sight.  What threw me for a loop was the woman sitting on the toilet doing her business.   What was worse is that I’m pretty confident she had been there a while as she appeared to have made herself comfortable and there was a fragrance all her own emanating from the small space.

She was sitting and leaning forward, fully focused on the task at hand (or butt).  She had her elbows resting on her legs and she was engaged in the battle of  her life(or at least it appeared that way given her red face and deep breathing methods).

At first I thought she was in labor and wanted to recommend an epidural, but then I realized the only thing she was giving birth to was a food baby.

It took me a moment to realize what was going on, so I stood there like a fool with the door open, exposing this woman (and her ratty underwear) to the entire trendy restaurant.  Once I computed what I saw (and once the noxious smell hit my nostrils), I did something to further embarrass myself.

I yelled “Oh shit!” and then slammed the door shut.  Immediately after I yelled the profanity I realized my behavior was in poor taste.

For those who hadn’t seen me open the door, they were aware of it when I screamed.  And why did I choose a profane word that was another word for poo?  I was basically announcing to the restaurant what this woman was doing.

For a moment I considered opening the door briefly and following up my “Oh shit” comment with “no pun intended”, but I didn’t think she would find the humor in that (nor did I want to expose myself to that smell again.  Clearly that woman ate a high fiber diet).

So I did what any self respecting person would do.  I busted ass and got out of there.  I practically knocked over a woman on my the way to my seat and then realized she was headed straight to the bathroom.  Perfect!

I grabbed her arms as if I was about to tell her the world was going to end (or that Community will be on hiatus).  In my mind, both are equally devastating.

I told the unsuspecting woman that the door wasn’t locked on the restroom, and there was a woman in there fully engaged in her duties.  She looked at me as if I was completely crazy (she wasn’t wrong), and nodded her head in agreement.  She probably thought I was imagining it all, and the fact that my hair was ratty and my sweater was covered in dog hair probably didn’t help.

girl whisperingThe woman walked toward the restroom and instead of opening the door, she stood outside the door and waited.  She was the perfect patsy!  I was hoping the restroom warrior wouldn’t necessarily remember who opened the door on her since her focus was clearly on her bowels and not her surroundings.

Maybe she would think the nice woman waiting to use the restroom was the a-hole who exposed her to the restaurant.  Yes, that was completely logical.

I walked as quickly as I could back to my seat, careful to keep an even pace, as my bladder was nearly overflowing.  I sat down and told my coworkers what happened, which resulted in ridiculous jokes about the event for the next several minutes.  I attempted to laugh a few times but found it painful since I still hadn’t used the facilities.  Of course, that didn’t stop me from drinking my iced tea.  After all, a girl needs fluids.

I kept my eye on the restroom door and finally the warrior emerged, sweaty from her battle, but looking more comfortable (and a few pounds lighter).  I considered going up to her and asking her what she ordered so I could avoid the same pitfall, but I was afraid seeing my face would trigger her memory and remind her I was the person who opened the door and not the nice lady in the cat sweater.

I was fearful I would trigger a post traumatic stress syndrome, and since I’m so caring and thoughtful, I decided to refrain.  (That, and she looked like she’d been through enough for one day).

However, the rest of the meal I had to keep my face hidden from her view, which wasn’t an easy task considering I was two tables down from her, and I’m a loud talker.  (I know.  You wouldn’t have guessed it, right?)

The worst part of the rest of the meal wasn’t the attempts to avoid eye contact with her (or the crappy dipping sauce for the fries), it was the fact that I knew I couldn’t get up to use the restroom because I would have to walk by her table and trigger her memory.  I had to sacrifice myself for the good of mankind (or maybe just her).  With every bite at lunch I was more and more aware of my situation.

air freshnerFinally the warrior left, most likely to purchase some Pepto and (hopefully) some room deodorizer.  However, at that point I couldn’t bring myself to use the restroom.

Maybe it was fear that someone would open the door on me and the nasty cycle would continue to repeat itself.  Or maybe it was because I never wanted to be confronted with that horrific smell again.  Whatever the reason, I decided to avoid that restroom.

The walk back to work was a painful one (and a slow one).  As soon as I arrived at the office I headed straight to the restroom, knocking on the door before I entered.  I tried to think of the lesson I learned as a result of the whole endeavor.

I learned to knock before I open a restroom door, not to tailor my profanity to a specific situation, and not to order the goat cheeseburger again (as it was clearly the cause of her issues).  Oh, and I also remembered I needed to buy scented candles.

woman with phoneHello?! This is what I’ve been saying for two days and it’s been super frustrating.

For some reason, my phone didn’t want to listen to what I had to say.   Clearly it was taking cues from my husband.  Not good.

If that was the case, the next thing I knew it would be leaving wet towels on the floor and watching several episodes of Fringe wearing nothing more than boxers and a pair of black socks.

I knew I needed to get this issue resolved quickly, as I couldn’t take another season of that show.

Whenever my phone rang, which was a lot…because I’m awesome, I would answer only to be met with complete silence on the other end.  Nothing.  No response.

dog with ear outI finally know how Kathy Griffin felt when she did stand up.  The silence on the other end was deafening.

At first I thought it was the other caller’s phone, as clearly I’m awesome and it couldn’t be my phone.  Not my precious iPhone that I’ve had forever, but alas, it was.

I knew I had to get it fixed, and quickly.  So this morning I got up and headed straight to the Apple store to get this issue resolved.

And by “straight” I mean I stopped by Starbucks first and got a pumpkin spice latte.  Um, I have priorities.

I arrived at the location and walked in to a booming store filled with people.  The store was practically bursting at the seams.  As I walked in the door I was immediately stopped by an Apple employee holding an iPad.

open storeAt first I thought he was going to ask me if I had a VIP pass, but then I realized he wanted to know what I needed, and wouldn’t let me enter until I told him.

It was like he was a bouncer for the Apple store, and he was weeding out the ugly people and those who couldn’t dance.  I wondered which one he thought I was.

I told him my phone wasn’t working and I needed a new phone.  He asked me if I made an appointment.

What?!  I wasn’t trying to get a cut and color, I was trying to get my phone fixed.  I told him I didn’t have an appointment, and reminded him I couldn’t have made one if I wanted to, as my phone didn’t work….hence….why I was there.

He looked at me with condescending eyes and told me I must have an appointment to get assistance.  Seriously?!

appointment in calendarI’ve dealt with the Apple store before and always find it’s filled with pretentious douche bag employees who look down on me for being a customer, despite the fact they’re rocking a minimum wage job in a place that houses a food court and eyebrow threading.

I still don’t know how that makes them better than me, but judging by the way they treat me whenever I enter the store, it apparently does.

I asked when the next available appointment was and he told me it wasn’t until the afternoon.  Was this guy kidding me?

How could they have that many appointments already?  Were their products that horrible that such a large number of people had issues with them?

Judging by the line, apparently so. And was this guy really such a tool that he was really telling me I would have to come back?  Judging by his soul patch, apparently so.

I made the appointment with the douche at the front, which reminded me I needed to buy vinegar at the store.

old school phoneHe asked if I needed them to call me with additional information about my appointment.

Again, I reminded him my phone didn’t work so that would be impossible, and again, he looked at me as if I wasn’t worthy of his time. And again, I wondered if he had ever been with a woman.

I was completely out of touch with the world until the afternoon, when I arrived back at the Apple store.  A new hipster was standing at the entrance.

Come to think of it, it could have been the same hipster.  I can’t seem to tell them apart as they seem to be interchangeable to me.  Like tennis shoes…or presidential candidates.

Again, I was refused entry into the super hip club that was the Apple store until I confirmed that I was on the VIP list appointment list.

Once my identity and status were confirmed, I was allowed to enter.  I expected to be patted down and fingerprinted, but I managed to get through the security check.

I think it was my “I will cut you” face that let me through.

finger print scanThe hipster told me to head to the back of the store to the Genius Bar and someone would be with me shortly.  A bar?!  Don’t mind if I do.  I mean, hey, it was afternoon and this girl could use a cocktail.

I wondered if the bar would include a special on apple flavored drinks, as it was the Apple store.  I began immediately craving an appletini, and headed to the back of the store.  I love a store that has liquor while you wait!

I arrived at the back of the store to find a bunch of hipsters behind a desk.  They were multiplying!!!

Clearly someone had gotten them wet and they were multiplying like gremlins.  I looked around for a sweet little Gizmo to try to combat the rapidly multiplying hipsters, but found only more hipsters.

5 finger scanI was surrounded.  And where was the bar?  Seriously?!

Telling a girl there’s a bar when there isn’t one should be considered a form of torture…..it’s worse than listening to Tyra Banks try to talk about anything other than herself.

I was approached by yet another hipster before I could reach “the bar” which was really just a counter with a bunch of douche bags behind it.

If that was their idea of a bar, I’d hate to see what their idea of a party was.  Although judging by the employees, I have a feeling their parties include wizard costumes and Dungeons and Dragons lingo.

The new hipster asked me if I had an appointment.  I told her I did and she confirmed with her high tech iPad 2 and found my name.

She gave me the nod to advise that I was allowed to move on to the next phase of the process.  Access granted!

girl and chalk boardShe told me to have a seat and one of the geniuses would be along to help me shortly.  Geniuses?!  Really?  Yeah, let’s call them that, because those employees definitely don’t already have an ego.  Frickety frick.

Why don’t we just call them “Masters of the universe?”  Maybe “The chosen ones?”

I headed to one of the stools and sat down.  Seriously Apple?!  You couldn’t just do regular chairs with a back on them?

I have to have an ab workout while I wait to be scolded by a pretentious employee who will undoubtedly accuse me of breaking my device?  Really?!

I sat down and waited for one of the geniuses, all the while wondering how none of these geniuses were smart enough to figure out that people prefer actual chairs over wooden stools.

My appointment time came and went, and I continued to flex my abs while sitting on the hard stool, all the while growing more irritated with the entire place.  I looked around to see Apple employees everywhere.

man thinking on stoolThey were swarming.  And all of them had on ear pieces like they were in the Secret Service.

I half expected to see Obama himself walk out of the back room, although I’m sure even the president of the free world wouldn’t have been granted access to the back half of the store without an appointment.

And why did these idiots need the headgear?  I was sure it was just a way for them to play Halo easier when they went on break.

Finally, my very own hipster walked over to me and asked if I was Lisa.  I had never been so excited to have my name called.

Well, except for in the third grade when the teacher called the names of those students that didn’t have head lice and I was among them.  Yeah, I take great care of my scalp.

He asked me what the problem was and I told him no one could hear me on my phone.  Considering the fact that I’m loud and my neighbors down the street can hear me talk, I told him I knew it was the phone.

download updateImmediately, he looked at me with judgement in his eyes and asked if I had done something to the phone to make it not work.  I told him that I didn’t know what happened, but it just stopped working.

He then told me it was probably because I didn’t update my iPhone regularly, sighed, and began the update.

I waited for him to send me to the principal’s office, but the hipster clearly wasn’t a fan of order (or a razor), so he allowed me to stay on the uncomfortable stool.

He ran the updates along with a few other tests and then told me my phone was broken.  Ah ha!  That’s why they called them geniuses!

He said I needed a new phone.  Um, wasn’t that what I told Douche #1 that morning when the store opened?  Obviously I was genius enough to work there, although I didn’t have the condescending attitude or the skinny leg jeans.

Because nothing in my life can be easy, I told him my phone was a work phone so I needed to talk to my tech people.

phone key padHe told me to call them, and once again I reminded him I couldn’t call them because my phone didn’t work.

Was this a difficult concept to grasp?  I asked to use a phone, and he looked at me as if I had shattered his universe (or his record at Mario Cart).

It took him about 5 minutes to locate a phone I could use, and then I spent the next 20 minutes on the phone with my work.

Halfway through the phone call, the “genius” came back and said he didn’t want to be rude, but he needed to go on break.  Even though he clearly thought he was better than me, apparently he was on a very strict break schedule with his manager.

So he left me sitting on the wooden stool, uncomfortable, and wondering which replacement douche I would get.  Then I realized that he didn’t even get me a replacement douche…much like he didn’t get me a replacement phone.

Some genius!  I asked several hipsters who were far too important to help me, but eventually I got a girl to help me.

woman frustrated on phoneShe appeared to be about 15 and I felt sure she was skipping her spelling test to work at the store.  She may not know proper grammar, but she was able to help me with my new phone.

As soon as it was set up, I practically ran out of the store as fast as I could.  And since you know I don’t run, I really just walked.

I got to the car and was completely irritated that it took all afternoon to address this issue, and I was even more irritated that I was treated so poorly.

I may not be a hipster, but I’m someone who has several Apple products and I thought maybe that would give me some street cred at the store.  Obviously not.

Next time I will put in my spacer earrings, tight jeggings and Converse shoes.  Maybe then I would get better service…or at least a partner to play Words With Friends.

hotel bed

I’m currently out of town for work, and am staying in yet another hotel.  Lately I feel like I’m always in and out of hotels, and am beginning to know how a prostitute feels with all these room keys, although I’m not getting screwed for money, and I wear sensible shoes.

Since I’ve been in and out of hotel rooms, I’ve noticed there are several things the hotel doesn’t provide that I think they should (for starters, a cabana boy would be great).  Here’s a list of some of the things I think hotels should provide in their rooms to make a guest’s stay more pleasant.

Toothpaste

toothbrush with pasteThis seems like a no-brainer, but apparently it’s not.  Every hotel I go to has complimentary shampoo and conditioner, but no toothpaste.

Do hotels across America believe that people who care enough about their hair to go through a two step cleansing process wouldn’t care at all about whether their teeth are clean?

What does this say about the state of oral hygiene in this country?  Do hotels believe that when we take a vacation from our lives, we also take a vacation from our dental responsibilities?  I think not!

Quite honestly, I would prefer to sit next to someone on an airplane that went a day without washing their hair rather than someone who didn’t brush their teeth, especially if that person had braunschweiger for a snack.

If most people are like me, in the morning my mouth tastes like some sort of mammal took a shit in it, rolled around in it, and then doused it with urine.

I need my precious Colgate to make that taste go away.  But then again, I live in the Midwest, where meth is king, teeth are scarce, and people have an entire collection of Star Wars on VHS but don’t have any of their molars…or incisors.

Towels that are larger than a cocktail napkin

towelsI’m definitely a larger gal, but is it too much to ask for a towel that wraps at least half way around my body?  Or maybe a towel that isn’t see-through?

There’s nothing like drying off from a sup-par shower with minimal water pressure only to discover the towel is the approximate thickness of the 2 ply toilet paper they provide.

I’d have more success drying myself off using the 5 watt hair dryer they provide for my use than I would actually using a towel to dry myself.

I’ve never been to a hotel where I’ve felt like the towels were new. Do they ever have new towels or are they just perpetually old and crusty?

If hotel towels were people, they would be the 87 year olds in the nursing home with see-through skin and bald spots.

Chapstick for the dry air

putting on lipstickThis would be a nice complimentary item that would actually get good use, as opposed to the shower cap that’s provided instead.

I’m pretty sure I’m not a moron and know how to take a shower without getting my hair wet, if need be.

Who actually uses those shower caps at a hotel? (Aside from your crazy uncle who steals them from the room and uses them to make his spaceship).

How about instead of worthless shower caps that look like the user is going to perform an appendectomy, you provide some Chapstick for your guests?

The stale air in the rooms is enough to suck the moisture out of just about anything, including my drink…which explains why so much liquor is used on my trips.  It’s definitely the evaporation.

When I leave from a hotel stay and forget my tube of Chapstick, I look like every woman in Hollywood, with my red swollen lips.

Ear plugs to ignore the neighbors

quietThis is something I would greatly appreciate, although please note my request is for disposable ear plugs.  I don’t need someone else’s ear jam crammed in my ears.

Depending on where I have to go for work, some of the hotels where I stay are old and the walls are thin.

Although I love to eavesdrop on conversations in everyday life, I don’t want to listen to the pay per view going on in the room next door with the salesman who is comprised of 2 parts whiskey, one part desperation and one part Stetson.  No thank you.

I especially don’t want to hear his reaction when he discovers that Missy has been a naughty school girl.

Turn down the volume on that TV and call an escort…or maybe your mom, as clearly she didn’t give you enough attention as a child.

Cleaning supplies to sanitize the room

cleaning stuffYou know the cleaning women didn’t do it, as I’m pretty sure I’ve seen pubic hair on the floor of the restroom that has been there since the 1990s.

I never feel like the rooms are clean, and I treat each room like a haz-mat sight.  If I had a full haz-mat suit I would wear it around the room, as I’m sure the germs in a hotel room could wipe out a small nation if used properly.

At least if cleaning supplies were left in the room I could do some of my own cleaning and feel like I wasn’t walking around on years of dead skin cells and hooker DNA.

I’m pretty sure the inside of a hotel shower has never met Mr. Clean.

Scented room spray

maid sprayingThis would really help make the room feel more homey, and it would also cover up the smell of coitus and old man farts and subtle desperation.

A few pumps of room spray might actually make me believe I’m in a tropical location instead of a dive hotel in Des Moines where the desk clerk is 27 and working to put her kid through college.

Although it wouldn’t completely make me believe I was somewhere else, as the domestic abuse going on next door would remind me of my location, at least it would cover up the pungent smell in the room.

that may or may not be a product of some of my own gas…

These are just a few suggestions I have for hotels for freebies, although this list is certainly not complete.

It’s a good start, and it might make the room feel a bit more homey and comfortable.  But seriously, if they can’t do this, I would be fine with a cabana boy…it would be a good start.

Today was the day.  Picture day.  Since I’m going to be a totally famous columnist.  Okay, maybe not totally famous…more like “Don’t you know who I am?” kind of famous.

I had to get my picture taken.  My photo will run in newspapers across the country alongside what we can only assume will be an amazingly hilarious column, assuming I don’t fail miserably at this task.

I tried to convince the powers that be that I didn’t need to have my photo taken, as readers across America don’t know what I look like, nor do they need to.

I suggested simply substituting a photo of a very attractive woman with great hair and only one chin.  Sure, it would be a fleecing of America to some extent, but no more than Milli Vanilli did when they alleged they sang those catchy tunes.

Bah bah bah bah, Baby….don’t forget my numba…

girl taking pictureMy request to use a body double, or really just a head shot double, was denied.  Frickety Frick.  We scheduled the photo shoot for the morning, as I’m very important and had places to be, like the Starbucks down the street for my latte.

I didn’t know what to expect for this photo shoot.  Would it be like my third grade pictures where I got to choose the background?

The shooting laser background was bad ass and really showed off my mall bangs.  Or maybe it would be in front of a green screen and I could decide what my background would be.  Polar bears.  Duh.

Would there be props?  Would I be required to hold a writing utensil to show people I’m a writer?  Maybe hold a scribe?

Okay, I’ll admit that I have no idea what a scribe is.  I also wondered if the creepy photographer would be there handing out free combs and asking how many wallet sized photos I wanted.

Thinking about all these possibilities made me nervous, especially since I hadn’t picked out what package I wanted.

picture framesHow many pictures did I want to order?  I mean, I would need at least 20 wallet sized photos to pass out to my friends so I could write “LYLAS” on the back along with my super sassy signature.  (It means love you like a sis.  Try to keep up).

And did I want to order an 8×10 for my office?  I had so many questions and I only hoped the photographer would have package options available.

I also hoped he had a stuffed animal he could use to make me laugh.  Only the best photographers do.

When I arrived at the photo shoot, I headed to the lobby of the building and looked around for the hair and make up station.

I’ve watched enough episodes of America’s Next Top Model to know that before the shoot you must first go to hair and make up where 15 fabulous men (all named Jay), primp and prod and work on your every flaw.

After a few hours with them, I knew I would emerge as a beautiful goddess.  I also knew this was true, because I’ve seen Kim Kardashian before she has her hair and make up done, and she looks like a methed-up hooker who’s been on a serious bender.

hair style productsObviously the hair and make up was in a different room.

I walked around trying to find where I was supposed to be, and was greeted by the photographer.

Immediately I noticed she didn’t have a toy monkey, nor did she have a stuffed animal of any kind.  Obviously this photographer wasn’t legit.

Her wind up camera from Walgreens also suggested she wasn’t the expert she asserted she was.  Clearly this woman was the assistant, and the ridiculously famous photographer would be along shortly.

I asked where the hair and make up station was located and the imitation photographer looked at me as if I was crazy.  She said there was no hair and make up station.

Um, what?!  How can that be?  How can we have a photo shoot without hair and make up?  I then asked where the wardrobe department was, as I wanted to put on something a bit more comfortable as the skirt I was wearing was digging into my gut.

Maybe I should have laid off the cake pops.  I didn’t want to appear uncomfortable in the picture, as I feared it would read as constipated.

little girl taking pictureThe constipated look wouldn’t be wrong, as I had a banana earlier that morning, but I wasn’t yet ready to announce to the world that I had stomach issues.

However,  I’m pretty sure any person whose been around me more than 10 minutes discovers that fact the hard way…assuming they have a sense of smell.

She shattered my dream of a comfortable skirt when she told me there was no wardrobe department as well.  What kind of photo shoot was this?

Hadn’t she watched TV to know that photo shoots require approximately 100 assistants doting over the star (me)?  This lady had a lot to learn about being a photographer’s assistant.

Surely they would have craft services even if they didn’t have hair and makeup or wardrobe.

This girl loves to eat, and the thought of free food laid out for me for consumption on the photo shoot made me very excited.  If I’m being perfectly honest, the craft services table is what motivated me to go to the photo shoot that morning…I wanted some peanut M&Ms.

And then the photographer not only crushed my dreams, she stomped all over them and spit on their remains, much like what Hollywood did to Kristin Cavallari’s career.

kid taking picture of daadShe told me there was no craft services, and we were just snapping a few pictures for the newspapers.

WHAT?!  “Snapping a few pictures?”  Wasn’t this a professional shoot for my coming out as a major celebrity?

Charlize Theron wouldn’t be treated this way and neither would I.  I think Charlize Theron would have better treatment because not only is she beautiful, but I’m still a little afraid of her after seeing Monster and I think everyone else is too.

I sighed and decided that I just wanted to get these pictures over as soon as possible so I could get on with my super fabulous life, and make sweet love to a blueberry scone from Starbucks.

The assistant photographer turned out to be the actual photographer which was disappointing because when I arrived I handed her my coat and asked her to be a lamb and grab me a latte.  It made for a very awkward transition into working together.

After she got me my latte and hung up my coat, we proceeded with the photo shoot, if you could call it that.

photo albumShe stood on top of a chair and told me to face the window and turn my head sideways.  I did as she instructed, knowing I looked ridiculous, and probably a little demented.

She then told me to look serious so she could get a few of those shots.  Considering the photographer was wearing a hair scrunchie from the 1990s, I found it quite difficult to keep a serious face, but I managed to do it…you know…for my fans.

After she took a few shots she told me we were done.  I asked where the next spot for the photo shoot would be, and she advised the photo shoot was over and I was free to go.

At first I was a little disappointed, as I was hoping for some outdoor shots, preferably under a waterfall.  However, then I realized that we didn’t need to take anymore pictures because clearly she got the perfect shot because I’m an amazing model.  Yeah, that must be it.

So now I wait for the photos to come back.  I’m sure she will print them out at Walgreens using a coupon from the internet.  Once she does that, I hope to be able to pick out which one I like the best.

Naturally, I will request she crop the photo to make me look 100 pounds thinner.  She can do that, right?  (Isn’t that what they do to Kirstie Alley?)

I don’t normally send out holiday cards because I’m lazy and hate buying stamps.  However, if these head shots turn out okay, you should be on the lookout for a wallet sized photo of this girl’s face coming to a mailbox near you.

I just hope they managed to Photoshop out the scone crumbs on my face…and the scowl I wore when I realized there were no M&Ms or other snack foods.

nutcracker.jpg

Somehow, I manage to stumble upon great things.  Not necessarily because I’m worthy of them (although I’m clearly very important), but mostly just because I think I’m lucky, and most likely people feel sorry for me.

Some people don’t like being pitied, but if my mess of an appearance makes people want to give me something for free, then pity away!

Tonight I went with my friends Downtown Christy Brown and Pajama Jeans (not their real names) to see the Moscow Ballet perform The Nutcracker.  We somehow managed to score amazing tickets to the performance, and although they were high dollar tickets, we got them for free

ballet dancersYou know, cuz we’re awesome and stuff.

Because the three of us can’t seem to do anything the right way, getting to the theater was a bit of a mess.  Here’s a breakdown of our timeline.  Please note that the show started at 7:00 p.m.

4:15-6:28 p.m.:  I teach an orientation class at the rescue shelter where I volunteer.  I had to finish with the class a little early so I could change at the shelter and get to the theater.

I feel a little like Clark Kent changing into Superman, only there isn’t a phone booth and the only super power I have is my ability to clear a room with my pungent gas.  It’s a gift.

I hum the Superman theme song as I change.

I change out of my shelter clothes, which smell of dog poo, dog hair and sweat, and change into my dressy clothes, which only smell of sweat and and dog hair.  It is an improvement.

As I walk through the shelter in my change of clothes, I see looks of surprise from several of the volunteers.  I’m not sure any of them ever saw me in a dress before, and the look is clearly quite shocking to them.

girl playing dress upI also think one of the volunteers was convinced I was a man until he saw me in a dress, as I always have my hair up, no make up on, and I talk to the dogs in a manly voice.

I think it makes me sound authoritative.

6:29 p.m.:  I receive a text from DTCB saying she will be late to meet us.  Duh.  She’s always late.  She doesn’t ever need to announce it, as it is assumed.

It would be like Paris Hilton telling us she is a slut-whore, or Richard Simmons announcing he’s gay.  We just know.

6:32 p.m.:  I arrive at our meeting location the same time Pajama Jeans arrives.  We chat about the upcoming ballet and take bets on what time DTCB will actually arrive.

The over/under is 7 minutes.

6:37 p.m.:  DTCB comes speeding around the corner to pick us up.  We follow her car to a secure parking lot so we can ride together and leave our cars in a safe location.

I’m pretty sure I have enough random water bottles and granola bars in there to feed the homeless, so I know my car would be a prime target for theft.  I also have the entire CD collection of Garth Brooks’ Greatest Hits, which is doubly enticing.

parking lot16: 42 p.m.:  We arrive at the secure parking lot, only DTCB leads us to the wrong one so we have to move.

6:44 p.m.:  We arrive at the proper parking lot, throw our cars into park and get into DTCB’s car.  She is blaring Christmas music and is full of the holiday spirit.

She is also full of Subway, as she stopped there on the way to meet us.  Fortunately, she got us sandwiches and chips, so we are happy.  Yet another reason we are friends.

6:47 p.m.:  Pajama Jeans and I inhale our sandwiches and chips while DTCB drives around downtown looking for the parking garage for which we have a VIP pass.

Let me remind you of DTCB’s driving style.  It’s jerky, and the car literally jerks forward and then backwards.  It’s not so much because she drives badly, but because her car is lacking a key ingredient:  oil.

So as she navigates the streets, jerking to and fro, Pajama Jeans and I inhale our dinner of carbs in approximately 5 bites, trying not to choke as we are thrown about the vehicle.

oil container6:51 p.m.:  We are driving around looking for our VIP parking spot. We are hoping to see signs, perhaps in flashing lights with our names on them.  No such luck.

Instead, we find ourselves driving the same 3 city blocks, passing the same 3 homeless men who clearly think we were drunk, or scoping the place out for a drive by.

6:54 p.m.:  Still driving around looking for our parking spot and beginning to think there’s no such thing as a VIP parking spot.

6: 57 p.m.:  I force DTCB to pull over so I can ask for directions to our super secret parking spot.  I instruct her to pull over in front of the theater so we can ask for directions.

She jerks the car forward and pulls in front of the theater….to the one spot where not a single person is standing.  I look at her in awe and ask her who she wants me to ask for directions.

She takes a minute to realize her error, and then pulls forward to a place where people are located.

6:58 p.m:  The screeching breaks from the car alert the police officer standing outside the theater, and he looks over to discover three women in a car without oil.

I can see the look of pity on his face as I ask him where the super secret VIP parking is located.  He tells us it’s the valet and points us in the proper direction.  I thank him and wait for DTCB to drive away.  No such luck.

valetShe sits and stares at me until I remind her the best way to get to the parking spot is to physically drive there.

6:59 p.m.:  We pull up to the VIP valet where we are greeted by a gentleman who clearly thinks we are lost.  He walks over to DTCB’s car, which is a fine automobile, but not nearly the caliber of vehicles which he is accustomed to parking.

He asks us where we are going and we show him our VIP pass.  He inspects it closely, as it’s clear he believes it to be a fake.  Once he’s satisfied, and confused, he takes the keys and the car.

He notes the discarded Subway wrappers strewn about the car and figures his tip from this car will be less than good.

7:00 p.m.:  We walk up the steps to the theater.  I realize I have crumbs all over my dress from inhaling my sandwich, and I attempt to brush them off, which only seems to grind them into my sweater dress, making their presence permanent.

I figure it’s okay since I forgot a necklace.

old elevator button7:01 p.m.:  We enter the VIP entrance where we are immediately questioned and told we are in the wrong place.

I’m sure my crumb-stained dress and the mayonnaise on my face didn’t necessarily scream VIP status.  We flash our VIP tickets and watch the look of surprise rush over the guards, who let us through.

7:02 p.m.:  A guard ushers the three of us to a private elevator where we are greeted by our own elevator attendant.

We immediately check our phones to ensure we didn’t time warp back to 1952, and then proceed.

Our elevator attendant, Maguy, greets us warmly and presses the button to take us to our seats.

I expected this elevator to be difficult to work since it clearly required an attendant to operate it, but it was a normal elevator, although Maguy pressed that button like a pro.

7:03 p.m.:  We arrive on the proper floor and exit the elevator where we are met by a large woman who immediately suspects we are crashers.

I’m sure my lingering smell of dog shelter and onions didn’t help substantiate our legitimacy.

We show her our tickets and she doesn’t even try to hide her surprise.  I’m pretty sure I hear her mutter under her breath “What is our world coming to?  These people are VIP?”

security pad7:04 p.m.:  She adorns us with VIP wrist bracelets and tells us we have access to the lounge where there is free food and drinks.  WHAT?!  Our VIP status allowed us to have free food and drink before the show?

How could I have missed that?  The bittersweet news washes over us and we agree to go to the restroom before hitting up our seats.

We are directed to a VIP restroom that is empty, as only VIPs are allowed to use it.

I expect to see velvet couches and men wearing loin cloths to be waiting for us in the restroom.  No such luck.

7:06 p.m.:  We head to our seats, passing through a few secure areas.  Every guard we pass looks confused at our presence and even more confused by our VIP status.

Obviously three girls smelling like farts and sub sandwiches aren’t the norm at these events.

7:07 p.m.:  We make it to our seats and discover they are in the VIP section with tables for drinks, and we are doubly mad because this is just a reminder that we could have had all the drinks our hearts desired had we been there earlier.

ballet dancer stretching7:12 p.m.:  DTCB whispers to me and asks to see my program.  Despite the fact she’s had the program a total of five minutes and walked a total of 20 yards, she’s managed to lose her program.

I hand it over and apologize that it’s wet from the Diet Coke bottle that spilled in my purse.

8:17 p.m:  Intermission arrives and we head to the VIP lounge to see what goodness will be there.  We are stopped by three different guards who are all convinced we are crashing the lounge.

We arrive and discover the lounge has cake pops and drinks ready for us.  Amaze-balls.

I grab two and head to a table to stuff my face.  I figure if I can down two before more people trickle in, I can get another two and pretend they are my first two.

And that’s exactly what we all did.  The cake puffs are delicious, although after the fourth one, my stomach feels a little uneasy.

It settles once I got another complimentary drink from the bar.

cocktail with fruit8:32 p.m.:  We return to our seats to watch the rest of the performance, drinks in hand.  Pajama Jeans is rocking a kiddie cocktail, but she looks so fancy doing it.

DTCB comments on the pretty costumes and advises her favorite part of the ballet is the tiara the woman is wearing.  She seems mesmerized by the glitter and goes into a bit of a trance.

It also could have been a food coma…I’m not sure.

9:18 p.m.:  The ballet ends and we push our way to the VIP section once again to see what other free goodies we can find.

We are disappointed to discover there are only drinks available, and no additional food.  I scold one of the guards who told me earlier that they would have desserts after the show.

I call her a liar and tell her I will be reporting her to her superiors.  She offers me a breath mint, which is either an attempt at kindness or a suggestion that I shouldn’t have onions on my sub.

I decline.

9:19 p.m.:  We head to our private VIP elevator and are escorted to the main level by Maguy, who has become even more of a pro operating the elevator.

ballet dancers10:04 p.m.:  I arrive home expecting someone to open the door for me and greet me with a warm washrag.  I’ve adjusted to my VIP status quite nicely.

Instead, I’m greeted by three rambunctious dogs and a husband wearing only lounge shorts and a pair of black socks.

I consider reminding him of my VIP status, but don’t want to make him feel inferior, so I don’t.

Please don’t be jealous of my amazing VIP status.  I realize it’s very intimidating, but I can’t help that I’m super important.

In the future, I would like to be addressed as a VIP and will demand to sit in the VIP section wherever I go.

I’m pretty sure this demand won’t be met, as the Country Kitchen I like to hit up on Friday nights has open seating.