I live in the Midwest, which means I know a significant amount about the corn crop for the year, but nothing about fashion. I think flip flops look good with nearly every outfit.

It also means I can go from running the air conditioner one day due to a massive heat wave in January, to lighting candles and running the heater the next day to keep from freezing to death. The joys of the Midwest are plentiful, and the horrid smell is just an added bonus.

There’s a reason they call it “the armpit of the United States,” and it isn’t because the people here are nicely shaved and covered in deodorant…or at least not those I’ve encountered at the local Walmart.

One of the worst things about the Midwest (aside from the redneck jokes) is the nearly constant threat of tornadoes. With the changing temperatures, tornado warnings and sirens are just a part of life here in the armpit (or “pit” for short).

Although I don’t live in Kansas, nor do I have an Auntie Em.  However, I do have an Aunt Sylvia who is addicted to nose spray.

tornadoUnfortunately, my home in St. Louis has its fair share of tornadoes and dangerous weather.  The other night was no exception.

I was up late working (because I’m a super dedicated employee…and because I was behind on Facebook updates), and noticed a loud storm with thunder and lightning.

Although it’s strange for January, I somewhat enjoyed the boisterous weather, as it allowed me to fart loudly and blame the noise on the storm. Yet another reason I love mother nature.

My husband was sound asleep and unaffected by the noise (and the smell), but I continued to notice the storm sounded worse.

The fact that I had sauerkraut for dinner didn’t do anyone any favors either.

I went to bed around 1:30 and awoke about 2:00 to the tornado sirens going off. For those of you not familiar with tornado sirens, they are loud and obnoxious, and a great way to induce an anxiety attack.

They’re similar to Kathy Griffin, or Kathy Lee Gifford in that sense.  However, tornadoes don’t have the alcohol problem or obnoxious laughs the Kathys do.

I woke up my sleeping husband and told him we had to go to the basement because there was a tornado.  He ignored me and continued snoring, so I did what I always do when his snoring annoys me, I pinched his nose.

He awoke gasping for air, and then I gently told him we had to go downstairs because there was a tornado spotting.  And by “gently” I mean I told him to get his ass out of bed or I would cut him.

He stumbled out of bed and leisurely walked to the steps to the basement, as if we had all the time in world.  I told him to get a move on and get the dogs. As he did that I grabbed a bra and some pants, as both were noticeably missing from my outfit at that moment.

Don’t judge.  I was tired and those under wires can be a real bitch.

Of course, I didn’t put on the uncomfortable items, I just took them with me to the basement just in case disaster struck and I needed pants.

I went downstairs to find my husband standing there doing nothing. I suspected the tornado sirens would go on for a while and the tornado watch would last a few hours.  Since sleep was something I was quite lacking, I didn’t want to sit around for a few hours while mother nature played hide and seek with funnel cloud.

I told him to get out the inflatable mattress so we could sleep in the basement.

laternI’d like to tell you we bought that inflatable mattress because we are outdoorsy people and like to camp.  I’d love to tell you that we bought the inflatable mattress because we have lots of company in from out of town and they need a place to sleep.

Both of those statements would be lies.

The truth is, we bought an inflatable mattress because we are lazy people who love to lay in front of our electric fireplace in the basement and watch reruns of Rescue Me, and we don’t want to lay on our couch, as it just isn’t comfortable enough.

It also doesn’t scream “hoosier” quite as loudly as an inflatable mattress atop a shag rug atop carpet in a basement.

So I got out the inflatable mattress and plugged it in.  I think we all know I would have been incapable of blowing up the mattress had it not been electric.  Although my father claims I’m all hot air, my lung capacity is quite lacking, as is my tolerance for other people’s children.

This air mattress was a new one, and we never used it before.  The previous one met its demise in an unfortunate marital incident.

I wasn’t sure how big the mattress would be, although the box said it was queen sized.  As I watched it inflate, one thing was clear; this mattress wasn’t queen sized.  It didn’t even look like it was a full sized mattress.

The tornado sirens blared and our dogs ran around the basement celebrating the impromptu party in the basement.  I realized I didn’t care what size the mattress was.  It would do, as I didn’t want to wait out the storm on the floor.

I threw some sheets and a duvet on the mattress and decided it would have to do.

We got onto the bed, which was similar to mounting a horse.  We had to maneuver around and make sure one of us didn’t catapult the other across the room with a sudden movement.  Once we were situated, the dogs ran around the basement one last time for a victory lap before pouncing on the inflatable mattress for sleep.

inflatable mattress

Please note the inflatable mattress is the size of our love seat…tiny.

Then I realized we could be downstairs for hours, and we didn’t have food in the basement (aside from my hidden stash of Oreos, but there was no way I was going to reveal that location to my husband.  There have to be some secrets in a marriage, and the location of Double Stuff is one of them).

I ran upstairs and grabbed some Cliff Bars, water, and the newest volume of Us Weekly.  If I was going to be involved in a natural disaster, I at least wanted to be up to date on celebrity gossip.

I came back downstairs to find my husband staring at the tiny mattress, puzzled by its size.  He commented on how small it was and I reminded him that size didn’t matter, except when it came to diamonds and vodka drinks.

Matt and I laid there on the tiny mattress and began laughing like school girls.  Not giggling or chuckling, but belly laughing.  And yes, my belly is larger than his so my laugh was larger too.

laughWe were two grown adults sleeping on an inflatable mattress in our basement in the middle of the work week.  What was wrong with us?

As our laughter tapered off, we noticed the house was silent…we went upstairs and the sirens had stopped.  The tornado was gone.

We wasted no time.  I grabbed our pillows (and the Cliff Bar) and we headed to the bedroom to return to slumber.  The dogs followed suit and soon we were asleep in our bed, the threat of danger far away.

That mattress remains inflated in our basement.

Not necessarily because we are hoping for another tornado, but because although it isn’t comfortable enough to sleep on during a natural disaster, it’s not bad for watching episodes of Dexter.

NOT my husband.

NOT my husband.

My husband is a bit of a nerd. Not like a Steve Urkel nerd with the annoying voice and the moose knuckle that almost certainly guarantees he won’t be capable of producing children.

He’s more of the Ronald Miller kind of nerd from Can’t Buy Me Love. He’s adorable and people love him, although he doesn’t cry at New Year’s Eve parties and only sleeps in the shed when he’s drunk.

So please understand, as I’ve come to, that some of the things my husband does can be a bit strange to someone else, but in his world, they are completely normal.

Getting up early to watch the Oscar nominations and then yell at the TV when you don’t like the nominations is normal, right?

The other day I received a call from my lovely groom advising me that he was sitting at a Quik Trip parking lot approximately 4 miles away from our house waiting to meet a girl. WHAT?! Was he waiting to meet a hooker?

dog on computerI wasn’t so much upset about the possible infidelity as I was the cost of the excursion. He better not be hooking it up with the cash I could be using to buy myself some Chipotle and a bottle of Grey Goose.

Come on. I have priorities.

I asked him why he was meeting a girl and why he was in the Quik Trip parking lot, although I certainly understand the appeal of that place. Their corn dogs are delicious.

He said he looked on Craigslist for used books and found a book he wanted to buy. Naturally, I assumed the “book” was really DVDs of p0rn, but I decided to play along. Sure. You spent your lunch hour looking for used books on line. <wink, wink>

And I spent my lunch hour doing squats at the gym instead of harassing the waiter at Chilis’s for yet another round of bottomless chips and salsa. How gullible did he think I was?

He said it was a female who agreed to sell him the “book” and he was meeting her there to proceed with the transaction. I inquired as to how much this little endeavor was going to set us back, and he responded that it was only $40.00.

Um, “only $40.00” for a “book”? I considered telling him to abandon that plan, get a year’s subscription to Playboy and come home, with a slushy from Quik Trip in hand. I’m only human.

I told him he was probably being set up to be robbed, and he was a total sucker. I immediately regretted not increasing my life insurance policy on him. I guess I had to hope he pulled through the mugging.

jar of moneyHe told me that he didn’t think he was going to be robbed at a well-lit Quik Trip, and he figured the girl probably thought he was there to rape her, so they were even. I’m not sure how attempted robbery + attempted rape = nothing, but perhaps I will ask R. Kelly, as I’m sure he will have an answer.

I told him I would need constant updates from him on his whereabouts, so at least if he got shot, I could respond immediately. I watch House, so I know how to respond in moments of crisis…with Vicodin.

He rolled his eyes and said he would keep me updated.  I realize I didn’t see him roll his eyes, but I’m quite confident at the minimum he rolled his eyes. I suspect hand gestures were also involved.

I waited a few minutes and then began texting him ridiculous things about how I didn’t want him to get gang raped, or how he should try to convince the perpetrators to be gentle. He didn’t respond, probably because he was laughing too hard at my witty texts.

A few minutes later I received a call from his phone. Naturally, I assumed it was his assaulter looking for money. I answered in my strongest voice, and I heard him on the other end. Great. They were holding him hostage…and he had our $40.00 in cash! What was a girl to do?

I asked him if the assailants were treating him well, and he said he was fine, the transaction was completed and he was heading home. I told him I didn’t understand his statement, as I was waiting for the preferred lingo like “the wolf has left the building” or “barter complete.” (I like old school terms).

He told me he was coming home and abruptly ended the call. When he arrived home I looked for his “book” and discovered it was a textbook about film and movies. What?!

He didn’t really buy a textbook from someone at a Quik Trip did he? I asked if that was the book he purchased, and he said it was. His excitement was less than thrilling for me, as I realized I may have preferred the purchase of p0rn.Nerd alert!I asked him how the deal went down, and he said she exited her vehicle, which was covered in Hello Kitty stickers, and came to his car.

She handed him the book and he handed her the money. I asked if he flipped through it to make sure it was legit, but he said he trusted her. Whatever.

He said the girl asked him “So, which teacher do you have this semester for this class?” to which my lovely husband replied

Oh, I’m not taking this class. I just bought this book for fun.”

He said her reaction was a mixture of confusion and sadness, and I’m pretty sure at that point she assumed she was going to be assaulted by my husband only to have her fingernails removed and fed to her cat.

She practically ran back to her car and screeched away, her Miley Cyrus t-shirt flapping as she ran.

I took one look at my husband in his shirt and tie and realized there are worse things in life than having a husband who can be on the nerdy side.

That poor guy has to deal with my disasters on a daily basis, so what did I care if he wanted to read a textbook for fun? I kissed him on the cheek and told him I was happy he got what he wanted.

He responded with pure joy and said he found another post where the seller had not only the textbook, but the workbook and quizzes as well. It was going to be a long night….

girls telling secretsI realize I’m a mystery. I like to keep my public persona quite private (which is why I write a blog about every boring detail of my life).

But there are some things about me that I wish were different. Surprisingly, being gassy isn’t one of them. I love having the ability to clear a room with my bodily functions…and then blame it on the dorky 10 year old in the corner playing on his Nintendo Gameboy.

They still make those right?)

So I decided to expose some of my deepest, darkest confessions to the three of you who read this blog.

Since I know it’s no one I know who checks in regularly to this site, I won’t hold anything back in my confessions.

Here they are:

1. I love eating at Chili’s

red chilisI wish I didn’t, but I do.

Their chips and salsa are amazing and don’t even get me started on their chocolate lava cake. You know how I feel about it, and if you don’t, the 10 extra pounds I carry around should make it clear I love their dessert menu.

I pride myself on going to locally owned restaurants and supporting local businesses, but every now and then I want a buffalo chicken sandwich with a side of loaded mashed potatoes, and Chili’s knows how to rock my world.

I also suspect Ryan Gosling could also rock my world; so Ryan, if you’re reading this….text me.

The fact that Chili’s has a mini computer at each table is an added bonus, as it allows me to go to dinner with someone and then not engage in any human contact with that person. It’s a win-win.

You can play games, play trivia and even pay your server without having to make eye contact, which I would encourage you to avoid, as our regular server is most likely a lord of some sort in the Dungeons and Dragons world.

So as much as I hate to admit that I love a chain restaurant, I do. I really really do. More chips and salsa please!

2. I love boy bands

boy+band.jpgfSeriously. They’re awesome. Few things can match the joy I feel when I hear New Edition’s Cool it Now come on the radio. although seeing Ryan Gosling shirtless tops that list. Really Ryan: call me.

The boy bands bring a special element to the music industry, aside from child predators of course.

One of the best things about a boy band, aside from their amazing ability to harmonize and make up words, is the fact that unless you know it’s a boy band you’re listening to, you might suspect it’s a band of girls, or a band of farm animals that know how to keep a beat.

It’s always a pleasant surprise to discover that your favorite catchy tune about the playground isn’t sung by a group of girls in skirts and pigtails, it’s sung by a group of men…in skirts and pigtails.

Give me a sonnet sung by Joey McIntyre any day of the week. I’ll take that over Mariah Carey’s fake tan and even more fake concern for anyone other than herself. Backstreet’s back…all right!

3. I secretly find Leland from Dog the Bounty Hunter very attractive

Photo credit:

Photo credit:

This is one secret that puzzles my husband thoroughly. I normally like a clean cut guy who is book smart and knows how to invest properly in a 401k.

But then there’s Leland.  Something about that long haired Hawaiian bounty hunter gets my juices flowing, and by “juices” I mean private parts.

I realize it may seem ridiculous to swoon over a reality TV star, but that guy knows his way around a stun gun, and at least one point during every episode I make an inappropriate comment about how he could take me under arrest…or how I’d show him my Miranda warning.

Okay, so some of my comments during the show aren’t my best work. What can I say? I’m mesmerized by his flowing locks and tribal tattoos.

So even though I normally like a pocket-protector wearing guy who can tell me the best tax shelter to maximize my investments, there’s something about Leland and his knowledge of industrial flashlights that really turns me on.

(Get it? Flashlight…turn me on? My love of Leland really does make me dumber.)

4. I secretly like cats

kitten and fishHow can I not? They’re cuddly and adorable They’re like Dakota Fanning before she hit puberty and got very awkward looking.

I realize I’m known as a dog person, but I secretly love cats too, although my allergies won’t let me have one.  Suck on that Zyrtec. “Helps with indoor allergies” my a$$. Tell that to my stuffy nose and weepy eye.

Don’t get me wrong, I walk a fine line with my cat loving antics. I won’t wear cat sweaters or cat turtlenecks, although the combination suggests coziness and warmth, and I secretly think I could get on board with that.

I also don’t keep photos of cats at my desk, although I probably would if I wasn’t violently allergic. Once again, suck it Zyrtec.

I also feel as if I’m one hairnet and a stained bathrobe away from being the crazy cat lady in the neighborhood, so maybe it’s for the best that I’m allergic to them….especially since I already own the stained bathrobe and I can get a shower cap at any of the fine hotels I frequent when I travel.

5. I think all babies look the same


CORRECTION: I thought all babies looked the same, until my niece was born. She’s the best thing ever. But this isn’t her.

Come on. You know I’m right on this. I have many friends who are populating the earth and having babies. Each time I see their newborn child, my response is the same: that kid looks like every other kid I’ve ever seen.

Of course, that’s my inner response. My outer response is “oh, he’s so cute…and he has your eyes” (and your husband’s gas. Seriously. Check that kid’s diaper. I’m pretty sure he just $hit himself).

I think babies look the same for the first 6 months of their lives, and I find them completely interchangeable. I could get 10 Christmas cards with photos of 10 different babies and could easily be convinced it’s the same baby in different costumes (and part of me wonders if it is).

Yes, they’re cute and cuddly, but they don’t have different colors of fur, so I really can’t tell them apart from the kid down the street. They’re all adorable, but I’m not getting attached to any kid until I can pick him out of a line up.

So there you have it; some of my most embarrassing confessions. I feel confident posting these confessions on my blog, as I’m pretty sure no one reads it (aside from my third grade teacher who constantly corrects my punctuation, along with the entire cell block C at the local prison.)

So until next time, I’m going to rock out to 98 Degrees as I drive to Chili’s with my neighbor’s cats and then head to my friend’s house where I will drool over Leland and pretend to recognize her baby.

ring.jpgI’m addicted to watching The Bachelor.  Believe me, that wasn’t an easy thing to admit, but don’t they say admitting something is the first step?

The first step to what, I don’t know.  But if it’s a step toward chocolate or shirtless men, I’ll gladly make it.

For those of you living in a cave, The Bachelor is a delightful show on ABC where a hunky guy with perfect abs and zero personality is chosen to look for the love of his life through a series of unrealistic dates including helicopter rides and skiing down a street in San Francisco.

Apparently the love of his life is one of a slew of amazingly attractive women who are all size 2 or smaller. Who knew love knew a size?  Apparently ABC does, and that size is nowhere near double digits….much like many of these women’s IQs.

Don’t get me wrong, some of the women who go on the show are sweet women looking to find love (or an acting/modeling/singing career).  Twenty five women come on the show mesmerized by the cameras and the newest Bachelor’s clinically whitened teeth.

They go on dates with the lucky guy, and he ultimately decides which one he wants to marry after a few short weeks.  The show is a train wreck and I’m in the first car on the train.  Choo choo!

Although we’re only a few weeks into this season of The Bachelor, I’ve noticed a few things that are typical of the dating show (other than the cheesy roses everywhere and the Bachelor’s incessant need to remove his shirt.  I’m not complaining…I’m just pointing it out).

So I decided to make a list of a few things I’ve noticed women say each season of this show.

“I’m really starting to feel something for him”

amoreYeah, it’s lust.  We all feel it for the tanned, oiled up guy doing push ups and saving kittens from a burning building.

What you are feeling isn’t love…you’re just horny.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s perfectly acceptable, but don’t confuse the tingling in your pants with a tingling in your heart.

“We have a real connection”

holding handsYou and the other girls this guy is currently banging.  I’m not sure if you looked around, but this guy is being seduced by 24 other women who collectively weigh the same as my right thigh. 

Of course you have a connection…but the connection isn’t so much with him as it is the shared chlamydia you all now have in common. 

Get some penicillin and you should be fine.

“I didn’t expect to fall in love”

candy heartsReally?  You didn’t expect to fall in love with a guy you’ve spent a total of 5 hours with?

Well you shouldn’t expect it because most normal people wouldn’t fall in love with a complete stranger in such a short amount of time, but since you appear to be 45 and desperate, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that you might fall for the man of the hour.

Come to think of it, I suspect you “fall” for guys fairly easily…or at least that’s what it looks like judging by the number of restraining orders against you.

And the one from the guy at the tanning salon is especially awkward, as I’m sure it makes for an uncomfortable session of spray tanning.

“I didn’t think it would be this hard”

couple in franceI know.  Traveling around the world first class and living in luxury mansions is a really rough road.

The free food and unlimited alcohol just make the whole thing that much harder to take.

I know I wouldn’t be able to put my life on hold for 8 weeks to travel the world for free.

Nope.  That would just be too difficult.  That, and I don’t have that much vacation time.

Apparently The Gap gives these women all the time off they need to find love.

“My walls are really starting to come down”

walls crumblingAnd by “walls” you mean pants.

You will throw yourself at this guy after a few drinks just to get some extra time with him, and a crotch shot or two for the cameramen.

Yes, I know, you’ve had a rough life and your heart has been broken so many times.

How dare your boss stay with his wife when he could have you and your credit card debt?

But it’s good to know you can jump into a completely free experience and feel your boundaries erode away (along with your pride).

“I didn’t know I could feel this way”

doberman with roseIt’s funny, but free stuff and liquor will do that to a gal.

I almost married my 55 year old travel agent when I discovered he could get me a free trip to the beach and comp all my meals and alcohol.  Now that’s true love.

I’m sure it’s no different in this scenario, what with all the time you spend alone with him. It’s so romantic when it’s just you and him in the moonlight…and the cameramen…and the boom mic guy…and the producers…and the director….

I will stop now, not necessarily because I’m out of overused phrases on the show, but because I want to get back to this week’s episode and I can’t spend anymore precious time tearing apart a show that brings me so much joy each week.

So I will sign off for now and return to my DVR, where I hope to find out if the daddy’s girl from North Carolina can finally stop crying long enough to say she loves the Bachelor after 30 minutes of chit chat.

She can do it.  I know she can!

old clockI couldn’t put it off any more; I couldn’t avoid my personal trainer any further.

I was successful in staving him off until the middle of January, which is a fairly long time considering I’m pretty sure my trainer sees my love handles as his child’s college tuition (my flabby arms are most likely a second home at the lake).

I blame my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name) for the return the gym. I was perfectly content getting fatter each day, stuffing my face with Peanut M&Ms and any kind of sour cream based dip. But skinny Pajama Jeans had to throw a wrench in my plan, and a vegetable in my dip.

She texted me last week and asked when I wanted to return to the trainer. As you know, we train together with Marbie, our personal trainer. She is the star pupil and I’m the fat kid in the back throwing spit wads and farting loudly. Seriously. I get gassy when I do squats.

We took a bit of a break over the holidays because we are so important and had several holiday engagements. Since the holidays were over, I wanted to ease back into working with the trainer.

free weightIn my world, “ease back into it” means ignoring all mention of working out and faking a fever when my husband suggests going to the gym. Downtown Christy Brown (DTCB) was agreeable to my suggested course of action. I know this because we discussed it over dessert.

So when Pajama Jeans texted me about when I wanted to return to the gym, I considered telling her I would return to the gym when she stopped looking so adorable in her workout gear. She doesn’t sweat at the gym. She glistens.

I considered telling her I couldn’t return to the gym because I had been diagnosed with a rare condition called phatomothigh (pronounced “fat on my thigh”) but she’s savvy and I was fearful she would bitch slap me and tell me to return to the gym. She has a mean right hook.

So I reluctantly told her I could return to the gym, but not until Saturday. I figured that would give me a good several days of freedom and binging before returning to the torture chamber that is known as the local gym.

We agreed to meet with Marbie for our first return session on Saturday at 10:30 a.m. I liked the time because it would allow me time to sleep in and stuff my face full of donuts before the workout.

What I didn’t think about was the fact that the late morning workout had the opposite effect. It loomed over my head with every step I took that morning, which was basically just a few steps to the refrigerator and back. But still.

As the morning dragged on, I became more and more nervous about my return to the gym. Would I be able to do any of the workouts Marbie assigned? Deep down I knew the answer was no, but then again, I couldn’t do them before I stopped going either.

I also wondered if Marbie would pick up where we left off with the grueling work outs. Would he realize I hadn’t been to the gym in over a month? I was guessing the spare tire around my mid-section would tip him off to that, so I decided to wear a loose fitting shirt.

The dreaded moment arrived and since I couldn’t think of a viable excuse not to go, I grabbed my workout shake and headed to the gym. I was also disappointed in myself a bit, as I was already letting myself down.

blurry treadmillOne of my new year’s resolutions was to be more creative with excuses for not going to the gym, and that morning the only excuse I could come up with was diarrhea, which for me, is just a typical Saturday morning consequence of horrible eating and poor liquor choices.

I got to the gym early and jumped on an elliptical machine to warm up. Okay, I didn’t so much “jump” on it as drag myself onto it ever-so-slowly, secretly hoping I would injure myself in the process.

I realize it sounds strange that I would get to the gym early and begin a workout before my training session, but I had strong reasoning to support it. Since Marbie believes in torturing me, I like to try to control the kind of torture if I can.

I figure if I do some cardio before the workout begins, he will be less likely to make me do sprints and run on the treadmill, both of which result in crying and calling him the devil. So far this tactic has proved successful.

I hit the “quick start” button on the machine and began moving my legs. Um, ow. Within 30 seconds my thighs were burning and I looked down at the settings to see what gym rat had this machine set to previously.

Obviously the machine was on a high setting, which was the cause of my misery. Not so much. When I looked down I noticed the machine was on a normal setting, although I could only assume it was shorting out.

The guy next to me was probably present during World War I and he was running at a speed 3 levels higher than my machine, which was further evidence my machine was broken, and that guy was clearly a robot.

fan blowing streamersAfter a few minutes of elliptical riding, my heart rate was elevated and my spirit was broken.  My breathing pattern was also elevated and I swore I felt heart palpitations.

I was sweating profusely, which was pretty embarrassing considering the scrawny eighth grader on the bike in front of me seemed to be riding for his life without even breaking a sweat.

Judging by his glasses and E=MC2 t-shirt, I suspected the biking was a training regimen to help him outrun the bullies…and puberty.

Although I was bummed about being worn out, I was happy to see that my sweat had begun seeping through my t-shirt so it was visible.  I’d never been so happy for pit stains in my life.  Whew!

This would be proof for Marbie that I was engaging in cardio before my training session (or at least more than the normal cardio I do…which is running to the door from the parking lot because I’m late).

As I fist pumped my good fortune in the sweating department, I noticed Pajama Jeans walk in and head toward the machine next to me.  She looked adorable and I resisted the urge to smack her when she stepped on the elliptical next to mine.

She pointed out green circular stains on her machine, and we both concluded they were vomit from someone’s previous session with Marbie.  We agreed we wouldn’t fall victim to his cardio workout again.  We dug deep and kept going.

Pajama Jeans wanted to chat since we hadn’t seen each other in a while.  Although I was happy to see her, I knew if I spoke too much I would cut off oxygen to my brain and would soon find myself plastered on the floor next to the puke stains.  I focused on my breathing and listened to her talk about what she’d had for breakfast.  It was eggs and sausage on a croissant.  I wanted to kill her.

When it was time to start the training, we got off the machines and headed over to the training area to accept our punishment.  We saw Marbie, who looked surprisingly happy to see us.

girl with ballI assumed we would be greeted with condescension for succumbing to the holiday food temptations, but he seemed genuinely glad to have us back.  This just furthered my belief that he suffers from dementia.

He told us since we hadn’t trained in a while, he would give us a “back to basics” training session.  Woo hoo!  It really was Christmas all over again.  Fine with me.

He told us to grab some weights and we would get started.  We got to pick which weights to use?  Sucka!!!!

I was going to go easy on myself for this first session.  I grabbed 10 pound weights and said a quick thank you under my breath.  The session was going to be cake.

We walked back to meet Marbie, our heads filled with visions of cake and frosting. I also cursed myself for thinking the workout would be cake.  Why couldn’t the saying be something like “the workout will be kale”?

Marbie saw us walking slowly and told us to pick up the pace and start with 15 squat presses.  What?!

devilWhat happened to the easy workout?  I assumed that would entail some walking and maybe a bicep curl or two.  But squat presses?  I suddenly remembered why I referred to him as “diablo” under my breath.

It only got worse from there.  From push ups to ab work to arms, his back to basics training was more of a “make Lisa cry” training.  It worked.  I felt dizzy and exhausted and I definitely regretted the all you can eat buffet that I indulged in for a full week on vacation.

Who am I kidding?  No I didn’t.

By the end of the workout I was drenched in sweat and wanted nothing more than to pass out on the cool gym floor.  I didn’t even care if it was next to the dried puke stain.

As I left the gym, hobbling and dreaming of Bengay, I wondered why I put myself through this torture.

Why didn’t I just eat healthier and then I wouldn’t have to work so hard at getting rid of the extra pounds?

And then I remembered why; because M&Ms and Skittles taste a lot better than lettuce and radishes.

beach with computerMy husband and I spent Christmas sunning on the beach, stuffing ourselves with any drink that contained liquor, and any food that was put in front of us.  We really don’t have standards while on vacation….or when it comes to TV shows.

Unfortunately, our frolicking on the beach had to come to an end.  And by “frolicking” I mean that we laid around on the beach and napped, getting up only to pee in the ocean…or the pool with the swim up bar…just like everyone else.

sad girlWe left our amazing resort with our heads hung low.  A tear rolled down my face and I vowed to return soon.

The tear may not have been because we were leaving, so much as because we saw our bill from our spa services.

We arrived at the Puerto Vallarta airport after a near death experience in a Mexican cab.

We weren’t sure if the cab driver was blind, or if he just hated us, but we arrived at the airport thankful for our lives, and for Pepto Bismol.

We went through security and somehow managed to get through it in record time.  We were hungry, as our bodies had grown accustomed to eating every hour, so we headed to the first restaurant we saw and grabbed a booth.

As soon as we sat down we heard a somewhat heated argument at the table next to us.  We did what any self respecting Americans would do in that situation…we scooted closer and listened.

At first glance the argument seemed to be between a man in his 60s and a female wax statue.  The male was chastising the statue for being an idiot.  We figured this guy had a few too many Tequilas and thought he had found a friend.

However, upon closer examination we realized the wax statue the man was talking to was actually a woman.  She was thin and her skin looked like she treated it regularly with leather conditioner. Her hair was long and her boobs were younger than mine.

This was NOT them.  They didn't have matching sweaters on, nor were they this patriotic with their color scheme.

This was NOT them. They didn’t have matching sweaters on, nor were they this patriotic with their color scheme.

Matt and I are pros at eavesdropping because the upstairs neighbors at his last apartment were big fighters and we liked to listen and then take sides. It was usually the guy’s fault…but isn’t it always?

From what we could tell from the argument, the wax statue was mad at the old geezer because he was talking down to her about buying a house and escrow and “She isn’t an idiot.”

From what we observed, she actually was an idiot, so we couldn’t blame the guy.

He started berating her for not understanding basic math, or how to conservatively apply make up, and she started yelling back at him about how he shouldn’t treat her like she’s dumb, because she’s not (she is).

We figured the fight wouldn’t last much longer, and we hadn’t even received our drink orders yet.

After spending a full week together without distraction, Matt and I were happy to have the argument of the crazy people to sidetrack us from the realization we would have to hold yet another conversation with each other if their argument ended.

And then a wonderful thing happened…the argument continued..and continued…and continued.

They went from fighting about the real estate deal to fighting about how they were fighting, and then fighting about how they fought about that. I’m not kidding!

argue1It was a series of meta arguments that required an organization chart and a few more margaritas to follow.

She said she didn’t like the way he talked to her in the argument, and when she told him she didn’t like it, he got mad at her, and she didn’t like that either.

By my calculation, that’s a third layer of fighting. This argument had more layers than Inception, and I wondered if Leonardo DiCaprio would come walking through the door, preferably topless.

I felt a little guilty I didn’t pay for admission to watch this show. Part of me wanted to slap them for ruining our lunch and the other part wanted to tip them for their performance.

They argued about how they argued through our drinks, our dinner, and our check. It was quite a while, as the service at the Puerto Vallarta airport was less than stellar. Shocking, right?

We truly couldn’t believe two people could argue about something so senseless for such a long period of time, but then again, The View is still on the air.

After we paid our bill, we got up to leave and so did they. Strangely, they hugged and kissed, said they loved each other and walked away hand in hand…as if they didn’t just fight for 45 minutes about absolutely nothing.

I was a little pissed. With the heat of that argument I expected some serious hair pulling and crotch kicking.  Or at least I hoped for it.

We watched them walk away and realized we have it pretty good, as we rarely disagree; Mostly because I’m always right.

We also hoped they would be on our flight home, as it was a long flight and we wanted some entertainment but didn’t want to pay for the in-flight movie.

fighting on couch

photo for bill's holiday partyYou knew this story was coming.

Not necessarily that I told you about it, but if you know me at all, or read this blog somewhat regularly, you know that I would inevitably embarrass myself at a holiday function.  Mission accomplished.

My husband and I have an amazing friend, St. Frick, (not his real name) who lives an amazing life with amazing friends.

For some strange reason, we are included in his list of friends, most likely because we are the charity case and he feels sorry for us and our lack of taste in artwork.

A poster of Johnny Depp is considered classy, right?

He is known for throwing over the top parties and the invitations for these parties are highly coveted, as the food and drinks are delicious, and the company is fantastic.

Normally, Matt and I can be easily impressed with the artwork carved into the side of a watermelon at a buffet line, so maybe believing my tale of amazing food isn’t an educated decision.  But then again, if anyone knows good food…it’s this girl.

So trust me when I say his parties are fabulous.

We received the fancy invitation for the party and immediately thought it was an error, and delivered to the wrong house.  No one sends us fancy invitations to anything.

invitationThe last invitation we got was to a bridal shower in someone’s mom’s basement…no joke.  And that invitation was on a piece of computer paper.

I wish I was kidding about that.  So getting a fancy invitation with font other than Times New Roman was exciting to us.

The fact that it wasn’t on copy paper was just an added bonus.

The party wasn’t called a holiday party or an end of the year party.  No.  That wouldn’t be good enough.

Since it was after Christmas but before New Year’s Eve, the party was called “The After Party.”  Of course it was.

Now the only experience I’ve had with an after party is when the twin singing duo known as Nelson came to my college and we went to a bar afterwards where we ordered quarter pitchers and played darts.

Somehow I had a feeling this wasn’t what St. Frick had in mind, although I figured he might like me to bring those adorable long-haired twins.

My only other experience with an after party is what we used to call “after bars” in college, which was always at a frat house and it was in a basement with cheesy music playing and one candle lit to cover the stench of vomit, beer and STDs.

Again, I didn’t think that’s what St. Frick was imagining.

Naturally, Matt and I knew we were going to attend.  After all, this was a holiday party we could get on board with, as it didn’t involve drunk relatives or the child molester from down the street asking every boy under the age of 10 to sit on his lap.

christmas party

This isn’t us, but it’s an awesome photo so I wanted to share it.

We texted St. Frick to let him know we were in.  I’m sure he was less than thrilled when he realized the riff raff accidentally got his invitation and were planning on attending.

I could practically see him moving his expensive pieces of artwork into storage just to avoid another incident of me knocking something expensive over.

Because I’d never been to a fancy “After Party” before, I didn’t know what the attire would be.  Naturally, I figured Pajama Jeans would be appropriate, but thought I would ask to make sure.

I texted him and asked him what the attire was for the event.  Here is his exact response:  “No Pajama Jeans.  Holiday cocktail party.  Pretty.  Sexy.”

Does this guy know me or what?!  I both loved and hated how he knew I would wear Pajama Jeans so he immediately forbid me from wearing them.

I wasn’t sure what “holiday cocktail party” attire was, but I didn’t think a Christmas turtleneck with a duck in a Santa hat would fit the bill (no pun intended).  So I decided to grab my flashlight and go to my trusty closet for wardrobe options.

I figured cocktail party attire meant something fancy, and since I’d recently been to several cocktail parties, I had some outfits I knew I could wear.  Okay, I’d been to two parties in two months, but in my world, that’s a lot.

I found a dress that I thought would be appropriate, and I decided to spice it up with a faux fur little shrug.  The outfit was adorable, and it didn’t cost me anything, which made it all the more attractive in my eyes.

It was also shorter than the dresses I normally wear, so I figured it would meet the definition of “sexy.”

hair doneI decided to go all out with my hair if I was going to wear a fancy dress.  I spent a long time on my hair.  For me, anything more than 5 minutes constitutes a long time on hair.

I decided to go with my hair partially up and then swept back in a simple style that looked formal yet messy.  I’m not sure the messy look was intentional, but it looked like it was.

I’m not someone who uses hairspray, or any form of hair product, as evidenced by my simple hair style, but since this was a big event, I decided to be fancy and use some.

I located a bottle that had to have been 10 years old.  The sprayer was broken, but my husband was able to fix it so I could spray away.

I doused my hair in hairspray and when I was done the entire bathroom smelled like it did when I was in the 7th grade and thought crunchy curls were attractive.

Well…it almost smelled like that…minus the stench from the aftermath of a lunch of burritos.  Fortunately, no candles were lit in the house, which is a good thing, as I was pretty sure the entire room was a powder keg.

After coughing up half the can of Aqua Net, I emerged from the bathroom and grabbed my heels and jewelry.  Yes, heels.  I didn’t wear my Uggs to this event.  Can you believe it?

My husband was pleasantly surprised by my appearance, but I figured it was mostly because I matched and didn’t have any stains on my dress (yet).  After being with me for a few years, his standards dropped on what he finds acceptable.

angry army dudeWe headed out the door and to the party, all the while wondering if we were dressed up enough and if we would fit in.  After we parked the car I turned to my husband and gave him the usual pep talk I give whenever we go to a party with St. Frick.

Don’t fuck this up for us.  These people are awesome and we don’t want them to figure out that we bring nothing to the table, other than empty plates.  Put your game face on and don’t screw this up for us.”

Pretty motivational, right?

We walked up the path to his house and were in awe of the beautiful lights and decorations.  St. Frick knew how to throw a party and he definitely knew how to decorate one.  As we approached the house, I saw another couple walking up as well.

As we got closer, I looked at them in an effort to figure out if they were in similar holiday cocktail attire.  Upon closer inspection, I realized both of them were wearing jeans.  Pfft!

They were going to look like idiots when they walked in the door and saw everyone else dressed up!  I secretly couldn’t wait to watch them be humiliated.

clinking glasses

We walked in behind the dingy couple and surveyed the room.

WHAT?!  Where was the holiday cocktail attire?  There were people in nice jeans and fancy tops and heels, but no cocktail dresses.  Where was the sexy attire?  Was this a joke?

St. Frick approached me, gave me a hug and told me I looked beautiful.  Yeah, because I was completely overdressed.

What happened to the holiday cocktail sexy attire?” I asked.

He looked at me and smiled and said I looked perfect.

We forged ahead and stayed at the party until we shut it down in the wee hours of the morning.  I decided I wouldn’t let my cocktail dress get in the way of my enjoyment, and I didn’t.

I also wasn’t mad at St. Frick for his explanation of attire.  For a guy who only sees me in sweat pants and ratty t-shirts with no bra, it wasn’t a stretch for him to believe I would dress down for the event.

dogs with Christmas stuffPerhaps he thought my idea of “holiday cocktail” would be what everyone else’s idea was of dressy casual.  I couldn’t blame him.  But next time I get an invitation to one of his parties, I’m wearing Pajama Jeans no matter what he says…

couples on new yearsIt’s a new year and I’m back!  I apologize for my absence, as I’m sure you all found it difficult to go on without my daily updates.  I know I would.

But have no fear, I am back to the world of blogging, and to the world of paying for my own food.  One of those things is a good thing.

I have so much to catch you up on, but I will start with the recent holiday…and no, I’m not talking about Christmas.

I’m talking about New Year’s Eve….the one night a year where it is completely acceptable to get wasted on cheap champagne and wait for the ball to drop.

Actually, this description sounds a lot like every night of my college existence, only the balls we usually saw were those of the homeless man who liked to go through the dumpster behind our sorority house.  We named him Dan.

This year, my husband and I decided to lay low and do something low key for New Year’s Eve.  I suggested getting into our pajamas at 7:00 and watching a marathon of The Big Bang theory.

Who doesn’t love a few nerds on a Saturday night?

Oh, and the characters on the show are funny too.  (Yes, I realize that joke was pathetic, but give me a break…I haven’t written in a week.  I’m rusty and my pants are a bit tighter which adds to my irritability).

champagne glassesMy husband reminded me that watching reruns wouldn’t really differ from any other night, so we decided to do something else. I’m pretty sure that’s a sad reflection of our social calendar, but I’m cool with it because this activity allows me to wear sweatpants.

I would be agreeable to doing nearly anything if allowed to wear sweatpants and a hoodie…I would even watch a bad Adam Sandler movie, which is saying something, as he hasn’t made a funny movie since Happy Gilmore.

Seriously, that guy needs to say goodbye to his acting career…and his hairline.

Fortunately, a few of our favorite couples saved us from a pathetic night on the couch, and they invited us to dinner and then to dessert at one of their houses.  Since I can’t say no when food is involved, we agreed to go.

I realized this would require putting on a bra for the evening (and pants), but my friends were worth it, and so was the chicken Parmesan.

Naturally, I donned my Pajama Jeans for this event.  Nothing rings in the new year quite like drawstring pants with a fake zipper.

Fancy chihuahuaI was ready to party!  I even put in my contacts and threw on some lip gloss…you know…to be fancy.

After running a brush through my hair and throwing a Tide stain removal pen in my purse, Matt and I headed out the door to meet our friends.

We arrived at the restaurant and waited for our reservation all the while rolling our eyes at the uptight hostess who looked like she’d spent too much time with the eyeliner and not enough time with the dental floss.

As we waited we looked around at the other people waiting for their tables and were a bit shocked with what we saw.

Instead of Pajama Jeans and cardigans we saw short skirts and tube tops, and a lot more boobs than I would have liked, although I didn’t hear Matt complain.

Why were these people so dressed up for a night out at Bravo?  I mean, I love lasagna as much as the next girl, okay…a lot more than the next girl, but I don’t find it necessary to dress up for the delicious pasta dish.

Quite the contrary.  I find it best to stuff myself with pasta wearing expandable pants and a long sweater to cover the pasta baby that emerges after my meal.

Seriously, what kind of girl wears a short skirt and a tube top out in public? Everyone knows you can wear one or the other, but not both together.  Geez.  Someone needs to brush up on their Us Weekly magazines.

girl dressed upI realize I could stop that question right there and not go any further, but considering we live in the Midwest where it is literally freezing on New Year’s Eve, this question is even more perplexing.

Did ringing in the new year require slutty clothes and frost bite?

The snotty hostess led us to our table where our friends were already seated.  We sat down and immediately noticed a group of college girls at the table next to us.

They clearly got the memo about the slutty clothes, as they were collectively wearing the equivalent of one yard of fabric…between five of them.

Not only were their outfits tiny, although one of them was anything but tiny, they were also sparkly.  Seriously.

These girls were covered in sequins.  I hadn’t seen that many sequins since my dance recital when I was 7 years old.

Come to think of it, I was pretty sure the clothes these girls were wearing were about the same size as my costume that year, and that was when I was skinny.

They had sequins everywhere…or at least on the few parts of their body where clothing was located.  Their outfits were actually a bit blinding, as were their white thighs.

Srock stareriously.  If you’re going to go out half naked in the dead of winter, do us all a favor and hit up the tanning bed first.

Matt and I asked our friends whether the New Year’s Eve holiday dictated such fancy attire.

They agreed with us that New Year’s Eve isn’t all that fancy, especially when you’re at a restaurant that’s located in the parking lot of a shopping mall.

We spent the remainder of the evening looking at the various “fancy”outfits, and rating them by degree of slutiness.

It wasn’t how we anticipated spending our holiday, but it made for great entertainment, and it kept my mind off the fact that I actually had to pay for my liquor.

We left the restaurant, all of us in our normal clothes, and headed to my friend Sally Albright’s house for dessert.  Not her real name.

We agreed that as long as we celebrated New Year’s Eve together, there would be no pressure to dress up in sparkles and sequins.

In fact, we agreed that next year we will arrive at the restaurant in pajamas and slippers.  Maybe that will even things out.

If not, at least it will make for a comfortable evening.