man stressedI’ve been a bit stressed lately, so in an effort to make me feel better (and to shut me up for an hour), my husband booked a massage for me.

Normally, I love getting a massage, but that’s because it’s usually in conjunction with a day at a full service spa where I get pampered and see how many times I can fart in the hot tub while other people are in it without them noticing.  (Seven.  The answer is seven.)

But this time he didn’t book me a massage at my favorite full service spa.  Instead, he booked both of us massages at a local chain massage parlor.

Now, I can’t fault him too much for this, as he purchased Groupons for 60 minute massages, and he wanted to use them.

I love a deal, and I love a massage, so it appeared to be the perfect combination.  The only thing that would have made it better is if I could eat Nutella during the massage…or a massage with Nutella…

We arrived at the local chain massage parlor approximately 15 minutes before our service.  For purposes of this blog, let’s call it Massage Luxe (because that’s its name).

We were sent to the “lounge” which was basically a room with 4 chairs that didn’t have arms.  So much for comfort and relaxation.  Clearly this location wasn’t interested in pampering me if their chairs required me to hold my arms up.

I wasn’t there for a workout, so where were the arms of the chair?

I didn’t have time to find out, as my masseuse arrived and told me it was time for my massage.  At first I thought he was kidding, as the guy looked as if he was entering the 10th grade and just figured out how to unscramble p0rn on cable.  This guy was going to give me a massage?   Seriously?

Normally, I don’t have a problem with male massage therapists.  Their hands are as good as any, and since I’m “husky,” sometimes I like a guy to get through all my extra “fluff” and get to business.  However, something about this guy just didn’t seem right to me and I immediately got a bad vibe from him.


Then again, it could have been the mixture of Axe cologne and stale cigarettes that gave me that vibe.  I’m not sure what the guy’s name was, but I decided to call him Joel.

We headed to the room and I discovered it was a room usually reserved for couples massages.  He told me he had been in that room all day.  What he had been doing in there remained a mystery, but judging by the look in his eye and the readily available lotion and towels in the room, I didn’t want to ask.

He told me since there were two tables, I could choose which one I wanted…as if I was picking a lollipop flavor instead of one of two identical tables.  He acted like this choice was something he didn’t bestow upon just anyone.

Just as I decided which table I wanted, he told me to go ahead and take the 2nd table.  Really?  This guy wasn’t off to a good start.  And now I wanted a lollipop.

lotionBefore he left the room to allow me to disrobe, I noticed the holster around his waist.  It didn’t hold a gun, nor did it hold a knife or a pair of pliers.  It held a bottle of lotion.  Yes, lotion.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen many masseuses wear a similar holster filled with lotion, but for some reason, it looked out of place on Joel.

It was as if he was going to be challenged to a duel at any minute, and he would have to be quick with the hand and the bottle of lotion to win.

Wait…that sounds like a different kind of duel…

He left the room and I began getting ready for my massage.  Approximately 30 seconds after I left, he knocked on the door and asked if I was ready to begin.

This guy was an eager beaver and needed to chill out.  I hadn’t even removed both of my shoes yet.  My bra?  Yes.  Shoes?  No.

I told him I needed a little more time, which is something he was probably used to hearing from anyone of the female persuasion.  He didn’t seem to be much of a pleaser.

When I was ready, he entered the room and said we would begin the massage.  I took a few deep breaths and got ready for the relaxation to begin.  I focused on the soothing music in the background, but found myself sidetracked by Joel’s hacking and coughing.

He sounded like he was either choking on his own body spray, or he was in the end stages of emphysema.  My guess was it was the generic “Mountain Spring” spray.

Either option didn’t do much for my relaxation or my massage (or my body, which I was pretty sure was covered in a fine layer of germs from his cough).

I decided I couldn’t fault him for being sick, so I decided not to focus on his hacking.  He then began the massage…and it was horrible.  Honestly, horrible doesn’t do it justice.  He started with my right arm, which is a strange place to start.

What was even stranger was he didn’t bother to use any of that handy lotion he had in the holster.  Instead, he went at my right arm with bare, dry hands.  It was awful.

His hands were calloused and dry, and he pushed hard on my upper arm like he was trying to get the last of the toothpaste out of the tube, although judging by his breath, this wasn’t something he did frequently enough.

sad.jpgFor a moment, I felt like I was a kid again, and my brother got the upper hand and was giving me a painful Indian Burn that would result in a sore arm for me and a kick in the crotch for him.

Was I really paying for this?  Was my arm red from the “massage?”

Part of me wondered if this was Joel’s first day on the job, and his first time ever giving a massage before.  I could also tell he had quite the self confidence in his ability to massage, despite the fact I was muffling cries of pain.

I got an instant image of Monica from Friends when she tried to give a massage and she thought she was good but she was horrible at it.  Obviously Joel got his training from watching that episode.  Monica would have been proud.

As he continued down my arm, I realized he had only one level of pressure…and that level was “Ow”.  Most masseuses will ask if the pressure is okay, or what type of pressure you would like. I filled out my form indicating I liked light pressure, not the kind of pressure that would force the blood right out of your arms.

And couldn’t he feel me tensing up?  Obviously not.

My winces were of pain, not pleasure.  If he couldn’t pick up on that, perhaps my comments of “That hurts” or “Sweet Jesus!” could have clued him in.

However, Joel just kept on “massaging” my arm until I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to write for days.  Maybe that was his motivation…he didn’t want me to fill out a comment card.

I got to a point where I couldn’t take it anymore, as I was fearful I wouldn’t physically be able to use my limbs, so I asked him if he could give lighter pressure.  He said yes, and then continued to give the exact same “smash the nerves into your body” pressure he gave previously.

My only relief was when he randomly stopped assaulting me long enough to shuffle around the room to get things, although I’m not sure what things he needed, as it felt like he was just dry humping me with his hands for an hour.

meds.jpgA little dab of lotion would have gone a long way, but I figured he was saving that lotion for his break.

Several times he banged around the room and made me seriously question if he was blind.  That would explain why he wasn’t picking up on the tears of pain streaming down my face.

I didn’t think there were many things to trip over in the room, but judging by the noise as Joel shuffled around, the room was clearly filled with breakable items and symbols.  He sounded like the kid who tries to be quiet sneaking out of the house, but proceeds to knock over the china cabinet.

Only in this case, the china cabinet was a shelf filled with oils, and I was the one who wanted to sneak out.

After what felt like three hours of water boarding, he leaned over and gently whispered in my ear that we were out of time…as if that was a bad thing.  As if I didn’t just endure an hour of complete torture.

I was prepared to tell him my PIN to my bank account and the location of the extra cash I keep hidden in the house, just to make him stop the torture.  This kid shouldn’t be employed with Massage Luxe.

water bottleInstead, the government should use him on recognizance missions to get the enemy to talk.  I know I would have said anything to make that torture end.  And I did.

When he asked me how I felt, I said “Great,” which I guess was somewhat true, as I was just glad it was over.

After he left the room, I slowly put my clothes back on, careful not to touch my skin, as I was confident it was covered in bruises.  When I opened the door, there he was, holding a mini water bottle, accompanied by his pride at a job well done.

I walked through the building gingerly, looking like I was just in a fight instead of an hour long massage.  My body hurt, but I was thankful it was finally over.

When I got to the car I immediately got on the phone and called my regular masseuse at my favorite full service spa.  Matt asked me what I was doing and I told him I was making an emergency appointment.  I needed to get a massage to get rid of all the tension in my body…


After attending two parties at Mardi Gras, (and committing a few small misdemeanors and a potential felony), The Nudist and I decided it was time to meet my husband and our friends at “the big party.”

That’s not really the name of the party, but since none of us were creative enough, or sober enough, to call it anything else, that’s the name that stuck.

Somehow, I managed to get an invitation to this amazing party thrown by a friend of mine.  He and three other guys throw a huge party for Mardi Gras every year with free liquor and free food.

wrist bandIt’s a highly coveted party, and somehow, I managed to snag the invitation.  Probably because he knows about my VIP status and that I’m super important.  The party required color coded wrist bands, which I picked up the night before the event.

So The Nudist and I headed to the big party with our wristbands and our drinking shoes on (and by “drinking shoes” I meant my orthopedic shoes that alleviate foot pain, and The Nudist meant adorable boots with a heel).

We arrived at the big party, which was held in a huge warehouse.  As we approached, we were stopped by a bodyguard who demanded to see our wristbands.  We both held up our wrists to demonstrate we were actually on the guest list.

He seemed disappointed to let us in, and I asked why he was so upset.  He said “I was hoping neither of you had wrist bands so I could ask you to show me your boobs to get in.”

What?!  I could have just shown this guy my boobs to get in?  That would have saved me the hassle of the night before of driving all over town to pick up wrist bands.  Who knew?

But I figured that guy was being nice, and he really only wanted to see The Nudist’s boobs, and not mine.  Somehow, I had a feeling the extra support bra I was wearing wasn’t the look he was going for, although it might bring back memories of his grandma.

After consoling the bodyguard, and pointing out several other women showing their breasts, we headed to the party.  We passed the smell of urine and vomit, and realized we were close to the portable potties, which were located just outside the warehouse.

There were lines for each of the units, and judging by the people standing in line, there was lots of alcohol being served inside.

We stepped inside the party and noticed the bar was immediately to our right.  Because The Nudist and I didn’t want to offend our host, we immediately headed to the bar for a (free) drink.  When it was my turn at the bar, I ordered my drink, and glanced up at the woman taking my order.

waitress with padWhat was particularly noticeable about this woman wasn’t so much her pretty eyes, or her snaggle tooth, but the fact that she was topless.  Yes, topless.

I looked around at the 8-10 other bartenders and noticed the same thing…they were all topless…and the “bottoms” they were wearing barely covered their naughty spots.

These women were practically naked!  And I had a feeling these women gave a new meaning to the order of a “slippery nipple.”

Although they were barely dressed, their breasts were covered in body paint.  However, as I discovered watching these bartenders move briskly around the bar area, body paint may physically cover up the skin of the breast, but it doesn’t…ahem…provide any kind of support.

These women were running around the bar, their painted breasts flapping in the wind, and their self respect lost somewhere in the shuffle.

Because I’m not a prude, (and because I like free drinks), I took my drink from one of the topless women and proceeded away from the bar area.  I received a text from my husband that he was upstairs with our friends, so The Nudist and I headed there.

We passed a live band playing an unrecognizable tune,  but were simply relieved they were clothed.  Judging by the gut on the drummer, that was one naked chest I didn’t want to see.

thumbs upWe headed upstairs and noticed people everywhere.  This was clearly where the bulk of the party was happening (they obviously knew I would be there).  I saw my husband and made eye contact with him.

He ran over to me looking like a kid at Christmas.  He gave me a hug and kiss, and told me I was the best wife ever.  Well duh, I knew that already, but why was I the best wife ever?  Obviously he was happy about the topless painted bartenders.  I’m so cool.

We headed over to the spot where our friends were located, and then I saw it…the reason my husband thought I was the best wife ever…the reason why everyone was upstairs…the reason there was glitter randomly strewn about…there were naked strippers.

And not just any strippers, attractive strippers.  This wasn’t the B-team.  These women had pretty faces, as if any of the men in the room were looking at their faces.

They were high class strippers, if there is such a thing, and if you call walking around naked in a room of several hundred people high class.  But these women looked pretty good.

Stretch marks, saggy boobs and c-section scars were nowhere to be found on these strippersm although I had a feeling there were lots of these findings on the patrons in the audience.

Because I’m a super cool wife, this kind of stuff just doesn’t bother me.  I’m not sure if it should, but it doesn’t.  I didn’t feel threatened or uncomfortable so I embraced the strippers.  Not literally, as there isn’t enough Purell in the world to make that happen.

I stood back and enjoyed the show.  And what a show was it!  These women were quite talented performers.  From flexibility to stamina, these women were in shape.


I considered asking them who their personal trainer was, although judging by their skinny bodies and high energy, I figured their workout regimen included crystal meth, Mt.Dew, and cardio of the horizontal nature.

As we stood there, contemplating which women weren’t hugged by their fathers enough, and which ones were hugged too much, we noticed the strippers were dancing on a stage.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a revelation, as a stage and a pole are staple requirements for strippers, much like a toolbox and saw for plumbers, or deceit and hidden flasks of liquor for lawyers.

Or maybe that’s just me?

What was strange about this realization is that this was an old warehouse, and we were pretty sure the building didn’t come equipped with a stage and stripper pole, although if it did, we had a feeling there would be an influx of job applicants to do warehouse work.

Rather, my friend and his friends clearly had the stage constructed just for this event. Can you imagine being the contractor to get the call for that job?

man cleaningThe stage was actually constructed quite well, with a sturdy pole and linoleum for easy clean up.

We knew it was easy to clean, because there was a dorky guy constantly on his hands and knees fiercely wiping the floor with paper towels.  We decided this guy’s name was Herman, and he was clearly a stickler cleanliness.

The knees of his jeans were stained with whatever substance was so regularly spilling on the floor, and we worried Herman was going to tear a rotator cuff the way he was rapidly scrubbing the stage.

What was funniest about Herman (aside from the irony of the fact we were sure he’d never actually touched a woman), was that he didn’t seem to care if his cleanup was required while the girls were dancing.  That wasn’t of concern to Herman.

So the girls would be on stage, dancing and accepting money with various body parts, while Herman would be on the other side of the stage, a few feet away, rapidly scrubbing the floor, his sweat adding to the combination of fluids on stage.

I would like to say we ignored Herman and watched the show, but we found ourselves drawn to Herman.

How did he get that job?  Was he getting paid?  Or was he just some random guy in the audience who was handy with a paper towel and some elbow grease?  We secretly hoped for the latter.

At one point, women from the audience got on stage to strip.  One woman, who was probably in her early 20s, got on stage and immediately removed her top and bra (you know…as you do when you’re within a foot of a stripper pole).  She began swinging around the pole in her jeans, caressing it as if she had known it forever.

She was a natural.  After a few swings on the pole, she took a bow and headed off stage.  A few minutes later I received a tap on my shoulder, and looked over to find the amateur stripper on the other end of the finger tap.  She looked me straight in the eye and said “Have you seen my bra?”

I considered telling her that her bra was probably nowhere to be found…much like her pride and self worth, but instead, I told her the last time I saw her bra was when she was swinging it above her head while pretending to ride and smack an imaginary horse.

She continued on in the crowd looking for her A-cup bra that was most certainly stuffed in Herman’s pocket.


We stayed for several hours, observing the entertainment, chatting, and just having a good time.  Perhaps what was funniest about the entire thing (aside from Herman’s dedication to cleanliness), was that most people didn’t seem to notice there were naked women walking around and sometimes dancing on stage.

It was as if that was a completely normal occurrence, like brushing your teeth or eating while working out.  Do you guys not do that?

And what was even more perplexing to us was the fact that there were a couple hundred people downstairs on the main floor dancing to the band and just hanging out.

Why wouldn’t they be upstairs watching the strippers and observing local women with low self esteem get on stage and lose their bras?  What was wrong with those people?

hands and pizza

We got a cab back to The Nudist’s place, stuffed our faces with approximately a dozen frozen pizzas from California Pizza Kitchen, and then called a sober friend to pick us up and take us home.

We also wondered how it was that a single woman had enough frozen CPK pizzas in her fridge to feed a group of hungry drunk people.  That’s another blog for another day. At around 7:00, when we had been there for 5 hours, I decided it was time to go home.

The rest of my friends weren’t as convinced it was time to go, but I reminded them I could be quite annoying if I didn’t get my way.

They conceded, mostly because they figured the negative effects of my wrath far outweighed the positive effects of naked women.  It was a sound decision on their part.

On the ride home we discussed the day and the various parties we attended.  We all agreed that “the big party” was the best one, and we had a great time.  Then we got out our calendars, marked the date for Mardi Gras 2013, and began the countdown for next year.  Only 364 more days…


***Now that you’ve read this post, go back to the photos in this post and you will see the stripper pole in the background of both photos.***



mardi gras maskAfter we left the wrong house, and successfully convinced the homeowners not to press charges for breaking and entering, we walked to the front and were once again greeted by the crazy hopscotch lady.  And by “greeted” I mean “assaulted.”

The Nudist and I decided we would take a chance and ask her for directions to the address we were looking for.  We hoped that our question about directions would divert her away from the fact that she never successfully forced us to play hopscotch.

I showed her the address and she grabbed the paper out of my hand, as if it had the secret to life on it, or maybe just the ending to the last Harry Potter book.  Seriously, who dies?

now!She stared at the address and then told us to go down the street, to the left, and down the alley.  Simple enough.  A normal person would have said thank you, held onto her purse tightly, and walked away.  But of course, I’m not a normal person.  Regular?  Yes.  Normal?  No.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fresh smell of urine from the street corner; but whatever the reason, I decided it would be a good idea before we left to make a joke to the crazy lady…the crazy lady who tried to force us to play hopscotch…the crazy lady who I was partially sure was attempting to hatch babies in her basement at that exact moment.

I looked at her and said “You aren’t sending us down a dark alley so you can rob us and have your way with us are you?”

I know.  I’m an idiot.  She looked at me as if I was the crazy one, and not her, who was sporting knee highs and a dress that any young Pilgrim would have envied.

The Nudist slowly began backing away from me, no doubt to avoid the splatter of brain matter that would inevitably occur when my skull was bashed open by the hopscotch enthusiast.

The crazy hopscotch lady looked at me with anger in her eyes, although it could have been a reaction from the chalk dust. She said “Clearly you don’t live in the city.”  What?!  I don’t, but that has nothing to do with my question.

I was trying to make a joke.  A bad joke, yes, but a joke nonetheless.  I was trying to make her laugh, and she didn’t seem like she would respond well to the chicken crossing the road stories that are so hilarious.

I wanted to respond sarcastically that I thought we were going to be robbed in the middle of the day among hundreds of thousands of people.  And even if we were robbed, it wasn’t like we had anything of value with us anyway, unless she counted my purse full of binging food for drunken snacking.

Seriously lady?  Get it together.

streetsSince there was no way to recover from the bad joke and the crazy hopscotch lady’s anger, we retreated quickly down the alley, hoping for the comfort of a mugging to make us feel more alive.

Fortunately, we arrived at our friend Ore Ida’s house (not her real name), without any further difficulty or illegal trespassing.  We found her in the basement with her husband, making gallons of hurricanes…just like a good host does.

This is one of the reasons I love her so much…she knows how to make a mixed drink.

I watched her pour 2 bottles of liquor into the concoction and immediately poured myself a glass of delicious goodness.  I wanted to drink some of it before it disappeared, and I also wanted to take the edge off after the hopscotch debacle.

We slammed a drink or two and then headed down to the parade to observe the drunk mayhem.  On the way to the parade we were propositioned to show our boobs for what appeared to be a half eaten sucker and Mardi Gras beads that had been making the rounds since I was in diapers and not just a few weeks ago when I had the stomach flu.

We kept walking, declining the invitation to flash a couple thousand people on a street corner.  Ore Ida advised that the woman asking to see boobs was an equal opportunity offender, and frequently asked to see penises as well.

Sure enough, we heard her proposition some young guys to show their genitalia in return for some beads and a glimpse at the old woman’s cleavage.  They too, declined, much to our chagrin.

beadsAfter the parade we headed to the next party on our list. The list that was scrutinized by the crazy hopscotch lady, and was partially covered in chalk…and most likely a spell she’d cast.

I wasn’t sure where the next location was, but a friend of mine at Ore Ida’s place had already been to the second party, so she walked there with us.  As we walked, I pointed to a building down the street, and reminisced about a Mardi Gras from days past, where my friends and I snuck into an awesome party undetected.

Somehow, we managed to sneak into an amazing party a few years ago that had covered areas in the backyard and a heated tent filled with food and bottles of liquor.  Part of me wondered if that actually happened or if it was a dream, but the photos from that day confirmed we successfully penetrated the party.

The photos also confirmed that I don’t look good without a bra….and that whiskey makes me dance…and the combination of the two is less than attractive.

As I spoke about the amazing party from a couple years back, we approached the second party.  As I walked up, I noticed the covered areas in the backyard and the heated tent filled with food and bottles of liquor….wait a minute….OMG!

The second party was the party I crashed a few years back!  Memories of gyrating to Elton John came flooding back, and I secretly wondered if the homeowners ever got the smell of my farts out of their sofa.  If experience is any indicator, chances are they didn’t.

We approached the front door and were met by a police officer, who asked if our names were on the list for the party.  Clearly the homeowners got smart and decided to have security to keep out the riff raff, which in this scenario, would be me.  Fortunately, I now know the homeowners, and my name was on the list.

copThe cop gave us wrist bands and granted us entrance to the party but only after commenting on The Nudist’s appearance and failing miserably at an attempt to get her number.

We found one of the homeowners almost immediately, and he gave us a tour of the house.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him I knew his house quite well, especially the cold tile in the bathroom on the second floor.  It hugged my face in just the right way.

He walked us around the house and took us to the backyard where the fabulous party was in full swing.  I looked around and confirmed that this was the location of my prior trespassing at a previous Mardi Gras.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I seem to have a trend of entering homes uninvited each year of Mardi Gras….

sending textWe stayed for a while until I got a text from my husband asking me where I was.  I told him I was at the second party, and he should join us, but he said he wanted to go to “the big party.”  I told him to head there and we would be there shortly.

We said our goodbyes and left the second party to head to “the big party” to meet my husband and our other friends.  I knew the party would be big (hence the clever name).

I knew the party would be a bit crazy.  But I had no idea just how crazy, and awesome, the party would be, although I was about to find out…


mardi+gras1.jpgI’ve lost my mind…or at least my calendar denoting the proper year.  For some strange reason, this year I forgot I was 31 years old, married, and not accustomed to partying all day and night.

Drinking vodka out of a sippy cup all day while I clean the house and do my taxes?  Yes.  Party all day and night with more hip people than me?  No.

So this year, for some strange reason, I decided it would be an excellent idea to attend the Mardi Gras festivities in St. Louis.  I think the “strange reason” may or may not have been liquor induced, but whatever.

St. Louis Mardi Gras Nuts, right?

St. Louis Mardi Gras
Nuts, right?

For those of you who live in a more glamorous portion of the world than the armpit of America, let me tell you that St .Louis has the second largest Mardi Gras party in the world.

Second only to New Orleans, and we can’t outdo them…yet.

The St. Louis Mardi Gras festivities are ridiculous and hundreds of thousands of people flock to the historic Soulard area of St. Louis to drink, dine, and then vomit in the streets.

It’s a St. Louis tradition and one I never missed when I was single.  Doesn’t that explanation sell itself?

I’ve sat out the last few years of Mardi Gras for several reasons, but mostly because I like to do my drinking in a civilized manner; one that involves Bailey’s in my coffee and rum in my morning Diet Coke.  I’m classy that way.

But this year I got invitations to a handful of parties that I couldn’t say no to.  I decided to gather my posse and head down to Soulard for yet another year of embarrassment.

multi coloredI called my friend The Nudist, (not her real name).  She is a single girl who knows how to have a good time and can party all day, then stuff her face with poor food choices all night.

In that aspect, we are soul mates.

The difference is that I couldn’t fit one thigh into her tiny jeans.  I want to hate her but her ability to keep up with me drink-for-drink is just too impressive and I can’t turn her away.

When I called The Nudist a few days before Mardi Gras, she sounded like death and told me she had the flu and wasn’t sure she could make it.  I reminded her to stop being so selfish.

It was not an option for her not to attend, as I needed her support for the party.  And by “support” I literally meant support…as she would most likely have to hold me up at sometime during the festivities either due to an injury, intoxication, or both.

Since she’s a true party girl, she agreed to go to Mardi Gras with me, despite her flu.  I also think the emails I sent threatening to raid her stash of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies if she didn’t go with me may have had something to do with her commitment.  I’m not afraid to blackmail.  I’m just not above it.

I called Pajama Jeans and her husband, The Funniest Man Alive (not their real names), and they agreed to the festivities as well.  I also realized I needed to ask my husband if he wanted to attend, just so I would be p.c. on the issue.  He agreed.

feathers for maskI had my posse and I wanted to keep it small so we could keep track of each other.  Mardi Gras is not for amateurs.

With the large number of people in such a small area of the city at once, cell phones never work during Mardi Gras due to the overload on the cell towers (or something technical like that).

You need to have a small group to keep track of, or you will have to locate your friends the way our parents used to….by utilizing human contact.  Not good.

Secretly, I think they turn off the cell towers on purpose in an effort to prevent embarrassing texts and calls involving boobs and booze.  They wouldn’t be wrong if that was the reason.

The morning of Mardi Gras I checked in with The Nudist, who confirmed she was ready to hit the streets.  I headed to her condo to get the party started.

When I arrived, she greeted me at the door with a hangar full of Mardi Gras beads, arranged by color and length.

She offered me beads, and I took the most appropriate ones.  They were colored beads and every 10 beads or so there was a figurine of two pigs doing it.  Classy.  I was ready.

green feather mardi gras maskWe walked down the street to the local French Cafe we love.  We knew if we were going to rock it out all day and night, we needed to get some food in our bellies.

I also knew if I was going to vomit later, I’d rather vomit up a quiche Loraine than a donut from the gas station.

After all, I had an image to uphold.

We ate our breakfast and headed outside to catch a shuttle to Soulard.  The bus arrived, and a woman who couldn’t have been a day under 90 was in the driver’s seat.  This was the woman driving a shuttle bus?

I checked the side of the bus and realized this wasn’t the classiest of operations.  There was a sign taped to the outside of the bus that had “Mardi Gras Shuttle” written in block lettering.

Either she wrote it, or her 3 year old grandson did.  I suspected their penmanship was comparable.

She asked to see our wristbands and we told her we didn’t have wristbands for the shuttle.  “Oh dear,” the woman said, as she gasped for oxygen and the sweet sight of death.

girls on busShe told us we could pay and ride the shuttle, but she didn’t know how we were going to get back on the shuttle without a wristband.  Then she came up with a genius idea.

She said she would write her initials on our hands, and tell the bus driver that night that “Carol said it was okay” to ride the shuttle.

Yeah. That sounded totally legit.  I’m sure the convict on parole that is driving a nighttime Mardi Gras shuttle bus is going to know Carol and be totally okay with giving us a ride back.

Since we knew she had to have been on her last prosthetic leg of life, we agreed to the plan, and Carol took out a pen and wrote “CW” on both of our hands.

I wanted to ask her if she had any updates on the most recent episode of Gossip Girl, but I had a feeling she wouldn’t understand that her initials were the same as a television network geared toward 14 year old girls (and this blogger).

We arrived at the first party location, and immediately high-fived each other for being so directionally astute among hundreds of thousands of drunk idiots.  We obviously were going to have a great day.

We walked up to the house and noticed there was a golden retriever out front.

We commented to each other that we didn’t remember our friends getting a golden retriever, but obviously we were mistaken.  It happens every now and again….Don’t tell my husband.

We walked in the house, greeting everyone with a loud “hello” and my standard greeting of “what’s up bitches?” yelled in a high pitched voice.  A sea of strangers looked back at us.

Obviously this party was bigger than we thought.We arrived at Mardi Gras and exited the bus.  We headed directly to our first party and started walking.  Since we couldn’t use our phones we couldn’t use GPS or Map quest.

Rather, we were left to our own devices, which included a Tootsie Pop, Immodium AD capsules, and a sliver of common sense.

It was a long walk.  Somehow, we made it to the first party in tact.  As we arrived, a woman in a long dress demanded we play hopscotch on the sidewalk where she drew a hopscotch area.

Since we aren’t 6 years old, we declined.  Fortunately, 3 drunk people approached and we were able to escape before she assaulted us further and attempted to eat our hair. (She just looked like that type.)

And then I looked around.  It was like slow motion.  I saw a child’s bike, kids’ shoes and framed school pictures.  Nowhere did I see the regular Mardi Gras tools like beer bongs and puke bags.

We realized at the same time our grave error.  We went to the wrong house!  We turned around as gracefully as we could, and walked out the door.

I considered grabbing a beer for the road, but was afraid the hopscotch lady would take me hostage, so I ditched the beer and hit the street.  If this was a sign of how our day and night were going to go, we knew we were going to be in trouble.

If only we knew what was in store for us in a few short hours….


woman with towel

Yesterday I returned to the most dreaded place on Earth.  No, it wasn’t the return counter at Walmart, although the smell of body odor in that line rivals that of any high school locker room.

I returned to the gym.  I wasn’t happy about it, but since I’ve recovered from the worst stomach flu ever, I decided it was time to get back to the gym.

Obviously I love torturing myself, but that’s a different blog for a different day, and several sessions of therapy with a licensed professional.

Because I hate the gym more than anything in the world (even more than PT Cruisers, which is really saying something), I knew I needed back up to go to the gym.  I also needed company.

I can’t be expected to work out without gossiping.  What’s the point in that?  It would be like eating fries without ketchup, or drinking soda without liquor.  Unacceptable.

So I called the one person I could count on who hates working out as much as I do…Downtown Christy Brown (not her real name).

DTCB started a new diet recently and she is dropping weight like I drop…well, like how I drop pretty much anything I hold.

She looks great and I secretly want to punch her in her ever slimming gut, but I refrain, because she’s one of my best friends, and I’m a really good friend that way.

So when I told her I wanted to return to the gym, she was happy to join me, probably because she wanted to show off her slim figure and show me up with her lack of love handles.

She said she would pick me up, which I figured was her way of ensuring I didn’t back out with an excuse of a strained hypothalamus or an overactive endocrine system.

DTCB is a smart girl, and she knows me very well.

She showed up at my house, perky as ever, and ready to get her sweat on.  I wasn’t ready to go, as I was in denial about what I was about to do.  It took me some time to locate my workout clothes, but I found them in the spare bedroom where they were insulating the windows there.

Yeah, I hope DTCB will pay my increased heating bill now that I have less insulation in that room.  She clearly hates the environment.

cute hamsterI put on my clothes, and sadly, worked up a bit of a sweat at the exertion.  This trip to the gym was going to be brutal.

I grabbed my water bottle and considered filling it with vodka, but didn’t want to be known as the drunk at the gym.  Not just yet anyway.  Those people would learn in time.

We headed out the door and I realized that DTCB was really just bluffing about her excitement for the gym.  She didn’t want to go any more than I did.

It was at that moment I remembered why we were friends.  It was our hatred of working out, and our love of The Carpenters.

DTCB pulled out of my driveway ever so slowly, and cruised down the street at a snail’s pace.  I could tell she was waiting for me to tell her to turn around and take me back home, but my belly rolls reminded me I needed to go.

We arrived at the gym and drove around until we found a parking place close to the door.  If we were going to work out when we got inside, we definitely didn’t want to overdo it in the parking lot.

We headed inside and went to the cardio machines, or as I like to call them, the torture chambers.

We looked at each other and tried to decide which machine to use to get our workout on.  We looked around and saw two bikes next to each other that were available.

I looked at DTCB and she said “I don’t want to work out, but if we use the bikes, we can sit down.”  Yet another reason we are lifelong friends.

workout bikesWe mounted the bikes and began pedaling.  Within 30 seconds our thighs were burning and we realized this wasn’t as easy as we hoped it would be.  We lasted 5 minutes before bailing on the bikes.

That was some kind of torture we wanted no part of.  We headed to the back of the room and found two elliptical machines next to each other.

We started using those machines and felt the burn in our legs as well.  Was it too much to ask for a workout machine that didn’t hurt any of our body parts and didn’t increase our heart rate?  This gym just didn’t know how to accommodate our needs.

We continued on the machines, as they were the only two machines next to each other, and we knew we couldn’t work out on our own.  We noticed an in shape woman in front of us running on the treadmill.

workout chickShe was tiny and adorable and we immediately hated her.  We watched her bounce on the machine, blissfully unaware that two overweight chicks were behind her, cussing at her, sweating profusely, and cursing her perfectly toned calves.

Although we were miserable, we took comfort mocking her and her neon pink running shoes.

Seriously chick? You don’t get enough attention with your bronze tan in February and your fake boobs?  You need neon shoes as well?  Slam another power drink and get over yourself sister.

In addition to watching “that girl” at the gym rock it out on the treadmill, we also kept our eyes peeled for our personal trainer, Marbi (not his real name).

DTCB and I hadn’t been to the gym for a while, and we knew if Marbi saw us, he would want to know when we were coming back to training.

He would also want to know how I managed to gain another 10 pounds over the holidays, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with whatever excuse I concocted at the moment. We knew we needed to avoid him at all costs.

We finished our workouts without running into Marbi, so we headed to the weight machines to do weights.  Cuz we’re overachievers and stuff.  As soon as we walked into the weight area, we saw him.

Okay, I didn’t so much walk as shuffle my numb legs.  He saw us and our eyes locked.  I was busted and didn’t know how to handle it.  So I did what any professional adult would have done in that situation.  I smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

We proceeded to the machines, knowing the weight of Marbi’s stare was upon us and the extra pounds from the pasta we ate the night before.  We tried to use a few of the machines, but DTCB is not so good with mechanical things, and we ended up leaving because we were afraid she would break something and they would make us pay for it.

And if someone tries to use the oblique machine at our gym…it was DEFINITELY broken when we got to it…

We headed to her car, proud of ourselves for our workout.  Maybe it wasn’t that bad.  Maybe we could get back into working out regularly.  We agreed to give it a try.  We also agreed that “working out regularly” means once every two months.

dogsI have the stomach flu and it sucks.  Anyone who stands within 10 feet of me knows I’m sick, either by the color of my face, or the mixture of smells emanating from my body.  I was scheduled to go to Florida for a girls’ trip, but had to cancel because of the flu.

Needless to say I’m not a happy camper.

And what in the world does that expression mean?  Is there such a thing as a happy camper?  I can’t imagine there is, as there’s no air conditioning or cable.  If I’m ever camping, I can assure you I won’t be a happy camper.

Tonight my husband went to a movie screening, as he lives a fabulous life as a movie critic.  Since I was supposed to be in fabulous Florida this evening, he already made dinner plans and left me on my own.  He’s so inconsiderate isn’t he?

I decided that if I’m sick and my body isn’t going to absorb any of the calories I ingest anyway, I might as well eat something delicious and fatty for dinner.  Naturally, I thought of Hardee’s.

Back Camera

Our sweet, clueless, Max

Because I’m far too lazy to eat my Hardee’s meal at the restaurant, I decided to go through the drive thru for dinner.  As if eating Hardee’s isn’t a dumb enough decision, I decided to make it exponentially dumber….I decided to take all 3 of my dogs with me in the car.

Clearly, in addition to losing control of my bowels, I’d also lost control of my senses as well.

I had a thought process behind this madness, I promise.  I figured there was no way I could take all 3 dogs on a walk, but they were wound up and needed to get rid of some pent up energy.  I figured a ride in the car would be a good way to get them out of the house, and would require no work on my part.  Obviously, I was delusional.

I got out the leashes and emphasized to the dogs that we were going for a ride only, and not a walk, as if their brains understood anything other than “Treat” and “Let’s hump whomever walks in the front door.”

My apologies to the AT&T U-verse salesmen.  I still don’t think he’s recovered from that gang bang.

I leashed them up and attempted to walk out the front door with all 3 dogs on leashes.  Not so much.  The dogs managed to wrap themselves around me and I practically fell out the front door.

Fortunately Shady Jack caught my fall and I avoided what would certainly be an embarrassing evening in the ER.

Miraculously, the dogs seemed to understand we were going to the car and not for a walk.  They pulled to the car and jumped in, excited about the trip.

Okay.  This was going to be easier than I expected.  I got in and started the car.  Bentley is my personal body guard, so he jumped on my lap to protect me from any dangers the road may provide.

Shady Jack jumped in the passenger seat, his tail wagging and his nose sniffing out the wrappers of 5 different power bars on the floor (and by “power bars” I mean Twix and M&Ms).

Max was too dumb to know what was going on, so he sat in the back seat and licked his crotch.

I pulled out of the driveway, wondering how successful this trip would be, and if I would return with all 3 dogs.  I wasn’t so sure.

As we headed down the road, the car started dinging a reminder to put on my seat belt.  I may be a rebel on some things, but I always wear my seat belt.  I looked down at the message board on my vehicle and it told me my passenger needed to put on a seat belt.

Obviously my car didn’t know that my passenger was a 60 pound pit/lab mix with a bad case of farts and a dislike for safety.

Shady Jack

Shady Jack is a happy dog

I continued to drive and tried to ignore the dinging, which only made it seem louder and more annoying.  The same thing occurs when I try to tune out any of Michael Bolton’s music.

Shady Jack obviously didn’t like the dinging either, as he became quite fidgety and wouldn’t sit still.  I decided the best way to get him to lay down in the seat was to turn on the seat warmer for him.

I turned it on high and watched his reaction, hoping the heat would calm him down.  The result was certainly interesting.

Instead of laying down on the warm seat and absorbing the heat, he continually lifted his paws as if he was standing on a hot seat.

This is not to be confused with sitting in the hot seat, which is what my husband will be doing when he gets home from his dinner and movie plans.

I pulled up to the drive thru to place my order.  When I rolled down my window, Bentley immediately barked at the screen and attempted to bite the voice coming from the speaker.

Obviously I was under attack.

Shady Jack also seemed intrigued by the sounds coming from outside, and took time away from his game of hot potato to get a closer look.

Max was unaffected and continued to groom himself.

I placed my order and drove around to pay.  When I pulled up, I handed the woman my credit card, careful to only allow enough room for my hand to slide through the window opening, as I didn’t want my five pound Yorkie to bite the employee’s hand off.

And then I realized my error, and no, it wasn’t my decision to have 3 dogs.  I realized I had no idea what I was going to do with a bag full of food.  Where was I going to put it in a car full of dogs?

The employee handed me my order while casually trying to snap a photo of me with her phone, as I’m sure she was planning on passing my picture around the break room as a “do not serve this customer” precaution.

I grabbed the bag of goodness and immediately shoved it under the driver’s seat…as if three dogs wouldn’t be able to smell a bag of steaming hot carbs.  Well…two of them could smell it.  Max seemed unaffected and looked blankly out the window.

I drove away, trying to keep Bentley on my lap and Shady Jack on his hot seat and away from my dinner.   Max rediscovered his crotch and resumed licking.

When we arrived home I realized I had yet another dilemma.  How was I going to get three dogs, my purse, a drink, and my bag of food out of the car without injuring myself or losing an animal?

Back Camera

Bentley is my body guard.

Clearly I didn’t think this trip through.  I decided I could do it all in one trip, as clearly I’m delusional with sickness.  I opened the door and Bentley fell out of the car, landing on his back.

I panicked and reached down to help him, at which time Shady Jack jumped over my body and exited the vehicle.  Fortunately his leash was stuck on the seat, so he was jolted back to the vehicle when the leash fully extended.

I unwrapped myself from his leash, grabbed Bentley’s leash, and exited the car, my bag of dinner in hand.  Hey, I had priorities.

Fortunately, Max didn’t seem to notice the car had stopped, or that 3 of the passengers had exited the vehicle, so I had some extra time to get him.

I set the bag of goods down on my front lawn and went to the back seat to free Max from the prison he was unaware he was in.  For some reason I couldn’t get the door unlocked, and the other two dogs pulled at their leashes, which were loosely wrapped around my right hand.

I finally opened the door to let Max out, at which time Shady Jack jumped into the back seat.  Obviously he was ready for another ride to a fast food joint. (Soon buddy, a milk shake was definitely in my future.)

I coaxed Max and Shady Jack out of the car, all the while keeping a hold on Bentley and a close eye on my bag of food, sitting helplessly on the lawn.  We walked up the steps to the front door and I fumbled with the keys.

I finally found the right one and put it in the door only to discover the door wasn’t locked at all.  Perfect.  Someone probably robbed my house while I was gone.  Whatever.  At least I would die with a full stomach.

It took two additional trips to bring in my drink, food, purse and phone.  As I made the third trip inside the house with my phone, I realized the dogs didn’t seem worn out from the ride at all, although I was positively exhausted.

I headed to the dining room and sat down to eat my dinner.  I pulled the food out of the bag and discovered they gave me the wrong order.  Seriously?!

Because I knew I wouldn’t survive a return trip to Hardee’s, and because I was sure my photo was already printed and hanging in the break room, I decided to eat whatever was in the bag and not take the food back.

Although it wasn’t the cheeseburger and fries I ordered, the sausage biscuits and gravy weren’t too bad….and just as predicted, my dinner ended the same way…with a trip to the restroom.

Cliches that make no senseI hate cliches, which is interesting considering I’m sure I fit perfectly into a cliche somewhere.  Unless a cliche is small like an airplane seat.  Then I definitely don’t fit into one of those comfortably.

Why do people use cliches and what do they mean?  No worries, this isn’t going to be a philosophical post (whew!).

I just got to thinking about some of the common cliches I know and when I stopped to think about them, they made no sense; just like George W. and his attempt at cliches, which is ironic  “You can’t fool a fool man” now can you?.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions”

girl on roadWait?  The road to hell is paved?

I assumed it would be a dusty path with fire breathing dragons, people wearing Teva sandals, and the musical stylings of Mariah Carey blaring in the background.  Get over yourself.  You’re not that attractive.

And who cares what it’s paved with?  I’m sure that someone going to hell would probably just be glad the road is paved and not filled with broken beer bottles and vomit.  Ahh…college was fun, wasn’t it?

And how does someone know about the road to hell?  Did they come back from hell to tell us about it?  If so, my guess is that person is Kate Gosseln.  I don’t trust anyone with a hair style that could double as an assault weapon.

I’m  pretty sure if someone went to hell and came back, I wouldn’t believe what they said about the road there and back.  Um, they’re liars.  One of the many reasons they went to hell….

“A penny for your thoughts”

coinsReally?  Someone is paying for my thoughts?  Because I’ve noticed that isn’t the case.

I write a free blog that my mom and her 2 retired friends read, and so far all I’ve gotten in return is a birthday card and an uneven knitted sweater with one really long sleeve.

I want a penny for my thoughts, because I have a lot of thoughts, and that new cappuccino machine isn’t going to buy itself.

So if someone is giving out a penny for thoughts, send them my way, because I have a lot of things to say, and that cliche says nothing about if the thoughts need to be good…or logical….or politically correct.  Cha-ching!

“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar”


Yes, I know these are bees, but it’s the best I could do for “honey.”

Why would I want to catch flies?  Seriously.  Why?

Unless I’m Pig Pen or Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid, I’m pretty sure I don’t want anything to do with flies.  So I will be sure to keep that bottle of vinegar close and put the honey away for another day.

Who am I kidding?  Give me that honey.  I’ll put it on my toast.

And how do we know this?  Have there been scientific studies to support this?  And if so, why is the government spending our money on studies to figure out how to catch flies most effectively?

Give me a little more on my tax return and cease the study of the flies and honey.

And seriously, pass the honey.  I want to dip my chips in it.

“You can’t have your cake and eat it too”

wedding cake

I would eat the crap out of this.

Wanna bet?  I have my cake and eat it all the time.  Sometimes numerous pieces in one sitting. Check out my large ass for evidence of this feat.

I had no idea this was such an impossible task. I’ve been having cake and eating it for years without any difficulty.

And why in the world would I want to have cake and not eat it?  What’s the point in that?  To be honest, if I can’t eat cake, I don’t want to have it in my possession; torturing me with its icing and sugar filled goodness.

So unless someone knows something I don’t, you absolutely can have your cake and eat it too.

Of course, you can’t have my cake.  I will cut you if you try to take it.

Perhaps the saying should be “You can’t have your cake and sit and stare at it without eating it.”  Now that’s an impossible feat.

“It’s just like riding a bike”

tricycleI have no idea what I’m supposed to take away from this.  Life is like riding a bike?  Other things are like riding a bike?

Can someone tell me what those other things are so I don’t do them?  I don’t want to feel my thighs burn and heart beat out of my chest.  That’s what my trainer does to me, and that’s bad enough.

And what kind of bike is it?  A 10 speed or one of those Barbie bikes with plastic wheels and handles with the tassels.  I might be happier with the tassel bike, assuming it had training wheels and someone pushing me from behind.

Why would I engage in tasks that require physical activity? I hate to work out.

I won’t even drive to the pizza place for dinner.  I make them come to me because I don’t want to engage in actual work.  And a bike seat isn’t pleasant.

I’ve had a banana seat ride up my ass one too many times while I pedal down the street, and it’s not something I’m interested in repeating.

Buy me a drink first.

“What goes around comes around”

merry go roundLike the clap?  What does this mean?  And what if I want what goes around?  Is it money, or the latest episode of The Big Bang Theory?

Or what if it’s Justin Timberlake without his shirt on? I would definitely Cry Me a River if I saw that in person.  Right?!

If so, then I absolutely want it to come around.  I will sit back and wait for it.  But if you’re talking about sluts or Lindsay Lohan, I’ll pass.  I realize the words “Slut” and “Lindsay Lohan” are interchangeable, but I used them here for irony.

So there you have it; my confusion over some commonly used cliches.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stand the heat in the kitchen and stare at the forest for the trees.

food for dog and catIt’s no surprise that I love to eat. Meals are my favorite time of the day (as are snack times, Starbucks breaks and anytime I get to see Jake Gyllenhaal without a shirt). But the worst part about mealtime is deciding what to eat.

My husband is a picky eater, and he typically doesn’t go for my suggestion of “Just put some Nutella on whatever you find in the kitchen and call that dinner.”

Can you believe it? He’s so picky.

Yes, I realize I could make a meal plan for the week so we would know what we were having each night, but that would take away from my Sunday afternoon nap time, and this girl needs her beauty rest.

So tonight when my husband got home from work, he asked the question he asks every night after work; “Whats for dinner?”

Please note this isn’t the only question he asks each night after work, but it’s one you can probably relate to. Other questions include “Which dog threw up in here” and “Why does our house smell like pee?”

I had a long day at work and wasn’t in the mood to make dinner, nor could I be bothered to come up with ideas. I focused on the sweet goodness of my Grey Goose and told him it was his turn to come up with something for dinner this time. I wasn’t going to do it.

It was like I told him he had to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for 30 people instead of simply figure out which restaurant from which to order. He was flabbergasted that I would leave such a big decision to him, and he let me know he wasn’t happy about it.

frozen dinnerIn his defense, I still won’t let him have a say in what decorations and artwork go in our home, so I suppose it wasn’t a big surprise that I normally don’t want him deciding what we will have for dinner.

And by “artwork” and “decorations” I mean whatever is on clearance at Home Goods and whatever pictures are in the damaged section of Garden Ridge.

He suggested I come up with ideas and he would make the final decision. Um, no. That would give him some sort of power, and I think we know how I feel about that. Plus, I wanted to hold the power of veto.

It was the closest I would ever get to my favorite show on television, Big Brother, only the veto in my house isn’t a necklace with a circle and a slash through it. It’s simply a glaring look and the ability to kick the groin with accuracy.

I told him he should throw out some ideas and I would tell him if they sounded good.

Because apparently he has the appetite of an eight year old, he suggested we have cereal for dinner. Immediately, I imagined a heaping bowl of Cocoa Pebbles or S’mores cereal.

I was actually fine with that suggestion, as I’m a lover of all carbs, and cereal is nothing but sugar and carbs: two food groups I think are staples, along with peanut butter and anything dipped in Ranch dressing.

I told him I was fine with the cereal idea, but we didn’t have any cereal so he would have to go to the store to get it.

Although we have 2 vehicles and the store is about a mile away, my suggestion he drive to the store was quite detestable to him, despite the accommodations provided.

guy eating cerealMy car even has satellite radio he could listen to on the way to the store…assuming I would let him take my car.

I usually decline because I don’t appreciate The Playboy Channel blaring the next time I turn on my car.

He said he didn’t have the energy to go to the store and that I should do it. I reminded him I couldn’t drive, as I had a drink, and I was nothing if not an obeyor of the rules, except for parking rules….and yielding…and speeding…

We decided to scrap the cereal idea because it involved work on our part, and after a long day, we couldn’t be bothered with such menial tasks.

I suggested we find a teenager who needed some extra cash and pay him to go to the store for us, but since we aren’t pedophiles, we don’t have access to the contact information of teens.

Yet another strike for us.

I asked Matt what he wanted and he said “I definitely don’t want pizza.”

I couldn’t fault him for this as we’ve had pizza quite a bit lately. I reminded him there were very few places aside from pizza joints that delivered. Chinese restaurants usually deliver but since we are dog lovers, we didn’t feel right about ordering “beef and broccoli” when we both knew it wasn’t beef we would get with a side of rice.

We went to our trusty friend, the “Internets” and silently thanked Al Gore for making that possible. We then looked up menu options for pizza places. I reminded him that many pizza places make more than just pizza.

We looked at a few websites and decided to order pasta from a place that delivered. He pointed to the phone and told me to call it in. Um, no. It was his night to deal with dinner, and I wasn’t calling it in.

We then took no less than 10 minutes arguing about which person should have the obligation to call our order in. I think we all know how that argument ended.

spaghetti and boySince our dogs can be a-holes while we’re on the phone, Matt stepped outside to place the call. After a few seconds I heard “What do you mean you don’t have spaghetti and meatballs?”

My dear husband shares the food preferences of an eight year old, and I thought his head was going to explode when he realized he couldn’t get the pasta he wanted.

I considered suggesting mac and cheese and applesauce, but I didn’t think he’d find the humor in that.

I walked away from the door so I couldn’t hear anymore of the conversation. The urge to make jokes was far too strong, and I knew he wouldn’t find my hilarity nearly as endearing as you all do.

We returned to the couch and waited for our dinner delivery, doing our best to avoid meaningful conversation. We needed to save that for dinner…while we watched reruns on TBS.

The food arrived and I stayed inside with the dogs while Matt stepped out to pay the driver. We figure a delivery person doesn’t want to be accosted by three dogs who have been licking their crotches for the past 15 minutes.

Of course, we don’t have a problem letting this happen to our friends…it makes them like family.

Matt brought in the food and took it to the table for dinner. I looked over at his dinner, and do you know what it was? Pizza. Seriously?!

I reminded him that his one stipulation for dinner was he that he didn’t want pizza. I asked him how he went from refusing pizza to affirmatively ordering it on the phone. He looked at me with his boyish grin and told me they didn’t have spaghetti and meatballs, and the fish sticks were all sold out.