Indian womanMy friend Skinnypants (not her real name) is super skinny and adorable. (Yes, I am calling her Skinnypants in this blog.  I’m not feeling super creative.)

If I didn’t like her so much, I would hate her (although part of me secretly does.  She and her skinny jeans can suck it).  Over the last year, she has continued to drop weight from her tiny frame, while I continue to gain it on my ever expanding frame.

If we were cars, she would be built on the frame of an adorable Mini Cooper that would be purchased by a wealthy father for his adorably tiny 16 year old cheerleader daughter.

I, on the other hand, would be built on the frame of an F-150 and would be purchased by the 300 pound farmer for use hauling manure on the farm.  (But hey, at least I’d be more useful than a short skirted teen yelling out how to spell “defense.”  I got it.  I passed the fifth grade.)

What’s even more infuriating than her rapid and constant weight loss, is her allegation that she has no idea how she is loosing the weight.  She says it just keeps dropping and she doesn’t really know how she’s doing it.  Bitch.

Although I like my friend, I dislike her incessant weight loss.  I’ve been trying to deal with this issue internally like a good friend does.  I’ve accomplished this feat by talking about her behind her back and constantly rolling my eyes whenever she looks away.

I do all of this without her knowing because I’m a really considerate friend that way and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

But now it’s just getting ridiculous.  Saturday she arrived at my house to go to lunch with me and my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name).  The three of us planned a long girls’ lunch at one of our favorite local restaurants.  (And no, it wasn’t the Quick Trip, although that’s a completely reasonable guess.)

Pajama Jeans arrived at my house first, and we discussed Skinnypants’s weight loss, and realized our burning dislike of her was directly proportional to the amount of weight she lost.  We agreed that if we wanted to save the friendship, we would have to stage an intervention with her.

After all, we didn’t want to lose our friend, but we also couldn’t be seen with someone who could actually fit into t-shirts from the children’s section at The Gap.  (Wearing a child’s Elmo t-shirt, whether done ironically or not, is just not something we could support.)

Skinnypants solidified our decision to proceed with an intervention when she walked into my house for lunch.  She was wearing a tank top and adorable skinny white jeans.  Was she trying to slap us in the face?  White jeans?  And skinny white jeans?

woman with donutTypically, white makes the wearer look heavier, or in my case, makes me look even larger than my stated poundage.  But somehow, Skinnypants managed to look adorable in the white jeans.  For a brief moment, I considered throwing ketchup all over her to ruin her perfect outfit, but I’m lazy and didn’t want to clean up the mess.

I also didn’t want to waste such a precious condiment on someone who wouldn’t appreciate its sugary goodness.

We drove to the restaurant together, chit chatting and pretending like everything was normal.  An unsuspecting Skinnypants sat in the backseat completely unaware of what was about to go down.  Part of me felt sorry for her, but one look at her toned abs and flat stomach melted away any pity I had for her.

I was also starving, as the protein bar I ate that morning curbed my appetite for approximately 3 minutes.  I was crabby.

We arrived at the restaurant, sat down, and ordered drinks immediately.  We also started out with an appetizer.  (What are we, animals?)  We allowed Skinnypants to make it through the appetizers and the main course unscathed, but after we ordered dessert, we knew it was time to put the smack down.

She got up to go to the restroom (hopefully not to purge), and Pajama Jeans and I decided the time had come to start the intervention (and to get a refill.  What did we have to do to get some good service from our waiter?)

Skinnypants returned and sat down, not knowing her life was about to change.  We confronted her immediately.  I started the intervention, mostly because I’m a bossy pants, but also because I was the heavier of the two of us, so I had more of an axe to grind (and a stomach to fill).

I channeled the counselor from “Intervention” and began my pep talk.  “Skinnypants,” I said, in my best authoritative voice, “We need to talk.  Pajama and I have noticed your consistent weight loss and we’re at a crossroads.  (And not the delightful movie with the same name starring the ever so talented Brittney Spears.)


blurry stop sign


It’s time to terminate our friendship, as we can’t continue down this path with someone who thinks a belly roll is a type of Pilates exercise.”

She looked shocked and dumbfounded, and I swear the sunlight hit her face just right at that moment and she was actually glistening.  It wasn’t helping her case.  “I can’t help it.  I don’t know how I’m losing weight.  I don’t even exercise.  And I don’t keep track of my weight.  I don’t even own a scale.”

This was not the right thing to say.  I could see the anger burning in Pajama Jeans’ eyes, and I physically put my hand on her shoulder to hold her back.  I knew a punch to Skinnypants’s face wasn’t the right way to start this intervention.

But seriously, the last thing a skinny person should tell two women struggling with weight loss is that she doesn’t know how she’s losing weight because she’s not exercising.

“Um, what can I do to keep this friendship alive?” she asked, looking at us with an adorable face that lacked a second chin.

“I’m glad you asked,” I stated, looking around anxiously wondering where the waiter was with the desserts (and my iced tea.  Seriously, homeboy needed to just leave the pitcher on the table).  You can commit to making this relationship work, but it’s going to take some effort and commitment on your part.  This is an intervention and we are demanding you stop losing weight.  Our friendship is on the line, and is there anything more important than the right to call Pajama and I your friends?”

skinny.jpgThis was a ridiculous question and she knew it.  Pajama Jeans and I are awesome, and anyone would be happy to call us friend.  We had her.  Now it was time for me to lay out the terms.

“We mean business.  This intervention is serious and we require several things to make this work.  First, no exercise.  We’re serious.  Not even a jaunt around the block.  If you’re serious about our friendship, you will avoid anything that could even remotely increase your metabolism.” We said, in our most menacing tone.

“Second, you need to increase your caloric intake.  No skipping dinner or just having a salad.  If you want to have a salad, it must be drenched in high calorie dressing and topped with fried chicken, the way salad is intended to be eaten.”

She stared as us both, trying to gauge how serious we were and whether we were committed to sticking to these guidelines.  One look in Pajama Jeans’ eyes told Skinnypants that we were dead serious.  Serious as a heart attack induced by a diabetic coma.

I’m not sure if it was the threat of losing our friendship, or the fact that the desserts arrived, but Skinnypants agreed to our terms and said she would eat more.  Happy with our intervention, Pajama Jeans and I turned our attention to the desserts we ordered and proceeded to stuff our faces.

We also made sure Skinnypants ate more than her fair share of the desserts, although we advised her we wouldn’t accept hoarding the desserts either.  She needed to share.

All three of us left the intervention lunch feeling good about our friendship and even better about our blood sugar levels.  I suppose only time will tell if Skinnypants sticks to her end of the bargain.

I’ve ordered a scale to be delivered to her home and have asked that it be set to read less than what she actually weighs.  I’ve also asked the delivery man to deliver the scale along with a chocolate pound cake and a gallon of ice cream.


girl with ice creamI’m a bit of an eater.  Okay, maybe that’s an understatement.  It’s like saying Tiger Woods dabbles in golf, or that Kayne West is only a bit of a douche bag.

This girl loves to eat and doesn’t like anything to stand in the way of her and any sort of dipping sauce.

So when I went to lunch with my friend Scissorhands (not her real name) and her mom, I was there for the company, but I was also there for the food!

I arrived and we began chit chatting and catching up, all the while pretending as if I was interested in our conversation and not the appetizers at the table next to.  (Would it kill them to offer their neighbor a bite of their dip?)

We figured out our orders and the overly perky waitress came back to take down our requests.  My friends are healthy and skinny, but I love them despite these obvious flaws.

They both ordered healthy dishes, and the waitress then turned her attention to me.  I could tell she was rooting for me to order something healthy too.  I could see it in her face.

It’s probably the same look I have when I root for the addict on Intervention to stay away from the back alley heroin deal, knowing full well they will find themselves giving blow jobs in a garage for a couple bucks to score some “h.”

photo credit: Sebastian Mary via photopin cc

photo credit: Sebastian Mary via photopin cc

Much like the heroin junkee, I sucomed to my addiction and ordered a pizza.  I like to think it was a healthy pizza, as it had olive oil, mushrooms and goat cheese on it.

But I suppose calling a pizza healthy is like calling this blog funny.  We all want the statement to be true, but it just isn’t.

The waitress looked at me with disappointment in her eyes. “Would you like a salad with that?” she asked, hopeful I would agree to eat at least one thing that day that wasn’t filled with carbs and trans fat.

Um, no thanks,” I said, glaring at her and wondering why she cared so much about my health.  Obviously I was a woman who knew what she wanted, and I wanted a crispy crust on my fatty pizza.


Plus, I always feel stupid ordering a salad at a restaurant.

I feel like the waiter is thinking “Yeah, like this ONE salad is going to help you lose the 100 pounds you need to drop.  Just give up fatty and get the lasagna.”

The waitress walked away quickly.  I can only assume the get up in her step was because she knew my cholesterol must be high based upon my eating choices, and she wanted to get my order in before I died and she failed to get her tip.

I was on to her game.

I patiently waited for my food,  performing an ocular pat-down of every item that came out of the kitchen.

My stomach was growling and I had a hard time focusing on the conversation over the sound of my stomach eating itself.

Finally, the food arrived.  Well, some of the food.  Apparently the waitress felt like torturing me some more, so she brought out the food my friends ordered, and left me to sit and wait, salivating at the prospect of my food being so close, yet so far away.

I waited for her to say something spiteful, like “Dance, monkey, dance,” but instead she smiled at me and said “Yours takes a little longer and will be out shortly.

Translation:  I’m going to make you wait for your food, as it’s probably the only time today you will have an increase in heart rate.  (She wasn’t wrong.)

After what felt like a lifetime, but was probably only 3 minutes, the waitress brought out my pizza.  I couldn’t tell if it was what I ordered or not because the entire pizza was covered in arugula.  Seriously.  It was covering the entire carb-loaded plate of goodness.

food with lettuceShe looked at me with satisfaction in her eyes, and I swear I saw her flip me off as she walked away.  No wait, that was me who did the flipping off…

Why would this woman douse my pizza in tree leaves?  I didn’t understand it.  I considered asking her for dressing for my impromptu salad, but was afraid she would come back to the table wielding veggies and a fruit cup, so I refrained.

Despite its lack of dressing (and lack of anything fried or flavorful), it wasn’t half bad.  I mean, it wasn’t good enough for me to continue eating it, but it wasn’t horrible either.  Maybe that waitress was onto something with the healthy eating.

I would give that some thought as I rolled through the Dairy Queen drive thru later for dessert.

I pushed the leaves aside and began devouring the pizza goodness.  After a while, the lettuce became so overwhelming that I considered eating it to make more room for the pizza on my plate.

I took a bite of “salad” and figured it would be the best way to spite the waitress, as I was sure she wasn’t expecting me to eat it. In fact, I was confident she had a running bet with the dishwasher in the back as to whether I would touch the leafy greens.  Well she was about to lose her $5 bet to Manuel.

I stabbed some lettuce and shoved it in my mouth before I could reconsider my spiteful eating.


After finishing our strenuous day of napping, Matt and I decided we needed to get ready for our Saturday night plans. For some reason, we manage to have amazingly awesome friends. I have no idea how this happens, but somehow it does.

We try not to understand it, but just go with it instead. It’s one of the world’s greatest unsolvable mysteries, like how Stonehenge was created, or how the Kardashians remain famous.

No matter the reason, we count our blessings that we have such amazing friends, and go to whatever events they invite us to. This past Saturday, we were invited to a large party at some friends’ house. They have a group that goes to fish frys every Friday night during Lent and eats and drinks heavily during that time (and in between that time…and before that time…and after that time…)

They call themselves The Tilapia Mafia and they are awesome.  They even have t-shirts and sweatshirts for those lucky enough to become “made” into the group.  Since Lent recently ended, our friends threw a Tilapia Mafia Last Supper at their house.

It was complete with a large fish fry, several kegs of good beer and tons of food. Since our friends are classy, there was also flippy cup games and beer pong. I know, classy, right?

We pulled up to the party and I gave the pep talk I give my husband before every fun event we somehow get invited to. It goes something like this: “Don’t fuck this up. Seriously. We don’t want these people to realize we aren’t cool, and if they do, I’m blaming it on you. So put your game face on and don’t be a bitch about it.”

Inspiring huh?

scoldWe headed inside and were greeted by the smell of alcohol and fried food…two of my favorite things.  The food spread was amazing and laid out in the kitchen, where we immediately went to stuff our faces.  No walk around the house to say hello to people, no chit chat about the weather.  (It rained that day.  What’s there to discuss?)

We figured we would cut to the chase and immediately begin gorging ourselves on dinner. After all, we didn’t want to be rude to our hosts and not eat.  Since one of the hosts was a chef, we figured it would be a slap in the face to her if we didn’t gobble up everything she set out to eat.  We’re considerate friends that way.

After eating a plateful of food (or two plates full…don’t judge), we decided to walk around and mingle a bit.  We filled our drinks and headed to the back yard to chat and pretend as if we weren’t both wondering when the dessert would be revealed.

We started chatting with a woman on the deck who was drinking beer and chatting about the “good ole days” of getting drunk in college.  I loved her immediately.  After chatting about our favorite fast food restaurants to crash at 2:00 a.m. (Del Taco and Jack in the Box).

I asked her what she did for a living.  She looked at me dead serious and said “I’m a microbiologist.”

Um, what?!  Who says that?  I kind of chuckled and made some comment about how I was the inventor of the push up bra,  and then I realized she was serious.  She was actually a microbiologist.  Frickety frick!  I knew that profession existed but I didn’t know anyone who actually did such a thing.  It was like meeting a Muppet!

I feel like a microbiologist is one of those professions kids say they want to be when they grow up, but don’t really know what it is or that it requires studying and a coke habit to get through school.  No wait…that’s a lawyer.  (Who would fathom being such a ridiculous profession as a lawyer anyway?)

I couldn’t believe I was talking to a real microbiologist, and I commented something to that effect.  I looked to the people standing around and asked what the chances were of actually meeting a microbiologist at a party.

Two of the others standing in the group chimed in and said they were also microbiologists.  What?!   This was getting freaky.  I immediately scanned the room for other professionals I didn’t think existed, like astronauts, or honest politicians.  None of those were found.

I slithered away from the conversation with the microbiologists, as I didn’t want to put myself in a situation to look even dumber than I already did.  Who knew I would be surrounded by people who had what I believed to be fictional jobs?


I walked around and located my husband.  He was at the flippy cup table trying to explain to the German national how to play.  My husband was several beers in and at that point couldn’t tell you what brand of beer he was drinking, let alone how to play a drinking game.

The fact the guy he was speaking to was from Germany and spoke broken English didn’t help.  It was like watching Paris Hilton try to understand anything at all.  Seriously.

After my drunk husband proceeded to stumble (literally) through the explanation, the German (not his real name), gave the flippy cup game a try.  After a few rounds of trying, and my husband yelling profanity in the German’s ear in an effort to motivate him, the German became frustrated and yelled in a thick German accent “I’ve never been flipping these cups before!

At first I thought there was going to be a smack down between my husband and the German, but it appeared as if my drunk husband had a bond with the German and they were determined to make it work.

They practiced a little longer and then got a group together to play flippy cup…the way that all young professional people in their 30s do at a party inspired by religious events.

beer steinAfter several rounds of flippy cup, and what I can only assume were curse words from the German, my husband retreated from flippy cup defeated…and drunk.  My husband doesn’t get drunk very often, but when he does, it’s a sight to see.  Everyone else loves Drunk Matt, except for Sober Lisa.

Sober Lisa isn’t so much a fan, as she has to watch him all night to make sure he doesn’t pee on something he’s not supposed to, or punch someone in the face.  It’s like babysitting a 5 year old, only most five year-olds don’t randomly yell profanity and dry hump anything that moves.

As the night wore on, the drinks continued to flow for my husband, and I knew it was time to go when he kept randomly yelling “Damn it German!” whenever the German entered the room.  I gathered my drunk hubby and said goodbye to everyone.

We headed to the front of the house to gather our things from the living room.  We walked into the room and discovered a drunk man sitting on the couch staring at the wall.

When we entered the room he immediately said “Damn it!” quite loud.  I looked around for the German, as I figured my husband’s trend of offensive yelling had caught on, but I didn’t see him.  I asked the stranger if everything was okay, and he said it wasn’t.

He said he had farted and did so in the living room because no one was there, and that we messed up his perfect farting spot by entering when we did.  He seemed legitimately pissed about it.

We apologized and advised we would hold our noses and retreat immediately without telling anyone about his secret spot (as if the permeating smell of rotting pumpkin mixed with Stetson and Jim Beam wouldn’t alert others to his farting locale).  I grabbed my husband and headed to the car, doing my best to convince him to stop yelling “Heil the German” as we walked down the city street.

Fortunately we made it to our car safely, which was a bit of a miracle considering most people would probably take my husband’s yelling offensive instead of endearing comments about his new friend.  I like to think criminals were deterred from approaching us because my blabbering husband appeared crazy…but it also could be because we probably totally reeked of crazy guy’s farts.

girl in jammies yawning


***If you have young children who wake you up early in the morning, you may want to reconsider reading this post.***

My husband likes to sleep.  No.  Strike that.  He loves to sleep.  It’s his favorite thing to do in the world (aside from mocking my British accent.  Bugga!).  He takes his sleep very seriously, and treats it like a job.  Any employer would be lucky to have such a dedicated employee so willing to do the job regardless of scenario.

Nice sunny day?  He’d prefer to nap.  Cinco de Mayo?  Um, not if there’s a comfy bed where he could take a siesta.  If sleeping were an Olympic event, he’d be the Michael Phelps of it (only without the jacked up teeth and the pot smoking).

So when Matt says he wants to sleep in, I know he’s serious.  Friday night he told me he wanted to sleep in on Saturday and he wasn’t going to set an alarm.  This was a change from his normal routine of getting up early on Saturday morning to hit the gym.  He’s such an obnoxious over achiever.

Naturally, I had no objection to him skipping the gym, as his frequent appearances at the gym make me feel bad about my lack of commitment to working out.  Not bad enough to make me go to workout, but still….

Since I’m an amazing wife who supports her man, I agreed to sleep in on Saturday and see where the morning took us.  It took us to sleep, which was fine with me.  We woke up about 9:30 a.m. to the sound of rain hitting our window.

blurry with umbrellasIt was a dreary day and we found ourselves with a lack of motivation to do much, so we flipped on the TV to see what was playing.

He immediately rejected my suggestion for “Gossip Girl” or “America’s Next Top Model.”  He said he wanted to watch something that didn’t make him dumber.  Since his recent purchase of text books as recreational reading, he’s become quite the brainiac.  We agreed on The Big Bang Theory.

It filled his requirement that the show be somewhat intelligent, and it filled my requirement to watch a show where I feel superior to the female lead.  (This is why I’m such a fan of America’s Next Top Model.  I’m confident I have more intelligence in my left breast than Tyra does in her whole head…although that girl sure can “smize.”)

We watched a couple episodes on our DVR, turning up the volume regularly to overshadow our grumbling stomachs.  We agreed it was time to get breakfast.  So around 10:30 a.m. we headed out the door to grab something to eat.

I was feeling especially motivated, so I put on a bra, although I didn’t bother to run a brush through my hair.  I wasn’t that motivated…

We headed to our favorite breakfast spot.  It’s a nice little establishment on the corner down the street where the locals regularly stop in for a quick bite to eat and a restroom break.  The staff is friendly and the floor is always clean.  The Quick Trip.

Their donuts are amazing.  Since we wanted to have a lazy day and needed to tire out our dogs to accomplish this task, we took all three of them in the car with us to the store.  We knew we couldn’t walk them in the rain, so we figured the next best thing was throwing them in the back of Matt’s Saturn for a spin around the block.

Matt stayed in the car with our canine friends and I headed inside to grab some donuts.  When I walked over to the bakery section (situated strategically next to the Pepto Bismol and the magazine rack), I noticed the selection was quite slim.

Just to clarify, the selection of donuts was quite slim.  The selection of magazines with half naked women on them was all stocked up.  QT needed to adjust its priorities.

I walked out of the store disappointed, and headed to the car.  I told Matt about the lack of supply and he immediately recommended we forge ahead in our quest for fried goodness.  I’d never loved him more.

donutsWe found ourselves at Dunkin’ Donuts and I went inside to avoid the long line in the drive thru.  After waiting behind an extremely hoosier family who seemed overly excited about purchasing donuts called “Munchins,” I placed my order, grabbed the fatty treats, and headed back to the car.

We arrived home and headed straight to the bedroom to eat our breakfast in bed while being entertained by the nerds on Big Bang.  We scarfed down our food and settled back to watch another episode.

By this time it was around 11:15 and our bellies were full and our eyelids heavy.  We agreed we needed to do what anyone else would have done in our situation.  We turned off the TV and took a nap.

We awoke at 1:30, fully refreshed and ready to take on the day.  Since we ingested about a million calories in a 90 second time frame and followed it up with a 2 hour power nap, we figured we should hit up the gym, at least for a bit.  After a sub par workout, we grabbed some lunch and headed back home.

I was exhausted and figured the best way to handle my exhaustion was to get a manicure and pedicure.

After all, I needed to relax.  I headed to the salon, thinking about what colors of polish I would choose, and what rude comments the workers would make about my chipped nails.

I also thought about what I would do after my pampering and realized there was only one logical thing to do afterwards; go tanning so I could take a nap.

To be continued…

notepad and pen

I can’t tell you how many times I wish I could go back in time to tell myself something.  For starters, I would tell myself not to see any of the Sex and the City movies.

Then I would tell myself not to waste my time even trying to read the horrible writing that is The Twilight Series.  If I wanted to read bad grammar and poor writing, I would read this blog.

So I decided to write myself a letter…and address it to Lisa from 2 hours ago.  I realize I probably can’t go back in time and read this letter to myself.

However, I don’t completely understand the space-time concept, but that’s partly because I can’t take Albert Einstein and his space-time theories seriously.

I refuse to believe anything that comes from someone who can’t seem to master the concept of a hairbrush and a dab of hair gel.  (This is yet another reason I can’t get on board with Justin Beiber…homeboy needs a comb.)

But assuming a respected scientist with a grasp of hair products comes along and explains the space time continuum to me, I want to be ready to go back in time and give myself some tips.  So here is the letter I wrote to myself if I could go back in time just 2 hours.

If I could go back in time further back than that, the letter would be far too long to post here…and far too depressing to read.  I figured 2 hours was a good time frame.

Dear Lisa from two hours ago,

Hi, it’s me….Lisa from your future. Put down the remote control and read this for a minute. Gossip Girl can wait, and so can those cookies. (Okay, you can have one).

Here’s some advice you should take for tonight. You probably won’t take this advice (because you won’t take the time to read a letter that doesn’t have pictures or smiley faces,) but please read on to prevent issues for this evening.

I know you love to eat. Who doesn’t? But please, take this advice. Do NOT eat the entire bag of Cheez-Its. Don’t do it. Yes, their cheesy goodness is delicious, and yes, I understand that licking the artificial cheese powder off your fingers is the best part about the carb-loaded snack.

But puh-lease heed my advice and lay off the box. Stop about halfway through. You won’t be sorry.

pizza delivery guyThrow on a bra before you greet the pizza delivery guy at the door.  Although you prefer to be comfortable while in your own home, the local Domino’s branch doesn’t want a workers compensation claim of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the delivery guy because you can’t seem to throw on a support bra before pulling the piping pizza from his hands.

Don’t waste your time with the generic toilet paper.  You need more than 2 ply to get through the night, especially if you disregarded numbers one and two above (and I know you did.  You can’t resist carbs).

Do yourself a favor, spend the extra bucks, and buy the Charmin instead of the store brand.  You don’t want to discover that you literally have a chapped ass by the end of the night.  Your ass will thank you.

Don’t turn on the heater.  Yes, it’s April and it’s 37 degrees tonight, but you live in the Midwest, where the weather is almost as bipolar as you are.

So hold off on firing up the heater, because by tomorrow afternoon the sunny skies and 90 degree weather will necessitate air conditioning…and an increase in your dosage of meds.  (Which reminds me…start looking for a house and a job in Florida…where the weather is nice and the tornado sirens are silent.)

Lay off on the peanut butter in the dogs’ Kongs.  Although it’s true the peanut butter Kongs keep them quiet for one delightful hour, it’s overshadowed by the next hour, which you will spend cleaning up dog shit on the living room rug.

Since I’m sure you disregarded #3 above, you will already be sick of dealing with poo, so this advice is especially important.

Love, your favorite person in the world,

Lisa from the future

I recently busted out of the joint.  The pen.  The big house.  I got sprung out by some of my friends (or should I call them “people from the outside?”).  Fortunately, I escaped and lived to tell about it.  My story wasn’t an easy one, but it’s one I’m willing to tell.

I lived a good life on the outside.  I paid my taxes, donated to charity, and even told the neighborhood girl down the street that pigtails are soooo over.  (I’m pretty sure this comment saved her from endless ridicule at school.  I’m such a giver.)

Despite my pattern of amazing behavior, I was singled out and sent to lock up without much warning.  Isn’t that always the way it goes?  My crime?   I’m not sure, although I tell myself it was an overabundance of awesome.

My story began easily enough, with an email from the local animal rescue where I volunteer.  The email said they were doing a fundraiser where they would lock up a volunteer and then ask people to pay money to get the volunteer out of confinement.

Naturally, we thought you would be perfect for this,” the email said.

Um…what?  Naturally?  What part of locking me up for hours on end was natural?  And out of all the people they could have asked to do this, why me?  And why was I such an obvious choice? The email sounded as if locking me up was the only logical conclusion one could come to when faced with this proposal.

I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or honored that I was chosen.  I decided to be flattered, and figured the shelter knew I was one of only a few people who looks good in orange, and that jumpsuit would make my eyes shine.  (I’m such an autumn!)

I responded back and said I would do it.  I would like to tell you I was intoxicated when I agreed to this plan.  I would also like to tell you I weigh 100 pounds and find nachos and processed cheese disgusting.

metal lockHowever, both statements are lies, and I’m far more embarrassed about one of them than the other.  (And seriously, what do they do to stadium cheese to make it so delicious on nachos?)

The day of my captivity I packed a few things and said goodbye to the things I loved most; my Grey Goose (she never looked so beautiful as she did that day glistening in the sunlight); my Chipotle (I waved a solemn goodbye as I drove by); and the entire first season of The League (whether you love football or not, that show is just hilarious).

I arrived at the clink, otherwise known as Brentwood Petco, and was advised of my parameters.  I would be confined in a (puppy) pen where I was required to sit on the floor for three hours.  Sheesh.

The warden, also known as the Petco manager, was a real hard ass and I knew this was going to be a rough sentence.  I asked if it would be possible for me to be in isolation, as I didn’t want to be put with a cellmate convicted of an obscure crime.

More importantly, I didn’t want to be forced to share my square meals with a cellmate.  I also wanted to find out if the meals they served in the pen were actually square in shape.

The warden couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t have a cellmate, but he said I could have some bedding for my cell.  I immediately located the plushest dog bed I could find and deemed it mine.  The warden followed me back to the pen, opened the gate and threw me in.

Okay, so he didn’t so much “throw” me in as he did tell me in a nice voice that it was time to start, but whatever.

The metal doors slammed shut (they really just kind of hooked together nicely) and I realized I was all alone, with nothing but my thoughts (and the package of Starbust I snuck in…those suckers didn’t check me for contraband).

I began thinking about my life and where it had gone.  Had I really accomplished anything in my life (aside from high score on my Super Mario Brothers 3 Nintendo game)?

What did I really have to show for my years on Earth other than a huge amount of student loans and a DVR filled with reality TV and infomercials?

Don’t judge.  I enjoy infomercials more than I should.  Maybe I could use this time in the clink to better myself….and then I smelled food.

I looked up and saw someone walking toward my cell.  He was handsome and carrying a bag of food.  At first I thought it was a mirage, but realized quickly that it was my husband.

I was allowed a visitor!  And even better, he had food!  He approached my cell and handed me my bag of food (which was a burrito bowl from Chipotle…duh).  I was so excited to see someone from the outside that I almost didn’t molest the food.

*I said almost.  Prison didn’t change my love of Chipotle.

As I scarfed down my food, the warden came by and advised I would have a new cellmate.  I immediately asked what my new ‘mate was in for and he said it was a pretty harsh crime; peeing on the floor.

He pointed to an area just outside my cell where I saw a pool of pee.  Then I saw my new cellmate, and one look at her told me this wasn’t her first offense.  She was a repeat offender who had no problem being locked up.

Her name was Donatella and she lived a rough life.  She grew up on the streets and then lived in a foster home with other foster kids.  It was the typical story, really.

Girl is born on the streets to a litter; girl gets kicked out of the home for chewing on furniture; girl gets rescued by a local rescue group; girl goes to a foster home; girl pees on the floor and gets sent to the pen.

Donatella arrived at the pen and immediately jumped me, licking my face to see if I was friendly.  I let her lick me, but advised it was a one time thing, as I wasn’t that kind of girl.  I told her if she was looking for that, she should look to the inmate down the way who had several litters and teets that practically brushed the floor.

I quickly learned this wasn’t Donatella’s first time in the pen, as she had previously been jailed for chewing a shoe, peeing on the floor, and humping a cat.  (The last one was a bit disturbing, but I let it go because Donatella had nails that could definitely cut a bitch…literally…they could cut a female dog.)

Just as I got to know Donatella, she was snatched away from me.  Apparently someone paid her bail and she was going home with a family. I was happy for her, but sad for me, as I knew that meant I would have to live out the rest of my sentence alone.

lock and keyI stared outside the bars and wondered what the rest of my sentence held for me.  Would I be allowed yard time?   Would someone at least throw a Kong into my pen?

Eventually, I heard the warden’s keys clank and he came to my cell.  He told me my sentence was complete and I was free to go.  He unlatched my cell and immediately I smelled sweet freedom.  (It smelled a lot like Donatella’s urine puddle, but it was freedom nonetheless.)  I stood up and walked outside, taking my first gulp of fresh air (and another gulp of the Quik Trip Diet Coke my husband brought me.)

I  headed to booking (also known as the front register) and talked to the officer (cashier) about how much money was raised for my bail.  She said I raised $177.50, which would be donated to the animal rescue where I volunteer.  Not too shabby for some time in the pen.  Now I just need to find a good lawyer so I can file my wrongful imprisonment charge.  If only I knew one…

***Please remember to support your local animal rescues.  There are lots of amazing animals needing homes at local shelters.  Adopt, don’t shop.  For more information on amazing animals in the St. Louis area, check out***

helpI’ve got nothing.  Not a single thing I can think of to write about.  I know.  It’s crazy, right?  My life is usually filled with ridiculous stories and embarrassing moments, most of which involve me either accidentally showing a body part, or saying something to get me kicked out of an establishment.

What can I say?  I’m classy.

But for the last few weeks, I’ve been at a complete loss as to what to write about.  Bear with me.  I’m not giving up on the blog.  I just can’t think of anything to write about other than my standard go-to topics of farts, food and friendship.

So, if any of you have ideas for things I can write about, please comment on this post about your idea and hopefully your creativeness will inspire me to write something entertaining for you to read.

Otherwise, I will be forced to watch reruns of The Nanny and poke my eyes out with a fork.  Don’t let me do that.  Help a sister out!


parking garageI hate parking garages.  They’re like dungeons, only there’s no dragons or princesses held captive, although the smell of urine in most garages suggests otherwise.  I have to park in a parking garage for work, but I park in the same spot everyday.

It’s an assigned spot that’s probably assigned to someone, although that someone isn’t me.  However, I park in the same numbered spot everyday so as to give the impression it’s my spot and I’m not to be messed with.  It’s worked for the last 3 years so please don’t rat me out now.

Although I’m familiar with my own parking garage, I can’t say the same thing about other garages.  Recently I had a meeting with clients, because I’m super fancy and important…and because someone else set it up for me.

meterI arrived at the building where the meeting was held, and realized I didn’t want to park at a meter because the meeting would be long and I didn’t want to keep feeding the meter.

Those parking meters are hungrier than I am and require constant feeding…although I’m not satisfied by rusty nickels and dimes quite the way a parking meter is.

I decided to park in the garage connected to the building so I would have an easy entry and exit.

I entered the garage with my car, took a ticket, and began spiraling down the levels looking for a spot.  I passed several hundred cars before finding a spot that was to my liking.  It was next to a pole, so I figured it would be easy to find.

After all, how many poles can one parking garage really have?

I hurried out of my car and headed toward the corner of the level I was on.  I assumed there was an elevator somewhere, but I didn’t know where it was, so I thought I would take the stairs.  I was working out and figured I could use the exercise.  I was obviously delusional from being so far underground and so far away from civilization.

I walked up approximately a million flights of stairs, all the while cursing myself for wearing heels and wondering why society can’t accept a woman for wearing flip flops with a suit.  I finally reached the top of the stairs and saw light peering out of the window of the door.

I also saw black spots, which were a reminder that I needed to do more cardio at the gym…or really…do any cardio at the gym.  I pumped my fist as a sign of victory, adjusted my Spanx, and opened the door to sweet freedom.

I expected to see the front of the office building…or the front of the garage…or the front of any building at all.  What I saw was an alley filled with dumpsters and the pungent smell of homeless people’s urine.  And yes, that smell is different than other specimens of urine.  Trust me.

As I plugged my nose and gasped for air, my cell phone rang.  I answered the call and discovered my boss on the other end, asking where I was.  I told him I was in the bowels of hell, or maybe just a scene from West Side Story.

I expected to see highly musical gangs emerge from behind the dumpsters, snapping their fingers and doing jazz boxes.

woman looking at phoneI began singing the opening ballad of West Side Story but he didn’t chime in.  How could he not?  The tune is so catchy.

He told me to get up to the meeting quickly, as they were getting ready to start.  Obviously, they couldn’t start without me, as I’m very important.  I like to think of myself as the glue that holds things together.  I’m not saying that’s an accurate assessment.  I’m just saying that’s what I like to think.

I looked around the alley and then grabbed some weapons from my purse, which happened to be some facial hydrating spray and a tube of lip gloss.  I may not have been armed to fend off violence, but dry skin was nowhere in my future with these potent weapons.

I figured I could spray an intruder with the spray and throw the tube of gloss at him as I ran down the alley.

I had a solid plan.  I then proceeded to sprint down the alley, singing “When you’re a Jet you’re a Jet all the way…”  (I’m soooo a Jet and not a Shark.  The Sharks were so lame.)

After my meeting, I left with a few other people and took the elevator to the parking garage.  As I walked into the elevator I realized I had no idea what floor my car was on because I didn’t take the elevator up.  However, I didn’t want to look like a total idiot, although the Diet Coke stain on my lapel was doing a good job of driving that idea home.   So I randomly pressed a number on the elevator and waited for my stop.

When the elevator opened, I looked around and saw nothing familiar.  I had no idea where I was, and no idea where my car was located.  But how hard could it really be to find my car in a parking garage?

I began walking around looking for my car and the pole it was parked next too.  I soon realized there were poles approximately every 10 feet, and the only unique thing about them were the varying shades of car paint scraped on each one.  I was completely lost.

woman in suit lookingI reached in my purse and pulled out a Fiber One bar.  Don’t judge.  I needed energy to walk around the garage.

I contemplated leaving a trail of crumbs from my Fiber One bar so I could know where I’d already been , but I didn’t want to waste a perfectly good snack on something so stupid.  I noshed away and continued walking.

I pulled out my phone and decided to call for a rescue team.  I figured I could make up an excuse for why I was lost, and someone could drive around the garage looking for me.

Immediately I realized this plan wouldn’t work, not only because I didn’t want to admit to anyone that I was lost in a parking garage, but also because I had no service in the middle of this dungeon.

I realized I was doomed, and would most likely spend the rest of my days in the parking garage, scouting for loose change and discarded food.  I took off my heels as a sign of defeat, but also because they were drawing blood from my toes.  I then began wandering aimlessly.

Not long after walking barefoot on the freezing concrete, I had an epiphany.  I would start walking around the garage hitting the alarm button on my keys.  That would make my car alarm go off, which would lead me to my car.  Perfect!

I took a few moments to congratulate myself on being such a genius, and cursed my fourth grade teacher who said I wouldn’t amount to anything.  (Who’s the idiot now?)

I furiously began walking and punching the alarm on my keys.  Eventually I heard the familiar sound of my car alarm and ran towards it, cheering and congratulating myself once again on being so brilliant.

guy reading mapI drove out of the parking garage high on adrenaline from finding my car.  I looked at the clock and realized I had been lost in the parking garage for 30 minutes.  Yes, 30 minutes.

That may not sound like much, but it’s a lifetime if you’re underground in a parking garage.  Thirty minutes is an episode of a sit com, or the length of someone’s lunch break.  It’s also the amount of time it takes for me to get annoyed with my husband’s bad jokes, which is a lifetime if you’re on the other end of his “knock knock” jokes.

If he ever tries to tell you a joke about a muffin, don’t indulge him.

I knew I could never admit to anyone that I was lost in a parking garage for such a long amount of time.  I vowed never to say anything about it, and forget it ever happened…which is why I’m writing it on my blog now.

I mean, I’m sure no one reads this anyway, and those that do may be doing so on their smart phone while trapped in a parking garage somewhere.

To those people I say “Godspeed.”