jail cell

I was recently home with the flu for several days. and it was less than exciting. My frequent trips to the bathroom confused my dogs and reminded me I really need to clean my baseboards (or get a maid).

I will spare you the details, but let’s just say if I kept this up much longer, I could actually fit into a smaller size of those Pajama Jeans

Because I was unable to leave my house, I was glued to the TV in an effort to keep my mind off something other than when the next dose of Pepto was due.   Fortunately, I found a marathon of To Catch a Predator on MSNBC and tuned in.

For those of you not familiar with the program, I pity you, as it’s truly one of the most amazing programs on television (sorry The Bachelor, you’re a close second).

The show involves a rented house where pedophiles come to meet the “teenager” they’ve been chatting with online. Of course, the teenager is a creepy woman in her 30s whose voice sounds like a prepubescent boy.

This chick could use a trip to the salon and a lesson in dental hygiene.

I’m just glad the show doesn’t focus on her, as not as many people would tune in each week…of that I am certain.Getting back on topic…these creepsters believe they are meeting the child they’ve been chatting with, but instead, are greeted by Chris Hanson, the host of the show.  Chris then proceeds to ask them a series of ridiculous questions that are both painful and enjoyable all at the same time. (Kind of like watching an episode of Glee.)

The result is pure gold, aside from the fact these men are creepy and disgusting, and none of them understands how to properly wear a pair of pants. (Would it kill these guys to wear a belt?)

I personally love to watch Chris Hanson during the interview portion of the program. It’s not just because he is far more attractive than the disgusting, sweaty pedophiles with the molestache that grace this show, but also because he gets overly excited when he reveals himself to the men.

Ooops. Allow me to rephrase. I realize that in this context, “reveal himself” can have a different meaning. I mean that I love it when he identifies himself as the host of the show, and tells the people they are on TV.

Apparently these men chat online with who they believe are underage boys and girls.  Yes, you read that right, they are chatting online…in 2012.  I know.  It’s such a cliche. I didn’t even know chat rooms still existed.  I thought they died out with the free AOL CDs and P. Diddy’s music career.

Apparently these chat rooms are still around, which blows my mind as I’m not sure how these pedophiles can hold an internet connection to a chat room.  I’m sure these predators are using dial-up to chat in their mom’s basement surrounded by cat feces and the heads of Barbie dolls.


The best part about this show (aside from trying to guess how Chris Hanson hides his erection during each “big reveal”), is listening to the various excuses the men give for why they are at the house.

No.  I take that back.  That’s not the best part of the show.  The best part is when these d-bags get arrested on the front lawn.  They don’t just get taken down nicely in a simple arrest.  They are under siege the moment they walk out the door.

Frequently, there is a policeman in camouflage dressed like shrubbery who comes out of nowhere to tackle these idiots to the ground.  It’s priceless.  It’s such a rush to watch a bush on the lawn come to life and take down a pedophile in the middle of the day.

Nothing says justice like being attacked by an azalea bush.  I have no doubt the cops could easily take the men into custody without incident, but where’s the fun in that?

Overall, this show is a beacon of hope for me whenever I have the flu.  It provides endless hours of entertainment and almost makes me wish for the stomach flu so I have an excuse to watch it again.  Come to think of it, I think I feel some aches and pains coming on now…where’s the remote?

I realize the title of this post is a bit vague, and most likely conjures up images of pigtails and slutty school girl outfits.  That wasn’t my intent.

What I mean is that I did it again…I once again made a fool of myself.  I realize this isn’t a shock to anyone, as I make a fool of myself quite regularly. It’s almost as natural as breathing for some people…or being annoying for any one of the Kardashians.  Nonetheless, it happened again.

Allow me to explain.  I was recently in New York City visiting some fabulous friends.  Somehow, Matt and I seem to have amazing friends who haven’t figured out that we are super lame.

Don’t tell them.  I don’t want them to figure it out, although I’m pretty sure my farts after every meal and my subscription to Tiger Beat are dead give aways that I’m super dorky. (Hey, I need to keep up with the younger generation so I will stay relatable.)

Our friends wanted to meet us for brunch at 1:30.  Yes, that’s 1:30 p.m.  Who knew that was time for brunch?  In my world, brunch is 10:00 and it consists of a cheeseburger with danishes for buns and a side of Cocoa Pebbles.  Now that’s a brunch…and it’s before noon…or somewhere near the noon hour.

In fact, when I eat “brunch” at 10:00 a.m., I’m ready for a late lunch at 1:30 p.m.  Apparently this isn’t how New Yorkers roll. Did my friends really expect me to go until 1:30 in the afternoon without eating breakfast or lunch?  They obviously aren’t as good of friends as I thought they were, as they were clearly trying to starve me.

Strike one.  (Frick!  I’m giving strikes again.  I have no idea why I do this.)

Matt and I were late to the brunch because we underestimated the time it would take us to walk to the proper subway.  I am a fricking Tom Tom machine with the New York Subway and I can get us anywhere in record speed with minimal transfers.

However, I couldn’t do much about the fact that the closest subway was several blocks away from our hotel, nor could I help the fact that my feet were on fire from walking so much.

Okay, I could have helped in that regard.  It’s called a cab.

We arrived at brunch and found our friends in the back room waiting for us at a table.  The four of them had already ordered drinks (because they’re awesome, and because we were late).

I immediately ran over to greet my friends.  I hadn’t seen them in a few months and we had much to discuss, beginning with important issues such as Mondo winning Project Runway.  (Sorry if I ruined that for any of you, but if you still have that season sitting in your DVR, you aren’t a dedicated fan.)


My friend, Gansavoort (not her real name), is super cool and works as a writer for a very popular fashion publication in New York.  I like to think I’m in her same league as I write this super cool blog that maybe one or two people in New York read.  Similar, right?

Since Gansavoort is in the fashion industry, she always has the cutest, most trendy clothes, and I’m always embarrassed to show up in my dress I got on clearance at Marshalls because it had a stain on the back.

Who am I kidding?  I’m going to get a stain on it anyway, so why not just buy it with a stain and save some cash?

Gansavoort was sitting across the table from me and I rushed over to greet her.  I was carrying my super trendy Vera Wang for Kohl’s bag, which is bulky and fabulous (and from 4 seasons ago).

I leaned over to hug her and it happened.  My bag struck Gansavoort’s bloody mary-filled glass, causing it to spill all over Gansavoort’s amazing (and probably super expensive) dress.

This isn’t the end of the story.  Not at all.  Since I’m an overachiever, and everything I do is full out, the spilled drinks didn’t stop there.  Of course not.  When her glass fell, it struck another glass that was also filled with bloody mary.

dominoIt was a domino effect of alcohol and not in a good way.  It felt like it was in slow motion and I felt like I was yelling “NO!” in super slow motion in that creepy slowed down voice you see on film.

Because I’m no stranger to spilling things on others, I did what I always do when I ruin someone’s dress that costs more than 5 months of my mortgage payments; I laughed and said “yeah, that happened.”

The waiters immediately descended upon our table with towels to clean up the mess.  Unfortunately, they didn’t bring enough, and they had to go back three different times to get more towels to clean up the spillage.

I felt like I was watching an Exxon Mobile cleanup project, only this one wasn’t using taxpayers dollars and hiking up the cost of filling my tank.

The towels began to accumulate on the table and since the drinks were bloody marys, the towels looked like a blood bath had occurred.  I considered looking around for Scarface, but figured even he wouldn’t like the site of all this red.

How do you recover from such an embarrassing incident?  I don’t know.  I’m not sure that I did.  The rest of brunch I felt horrible about the spillage (yet another way I differ from Exxon), and I kept replaying it in my mind.  Why did my purse knock over the drink?

Please recall this is the same purse that spilled water on strangers in Austin.  It was obviously the purse…and obviously Vera Wang’s fault. (Isn’t it always?)

Since Gansavoort is a great person, she hid her annoyance with my spill quite well, although I’m pretty sure I am now crossed off her Christmas card list.  Either way, she should feel somewhat vindicated, as less than two hours later, a pigeon did his business all over my white cardigan.  I would say we’re even.

park benchesCrappy things seem to happen to me.  I don’t mean that sometimes bad things happen to me, although sometimes that’s true (Hello extra 50 pounds…go away.)

I mean that literally, things involving actual crap regularly happen to me. Seriously.  It seems like I’m always physically dealing with crap (or poo, whatever you want to call it.  It’s shit either way you sniff it).

From my shifts at the animal shelter to picking up after my dogs at home to an unfortunate case of the runs after any encounter with White Castle.  (But that place is delicious and I will never stop subjecting my intestines to that toxic goodness.)

No matter what,  I seem to constantly be dealing with some sort of shit.  Literally.

Recently, my husband and I went to New York to visit some friends.  While we were there, we decided to take a stroll down the Hudson River Park.  It’s a park that’s a few miles long and overlooks the Hudson River (hence the clever name).

Since I’m a huge Law and Order fan, I wanted to see the Hudson personally, as that always seems to be where Lenny fishes out a body and then makes a funny pun.  Something like “This guy was just dying to get to the water.”

Okay, that’s a horrible example, but I’m not nearly as clever as Jerry Orbach, may he rest in peace.  Ba Bum.

Anyway, moving back on topic…Seriously people, focus.

So we all decided to walk down Hudson River Park.  We wanted to do this partially to enjoy the day, but also partially to see the freak shows at the park, which would make for good entertainment while making us feel better about our own lives at the same time.  It was a win-win.

We arrived at the park and immediately noticed several people dressed in very strange outfits…costumes, really.  They weren’t so much costumes as just random items glued to sheets or the back of cardboard boxes.

Immediately I got a flash back to the year I decided to go as “static cling” for Halloween and I just pinned a bunch of random things to my body.  These costumes had similar effort put into them, but I’m pretty sure they couldn’t blame their poor artistic ability on a five dollar budget and copious amounts of vodka.

clown at parade

There didn’t appear to be a specific theme to the haphazard costumes although we noticed several of them involved fish and the water.  Naturally we assumed these people were crazy, we just didn’t know to which degree.

We weren’t sure if they were “obsessed with Justin Beiber” crazy or if they were “the call is coming from inside the house” crazy.  Either way, we were intrigued and wanted to find out.

We noticed a flyer taped to the pier advertising a parade that was to begin shortly.  Perfect.  These people were obviously part of a larger production and we wanted to see more of it.  And of course, that’s the one day I left my flask at home.  Frick!

Despite our lack of libations, we decided to stay and enjoy the show anyway.  We walked a bit longer and then found a spot in the grass on the parade route.

Just as we were settled in, ready to begin reigning judgment on those in the parade, I heard my husband yell “Oh shit.”  I looked over at him and said “What’s with you?”

At that point he said in a completely monotone voice “A bird just shit all over me.”  Just as I was getting ready to laugh at him uncontrollably, he followed it up with “And it shit all over you too.”

Um, what?!  I was wearing a white sweater that I just purchased for the trip.

Ironically, the new sweater was a direct result of a permanent stain I got on my last white sweater.  (The stain was on the back of the sweater and I have no idea what it is or how it got there.  It will remain a mystery that haunts me…at least until the next unidentified stain crisis.)

I looked over my left shoulder and discovered my husband was correct.  I was covered in bird shit.  The worst part was that it wasn’t even normal bird shit (as if there is such a thing).  This bird has serious diarrhea and needed to learn the importance of a high fiber diet.

It obviously had some White Castle for lunch and was suffering from some serious anal leakage.  (Believe me pigeon, we’ve all been there…)

chick with pigeons

This woman has clearly never been crapped on by pigeons. I guarantee if she had, she wouldn’t be such a fan. Well, maybe she would. This woman looks creepy.

I looked over to our friends to see if they were also ambushed by the diuretic pigeon, but both of them were unscathed by the attack.  How is that possible?

The New Yorkers narrowly missed the shit storm.  Literally.  It was a mini storm of shit.  Perfect.  Of course the bird got me.  Of course it did.

The bird managed to hit two different places on my husband’s head.  Since he shaves his head, (my husband, not the bird.  I can’t comment as to this particular bird’s hairstyle), it was easy for him to clean it off and become poop-free for the rest of the day.  I wasn’t so lucky.

One of our friends told me not to try to clean it off, as he said it would be easier to remove the stain later if I just let it dry.  I wasn’t sure if he was correct.  That logic made sense, but part of me thought he told me that just so I would walk around all day with shit on my shoulder.

Immediately, I began singing John Denver’s “Sunshine  on my shoulder” but changed the lyrics to “Bird shit on my shoulder makes me icky….”

I figured the best way to deal with it was to hold my nose, laugh it off, and enjoy the rest of the day.  And that’s exactly what I did.  I didn’t want to ruin my day because of one pigeon’s case of the trots (or should I say “the flutters” in the case of this bird).

I shook it off and didn’t think about it again.  If people wanted to judge me, so be it.  But the real people they should judge were the people walking around NYC with a girl with bird shit all over her.


This wasn’t the same night we went to the theater, although this was one of the nights we were in NYC. I would never wear denim to the theater. I’m classier than that (and I spilled wine on that jacket.)

While in New York, my husband wanted to see a Broadway show. Since I’m super important, I’ve already been to some Broadway shows, but since I’m also an awesome wife, I agreed to go with him to another show. (I’m such a giver.)

We got tickets to see Phillip Seymour Hoffmann in “Death of a Salesman.” Okay, he got a ticket to see Hoffmann in the play and I got a ticket to see the dreamy guy who is going to play Spiderman in the upcoming movie. Dreamy guy is also known as Andrew Garfield, which is interesting as I wanted to yell out cat calls every time I saw him.  Rar!!!

He plays one of the sons, Biff, in the play, and at times he was even shirtless…talk about a show!  Those scenes were worth the ridiculous price of admission although I must admit I was a little sad he wasn’t wearing spandex in the play. (Seriously, I’m pretty sure Biff Loman would have rocked out the tights.)

We headed to the theater before the show started. (Note: The word “theater” is to be announced in an uppity British accent, as that’s the way I always pronounce it.) We arrived and noticed the doors weren’t open yet.

Naturally, I looked for the VIP entrance. In St. Louis, I’m kind of a big deal, and I get to go to the theater there as a VIP. Yeah, I know. Awesome right? Being a VIP has gotten me used to the finer things in life, like private bathrooms and toilet paper that’s more than 2 ply.

I looked around for the VIP entrance and didn’t see one. I asked one of the snooty women waiting outside the door where the VIP entrance was and she looked at me as if I was crazy (as if I was the one wearing a hat and mom jeans to a Broadway show.  I was smart enough to leave my mom jeans back at the hotel).

Snooty woman with poor taste in denim said there was no VIP entrance, and we all needed to go in the same doors when they opened.  Um, what?

Not wanting to make a scene, I agreed to go in the same doors as everyone else (but I wasn’t happy about it).  As soon as the doors opened, however, I then pushed my way to the front of the line and entered the theater first.  What else was I supposed to do?

Since our tickets were super pricey, and more than the cost of our flights, I assumed we either had front row tickets, or our seats were actually on the stage, and Willy Loman himself would be dancing around us.

I headed to the front of the theater to look for our rock-star seats.  I was irritated I had to wait in line with the commoners, but I felt vindicated that I would at least have VIP seating once inside the theater.  (Are you reading that in the uppity British accent?  You should be.)

An usher in poorly fitting pants stopped me and asked to see my ticket.  Obviously this guy wasn’t familiar with the St. Louis Newlins.  I showed him my ticket and he said we needed to go upstairs.  Of course!  How could I be so stupid?  We obviously had box seats.

Duh.  I felt like such a fool.  I apologized to him and headed upstairs to find my special seat and (hopefully) a vodka and water.  All this waiting made a girl thirsty.

We walked up what seemed to be approximately 50 steps, and found a set of more ushers.  Seriously, the theater wasn’t that big.  Perhaps the price of admission was so steep because the theater had to pay 100 ushers to work each show.

An usher pointed us to our seats and I told her there was some mistake.  She pointed to seats in the top mezzanine, which I was pretty sure were actually located on 50th Street instead of 42nd Street.  Seriously?!  Our seats were all the way up there?  Frickety frick!

I considered taking off my heels to begin the climb to our seats but thought better of it and hiked the trek in heels, all the while wondering which step would be the one to make me fall.

Surprisingly, I made it to our seats without incident (unless you count accidentally flashing my behind that was shoved into a pair of Spanx to the people behind me as an incident. Sadly, I do this quite regularly and don’t think this qualifies as an “incident.”  I’m sure the people behind me would disagree.)

We sat there for a few minutes and then I realized I should use the restroom before the show started.  Since we paid a second mortgage to come to the show, I needed to see every second of this depressing play.

I headed down to the main level and asked where the ladies room was located.  I was told it was in the basement, just like every restroom in New York City.

I made my descent to the bowels of the theater and immediately found the restroom.  It was conveniently located next to the bar.  Because I didn’t want to be rude to the bartender, I grabbed a drink after leaving the restroom.  I didn’t want to insult the man.  He was already wearing a cumber bun.  How much more humiliation could the guy take?

I headed to the steps, drink in hand, and began the climb.  After about 5 steps, my thighs began shaking and I realized I wasn’t in the kind of shape I thought I was in (and believe me, I don’t fool myself into thinking I’m in shape at all).

After another 5 steps I realized I was short of breath.  I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. I  figured a sip of my vodka would refresh me enough to make the rest of the trip.  Not so much.

I continued up what appeared to be an endless amount of steps.  With each step, my thighs burned a little more, my chest heaved a little more, and my will to live died a little more.  After the third flight of stairs I didn’t care if I ever returned to my seat; I just wanted the pain in my quads to subside.

girl yawningI figured if I died right there of exhaustion, the heading of the news story would read something like “Death of a fat girl at Death of a Salesman.”  I decided I was fine with that heading as long as it resulted in a push to install elevators in the theater. It would be my legacy.  If I couldn’t traverse these horrid steps, how could anyone over the age of 65?

Just about that time I saw two women whiz past me who were clearly AARP members (and no stranger to the 4:00 dinner buffet).  Neither woman had any problem walking up the mountainous steps, and neither one of them offered to help a sister out.  These theater types were quite rude.

After what felt like 30 minutes of cardio, I arrived back at our seats, confident I would get a nosebleed from the change in altitude.  My husband looked at me, concerned, and asked what took so long.

Naturally, I told him what anyone else would tell their husband.  I said that someone choked on an M&M at the concession stand and I had to resuscitate them and then run outside to flag down an ambulance.


At a sandbar in the Financial District overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge. Yes, those are couches that glow, and yes, we have awesome friends who took us to this super secretive place. Otherwise, we would have ended up at an Applebee’s.

My husband and I just went to New York City for some good old-fashioned fun (and also because we apparently just LOVE getting blisters on our feet).

We are no stranger to this city, although we certainly aren’t hard-core New Yorkers who yell into their iPhones and rock out to their iPads without even noticing someone is standing next to them. However, in our recent trips, we’ve realized there are a few simple rules you should follow if you want to not look like a tourist in New York.

2nd attempt at nyc picture1. Always look annoyed with other people

This is a sure-fire way to make you look like a New Yorker. Just today, there was a group of menopausal woman trying to buy a Metro Pass. Between the five of them, they couldn’t figure out how to load a card into the machine to get a subway pass.

Their failure to understand the card purchase was super annoying (and disturbing, as I’m sure these women raised children at some point). My irritation got the best of me, so I did what any New Yorker would do; I huffed loudly, found another machine, pushed my way in, reloaded my card and stormed off in an irritated fashion.

It was exhilarating! Those women didn’t even know what hit them and before they could look up, I was headed downtown on the 2 train. I’m sure they will go back to their one-horse town and talk about the rude New Yorker who pushed through the subway line. Success!

2. Don’t stare up in awe at the buildings

Tourists seem to be wide-eyed about everything New York. True New Yorkers don’t give a crap about the buildings because they’re always late. It’s just a regular day for them and they don’t have time to look impressed or excited.  They need their grande iced double shot espresso with skim milk ASAP. And don’t even THINK of making it not skinny. Seriously. They will cut you for that. They’ve cut someone for far less.

3. Don’t stare at the subway maps

New Yorkers don’t need the subway maps. They have those routes permanently engraved in their memory.

If you need to figure out which line to take, download a subway app and casually look at it on your phone in between stops. It will make you look inconspicuous, and will also allow you to avoid eye contact with the crazy people on the train pandering for money, alleging they’re broke, yet forgetting that we all know they had at least a few bucks to enter the subway.

4. Wear trendy clothes

This is where I really struggle. n a city where Chanel bags are king, your Vera Wang from Kohl’s won’t turn any heads…or at least not for the right reasons.

5. Don’t be a wuss

Do I really need to explain this one? If so, then you shouldn’t even book a trip to New York, as you will be eaten alive before you leave the airport. No one cares that your feet hurt or that you’re chaffed from walking through the Village.

Shut up and move.

matt and lisa outside car

I don’t keep my car tidy.  I don’t even keep it picked up.  Honestly, I have no idea what’s living in my vehicle, but I’m pretty sure there’s enough mold to make at least one dose of penicillin that would kill just about anything (or at least Paris Hilton’s latest bout with the clap).

I would like to have a clean car; believe me, I would.  I just honestly don’t know how to master that feat.  (I guess I should start by not throwing half-used water bottles into the back seat.)

I usually don’t have regular riders in my car.  It’s not just because I prefer to drive alone so I can roll down the window when I get too gassy.  It’s also because my car is a complete disaster.

Those people who know me well just know this about me.  We don’t discuss it, we just agree to take someone else’s vehicle.  It’s kind of like the elephant in the room…or the Hardees bag in the back seat (isn’t that a saying?)

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t drive one of those cars where the trash is piled up so high that there is only a small space for the driver to get in, most likely to drive himself off a cliff during a psychotic episode.  It’s not like that at all (although sometimes I want to throw myself off a cliff when listening to Diane Rhem from NPR).

I can see out my windows and all seats are available…they are just difficult to get to at times. And don’t worry, I got that smell taken care of some time ago.

stuffed carI went on a work trip recently with several of my colleagues.  We all came from different offices to meet in the ever-so-exciting town of Indianapolis.  I decided to drive since it’s easier and there’s no limit to what luggage I bring, and whether my lotion is in a 3 ounce container.

(I also am still on a “heightened alert” list since that recent incident where I may have gotten sassy with a TSA official.  Hypothetically.)

My other colleagues from other offices flew (they are obviously not considered a threat to national security), and then they got a cab from the airport to the hotel.

The night I arrived, I stayed in my room making sweet sweet love to a chocolate mousse cake I ordered from room service, and then told the delivery man I was going to split it with my husband.  I think he knew I was lying, but he played along.

We met in the lobby of the hotel the next morning after I shamelessly scarfed down an omelet and hasbrowns in the comfort of my room, which was a judgment-free zone.  (Yes, I did need to eat the entire omelet, and the hashbrowns and BOTH pieces of toast.  Don’t judge.)

As we sat around waiting for all my colleagues to arrive, one of them said something to me about driving.  Yes, I agreed.  I would be driving myself to the meeting.  I suppose I just didn’t think about how the others would get to the meeting.  Maybe I assumed they would simply arrive without reference to travel, just like Batman.

“No,” Tom Bodett replied.  (Okay, Tom Bodett isn’t his real name, but his voice sounds exactly like Tom Bodett from those Motel 6 commercials.  I like to make him say “We’ll leave the light on for ya.”  He’s never amused with this, although I find it hysterical.)  “We will all be going in your car” Bodett said.

Wait, what?  I felt like he said it in slow motion.  Every thing slowed down and it took me a minute to process what he was saying.  Some of the delay in processing could have been due to the copious amount of Benedryl and Sudafed I had just ingested to mask the misery of my sinus infection.  I was practically a walking meth lab, only without the trailer park and burning hair smell.  (Okay, maybe a little of the burning hair smell.)

“Um,” I responded quickly.  (Yes, that’s the best response I could muster.  I’m not that great under pressure when the sinus pressure in my head could fill up the tire of a small riding lawnmower.)  “You are more than welcome to ride in my car with me, but you can’t judge me for how messy my car is,” I said, silently cursing myself for not even attempting to remove the trash heap in my back seat floorboards.

“It’s no big deal,” Tom Bedett said.  “I live out of my car too.”

Yeah, right.  He obviously didn’t know what he was in for, and I was just too sick to worry about it.  The valet brought my car around and attempted to put my luggage in the trunk.

kid in carseat

He returned to me with an expression of exasperation and exhaustion and I gave him a few extra bucks for his troubles, and told him to speak of the disarray of my car to no one.

I figured a few bucks of hush money was worth it.  I considered telling him to buy himself something pretty, but thought better of it.

We all walked to my car.  I walked slightly ahead of them hoping to get there early to clean out the car.  I don’t know what I thought I would accomplish in the 10 seconds I was there before the others arrived, but I felt like I at least needed to hope for a small miracle.

Perhaps the valet had miraculously cleaned out my car.  No such luck.

I opened the door to the backseat and saw the usual…papers covered in dog hair, bottles of water in varying degrees of consumption, a wadded up comforter for the dogs to sleep on, a variety of dog toys, and random receipts, napkins and Fiber One bar wrappers.

Perhaps what was most embarrassing was the pair of wadded up Spanx that were on the floor in plain site.  They were there from almost a year ago when I spoke at a convention and took them off because I couldn’t breathe and seriously thought they broke one of my ribs.

Those torturous pieces of Spandex remained in my car on the floor, where they were supposed to be.

But at that moment, I wished I would have burned them in a cleansing ritual, just as I would have liked.

I began grabbing things from the backseat and throwing them into the trunk…or at least trying to throw them into the trunk.  My trunk was packed full with briefcases for work, dryer sheets to make the car smell nice, random dog food, dog treats and water bowls, and what was most likely pieces of a wardrobe from every season of the year.

I was able to put a few things in the trunk before announcing to the group that they were going to have to stuff into the car and then hold onto their baggage.  (Not their emotional baggage, although I’m pretty sure at least one of them was holding onto some serious stuff, but that’s another blog for another day.)

You haven’t been embarrassed until you’ve seen your coworkers scrunched in your car, wrinkling their suits with their luggage, and avoiding eye contact with you so they don’t give away their true feelings about how you treat your car like a waste basket.

I felt like I needed to at least point out that although my car was a mess, my house was clean.  Strangely enough, this is actually true.  My house is always clean, tidy and picked up, although my car always looks like a tornado went through it.  I like to think it’s the ying and the yang of my life.

They all piled in the car with their suits and luggage, and although they didn’t say anything, I could actually hear them judging me internally.  I wish I cared.  I really do.

But all I could think about was how much my head actually weighed with the extra pounds of sinus drainage and if the additional pounds were the cause of my recent weight gain.  (It had to be…it definitely couldn’t have been all that room service.)

We arrived at our location and when the doors to the car opened, my coworkers literally fell out of the car with their luggage.  I looked down and one of the empty water bottles escaped the back seat.  It was most likely jumping to freedom and I didn’t blame it.  I looked at my coworkers and reminded them not to judge me and that I was super busy and important, and didn’t have time to clean my car.

They pretended like they didn’t care, but I saw one of them check to see if there was trash clinging to the back of her dress.  (It wasn’t an unrealistic concern.)

I would like to say my coworkers didn’t tell on me and my disgusting car, but I have a feeling they did.  If I get a gift certificate for a car detailing from my employer this year for Christmas, I will know those blabber mouths ratted me out.


I love to mess with my husband.  I don’t know if it’s my inner bully that compels me to do this, or if it’s just because I love watching him squirm.

Whatever the reason, I’m sure I should probably talk to someone about it in a professional environment.

But since my insurance is most likely maxed out on therapy sessions for me, it’s something I won’t ever explore with a licensed therapist.  (I’m pretty sure I’ve used up all my allowable sessions for issues like “Why doesn’t my hair grow past my shoulders?” and “Is Tupac really dead?”)

I’m sure I’m going to hell for the way I treat him sometimes.  But then again, I’m probably going to hell for pretty much everything I did during college, so I figure as long as I’m headed there, I might as well make the best of it while on Earth.

We are getting ready to go on a trip to New York City, and I recently realized we need new luggage.  I don’t mean that our luggage looks a little tattered, I mean that it is missing wheels and if we try to take it through security one more time we are going to be red flagged as terrorists.

Since I was recently placed on the heightened security list due to an unfortunate incident with diarrhea and a sassy TSA official with a power trip and a bathroom key, I knew we couldn’t take any chances with security.  New luggage was a necessity.  National security depended on it.

I headed to the store to find us some luggage that would be more durable than what we had before.  I was interested in the hard top luggage, as it is has a hard exterior shell (kind of like that chocolate liquid you put on ice cream that turns hard when it dries…  Great, now I want ice cream).

The reason I wanted the more durable luggage isn’t so much because I care if it gets destroyed in transit, but mostly because I want something sturdy to sit on while I wait for a cab, and that cloth stuff just isn’t cutting it.  (I think I may have also just found the reason why our luggage wears out so quickly…)

I got to the store and looked at the wide variety of luggage.  There were standard grey and black pieces, but I didn’t want those.  I like to be able to easily identify my luggage as it comes down the baggage carousel and grey and black luggage are the same colors as every other piece of baggage on the machine.

I want ones that really pop.  Our current luggage pops, but not in the way I like.  It literally pops open, which isn’t cool (not to mention that it lets the world know that I sometimes wear granny panties.  Deal with it).

I looked for something with bright colors that would be easily identifiable from a distance.  Nothing heightens anxiety for me more than staring at the baggage drop watching intently while each new piece of luggage drops down the chute.

Sometimes I like to place bets with my husband about which color of luggage will drop next.  Come to think of it, perhaps that gambling thing is another issue I should talk to a therapist about, but will most likely fill a session with questions about what it means that I secretly find Leland from Dog the Bounty Hunter attractive instead.

I looked around and then I saw them.  The perfect two pieces of luggage for us.  They were loud, they were colorful…and they were super girly.  Immediately I knew I must have them.  How could I resist these hearts and flowers?  Um, I couldn’t.

I pulled the luggage around the store to make sure they rolled appropriately and didn’t catch.  (Did you really think I wouldn’t take them for a test drive?)  Because I’m not a totally horrible person, I also grabbed two red pieces of luggage and headed to the check out.

I got home, pulled out the flashy pieces and brought them in the house.  I told my husband I found the perfect pieces of luggage for our trip and asked him to come check them out.  He walked into the room where the eye sores were located.  He stared at the pieces in awe and I swear I saw a tear roll down his face.

“What are these?” he asked, afraid to approach the flashy pieces.

“They were the only hard top luggage in the sizes we needed,” I responded without missing a beat.  “Just don’t look directly at them, as they have a warning label that says they could induce seizures,” I said, trying to make light of the situation.

“Come on.  You’re joking.” He said, as he slowly approached them.  “Where is our real luggage?”

“This really is it.  It’s all they had.  Sorry babe,” I said, trying to sound sincere.  “But if anyone call pull off walking through the airport with these bags, it’s you.” I said, trying to stroke his ego.  I then pulled the luggage into the second bedroom so we could begin using it to pack.  I didn’t look back at him as I didn’t want him to know this was a joke and I wasn’t really planning on using a third grader’s luggage to go on a trip.

I’m planning on revealing the red luggage to him the night before we leave in some dramatic fashion.  I haven’t figured out how I will make the big reveal, but I’m hoping he will be so excited about the new luggage that he won’t even notice my recent shopping spree on new orthopedic shoes.  This plan is perfect.  Let’s just hope he doesn’t read this blog…

day at the spa

I enjoy the finer things in life.  It’s why I refuse to buy the store brand of peanut butter.  (Don’t even think of convincing me that stuff tastes anything like Jif.)  I have become accustomed to a certain life style.  Wait, perhaps I should clarify.

I like things that make me feel good (and full).  I have no problem spending money on things that fall into those categories.  However, things that don’t fall into those categories typically fall by the waste side.  It’s why you will never see me wearing an outfit free of at least one stain or deodorant mark, and why I consider anything less than 5 years old “totally in fashion this season.”

But when it comes to pampering myself, I cut no corners.  I’m a regular spa goer and I don’t care who knows it.  (Okay, maybe a little I care, as I took a spa day recently on a Thursday, and I don’t want my boss to know.  But aside from him…I don’t care who knows it!)

I decided I needed a break from the day-to-day drudgery that is my life, which basically consists of working, complaining, and cleaning up dog excrement.

To reward myself for not totally losing my mind, and for not cursing out the dry cleaners for what I can only describe as date rape on my checkbook, I booked myself a 90 minute massage at The Four Seasons and set out for a day of relaxation and serious price gouging.  (Five dollars for a Diet Coke and it doesn’t even have alcohol in it?  No thank you!)

On my way to the spa, I called in my order for lunch.  I realized this made me look like a total douche to the staff, but I didn’t care.  I figured if I worked in a spa, I would consider all the patrons total douchebages regardless of whether they pre-ordered a salad or not.

I was prepared to deal with their judging eyes.  I was used to it, since I always request a man’s robe when I get there.  (They are so much roomier and have bigger pockets to steal the free mints.)

I arrived, checked in and headed to the locker room.  The attendant followed me, despite the fact she knew I was a regular customer.  Perhaps my stained sweatpants and disheveled hair suggested I was someone who might steal a towel or two (I was).

outside spaWhen we got to the locker area, she looked at me and said “Do you remember how to work the lockers?”

Um, do I remember how to operate something that requires only minimal finger dexterity and the IQ of one of those sweet bottles of lotion I was going to swipe?  Yeah, I got it.  I told her I could handle it and she walked away.

I switched into my robe and headed to one of the relaxation rooms to wait for my food.  I sat down and began chatting with two women who were also getting their relaxation on.  They just had massages and seemed totally relaxed (the bottle of wine they were sharing seemed to be helping in that regard).

I liked them immediately.  We began doing what I call “the spa talk,” which is where we all pretend that being at the spa is a totally normal thing and we aren’t totally freaking out inside because the bath towels smell like eucalyptus.

(Seriously, how do they do that?  And now you know why I steal.)   The “spa talk” typically includes comments about other spas and services, which is just a way for the spa goer to legitimize themselves to another spa person.  It’s like how the mafia is with foot soldiers, or how Jessica Simpson is with everyone.

We chatted for a while and then I was called away for my lunch, which was a $28 vegetarian Cobb salad with a water.  Seriously.  That’s what it cost.  I’m convinced they are in cahoots with my dry cleaner.

I scarfed down the salad in approximately 3 bites, and then to fill myself up, ate the entire basket of bread.  Did you really think I would eat just a salad for lunch?  Oh, that’s so cute.

I was then “collected” for my massage by my favorite masseuse, Mary, who is older than my mom but has hands like a Hungarian baker.  I love her and her outdated Birkenstocks (even I know those are out of style.  Get with it Mary.)

After the service I changed into my suit and headed out to the pool for some sun (and a nap).  I walked through the cafe area on my way to the pool and noticed the two women I spoke to earlier.  They were finishing up their lunches and drinking what I can only assume was another bottle of wine.

We chatted about my service and how fabulous it was.  I told them I was headed to the pool for some fresh air (and because I was gassy) and that they should join me, but sit downwind.  They agreed and collected their things.  As they did so, I looked at one of the other tables and noticed a full glass of champagne, along with an empty glass and an open bottle.

“What’s the story here?” I asked, as I slid over to the table.

“Oh, a woman sat there waiting for a guy who never came.  She drank her glass and then left,” they said, with pity in their voice for the girl who was ignored and was most likely in the bathroom cutting herself at that exact moment.

I wanted to feel sorry for her.  I did.  But all that came out was “So….where are we on this champagne?”

They looked at me and one of them said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we…”

champagne photoBefore they finished the sentence I picked up the full glass of bubbly and took a drink.  It was delicious, and definitely didn’t taste like the $2.99 gas station brand of which I’ve grown to love.

I looked up at them, expecting to see judgment in their eyes.  Instead, I found approval.  Without another word, we all 3 moved quickly, grabbed glasses and the bottle of champagne and headed to the pool on the roof.

We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking someone else’s champagne, chatting, and enjoying the sun and the pool.  The three of us realized we got along great, and had similar personalities (the similarity being that we were all awesome).

When the day drew to a close (which was coincidentally when the alcohol ran out), we said our goodbyes and parted ways.  But not before scheduling another spa day for the three of us.  No joke.

We are scheduled to return in three weeks, and this time, we are hoping two different women get stood up for lunch.  Although would it kill a girl to order a bottle of Grey Goose instead of champagne next time?  Here’s to hoping!

I’m not a huge hockey fan, but what I am a fan of is dimples and a sexy butt. (This is one of the primary reasons I married my husband. That, and he’s a really good dancer.) I don’t follow hockey regularly, (if I want to watch two people beat each other up, I’ll just watch my neighbors get into it across the street…and the hot dogs and beer are cheaper at my house).

However, I feel like as a St. Louis resident, I should at least be able to identify the regular players on the St. Louis Blues hockey team. Not so much to talk to them about hockey, but to reserve judgment if they talk to me and (1) sound hoosier and (2) are missing teeth.

One of the most dreamy of the St. Louis Blues is the assistant captain, Alex Steen. Yummy. I feel like I should insert some lame joke here about how I wouldn’t mind melting the ice with that hottie, or make some inappropriate comment about a word that rhymes with puck.

But I’m classy, and you expect more from me out of a blog post, so I won’t stoop to that level. You’re welcome.

steen.pngLast week I went on a date with Alex Steen. Okay, well maybe he didn’t see it as a date, but I did. I talked to my husband about it, so don’t think you need to keep this dirty little secret for me (although that would be a great way to find out if he reads my blog).

The date occurred last Monday night. Okay, I realize Monday night isn’t a typical date night, but I’m no typical girl. It started out as a meeting for an animal rescue group I work with.

It was at a restaurant/bar and we had our meeting initially, and then a handful of people (the dedicated ones), stayed to drink more. Hey, we wanted to support the establishment for supporting our cause.

Later in the evening is when my date, Alex Steen, stopped by. And although I was a few drinks in, I can assure you it was him. Other people saw us together and they can corroborate.

I promise. Granted, we were sitting around with a group of about five of us, but I’m pretty sure this evening counted as a date with Alex Steen. Here’s why:

1. He paid for my dinner and drinks

Okay, so he paid for everyone’s dinner and drinks, but whatever. That’s just the kind of guy he is. I secretly think he paid the tab because he heard about the kind of girl I used to be, and was hoping to get some over-the-shirt boob action. (He totally could have).

How many dates do you go on where the guy pays for the meal and drinks? If you’re a smart dater, (and I am), those are the only dates you go on. If a guy doesn’t pay on the first date, then I didn’t return his call for the second. Any guy I went out with needed to learn early that this girl likes to eat, and he was going to have to support that habit.

Picking up the tab on a first date is customary when the guy is interested in the woman and wants to see more of her. This is obviously what happened here.

steen and dog

2. He touched my leg more than once

Yeah, that’s right. He touched my leg. I shall never wash those pants again…if only they were my Pajama Jeans! Several times throughout the night his hand and arm brushed upon my leg.

I’m sure he will say it was an accident, and we were sitting so close that it was inevitable that he would brush up against me from time to time. But we all know the truth. He wanted a piece of this sassy body comprised of Chipotle, vodka, and rocky road ice cream.

He sooo wanted me.

3. We talked about our common interests

Here he is rescuing a puppy with the rescue I work with.

Here he is rescuing a puppy with the rescue I work with.

I love dogs. Shocking, right? Guess who else loves dogs? Alex Steen! We are a perfect match! I mean, how many people on this planet share a love of dogs?

Wait…um…that might be a lot…but he shares my love of this particular rescue I volunteer with, which rescues abandoned, abused, and stray animals. Doesn’t that equal a love connection?

I mean, many of my friends also love this organization and I’m not planning our weekend getaway together (it would be at a Four Seasons resort and spa), but Alex and I share a true bond.

Just ask him.

4. He laughed at my jokes

Isn’t that another sign of a good first date? He regularly laughed at my jokes and even engaged in discussion with me.

Okay, maybe they weren’t so much jokes, as just sentences I made; and maybe they weren’t so much sentences as incoherent comments with a string of conjunctions strewn in between.

Whatever the reason, he was laughing at the same time I was, which is fine with me. Whomever said “as long as they are laughing with you and not at you” is an idiot and has clearly never laid eyes on Alex Steen.

5. He looked longingly into my eyes

Yes, he looked longingly. Okay, maybe it wasn’t longingly so much as he was looking in my eyes to see if I was sober enough to drive home, but either way, he looked into my eyes. Can you say that about the dreamy Steenster? (That’s my new nickname for him. We totally hit it off.)

He obviously cares about me as he didn’t want me to drive home if I wasn’t sober enough to do so. He really has my back and obviously wanted me to be safe so he can see me again soon. I’m sure it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that he is in the middle of playoffs for the Stanley Cup and he didn’t want to be associated with scandal that would result in his “girlfriend” getting in a car accident.

He probably just didn’t want the stress of worrying about me when he needs to focus on the game. He’s such a caring guy.

So there you have it; all the reasons why last Monday I had a date with Alex Steen. Don’t be too jealous, as you can watch him on TV as you root for The St. Louis Blues in the playoffs.

But hands off the Steenster. He’s mine.