touching at bar

I’m not a flirt.  Not even a little bit (unless milk stains and random winks due to contact malfunctions are considered flirting.  If so, then I’m a total hoe-bag).

I have no idea how to be sexy and the only time I’m remotely attractive is when I come home from the hairdresser with “sassy hair” (which immediately gives me an attitude and forces me to call everyone a beotch…even my husband).

Not only do I not know how to flirt, I don’t understand when someone flirts with me.  It just doesn’t take.  I’m actually pretty sure no one flirts with me except for maybe the homeless men I deal with, but I’m confident they don’t want to get into my pants for anything more than the Fiber One bar I’m stashing there.  (Think again boys.  I’m not that easy.)

Flirting never crosses my mind.  I don’t think it ever did.  I have no idea how I managed to snag my husband, but flirting wasn’t involved at all…just low cut shirts.  I’m lucky he’s a boob guy.

So today when I was driving back from an out of town obligation, I didn’t think twice when a guy in his thirties drove past me, turned his neck back and waved profusely.  I couldn’t see much of his face, but what I saw I didn’t recognize.

I had to take a moment to consider whether he was waving at me to say hello, or perhaps waving with a few less digits and telling me to f-off.  (It was a valid concern.  I’ve got a lead foot.  Seriously.  It’s lead.  It has a plate in it.)

We continued driving on the highway, and I moved over to the fast lane to pass him (homeboy obviously didn’t have cruise control).  As I passed him I looked over at him and once again, he smiled and waved ferociously at me.  What?  Who is this guy?  Is he trying to tell me something?  Is my tire flat?  Is Timmy trapped in the well?

As I passed him, I realized that I totally knew who he was.  I’m an idiot!  Of course!  It was a guy I hadn’t seen in a while, and that’s why it took me so long to recognize him.  Well didn’t I feel like a horse’s ass? (But not Columbus’s ass, because that horse is awesome…and tiny).  I decided to make up for my rudeness by pulling back and letting him pass me again so I could look at him and wave hello.  My brilliant tactic worked and I saw him approaching.  (Duh, it was a brilliant plan.)

Shortly after slowing down, he pulled up next to me.  Just as he did so I pointed at him, smiled, and then waved at him in an exaggerated way, my flabby arms flailing in the wind.  And in that split second after I waved and pointed, I realized it wasn’t who I thought it was.

It wasn’t anyone I knew.  It was a perfect stranger I was pointing and waving at and he was totally digging it.  Oops.  Oh well, I figured if anything else, I waved to a guy and perhaps brightened his day.

baby wavingApparently I not only brightened his day, I turned the flood lights on it and shone them directly into his car.  Desperate Driver got overly excited with my frantic wave and smile and returned it with a wave and a blown kiss.  Yes, he actually blew a kiss…as an adult man…to another adult…while operating a car.

I considered pretending to catch it and then throw it out the window, but Desperate Driver seemed like that might send him and his Jetta over the edge, so I refrained. Rather, I sped up to get away from him (and the kisses he blew.  I didn’t know him like that).

Just when I thought I was out of his sight, he sped up once again and drove up next to me.  I’m not sure what the proper etiquitte for car flirting is, but I got the feeling he wanted me to show some side boob.  I knew that wasn’t something I was interested in doing (at least not intentionally), so I held up my left hand as he drove past in the hopes that my wedding ring would throw him off the trail.

If anything, this tactic made him want me more.  I was forbidden fruit…only the good kind.  Not the moldy stuff in the fridge that you refuse to throw out for some reason.  My bling made him want me even more.  I was completely trapped.  I wanted to pull off at the next exit, collect myself (and refresh my Diet Coke), but I knew I couldn’t take an exit because he would think I was inviting him to do the nasty in a Walmart parking lot.

I had to think quickly about my options, as Desperate Driver would be back for more and I had to be ready for him.  I formulated a plan.  It wasn’t a McGyver plan (only because I didn’t have dental floss, a tampon string and a book of matches, otherwise, it would have totally been McGyver style).

Instead, I decided to drive really slow so he would eventually get sick of driving near me, speed up, and drive away. I knew Desperate Driver wanted to fly down the highway at 78 miles per hour and didn’t want to be held back by a blonde going the speed limit.

Fortunately it worked, although there were moments that driving the speed limit actually tested my sanity and I considered speeding up, knowing it would result in more flirting with DD.  However, I stayed strong and eventually he got sick of driving slow, sped up, blew me one last fleeting kiss and drove out of my life forever.

I woud like to say I was sad to see him go, but I wasn’t.  His waves and kisses made me feel dirty and cheap, and I’m better than that.  If he really wanted to woo me, he would have had me pull over at the local truck stop and ordered me buscuits and gravy.  Now that’s the kind of flirting I could get on board with.  I guess that’s why me and Desperate Driver are never meant to be.

Rachel's Not-So-Fun RunMy husband and I live fairly close to a walking trail that we occasionally frequent.  Before you go getting all proud of me for venturing out into nature on a walking trail, you should know the “trail” is paved and completely flat. It’s more like a path.

Doing any sort of walking (except for that done from the parking lot to Chipotle) is not my idea of a good time, so walking on this concrete path is the only way I will be one with nature.

We recently decided to take our three dogs for a walk on this trail.  I would like to say it’s because we care about exercise and wanted to get our dogs some fresh air,  but I would be lying if I said that.

The truth is that we believe tired dogs are happy dogs, and this trail usually wears them out.  (It also gives me an excuse to eat S’mores later in the evening…you know…cuz I worked out and stuff.)

We grabbed the leashes for the dogs which resulted in the typical mayhem it always induces.  We walk our dogs every single day without fail.  And every single day when we get those leashes out, it’s as if it’s the first time they’ve ever been given the right to leave the house.  Barking begins and celebratory runs around the house mark the beginning of the daily walk.  I’m pretty sure there’s a fist pump (or paw pump) in there as well.

Upon arriving at the trail, we began our walk. Naturally, I began complaining about wanting to go home as soon as my foot hit the trail.  I also considered faking a leg cramp but knew my husband would see right through it.  He knows me so well.

We started walking the paved path with our dogs and did what any happily married couple in love would do while on a walk:  we watched other people.  Um, I live with that guy, I don’t need to know his every thought. (It’s boobs.)  I’d rather look at the creepy dudes walking a great dane and figure out their story and if their wives knew they’re gay.

As we finished up some snarky comments about the woman coming towards us who clearly had never met a sports bra, we saw a family approaching.  That wasn’t a strange sighting, but the fact the entire family was running was particularly odd.  Well, not the entire family…there was one straggler.  Her name was Rachel.  How do I know this?  Because her mother yelled it incessantly in between gasps of air.

Rachel was about 12 years old and she was not happy to be running.  I felt her pain, as I wasn’t happy to be walking, so I couldn’t imagine how annoyed she was being pushed to jog.  However, Rachel didn’t hide her displeasure with exercise as well as I did (probably because she couldn’t mask hers with vodka like I do).

Rather, Rachel threw a tantrum that was completely enjoyable to watch and it made me wish I hadn’t removed the snack packs from my pocket before the walk.  (Okay, I didn’t remove them, Matt did.  And ironically, the snacks I packed were trail mix.)

If a normal person didn’t want to run any longer, the logical thing to do would be to stop running (and then kick whomever forced you to run in the crotch).  Is that what Rachel did?  Of course not.  Rachel took a different approach to her uprising.  Instead of stopping, she kept running.  Illogical, right?

But she took it one step further (no pun intended).  To demonstrate her dislike for the activity, she ran off the paved path and down into the ditch about three feet below the path.  Did she stop in the ditch to catch her breath?  No.  THAT BITCH KEPT RUNNING!

What?!  Matt and I were intrigued by this behavior and picked up our pace to keep up with Rachel, who was obviously a rebel and a rogue (only far more intelligent than Sarah Palin).  We couldn’t help but cheer her on as we watched her run through the water and mud in the ditch.

She really showed her mom that running was stupid by traipsing through a runoff ditch.  I know that’s how I would get back at someone if I was forced to do something I don’t want to do.

Rachel continued to run in the mud and whimper and yell that she hated running, while Matt and I continued to walk on the pavement and laugh hysterically.  Rachel may not have been the smartest person on that trail (or the most attractive…homegirl could use a cut and color), but she was a hero in our minds.  We were just glad she made our walk more enjoyable.

Otherwise, we would have been forced to talk to each other, and that would just be crazy.

As you know, I recently did a scathing letter to the forty-something mom at the pool.  You’re welcome.  But since I’m an equal opportunity hater, I’ve decided the forty-something dad at the pool also needs a letter…just to keep things fair.  Okay, it’s not that I’m necessarily a hater.  I’m not.  I’m just an easily annoyed person who pents up all her rage and irritation and then takes it out on this blog that a total of five people read.  Here it goes.

Dear forty something dad at the pool,

Yeah, I’m looking at you.  But not because of your sexy body and No Fear swimming trunks. I’m looking at you because you’re a disaster.  And you’re not a disaster the way I am…where I play it off cute and make people laugh (hopefully).  You’re a disaster that makes me both happy and sad at the same time…kind of like eating all the guacamole.  So here are a few things you should know.

1.  You don’t have a six pack.

At least not on your body you don’t.  Although you may be sucking in your gut, you will need a lot more than a simple inhalation of breath to make that thing look attractive.  Here’s a hint:  when people talk about “six pack abs,” they aren’t talking about downing a six pack in 30 minutes.  Yes, that six pack technically goes to the area covered by your abs, but that’s not what they’re referring to.  They’re talking about crunches.  Do some.  But not now.  I don’t want to see your butt crack while you attempt to work out.  Save that shit for your mirror at home.

2.  You need a trim.

I’m not talking about your rapidly receding hair line; I’m talking about your chest hair.  You could french braid it, slap a bow on it and send it off to first grade.  No one wants to see that.  I’m not saying you should get your entire chest waxed.  I’m pretty sure you don’t have enough money to pay for that much time with a salon technician (or that many days off work).  I’m just saying perhaps you should run a pair of scissors over your chest every now and again.  If I can see your chest hair floating in the pool around you like a life vest, it’s too long.  And if you aren’t going to heed my advice, shampoo that shit every now and again.  It’s getting dandruff.

3.  Your butt crack isn’t attractive.

You may like to see a hint of a woman’s crack while she’s wearing a string bikini.  Maybe you think that’s sexy, I don’t know.  However, I assure you women don’t feel the same way about your crack.  The last thing we want to see when we go to the pool is your crusty crack and the hair peeking out from it.  (Take my advice on #2 above and apply it to this as well.)  No one cares about your junk in the trunk.  Hike up those shorts and get a wash rag in there every now and again.  You’re stinking up the pool and making us all sick, and we still want to get snow cones later.

4.  Stop pretending you’re super cool.

Seriously.  We all saw you pull up in the parking lot in your 1999 Dodge minivan.  Not only did we see it, we heard it because you seem to be missing a muffler (and any understanding of what women find attractive).  So put away your fancy keys with what you call a “clicker thing” that unlocks the doors.  We’ve all got one of those.  It isn’t super cool technology that just came out.  We are also no longer taping television shows on VHS, so don’t invite the poor lifeguard over to watch “taped” episodes of Dallas.  She doesn’t know what that means and I’m pretty sure she’s calling the authorities on you right now.  You better get to that van and skedaddle before the cops arrive.

dad with kids at pool

5.   Jumping off the high dive isn’t going to impress anyone other than your five-year old.

Yes, we can all see that you’re capable of climbing the ladder to the high dive.  That’s probably because you climb ladders everyday as part of your regular job.  We’re not impressed.  We also don’t care that you can make “a big ole’ splash” and yell “cannonball” when you jump off the board.  You aren’t the first person to do that and you won’t be the last.  The seventh grader behind you is getting ready to do the same thing, and he’s cuter than you and has less credit card debt.

Do you know what’s impressive to a woman?  A 401k and a dental plan.  You clearly don’t know about the latter as you have sunflower seeds in your teeth from about a week ago.  Grab some floss and get off the high dive.  And seriously, pull up your trunks.  You could smuggle a small child inside that deep crack of yours.

So there you go.  I’m equally offensive to both men and women.  I just hope none of them read this blog, as there are a few weeks left of summer and I still want to be let back into the pool.  I’ve got several more cannonballs to do!


Dear forty-something mom at the pool,Inner Tube in Swimming Pool --- Image by © Royalty-Free/Corbis

Yes, I’m talking to you, with the bleached blond hair that only partially hides the gray, and the mammoth glass of water that I’m pretty sure is spiked with something illegal.  I’ve been meaning to tell you a few things, and with the close of summer, now is the perfect time.

So scoot your low rider lounge chair over this way and listen up.  I would tell you to take notes but I wouldn’t want to ruin your manicure and I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to spell half the things in this letter, so I will read it aloud to you.  (That means “out loud.”)

1.  You don’t need more sun.

Throw on a hat and some SPF because your skin looks like it could be sold at a bike shop as chaps and a belt.  And those aren’t freckles, they’re sun spots, and although you believe you’ve been kissed by the sun, that isn’t true.  Judging by your crow’s feet, you’ve been dry humped really hard by the sun and then left outside to dry.

Instead of more sun you need binoculars and walkie talkies to locate your children.  Do you know where they are?  I’m not their babysitter because I can’t stand your kids and I’m assuming the pay sucks.  I don’t want to be responsible for kids, which is why I keep up to date on my birth control.  You should probably do the same.

So put down the Tiger Beat magazine and locate your children.  When you find them, slap them for me.  Not necessarily because they’re doing anything bad at the moment, but because I’m sure they deserve it.

2.  Your kids aren’t adorable and I hate all of their pool antics.

You might think it’s cute for your kids to splash around in the pool, yelping and screaming.  I don’t.  Teach your kid to swim.  Flailing around in the water is neither cute nor fun to watch and your kids’ high pitched screams are going to break my vodka glass, which will result in a wrath you don’t want to see.  So get your kids to swimming lessons so they will shut up and swim correctly.  But then again, natural selection might just play out here…

Never mind.  Return to the crossword puzzle in Star magazine you find so challenging.  (And the words you are looking for are “washed up.”  They are the answer to #21 across, which asks “What’s 8 letters to describe the pathetic woman at the pool.”)

3.  Get a bathing suit for a woman over twenty.

You might think you have a smoking hot body (and you probably do), but that heat you feel isn’t coming from your hot body, it’s the early onset of menopause.  So cover up your c-section scars and don a one-piece.  Your husband doesn’t want to see your deflated boobs and neither do I.

Believe it or not, they actually sell bathing suits in the adult section of Target.  Yeah.  They actually have an adult section at Target.  Go there immediately.

4.  Stop reading “Twilight” books.

You’re not a teenager and you’re old enough to be Edward’s mom (and yes, I know he’s a 111 year old vampire).  No one cares if you’re Team Edward or Team Jacob.  You’re about to be Team AARP.  Put the book down and pick up the sunscreen.  (See #1 above for more details.)

kid in pool

5.  Stop talking with fellow moms about your “charity work.”

We all know you don’t have a job.  Your bronze skin and beach body tells us you have plenty of time to GTL just like the kids on Jersey Shore (and you’re almost as annoying as they are).  But let’s not pretend you dedicate your life to good deeds.  Yes, you may recycle and you also might donate last season’s Gucci bag to the homeless, but you’re far from a philanthropist.  If you were so charitable, you would do the world a favor and sterilize yourself so you would stop bringing more brats into the world.

And look up.  Your kid is putting his boogers on the lining of the pool.  You’ve got a real genius there…

So there you go; those are some of the things I’ve been meaning to get off my chest for some time now about you.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, me and my swim dress are going to lay in the shade with a Jane Austin novel and pretend the world isn’t full of idiots.  Oh yeah, in order to make that happen, vodka will be involved.


Shady Jack is an awesome dog.  He’s loving, adorable, and looks great in Matt’s t-shirts.  In addition to being a fashionista, he’s also a super hero.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s not a creepy super hero that wears a unitard and saves a city from crime.

(Seriously Batman, you can call it a Bat suit if you want, but we all know it’s a unitard…and I can see your junk in it.)  Shady Jack isn’t one of those cape wearing dogs.  Rather, he’s a dog with a nose for safety.  Or maybe a penis for safety…  Let me explain…

My amazing friend Top Chef, (not her real name), was playing in a local presentation of Avenue Q.  She played the sexy puppet (duh) and a big group of us were excited to see her in action.  (I was doubly excited because it was a dinner theater and mama likes to eat while she’s entertained.)

The show was out of town so we planned a caravan to get the party started early.  We were super pumped.  And then Jack’s penis happened.

A few hours before the party van was set to depart, (and as my vodka was chilling in the icebox) I noticed that Shady Jack’s junk was bleeding and when he peed, there was blood.  No, I don’t regularly make a habit of looking at his junk, but when it’s bright red, one stops to take notice.

I did what anyone would do in this situation:  I stared at his junk to find the cause of the bleeding and then called the vet.  We made an appointment and brought him in for further evaluation of his junk.

We subsequently discovered that he wasn’t dying of kidney failure, diabetes or cancer, (as I had suspected.)  Rather, he had a gash on his penis.

I have no idea how it happened and I would prefer not to know.  We were given ointment for his junk, told to apply it regularly, and sent home amidst some very uncomfortable jokes about penis cream and masturbation (most of the jokes were made by yours truly).

In all of the penis drama, we had to cancel our trip with our friends.  We didn’t want to, but Shady Jack’s junk came first and we had to make sure he was okay.  We were devastated to miss our fun day, but happy to know Jack’s junk would live another day (where it would lay around on our furniture and creep us out regularly).

We arrived home and began doing chores around the house, pouting that we weren’t en route to something fun.  Then I saw it.  Out the window, in our backyard, I saw a wire that was almost downed.

Since we live in an old neighborhood, the electrical wires are attached to the outside of our house where they connect to other wires.  The other wires go to a mysterious place where something magical is done and electricity is born.  It’s super complicated and although I understand all of it in detail, it’s probably above your heads so I will spare you the confusion of further explanation.

The wire appeared to be hanging to the house by nothing more than a breath and a prayer (much like Christina Aguilera’s singing career).  Naturally, I freaked out and made Matt call the electric company immediately to advise of our impending electrocution.

They said they would be out as soon as possible, which I knew meant I would see them later in the week.  We watched and waited, going back and forth between Shady Jack’s junk, and the dangling wire.  It was a fun Saturday.  Whenever the dogs had to go outside, I made sure the wire hadn’t fallen to the ground, where it would create a hotbed of electricity and electrocute us all. (Those are technical terms.)

The next morning the electric company arrived to evaluate the problem.  Finally!  I was so tired of wearing rubber soled shoes to avoid electrocution and the dogs were sick of going out the front door to do their business to avoid electric shock.

sleepy jackThe company employee arrived and moved at a slow pace, obviously not understanding the pertinence of the situation.  He walked around to the backyard, took one look at the wire and gave his assessment.

I prepared myself mentally.  I figured it was a problem that would be pricey to fix, and one that could be dangerous and send volts of electricity through the house.  I held my breath.  And then he said it.

“Um, that’s a cable wire.  You should call your cable company and they will reattach it.”

Oops.  So maybe Jack’s junk didn’t save us from electrocution, but it saved us from missing an episode of The Bachelor Pad, which is just as important.

I recently went to the East Coast to visit my friend Kvothe (not her real name) and her amazing family (including her dad who is most likely a CIA agent).  In addition to learning how to be a sharp shooter (and discovering I look amazing in protective ear wear), I wanted to do some other touristy things.

Normally I’m not a touristy person and I prefer to look like I’m a local in most places (except Branson.  NO ONE should be a local in Branson).  In keeping with my new found love of all things touristy, I asked Kvothe if there was a tourist trap nearby where we could shamelessly dump money for an afternoon.

The bar was my first option but it didn’t open until 3:00 p.m.  We had some time to kill before we started killing brain cells.

Kvothe is a huge animal lover and she suggested we go to a magical place…a place called The Land of Little Horses.  (Yes, it’s actually a real place.)  At first I thought she was making it up, and I asked her if the “land” had unicorns and reasonably priced car insurance (both are mythical creatures to me).  She said the place actually existed and we should go so I could see for myself.  I was intrigued.

We headed to the mythical place and I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t Kvothe’s way of kindly suggesting I drop some pounds.  I’m what you would call “fluffy”  and Kvothe is what you would call “I hate that b*#ch because she’s skinny.”

Part of me wondered if she was taking me to this place to emphasize that although my ass looks large in my Pajama Jeans, it looks even larger when posed next to a 3 foot horse.

Maybe this was her way of pushing me to the fat girl edge so I would actually take myself to the gym, or at least restrain myself from carbs.  I pondered this thought in the car while downing chocolate no-bake cookies.

We arrived at The Land of Little Horses and I swear when we pulled up I saw a rainbow and glitter shoot from the sky.  It was located on several acres of land and even the mosquitoes seemed to have a skip in their step…or their flight…whatever.

We purchased two passes for the day and also bought containers of treats for the horses.  I know I am nicer to strangers when they present me with baked goods, and I wanted to return the favor to these miniature animals…only with dog food instead of iced animal crackers.  (Would that be cannibalism?)

We walked into the magical land and were immediately greeted by a goat who was either pregnant, or she was smuggling a small village into the country.  She was huge and ready to eat whatever food we would give her…even if we didn’t offer it.

Fortunately for her, I have a soft spot for fatties, so I gave her some extra treats (and a pamphlet on diabetes) and headed over to see the horses.

As we walked to the horses, we noticed something was following us.  We turned around and saw what looked like a horse…only it was shrunken.  It was like those Shrinky Dinks I used to make as a kid.  You know what I’m talking about.

They started out normal sized but after a quick stint in the oven, they turned into even more useless pieces of clay your mom was forced to wear for a week before throwing out in embarrassment.  (Don’t act like you didn’t love making ugly pendants for everyone you knew.  You did, and you were horrible at it.)

This Shrinky Dink horse was real and staring me straight in the eyes…or maybe more of the crotch, as that was more his eye level.  I looked at him and fell in love instantly.  I swear I heard “Dream Weaver” playing in the background, and if I looked closely, I could see him wink at me through his long lashes.  I could tell he felt it too.

I went over to him and petted him immediately.  I have no idea if miniature horses like to be petted, but I know miniature daschunds do, and I figured they were pretty much the same thing.  He loved it and nuzzled up close to me.  He kept getting closer and closer…until I realized he was pick-pocketing me for my horse treats.  It made me love him more.

I began doling out treats and we became instant friends.  Since we’re both completely food motivated, I knew this was going to be a solid friendship.  As I stuffed his face with food, an employee walked by and I asked her what my soul-mate’s name was.  Apparently his name was Columbus. Isn’t he the cutest thing ever?

After exchanging numbers and promising to keep in touch, I left Columbus because I was hot and needed some air conditioning (and a cooler pair of Spanx).  We headed inside a barn for a dog and pony show.   No seriously.

It was literally a dog and pony show. There were both dogs and ponies in the act doing various tricks and being ridiculously adorable.  I fell in love with one of the performers, who was a collie mix and stole my heart immediately.

I felt badly for betraying Columbus, but the heart wants what the heart wants (and my heart wanted some slobbery dog kisses from the collie.)  I named him Louie although I’m pretty sure that wasn’t his name.  It might have been Gretchen.

Louie was a typical actor.  He was a charmer and worked the room like he owned it.  That’s probably what drew me to him.  He was a crowd pleaser and only stopped occasionally for the obligatory crotch lick (his…not the crowd’s).

We locked eyes and with one fleeting glance, I knew we weren’t meant to be.  Not because he was a canine and I wasn’t.  It was because he lived the life of a star, who had so much blaze to him, and I couldn’t be the one to snuff him out.  He had to be free.  (Well, not really free.  You had to pay admission to see him.)

I left The Land of Little Horses with a heavy heart and a happy face.  I met two amazing miniature animals that day, both of which put a super sized hole in my heart; a hole that could only be filled with a root beer float.

Because I’m super busy and important, I have an iPhone.  I know, you’re jealous.  It’s 2012 and I have an iPhone…me and all the kids entering 7th grade.

It’s quite important that I have an iPhone, as I need to get emails, calls and texts throughout the day (and how else am I supposed to keep up on my Tweets without the Twitter app?)

I rely on my iPhone for so many things and when it’s not in my hand or within reaching distance, I get a little anxious (mostly because I need the latest Big Brother update, or to look at yet another hilarious e-card on Facebook).

Tonight I went to Downtown Christy Brown’s new house.  (Not her real name.)  She and her husband bought an amazing house and since Matt and I are gracious friends, we decided to come see their new digs.  Granted, we were lured there with the promise of free pizza, dessert, and the opportunity to openly curse them for purchasing such a large and beautiful home.

I think I yelled “God dammit” in every single room I entered.  Seriously. It was that awesome.

We pulled up to the DTCB palace, (this is not an exaggeration) and I was in awe of the place.  It was big and beautiful and they had a garage!  She was the first friend of mine to successfully purchase a home with an attached garage.  My envy oozed out of me (as did some gas from my earlier snack of chips and salsa).  I grabbed my phone and purse and got out of my car, trying hard to keep my jaw from hitting the ground.

And then it happened.

I don’t know how it happened, I just know that it did.  Before I knew it, my iPhone flew out of my hand and did a face plant on DTCB’s new driveway.  I like to think the phone took one look at DTCB’s palace, compared it to our house, realized he was living in a shack, and immediately committed suicide.  I can’t blame the guy.  I considered doing the same thing, only my weapon of choice would be death by chocolate…and vodka.

I reached down slowly to retrieve the phone.  I wasn’t sure if it was broken but I figured it wasn’t, as I’ve dropped that phone a million times and never had a problem.  That phone had nine lives.

Apparently the lives had expired because when I picked up the phone, I discovered the entire face of it was completely shattered…just like Tom and Katie’s marriage (I really thought those two were gonna make it…)

I didn’t know what to do, so I did the only thing I could think of.  When DTCB and her husband opened the door, I asked for their home owner’s insurance information so I could file a claim against their insurance for the obvious assault the driveway did to my iPhone.

I’m holding!  Well, sort of.  Right now the only thing I’m holding is a glass of lemonade and a Snickers bar, but I could be holding a gun too (although the handle would probably be smeared in chocolate).

I recently visited my friend, Kvothe, in our nation’s great capital.  I was there over July 4th, and I figured what better way to celebrate another year of freedom in this great country of ours than by learning to shoot a weapon.

Nothing says “happy birthday USA” quite like a rim shot from a revolver, and that’s exactly what I gave her.  (I didn’t want to give her a gift that she would return, like a sweater or the new Justin Beiber album).

My friend Kvothe (not her real name), is from Pennsylvania, which makes her super cool and not a Quaker. Seriously, I can’t emphasize enough that she is not a Quaker.

Kvothe’s father, Jack Byrnes (not his real name), is apparently quite the marksman.  He holds several national records for shooting and although he adamantly denies it, I’m pretty sure he’s in the CIA…or at least a contract killer.  Based upon this reason alone, I was super nice to him (and slept with my door locked).

At some point during my visit, Jack Byrnes asked if I wanted to learn to shoot a gun.  Um, yes please.  Obviously he was recruiting me for his secret government work.  It’s the only logical explanation.
He probably observed me slyly get up in the middle of the night and eat the rest of the homemade scones.  (Who wouldn’t do this?) I thought I did so without being observed, but apparently Big Brother is everywhere (and on three times a week on CBS!)

I told him I would love to learn to shoot guns.  I considered asking him if I could dress up like a gansta for the shooting session but thought better of it.  I didn’t know if his experience as an obvious trained assassin would put me in jeopardy with this type of clothing.  (Jack Byrnes swears he works with computers, but his sharpshooting skills suggest otherwise.)

The morning of the lesson we sat down with different guns and went over how each gun shoots, what kind of bullets are used and how to operate them safely.  Yeah, like we really need to go over safety.  I think we know I’m not that big of a liability for disaster.  Wait…maybe it was a good idea.

After we went over all the features of the weapons, we headed out to the shooting range.  It was in a secluded area and as we drove out in Jack Byrnes’ mini van (yes, a mini van…to keep us off the scent of his real job), I considered for a brief moment that perhaps he had a contract out on my life and this was the end for me.

I would go out in a blaze of glory in a maroon Town and Country mini van with cloth seats and a “Who rescued who” bumper sticker on the back…just as I always pictured it.  But then I realized that would be ridiculous because I’m far too awesome to want to “off.”  I dismissed the thought and focused on the guns.

We arrived at the shooting range and the fun began immediately.  I put on the sweet 80s headphones that were supposed to be for ear protection, but I think were really a throw back to DJ Jazzy Jeff.  I fist pumped and sang a chorus of “Parents Just Don’t Understand” and then grabbed a gun.

At first I was a bit shy about shooting because I was scared of the kickback.  The guns were powerful and I knew the kickback would be strong, but I didn’t know how strong.  Jack Byrnes sensed my hesitation (probably because he’s trained to do so), and he told me to think about something that made me mad and then pull the trigger.

So many things irritate me.  Long lines at Chipotle, bars that don’t serve Grey Goose and the entire cast of Glee ran through my mind.

That did it.  I pulled the trigger and I never felt so alive!  The kickback was strong but those stolen scones from the night before gave me the strength to handle it.

I shot again and again, getting better each time.  After each round I went to the target (not the store) and was surprised to discover I actually wasn’t that bad of a shot.  Immediately I texted my  husband and told him to shape up or deal with my wrath.  I’m sure he peed himself when he received it.

So all of you out there need to watch yourselves.  Now that I’ve been trained by a marksman and alleged computer expert (but probable CIA agent), the sky is the limit for me.

So if you want to make fun of this blog, beware.  (Although it would be a super easy target.)  I may be packing heat at any time and just might work towards my Conceal and Carry license.

scale2There’s no question that I like to eat.  No.  I love to eat.  One look at me and my double chins makes that crystal clear. 

I’ve always loved to eat, and it wasn’t until my mid-twenties when my eating caught up with me and I found myself living as a full time resident of Fatsville.  (Our mascot is Garfield, the lasagna loving cat, and our primary export is butane…some residents export more than others…)

I’ve known that I’ve been “chunky” for a long time.  Normally, I like to call myself fluffy, because it sounds much better than obese or fat and it makes me think of curling up with a fluffy blanket and a tub of ice cream.

Tonight, while I was at dinner stuffing my face with thousands of calories of buttery goodness, I realized that I’m a fat girl at heart.  Not just because I’m actually fat, and my heart is probably coated with cellulite, but because I act like a fat girl does.

This prompted me to start a list (because I love to number things.  It gives me a sense of power.)

So here are a few ways I know that I’m a fat girl.  Read up and take notes.  These are really enlightening thoughts.

1.  I will only attend social gatherings if there will be a good selection of food there.

I like to know that if I’m venturing out for an event, it’s worth my while.  I don’t mean that it’s a charitable event or it does something good for the environment; I mean I want to know if the food spread will be good.  Want me to come out and support Nurses for Newborns?

Not if all you have is a veggie tray and a rotisserie chicken.  Want me to bowl to help orphaned children?  Only if there are toasted ravioli and all you can eat pasta.  I’m not that charitable.

2.  No matter how full I am, I could still eat more.

I’ve heard people say things like “I just couldn’t eat one more bite.”  What?  Why not?  Of course you can.  Or at least, of course I can.  And I will.  I’m not a quitter.  If there is food on the table, even if my stomach is bursting and I’m actually sweating out steak sauce, I continue to eat until someone takes the food away.

So pass the rolls and keep the judgment to yourself (but please share your carrot cake).

3.  I remember events based upon what food was served.

I have a selective memory.  Some things I tend to remember quite well, while others are a bit more hazy.  Alcohol is typically involved as the cause for the latter.  Either way, I’m far more likely to remember an event in my life if I can associate it with food.  I’m like a fricking card catalogue of food and the Dewey Decimal system is in full effect in my brain.  First day of Kindergarten?

Woman Standing on Scale

Yeah, I remember it.  It’s filed under Sloppy Joes.  The day Princess Diana died?  I mourned her over corn dogs.  Nothing says the death of royalty quite like artificial meat dipped in a deep fryer.  So if you want me to remember something, make sure you serve something delicious (and lock the liquor cabinet).

4.  When I’m eating, I’m thinking about what and when I will eat next.

Doesn’t everyone do this?  While I’m chowing down on my foot long sub at lunch, I’m already thinking about my afternoon snack, and how long I have to wait until I can eat again.  I’m like a teenage boy who just discovered his father’s Playboy magazines and wants to slip off alone with them whenever he can.  In my case, the porn is chips and salsa with a huge helping of guacamole (and a side of shame and despair).

5.  When I go out to eat, my eye remains on the back room to see when they will bring out food.

I have a hard time concentrating on the conversation at a restaurant when I know that just behind those flapping doors is a world of food.  From chicken breasts to cheese balls, I know the only thing separating me from a wonderland of cholesterol and calories are those flimsy doors with windows made of plastic.

Every time a waiter slams through them, I wonder what delicacy he is holding and if I can get a glimpse, or even just a sniff of what he’s bringing out.  I realize this makes me sound like a serial rapist on an episode of Law and Order SVU, but I’m cool with that.  Christopher Meloni rocks.

And the final and most important way I know I’m a fat girl?  The scale.  She’s a fickle beast and although I tell myself she’s a lying nag…she’s probably telling the truth.  Either that, or she’s in cahoots with my pants.

I’m not a fashionista.  I know.  You’re shocked.  I pull off my fashionable Target maternity dresses quite well (I’m not pregnant), and I manage to style them with Forever 21 jewelry and clearance purses from Charlotte Russe.  I mostly wear dresses, not because I like to dress up, but because pants dig into my gut and I like to be free to eat as I wish (and let my belly fat fly freely).

I recently went to New York City.  (Yes, again.  I’m a total jet setter, flying coach in a middle seat.  Classy.)  My flight left super early at 5:40 a.m.  (Did you know the world functioned that early in the morning?  I do not.  Fortunately, the pilot did.)

I went to the airport sporting a very stylish pair of workout capris, a t-shirt and tennis shoes (and by “stylish” I mean mismatched and most likely covered in Diet Coke stains.)

Although I was in workout gear, I had no desire or intention to increase my heart rate for anything other than sprinting to the Cinnabon for breakfast.  I just wanted to wear my jammies, and I had to make myself comfortable to make up for the fact that I was wearing a bra. (You’re welcome TSA.)

I slept and most likely drooled the whole way on the plane, and arrived in New York ready to take on the day.  It was raining by the time I got to my hotel but since I already looked like someone’s cleaning lady, I decided not to change clothes and keep with my fashionable look.

I dropped off my luggage at the hotel and headed to lunch by myself where I ate a shameful amount of Mexican food.  As I was licking the bowl of guacamole clean, I received a text from Gansavoort.  (Not her real name, although it would be cool if it was).

Gansavoort is my super trendy friend who works for a fabulously famous fashion magazine.  I have no idea why we are friends, but I assume she feels sorry for me and I’m some sort of charity work for her.  I’m fine with it.  I was planning to have lunch with Gansavoort but she had to cancel due to something most likely super important and fabulous with the magazine.

Because I was having dinner with her later that night, I wasn’t too upset about the cancellation.  I also knew this would mean I wouldn’t have judgy eyes watching me as I made sweet love to my guacamole at lunch.  It was a win-win.

I digress with talk of guacamole.  Back to the text.

She said her super important meeting was cancelled and that I should come meet her at The Hearst Tower for an afternoon break.  Since I have no pride in myself, and I wanted to see where the infamous Nina Garcia worked, I texted back that I would be there.  (Actually, I texted back with a cute thumbs up emotocon, but whatever.)

jaw+drop.jpgIt continued to rain in NYC, and since an umbrella wouldn’t go with my snazzy outfit, I was forced to walk in the rain.  I looked like a depressed woman in a pharmaceutical commercial for herpes medication. 

I arrived at Hearst Tower and walked inside only to see huge escalators and fountains of water.  (Because just what I needed to see was more water coming down from the heavens.)  The doorman was immediately on high alert, as I was dressed to kill.

No, seriously, I looked like a serial killer.  I think he whispered something into his jacket lapel but I can’t be sure (mostly because the rain water spotted my glasses).

I went to the reception desk and stood in line behind two fashionistas who appeared to be high maintenance and on a juice-only diet (which most likely caused a diarrhea-only result).  They were obviously very important.  As I waited for them to finish their important business, Prada Shoes turned around with her wet umbrella in hand.  (Her name wasn’t Prada Shoes.

I’m sure it was something charmingly annoying like Princess or Luv.)  As she turned with her umbrella, Prada Shoes shook it like a Polaroid picture.  (The umbrella, not her booty.)

Water sprayed all over me, although it was hard to tell considering I was already soaking from my recent walk contemplating herpes.

“Oh,” she said, half laughing.  “I’m sooo sorry.”  P.S. said, in her most disingenuous tone.

“That’s alright,” I said, without missing a beat.  “I’m headed up to Elle Magazine for a fashion shoot and they have several wardrobe options available for me there.  No biggie.”

786I could almost hear her jaw hit the floor and I secretly hoped it would damage her shoes in the fall.

She and her friend, Gucci Bag, walked away, quietly trying to figure out which celebrity I was.  I considered telling them I was a famous author, as I was sure their eyes had never looked at anything other than “Curious George Goes Shopping,”  but I refrained.

I signed in with the receptionist (who probably thought I was homeless) and met with Gansavoort.  We had a good laugh about P.S. and G.B.

I may have been the one to show up at a fashion building in workout capris from Target, but at least I knew a crazy girl from the Midwest when I saw one.

If only I could see the look on P.S. and G.B’s faces when they discover I’m not on the cover of next month’s Elle.