Boy in the street as crossing guard

STOP and read this warning first. Do you really want to ignore a kid in the street holding a stop sign?

WARNING: Please leave this page immediately and do not read this post if you are any of the following:

1. Incapable of understanding sarcasm. (This is a biggie!)

2. Planning on leaving me a mean comment about how horrible of a person I am. I’m a lawyer. I already know I’m a horrible person.

3. Planning on leaving me a message with improper grammar, spelling, and/or punctuation. Note: if you are leaving me a nice and funny message, then I totally overlook the grammar stuff.

4. Planning on calling me profane names. That’s why I have a mother-in-law.

5. Planning on leaving a hateful message on another post of mine where comments are allowed. Yes, you’re a genius for finding that loophole, but I’m the one who gets to approve whether your comments are published. If they’re hateful, I will trash them upon the first allegation of racism. I will then promptly mail you a Yani cd as punishment.

6. Own a pair of Teva sandals. This isn’t related to not wanting to read hateful comments. It’s just because…really? Do I have to explain why?

For those of you who pass these tests, you’re obviously awesome so read away!

bely dancerReally. This is not a rhetorical question. What’s the etiquette? Does Emily Post have any recommendations for this? I suspect in her high-fallootin’ society, she may not come across many belly dancers. She should. Maybe she wouldn’t be so uptight.

Like anyone really wants to read an Emily Post book about how to properly eat soup at an afternoon tea. Who wants soup at an afternoon tea? Who wants to even attend an afternoon tea? Is it Long island Iced Tea? If so, I could be persuaded to attend, but not if I have to speak properly, sit up straight or use the proper spoon. I’m also thinking a bra would be a requirement, and one I just can’t justify.

Anywhooo….

So what is the protocol for when a belly dancer dances at a restaurant during your dinner? I ask only because this happened recently and I had no idea how to handle the situation. Thus, I look to you: my sophisticated readers. Lord knows I didn’t know what to do other than hand her a brochure for a respected technical college in the area.

Recently, we attended a birthday party at a restaurant when the token belly dancer approached our table. No, we weren’t at a strip club, although it’s a valid question. Rather, we were at a great Greek restaurant, where a woman dances every Friday and Saturday night while patrons eat and try not to curse her for lack of belly fat. She sashees around from table to table, flipping her hips and making me uncomfortable.

Is belly button lint really that appetizing?

question markApparently so, as this restaurant has been doing this for years. I just never know what to do, so I usually bail to the restroom when I see her dancing our way, and try to Google “what do you do when someone belly dances at your table?”

Don’t Google this, my dear reader, especially in Google Images. You don’t want to know what it reveals…especially when you’re in a bathroom stall that smells like air freshener and humus-inspired excrement. Just an FYI.

But really, what should I do? Where do I look? I don’t want to look directly at her, but is it rude if I don’t watch? Will she be offended? Is she paid per view? I don’t want to cut into her rent money.

But if I do look at her, do I look her in the eye? I feel like I’m shaming her when I do that. Like I’m saying “Did the nail technician thing not work out? You can do so much more than this.” Wait…that might be the actual words I said to her. I can’t remember. The sangria was flowing.

What?! It was a par-tay after all. Did I want to slap the birthday girl in the face by not living it up? (I may have done that too. The pictures aren’t back yet. For now, I will adamantly deny it.)

Do I look at her abs? I feel like I should. She’s a belly dancer, after all. I guess she wants us to look, but then I feel like a creeper with a fetish. How long do you look? What if I stare too long? Not long enough? Do I ask her about her ab workout regimen? Not that I would follow it. I’m just wondering if I should ask.

It’s so stressful.

Are the belly dancers the classy version of strippers? Are they shunned by strippers? Do they start on the pole and then move their way up to the belly circuit? Is the belly dancing gig the glass ceiling of dancing gigs?

I have so many questions and so little answers. Unfortunately, the belly dancer of the evening, who I named Natasha, wasn’t keen on my questions, probably because I was shouting them out above the music. Whatever. I have an inquisitive mind.

I think her name was Sandra. Whatevs. She’ll always be Natasha to me.

But seriously, your insight is needed. We are returning to this restaurant this weekend and I need to know if I should wear my sunglasses at night so I can…so I can….(just like Corey Hart.)

How to maximize girl scout cookiesIt’s the most wonderful time of the year! That’s right. I’m talking about Girl Scout Cookie season! Isn’t that what Andy Williams was singing about in his beloved tune? If so, that song just became a whole lot more meaningful.

I realize most people refer to this time of year as “Girl Scout Cookie time” but it’s better than that. It’s bigger than that. It’s a whole season of goodness and should be celebrated as such. Don’t worry. I’m starting this trend and it will totally take off, with your help, of course.

somoa1Let’s start by referring to it as “GSC season,” not so much because I like acronyms, but because I don’t want to keep typing out those three words. You don’t want to give me carpal tunnel, do you? Great, GSC season it is!

The beginning of GSC season begins with anticipation and salivation. That’s how most people gear up for it, but I like to be prepared. I’m a dedicated GSC season supporter, so I start before others do.

Much like football players, I engage in a rigorous pre-season preparation, although mine doesn’t involve physical activity of any kind. That would not make for an enjoyable time and would defeat the happiness of the GSC season. Rather, I begin pre-season by making a list of Girl Scouts I know.

You need to be prepared and I don’t want to go into the GSC season without a game plan (much like I don’t want to go into Target without a list…or a large credit limit).

The pre-season is crucial as it sets the tone for the next few months. Having a list of known Girl Scouts ensures access to the goods. You wouldn’t go on a road trip without your GPS, right? So why would you go into GSC season without a map of potential sellers and locations? You wouldn’t.

The benefit of the pre-season list is you can scope out which Scouts to hit up for cookies, and you can also determine if they are in the same troupe. Most of the time they aren’t, but if they are, you will need to be aware their orders will merge, and at some point they will see you were patronizing other Scouts.

stop for girl scouts

They will also most likely do the math and realize your order of 36 boxes for a single woman is a bit hefty. However, you’re a charitable person and you support the Girls Scouts and what they do, so you’re happy to order large quantities. You’re a giver that way. You also have a sweet tooth, but whatever.

After cross referencing your list of contacts and ensuring minimal scrutiny for your purchases, you must move on to the budgeting phase. I would recommend not writing this down, as you don’t want your husband or significant other to see just how much money you’re budgeting for cookies. Don’t get me wrong; they’re worth it, but seeing the numbers on paper makes it a little more depressing, and you don’t want to be depressed around the Girl Scouts. You can set a better example than that.

*Note: If you can’t do the math in your head (who can?), then you have my permission to jot down potential totals of various orders and plot out your budget. However, immediately after the budget is completed, the paper must be cleansed with truffle oil and thrown into the incinerator to destroy the evidence.

After you’ve secured your budget, you’re ready to proceed full-force into the GSC season. Since you already know your contacts for the goodies, (and you’ve synced your calendar with theirs to ensure availability for sales calls), you can begin the ordering process.

A few words of caution: STAY STRONG. Yes, the Thin Mints melt in your mouth, and yes, the Tagalogs are a burst of goodness with every bite, but you have to exercise restraint. You have several Girl Scouts to patronize, and you don’t want to buy your entire stash from one Scout. That wouldn’t best support the cause. (The cause is cookies, right?)

peanut butter cookieAfter the various orders are placed comes the worst part of the season: the waiting. It’s excruciating, especially since you’ve already been teased by the order form. However, focus on the prize, which is an entire shipment of Girl Scout Cookies. It’s worth the wait.

When the much awaited due date arrives, don’t get too anxious. Must like the due date for pregnant women, it’s a guideline but not a date set in stone (although it should be). It would be ideal for the due date and delivery date to be the same, but rarely does such a phenomenon occur. However, the day after the due date, if you still don’t have your orders, you have my permission to contact each seller and demand tender immediately.

Gently take the boxes from each Scout, using caution not to drop them. A shattered Girl Scout cookie is a travesty and completely avoidable if proper precautions are met. Once you are safely out of viewing of others, feel free to tear into the boxes of cookies, sampling one from each box to ensure quality control. You don’t want the Scouts putting out a bad product, and it’s up to
you to keep up the high standards of the Samoa.

Once you receive the coveted goodies, resist the temptation to tear into the boxes upon receipt. You’re classier than that, and you have to set a good example to the Scouts, who look to you for guidance. They also look to you for payment, so don’t forget your checkbook.

After you’ve gorged yourself and finished off a few boxes, sit back and use your chocolate-stained hand to give yourself a pat on the back. You did a good thing by participating in GSC season and helping charity. You also gave some young girls a chance at a better life, and isn’t that what GSC season is about? (It’s about Thin Mints too, but the point still stands.)

So enjoy this GSC season and do your best to spread the word about this delightful and delicious holiday. However, don’t be compelled to share the cookies. You’re not that charitable.

various cookiesvarious cookies

SPANXFor any woman who is larger than a size 6, there is most likely an outfit or dress that doesn’t display her figure as flattering as she would like.

For any woman who is smaller than a size 6…you can suck it, and I’m pretty sure we aren’t friends.

Fortunately, for those of us in the former category, the geniuses at Spanx created a product that allows women to put on undergarments of wonder, and give the illusion they are thinner than they actually are.

Normally, I’m not a fan of Spanx for a variety of reasons, the most important being that I am a fan of breathing and prefer to do it on a regular basis.

However, every now and again, a situation comes along that calls for Spanx.

Recently I had such an occasion.  I presented at a seminar and wanted to wear a sassy dress to deter the attendees from what was most likely going to be extremely boring presentation.

Tragically, the sassy dress I wanted to wear didn’t flatter my stomach the way I would have liked.

You see, I have a bit of a food obsession, and my love of food extends to all things fried and anything made by Hostess.  Please also see my other posts about my love affair with Chipotle.

I knew if I didn’t want to gross out my audience with fat rolls made of beans and rice, I needed to purchase a new pair of Spanx.

I headed to Target to make the purchase.  Normally, I buy Spanx at Saks, but the uptight saleswomen there tend to judge me and my $10 purse from Charming Charlies. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with those women and their plastic faces.

Although most of them lack the ability to make any facial expressions because of their Botox injections, I can still feel them judging me with their eyes…that, and the fact I was once mistaken for the cleaning lady.

I was asked to only enter the store from the rear to avoid detection from the other patrons.  Now it’s the only entrance I use.

I went into Target, avoiding the strong urge to grab a pretzel and some nachos from the snack shop, and headed straight for the lingerie section where I saw several packages that looked like this:

Spanx

What the hell kind of marketing ploy was this?  Was Spanx serious? What amazing marketing mind brought this photo to the packaging designers and said “This drawing by my third grader of some naked chicks is really going to sell this product“?

I mean, I know me and my best black friend and Asian friend like to hang out wearing only Spanx and high heels, all the while throwing our hands in the air like we don’t care, smiling like idiots; but that’s only for the lucky people who answer our Craigslist “massage” ads.

What was this design?  Were these women wearing shirts or bras or were they just naked on top?  If so, where were their nipples?

What are the chances of three women being friends that don’t have nipples?  Maybe they met at a support group called Nipple-less ‘nonymous.  (I’m not aware of such a group, but I suspect at the meetings they drink out of bottles with huge nipples.)

Okay, back to the packaging.  You need to focus.

skinny woman in whiteWhat exactly was this drawing on the package supposed to suggest?  As much as I would have liked to analyze this further, I couldn’t as I was on a time crunch.

I hastily purchased the Spanx, along with a choice Hostess snack, and headed home to get ready.  Unfortunately, I didn’t realize I would spend the next 10 minutes engaged in a ferocious battle. I definitely didn’t realize who the battle would be with.

When I arrived home, I opened the package and pulled out the coveted product.  It looked like nude biker shorts for a very disproportionate person with tiny legs and a midsection the approximate length of a serpent.

I didn’t have time to waste so I immediately began putting them on…or trying to.

For those of you familiar with Spanx, you know that once the Spanx go on, they suck in your fat with such force that you feel like the top of your body is going to be propelled into space like a rocket ship. 

These undergarments are a launching pad for your midsection and believe it or not, that doesn’t make for a comfortable fit.I spent the next 10 minutes engaged in near deadly combat with nylon and lycra.  They were formidable opponents.

battleI literally fought the battle of the bulge as I grunted, cussed and tried to pull the material up.

After several f-bombs, I was ultimately successful in getting the Spanx into place, and breathed a sigh of relief…or tried to, but the constriction of my rib cage by this devil-product made that impossible.

Despite these new NASA qualifications, I was upset because I didn’t look nearly as good as the sketches on the package.

I had the biker-type shorts pulled up to my bra just as instructed.  I suspected it was my stance, so I tried out the rocking poses as advertised on the package.  However, I struggled to get my hands up over my head, so I decided to move on.

I put on my dress and surveyed the results.  Not too bad.  I really did look 10 pounds thinner, although my face aged 10 years from the battle.

I headed to work, but was incredibly uncomfortable the entire morning.  Normally, I drink a bottle of water and a caffeinated beverage of choice in the morning, but I didn’t drink either because I was petrified of going to the bathroom and removing the Spanx.

I knew I would never get them back on without a bite stick and a vat of Crisco.

little girl with arms upBy mid-afternoon I was so dehydrated I was beginning to get dizzy, which didn’t make for a good mood.  As I attempted to prepare for my presentation, I realized not one person commented that I looked thinner.

Was I really so big that the apparent loss of 10 pounds was just a drop in the bucket?

Was the restriction of my rib cage and the crushing of my thighs worth the misery I was experiencing?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn’t like what Spanx were doing to me.

True, I may have looked thinner (although if I did, no one noticed), but I didn’t like the way they adversely affected my mood.

So, just before going on for my presentation, I went to the bathroom and peeled the torture chamber off my body.

Words cannot describe the sweet relief I felt as my fat rolls dropped a foot and a half down to their normal location.  I felt like myself…fat rolls and all…and that was just fine with me.

I then celebrated my victory over the Spanx with a deep breath (my first one of the day), and a chocolate chip cookie…or two…

Not me, although this guy could use some Spanx.
Having a fabulous time on Oscar
night. Please disregard the purple
sock monkey dressed like Dracula
that’s on the floor. He was NOT
my date.

The Oscars were last week, and I’m sure you all watched, hoping for a glimpse at this year’s new fashion trends (and maybe a nip slip or two).  I also watched the Oscars, but mostly because we hosted an Oscar party and the only way it was socially acceptable to continually eat buffalo cheese dip was to sit in front of the TV and act interested.  I survived by making fun of celebrities and their outfits, all the while hoping someone would embarrass themselves. 

The night was a success as Meryl Streep picked her butt in front of millions of people and I swear she sniffed her hand afterward, although this assertion can’t be confirmed on the playback.  Kristin Stewart looked irritable and stoned, which was expected but totally fun to watch.   Jennifer Lawrence also bit it while walking up the steps to accept her award, which made me feel bad for her until I realized it gave me Oscar bingo.

Sorry Jennifer Lawrence.  I didn’t want to point out your fall in this post, but my win entitled me to a coupon for a free taco from Hardee’s, so I was happy you skinned your knee. And don’t worry about it.  No one saw you fall.  TRUST me.

It’s been a week and because I’m super busy and important, I’m just now getting around to writing my blog post about what was worn on Oscar night.  Get off my back.  You know you loved letting the suspense build.  Wait no more!

By now you’ve realized photos of what I wore on Oscar night are missing from all the paparazzi shots in the tabloids.  I know you’ve been dying to know what I wore on Oscar night, and since I don’t want you to stop breathing, I will reveal that information now.  (Seriously.  I need all four of you to stay alive so someone actually reads this blog.)

1.  Pants = Jeans.  Designer = Dressbarn

Yeah, that’s right.  Those jeans are legit and from Dressbarn circa 2009.  You’re probably asking yourself “Dressbarn?  Where’s that?  I bet it’s a totally exclusive shop that’s ridiculously expensive and only celebrities have access to it.”

I can see where you would get that impression, but I’m happy to say it isn’t the case.  Dressbarns are located all over the United States, typically in run down strip malls in dangerous parts of town right next to either a closed Old Country Buffet or a partially burned down Ryan’s Steakhouse.  It’s also the same place you take your grandma to buy her support hose and girdle.  It smells like moth balls and Altoids.  Ringing a bell?  Check out their jeans next time granny needs a support bra.

2.  Top = striped sweater.  Designer = JC Penny

This is because I knew you would
demand an over-the-shoulder shot.
Please note my bodyguard is not amused.

Yes, I sprung big for a name-brand department store for my top.  I knew I would be photographed from head to toe, but I really wanted my sweater to to pop for the cameras.  I think we can agree it did.  We can also agree that I should never wear horizontal stripes again, as it makes my stomach look like it’s filled with a pound of buffalo chicken dip.  Wait…I think it was.

3.  Under the sweater = black tank top.  Designer = Casual Corner

“But Lisa, Casual Corner went out of business in 2003.  How could you possibly wear a Casual Corner piece?”  Um, it’s vintage.  Be jealous.  It looks amazing and you know it.

4.  Hair piece = black piece of elastic.  Designer = Goody

I might be lying about the designer, but it isn’t intentional.  I know Goody is a brand of hair products, but I’m not sure if that’s the designer who made my sweet headband.  What I know for sure is that I found this headband about five minutes before our guests arrived.  It was shoved in the bottom of a basket in our hall closet waiting for a special occasion like the Oscars.  I’m pretty sure I used it to keep the chips bag closed before it landed in the closet.

5.  Jewelry = Pearl Necklace.  Designer = K’s Jewelry

For all you perverts out there, this is an actual pearl necklace.  It was given to me by a high school boyfriend.  I would like to say it’s real, but I suspect it’s fake and the money intended for the purchase of jewelry was squandered away on cheap whiskey and soft core porn.  Either way, I still like the necklace and if I sniff closely, I can smell the faint aroma of Swisher Sweets.

So there you have it!  Wonder no more about what designer clothes I sported on Oscar night.  I suspect there will be a run on all of these items now that I’ve spilled the beans on my outfit selection.  Interestingly, I also literally spilled the beans at our party…which is why that sweet plastic tablecloth is on the serving table in the background.  Hey, at least it’s better than cutting the cheese.

I totally did that too.

What designers were worn on

SNOW STORMSI live in the Midwest, which is lame almost every day of the year.  It’s a glowing endorsement for this part of the country, I know.  There are a few times of year where it isn’t quite so punch-me-in-the-face-just-so-I-can-feel-lame.

I’m definitely not saying there are days where it’s fun and enjoyable.  I wouldn’t go that far.  But there are a few times of year when living in the Midwest isn’t so bad, as long as you view it with an eye for humor (and a belly full of liquor).

One of the most entertaining times to live in the Midwest is when there’s a winter storm.  I realize most people think a winter storm occurs when there are several inches of snow and ice, the roads are deadly, and people are boiling water on gas stoves just to stay warm.

Not a single one of these things defines a winter storm in the Midwest.

What does?  “ANY forecast of ANY variation of precipitation that MIGHT not immediately melt when it hits the ground.”  Yes, that’s the actual definition for “winter storm” in the Midwest.  Look it up.

A “winter storm” was scheduled to hit my city this morning, and because I’m a huge planner, I was completely prepared.  I was stocked up with several flashlights, fresh batteries, several rolls of toilet paper, clean blankets, and the entire first season of Sherlock on Blu-ray.  (The Blu-ray wasn’t so much something I needed to survive the storm, but more something I wanted because  Benedict Cumberbatch is dreamy in the nerdiest of ways.)

The snow began to fall this morning and as I watched it, I felt a sense of accomplishment for being so prepared for the obvious blizzard that was set to destroy us all.

And then it hit me.  I realized I didn’t have the basic essentials to get through a winter storm.  (Don’t worry.  I had liquor.)   What I didn’t have was an excessive amount of carbohydrates and sugar.  Those are the two things guaranteed to keep you warm during a winter storm.  True story.

I knew I had to act quickly.  I grabbed my keys and headed out the door to get necessary supplies.  There was no time to brush my teeth…or my hair…or to put on a bra.  It was an emergency and the people at the grocery store would have to turn their eyes and noses away from my horrid presence.  I figured they already knew to do that anyway, as this is my basic look whenever I go to the store.  This time was the first time I actually had an excuse.

When I arrived I had difficulty finding a parking spot because the lot was filled with vehicles ready to be filled with necessities.  Fortunately, I was able to elbow an old guy out of a spot close to the door and I felt good about it.  I’m sure he needed his exercise for the day and forcing him to walk further from his parking spot to the store was my way of ensuring he got it.  I’m such a good Samaritan that way, even in times of crisis.  He didn’t even say thank you.

I went inside and headed straight to section of the grocery store that was most crucial to my survival during the storm:  the bakery.  I walked right over to the cookies and proceeded to hand-pick a few cookies to get me through this storm.  (A “few” means ten, right?”)

I already felt better knowing one of the two necessities for a snow storm was safely in my hands.  Well, it wasn’t safely in my hands because nothing is safe when in my possession, but you get the point.

 

Bentley in snowI then headed to the frozen food section to get the other basic requirements for a blizzard:  frozen pizzas.  Fortunately, once again I was successful and quickly found several varieties of California Pizza Kitchen frozen pizzas. 

I debated if I should purchase them or not, simply because buying an item with the name of a perpetually sunny state in the title didn’t seem like a good idea when the end of the world was coming in the form of thundersnow. 

But then I remembered that CPK pizza is amaze-balls so I grabbed two boxes and headed to the checkout.

As I walked through the aisles I saw people getting eggs, bread, milk and items from the meat department.   These people had all gone off the deep end and clearly didn’t know what it took to get through a winter storm successfully.  (No one had alcohol in their carts either…a sure sign they wouldn’t make it through alive…or at least they wouldn’t make it through happy.)

I headed to the checkout and took in the sight of all the others racing around trying to get everything before the storm picked up.  No one else was standing in line to check out with only cookies and frozen pizzas.  Then I realized something.  Winter storms, or even the thought of winter storms, brings out the fat kid in me.

Granted, the fat kid in me doesn’t ever have to be coaxed to come out, as he lives close to the surface in the muffin top of extra skin that folds over my pants.  I call him Henry.

Henry obviously loves winter and everything it represents. Instead of being embarrassed about my inner fat kid wanting to bitch slap healthy eating during a blizzard, I decided to embrace it.  After all, winter storms don’t happen everyday, and Henry needed a strong dose of pre-diabetic sugar overload to get him through the storm.

I went to the self-checkout to avoid stares from the cashiers who would undoubtedly judge my choice of essentials.  After only struggling briefly with the cash register, I grabbed my cookies and pizza and walked to my car as quickly as I could.  I wanted to get home ASAP to make sure the cookies were delicious enough for winter storm consumption.

As I approached my car, I noticed an old man walking slowly down the parking lot, heading towards the store.  I tried not to hit him with my car as I drove away, thinking about how horrible it was that he had to park so far from the entrance.  Someone really should have given him a parking spot closer to the door.

FAT TUESDAYI’m pretty sure I didn’t have to write a blog post about this, as it’s a no brainer (as evidenced by this post’s title). Any holiday with the word “fat” right in the title is obviously going to be observed by this girl. It’s pretty much a celebration of me and my fellow chub club peeps, and what we stand for…which is butter on everything and a side of Ranch dressing.

OMG! I just made up that chub club thing just now and it’s completely brilliant! I’m going to run with it. Okay, I won’t really physically run with it.  I will walk slowly with it or take a cab.  I think I’m going to start a Chub Club for real.

I will be the “Big Cheese” in charge of the outfit, and the members will be named after different variations of my favorite dairy products. This is genius! I predict t-shirts will be made soon with the smallest size being an XL (for the tiny people in the group). This is gold!

Sorry about hijacking my MjAxMi1hOWJkZTkyMDhjOGI2YmM4own post there, but when amazing ideas come to me, which is pretty much every hour, I need to write them down so I don’t forget them.

I’ve got so many irons in the fire right now that it’s hard to keep them all straight.  And by “irons in the fire” I mean “items in the microwave.”

Anyway, I feel like this post is a pretty obvious one and probably doesn’t need to be written, but then again, I thought Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes had a love to last a lifetime, and look how that turned out.

You guys need guidance, and fortunately I’m here to serve.  However, I’m not here to serve you food; only wisdom. Scoop your own gravy, free loaders.

Perhaps the best part about Fat Tuesday is that it’s an actual holiday encouraging indulgence and gluttony.  Any other day of the year, society quietly judges you for overindulging.

Except in my case, society takes the form of my great aunt who doesn’t judge me quietly, but does so quite loudly from the seat next to me at dinner. “Wow, Lisa, you sure can eat an entire ham. Maybe you should grab some broccoli to round out your meal.”

charlie-sheen-fat-tuesday-mardi-gras-ecards-someecardsUm, maybe you should pick your teeth up off the table and shut up.

What other day of the year encourages engaging in a full day of complete gluttony? Thanksgiving is usually restricted to one meal of gorging, and the focus of the holiday isn’t simply stuffing one’s face with carbs (there’s desserts too!).

Apparently we are also supposed to remember the Indians on that day and how we killed them all with cholera blankets and STDs.  Not the happiest of holidays, although pie definitely makes it better. (Pie makes everything better. I think I should make that into a bumper sticker. It could be the slogan for my Chub Club.  I’M ON A ROLL TONIGHT!)

Unlike the short lived Thanksgiving with one big meal, Fat Tuesday encourages gluttony all day long! It’s the perfect day and it should be a national holiday. How can I be expected to work when I have a full cookie cake to eat? And that plate of nachos isn’t going to eat itself.

I can’t be expected to go to work on a day when the world is my oyster of food, and the oyster is on a cracker with Tabasco sauce.  Does my boss not want me to properly honor the holiday?  To basically flip off Fat Tuesday and all that it represents?  Apparently so.  My boss is obviously unpatriotic.

Fat Tuesday is also a great holiday because it actually celebrates being fat! All year long I’m made to feel embarrassed by my love handles and meaty thighs.

fat-tuesday-16

(I don’t feel bad about them, but it’s not for a lack of society’s attempts. They are relentless!)  But just this one day a year, society embraces fatness, one love handle at a time.

Wait, my husband just told me that Fat Tuesday isn’t a celebration of fat people at all. Apparently, he seems to think its a last hurrah of sorts before Lent starts and people give up stuff.  What does he know?  He’s skinny and clearly wants to bring me down on the best holiday of the year.

And if he doesn’t watch himself, he’s going to learn about giving up stuff…in this case, it will be the comfort of our memory foam mattress, as we don’t have one of those in the guest bedroom.

I’m not letting my husband’s nay saying bring me down on the best day of the year. I will relegate him to the guest bedroom so he can think about what he’s done, and so I can enjoy my last stash of Twinkies in peace without judgment. I will also be launching a Chub Club, as this is clearly one of my better ideas. It’s right up there with the Snuggie dress, which is a genius idea if I could just get some funding.

So enjoy Fat Tuesday, my friends. Celebrate your inner and outer fat kid, and if you come across nay sayers like my husband, feel free to throw a pie in their face and tell them they need to get in the holiday spirit.  But don’t waste a good pie.   That would be a tragedy.

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I know I should be mortified.  I should be disgusted with myself.  I know these things, and yet I feel nothing but satisfaction.  Maybe this is how Taylor Swift feels whenever she puts out a new album.  (Sidebar:  I secretly like most of her songs, but I will never publicly admit it.  She’s just a country girl looking for love.) Anyway, back to me, where the focus should always be.  (That rhymes.)

I ate an entire container of mini cupcakes.  Impressed?  You should be.

Granted, it wasn’t in one sitting, but it was within a 24 hour period, which I find both depressing and exciting.  The fat girl in me is proud of the accomplishment while the skinny girl in me is horrified and repulsed.  Fortunately, the skinny girl in me is squashed and practically crushed by the fat girl, so she can shut the frick up and keep her opinions to herself.  (She also needs to eat a ham sandwich.)

I’m saying this is a good thing and I don’t care what skinny people say…not even my husband.

I didn’t do this tonight, but did it about 2.5 weeks ago.  As my loving blog followers know, I recently had surgery and had evil Stan the gallbladder removed.  That’s a pretty big deal, or at least that’s what I’m telling my husband.  I don’t ever want to move anything, lift anything, or carry anything ever again so I’m going to ride this surgery into the ground…or at least ride it to the store where I will stay in the car while he runs in to get milk because “I’m just so weak.”  This whole surgery thing is a built in excuse for life…or at least for a few months.

Either way, I legitimately had surgery and I have the scars to prove it.  They are both physical scars from the incisions and what I assume will be emotional scars that will come when I get the bills and realize I need a second job to pay them.  (I’m thinking something where I get to wear a uniform…but not a hat.)

Due to the physical and emotional trauma my body sustained, it needs time and energy to heal from the invasive surgery.  What better way to heal than with some pre-packaged chocolaty goodness from Target?  It’s the perfect medicine.

I know people say laughter is the best medicine, but those people haven’t tried these cupcakes.  They’re wayyyyy better.  (Incidentally, I also discovered through this whole gallbladder thing that Percocet is also the perfect medicine, assuming you don’t mind constipation, of course.)

The cupcakes were amazing, and I contend they were good for me too.  I mean, the sustenance my body received from eating an entire 12 pack of mini cupcakes can’t be quantified.  Okay, well maybe it can technically be quantified by calories, fat, and number of tears cried when I realized I ate them all.  Whatever.  Each bite was more savory than the last, and if I had it to over again, I would absolutely eat the whole container again.

Actually, the only thing I would do differently is this time I would buy two containers.  Isn’t two always better than one?  (Except when it comes to STDs.  In that case, I would say one is better than two.  I would also say get to the clinic and get that taken care of, you dirty dog.)

So the next time you’re at Target and come across containers of mini cupcakes, grab one.  You won’t be sorry.  Then bring it to my house so I can down them all in one sitting.  After all, you didn’t even get me a “get well soon” gift.

FOR SHAME!

finished cupcakes

Notice how I left a few empty
wrappers to show you they were
chocolate? You’re welcome.

Ugh.  I just.  He’s just. Dreamy
I’m sure he loves puppies too.

DATE NIGHTThe other night my husband and I went on a date.  Yes, an actual date.  Well, sort of.  Now that I think about it, he didn’t pick me up at the door and I certainly didn’t get flowers.  I guess that’s fair because I didn’t put out.

We decided to go to one of those swanky theaters with the super comfy seats and menus with real food.  Not that a three pound bag of Skittles and a gallon bucket of popcorn aren’t real food.  They totally are.  Throw in a box of fish sticks and some applesauce and that’s what got me through college.

The movie selection for our date night was “Gangster Squad.”  Since Matt reviews movies, he already saw it and knew I would like it.  I also knew I would like it, but for a different reason.  That reason’s name?  Ryan Gosling.

Excuse me one minute.  I need to wipe the drool off my chin.  And off my computer. Oh crap, it’s on my shirt too.

DISCLAIMER BEFORE YOU READ ANY FURTHER:  I love my husband more than anything in the world.  That was made perfectly clear by the fact I didn’t leave him when he first started wearing what he calls his “indoor/outdoor shoes.”  The bottom is black rubber and the top is red felt that goes completely over the top of the foot.  They look like shoes Peter Griffin wears.

When Matt first wore the horrendous concoction of craft supplies, I asked him why he liked them, and he said they were great because you could wear them both indoors and outdoors.  I pointed out that was the beauty of ALL shoes, not just those made of faux fur.  Instead of calling them “indoor/outdoor shoes,” I suggested he just call them “shoes.”  I, on the other hand, will continue to just call them “ugly.”  (On a totally unrelated note, those shoes have mysteriously gone missing.)  END OF DISCLAIMER

Anyway, if I didn’t leave him when he busted out cartoon shoes, then you know I’m in it for the long haul.  But there is something about Ryan Gosling.  He’s just….he’s just a fine specimen of a person.  I’m sure he’s really gentle and kind.  I can totally tell by looking at him.  You can tell a lot from a person’s abs eyes.

So I was persuaded to go to the movie because there would be food, drinks, waiters and Ryan. Oh, and my husband too.  (Love you babe!)

I loved the film, and not just because of Ry-Ry, although that significantly contributed to my overall approval.  Since it’s a gangsta movie (although not at all similar to TuPac’s “Gangsta Party”), there were lots of guns and shooting.  A totally unexpected consequence of seeing the movie was my desire to shoot guns again. (Please recall I pretty much mastered the art of shooting when I went to a gun range this summer.)

A totally expected consequence of seeing the movie was my desire to see more of Ryan’s guns.  And by guns, I mean biceps, and by biceps, I mean abs.

The date night was great, even if Ryan didn’t bother to throw a girl a bone and flash a pec or two.  Despite this clear crime against cinema, I enjoyed myself, and also enjoyed the popcorn…and the soda…and the stir fry.  Don’t judge.  I’m recovering from surgery and need my strength.

Das Boot embracing his excitement
while also rocking the sweater and scarf ensemble.

My husband loves sushi.  I have no idea why he is so obsessed with it, as it’s just raw fish.  At any given time, we have raw fish in our refrigerator, but he won’t go near it, and doesn’t ogle it like he does sushi.  In fact, at home, he can’t be bothered to take the raw fish out of the fridge and throw it in the oven, but when we go to a restaurant, he will practically cut your hand off if you go for the last piece. (Although he can’t be bothered with raw fish at home, he can, however, be bothered to get in his car and drive to Hardee’s to pick up dinner instead.  The man is a mystery.)

Last night we went out for sushi with friends.  We had a Groupon, which sparked the choice.   Matt loves sushi and I love a bargain, so it was the perfect match.  (Just like me and Ryan Gosling…if he would just call me.)

We went with our friends Deutschemark and Das Boot (not their real names.  That would be super strange.). Das Boot is from Germany and has the coolest accent ever.  That has nothing to do with the story, but it’s worth noting.

Matt and I arrived late only to find our friends already at a table.  I hate being late, but what is a girl to do when the parking lot she usually parks in is full, and the overflow parking lot price had been doubled because of some lame car show in town?  I’ll tell you what she does; the only thing she can do.  She protests and parks several blocks away in a sketchy lot and prays her car is there upon her return.  (It was.)

The good thing about arriving late is our friends had already scoped out the place and were able to provide updates on the other patrons that we would be inevitably judging soon.  Doesn’t everyone do this when they go out to eat?  What else are you supposed to talk about?  Deutschemark and Das Boot are astute and had done their research perfectly.  They pointed out the couple on a first date, and the best find of the evening, a guy with a scarf, heavy eye lids of blue shadow, and an amazing purse.

Matt and I casually glanced over to make sure Deutschemark and Das Boot weren’t lying to us about their finds.  We immediately found the man, exactly how they described him to be.  He was beautiful and his eye makeup was impeccable.  I then looked to his man-bag, as I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and not call it a purse.  However, I had to immediately take back the benefit I gave him, because he had a very large purse.  It was black and actually quite nice.

Before I could say anything, my beloved husband spoke up and observed, “That’s a really nice purse.”

I was excited my husband had such great taste in handbags, but a little embarrassed he said this in front of our friends.  So I responded by asking him if he would like to join the gentleman at the table to further discuss accessories and feel up the gentleman’s bag.  (Yes, this is a double entendre and was meant that way.  You’re welcome.)

His response?  “What?  Is there something gay about one man complimenting another man’s purse?”

And that’s when the waiter arrived to take our order.

I considered trying to explain to the waiter that we weren’t judging the gentleman for carrying the bag, but were actually complimenting his choice, especially when considered as an ensemble for the rest of his outfit.  But then I figured he probably already knew we were a table he wanted to avoid, so I didn’t waste my breath.  I was hungry.

We ordered four rolls of sushi to start out with.  Matt and I assumed those four rolls were just for us, but apparently Deutschemark and Das Boot figured that would be enough for all of us to share.  We realized they must have been there much earlier than we thought and consumed several drinks.  Their judgment was clearly impaired about how much the Newlins were planning to consume.

The sushi arrived and Matt and I did our best not to molest the plate immediately.  It was served on a large square plate and arranged in groupings of each different roll.  The presentation was nice, and we were anxious to dig in.   And then we looked at the table next to us, and jealously set in.

The couple on the date had also received their sushi order, and it was served on a large wooden boat, complete with a bow and stern.  The sushi was served on the Promenade
Deck (as it should be.)  On the back of the boat sat a martini glass filled with shredded jicima and flashing lights.  What?!  Why did they get the sassy boat while we were left with a stupid plate?  We couldn’t eat the sushi presented when we knew it could come in something far more large scale.  We called our waiter over immediately.

We asked why they got a boat and we didn’t even get the equivalent of a dinghy.  He said we had to order at least five rolls of sushi to get the boat.  I pointed out this wasn’t fair, not only because he didn’t tell us that when we ordered, but also because we didn’t appreciate the clear classism that was going on in the restaurant.  Didn’t we look like people who deserved our sushi served on a luxury liner?  Clearly we demonstrated our impeccable taste with the compliments on the beautiful handbag across the room.  Obviously our waiter hated us.

We ate our sushi, all the while glaring at the couple next to us, telling ourselves the lacquer on the boat would give them food poisoning.  When it was time to order our second round, we did so, but once again ordered only 4 rolls.  I asked the waiter if he could make an exception and get us our next order served on an ocean liner.  I told him there would be two shiny quarters in it for his troubles.  (What?  I was already low on cash because of the parking incident.)

He said he would see what he could do, and we waited in anticipation, wondering if he would follow through, or if he was just another guy feeding us a line.  (I feel like there’s a fishing joke in here somewhere but I can’t find it.  Line.  Eating fish.  Boat.  I got nothing.)   We inquired if there was anything we needed to do to ensure the boat harbored at our table.  Das Boot suggested a large lighthouse to be placed in the middle of our table to ensure the boat would find us.  The waiter didn’t seem to get the humor, and I don’t think it was because of Das Boot’s accent.

When our second order came out, we were delighted to discover our waiter either had some clout with the kitchen staff, or he was motivated by that promise of an extra 50 cents.  Alas, our order arrived on a magnificent boat, complete with blinking lights.

We waived the boat in to shore, and for some reason, I felt it appropriate to make a backing up “beep, beep” sound as if the boat was a garbage truck instead of the beautiful yacht she was.  I also resisted the urge to yell “Thar she blows!”  I refrained because I was sure out waiter already hated us and most likely laced our boat with salmonella.

Most excited about the boat was Das Boot, who was like a kid at Christmas.  He stared in wonder as the waiter pointed out the various rolls and their locations.  He then began making comments about feeling like he was Leonardo DiCaprio and how he truly felt like he was king of the world.

Somehow, the sushi tasted better when eaten off the floors of the vessel, and we enjoyed each bite.  We cleared the ship and then requested our bill, as we had a party to attend and didn’t want to be late anymore than we already were.

When the bill came, we glanced it over to make sure everything was on the up and up and then we saw something that made us all laugh.  It was the cherry on top of our perfect dining experience.  Our waiter actually typed into the system “Customer requested boat.”

I’m not sure why we all found that hilarious, but we did.  I suspect it’s because the chef most likely granted our request because they imagined the requesting parties were a family of four, and the two small children wanted nothing more than the excitement of eating from a floating palace.  I can only imagine his surprise when he realized he granted the wish of four adults who clearly needed a hobby (but had excellent taste in handbags).

Bloodshed and Cheddar BallsI know, I know.  I’m behind on blogs.  Pipe down.  Doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder?  Actually, I don’t think that’s true.  In the case of my roommate, freshman year of college, absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder with her boyfriend, but it did make her grow genital warts.  True story.

I realize that it’s almost February and I’m writing a post about Thanksgiving, but doesn’t everyone love the holidays, no matter what time of year?  And Thanksgiving is the best holiday of all because it celebrates food, and freedom, and comradery, and killing Indians with cholera.

Well, maybe we don’t so much celebrate that last part, but it’s worth noting and shaming ourselves for…which is personally why I drink on that holiday.  I guess that means I’m a good American.

I really do have a lot of stories to tell you from when I was gone from the blog, but there’s only so much I can tell at once.   So bear with me, as some of these stories may not be timely. (Much like my college roommate’s “special visitor” one particular month which led to a pregnancy scare.  Another true story.)

But don’t get mad about it.  I’ve been backed up!  I feel like since I just had my gallbladder removed, I should make a joke about poo, but I won’t.  I’m better than that…and I also can’t think of anything clever to do with that joke.

On to Thanksgiving and the story.  This year we went to my brother’s wife’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving.  Isn’t that where most people go for the holidays?  I would like to think it’s because my brother’s wife’s parents think we are awesome and want to spend the holidays with me and Matt, but somehow I think pity plays a big role in our invitation.  Whatever, they had good wine.

As soon as we arrived, we felt like ass-hats because we didn’t make anything.  Don’t get me wrong, we brought something.  (We aren’t horrible people!)  That something just didn’t happen to be ours.  Rather, we snagged a bag of pies from my parents as they were loading the car.  We didn’t want to look like ass-hats…but we were fine being them.  (Side note:  “Bag of Pies” would make a great band name.)

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Since I have an amazing moral compass, I knew I needed to pull my weight, so I immediately began helping in the kitchen.  This may have been partly because I wanted to help, and partly because I wanted to make the cheese balls. I wanted to ensure I would have complete control over how much cheese was used for said balls. (Hee hee…balls…)

The recipe called for finely chopped nuts.  (I know, these balls and nuts jokes are getting to be too easy….much like my college roommate.)  Once I realized the “fine” description in the recipe wasn’t telling me that I needed to do a good job, I looked around for a food processor.  But for the record, had I chopped the nuts myself, I would have done a fine job.  Just FYI.

The processor was packed neatly in a box, instead of thrown in a random cabinet like it is at my house.  I immediately began trying to put the food processor together.  I wanted to earn my keep, and I was also seriously craving cheddar.

My brother’s mother in law, Hallmark (not her real name), and I decided to tackle this project together, because two heads are better than one, but also because she is a fan of the cheddar balls too.  (I’m resisting yet another ball joke.  I’m so mature.)

Unfortunately, Hallmark and I together may actually have been collectively more clueless than we were separately when it came to putting together the food processor.  Fortunately, we are both adorable and amazingly awesome, so it made up for our inability to follow written directions.  Since I was the guest, and wanted to show it wasn’t a complete mistake allowing us to crash Thanksgiving, I took the processor by the blade and took action.  Sadly, the blade retaliated against me by taking a chunk off the tip of my finger.  He was clearly not in the holiday spirit.

Immediately blood began gushing out of my finger, and dripped all over the nuts.  (Seriously, people.  Get your dirty minds out of the gutter.  I’m referring to the peanuts.)  I looked around helplessly and locked eyes with the one person I didn’t want to know about my mishap; my husband.  His reaction was exactly what I expected from him, although I can’t say it was out of line.

He shook his head as said in an exasperated tone, “Two minutes, babe.  You’ve been here two minutes.”

I want to say that he was exaggerating on the time.  I want to say that so badly.  But I can’t, because he was right, and I’m also fairly certain he rounded up.  At that point, the blood was gushing everywhere and judging by the look in his eye, I knew Matt wouldn’t be the first to volunteer blood for my inevitable transfusion.  Fortunately, Hallmark came to my rescue and helped me bandage my wound.  (Didn’t I tell you she was awesome?)

Matt gently sat me down on the couch and said we should “just sit here for a while.” Again, I wanted to be irritated with him, but I figured it would be more efficient to only drip blood on one spot of the carpet instead of all over the house.  I was a considerate house guest.

We waited for dinner to be served, all the while ensuring my finger remained over my head to stop the bleeding.  Finally, the food was ready and we proceeded to the dining room to eat.  I hoped the cheese balls were amazing, and fortunately, they were.  But then again, of course they were.  They had a little piece of me in every bite.

I’m also confident we will not be invited back next year, so Matt and I are now accepting invitations for Thanksgiving!

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