No, Matt didn’t come to his senses and finally leave me, although that’s a totally reasonable conclusion to draw and something he should probably consider.  But you know I keep that guy locked down with a combination of witty humor, amazing cooking and intimidation and fear.

It’s actually one part humor, one part meatloaf, and 5 parts fear. It’s a recipe for a happy marriage.

But seriously, the inevitable happened.  Again, I realize there are lots of ways this post could go, but I know you readers are impatient, so I won’t leave you guessing any longer.

My internal organs are trying to kill me.  That’s right.  Last week they launched a coup to overthrow me as their leader.  Not cool organs, not cool.

Last Friday night I began to have a horrible pain in my stomach.  I thought it was my body’s way of punishing me for putting away 2 brownies, so I tried to deal with it, because I’m a martyr that way.  (Okay, it wasn’t 2 brownies, it was 4.  Geez! Get off my back!)

Speaking of my back, that started hurting too.  Badly.  It continued to get worse and I found I couldn’t get comfortable and the pain was excruciating.  Not as bad as watching the chick from South Carolina in the Miss Teen USA 2007 pageant try to answer a simple question, but it was still pretty bad.

Too specific of a reference?  Don’t you remember her with her “heretofores?”  If not, you must find it on YouTube….but only after reading my blog.

We knew it was time to go to the ER when I diverged from my normally pleasant and charming self and started snapping at my husband.  I believe I told him at one point to “get online and figure out what’s going on with me instead of sitting around doing nothing.”  That’s a direct quote.  Please feel free to confirm it with him, but be gentle, as I think he may still be emotional about this incident.

We went to the ER where I was whisked away to see a doctor immediately.  I’m not kidding.  That totally happened and it was rad.  (My friend Stacia is trying to bring back rad, and since I have such a loyal following on this blog, I’m going to make it happen…because I change lives that way.  So read her blog too.  http://www.driedonmilk.com/  )

When I met with the doctor he asked me some questions and through slurred words and partial sentences, I was able to tell him about my pain.  By that time the pain meds kicked in and I can only imagine I was even more hilarious than normal.  However, Matt was a total downer because he made me tell the doctor about the brownies I ate pre-pain….and the pizza.  Whatever.  He was just trying to ruin my high from the pain meds.

After a CT and an ultrasound, it was determined there was an attempted murder at issue and the culprit was my gallbladder.  Granted, it was a super infected, swollen and throbbing gallbladder, but that doesn’t matter.  The intent to kill was the same and I took it as a personal attack (as did my stomach and spine, which felt like they were exploding.)  The doctor said I needed surgery immediately to remove it before it ruptured and killed me.

As I prepared a mass text alerting the news media to increase the terror alert to red, I felt compelled to ask the doctor something.  “Doctor,” I asked.  (In all honestly, it might have sounded more like “Dooooc…..terr……”)  “Was the cause of this attempted murder the brownies and pizza?  What was the impetus for the attack?”

The doctor’s response?  A glorious one.  “The cause wasn’t anything you ate.  You have a very infected gallbladder that’s a result of a virus or bacteria, and not from anything you ate.”

Sweet vindication.  I looked at Matt and did my “I’m right and you’re wrong, so suck it” dance, which is one I do several times a day.  But since I was in pain it was more along the lines of a small hand gesture involving one choice finger.  He still got the point.

I’m sure the surgeons argued over who got to operate on this sweet specimen of a body, and the doctor who lost the argument was the unlucky soul who performed the surgery.  Lucky for me, I liked him a lot.  Lucky for him, he’s a fan of sarcasm, so we were able to easily communicate.  Matt looked on, most likely mentally drafting his divorce petition.

As you can tell, I survived the attempt on my life, and emerged the victor over that vindictive gallbladder.  I wanted to keep his lifeless body (I’ve determined it’s a “he” and his name is Stan), However, apparently there are safety issues with that and the hospital didn’t want me removing him from the hospital.  (Insert eye roll and gesture previously used on my husband.)

Funny, because they didn’t seem to mind me bringing him into the hospital…they actually welcomed that with open arms (and wallets).  Come to think of it, I think they should pay me for allowing them to keep him.

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They told me it was something about it being hazardous materials, but I think that’s just their way of disguising the real issue.  That, or they wanted to protect me from further harm from that piece of crap.  He was a real S.O.B.Maybe they are using my gallbladder in some secret underground operation.

Do you think Stan is now the leader of a rogue group of crime fighters?  Like maybe he’s the Splinter to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?  Definitely.

So I’m now recovering from the attack and I’m out of the woods.  In this sentence, “the woods” is “the hospital.”  I’m on the mend, and as I’m sure you can tell from this post, I’m also under the influence of some serious pain meds.  Don’t judge me if there are typos or random words or sentences that don’t make sense.  I blame the meds.

Sock monkey.

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Click here for part 2 of the saga

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I hate game nights.  Seriously.  I hate them.  And this isn’t like one of those things where someone says “I hate that I can eat whatever I want and don’t gain weight” when what they really mean is “I love that I eat whatever I want and stay skinny while you eat nothing but celery and get fat.”  (You know that person, and you want to punch her in the vagina.)  No, it’s not like that at all.  I genuinely hate game nights.

It’s not that I don’t like an excuse to hang out with friends and eat dip.  Believe me, that’s the only thing that entices me to come to a game night.  Well, that and knowing I can yell expletives at my friends and call their mothers whores and then at the end of the night we can still walk away friends…or at least I hope so.

I’m super competitive.  I will do anything to be first and I’m pretty ruthless about it.  Just ask the seven-year old I pushed out of the way at the grocery store when I jetted to the front of the line.  (But I got there first!  Sucka!)

My friend Downtown Christy Brown (not her real name) hosted a game night Saturday night.  Actually, she called it “not a game night-game night” because she knew I wouldn’t come otherwise.  (I also wouldn’t come if there wasn’t french onion dip.  What am I?  A communist?)  She assured me there would be guacamole, which is the secret key to get me to do pretty much anything, so I decided to come.  (Actually, it’s not a secret.  If you read this blog with any regularity, you would know that guacamole is my kryptonite.)

Because of the promise of amazing dips, Matt and I headed to DTCB’s house for a night of games (or as I like to call them “friendship testers”).   Please recall the last time I went to DTCB’s house, I dropped my iPhone on her driveway, shattering the face of the phone.  (The lawsuit against her and her homeowner’s insurance is still pending.)

I was extremely cautious when I arrived at her house, and I maintained a death grip on my phone until I was safely inside and away from her faulty and dangerous driveway.

When we got inside we all commented about how I managed to make it indoors without breaking something.  We figured the night would be a success.  We didn’t know how wrong we were.  (Insert ominous music here.)

After eating dinner, we all headed downstairs to begin the “not games.”  Pajama Jeans (not her real name), was in rare form, which doesn’t have anything to do with the story, but she was so hilarious with her bottle of wine that I feel obligated to mention it.

I made it clear to the others that I didn’t want to play a game.  To make my point clear, I went upstairs while they decided which torturous Milton Bradley creation would waste the next few hours of our lives.  Leaving the room was my way of taking a stand against “not a game night-game night.”  Well, it was mostly because I had to use the restroom, but also because I was taking a stand.  After all, there was a bathroom in the basement that I didn’t use.  Yeah.  Point made.

I went into their hall restroom on the main floor, not because it was the closest, but because I liked the reading material in there.  (Did you know that in 1979 a woman jumped off the 86th floor of the Empire State Building only to be blown back onto the 85th floor with a broken hip?  Yeah.  Now you see why I use her hall bathroom.)

I used the facilities and stood up to flush the toilet (because I’m an amazingly thoughtful guest).  I pulled down on the lever and the bastard broke off into my hand.  WHAT?!  Did I seriously just break their toilet?  The toilet in their new house they’ve only had for about a month?  Really?  And how was I supposed to flush the toilet now?

I stood there for a moment in panic mode.  I realized my purse and keys were just outside the room in the foyer.  I could grab them and make a run for it.  Sure, I’d abandon my husband, but he’d find his way back home eventually.  He’s got a good sense of direction and his dimples would get him a ride home for sure.

I considered pretending like I didn’t do it.  Maybe I could go downstairs and tell them the handle was broken when I went in there.  No.  I knew better than that.  Although DTCB may believe some lies I tell her (like Diet Dr. Pepper tastes exactly like Dr. Pepper), she would know this one immediately.  I had to fess up.  But first, I had to flush the toilet.

Because I’m a master of home improvement (and because I’ve had my fair share of toilet issues), I knew that if I removed the top of the toilet, I could manually flush it by pulling up on the flusher thing.  (Yes, that’s the technical term for it.)  I located the flusher thing, pulled up on it, and heard the toilet begin to flush.

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As I raised my hands to clap and congratulate myself for being so awesome, I brushed something in the tank.  Apparently the thing I brushed was important…and filled with water.  It came unattached and sprayed water all over my arm, the wall, and the trash can.  (This is the part where I really wish this blog was fiction…or at least that I was smart enough not to relay these stories).

Feeling the cold toilet water on my hand, I vomited a little in my mouth and then focused on reattaching the piece so it would stop spraying water everywhere.  Fortunately, it was a quick fix and I was able to put it back together without any issues.  Well, except for the part about the missing toilet flusher.  That I couldn’t help.

I casually called DTCB upstairs under the guise of needing more Diet Coke.  (I’m so smooth.)  I then proceeded to show her what I did.  As a token of my guilt, I slowly handed her the broken handle.  She accepted it and then we laughed for five minutes before returning downstairs to join our friends.

Fortunately, this broken toilet issue hasn’t affected our friendship, and DTCB and I are as good as we’ve ever been.  However, I’m pretty sure her home owner’s insurance is going to ban me from their house permanently.  Honestly, it’s not a bad idea…

Torture at the movie theaterI’m not a huge movie fan.  I realize this creates a bit of a problem, as I’m married to a movie critic.  However, the way I see it is that it creates a problem for him, not me.  He’s the one who has to go to movies alone and look like a creeper.

It’s especially awkward (and hilarious) when he has to go to the morning screenings of animated movies by himself.  He looks like a pedophile.

I’ve often considered going separately and then running in right before the movie starts, pointing at him and yelling “You creep!  You shouldn’t be this close to children!” and then running out.

I have refrained from executing this plan simply because it involves running.

The only thing that entices me to see a movie when it’s not starring Jake Gyllenhaal or Ryan Gosling, is the popcorn.  It’s amazing.  I have no doubt it is approximately 10,000 calories for the bucket of popcorn I purchase, but it’s money well spent to me.

Yes, I purchase a bucket.  Actually, if they would let me bring in my own ten gallon bucket with a handle, I would fill that up with popcorn and liquid butter flavoring and be a happy girl.  But instead, they call the container they use a “bucket,” despite the lack of a handle.

In addition to insulting my intelligence by calling a cardboard container a “bucket,” they charge me $15.00 for the equivalent of two Spart Pop bags of popcorn.  (The clogged arteries are provided free of charge.)  You would think that if you’re paying the price of a steak dinner for popcorn, you’d get more than that.

*I’m referring to the steak dinner special at the Old Country Buffet.  Don’t knock it until you try it.  Tell ’em Lisa sent you.*

What’s most disturbing about all of this is that I gladly pay the ransom they charge because I want them to fork over the popcorn goodness.  Why go to the movie otherwise?

Last week my husband had a screening of a movie that looked like something I would actually enjoy (despite the lack of shirtless men and/or puppies.  Come to think of it, shirtless men holding puppies would be perfection).  Since he’s a movie critic, he gets to see the movies for free before they come out, and he gets to bring one person with him.  (Ladies, don’t be jealous.)  I was the lucky “plus one” for the night.  He gave his guy friends the night off.  (Seriously.  That’s usually who goes with him.)

I recently started a new diet that’s pretty intense.  And when I say “intense,” I mean it’s horrible.  I’m hungry and the diet doesn’t allow me to eat pasta, fast food or pizza.  It’s pretty much a torture diet.  Nonetheless, I started it and didn’t want a jaunt to the movies to throw me off track.  I greatly underestimated the difficulty of the task.

I arrived at the movie and the wonderful aroma of popcorn jumped out and greeted me with an “f-you.”  (Who knew it was so ill-mannered?)  I squirmed but told myself  to stay strong and walk away from the concession counter.  We passed the line of all the people trying to get into the screening.  I felt like such a VIP.

We found our seats in the theater.  Immediately upon sitting down I asked my husband to get me a Diet Coke.  Okay, I demanded it.  When asked how big I wanted it to be I responded “I would like a bucket if possible.”  I wasn’t screwing around and I couldn’t be tempted to go get it myself at the concession stand.  (I was also lazy…hence, the fatness.)

He returned just as the movie started and we settled in to watch.  Then I heard a scuffle and looked over to find two women shuffling in as the movie was starting.  They were obviously people from the general public who didn’t know how to behave at a VIP screening.

They sat down right next to me, despite the one empty seat they could have used as a buffer.  I gave them a dirty look and went back to french kissing my Diet Coke.

As if the invasion of my personal space wasn’t bad enough, the woman next to me pulled out an entire bag of popcorn.  It was in a Ziploc bag and it smelled like Christmas (only without the drunk uncles and liquor induced vomit).  I wanted to punch her for having popcorn so close to me and considered telling her I was on a diet and didn’t appreciate her behavior.

Considering she could barely contain herself in the theater seat, I was pretty sure she didn’t have a concept as to what a diet entailed and wouldn’t be compelled to stop eating.

As the movie went on, she stuffed her face with the bag o popcorn she brought from home…to a free movie.  She wasn’t even subtle or dainty about it.  She shoveled large handfuls into her mouth, losing several kernels as casualties in the process.

How dare she let such a commodity go to waste! I thought about picking them up off the ground and eating them, but since my shoes were stuck to the sticky floor, I figured the popcorn was stuck there permanently too.

She eventually finished the entire bag o popcorn and slipped into a carb-induced coma, which somehow required her to breathe heavily.  Whatever.  At least she wasn’t tempting me with popcorn anymore.

At the end of the movie, my husband expertly escorted me out of the theater and away from a possible altercation with the woman with the popcorn.  He told me to stay focused and led me out of the theater without any further exposure to food.  I maintained a death grip on my Diet Coke.

When we got home I congratulated myself on my restraint at the theater, which was both the restraint from food and the restraint from assaulting the woman sitting next to me.  Maybe this diet thing wasn’t that bad after all.  I celebrated with macaroons.

My glamorous job takes me to some interesting places.  I get to see all different kinds of people and cultures, and try lots of different foods.  Does this magical job take me to Dubai for camel riding? What about Paris for croissants?

Perhaps the sunny California coast to pay tribute to Tupac? (We will not forget you, Pac!)  Not so much.  But Southeastern Missouri?  Totally.

Yesterday I was in a very southern part of Missouri known as the boot heel.  Honestly, I don’t know if it’s really called the “boot hill” or the “boot heel” because the way the people in that area pronounce it sounds like “boot heel.”

But then again, they call soda “pop” and many of their vehicles sport murals of fly fishing on the back window, so I’m not sure what to believe.  Up is down over there.

Either way, I found myself in rural southern Missouri yesterday right around lunch time.  I was working diligently with one of the local residents when he pointed out that it was time for lunch (as if my rumbling stomach and random comments about burritos weren’t enough to let him know I was ready to eat).  He was obviously very good at picking up social queues (although he has yet to understand that mustaches are not lady magnets).

I’m very familiar with this particular gentleman.  He’s an older professorial type who looks like Mark Twain…if Mark Twain wore Mickey Mouse ties and drove a pick up truck.  (I suspect Mark Twain would have been a Disney fan.  Just a hunch.)  So I will call this person Mark Twain for purposes of this blog.  I’m just not feeling overly creative to think of a better name.  Deal with it.

Mark Twain (not his real name) said it was time for lunch and asked me “How’s about we go grab a bag o burgers for lunch?”

Wait, what?  A bag o burgers?  I was immediately intrigued, not just because this highly educated gentleman seemed to have a tenuous grasp of the English language, but also because he wasn’t suggesting one burger.  He was suggesting we get an entire bag.  Um, game on.

But before I could commit to this endevour (and partially because I wasn’t sure if he would make me ride to the eatery in the back of the truck), I told him I needed more information before deciding if I was interested in the “bag o burgers.”

He seemed shocked that the promise of a bag filled with sub par meat wouldn’t be enough to entice me to lunch.  Quite honestly, I was shocked myself.  Maybe I was maturing and focusing on things other than food….nah.

“Um, Mark Twain, did you say a ‘bag o burgers?'” I asked, thinking perhaps he was mistaken.

“Of course!  You’ve never had ’em before?” he responded.

I told him that although I’ve had my fair share of burgers, many of which have come in a bag of some sort, I’d never used “a bag” to quantify the amount of meat I wanted.  Did one go to this place and order things by the bag?  Could I get a bag of burgers and a satchel of sausage?  What about a purse of pizza or a clutch of cake?

Was this a new form of measurement I needed to be aware of?  I don’t fully understand the metric system, so I had some serious concerns that yet another form of measurement was lingering.

“How many burgers are in a bag?” I asked, trying to get to the bottom of the measurement issue, all the while trying to figure out if I should order a Liter or a gallon of vodka with my bag o burgers.  (Damn you metric system!)

“Well, there are several in a bag,” Mark Twain responded, as if that was the obvious answer.  But I needed more.

“How big are the burgers?” I asked.  “What if I want more than one?”

He went on to tell me the burgers are about the size of a pickle.  A pickle?  Naturally, I asked him if he was referring to a dill spear or the bread and butter pickles.  He said they are the size of an ordinary pickle.  I then asked the next logical question.  Are there pickles on them?

“Of course not,” he answered, as if I had just asked him a completely ridiculous question.  “If there were pickles on them, then everyone would know how small the burgers were.”  he said, as if this was the most logical argument in the world.

I told him I thought the cat was out of the bag on that one, and then immediately wondered if the cat came out of the same bag with the burgers.  I could tell I was getting too involved in the conversation, yet I couldn’t help myself.

“Mark Twain, if we got a bag o burgers, would we each get our own bag, or would we share?” I asked, trying to get to the bottom of the issue (and get closer to eating).

“Well now, that depends on how hungry you are.  I figured we could share but if you want more than one, you can have another.” he responded.  He was so chivalrous.

“But how big are the bags?” I asked, trying to envision what a bag o burgers would look like.  “Are they regular brown bags for lunches or are they plastic grocery bags?” I asked, trying to get an idea of how many pickle-sized burgers were in a bag.

“Now you’re just asking ridiculous questions,” he said.  “Let’s go.”

But I couldn’t go.  There were too many unanswered questions.  Not only did I not know how big the bags were, I had no idea if the meat was even beef.  And we hadn’t even touched upon the issue of side items.  How were they delivered?  Did I order a “tub o tots?”  There were too many unanswered questions.  I had to decline.

I told Mark Twain that I couldn’t join him, and that I was sad to be missing such a delicious lunch.  He turned around, looked me straight in the eye and said “Oh don’t worry.  The burgers are terrible.”

woman runningThat photo isn’t me. I’d never wear blue pants.

I’m not a runner.  I’m not even a walker.  I’m not an exerciser of any kind, although I used to be.  Years ago I was addicted to working out, but then I discovered Oreos, and brownies, and Hardee’s, and pretty much all the things that make life worth living.

So I fell off the work-out wagon.  Actually, I don’t think the work-out wagon would actually be a wagon at all.  Sitting on that wagon wouldn’t be working out…but pulling the wagon would be.  So I guess I hopped aboard some sort of wagon and then didn’t do shit.

Either way, I stopped doing my daily cardio, unless you count for my mad dash to the fridge for the last pudding cup.  I used to run every day, and had a love/hate relationship with it, as I think everyone does.  No one likes to run, just like no one likes Pauly Shore.  If they tell you differently, they are a liar (or in the case of liking Pauly Shore, they’re just a douchebag).

This weekend I ran some errands with my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name).  It was nice to have some girl time, even though we didn’t talk about our lady parts once.  That’s not the point of girl time, despite what all men think.  Rather, it was nice to get away from work and shelter stuff and all the other things that seem to comprise my time.

At the end of the day, she said she had one more stop, and asked if I minded going with her to Fleet Feet to get a new pair of insoles for her running shoes.  Whatever.  There was a McDonald’s close by and I was blinded by the thought of a Diet Coke, so I agreed.

For those of you who don’t know what Fleet Feet is, it’s a store that focuses on running and working out.  It’s obviously stupid and annoying, but since I’m a good friend, I went anyway.

We walked into the store and it was packed with people.  Did these people actually enjoy running?  Didn’t they know there was an option of not running?  These people were clearly overachievers and no one I wanted to be associated with.  I walked around to keep myself busy and to keep myself from telling the sales lady she needed to eat a ham sandwich…and an entire bag of chips.

I walked around and found an area of bumper stickers for sale.  They mostly had “13.1” and “26.2” stickers.  See what I mean?  Overachievers.  And what a way to brag about it…you ran 26.2 miles…whoopty freaking doo.  I ate an entire sheet cake, yet I don’t have a bumper sticker denoting that accomplishment.

I looked around for a sticker that said “0.3” as I’m pretty sure that’s the most I could run without passing out or punching someone in the face due to sheer misery.  They didn’t have the sticker, so I moved on to another part of the store.

As I walked around the store, I realized I was the only one in there who was in double digit clothing.  Everyone else was a perfect size 4, and was presumably starving. I immediately felt guilty (not because I downed a wrap at Red Robin just prior to the errands.  I felt great about that).

I felt guilty because I realized I was actually screwing over the store.  By being fat in the store, I was suggesting to the other patrons that I was a runner too, and I was a believer in their products…which would be great if my stomach wasn’t hanging over my pants.

I felt like I should have worn a sign around my neck stating “I’m not a runner.  I’m just here for the brownies.”  At least that way people would know I didn’t use any of the store’s products, and my flabby arms shouldn’t be an endorsement for the store.  I couldn’t believe I wasn’t asked to leave immediately.

I decided to walk to the back of the store to hide myself from the crowd (and also to look for brownies).  I walked around the back of the store and hit the motherload.  No, it wasn’t a table of baked goods, although what I found was almost as exciting.  There was an entire section dedicated to foot problems and solutions.  What?!

As you know, I have foot issues and have to wear sweet orthopedic shoes that make me look like I pass out meds at a nursing home.  It sucks, but it’s the only way I can walk and not be completely miserable.  The foot area in Fleet Feet was complete with different remedies and relief options for foot pain.  Granted, my foot pain isn’t because I follow a strenuous running schedule, but more because I follow a strenuous eat/sleep schedule.  It’s rigorous.

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As I looked at the various options, I realized I wasn’t alone.  Other patrons had discovered this section of the store (probably because I’m such a trend setter).  I looked up and saw I was the only woman under the age of 60 who was drooling at the foot products.  Seriously.  I was immediately reminded that I didn’t have an AARP card nor did I eat my dinner at 4:00 at Country Buffet (although this girl always appreciates a good buffet spread).

I slowly backed away from the orthopedic area, careful not to knock anything over.  I didn’t want to throw any of these old bettys backs out if they tried to pick up a fallen orthodic.  Amazingly, I escaped without incident, which was a triumph in itself.

I found Pajama Jeans who was working with an employee to find the perfect insert.  I sat down next to her, as all that walking around the store was exhausting, and I still hadn’t located a brownie.  The woman was talking to PJ about running and walking and the effect it has on her feet.  When I sat down, she didn’t seem to notice me, and kept talking to PJ as if I wasn’t there at all.  At first, I wanted to be offended, but then I realized the woman wasn’t wrong to ignore me.  I clearly wasn’t there to get into shape.  Whatevs.

We finally got the proper insoles for PJ and left the store.  It was a successful day of running errands (which consequently, was the only “running” I did that day…or ever).  PJ will probably break in those insoles in no time with her regular sprints and exercise.  Meanwhile, I will go back to what I do best, eating and writing a blog about eating.  I say you stick with what you know.

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.

I'm always the cantaloupeI don’t fricking like cantaloupe.  Does anyone?  If any of you actually like it, you obviously have horrible taste (as evidenced by your decision to read my blog).  Don’t get me wrong, I like fruit.

One of my favorite snacks is chocolate covered strawberries (assuming a chef sneaks into my house in the middle of the night and makes them for me.)  And what about bananas covered in Nutella?  Yes please.

As you know, I’m no fan of salad.  If I wanted to eat weeds I would go to Amsterdam and at least have a good time with it.  However, I will eat fruit salad, assuming it’s covered in sugar and served with a side of potato salad and hot dogs.  I’m so American.

I know what you’re thinking…”Come on Newlin.  Get to the point of this post.”  Okay, I’m getting there.  Calm down.  Couldn’t you read the title of this post? I’m the cantaloupe of the fruit salad.

Well, maybe I’m not so much the cantaloupe of the fruit salad, as my life is the cantaloupe.  It’s a melon of sorts.  Or maybe I’m a melon.  I don’t know.  My body looks like a melon.  Maybe I should have thought this post through further.

Normally, when I’m somewhere that is serving fruit salad, I’m at the end of the food line (because I’m first in the alcohol line.  I have priorities).  So by the time I get to the fruit salad, the only thing left is cantaloupe, melon, and a frown on my face.

But isn’t that really a metaphor for my life?  I can’t walk without falling, I can’t eat without spilling, and I can’t talk without making an ass of myself.

But you know what?  Even though I’m the cantaloupe of the fruit salad, I’m okay with that.  A lot of people like cantaloupe.  I may not be everyone’s flavor, but those people are missing out.  I can’t make them like cantaloupe, just like I can’t make myself like Kim Kardashian.

And cantaloupe isn’t too bad when it’s submerged in vodka.

clinking lemonade glasses

Summer has arrived, and with it comes an influx of bored kids who should probably be going to summer school, or should at least take a shower every couple days.

Seriously. Yes, you’re growing the coveted hair under your pits, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take some soap to it every now and again.  It won’t fall out.  I promise.  It hasn’t worked on my pit hair and it won’t work on yours.  I can smell you from here.  No joke.

Every summer for as long as I can remember, kids have been setting up lemonade stands.  I like to think it’s because they’re miniature entrepreneurs, but I’m beginning to think it’s because they want to sit around and do nothing while acting like they’re working.

I suspect their inspiration comes from every single person in Congress…and/or Ce Lo Green.  Seriously, that guy has creepy small hands and we all know he doesn’t really do anything on The Voice except remind me I need a manicure.

My neighborhood is no exception to the lemonade stand epidemic, and I’ve noticed that one or two of them seem to pop up each year.

Because I’m totally awesome, (and addicted to sugar), I always stop at whatever lemonade stand I see (so long as I have a quarter and a hankering for artificial flavoring…which is always).

Last week Matt and I saw a lemonade stand in our neighborhood and immediately stopped to grab a few cold glasses.  It was on a Tuesday night, and we were headed to meet my friend The Nanny (not her real name) and her husband for Taco Tuesday night, but we figured we could take a sweet treat before we went (and after too.  Hello Dairy Queen…)

We grabbed a couple quarters, got out of the car and headed over the the small lad and lassie who were manning the booth.  (And by “booth” I mean a card table with some questionable stains on it.  And yes, I said lad and lassie.  Deal with it.)

quartersWhen we arrived, the lad and lassie made no attempts to sell their product.  I was expecting some sort of hook like “It’s the perfect day for some lemonade” or “What can I do to get you some much needed refreshment?

Instead, I got two kids with a thousand yard stare, one of which had a lazy eye, which made the stare particularly troublesome. I decided to focus on his nose in an effort to keep myself from following the stare of the lazy eye. (Who knows where that would lead.)

“Hi there,” my husband said.  He’s a real genius when it comes to dealing with kids.  “Whatcha selling?”  See what I mean?  Genius.

“We have lemonade” the lassie said in a completely monotone voice.  She may not have had a lazy eye, but her enthusiasm left much to be desired.  (As did her wardrobe.  Stripes with polka dots?  Child please.  You can’t pull that look off.)

We will take two, please” my husband said.  That guy is quite the charmer.  He slid two quarters across the dirty table and awaited his refreshment.

They are a dollar a piece,” Lazy Eye responded.

Seriously?!  A dollar a piece?  That’s two dollars for approximately 8 ounces of lemonade!  I could buy an entire container of Country Time for about three bucks, and it most likely wouldn’t have been handled by creepy kids with grimy hands and an eye condition.  What kind of robbery was this?

“Um, okay,” my husband responded, trying not to appear flustered for fear Lazy Eye might actually wail on him.  “I will have to go back to my car and get some more money.”

glass of lemonadeHe headed to the car while I stood there trying to make small talk with the lad and lassie (yes, I’m back to using those terms).  Those kids definitely didn’t have much going on in the conversation department.

I asked them if they liked Elmo or if they had any GI Joe dolls, but they didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.  They were obviously idiots.

My husband returned with two dollars and gave them the cash.  Lassie then proceeded to pour our two glasses of lemonade.  (I was definitely glad to see she was pouring, as I’m pretty sure her brother didn’t have the best hand-lazy-eye-coordination.)

Lassie handed us each a cup of lemonade and we walked away.  We got back to the car and we each took a sip.  Ew.  It wasn’t even cold!  What?!  Would it kill the kids to throw an ice cube or two into the mixture?  Who was their supervisor?

They clearly didn’t care about repeat customers or quality assurance.  Who am I kidding?  They were probably already packed up and three towns over by the time we took our second sip.  Those kids were total scammers and we were suckers.

Aside from the fact they needed a lesson in marketing and placement of their stand (along with a pair of corrective lenses), they also needed to learn about keeping the customer happy….and inflation.

Although I know times are tough, I’m pretty sure inflation hasn’t increased 75% in the last fifteen years.  If so, I need a huge raise…and Abercrombie and Fitch is still overcharging for their t-shirts.

Maybe I’m getting old, but I don’t think a dollar for 8 ounces of lukewarm generic lemonade is a deal.  I had half a mind to go back to the stand and ask for my money back, but feared I would throw the remainder of the glass in their faces, and I didn’t want another assault charge on my record (nor did I want to put anything in that jacked up eye).

Instead, we decided to chalk the incident up to stupidity (much like my reading of the “Twilight” series).  The worst part of the entire experience (aside from the acidy after taste), was the fact that we never got back the two quarters that we initially offered.  Hopefully they use those additional funds to invest in a business plan…or a co-pay for a visit to the eye doctor.

guy asleep with lemonade

top of beeer canOkay, I held off as long as I could, but I caved. (No, I’m not talking about the diet that lasted all of 12 minutes, although that is a totally legitimate guess.)  It’s time to talk about the glorious train wreck that’s better known as The Bachelor/The Bachlorette series.

I could dedicate an entire blog just to musings about this wonderful show, but I try to refrain because I know my readers really want to read about my life, and how I manage to do nearly impossible things, like get myself kicked out of the local library.  (Not so much kicked out, as encouraged to stay away for the next 60 days.)

Every week I desperately want to do a recap of the show, where I point out all the ridiculous things I notice (like last week’s episode with the constant thunder and complete lack of rain drops).  However, instead, I decided to be more creative and combine two of my favorite things:  making fun of The Bachelor/Bachlelorette, and drinking.

I tried to figure out how to add Chipotle and Ryan Gosling in there, but I’m not that big of a genius, so let’s just start with drinking and The Bachelor/Bachelorette.

Here are the rules:  Whenever someone says or does one of the following things, you have to take a shot.  Yes, a shot.  Not a drink of beer.  This game isn’t for pussies, and neither is The Bachelor/Bachelorette.  Go big or go home.  Actually, you probably are at home watching the show, but whatever.  Get out your finest liquor (or liqueur if you are a total douche), and take a shot every time the following happens:

1.  Someone says “I think I’m really falling for her/her.”  —-2 shots

Who actually says this? No self respecting guy would ever say these exact words.  Ever.  In real life, a guy would get punched in the dick for saying something like this…probably by me.  Hey douche bag, return your man card and grab some Tampax because you clearly have a vagina.

2.  The Bachelor/Bachelorette says “I’ve got some fun dates planned this week.”  —3 shots

Really?  You planned the dates?  It wasn’t some ABC intern making $2 an hour being forced to purchase hookers for Chris Harrison while staving off his sexual harassment and ass grabs?  Yeah, we all believe it’s you that’s the mastermind behind these dates.

You thought Bermuda was a made up island invented by The Beach Boys for their catchy “Kokomo” tune, but we are supposed to believe you were able to secure the helicopter and $5 million yacht for the afternoon. Sure… (“Way down in Kokomo…”)

3.  Someone is able to identify the quiet unknown girl/guy by name before his/her name flashes on the screen.  —pass out a shot to everyone else in the room

Every season there’s a candidate that no one knows exists.  He’s that random creepy guy in the corner braiding his ponytail and writing in his journal.  He’s the guy that never gets a one-on-one date, and the guy I’m pretty certain is just one of the extra camera guys who is off duty but wanted to get in a shot or two.

 

If you can identify that guy’s name, you deserve to pass around shots to everyone else in the room.  You also deserve to get a hobby because that’s seriously pathetic.  Come to think of it, you should drink too.

4.  Whenever someone says “I really like it best when it’s just the two of us.”  —2 drinks

Yeah, it’s just the two of you…and the camera men…and the lighting guys…and the producer…and America.  Yeah, it’s a real quaint date.  Maybe you guys should go to the Olympics…you know…for some alone time.

5.  Someone says “He’s/She’s not there for the right reasons.”  —slam a beer

Yeah, cuz the rest of you are all there for the right reasons…definitely not for the free tripp and the 8 week long kegger.  Yep.  You’re there for love.  The way you shed your shirt and flex your pecs every time the camera is on you definitely makes that clear.

6.  Someone says “I really want to find love.”  —punch your neighbor in the face.  (Passing out shots got kind of boring and this will switch it up a bit.  I told you this game wasn’t for pussies.)

Of course…you’re there for love.  And by love, you mean the cover of “Us Weekly” and by “lasting relationship” you mean you want to get an agent and do Dancing with the Stars.

7.  Someone says “This is really hard.” —1 drink

drinking glasses

Oh yes, it’s a rough road being on the show.  Lounging around all day in 5 star hotels and pools in exotic locations always stresses me out.  The free food and alcohol makes it positively excruciating.  Shut up, quit your bitchin’, and ask the production assistant to get you another session of spray tanning.

You don’t look quite orange enough for the camera yet.  And stop shaving your chest.  You’re a tool.

8.  The Bachelor/Bachelorette says “Will you accept this rose?”  — punch yourself in the face.  (You might as well, because hearing these lines is already killing brain cells, so why not top it off with a blow to the face?)

roseRight…like a girl/guy isn’t going to accept the lame ass rose that some 16 year old picked up from Walmart approximately five minutes before the show began taping.  Why do they even ask this question?  It’s not like someone is going to turn down the opportunity to enjoy another week of slamming beers and doing push ups by the pool.  Puh-lease.   

I would accept a rose from The Bachelor/Bachelorette if it meant I got to lounge around for another week and boss around Chris Harrison.

There you have it for now.  I’m considering adding more rules as the season goes on, but I wanted to get you all started with this game, as I know you were desperately looking for something to make that show even more enjoyable than it already is.

If you are planning on playing this game, may I also suggest that before you start, you get a note from your doctor keeping you off work for the next day?  I guarantee your hangover will thank you.