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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…

I lied to you guys.  Okay, I didn’t so much lie as I omitted part of the story.  But a lie by omission is just as bad as a flat out lie, or at least that’s what I tell my husband every time I discover he had Taco Bell for lunch and didn’t tell me about it. (Here’s a tip my dear:  Hide the receipt.)

As you faithful readers know, I recently discovered I went all day wearing a necklace with the price tag on it.  I’m obviously awesome.  It was super embarrassing, but considering I do embarrassing things like that all the time, honestly, it wasn’t even much of  a blip on my radar.

Considering my “radar” is comprised of this blog and my poor memory of events that’s clouded by liquor, I would say my radar is probably faulty too.

Either way, I told you about how inadvertently leaving the price tag on my necklace made an amazing impression on a new employee in one of our other offices. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, shame on you.  Catch up on the blog and come back to me.  Seriously.  I will wait.)

Although what I told you was (sadly) true, I didn’t tell you the second part of the story; the part that happened about 20 minutes after the price tag debacle of ’12.  Yes my friends, there is more embarrassment.  You’re welcome.

After removing the price tag from my necklace (and removing “call doctor about mysterious rash on neck” from my to-do list), my coworkers and I realized it was time to cut our happy hour short and head out to the restaurant to meet our clients.  I caressed my beer one last time, telling him I was sorry to see him go.  However, since I recycled him, I hoped to see him soon…preferably filled with more cold beer.

We headed to my car, as I was the designated driver.  (I know, right?  Imagine the group I was with if I was the most responsible one with liquor.)  Because I’m super important, my car is always filled with random things.  From an extra pair of Spanx to Ziploc bags of protein shake powder, there’s always a wide variety of items shoved into my car…typically on the floorboards in the backseat.  That day was no different.

I walked to my car (his name is Deiter), put my purse down, and began rearranging things to ensure my coworkers had a place to sit (and that they didn’t see what size the Spanx on my floor were).  It took a few moments to clean out the backseat, as I have an entire animal rescue kit in my car.  No joke.  I do.  If I see an injured or lost animal, Deiter and I are fully equipped to rescue him.  Tell your friends.

I finally made a space for my coworkers, got in, and revved up Deiter for the drive.  I pulled out of the parking space and decided to drive to the back of the hotel to exit to the highway.  Part of me knew it would be easier to get to the road from there, and part of me wanted one last glimpse at my iced cold beer in the recycling bin.

As I drove through the parking lot, two women in a vehicle going the opposite way began waving at me furiously.  I recently had a run in with a misinterpretation of hand gestures while driving, so I wasn’t about to jump to any conclusions about the meaning of the waves.  Naturally, I assumed they recognized me as a celebrity blog writer.

I nodded my head in acknowledgment but they continued to wave and yell.  What was wrong with these women?  They obviously were an obsessed group of fans. Suddenly I knew what Rhianna felt like (only without all the domestic abuse).  I was glad I was safe with Dieter.

Then I heard yelling from the other side of the car.  My coworkers and I looked over and saw an extremely attractive man walking towards us, pointing and saying something.  Did I really have that big of a following?  How did all these people know I was the voice behind the blog?

Naturally, I ignored the women and brought my attention to the dream boat who was trying to catch my eye.  Just as I was getting a pen to give my autograph, I heard what he was yelling.  No, it wasn’t that I looked amazing, although my outfit looked much better without the price-tagged necklace.  Rather, he pointed to the top of my car.

I brought Deiter to a halt and got out to make sure I could understand what he was saying (and to check out his butt in his form-fitting khakis).

Your purse is on top of your car,” he said, pointing.

Seriously?!  Did I really just drive away with my purse on top of my car?  Surely not.  I looked and sure enough, there was my Nine West purse, holding steady on top of Deiter.  (Yeah, you read that right.  It’s a Nine West purse.  Be jealous.  I’m a high roller when it comes to purses.)

I sheepishly grabbed my purse and got back inside quickly.  Of course, there was no way to disguise yet another embarrassing occurrence from my coworkers, who were still calling me “Blue Light Special” from the price tag incident from fifteen minutes prior to the purse crisis.  So instead of being embarrassed about it, I embraced it and laughed about it.

I’m pretty sure the new guy thinks I’m a total idiot, and he’s probably not wrong.  But at least I set the bar low for myself, so when I do or say something brilliant, he will be mesmerized even more.

Such a happy ending to yet another embarrassing moment.

LASTINGFor my job, I’m supposed to appear somewhat put together.  I do my best to comply, but for those of you who know me, you realize this is nothing but a facade.  If you look at the man behind the curtain, you will find me in Pajama Jeans without a bra eating Chipotle and ordering random items from QVC

Even though I try to keep up appearances at work, I’m basically just a bunch of smoke and mirrors in an attempt to keep people from knowing the real me.  (P.S.  I think they know…)  Come to think of it, if I glanced in the mirror every so often, I probably would do a better job of keeping the lies going.

We recently hired a new employee in another city and last week I met with him and a few other employees from out of town.  We had a client dinner that night and wanted to meet before dinner to have a few beers.  The beers were partly to recover from a long day at work, and partly to numb my feet from the pain my shoes would cause from a night attempting to look professional.  (It didn’t work…the numbing of the feet or my looking professional.)

We met at the executive suite at a ritzy hotel where my coworkers were staying.  (We’re a pretty big deal….and they found a great bargain on Orbitz.)  I felt fancy because I had to be buzzed into the special suite even though I had a mysterious stain on the right boob of my dress.

This remains an unsolved mystery but I will continue to wear the dress and pretend like it just happened and I didn’t know about it.

When I say I had to be buzzed in, I don’t mean I had to be buzzed to get in, although my regular readers wouldn’t be wrong to make that assumption.  Rather, I had to prove I was important enough to be in the executive suite (the hotel staff clearly didn’t read my blog and didn’t know what a big deal I am).

I met my coworkers and we immediately began chatting and drinking our beers.  I tried to come off to the new employee as put together and professional.  He didn’t need to find out about me…at least not yet.  As we talked, I felt something poking me in the back of my neck.  Since I was sitting on a couch that probably cost a year of my mortgage payments, I knew it wasn’t the sofa.  I felt my neck and realized there was something large poking me.  What kind of irritant was it?

I grabbed the object and pulled it around to further investigate.  Because I can’t do anything quietly, my coworkers (and a couple other lucky suite-goers) watched in anticipation as I pulled the phantom item out from behind my neck.  And there it was…the large price tag to my necklace…the necklace I’d been wearing all day.

Seriously?!  I wore the necklace all day with the price tag on it?  And it wasn’t just a small tag with only the price and bar code.  Of course not.  It was one of those large tags that has a hangy thing to hang the necklace from a rack.  (That’s the technical term…”hangy thing.”)

I would like to say I was mortified, but I wasn’t.  I was actually pretty impressed that I went an entire work day without noticing my Minnie Pearl fashion statement, or the fact that something was digging into my neck all day.  I ripped off the tag and put it on the table for all the executive suiters to see.

I couldn’t have been prouder…because I bought the necklace at Kohl’s and the price tag suggested the necklace was expensive.  (They didn’t need to know I bought it with coupons and Kohl’s cash.)

As I stared at the price tag that had become part of my outfit for the day, I thought about what my new coworker must think of me.  Did he think I was an idiot?  Did he think I was crazy?  And then I realized something: of course he didn’t.  He thought I was a high roller because I bought a sassy necklace at Kohl’s.  Win!

touching at bar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it happened.

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

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

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

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

I’m 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.

woman with plane

First off, isn’t this picture of the woman with a paper plane incredibly creepy, yet awesome?  I’m scared of her, yet I want to know her story.

I was recently at Dulles National Airport in Washington D.C.  Not so much because I’m super important and the government needed my guidance (although I am, and it does), but more because I was visiting a friend out there.

However, I did make myself available to the legislators during the time I was there, advising I would be willing to provide advice on how to lead the country.  Most of them responded with threats of a restraining order.  (Um, drama!!!!)

I had a great time in D.C. (more stories to follow), but I was tired and ready to get back home to the Midwest where the temperatures were in the 100s and I had an excuse to lay around doing nothing.  (Note:  Although the heat is miserable, the exhaustion it brings is the perfect way to get out of anything you don’t want to do.  Thank you, heat wave.)

I had an early morning flight (10:20 a.m. is early, right?).  I arrived at the airport around 8:00 a.m., allowing additional time for the inevitable strip search that some TSA official would deem necessary on me.

ONE time I made a snide remark about the TSA uniforms, and that forever puts me on a “list?”  Someone needs a better sense of humor…and a new uniform.  Seriously.  They look like rent-a-cops.

Surprisingly, I got through security quickly, and found myself at the terminal a few hours early.  Since I was awake, I was obviously starving.  I’m not a huge breakfast person, as breakfast food is typically healthy and I prefer to eat junk all day.

Starting my day with eggs is misleading, as it suggests the rest of my day will include consuming healthy, organic products.  Not true.  I’m nothing if not consistent, so I like to start my day by eating crap, and continuing to do so all day.

For this reason, I knew I didn’t want breakfast food, but realized it may be difficult to locate a place that sold regular food for breakfast.  And then I saw it…the one sign on the horizon that gave me hope (and made me salivate).  Could it be?  Was it a mirage?  A figment of my imagination?  Did the full body search from the poorly dressed TSA official alter my vision (along with the way my underwear sat)?

dog with bowl

It was a Chipotle.  Yes, a Chipotle.  For those of you who are new to this blog, please know that I love Chipotle.  (And for those of you new to this blog, I’m impressed you’re still reading.  Seriously.)  I love Chipotle the way some people love their spouses…in a good way…not in a “I couldn’t take your gum smacking anymore so I stuffed your head in the freezer” kind of way.  Chipotle completes me, and if I could eat it for every meal, I would.

So when I saw the familiar Chipotle sign, I thought maybe it was a dream.  I immediately looked around for Ryan Gosling (because if it was a good dream, he would be involved…sans shirt).  I didn’t see Ryan or his bulging biceps, so I knew it had to be real.

I approached it slowly, careful not to appear too eager so as not to alarm the employees.  I figured I would alarm them for other reasons, but speed and excitement wouldn’t be one of them.  I arrived at the counter and said “Chipotle for breakfast?  Yes, please!”

The woman behind the counter didn’t understand English well…and she certainly didn’t understand sarcasm.

“No.  We no have breakfast items.  Only burritos.” She said, eying my flabby stomach and judging me for being so seemingly stupid.

“Oh,” I responded.  “I was just saying that I was glad to see I could get Chipotle for breakfast.”

“We no have breakfast,” she said to me again, looking irritated.

“I meant that I would like to eat Chipotle for breakfast.” I said, trying to clear things up.

Crickets.  Okay, not really crickets, but if we were on television (as I always like to pretend that I am), there would be crickets creaking during the silence as she blankly stared at me, most likely wondering how I managed to get through security.  (I wondered the same thing).

“You know what?  I’ll take a burrito bowl” I said, trying to get past the awkwardness.

sick girl

She prepared my meal, I paid and then and quickly moved to the dining area where I could molest my Chipotle in private, the way one is supposed to.  I ate every last bite (duh), and sat there pondering why Chipotle isn’t typically open for breakfast.

As I began drafting a petition for this cause, I felt a serious rumble.  Was it an earthquake?  A bomb threat?  I heard it again and realized it was coming from me…and my stomach…and my nether-regions.

Uh oh.  Airport Chipotle was fast acting!  I needed to find my way to a “safe place” as soon as possible. (And for you non-geniuses who are having difficulty following along, the “safe place” I’m referring to is a restroom.  Try to keep pace.)

I casually picked up my things, trying to control the strong signals coming from my bowels.  I saw a sign for a restroom and headed there trying to look casual, although I’m pretty sure running while squeezing my cheeks didn’t look so casual.

If you are picturing me running and holding my face, I need you to stop reading here.  You obviously don’t get me…or my bowel issues.

I walked into the hallway that had the restroom sign and already felt sweet relief…until I saw the string of urinals.  Um, unless D.C. is super forward thinking, women’s restrooms don’t typically have urinals in them.  (Right?)  Crap!  (Literally, crap.  It was becoming a necessity at that point).

I turned around and raced out of the men’s restroom before I saw something I didn’t want to see.  I came upon a “family restroom” and decided that I was a mother of three dogs, so that would work.  I ran into the family restroom and looked for the light, and couldn’t find it.  The strong door closed behind me and I was in complete darkness.  Seriously?  It was like I was in a closet, and I just hoped the closet had a toilet.

I frantically searched for a light switch but had difficulty doing so due to the lack of light.  (Ironic, huh?)  Finally, I decided light wasn’t necessary for what I was about to do.

As I sat there in darkness, listening to Don Henley belt out “Boys of Summer,” I realized maybe there was a reason Chipotle didn’t serve breakfast.  I crumpled up the petition I drafted and decided to leave Chipotle’s regular hours as they were.  Maybe they knew what they were doing after all…

I always have issues with my contacts.  This should come as no surprise to those of you that either (1) read this blog or (2) have personally met me.

Come to think of it, I usually have issues with most things in my life, which is why this blog practically writes itself.   (If only this blog could respond to my emails and do my laundry…)

The time recently came for me to go to the eye doctor for my yearly exam. Believe me, I wasn’t keeping track of that in my planner.  (Who am I kidding?  I don’t have a planner.)  Nope.

I made the appointment for the eye doctor not so much because I’m diligent about my eye care, but because I was running out of contacts.  With the way they had been shredding in my eyes (and with the way I had swallowed a few of them), they were a precious resource and I knew I needed to stock up.

I made my appointment for Friday afternoon.  I figured if I was going to torture myself and allow someone to blow air in my eyeballs, I might as well do it on a Friday, when I knew a happy hour would follow.  (Yeah, like Friday is the only day I go to happy hour.  But for purposes of this story, play along.)

The doctor was different than my regular eye doctor and this guy had the personality of my left tit.  (In case you don’t know, my left tit isn’t particularly funny…or friendly.)  He (the doctor, not my left tit) put drops in my eyes and told me it wouldn’t hurt at all.  Um, isn’t that what Michael Jackson used to say to the kids in Neverland?  (Too soon?)

After he put the drops in my eyes I asked him if they were dialating drops.  He responded that they were.  What?!  I had a happy hour to go to.  How was I supposed to go anywhere with dilated eyes?  I was going to get pulled over for drinking and driving for sure with my pupils the size of grapefruits and there was no way a boob flash would get me out of a ticket this time.

He completed the exam and sent me out to the waiting room…or at least I think that’s where I went, as I couldn’t see anything.  Before I saw the doctor I told the assistants that I wanted a new pair of glasses.  I’ve had the same glasses for three years and figured it was time for a change.

So when I was shuffled back to the waiting area, I was immediately pounced on by two employees who undoubtedly made their money on commission. (Or at least I hope so.  If not, one of them was just really into me.)

Because I couldn’t see anything, I asked the assistants to pick out some glasses for me to try on and I would trust their judgement.  They walked around and picked out different frames as I sat there and hoped they were pulling frames from the female side of the wall.

They came back with several pairs and put each one on me separately.

“What do you think?” Thing 1 asked.

“Um, I can’t see anything,” I replied.  Who was this chick?  I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person who can’t see when her eyes are dilated.  Was it her first day on the job?

“Well,” said Thing 2, “We can take some pictures of you in the glasses on your phone so you can see yourself.”  She was obviously the brains of this operation.

“That would be great,” I replied, but I won’t be able to see them on my phone either.”  Didn’t these people realize that if I couldn’t see my face in the mirror straight ahead, I had no chance of seeing myself shrunken and pixelized?

“If you’re going to take photos of me in the glasses, can you text them to my husband?” I asked.  I knew this was the only way I was going to get anywhere with these brainiacs.

Naturally, they thought this was the greatest idea ever.  (Duh, of course it was.)  They then took my phone and took pictures of me in different frames.  I told them who to send them to and prayed they sent them to my husband and not my pharmacist (who is also on speed dial.  Don’t judge).

I sat back and waited for his response.  I heard my phone ding indicating I had a text, but since I couldn’t see, I had to have Thing 1 and Thing 2 read the texts back to me.

“Um,” Thing 2 said, “He responded.”

“What did he say?” I asked.  Did I seriously have to hold their hands through this process?

“Um,” she said awkwardly, “He said that you need to send different pictures because these look like prison photos.”

Seriously?!  You’ve never known embarrassment until you’ve heard a text message from your husband read to you while you sit with dilated eyes.  These girls clearly thought I had an abusive husband.

“Oh,” I said, trying to brush it off.  “I’m sure he’s kidding.” I said, trying to make light of the situation, and keep them from calling the abuse hot line once I stepped foot outside the door.

About that time I heard my phone ding again and Thing 2 once again read the sweet words from my dear husband.

“He said to take the pictures from further away because the close up ones are scary and he doesn’t want to puke up his lunch.”

Ah, such kind words from my soul mate.  We then took more pictures from further away and sent them to him.  He made a decision and I thought we were done with the whole embarrassing fiasco.

But then I heard the beep again.  Uh oh.  What in the world could he want?  “Get the third pair,” Thing 2 read out loud.  “But don’t spend a million dollars though.  Did you find a coupon?”

I’m not sure how to recover from something like that.  At that point I was pretty sure these girls just wanted me out of the store and away from the grasps of my clearly domineering husband.

I looked down at the price tag of the frames I had selected and looked for the price…and saw nothing.  Frick!  No wonder the doctor was adamant about dilating my eyes!  He knew I wouldn’t be able to read the prices on the glasses and he could gouge me on the frames like he gouged me in the exam.  What a marketing scheme!

Because I wanted to get out of the store with some semblance of my dignity, I said I would take them and gave Thing 1 my credit card…or at least I hope it was my credit card.  I have no idea.  I signed something and hurried out of the store, hoping not to run into anything or anyone I knew (although I wouldn’t recognize them if I did).

I am now waiting for my glasses to come in and I have no idea what the frames look like, how much they were, or if I’m even going to like them.  What I do know is that, at least according to my husband, I won’t look like a prisoner in them.  Oh, and I also need to find a new eye doctor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

080

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

clown at parade

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

chick with pigeons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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