How wineries are just like strip clubsMost adults have spent at least one day and/or night of their lives experiencing the debauchery of too much alcohol and too may scantily clad women dancing to bad music.  Oh, and they’ve also been to a strip club too.

Wineries and strip clubs are a lot more similar than we’d care to admit, and not just because both typically result in a marital argument and someone sleeping/passing out on the couch.

Since it’s the season for wineries, and it’s always the season for strip clubs, I thought it would be a perfect time to point out the ways wineries are exactly like strip clubs.  Exactly.

1. Everyone ends up dancing to hair bands from the 80s

From Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” to Erasure’s “Respect,” you’ll rock out to jams from the best decade ever.

2. Bad decisions are made at both places.

One involves an entire block of cheese and the other involves blocking out the memory of that one less-than-attractive dancer.

Reason #3 for why wineries are like (1)3. Someone ends up showing their ass…or boobs…or both.

This is not specific just to women. People at both places tend to be equal opportunity flashers.

4. You leave both with regrets.

…and with something sticky on your hands.

5. Neither have enough restrooms.

…which is why someone always ends up “watering the bushes.”

6. Both places have bottle service

One just costs a little more and comes with a lap dance.

7. You don’t want to be barefoot at either place, but you always end up that way.

It’s a phenomenon no one can explain.

8. The ride to and from the location is always hazy.

This is probably for the best because both are off the beaten path.

9. Someone always leaves in tears.

It’s usually a woman.

Reason # 10 wineries are like strip10. There’s a constant danger of stepping in vomit.

The only difference is the strip club vomit has remnants of the day-old buffet.

11. You end up spending much more than you intend to.

It always seems like a good idea to buy an entire case of wine because you might “need it later.”  You also typically feel bad for the previously mentioned ugly stripper, so you do your best to fund her college education via tips.

12. You’d prefer to forget what transpired there, and you usually do.

Alcohol is a beautiful thing because it makes you do stupid things and then makes you forget said stupid things. It’s why it’s so wonderful.

Now, get to planning your day trip to the wineries followed by your night trip to the strip club.  It’s family fun for everyone and you’ll barely notice you’re in a different place.

Cheers!

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Where else you can find me this week

The Fat Girl’s Guide To The Pool

Top 10 Excuses To Get Out Of Exercise

What Marriage Vows Really Mean

If Humans Were More Like Dogs

A Helpful Guide For North West On How To Deal With A Horrible Name

A Guide To Packing For A Weekend In Las Vegas

Since I’m always on the cutting edge of fashion, allow me to introduce you to the next new fashion craze: eye patches.

Ok. Maybe the fashion world hasn’t been made aware of this new trend but they’re sure to catch wind of it soon. Hopefully it’s a pleasant wind when it blows their way.

As some of you may know, shingles bitch-slapped me across the face.  Yes, my face. Most people get them on their hip or back, but I prefer to wear my afflictions on my face. 

Unfortunately, the shingles spread to my eyes and it was actually quite serious.  I’m still recovering but it’s a painfully slow process, mostly because I have a large bandage on my forehead and I’m caught up on all the episodes of “The Mindy Project.”  

This guy knows what I'm talking about.  Check out that white eye patch! photo credit: madabandon via photopin cc

This guy knows what I’m talking about. Check out that white eye patch!
photo credit: madabandon via photopin cc

The worst part  is that it’s all over the cornea of my left eye. What does that mean? It means I feel like someone is stabbing me in the eyeball and I have a headache you can’t imagine.

I’m also extremely sensitive to light and sometimes my eye swells completely shut.  In light of this, my doctor suggested an eye patch to protect my cornea and let me heal (and to spare others from seeing my gross eye).

Because I’m frugal, I decided to fashion my own eye patch out of a scrap of yarn I had from when I tried a new crochet stitch. I connected it to a headband and had an adjustable eye patch for free. I was pumped!

My husband, however was not. He bought me a real eye patch, which lacks the creativity and pizzazz of my original creation.

Not too bad, huh?  It's adjustable!

Not too bad, huh? It’s adjustable!

I hate the eye patch but it’s necessary. So in an effort  to make me feel better about my new accessory, I looked for inspiration from others who wear eye patches.  

Knowing there are others out there suffering helps me get through this.  

It doesn’t take away the pain, but Percocet does that.

Here’s a few.

One-eyed Willie:  I’m not sure why he needs an eye patch at all. He is a skeleton who doesn’t have eyeballs. I’m not sure what purpose the patch serves other than to make him look like a badass.   If that is its purpose, it’s a success.

Captain Morgan: He looks pretty good in his patch. I suspect he suffered an injury while on the high seas, which is why he has the “captain” moniker. I also suspect he suffers from my eye pain as well. Fortunately, we both handle it the same way: with liquor.

Not nearly as cool

Not nearly as cool

Patch Adams: Okay, he doesn’t have a patch but it’s in his name so I had to include him.

Patch from “Days of our Lives”: I remember him from when I was a kid. He was covered in leather from eye to toe. He made women swoon and cattle fear for their hides.

Captain Ron: He’s everyone’s favorite captain (second only to Morgan). Perhaps his lack of boating skills is because he only has one good eye. It’s either that or he uses the patch because he lost his sunglasses.

In light of these characters who also wear eye patches I’m feeling a little better about my new accessory.

But really, it’s going to be the next big thing. Just you wait.

Ulta-BeautyI guess I really spilled the beans in the title of this blog post, so you pretty much know my big news.  I guess it’s also not surprising that I spilled the beans, as I spill pretty much everything.

It’s also probably not surprising that I referred to beans in this post, what with all my fiber issues and such…

MOVING ON!

I went to BlogHer 2013 in Chicago a few weeks ago and had a blast.  For those of you who don’t know blog-speak, BlogHer is a national convention with over 5,000 bloggers and tons of free shit.

I’m serious.  There is literally lots and lots of free shit, including vibrators and lube.

I’m not kidding.

ULTA Beauty was a sponsor of BlogHer, and somehow, the lovely women at the Richards Group Advertising Agency found me and thought I was funny.

I know.  Ree—-dic.

They had me shoot a little video, which I thought was just for fun, so I agreed. (I’m sure that’s what Farrah Abraham said about the sex video too…just for fun.) I figured they wanted the video for the sole purpose of laughing at me and making fun of my inability to use eyeliner.  They wouldn’t be wrong if that was their reason.

Apparently they liked my video and showed it to Wendi McLendon-Covey who thought I was funny.  Allow me to say that again, people, WENDI-MCLENDON-COVEY THOUGHT I WAS FUNNY!

Obviously she pitied me and my inability to use eyeliner.

You know who she is. She was the busty cop on Reno 911 and the sex-crazed mother in Bridesmaids who complained about her semen-infested home.

bridesmaids-photo-ellie-kemper-melissa-mccarthy-wendi-mclendon

Courtesy of Universal Pictures

Since she loved me and wanted to become my best friend thought I was funny, ULTA asked me to interview Wendi for their ULTA Beauty LOL marketing campaign, which is all about embarrassing beauty moments.  Naturally, I’m the perfect person to talk about embarrassing moments, so it was a perfect fit.  I know nothing about beauty, but I guess they figured I could wing it.

I met Wendi and did an interview with her, which was fun and exciting.  There were sound guys and cameras and a boom mic and everything, so you know it was legit.  THERE WAS A BOOM MIC, PEOPLE!  That’s the big time.

My interview was edited down to a 30 second clip that will be used for ULTA’s social media for their Beauty LOL campaign.  Cool, huh?  It’s a good thing they edited it because in our conversation we discussed key parties and having a stroke.  I’m not kidding.

It’s hard to believe she’s even funnier and more beautiful in real life than she is on camera, but she is.  She’s in a new show this fall called The Goldbergs.  It’s about a family in the 80s, so you know it will be hilarious.

For now, I hope my video with Wendi and ULTA will hold you over.  Please feel free to share this and splatter me all over the internet.  This is the one video I’m actually happy to share, and one that won’t result in indecency charges being filed against me.

DISCLAIMER:  I know I look horrible in this video.  They say the camera adds 10 pounds but I’m pretty sure the camera they used added at least 100 pounds.  

 

Wind can be an a-holeSometimes you have a day when you feel like the whole world’s against you.  For me, it was when I found out Justin Timberlake married Jessica Biel and he was off the market.

Obviously, he’s never seen my dance moves, as I’m sure I could have mesmerized him with my movements (of belly fat.)  I know they say the hips don’t lie, and mine definitely say “I love cheese dip!”

But now I’m getting off topic, although I really do love cheese dip.

angry catI recently had one of those days where everything seemed to be going wrong.  It was a work day, which was an automatic strike  against me and my mood.

Perhaps if that day I was able to be at home in bed watching episodes of Arrested Development, things would have been better.

But alas, that pesky mortgage company requires me to pay them monthly, and my totally unreasonable employer actually expects me to work for my paycheck.  Humf!

Recently I drove out of town for work.  The trip was long and boring and Technotronic and TuPac could only keep me awake for so long.

I decided to stop at McDonald’s for a fountain Diet Coke, because McDonald’s adds a little bit of crack goodness to each cup.

Armed with my fix soda, I headed to my settings.

It was a windy day and I had several files with me.  Since I hate lugging around a briefcase on wheels, I decided to carry my files instead.

Of course, my precious addiction Diet Coke had to come as well, as I couldn’t be expected to work without it.

dog with mouth openI grabbed the files, my purse, and my drink, and headed inside.  I got a few steps away from my car and disaster struck.

No, I didn’t fall down, although that’s a totally valid guess.

A gust of wind came along and blew a few papers from one of my files.

Fortunately for me, it didn’t blow my dress up this time.  I think it learned its lesson last time when it blew up my dress and displayed my lady parts to the city of Hannibal.

resized photo of car with files scattered

Yes, I really did stop in the chaos to snap a photo for you, because I know you guys are needy and demand this kind of thing. Look at how sad Deiter looks.

(Again, Hannibal, I’m sorry, but don’t you think the restraining order is a bit of an overreaction?)

I hurried back to my car, put the stack of files on the roof of Deiter (my car) and took a sip of Diet Coke to give me strength for my 30-foot walk.

I  placed the Diet Coke on top of the files to keep them from blowing away.

I patted myself on the back for this genius move as I walked to pick up the escaped paper.

At that moment, evil wind struck again, but stronger than ever.  Before I knew it, my papers and files were strewn about the street, dancing in the wind and collectively flipping me off.

I didn’t know which papers to rescue first, so I started to run down the street to capture those furthest away, and work my way back.

Okay, I didn’t run.  I walked briskly.

As I walked, the wind continued to blow and I yelled “Stop it!” repeatedly, as if mother nature would heed my request.

I continued to yell things like “Balls!” and “Knock that off!” as I chased paper down the street.

980

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a truck turn the corner onto the street.  He approached slowly, being cautious of my situation.  I quickly thanked mother nature for throwing me a bone in my time of need.  Or in this case, a red Ford pickup truck.

I smiled at my knight in shining metal and then realized the truck wasn’t stopping at all. It was just slowing down to avoid a manslaughter charge for running me over.

I watched it drive by, simultaneously running over a few papers as he did so, crushing my pride in the process.

Don’t worry.  I watch enough Tru TV to know about how to collect evidence.  I took a photo of the culprit tire print and sent it to a lab to be analyzed.

I’m offering a reward to anyone who can provide the identity of the vehicle and tire.  the reward will be a fountain soda from McDonald’s.  So yeah, the stakes are high.

Fortunately, I was able to apprehend all the documents, despite my disappointment in mankind and all red Ford trucks.  However, when I got back to the car, I discovered the worst casualty of all.

979

RIP Diet Coke.  You left us too soon.

 

 

I have news to share, and this time it doesn’t involve infection, removal of my organs, or an embarrassing moment with a glass of liquid. It’s even better! I’ve been nominated at http://www.skinnyscoop.com/ as one of the 25 funniest blogs on the internet. Can you believe it? Me neither.

I had no idea there were others in the world who enjoy reading posts about my daily disasters. I’m not sure what this says about the world, or about the low caliber of the other competing blogs out on “the internets,” but I don’t care. I’m nominated.

Don’t worry. I TOTALLY get the irony that a website with the word “skinny” in the title would nominate a fat girl who frequently writes about eating and avoiding the gym. Maybe it was a pity nomination. I’m fine with that. I may be the one token fat girl that had to be nominated to make the contest fair and to appear non-discriminatory. I’m fine with that too.

I know that when actors are nominated for Oscars or Emmys, they always say they don’t care if they win, as it’s an honor just to be nominated. I don’t think that’s true at all. I’m competitive and I want to win. It’s who I am, and why I’m not allowed to participate in any gaming activity with friends or family. True story. So no, it’s not an honor to be nominated. It’s an honor to crush my competition with an obscene amount of votes, making them cry and drown their sorrows in alcohol or cheese dip. Dealer’s choice.
 
This is where you come in. Yes, you, my dedicated readers who only read my blog when I either force you to, or when you are in the restroom and run out of reading material. Well put down that toilet paper and go to the website and vote for this awesome blog. You know you want to. But do a courtesy flush first.
I realize I can’t actually make you vote for me, as I don’t know who you are, nor do I know if you have even read this far into this post. (We are several paragraphs in and I suspect many of you have either lost interest, or you’ve completed your business in the restroom and have returned to your office.) But for those of you suckers suffering from boredom and/or constipation, I’m asking a huge favor of you. Vote for me and this blog. Do it.

I know with the recent presidential election and all the commercials about voting, the last thing you want to do is cast another ballot for yet another jackass. But at least this jackass keeps you entertained by telling you stories about my life. And at least what I tell you is the truth, which is more than what I can say for most people seeking your vote.

You feel better already, right?No, I won’t promise to not raise taxes, nor will I promise your mortgage interest will always be tax deductible. However, I can promise that voting for this blog will be just one more thing you can do to make this world a little better. Sharing my blog and voting is another way to let the world know that no matter how bad their day may be, and no matter how embarrassing an instance is, things could be worse. You could be me. I’m always there to make those events seem insignificant when compared to my daily antics of offending people with my flatulence and making inappropriate comments in the presence of clergymen.

Is this a ploy by SkinnyScoop.com to drive more people to their site by holding a small, insignificant contest? Totally. Will my obvious victory change anything in this world?  Nope.  Does that make me any less competitive about wanting to win?  Not at all. Didn’t you read the earlier paragraph about my competitiveness? I’m seriously in it all the way.

To quote Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, “If you ain’t in it to win it, then get the hell out.” Truer words have never been spoken (or in this case, partially rapped by a middle aged white guy).

I suspect that in order to vote, you have to register your email with them so they know you are human and not a magical robot generating votes. (I would think if a robot existed that could function like a human, the last thing the he/she robot would want to do would be generate votes for a blog contest. Talk about setting the bar low…) If you have to give your email to vote, and they start emailing you, just “unsubscribe” to the emails and you will be left alone. (Side note: if someone can figure out how to “unsubscribe” to work emails, let me know.)

You may have to scroll down and hit the “see all suggestions” button if I don’t show up on the first page.  But you guys can totally click one little tab to vote.  I know you can.

Will this be the last time I ask my dedicated and amazingly talented readers to vote for something?  You know better than that.  Hopefully my blogging career will take off any day now and I will be an instant internet sensation.  But I can’t very well become a sensation if no one votes for me in this contest.  So there you have it.  It’s all on your shoulders.  Don’t let me down.

I even gave you a direct link because I’m awesome that way, and I know how to use the cut and paste function on my computer.  Vote now.  Do it for meDo it for freedomDo it for America.  (Cue patriotic music in the background.)

So please, spread the word about this blog and its awesomeness, and also about voting for it at SkinnyScoop.com.   I’m hoping to make it to the top 25 funniest blogs of the year. I’m also hoping the blog with the most votes gets an unlimited supply of bacon.

Please, help me get some bacon.

How to fix your iPad when the picture“Lisa, you shouldn’t be allowed to have nice things.”

This is something I heard from my parents nearly every day of my childhood.  Apparently I couldn’t be trusted with liquids and carpet.  Clearly my parents didn’t know that hardwood floors are the classier way to go, and my frequent spills on carpet were attempts to entice them to upgrade their home.

They never once thanked me for that.

(FYI: I have hardwoods in my home now and they are much easier to clean up spills.  You’re welcome, mom and dad.)

Somehow, this prohibitive phrase has been passed down from my parents to my husband.  I suspect this occurred when my husband asked my dad if he could marry me, and my dad then spent the rest of the afternoon trying to talk him out of it.

My dad’s a good guy that way, and Matt can’t say he wasn’t warned.

Most of the time, this regularly uttered phrase is both accurate and appropriate.  Admittedly, I say it to myself, most frequently after I accidentally back into something with my car (those trash cans come out of nowhere every Monday morning).

However, just because it may be true most of the time doesn’t mean I like that it is.

Whenever I manage to destroy something (which is about once a week), I fess up immediately.  There’s no point in trying to hide the damage, as it will eventually be discovered and everyone will look to the girl with the Kool-aid stained mouth as the culprit of the accident.  (The word “girl” here is loosely used.)

It’s not a far leap.  (A leap, incidentally, is how I caused the Kool-aid stain on the carpet.  Note to self:  A leap of any kind, no matter the distance, is impossible when done in heels while holding a beverage.  Lesson learned.)

But with my newest “uh oh,” I didn’t want to tell my husband right away.  Lately he’s been more irritable about my totally-not-at-all-preventable accidents.  He’s so judgy.

As you may recall, the face of my iPhone shattered recently when it came into contact with my friend’s driveway.  (Rather, the more accurate explanation is that her bully of a driveway came out of nowhere and smacked my iPhone around until his face broke.  I suspect this wasn’t the driveway’s first offense.)

That broken iPhone face was a bit of a traumatic event, not only for the iPhone, but also for my pride.  I had no choice but to fess up to my husband about the damage, mostly because he was with me at the time the assault occurred. The wounds from that injury are still somewhat fresh.

So this morning when I grabbed my iPad and noticed something wasn’t quite right about it, I didn’t dare mention it to my husband.  I was pretty sure he was still irritated about the demise of our last Apple product, and I knew he wouldn’t want to know about the new “boo boo” on my iPad.

As with the iPhone, the screen was in distress; although unlike my iPhone (RIP sweet baby boy), the screen wasn’t cracked.  Rather, red, green and blue colors swirled on the screen, creating a look quite psychedelic in nature.  I felt like I should pop in a Pink Floyd album and just enjoy the screen.  I doubted Matt would be on board with this though (he’s more of a Deathcab for Cutie kind of guy).

I also didn’t want to go all the way out to my car to grab the CD.  That would require pants.

Instead, I immediately double checked to make sure the Tylenol PM I took the night before wasn’t swapped out accidentally with hallucinogenic agents.  I can’t tell you how many times that’s happened.

Fortunately for my spinal column, the Tylenol PM wasn’t laced with anything.  Rather, it appeared as if the iPad screen broke when I gently dropped it on the floor the night before.  (This is one of those times where carpet would have been preferred.  Those hardwood floors can really kick you in the balls, or in this case, in the iPad face.)

The previous night I fell asleep while reading my hilarious blog.  As I dozed off, I gently dropped the iPad a few inches to the ground.  Apparently doing that affected the screen, making it look like a black light poster.

Although I certainly enjoy feeling trippy while reading USA Today on the iPad, I didn’t think Matt would enjoy it, so I knew I had to fix it.  But how?  I figured I would google how to fix it on my broken iPad.  I felt that somehow, using the problematic iPad to locate the solution would demonstrate to the universe my willingness to help.  (It would also demonstrate it to my husband as well, which would hopefully ease the blow.)

I found a video of someone tapping the iPad with a hammer and in the video, the tapping fixed the issue.  Since it was on the internet, I knew it had to be accurate, so I decided to give it a try.

Who would lie on the internet about hitting an iPad with a hammer as a mode of fixing a problem?

I located a hammer and quickly began hitting the iPad in the locations suggested by the video.  On the second tap, the screen restored itself and it’s completely back to normal!

The best part is that I don’t have to tell my husband that I broke the iPad, although I will definitely have to tell him I lost his hammer. (I’m not walking all the way down to the basement to put it back.)

So if anyone asks, nothing was ever wrong with the iPad, and everything is just fine.  On a more exciting note, I now know if I need a tough question answered, I can go to YouTube and find some very informative answers.  What do you think they will suggest for how to fix a broken heart?

Yeah, I would definitely recommend vodka for that too.

stinky hands

I realize the title of this post could be talking about many different things.  Based upon the amount of dairy and carbs I ingest on a daily basis, you would be entirely accurate to guess the answer to the question posed in this title is “That smell is your disgusting ass, Lisa.  It smells like someone ate dog $hit, vomited it up, ate it again, and then $hit it out.”

I realize that was a graphic explanation, but for all of you who have had the pleasure of being with me after I’ve inhaled Mexican food, you can attest it isn’t far off.

Anyway, on with the story.  Yesterday my husband and I were picking up around the house, preparing for the cleaning people to come.  No, we don’t have a cleaning lady, although I wish we did.  I would name her Marta and she would be wonderful.  She would smell of Lemon Pledge and Pine Sol and I would pay her in cash, gift certificates and coupons for cleaning supplies.

Since I haven’t been able to find a Marta to clean our house (or someone willing to answer to that name), we are stuck cleaning ourselves, which is not as fun as it sounds.  It’s a marriage tester for sure, as there’s nothing more romantic than asking your husband to bring the bleach up from the basement because “that creepy stain in the bathroom isn’t coming up with Soft Scrub.”

However, my brilliant husband recently purchased a Living Social deal for a cleaning service, so we decided to cash in on that bad boy for the new year.  Those poor suckers!  We were preparing for their arrival and as we did so, we both kept coming back to the same question: “What’s that smell?!”

NOTE:  Other questions we kept coming back to included “How many months after the expiration date is cheese still good?,” and “Why do we have so many pairs of fuzzy handcuffs and why are they in the kitchen?”  The answer to the cheese question is one month.  Any longer and you will have penicillin, which can save you quite a bit in pharmacy charges if you hold onto it.  So grab yourself some cheddar and save it for cold and flu season!  You’re welcome.

guy+smell.jpg

It wasn’t as if our house smelled horribly raunchy, or at least not to us it didn’t.  We were used to the smell of dog and the constant stench of rotting cheese.  But it was the smell of actual $hit that was permeating the air, and in the kitchen no less.  I realize I could make some comment about how food I make tastes like $hit so that’s why the kitchen smells that way.

But I wouldn’t do that because I’m a kick ass cook, so I know that couldn’t be the cause of the funk.

As the day progressed, we found the smell of poo more and more pungent and we began to think we were losing our minds.  We checked the regular spots in the house that our dogs have deemed toxic waste disposal units.  If any of you have dogs, you probably know that in every house, a dog will find their favorite spot to crap and leave it for you to find later…sometimes when you are barefoot.

It’s not a regular thing they do each day, as most dogs are potty trained and do their business outdoors.  (Meaning they poop outside, they don’t conduct business transactions and sign contracts out there.)

After checking the regular dumping sites and coming up empty handed, we were stumped as to the cause of the smell.  “It literally smells like someone $hit in the kitchen,” I said, opening the fridge and grabbing cheese to make myself some nachos.  (Hey, even amidst crisis, a girl has to eat.)

“You’re right,” Matt responded.  This is a phrase he has to say a lot, as I’m always right.

Just then I looked over and saw something on one of our white cabinet doors.  I  knew it wasn’t there before as I scrubbed the cabinets just before we left for vacations.  Those things were pristine!  As I approached the spot, the smell strengthened and I soon realized this cabinet was the cause of the stench.  I looked closely and saw a large piece of dog poop clinging to the cabinet.  Seriously?!

I don’t have to tell you which dog was responsible for this amazing feat.  You already know.  It could only be a special dog.  I don’t mean special in the sense of “He’s our perfect angel who is priceless and flawless.”  I mean special in the sense of “He smells other dogs’ wieners constantly, rubs up against things like a cat, and licks the wall randomly.”   You guessed it.  The dog responsible for the fecal matter on the cabinets was none other than this guy.  Max.

How did he do it?  I have no idea.  How did he get caught in the curtains and need assistance getting out?  How did he get himself stuck laying in the grass on top of the small dusting of snow we had last week?  Who knows?  Max definitely doesn’t know.  I’m not sure he knew he pooped at all, let alone that he defied gravity by doing so on a vertical surface.

Instead of confronting him with his action and getting the blank stare he gives every time he looks at anyone, I simply cleaned it up with paper towels and immediately took them out to the trash so the stench would no longer haunt our house.  Max went on with his life unaffected, and returned to licking his crotch and trying to bite at the sounds coming from the TV.

toilet+1.jpg

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.

baby.jpg

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…

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.

old man on vacation with inner tube

I’m back!  I know it’s been more than a week since my last post and you are all anxiously awaiting a new post.  You’re probably wondering things like “What was she doing?” and “Where has she been?”  (these are to be whispered in Gossip Girl voice.)

The answer is that I’ve been on vacation in Austin, Texas, attending South by Southwest (or SXSW for those of us cool people in the know).  It’s a yearly festival in Austin where movies are released, bands are discovered, and hipsters unite for ironic discussions and thrift store sales.  It’s huge.

This was definitely my husband’s trip.  He loves movies and all things cinema, and I love TV and all things Kardashian.  I don’t want to love the Kardashians, but that family is a trainwreck and I can’t look away.  Seriously.  Bruce Jenner’s face literally looks like a train wreck.

So I decided to go to SXSW with my husband because I’m an amazingly awesome wife, and because I knew Channing Tatum would be there.  Don’t judge.  Like you would pass up an opportunity to see those abs?  Yeah right.

Since I don’t enjoy long movies (or anything with Matthew McConaughey), I decided to attend various documentaries instead of mainstream films.  They are shorter than feature films, the lines are shorter, and the people attending them are usually older, so I knew I would feel youthful surrounded by all those AARP cards.

After attending a documentary or two, I remembered how much I love documentaries.  I decided to see as many as I could, so I attended several documentaries, or “docs” as us cool people call them.  Okay, not so much cool people as just me.

I went from theater to theater, realizing there were many things about the world I had yet to learn; like how many different birds can be found in Central Park, or how Jennifer Love Hewitt still has an acting career.

I also realized my “fashionable orthopedic shoes” were the same shoes worn by a 270 pound woman with a mustache and a cat sweater.

After seeing several docs on Saturday, I decided to catch one more before heading back to the condo for an evening of Doritos, M&Ms and Law and Order reruns.  The film I decided to watch was a documentary about the journey of an American school bus to Guatamala, why it went there, and the people whose lives it affected.

school busRiveting, right?  I felt so empowered and knowldgable as I walked to the theater where the film was showing.  I knew I was becoming so well cultured, and even felt a little bit like a hipster.  Before long I would be playing Atari games and calling everything “rad.”

I got to the theater before the movie started, so I stood in line contemplating my near hipster status and wondering if I would look good in skinny jeans.

Just as I realized I couldn’t be a hipster because my wardrobe lacks t=shirts with superheros from the 80s on them, two men approached the line and stood behind me.

They appeared to be intellectuals, and not overly douchey.  I knew we would be standing in line a while, so I struck up a conversation with them.

I also knew I would need to use the restroom soon and didn’t want to lose my place in line.  If I had any hope of regaining my coveted spot, I knew I would have to make nice with the people behind me.

The men were both named John and they were fabulous.  They lived in New York City in what I can only assume was a fabulous neighborhood where people have brunch that doesn’t consist solely of different flavors of Cocoa Pebbles.

Although why would you want something other than that chocolatey goodness on a Sunday morning?

We chatted about various issues, and I realized we were getting along great.  I was totally pulling off the cool hipster vibe, although I was missing the required components of a bandana and an attitude problem.

Either way, I still sounded smart, which made up for the fact that I failed to appreciate just how much deodorant was needed on a hot Texas day. (A lot…you need a lot.)

Once the doors opened, we headed inside to find our seats.  Since I was getting along so well with the Johns (and since I couldn’t wait to sit down), I took the nearest seat next to the John duo and continued gabbing with my new friends.

The theater we were in had regular theater seats, but there was a long table that ran the length of the row.

waitressA waitress serves food and drinks during the movie, all of which are placed on the table.  This amazing theater and their fried goat cheese may have played a role in which documentaries I viewed.

We ordered our food and drinks and waited for the film to start.  Our drinks arrived in what appeared to be 2 Liter glasses filled to the brim.  The film began and our food followed shortly thereafter, also in large quantity.

Naturally, I was happy with the big portions, as I was thirsty from chatting, and hungry from being so charming.

After each film at SXSW, there is a Q and A with the director, producer, etc.  I wasn’t totally feeling the school bus film (it wasn’t as riveting as it sounded), so as soon as the credits came on, I grabbed my stuff and headed toward the door.

The lights weren’t up yet, and the credits continued to roll.  I looked over at my friends the Johns and apologized, but said I needed to go, as I had a very important meeting I needed to get to.

I think they suspected my meeting included a Snuggie and a new episode of 48 Hour Mystery, but they didn’t let on like they knew.

Instead of standing up to let me pass through the area between the seats and the table, they simply pulled their feet back to let me through.  That left me about a foot of space to walk through, which would normally be challenging, but in the dark it was near impossible (for this girl at least).

I tried to scoot out of the row, with my butt facing the Johns and my front and purse facing the table.  And then it happened.  Without warning.  My purse knocked over the 2 Liters of water on the table next to John #1.  It tipped over and spilled everywhere.  The table, the floor, the seat…and worst of all, my pajama jeans.

I looked up, paused, and said the first thing that came to my mind, which was “Yeah, so I totally just did that.”

angry army dudeThe Johns were not amused.  For people who pretended to be so accepting of others, they were pretty judgmental about the blonde in the pajama jeans and orthopedic shoes who knocked over their water with the purse she got free with a purchase at Dressbarn.  Some people are just so snobby.

I didn’t know what to do, so I did the only thing that would make it more awkward than it already was; I left the cup where it was, where it continued to pump out water like a fire hose, mouthed “I’m sorry” and bolted out of the row and out of the theater.

Once outside, I looked down at my wet pants only to discover the water landed in a not-so-desirable spot on my jeans.  Fantastic.  Fortunately, I knew how well my pajama jeans launder, so I knew a little water wouldn’t hurt the fabric.  My pride, yes?  But the fabric?  No.

I walked the several blocks to my rental car and headed back to the condo, continuing to replay the incident in my head.  I had so many questions.  How did I manage to knock the water over?  Why didn’t I stay and try to clean it up?

And perhaps most pressing of all…How was I going to find the Johns and get their numbers?