Dear Summer,

You are my favorite season of the year, and I’m sad to see you go.  I keep trying to convince you to stay, but apparently I “repulse you in swimwear.”  Whatever.  I still love you because you give me an excuse to wear flowy dresses that hide my stomach fat.

Not only do they hide bulges, the dresses allow me to get away with not wearing Spanx, which makes me more pleasant to others.  I’m far happier when I’m not scratching my crotch every five seconds and whining that my ribs are breaking from the force of nylon.  Thanks for that.

So I guess I will send you off with a farewell letter.  It’s the only thing I can do since you won’t stay in exchange for a sweet coupon book that entitles you to discounts at local restaurants.  Apparently you aren’t a thrifty shopper.  Noted.  Instead, I will send you off with a goodbye letter and count down the days until I see your lovely face again (and then curse myself for not dieting over the winter).

I guess this means I can say “so long” to the poorly behaved kids at the pool (or maybe I can yell this with excitement instead).  Looks like you will have to fend for yourself another year without having me around to give you dirty looks and remind you that you’re not special.  You’re really not.  Your mom might tell you that you’re improving with your swimming lessons, but we both know your dives suck.

Sayonara messy ponytail.  Most people wore you because it was trendy, but I wore you because I’m lazy and was excited that something messy was in style for once.  Unfortunately, other disheveled looks like rumpled dresses and stained t-shirts haven’t hit the fashion circuit…yet.

Goodbye constant stream of sweat going down my back into my pants.  You always seemed to come around at bad times, but your presence made me giggle (mostly because it tickled).  I won’t even hold a grudge against you for all the times you made my ass hospitable to swamp-like creatures.

boy splashing

See you later ladies at the pool, with bodies of women in their twenties, and faces that haven’t seen sunscreen in years.  I will miss mocking you and trying to figure out if your outfit came from Charlotte Russe or Forever 21.  (P.S.  You are not Forever 21.  You’re not even “Forever 39” despite the fact you’ve had a 39th birthday the last 5 years.  We can count and we’ve been counting both the years of your birthdays and the crows feet around your eyes.)  I think I will miss you most of all.

Until we meet again,
Lisa

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

Dear forty something dad at the pool,

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

1.  You don’t have a six pack.

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

2.  You need a trim.

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

3.  Your butt crack isn’t attractive.

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

4.  Stop pretending you’re super cool.

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

dad with kids at pool

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

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

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

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

Love,
Lisa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 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.)

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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.

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This wasn’t the same night we went to the theater, although this was one of the nights we were in NYC. I would never wear denim to the theater. I’m classier than that (and I spilled wine on that jacket.)

While in New York, my husband wanted to see a Broadway show. Since I’m super important, I’ve already been to some Broadway shows, but since I’m also an awesome wife, I agreed to go with him to another show. (I’m such a giver.)

We got tickets to see Phillip Seymour Hoffmann in “Death of a Salesman.” Okay, he got a ticket to see Hoffmann in the play and I got a ticket to see the dreamy guy who is going to play Spiderman in the upcoming movie. Dreamy guy is also known as Andrew Garfield, which is interesting as I wanted to yell out cat calls every time I saw him.  Rar!!!

He plays one of the sons, Biff, in the play, and at times he was even shirtless…talk about a show!  Those scenes were worth the ridiculous price of admission although I must admit I was a little sad he wasn’t wearing spandex in the play. (Seriously, I’m pretty sure Biff Loman would have rocked out the tights.)

We headed to the theater before the show started. (Note: The word “theater” is to be announced in an uppity British accent, as that’s the way I always pronounce it.) We arrived and noticed the doors weren’t open yet.

Naturally, I looked for the VIP entrance. In St. Louis, I’m kind of a big deal, and I get to go to the theater there as a VIP. Yeah, I know. Awesome right? Being a VIP has gotten me used to the finer things in life, like private bathrooms and toilet paper that’s more than 2 ply.

I looked around for the VIP entrance and didn’t see one. I asked one of the snooty women waiting outside the door where the VIP entrance was and she looked at me as if I was crazy (as if I was the one wearing a hat and mom jeans to a Broadway show.  I was smart enough to leave my mom jeans back at the hotel).

Snooty woman with poor taste in denim said there was no VIP entrance, and we all needed to go in the same doors when they opened.  Um, what?

Not wanting to make a scene, I agreed to go in the same doors as everyone else (but I wasn’t happy about it).  As soon as the doors opened, however, I then pushed my way to the front of the line and entered the theater first.  What else was I supposed to do?

Since our tickets were super pricey, and more than the cost of our flights, I assumed we either had front row tickets, or our seats were actually on the stage, and Willy Loman himself would be dancing around us.

I headed to the front of the theater to look for our rock-star seats.  I was irritated I had to wait in line with the commoners, but I felt vindicated that I would at least have VIP seating once inside the theater.  (Are you reading that in the uppity British accent?  You should be.)

An usher in poorly fitting pants stopped me and asked to see my ticket.  Obviously this guy wasn’t familiar with the St. Louis Newlins.  I showed him my ticket and he said we needed to go upstairs.  Of course!  How could I be so stupid?  We obviously had box seats.

Duh.  I felt like such a fool.  I apologized to him and headed upstairs to find my special seat and (hopefully) a vodka and water.  All this waiting made a girl thirsty.

We walked up what seemed to be approximately 50 steps, and found a set of more ushers.  Seriously, the theater wasn’t that big.  Perhaps the price of admission was so steep because the theater had to pay 100 ushers to work each show.

An usher pointed us to our seats and I told her there was some mistake.  She pointed to seats in the top mezzanine, which I was pretty sure were actually located on 50th Street instead of 42nd Street.  Seriously?!  Our seats were all the way up there?  Frickety frick!

I considered taking off my heels to begin the climb to our seats but thought better of it and hiked the trek in heels, all the while wondering which step would be the one to make me fall.

Surprisingly, I made it to our seats without incident (unless you count accidentally flashing my behind that was shoved into a pair of Spanx to the people behind me as an incident. Sadly, I do this quite regularly and don’t think this qualifies as an “incident.”  I’m sure the people behind me would disagree.)

We sat there for a few minutes and then I realized I should use the restroom before the show started.  Since we paid a second mortgage to come to the show, I needed to see every second of this depressing play.

I headed down to the main level and asked where the ladies room was located.  I was told it was in the basement, just like every restroom in New York City.

I made my descent to the bowels of the theater and immediately found the restroom.  It was conveniently located next to the bar.  Because I didn’t want to be rude to the bartender, I grabbed a drink after leaving the restroom.  I didn’t want to insult the man.  He was already wearing a cumber bun.  How much more humiliation could the guy take?

I headed to the steps, drink in hand, and began the climb.  After about 5 steps, my thighs began shaking and I realized I wasn’t in the kind of shape I thought I was in (and believe me, I don’t fool myself into thinking I’m in shape at all).

After another 5 steps I realized I was short of breath.  I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. I  figured a sip of my vodka would refresh me enough to make the rest of the trip.  Not so much.

I continued up what appeared to be an endless amount of steps.  With each step, my thighs burned a little more, my chest heaved a little more, and my will to live died a little more.  After the third flight of stairs I didn’t care if I ever returned to my seat; I just wanted the pain in my quads to subside.

girl yawningI figured if I died right there of exhaustion, the heading of the news story would read something like “Death of a fat girl at Death of a Salesman.”  I decided I was fine with that heading as long as it resulted in a push to install elevators in the theater. It would be my legacy.  If I couldn’t traverse these horrid steps, how could anyone over the age of 65?

Just about that time I saw two women whiz past me who were clearly AARP members (and no stranger to the 4:00 dinner buffet).  Neither woman had any problem walking up the mountainous steps, and neither one of them offered to help a sister out.  These theater types were quite rude.

After what felt like 30 minutes of cardio, I arrived back at our seats, confident I would get a nosebleed from the change in altitude.  My husband looked at me, concerned, and asked what took so long.

Naturally, I told him what anyone else would tell their husband.  I said that someone choked on an M&M at the concession stand and I had to resuscitate them and then run outside to flag down an ambulance.

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At a sandbar in the Financial District overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge. Yes, those are couches that glow, and yes, we have awesome friends who took us to this super secretive place. Otherwise, we would have ended up at an Applebee’s.

My husband and I just went to New York City for some good old-fashioned fun (and also because we apparently just LOVE getting blisters on our feet).

We are no stranger to this city, although we certainly aren’t hard-core New Yorkers who yell into their iPhones and rock out to their iPads without even noticing someone is standing next to them. However, in our recent trips, we’ve realized there are a few simple rules you should follow if you want to not look like a tourist in New York.

2nd attempt at nyc picture1. Always look annoyed with other people

This is a sure-fire way to make you look like a New Yorker. Just today, there was a group of menopausal woman trying to buy a Metro Pass. Between the five of them, they couldn’t figure out how to load a card into the machine to get a subway pass.

Their failure to understand the card purchase was super annoying (and disturbing, as I’m sure these women raised children at some point). My irritation got the best of me, so I did what any New Yorker would do; I huffed loudly, found another machine, pushed my way in, reloaded my card and stormed off in an irritated fashion.

It was exhilarating! Those women didn’t even know what hit them and before they could look up, I was headed downtown on the 2 train. I’m sure they will go back to their one-horse town and talk about the rude New Yorker who pushed through the subway line. Success!

2. Don’t stare up in awe at the buildings

Tourists seem to be wide-eyed about everything New York. True New Yorkers don’t give a crap about the buildings because they’re always late. It’s just a regular day for them and they don’t have time to look impressed or excited.  They need their grande iced double shot espresso with skim milk ASAP. And don’t even THINK of making it not skinny. Seriously. They will cut you for that. They’ve cut someone for far less.

3. Don’t stare at the subway maps

New Yorkers don’t need the subway maps. They have those routes permanently engraved in their memory.

If you need to figure out which line to take, download a subway app and casually look at it on your phone in between stops. It will make you look inconspicuous, and will also allow you to avoid eye contact with the crazy people on the train pandering for money, alleging they’re broke, yet forgetting that we all know they had at least a few bucks to enter the subway.

4. Wear trendy clothes

This is where I really struggle. n a city where Chanel bags are king, your Vera Wang from Kohl’s won’t turn any heads…or at least not for the right reasons.

5. Don’t be a wuss

Do I really need to explain this one? If so, then you shouldn’t even book a trip to New York, as you will be eaten alive before you leave the airport. No one cares that your feet hurt or that you’re chaffed from walking through the Village.

Shut up and move.