I have serious writer’s block.  It affects most writers and I’m currently suffering from it, which means you’re suffering from not getting a post….until now.

Fortunately, my friend Ashley over at Big Top Family decided to help me out and do a guest post.  It’s the perfect post because it’s about angry exercising….as if there’s such a thing as happy exercising.

Here is a little about Ashley before we get started with the hilarity.

ashley_homepage_picAshley Allen is a multi-task-dysfunctional mom of three boys, including a set of twins, and a survivor of a weird childhood. She writes a circusy, irreverent humor blog at http://www.bigtopfamily.com about her childhood and adulthood, and always seems to find that the bridge between them isn’t as long as she thinks. When she’s not blogging or juggling the family  balls, you can find her ridonkulous musings on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest

EXERCISERI’ve always had a Love/Loathe relationship with exercise – mostly Loathe. But there have been times in my life that I have actually loved it, even though that love was an Angry Love. Let me explain.

The first time I recall ever consistently exercising, I was 20 years old and in desperate need of an exercise regimen outside of lifting beer mugs and slices of pizza to my greasy lips. I was living and working in a college town, having been ousted from the college itself with a .8 grade point average.  My dad had promptly pulled the plug on financial support, but I stayed in town because I was dating a townie who worked at JC Penney. VERY promising.

I got a job working as a drug store cashier to continue paying my rent, and my roommate happened to work at Pizza Hut, so her free pizza perks kept our grocery budget down.

It didn’t, however, have the same effect on my weight. I gained thirty pounds in the span of a year and a half, and even though my ass was the size of Texas, I couldn’t get it up and motivated to do any exercise at all.

Until I got dumped by Mr. JC Penney.

Mr. JCP was one of the Dipshidiots I mentioned in my Mama’s Boy post. You might recall that one of them was a seminarian? Well, Mr. JCP wasn’t a seminarian during the time we dated, but he went on to be one, I’m told. Back when we were dating, he kept breaking up with me so that he could stay celibate in preparation for his dream of becoming an Anglican Priest. That’s the kind, by the way, that can get married, so, uhhh, let’s not kid ourselves.

My guess is 90 percent of the straight guys who enter the seminary in their twenties have bagged at least one babe or two, and God’s not gonna hold that against them. I mean, being a guy, God’s probably even going to high-five them for it, with one of his gigantic hands.

Anywho. Mr. JCP would break up with me every other month or so because he said that’s what God wanted him to do, and I didn’t get too upset because who can get pissed off at God, for chrissakes? The last time he broke up with me, however, I found out that the Big Man Upstairs had nothing to do with it. In fact, it was the Little Man Downstairs that was calling all the shots, since Mr. JCP had been banging half the desperate bimbos at Penneys, including the married ones!

Devastated, crushed, and completely Looney Tunes, I didn’t show up for work, I wouldn’t leave my room, I stopped showering, I drank a lot of Natural Light, and I gorged myself on everything that Pizza Hut’s expansive menu had to offer. After about a week of this abuse, I looked in my full-length mirror and said, “Aw, HELL naw!” I shimmied my fat ass into some sweatpants, blew the dust off my sneakers, headed outside, and ran faster than Forrest Gump the day he took a bullet to the butt saving other people’s asses in Vietnam.

Of course, I only made it about a block before I passed out and had to receive mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a random pedestrian. (Not really, but you get my point. I was out of shape). That day, though not exactly epic in terms of miles run or calories burned, was a hugely pivotal day because on it, The Angry Exerciser was born.

The Angry Exerciser was a fat-burning persona of vengeance who APPEARED to the casual onlooker to be running, stair-climbing, or ellipticalling herself to death, but internally, she was kicking ass in a mixed martial arts cage match with cheaters, liars, various JC Penney employees, and the occasional clergyman.

In six month’s time, I was able to shed the extra thirty pounds, buy a new wardrobe, move out of the college town, and start taking community college classes so that I could eventually go back to a four-year-college. I dialed my exercise regimen back to a maintenance level of twice or three times a week, and eventually I noticed that The Angry Exerciser had packed her bags and gone on vacation.

That wasn’t the last I would see of her, though, not by a long shot. She would be back many, many, many more times in my life, when some Ass Hat would dump me, cheat on me, tell me I was gaining weight, flirt with one of my friends, stop calling me, stand me up for a date, do the White Man’s Overbite with some other girl on the dance floor, or all of the above.

Eventually, The Angry Exerciser just decided to unpack her travel suitcase and move in with me, because being the co-dependent type, I woke up one day and found I couldn’t do a lick of exercise without her.

Even now, nineteen years (oh, for Eff’s sake, really? NINETEEN YEARS?), one husband, and three kids later, though I don’t have any cheaters or liars to currently fuel The Angry Exerciser’s rage, I still desperately need her in order to work out. So I trick her, coax her out with her old memories, put ear buds in her ears, and make her listen to Pink, Kelly Clarkson, Maroon 5, Miranda Lambert, Cee-Lo Green (you know the one), Florence + the Machine, and yes, shudder, Miley Cyrus. (I can’t stand the little twerker, but who can resist “Wrecking Ball?” Who)?!

I do whatever it takes to get The Angry Exerciser back, because even though the Mind and Heart can heal themselves from Dipshidiot Rejection, the Ass never forgets.

what every couple gets but doesn't ask forAnyone who got married and had a gift registry knows that not all wedding gifts are welcome.  Sure, it’s nice to get a gift, but not when it’s a used decorative plate with a rooster on it that’s painted like a zebra.

True story.  I got that for a wedding gift…and the outside of the plate was painted like a snake.

The most puzzling thing to me about gift giving for wedding couples is they’ve done all of the work for you, so why not take advantage of that?

I love the wedding registry, especially when I can order a gift from the comfort of my couch.  I’m not required to wear a bra there.

photo credit: fensterbme via photopin cc

photo credit: fensterbme via photopin cc

Why every wedding guest doesn’t buy off the registry blows my mind.  The happy couple equips guests with everything they need to know to buy them exactly what they want.

From the exact store to the precise aisle to the actual SKU number, couples go to a lot of trouble to tell guests exactly what they want to see wrapped up in a bow on their special day.

Could it get any easier?  Apparently so.

I’m amazed how many people give gifts that aren’t included on the registry.  I can’t imagine why Great Aunt Nell would know what a 30-year-old woman she hasn’t seen in 25 years would want, but apparently it’s a cross-stitched pillow with her name spelled wrong.

photo credit: Katsunojiri via photopin cc

photo credit: Katsunojiri via photopin cc

I also can’t fathom why the groom’s boss thinks he needs a shaving kit instead of those gardening shears he asked for.

Because I’ve experienced these issues first hand, I’ve made a list of items I received that weren’t on my registry.  I have a feeling these items are universally received by couples everywhere.

photo credit: kevin dooley via photopin cc

photo credit: kevin dooley via photopin cc

1.  Vases

I’m not sure why newlyweds would need the amount of vases that come from gift-giving wedding guests.

Don’t they know that giving flowers occurs before the marriage and the wedding effectively stops that from occurring regularly in the future?

If my husband decides to give me flowers, and he really does, he  buys a bouquet at the grocery store when he’s picking up a gallon of milk.  It’s where financially prudent men purchase flowers.

Granted those don’t come with a vase; just rubber bands and plastic wrap.  However, when that happens I only need just one vase; not the 17 that I received as wedding gifts that are currently in my basement.

Those 17 vases will go unused, most likely until I can come up with an occasion to re-gift them.

MP9003416872.  Picnic baskets

Who goes on a picnic anymore?  They’re only done in romantic comedies, and even then Sandra Bullock seems reluctant.

What couple decides to prepare finger foods, package them up, gather silverware, cups, napkins, a blanket, sunscreen, bug spray and wine, and then trek across town to a park to sit on the same grass that’s in their backyard?

No one I know.

photo credit: kevin dooley via photopin cc

photo credit: kevin dooley via photopin cc

3. Candlesticks

Unless it’s the 1600s, there’s no reason the modern couple would need candlesticks.  If the power goes out, there’s these new things called flashlights.  They provide light without dripping wax on your carpet.

If a guest really wants to give a good gift, they should consider a flashlight with an extra set of batteries.

Even there is a time when the power goes out and the happy couple’s flashlight doesn’t work for some reason, there’s a good chance the bride has several scented candles in varying shapes, sizes and scents; all of which come in a glass jar.

If someone is dead set on giving the gift of light, might I suggest lightbulbs?

photo credit: kevin dooley via photopin cc

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4.  Picture frames

Although every couple needs picture frames to fill their house, sometimes that “house” is a studio apartment that barely fits a couch and a dirty recliner.

Fifty picture frames just aren’t necessary.

Granted, The Dollar Store has a wide array of picture frames for only a buck, but since those frames don’t come in a box and each one has a $1 sticker on the front of it, the couple is most likely going to figure out the guest spent $7.00 on their wedding gift….while the couple spent $27 on his food and at least $50 on beer for him at the reception.

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5.  Champagne flutes

I don’t know many couples who regularly drink champagne.  Then again, I’m not that fancy.  In my experience, if a couple is entertaining guests, they’re usually serving PBR or whatever beer was on sale that week.

Although I like to think people are sophisticated, I suspect the only time most people drink champagne at home is when they have mimosas.  Even then, the champagne flutes are far too small.  They should drink out of plastic cups they got from the local pizza joint…just like the rest of us.

Hopefully this list will help those gift givers present the couple with things they actually want.

For any of you needing to buy a wedding gift, might I suggest sticking to the registry?

If you can’t do that, and you know if you go to the store  you’ll buy them the “perfect” item from the clearance bin, consider this: Do you know what makes newlyweds happier than getting a gift?

Cash.

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No dog ingested beer or alcohol in conjunction with this photo or this post.
photo credit: Amarand Agasi via photopin cc

Dear beer,

I know I ‘m the last person you’re expecting to hear from.  Normally, my heart (and my liver) belong to vodka.  He’s always been my one true love and I’ve never hidden that fact from you.

I’ve passed you up a million times before last night.  I’ve walked right by you at bars, at parties, and even at BBQs.

I feel a little guilty about that but you’ve never been what I needed and I’ve never felt a desire to stray from my betrothed…until now.

Maybe it’s your curves, or maybe it’s your intoxicating smell, but something changed.  I’m finding myself drawn to you and I’m not sure why.

Maybe I’m getting tired of vodka.  He’s never been a cruel mistress (or mister), but perhaps I’m bored with him.

The alcohol is always colder on the other side of the bar.”

Isn’t that what they always say?

Maybe it’s true.  I’m not sure, but what I do know is I’m finding myself wondering what it would be like to spend more time with you and I’m wondering why we haven’t been closer before.

Sure, it’s most likely my fault.  You’re more than available.  I never have a hard time finding you at a sporting event, a wedding reception, or even the grocery store.

You’re not elusive like my dear vodka.  You’re everywhere.  I suspect that’s what pushed me away from you before.

But now…now it’s different.

beerI had a temporary moment of weakness last night and I gave into my urges and I just wanted to tell you thank you.  Thank you for last night. I had such an amazing time.

You were incredible.

Especially now that I know what we can be together, I’m sorry I initially resisted the urge to see you, but I’m glad I caved to peer pressure.

I had a long day yesterday and needed to relax. All the other beverages told me not to turn to you, which was mostly the cause for my hesitation.

They said you wouldn’t treat me right.

My stomach even chimed in, saying you were too rough on her sometimes.  She’s finicky so I didn’t take her pleas too seriously.

Dear beerVodka screamed the loudest.  He can be a needy sonofabitch.

Like the ever controlling paramour, he tried to point out that sometimes you make me feel like I hit my head repeatedly against the wall.

I promptly reminded him that feeling doesn’t come until the morning after we hang out, and it’s only if I spend a lot of time with you.  I told him I wouldn’t do that.

Just a taste.  That was all.  We both knew I was lying, but it was a lie I was willing to make.

Don’t get me wrong. Vodka has his faults too.  He can be bitter at times, and he doesn’t always get along with my stomach.

Then again, no one does, especially since my evil gallbladder Stan tried to kill me.

Either way, I knew I didn’t need bitter last night.  I just needed you.

I practically ran to your cold embrace, holding you ever-so-tightly by the neck.  I know that’s how you like to be held.

Don’t deny it.

Our time together was perfect, and although we had to part too soon, I want you to know I will cherish what we shared.

I’m looking forward to our next get-together.

Love Lisa

photo credit: oxygeon via photopin cc

photo credit: oxygeon via photopin cc

I’m published today over at In The Powder Room because for some reason they let me continue to write for them.  I have no idea why, but don’t knock it.

Today’s post is about the various reasons why Facebook is better than class reunions.  Yes, it’s awesome and yes, you should read it now.

Go there.  Do it.

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http://www.inthepowderroom.com/read/me-time/2013-08-facebook-is-better-than-class-reunions.html

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(RECIPE AT THE BOTTOM OF OF THIS POST)

Back CameraThis Memorial Day, my friend St. Frick (not his real name), invited us to his house for a pool party.  St. Frick is known for his ability to throw amazing parties (and his ability to shove five profane words into a sentence comprised of only three words.  It’s a talent).

We knew we would be in for a good time and we knew the only logical answer was to tell him we would be there.

We arrived at his place and discovered he and some other friends were already in the pool.  Judging by the various beer cans strewn about, they also appeared to have started the party without us (although I still contend a party doesn’t start until I arrive).

I immediately headed to the pool house to grab some libations and catch up with our friends.  I opened the refrigerator and this is what I saw:

At first I thought they were sliced lemons, which would go nicely with my Grey Goose, but upon closer inspection I realized they weren’t lemons, but Jello shots in a lemon rind.

Is that what it’s called?  A rind?

I was beside myself with joy.

Back CameraI decided to try one of them immediately.  After all, I didn’t want to be rude.  I was his guest and I was raiding his fridge to see what free stuff I could find.

What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t do a Jello shot (or three)?

They were delicious.  I decided to have a few more and bring them poolside for others to enjoy.  They were refreshing and alcohol laden, which are two of my favorite things.

I grabbed a couple more and sat on the edge of the pool.  It was like I was being healthy and eating fruit by the pool…if fruit was made of three parts gelatin and two parts vodka.  (If it was, I would eat a lot more fruit).

What kind of person comes up with this idea?  Obviously an awesome person.  I just didn’t know who would be brilliant enough to come up with this recipe.

Normally, if I’m motivated enough to make Jello, it’s done in a dirty bowl with cracks at the bottom courtesy of the time one of my dogs used it as a chew toy.

Don’t judge.  The bowl still works…just think twice about eating Jello when you come to my house…and watch for dog hair.

Back CameraDo you see these amazing Jello shots?  Look how perfectly sliced they are!

Upon closer inspection, I was amazed to discover there were no slices of skin on them, nor were there bloody lemon peels (or rinds.  Are we calling them rinds?).

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m pretty sure I would slice a finger straight off if I was going to slice up these lemon Jello shots.

Naturally, it would be my husband’s finger I sliced, and not mine.  After all, he would be the one holding the lemons while I sliced them.

After several Jello shots, a girl can’t be expected to hold the lemons steady.

Oh yeah, I may have forgotten to mention that when I make Jello shots I’m usually wasted on several of the shots by the time we get to the slicing portion of the recipe.

But everyone is like that, right?

recycleAs if these delicious gems of goodness weren’t already perfect, I realized there was another plus to them.  They are environmentally friendly!

You know my love of animals and of this beautiful planet (which is made even more beautiful by the presence of Jake Gyllenhaal and Andrew Garfield).

So with this recipe I can load up on liquor without feeling guilty about the environment.

I don’t need to be worried about filling the landfill with little Jello shots cups (mostly because when I eat these I will be too blitzed to think straight).

Actually,I’m probably helping the environment by doing Jello shots this way.  I am using biodegradable material for good use, while also supporting recycling.

I’m so considerate.

This is yet another way to give back to Mother Earth while drinking to excess.  Who knew being an environmentalist would be so fun?

The best lemon jello shotsDoes this mean I can stop shaving my arm pits?

Another bonus to these shots is that neighbors going through my trash (or just looking out their window to see me sprawled out on the lawn), won’t judge me for the large amount of plastic containers strewn about me and my body.

Rather, they will assume my drinking caught up with me and my liver finally gave out.  This makes for a peaceful afternoon nap on the front lawn…the perfect way to spend a Saturday.

What’s that you say?  Your neighbors don’t go through your trash?  Sure.

Whatever.  Keep telling yourself that, but do yourself a favor and go outside some night and see if your Us Weekly magazines are still in your trash can.

My guess is they’re not, as the nosy neighbor down the street wants to keep up with the Kardashians but can’t afford a magazine subscription (or cable…or the internet….those fricking Kardashians are everywhere).

So since I’m totally awesome and you guys are just dying to know how these Jello shots are made, I will tell you.  It’s actually fairly easy.  Here it goes:

RECIPE

1.  Cut several lemons in half. (You can also uses oranges, limes or watermelons)
2.  Scoop out the insides of each half lemon so it’s hollow.  (I suggest dumping the insides of the lemon into a large container of Grey Goose and water.)
3.  Make Jello as per the instructions.  (If you are making this for a party that I will be attending, please multiply the alcohol content by two.  Who am I kidding?  Multiply it by three.)
4.  Pour the liquid Jello into the halves, making sure not to overfill them.
5.  Place the lemon halves in muffin pans to hold them upright.
6.  Place the lemon halves in the refrigerator and allow the Jello to set.
7.  Once the Jello is done,  remove the lemon halves and slice the halves into smaller pieces.

Yes, it’s that easy.  I know.  Can you believe it?

And if you make this recipe, I will require you to bring over the equivalent of three whole lemons of Jello shots.

You didn’t think you were going to get this recipe entirely for free, did you?

Why I love Opening DayIt’s that time of year again, sports fans (and beer fans)!  It’s Opening Day in Busch Stadium in St. Louis!

For those of you not lucky enough to live in this beer and baseball town, Opening Day is practically a holiday in St. Louis, celebrated by all.

Do you want your car fixed?  Not on Opening Day you don’t.  What about a yearly check up with your doctor?  Not unless you want to have a last minute cancellation because your doc got tickets to the game.

Saint Louis celebrates beer and baseball like no one else, and Opening Day is one of the most exciting days of the year.  Aside from, of course, my birthday, but that’s more of a world-wide celebration.

So in honor of this glorious day, I decided to make a list of my favorite things about Opening Day, aside from drinking.  That’s just too obvious and I’m better than that.  It would also be a short post.

5.  Nachos are considered an acceptable lunch

nachosNo other day of the year is it socially acceptable by the masses to feast on nachos for lunch during the work week.  Granted, I find it perfectly acceptable, and actually encourage it year-round.

However, not everyone is as nutritiously conscious as I am.

What’s not to love about stadium nachos?

Vegetables?  Check.  (Jalapeños and tomatoes)

Protein?  Check.  (Stadium cheese and beef)

Dairy?  Check.  (Cheese and sour cream)

Carbs?  Check.  (Chips)

It’s a well-balanced meal and I’m not sure why it isn’t a regular form of sustenance during the regular year.  However, I’m glad there’s at least one day a year where noshing on carbs and fake cheese is encouraged.

4.  White pants

Photo credit; http://sports.yahoo.com/mlb/blog/big_league_stew/post/matt-holliday-plans-to-keep-wearing-red-schoendiensts-pants-after-homer?urn=mlb,wp10015

Photo credit; http://sports.yahoo.com/
http://tinyurl.com/d7j2bcn

Not on me.  Ew.  That would be disgusting, and would also be a disaster.  Didn’t you read #5 about the nachos? I’d have cheese and salsa on my pants within 30 seconds of gaining possession of those crunchy carbs.

I’m referring to the white pants those stud-muffin Cardinals players wear when they play ball.

They’re not skin tight in a David Bowie in Labyrinth kind of way.

They’re classy and leave a bit to the imagination (and with each beer, I find more and more imagination).

Opening Day is usually after Easter, and wearing white isn’t faux paux after the egg-stravagant holiday.  (Yes, I made that pun.  It was horribly awesome.)

Seeing the white pants on the tight butts of the players is reason alone to buy a ticket. Adam Wainright is too.

WARNING:  This white pants rule doesn’t apply to most of the coaches, although Mike Matheny sure fills them out nicely.He’s the exception to the rule.

He’s the exception to most rules.  <sigh>

3.  It’s okay to be drunk on a Monday at 10:00 a.m.

beerAny other Monday of the year, if you were drunk at 10:00 in the morning you’d “have a problem” or be “that guy who smells like Budweiser and stale cigarettes.”

But on Opening Day, it’s not only acceptable.  It’s encouraged!

Walking around the streets of downtown St. Louis on Opening Day, it can be difficult to find a sober person.

In fact, sober people on Opening Day are an anomaly; a phantom; a myth.  If you’re not stumbling drunk by noon, most St. Louis fans will deem you a Cubs fan and banish you from the stadium.

NOTE:  Being called a Cubs fan is the worst atrocity imaginable.  I figure you guys knew that, but I wanted to reiterate it.  I will also reiterate that the Cubs suck.

2.  I look good in red.

Cards gameI do.  It’s a fact.  I’m so glad my St. Louis Cardinals have red and white as their colors, as both are complimentary to my hair and skin tone.  Even though I’ve recently gone from blonde to red/brunette, my red Cardinals gear still looks good on me.

But of course it does.  Why wouldn’t it?

Other teams aren’t as lucky when it comes to team colors.  San Francisco got hit with the ugly stick of team colors and uniforms.

I actually feel sorry for the Giants fans.  Sure, they won the World Series last year, blah, blah, blah.  But they deserve a win every now and then just for having to wear those hideous uniforms and the color orange.

No one looks good in orange.

And why are the Giants’ colors orange?  I would think they’d be green, for obvious reasons.  I guess San Francisco isn’t a fan of vegetables.  Ho ho ho.

SIDEBAR:  Who has won more World Series than the current reigning champs? The St. Louis Cardinals.  Again, suck it Cubs.

1.  Mike Shannon

mike shannon

Photo credit:
http://stlouis.cbslocal.com/
personality/mike-shannon/

This guy is the number one reason I love Opening Day.  Cardinals fans everywhere love the voice of this announcer, even if we can’t understand what he’s saying most of the time.

Listeners can practically see the tumbler of scotchka (scotch and vodka) grasped tightly in his hand as he calls the game.  If you stop and listen closely, you can hear the ice jingling in the glass.

However, the ice doesn’t have time to melt, as he downs his drinks fairly quickly.  Mike Shannon doesn’t want his scotchka watered down.

He’s not a pussy.

Cardinal Nation lives for Shannon musings like “That foul tip bounced up and caught him right in the groins…and that’ll really clear your eyes out.” and “The moon sure is pretty tonight.  Wish you folks at home could see it.”

We’re glad he’s back in full effect, and full of liquor…just the way a baseball announcer should be.

Play ball!  Let’s go Cards!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such a happy ending to yet another embarrassing moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Party like it's 1999For some reason, my husband and I have amazingly fun friends.  I have no idea how we got so lucky to have so many fun people in our lives.  I like to tell myself it’s this blog that makes me so popular, but I’m pretty sure it’s only popular in retirement homes and prisons (or at least so says my Google Analytics statistics).

So when we were invited to a pre-rehab party at our friends’ new house, we immediately said yes.  Our friends purchased a house and are going to rehab it before moving in.  The party was a christening of sorts, and I couldn’t have been more excited.  A pre-rehab house party is my kind of party.  I could spill wherever and whenever I wanted to.  Perfect.

Because they hadn’t yet moved into the house, we knew it would be a bare bones party.  Don’t worry.  I checked beforehand to make sure food would be served.  Otherwise, our RSVP would have been quite different.  This wasn’t only a BYOB kind of party, but also BYOC (bring your own chair).

Yeah, that kind of party.  I considered bringing bean bag chairs but figured they would be hard to transport and I knew if I sat in one of those after a few drinks I would never get back out again. (They seriously suck you in…like a cult, or True Blood.)

My husband and I packed our cooler full of libations, grabbed our portable chairs, and headed to the party.  We pulled up to the new house and had to check the address more than once.  Was this really the house they bought?  It was huge and glorious.

Before we even got out of the car we deemed our friends “assholes” for buying such an amazing house.  Part of me wanted to go back home in protest of their new mansion, but I already knew what appetizers were being served and I’m a girl who can be persuaded by french onion dip.  (Always. I can always be persuaded by french onion dip.)

When we walked in the door the house’s awesomeness pretty much punched us in the face. It was a home built in the early 1900s and was enormous.  It had a glorious staircase and a beautiful sitting room with an old time stove.

There were massive windows that were open and bare, without curtains cluttering the view.  The only things missing were Mammy and Miss Scarlett.  (Since there were no curtains, I assumed this home was Tara after the war.)

We took a tour of the house, cursing our friends with each new room we saw.  Almost every entrance to a new room started with one of us emphatically shouting “God dammit!”  It was especially painful when we discovered their master bathroom was larger than both of the rooms in our 2 bedroom house.  Ouch.

After realizing we aren’t doing anything with our lives, we headed back to the main floor to drown our sorrows in alcohol.  By that time, the music had started and my friend Trainwreck (not his real name) was on the mic (and by “mic” I mean he plugged his iPod into the speakers).  Trainwreck has music ADD.

I’m not sure if that’s a medical diagnosis, or something we made up after a few cocktails.  Either way, the bottom line is that he can’t listen to an entire song without changing it. I’m sure on a long road trip this type of characteristic would be annoying, but for a house party, it was awesome.

He knew how to jam and soon there was a circle of people in a room hanging out and screaming the lyrics to “Gangsta Paradise.”  Of course, we weren’t in a circle dancing, we were in a circle sitting in our comfortable chairs.  After all, we aren’t kids anymore.  We have back issues.  (Okay, maybe not everyone has back issues, but this girl’s sciatica can be a real bitch).

dancingIt felt like it was the 90s and we were back in high school and someone’s parents were out of town.  We rocked out to Snoop Dogg and sipped our gin and juice, checking bedrooms occasionally to make sure two couples hadn’t snuck off to get frisky.  Considering nearly everyone at this party was married, we realized it was a slim possibility but we wanted to live like high schoolers again so we pretended.

The dance party raged on, and although Kid n Play didn’t make an appearance, we had a great time anyway.  My husband and I  left the party with mixed emotions.  We were happy to have lived like high schoolers for a night, but we were also bummed to leave the mansion and head back to our 2 bedroom home.  We got in the car and blasted TuPac.  It took away most of the sting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

drinking glasses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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