The day has come for all you football fans out there.  It’s the culmination of a full season of cussing at the TV, yelling at the refs who clearly got it wrong, and cursing Bill Belichick because he can’t be bothered to wear a sweatshirt the way it was intended…with sleeves.

That last part may just be me, but seriously with that guy?  Would it kill him to not look like a slob for ONE game?  But then again, when he’s regularly on camera with such a beautiful specimen as Tom Brady, he is always going to look like a slob in comparison.  He probably figures he should not even try and just be comfortable.

Okay guys, stop googling images of a topless Tom Brady and focus on this amazing blog post.  Do I need to keep you here with eye candy?  I’m not above it.  <———There. Happy now?

Let’s get back on track, people!  After a season of hard work, two football teams will face off today in the Super Bowl.  It’s the biggest game of the year for those two teams.  It’s the….well….it’s the Super Bowl of…..well…Super Bowls.

Today is Super Bowl Sunday.  Even if you don’t care about football, today is the one day of the year where you pretend to care just so you attend a Super Bowl party.

Every year, I can’t help but laugh at the whole notion of Super Bowl parties.  On any given Sunday during football season, you can find a football lover laying on the couch watching the games, dozing in and out of consciousness.  Sunday football viewing is basically a full day of intermittent napping and football fans can’t be bothered to do anything with others as long as there are games on.

During the season, Sundays transform into a day of solitude for football lovers.

MANHATTANDon’t even think of talking to them during the game, as viewing the sport takes significant concentration.  In my experience, I find such concentration is most often achieved with closed eyes and snoring.

However, once we get to the biggest game of the year, all of a sudden everyone wants to celebrate with a party.  I truly believe the reason these parties happen is because football lovers know if they didn’t have people over, they would sleep through the big game too.  They need parties to keep them awake for the full event.

Fortunately, I’m a giving and caring person who wants to make dreams come true, so I’m happy to attend Super Bowl parties.  However, I take them quite seriously.  If I’m going to go, I want to make sure I’m prepared ahead of time.  I need to engage in a serious fact-gathering expedition before I make my final decision regarding what to root for.

This investigation usually starts days in advance.  I begin researching information about which teams and cities are in the final game and what colors they wear.  (I need to plan my outfit.)

But most importantly, I want to know the spread for the game.  Will there be nachos and dip, or chili and sandwiches?  Cookies and ice cream, or brownies and pies?

Wait…you didn’t think when I said I wanted to prepare myself for the big day that I was talking about educating myself on the teams, did you?  I simply need to know which city each team comes from to know if I will be walking into a theme-based party with food indicative of the teams.  (Clam chowder for New England or crab cakes for Seattle.)  And when I said I needed to plan my outfit, I meant I needed to locate pants with elastic.

You didn’t think when I referred to “the spread” that I was actually referring to gambling on the game, did you?  Do you read this blog at all?!  The only gambling I will be doing today is eating buffalo chicken dip without the benefit of a gallbladder.

I suspect the loser will be my friends’ bathroom.  (FYI…you know who you are and I would recommend stocking up on air freshener.)

To me, Super Bowl Sunday is an excuse to get together with friends and stuff my face with as many foods as possible.  It’s one of the biggest eating days of the year and I need to prepare myself, both mentally and physically.  I suggest you do the same.

As for the winners of this year’s Super Bowl, it’s too early to tell.  But I’ve got my money on the buffalo chicken dip.

***This is a post from earlier this year.  I am reposting it because it could have been written yesterday…or last week…or today.  This is mostly just sad for me, but hopefully it will be entertaining for you.  

Grab a napkin and enjoy.  

Ew.  Not like that. ***


The empty container that formerly held goodness.

I know I should be mortified.  I should be disgusted with myself.  I know these things, and yet I feel nothing but satisfaction.

Maybe this is how Taylor Swift feels whenever she puts out a new album.  (Sidebar:  I secretly like most of her songs, but I will never publicly admit it.  She’s just a country girl looking for love.)

Anyway, back to me, where the focus should always be.  (That rhymes.)

Why am I ashamed? Because I ate an entire container of mini cupcakes.

Impressed?  You should be.

Granted, it wasn’t in one sitting, but it was within a 24 hour period, which I find both depressing and exciting.  The fat girl in me is proud of the accomplishment while the skinny girl in me is horrified and repulsed.

Fortunately, the skinny girl in me is squashed and practically crushed by the fat girl, so she can shut the f*#k up and keep her opinions to herself.  (She also needs to eat a ham sandwich.)

I’m saying this is a good thing and I don’t care what skinny people say…not even my husband.

Don't look at me with those judging eyes.  I've seen you lick yourself.  You're no better than me. photo credit: This Year's Love via photopin cc

Don’t look at me with those judging eyes. I’ve seen you lick yourself. You’re no better than me.
photo credit: This Year’s Love via photopin cc

I didn’t do this tonight, but did it about 2.5 weeks ago.  As my loving blog followers know, I recently had surgery and had evil Stan the gallbladder removed.

That’s a pretty big deal, or at least that’s what I’m telling my husband.

I don’t ever want to move anything, lift anything, or carry anything ever again so I’m going to ride this surgery into the ground…or at least ride it to the store where I will stay in the car while he runs in to get milk because “I’m just so weak.”

This whole surgery thing is a built in excuse for life…or at least for a few months.

Either way, I legitimately had surgery and I have the scars to prove it.  They are both physical scars from the incisions and what I assume will be emotional scars that will come when I get the bills and realize I need a second job to pay them.  (I’m thinking something where I get to wear a uniform…but not a hat.)

Due to the physical and emotional trauma my body sustained, it needs time and energy to heal from the invasive surgery.

What better way to heal than with some pre-packaged chocolaty goodness from Target?  It’s the perfect medicine.

I know people say laughter is the best medicine, but those people haven’t tried these cupcakes.  They’re wayyyyy better.  (Incidentally, I also discovered through this whole gallbladder thing that Percocet is also the perfect medicine, assuming you don’t mind constipation, of course.)

photo credit: Frederic Poirot via photopin cc

This isn’t me in the photo. This chick and her skinny arms have never downed an entire container of cupcakes. That’s where we differ.
photo credit: Frederic Poirot via photopin cc

The cupcakes were amazing, and I contend they were good for me too.  I mean, the sustenance my body received from eating an entire 12 pack of mini cupcakes can’t be quantified.

Okay, well maybe it can technically be quantified by calories, fat, and number of tears cried when I realized I ate them all.

Whatever.  Each bite was more savory than the last, and if I had it to over again, I would absolutely eat the whole container again.

Actually, the only thing I would do differently is this time I would buy two containers.  Isn’t two always better than one?  (Except when it comes to STDs.  In that case, I would say one is better than two.  I would also say get to the clinic and get that taken care of, you dirty dog.)

So the next time you’re at Target and come across containers of mini cupcakes, grab one.  You won’t be sorry.  Then bring it to my house so I can down them all in one sitting.  After all, you didn’t even get me a “get well soon” gift.


finished cupcakes

It was everything I thought it could be.

tumultuous relationship with fro yoI’m in an abusive relationship. No, I’m not abusing Matt, at least not physically. The relationship I’m talking about is a love affair; a forbidden affair, but one I can’t terminate no matter how much I try.

The object of my affections? Fro Yo.

For those of you not familiar with this fine establishment, they serve various flavors of frozen yogurt along with a toppings bar of every thing from gummy bears to crushed up candy bars.

You serve yourself as much frozen yogurt as you want, and then load it up with as many toppings as you want as well.

It’s basically diabetes in a cup.

It’s perfection.

photo credit: Matthew McVickar via photopin cc

photo credit: Matthew McVickar via photopin cc

How is Fro Yo abusive, you ask? He seems so sophisticated with his trendy concept and welcoming rewards card. Don’t be fooled. That’s how he gets you.

You see, Fro Yo is abusive because he knows I need him. He knows I can’t live without him. Who can, really? Well, I supposed lactose intolerant people could totally live without him. Whatever.

He’s so smooth and cool and he knows it.  Not only is he aloof and confident, he’s literally smooth and cool.  He’s cold, actually.  He’s kind of a bad boy, and I like it.

I know what you’re thinking; is it just mind games?  How is he physically abusive to you?

Um, it’s called a brain freeze.  Ever had one?  Pure.  Pain.

And yet, I want more.  I want more of the brain freeze.  I want more of the headache.  I want more, more, more!

It’s not all whipped cream and crushed candy bars though.  There’s a dark side to Fro Yo.  He requires constant attention or he pouts and has a meltdown.

He also makes me feel bad about myself.  Sure, there’s the ecstasy of the time we spend together, but when it’s over, I drive home with my head hung in shame, kicking myself for being so gullible and giving in to his seductive ways.

photo credit: Kalexanderson via photopin cc

photo credit: Kalexanderson via photopin cc

As if I don’t feel bad enough about my overindulgence, there’s the stains he leaves on my shirt, and the indigestion he leaves in my chest that remind me of our dirty deed.

I try to hide our relationship with my husband, but I think he knows.  He can smell Fro Yo when I walk in the door, and I know he can see remnants of our night together in the corner of my mouth.

Matt looks away.  He doesn’t want to know.

However, despite all of the turmoil Fro Yo brings to my life, every time time he calls my name, I come running.  Well, not so much running because I’m physically not capable of running.

This is yet another example of the permanent effects Fro Yo has on me.  He has such a hold that he affects my joints and my (in)ability to engage in cardiovascular activities.

Why can’t I stop?  Maybe Robert Palmer is right, and I’m addicted to love.  I probably am.  Or maybe, just maybe, I’m addicted to lactose.

Either way, I don’t care.  If loving him is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with a cool guy….

How to maximize girl scout cookiesIt’s the most wonderful time of the year! That’s right. I’m talking about Girl Scout Cookie season! Isn’t that what Andy Williams was singing about in his beloved tune? If so, that song just became a whole lot more meaningful.

I realize most people refer to this time of year as “Girl Scout Cookie time” but it’s better than that. It’s bigger than that. It’s a whole season of goodness and should be celebrated as such. Don’t worry. I’m starting this trend and it will totally take off, with your help, of course.

somoa1Let’s start by referring to it as “GSC season,” not so much because I like acronyms, but because I don’t want to keep typing out those three words. You don’t want to give me carpal tunnel, do you? Great, GSC season it is!

The beginning of GSC season begins with anticipation and salivation. That’s how most people gear up for it, but I like to be prepared. I’m a dedicated GSC season supporter, so I start before others do.

Much like football players, I engage in a rigorous pre-season preparation, although mine doesn’t involve physical activity of any kind. That would not make for an enjoyable time and would defeat the happiness of the GSC season. Rather, I begin pre-season by making a list of Girl Scouts I know.

You need to be prepared and I don’t want to go into the GSC season without a game plan (much like I don’t want to go into Target without a list…or a large credit limit).

The pre-season is crucial as it sets the tone for the next few months. Having a list of known Girl Scouts ensures access to the goods. You wouldn’t go on a road trip without your GPS, right? So why would you go into GSC season without a map of potential sellers and locations? You wouldn’t.

The benefit of the pre-season list is you can scope out which Scouts to hit up for cookies, and you can also determine if they are in the same troupe. Most of the time they aren’t, but if they are, you will need to be aware their orders will merge, and at some point they will see you were patronizing other Scouts.

stop for girl scouts

They will also most likely do the math and realize your order of 36 boxes for a single woman is a bit hefty. However, you’re a charitable person and you support the Girls Scouts and what they do, so you’re happy to order large quantities. You’re a giver that way. You also have a sweet tooth, but whatever.

After cross referencing your list of contacts and ensuring minimal scrutiny for your purchases, you must move on to the budgeting phase. I would recommend not writing this down, as you don’t want your husband or significant other to see just how much money you’re budgeting for cookies. Don’t get me wrong; they’re worth it, but seeing the numbers on paper makes it a little more depressing, and you don’t want to be depressed around the Girl Scouts. You can set a better example than that.

*Note: If you can’t do the math in your head (who can?), then you have my permission to jot down potential totals of various orders and plot out your budget. However, immediately after the budget is completed, the paper must be cleansed with truffle oil and thrown into the incinerator to destroy the evidence.

After you’ve secured your budget, you’re ready to proceed full-force into the GSC season. Since you already know your contacts for the goodies, (and you’ve synced your calendar with theirs to ensure availability for sales calls), you can begin the ordering process.

A few words of caution: STAY STRONG. Yes, the Thin Mints melt in your mouth, and yes, the Tagalogs are a burst of goodness with every bite, but you have to exercise restraint. You have several Girl Scouts to patronize, and you don’t want to buy your entire stash from one Scout. That wouldn’t best support the cause. (The cause is cookies, right?)

peanut butter cookieAfter the various orders are placed comes the worst part of the season: the waiting. It’s excruciating, especially since you’ve already been teased by the order form. However, focus on the prize, which is an entire shipment of Girl Scout Cookies. It’s worth the wait.

When the much awaited due date arrives, don’t get too anxious. Must like the due date for pregnant women, it’s a guideline but not a date set in stone (although it should be). It would be ideal for the due date and delivery date to be the same, but rarely does such a phenomenon occur. However, the day after the due date, if you still don’t have your orders, you have my permission to contact each seller and demand tender immediately.

Gently take the boxes from each Scout, using caution not to drop them. A shattered Girl Scout cookie is a travesty and completely avoidable if proper precautions are met. Once you are safely out of viewing of others, feel free to tear into the boxes of cookies, sampling one from each box to ensure quality control. You don’t want the Scouts putting out a bad product, and it’s up to
you to keep up the high standards of the Samoa.

Once you receive the coveted goodies, resist the temptation to tear into the boxes upon receipt. You’re classier than that, and you have to set a good example to the Scouts, who look to you for guidance. They also look to you for payment, so don’t forget your checkbook.

After you’ve gorged yourself and finished off a few boxes, sit back and use your chocolate-stained hand to give yourself a pat on the back. You did a good thing by participating in GSC season and helping charity. You also gave some young girls a chance at a better life, and isn’t that what GSC season is about? (It’s about Thin Mints too, but the point still stands.)

So enjoy this GSC season and do your best to spread the word about this delightful and delicious holiday. However, don’t be compelled to share the cookies. You’re not that charitable.

various cookiesvarious cookies

FAT TUESDAYI’m pretty sure I didn’t have to write a blog post about this, as it’s a no brainer (as evidenced by this post’s title). Any holiday with the word “fat” right in the title is obviously going to be observed by this girl. It’s pretty much a celebration of me and my fellow chub club peeps, and what we stand for…which is butter on everything and a side of Ranch dressing.

OMG! I just made up that chub club thing just now and it’s completely brilliant! I’m going to run with it. Okay, I won’t really physically run with it.  I will walk slowly with it or take a cab.  I think I’m going to start a Chub Club for real.

I will be the “Big Cheese” in charge of the outfit, and the members will be named after different variations of my favorite dairy products. This is genius! I predict t-shirts will be made soon with the smallest size being an XL (for the tiny people in the group). This is gold!

Sorry about hijacking my MjAxMi1hOWJkZTkyMDhjOGI2YmM4own post there, but when amazing ideas come to me, which is pretty much every hour, I need to write them down so I don’t forget them.

I’ve got so many irons in the fire right now that it’s hard to keep them all straight.  And by “irons in the fire” I mean “items in the microwave.”

Anyway, I feel like this post is a pretty obvious one and probably doesn’t need to be written, but then again, I thought Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes had a love to last a lifetime, and look how that turned out.

You guys need guidance, and fortunately I’m here to serve.  However, I’m not here to serve you food; only wisdom. Scoop your own gravy, free loaders.

Perhaps the best part about Fat Tuesday is that it’s an actual holiday encouraging indulgence and gluttony.  Any other day of the year, society quietly judges you for overindulging.

Except in my case, society takes the form of my great aunt who doesn’t judge me quietly, but does so quite loudly from the seat next to me at dinner. “Wow, Lisa, you sure can eat an entire ham. Maybe you should grab some broccoli to round out your meal.”

charlie-sheen-fat-tuesday-mardi-gras-ecards-someecardsUm, maybe you should pick your teeth up off the table and shut up.

What other day of the year encourages engaging in a full day of complete gluttony? Thanksgiving is usually restricted to one meal of gorging, and the focus of the holiday isn’t simply stuffing one’s face with carbs (there’s desserts too!).

Apparently we are also supposed to remember the Indians on that day and how we killed them all with cholera blankets and STDs.  Not the happiest of holidays, although pie definitely makes it better. (Pie makes everything better. I think I should make that into a bumper sticker. It could be the slogan for my Chub Club.  I’M ON A ROLL TONIGHT!)

Unlike the short lived Thanksgiving with one big meal, Fat Tuesday encourages gluttony all day long! It’s the perfect day and it should be a national holiday. How can I be expected to work when I have a full cookie cake to eat? And that plate of nachos isn’t going to eat itself.

I can’t be expected to go to work on a day when the world is my oyster of food, and the oyster is on a cracker with Tabasco sauce.  Does my boss not want me to properly honor the holiday?  To basically flip off Fat Tuesday and all that it represents?  Apparently so.  My boss is obviously unpatriotic.

Fat Tuesday is also a great holiday because it actually celebrates being fat! All year long I’m made to feel embarrassed by my love handles and meaty thighs.


(I don’t feel bad about them, but it’s not for a lack of society’s attempts. They are relentless!)  But just this one day a year, society embraces fatness, one love handle at a time.

Wait, my husband just told me that Fat Tuesday isn’t a celebration of fat people at all. Apparently, he seems to think its a last hurrah of sorts before Lent starts and people give up stuff.  What does he know?  He’s skinny and clearly wants to bring me down on the best holiday of the year.

And if he doesn’t watch himself, he’s going to learn about giving up stuff…in this case, it will be the comfort of our memory foam mattress, as we don’t have one of those in the guest bedroom.

I’m not letting my husband’s nay saying bring me down on the best day of the year. I will relegate him to the guest bedroom so he can think about what he’s done, and so I can enjoy my last stash of Twinkies in peace without judgment. I will also be launching a Chub Club, as this is clearly one of my better ideas. It’s right up there with the Snuggie dress, which is a genius idea if I could just get some funding.

So enjoy Fat Tuesday, my friends. Celebrate your inner and outer fat kid, and if you come across nay sayers like my husband, feel free to throw a pie in their face and tell them they need to get in the holiday spirit.  But don’t waste a good pie.   That would be a tragedy.

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I know I should be mortified.  I should be disgusted with myself.  I know these things, and yet I feel nothing but satisfaction.  Maybe this is how Taylor Swift feels whenever she puts out a new album.  (Sidebar:  I secretly like most of her songs, but I will never publicly admit it.  She’s just a country girl looking for love.) Anyway, back to me, where the focus should always be.  (That rhymes.)

I ate an entire container of mini cupcakes.  Impressed?  You should be.

Granted, it wasn’t in one sitting, but it was within a 24 hour period, which I find both depressing and exciting.  The fat girl in me is proud of the accomplishment while the skinny girl in me is horrified and repulsed.  Fortunately, the skinny girl in me is squashed and practically crushed by the fat girl, so she can shut the frick up and keep her opinions to herself.  (She also needs to eat a ham sandwich.)

I’m saying this is a good thing and I don’t care what skinny people say…not even my husband.

I didn’t do this tonight, but did it about 2.5 weeks ago.  As my loving blog followers know, I recently had surgery and had evil Stan the gallbladder removed.  That’s a pretty big deal, or at least that’s what I’m telling my husband.  I don’t ever want to move anything, lift anything, or carry anything ever again so I’m going to ride this surgery into the ground…or at least ride it to the store where I will stay in the car while he runs in to get milk because “I’m just so weak.”  This whole surgery thing is a built in excuse for life…or at least for a few months.

Either way, I legitimately had surgery and I have the scars to prove it.  They are both physical scars from the incisions and what I assume will be emotional scars that will come when I get the bills and realize I need a second job to pay them.  (I’m thinking something where I get to wear a uniform…but not a hat.)

Due to the physical and emotional trauma my body sustained, it needs time and energy to heal from the invasive surgery.  What better way to heal than with some pre-packaged chocolaty goodness from Target?  It’s the perfect medicine.

I know people say laughter is the best medicine, but those people haven’t tried these cupcakes.  They’re wayyyyy better.  (Incidentally, I also discovered through this whole gallbladder thing that Percocet is also the perfect medicine, assuming you don’t mind constipation, of course.)

The cupcakes were amazing, and I contend they were good for me too.  I mean, the sustenance my body received from eating an entire 12 pack of mini cupcakes can’t be quantified.  Okay, well maybe it can technically be quantified by calories, fat, and number of tears cried when I realized I ate them all.  Whatever.  Each bite was more savory than the last, and if I had it to over again, I would absolutely eat the whole container again.

Actually, the only thing I would do differently is this time I would buy two containers.  Isn’t two always better than one?  (Except when it comes to STDs.  In that case, I would say one is better than two.  I would also say get to the clinic and get that taken care of, you dirty dog.)

So the next time you’re at Target and come across containers of mini cupcakes, grab one.  You won’t be sorry.  Then bring it to my house so I can down them all in one sitting.  After all, you didn’t even get me a “get well soon” gift.


finished cupcakes

Notice how I left a few empty
wrappers to show you they were
chocolate? You’re welcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Sock monkey.


Click here for part 2 of the saga

day at the spa

I enjoy the finer things in life.  It’s why I refuse to buy the store brand of peanut butter.  (Don’t even think of convincing me that stuff tastes anything like Jif.)  I have become accustomed to a certain life style.  Wait, perhaps I should clarify.

I like things that make me feel good (and full).  I have no problem spending money on things that fall into those categories.  However, things that don’t fall into those categories typically fall by the waste side.  It’s why you will never see me wearing an outfit free of at least one stain or deodorant mark, and why I consider anything less than 5 years old “totally in fashion this season.”

But when it comes to pampering myself, I cut no corners.  I’m a regular spa goer and I don’t care who knows it.  (Okay, maybe a little I care, as I took a spa day recently on a Thursday, and I don’t want my boss to know.  But aside from him…I don’t care who knows it!)

I decided I needed a break from the day-to-day drudgery that is my life, which basically consists of working, complaining, and cleaning up dog excrement.

To reward myself for not totally losing my mind, and for not cursing out the dry cleaners for what I can only describe as date rape on my checkbook, I booked myself a 90 minute massage at The Four Seasons and set out for a day of relaxation and serious price gouging.  (Five dollars for a Diet Coke and it doesn’t even have alcohol in it?  No thank you!)

On my way to the spa, I called in my order for lunch.  I realized this made me look like a total douche to the staff, but I didn’t care.  I figured if I worked in a spa, I would consider all the patrons total douchebages regardless of whether they pre-ordered a salad or not.

I was prepared to deal with their judging eyes.  I was used to it, since I always request a man’s robe when I get there.  (They are so much roomier and have bigger pockets to steal the free mints.)

I arrived, checked in and headed to the locker room.  The attendant followed me, despite the fact she knew I was a regular customer.  Perhaps my stained sweatpants and disheveled hair suggested I was someone who might steal a towel or two (I was).

outside spaWhen we got to the locker area, she looked at me and said “Do you remember how to work the lockers?”

Um, do I remember how to operate something that requires only minimal finger dexterity and the IQ of one of those sweet bottles of lotion I was going to swipe?  Yeah, I got it.  I told her I could handle it and she walked away.

I switched into my robe and headed to one of the relaxation rooms to wait for my food.  I sat down and began chatting with two women who were also getting their relaxation on.  They just had massages and seemed totally relaxed (the bottle of wine they were sharing seemed to be helping in that regard).

I liked them immediately.  We began doing what I call “the spa talk,” which is where we all pretend that being at the spa is a totally normal thing and we aren’t totally freaking out inside because the bath towels smell like eucalyptus.

(Seriously, how do they do that?  And now you know why I steal.)   The “spa talk” typically includes comments about other spas and services, which is just a way for the spa goer to legitimize themselves to another spa person.  It’s like how the mafia is with foot soldiers, or how Jessica Simpson is with everyone.

We chatted for a while and then I was called away for my lunch, which was a $28 vegetarian Cobb salad with a water.  Seriously.  That’s what it cost.  I’m convinced they are in cahoots with my dry cleaner.

I scarfed down the salad in approximately 3 bites, and then to fill myself up, ate the entire basket of bread.  Did you really think I would eat just a salad for lunch?  Oh, that’s so cute.

I was then “collected” for my massage by my favorite masseuse, Mary, who is older than my mom but has hands like a Hungarian baker.  I love her and her outdated Birkenstocks (even I know those are out of style.  Get with it Mary.)

After the service I changed into my suit and headed out to the pool for some sun (and a nap).  I walked through the cafe area on my way to the pool and noticed the two women I spoke to earlier.  They were finishing up their lunches and drinking what I can only assume was another bottle of wine.

We chatted about my service and how fabulous it was.  I told them I was headed to the pool for some fresh air (and because I was gassy) and that they should join me, but sit downwind.  They agreed and collected their things.  As they did so, I looked at one of the other tables and noticed a full glass of champagne, along with an empty glass and an open bottle.

“What’s the story here?” I asked, as I slid over to the table.

“Oh, a woman sat there waiting for a guy who never came.  She drank her glass and then left,” they said, with pity in their voice for the girl who was ignored and was most likely in the bathroom cutting herself at that exact moment.

I wanted to feel sorry for her.  I did.  But all that came out was “So….where are we on this champagne?”

They looked at me and one of them said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we…”

champagne photoBefore they finished the sentence I picked up the full glass of bubbly and took a drink.  It was delicious, and definitely didn’t taste like the $2.99 gas station brand of which I’ve grown to love.

I looked up at them, expecting to see judgment in their eyes.  Instead, I found approval.  Without another word, we all 3 moved quickly, grabbed glasses and the bottle of champagne and headed to the pool on the roof.

We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking someone else’s champagne, chatting, and enjoying the sun and the pool.  The three of us realized we got along great, and had similar personalities (the similarity being that we were all awesome).

When the day drew to a close (which was coincidentally when the alcohol ran out), we said our goodbyes and parted ways.  But not before scheduling another spa day for the three of us.  No joke.

We are scheduled to return in three weeks, and this time, we are hoping two different women get stood up for lunch.  Although would it kill a girl to order a bottle of Grey Goose instead of champagne next time?  Here’s to hoping!

I’m not a huge hockey fan, but what I am a fan of is dimples and a sexy butt. (This is one of the primary reasons I married my husband. That, and he’s a really good dancer.) I don’t follow hockey regularly, (if I want to watch two people beat each other up, I’ll just watch my neighbors get into it across the street…and the hot dogs and beer are cheaper at my house).

However, I feel like as a St. Louis resident, I should at least be able to identify the regular players on the St. Louis Blues hockey team. Not so much to talk to them about hockey, but to reserve judgment if they talk to me and (1) sound hoosier and (2) are missing teeth.

One of the most dreamy of the St. Louis Blues is the assistant captain, Alex Steen. Yummy. I feel like I should insert some lame joke here about how I wouldn’t mind melting the ice with that hottie, or make some inappropriate comment about a word that rhymes with puck.

But I’m classy, and you expect more from me out of a blog post, so I won’t stoop to that level. You’re welcome.

steen.pngLast week I went on a date with Alex Steen. Okay, well maybe he didn’t see it as a date, but I did. I talked to my husband about it, so don’t think you need to keep this dirty little secret for me (although that would be a great way to find out if he reads my blog).

The date occurred last Monday night. Okay, I realize Monday night isn’t a typical date night, but I’m no typical girl. It started out as a meeting for an animal rescue group I work with.

It was at a restaurant/bar and we had our meeting initially, and then a handful of people (the dedicated ones), stayed to drink more. Hey, we wanted to support the establishment for supporting our cause.

Later in the evening is when my date, Alex Steen, stopped by. And although I was a few drinks in, I can assure you it was him. Other people saw us together and they can corroborate.

I promise. Granted, we were sitting around with a group of about five of us, but I’m pretty sure this evening counted as a date with Alex Steen. Here’s why:

1. He paid for my dinner and drinks

Okay, so he paid for everyone’s dinner and drinks, but whatever. That’s just the kind of guy he is. I secretly think he paid the tab because he heard about the kind of girl I used to be, and was hoping to get some over-the-shirt boob action. (He totally could have).

How many dates do you go on where the guy pays for the meal and drinks? If you’re a smart dater, (and I am), those are the only dates you go on. If a guy doesn’t pay on the first date, then I didn’t return his call for the second. Any guy I went out with needed to learn early that this girl likes to eat, and he was going to have to support that habit.

Picking up the tab on a first date is customary when the guy is interested in the woman and wants to see more of her. This is obviously what happened here.

steen and dog

2. He touched my leg more than once

Yeah, that’s right. He touched my leg. I shall never wash those pants again…if only they were my Pajama Jeans! Several times throughout the night his hand and arm brushed upon my leg.

I’m sure he will say it was an accident, and we were sitting so close that it was inevitable that he would brush up against me from time to time. But we all know the truth. He wanted a piece of this sassy body comprised of Chipotle, vodka, and rocky road ice cream.

He sooo wanted me.

3. We talked about our common interests

Here he is rescuing a puppy with the rescue I work with.

Here he is rescuing a puppy with the rescue I work with.

I love dogs. Shocking, right? Guess who else loves dogs? Alex Steen! We are a perfect match! I mean, how many people on this planet share a love of dogs?

Wait…um…that might be a lot…but he shares my love of this particular rescue I volunteer with, which rescues abandoned, abused, and stray animals. Doesn’t that equal a love connection?

I mean, many of my friends also love this organization and I’m not planning our weekend getaway together (it would be at a Four Seasons resort and spa), but Alex and I share a true bond.

Just ask him.

4. He laughed at my jokes

Isn’t that another sign of a good first date? He regularly laughed at my jokes and even engaged in discussion with me.

Okay, maybe they weren’t so much jokes, as just sentences I made; and maybe they weren’t so much sentences as incoherent comments with a string of conjunctions strewn in between.

Whatever the reason, he was laughing at the same time I was, which is fine with me. Whomever said “as long as they are laughing with you and not at you” is an idiot and has clearly never laid eyes on Alex Steen.

5. He looked longingly into my eyes

Yes, he looked longingly. Okay, maybe it wasn’t longingly so much as he was looking in my eyes to see if I was sober enough to drive home, but either way, he looked into my eyes. Can you say that about the dreamy Steenster? (That’s my new nickname for him. We totally hit it off.)

He obviously cares about me as he didn’t want me to drive home if I wasn’t sober enough to do so. He really has my back and obviously wanted me to be safe so he can see me again soon. I’m sure it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that he is in the middle of playoffs for the Stanley Cup and he didn’t want to be associated with scandal that would result in his “girlfriend” getting in a car accident.

He probably just didn’t want the stress of worrying about me when he needs to focus on the game. He’s such a caring guy.

So there you have it; all the reasons why last Monday I had a date with Alex Steen. Don’t be too jealous, as you can watch him on TV as you root for The St. Louis Blues in the playoffs.

But hands off the Steenster. He’s mine.

Indian womanMy friend Skinnypants (not her real name) is super skinny and adorable. (Yes, I am calling her Skinnypants in this blog.  I’m not feeling super creative.)

If I didn’t like her so much, I would hate her (although part of me secretly does.  She and her skinny jeans can suck it).  Over the last year, she has continued to drop weight from her tiny frame, while I continue to gain it on my ever expanding frame.

If we were cars, she would be built on the frame of an adorable Mini Cooper that would be purchased by a wealthy father for his adorably tiny 16 year old cheerleader daughter.

I, on the other hand, would be built on the frame of an F-150 and would be purchased by the 300 pound farmer for use hauling manure on the farm.  (But hey, at least I’d be more useful than a short skirted teen yelling out how to spell “defense.”  I got it.  I passed the fifth grade.)

What’s even more infuriating than her rapid and constant weight loss, is her allegation that she has no idea how she is loosing the weight.  She says it just keeps dropping and she doesn’t really know how she’s doing it.  Bitch.

Although I like my friend, I dislike her incessant weight loss.  I’ve been trying to deal with this issue internally like a good friend does.  I’ve accomplished this feat by talking about her behind her back and constantly rolling my eyes whenever she looks away.

I do all of this without her knowing because I’m a really considerate friend that way and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

But now it’s just getting ridiculous.  Saturday she arrived at my house to go to lunch with me and my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name).  The three of us planned a long girls’ lunch at one of our favorite local restaurants.  (And no, it wasn’t the Quick Trip, although that’s a completely reasonable guess.)

Pajama Jeans arrived at my house first, and we discussed Skinnypants’s weight loss, and realized our burning dislike of her was directly proportional to the amount of weight she lost.  We agreed that if we wanted to save the friendship, we would have to stage an intervention with her.

After all, we didn’t want to lose our friend, but we also couldn’t be seen with someone who could actually fit into t-shirts from the children’s section at The Gap.  (Wearing a child’s Elmo t-shirt, whether done ironically or not, is just not something we could support.)

Skinnypants solidified our decision to proceed with an intervention when she walked into my house for lunch.  She was wearing a tank top and adorable skinny white jeans.  Was she trying to slap us in the face?  White jeans?  And skinny white jeans?

woman with donutTypically, white makes the wearer look heavier, or in my case, makes me look even larger than my stated poundage.  But somehow, Skinnypants managed to look adorable in the white jeans.  For a brief moment, I considered throwing ketchup all over her to ruin her perfect outfit, but I’m lazy and didn’t want to clean up the mess.

I also didn’t want to waste such a precious condiment on someone who wouldn’t appreciate its sugary goodness.

We drove to the restaurant together, chit chatting and pretending like everything was normal.  An unsuspecting Skinnypants sat in the backseat completely unaware of what was about to go down.  Part of me felt sorry for her, but one look at her toned abs and flat stomach melted away any pity I had for her.

I was also starving, as the protein bar I ate that morning curbed my appetite for approximately 3 minutes.  I was crabby.

We arrived at the restaurant, sat down, and ordered drinks immediately.  We also started out with an appetizer.  (What are we, animals?)  We allowed Skinnypants to make it through the appetizers and the main course unscathed, but after we ordered dessert, we knew it was time to put the smack down.

She got up to go to the restroom (hopefully not to purge), and Pajama Jeans and I decided the time had come to start the intervention (and to get a refill.  What did we have to do to get some good service from our waiter?)

Skinnypants returned and sat down, not knowing her life was about to change.  We confronted her immediately.  I started the intervention, mostly because I’m a bossy pants, but also because I was the heavier of the two of us, so I had more of an axe to grind (and a stomach to fill).

I channeled the counselor from “Intervention” and began my pep talk.  “Skinnypants,” I said, in my best authoritative voice, “We need to talk.  Pajama and I have noticed your consistent weight loss and we’re at a crossroads.  (And not the delightful movie with the same name starring the ever so talented Brittney Spears.)


blurry stop sign


It’s time to terminate our friendship, as we can’t continue down this path with someone who thinks a belly roll is a type of Pilates exercise.”

She looked shocked and dumbfounded, and I swear the sunlight hit her face just right at that moment and she was actually glistening.  It wasn’t helping her case.  “I can’t help it.  I don’t know how I’m losing weight.  I don’t even exercise.  And I don’t keep track of my weight.  I don’t even own a scale.”

This was not the right thing to say.  I could see the anger burning in Pajama Jeans’ eyes, and I physically put my hand on her shoulder to hold her back.  I knew a punch to Skinnypants’s face wasn’t the right way to start this intervention.

But seriously, the last thing a skinny person should tell two women struggling with weight loss is that she doesn’t know how she’s losing weight because she’s not exercising.

“Um, what can I do to keep this friendship alive?” she asked, looking at us with an adorable face that lacked a second chin.

“I’m glad you asked,” I stated, looking around anxiously wondering where the waiter was with the desserts (and my iced tea.  Seriously, homeboy needed to just leave the pitcher on the table).  You can commit to making this relationship work, but it’s going to take some effort and commitment on your part.  This is an intervention and we are demanding you stop losing weight.  Our friendship is on the line, and is there anything more important than the right to call Pajama and I your friends?”

skinny.jpgThis was a ridiculous question and she knew it.  Pajama Jeans and I are awesome, and anyone would be happy to call us friend.  We had her.  Now it was time for me to lay out the terms.

“We mean business.  This intervention is serious and we require several things to make this work.  First, no exercise.  We’re serious.  Not even a jaunt around the block.  If you’re serious about our friendship, you will avoid anything that could even remotely increase your metabolism.” We said, in our most menacing tone.

“Second, you need to increase your caloric intake.  No skipping dinner or just having a salad.  If you want to have a salad, it must be drenched in high calorie dressing and topped with fried chicken, the way salad is intended to be eaten.”

She stared as us both, trying to gauge how serious we were and whether we were committed to sticking to these guidelines.  One look in Pajama Jeans’ eyes told Skinnypants that we were dead serious.  Serious as a heart attack induced by a diabetic coma.

I’m not sure if it was the threat of losing our friendship, or the fact that the desserts arrived, but Skinnypants agreed to our terms and said she would eat more.  Happy with our intervention, Pajama Jeans and I turned our attention to the desserts we ordered and proceeded to stuff our faces.

We also made sure Skinnypants ate more than her fair share of the desserts, although we advised her we wouldn’t accept hoarding the desserts either.  She needed to share.

All three of us left the intervention lunch feeling good about our friendship and even better about our blood sugar levels.  I suppose only time will tell if Skinnypants sticks to her end of the bargain.

I’ve ordered a scale to be delivered to her home and have asked that it be set to read less than what she actually weighs.  I’ve also asked the delivery man to deliver the scale along with a chocolate pound cake and a gallon of ice cream.