girl with ice creamI’m a bit of an eater.  Okay, maybe that’s an understatement.  It’s like saying Tiger Woods dabbles in golf, or that Kayne West is only a bit of a douche bag.

This girl loves to eat and doesn’t like anything to stand in the way of her and any sort of dipping sauce.

So when I went to lunch with my friend Scissorhands (not her real name) and her mom, I was there for the company, but I was also there for the food!

I arrived and we began chit chatting and catching up, all the while pretending as if I was interested in our conversation and not the appetizers at the table next to.  (Would it kill them to offer their neighbor a bite of their dip?)

We figured out our orders and the overly perky waitress came back to take down our requests.  My friends are healthy and skinny, but I love them despite these obvious flaws.

They both ordered healthy dishes, and the waitress then turned her attention to me.  I could tell she was rooting for me to order something healthy too.  I could see it in her face.

It’s probably the same look I have when I root for the addict on Intervention to stay away from the back alley heroin deal, knowing full well they will find themselves giving blow jobs in a garage for a couple bucks to score some “h.”

photo credit: Sebastian Mary via photopin cc

photo credit: Sebastian Mary via photopin cc

Much like the heroin junkee, I sucomed to my addiction and ordered a pizza.  I like to think it was a healthy pizza, as it had olive oil, mushrooms and goat cheese on it.

But I suppose calling a pizza healthy is like calling this blog funny.  We all want the statement to be true, but it just isn’t.

The waitress looked at me with disappointment in her eyes. “Would you like a salad with that?” she asked, hopeful I would agree to eat at least one thing that day that wasn’t filled with carbs and trans fat.

Um, no thanks,” I said, glaring at her and wondering why she cared so much about my health.  Obviously I was a woman who knew what she wanted, and I wanted a crispy crust on my fatty pizza.


Plus, I always feel stupid ordering a salad at a restaurant.

I feel like the waiter is thinking “Yeah, like this ONE salad is going to help you lose the 100 pounds you need to drop.  Just give up fatty and get the lasagna.”

The waitress walked away quickly.  I can only assume the get up in her step was because she knew my cholesterol must be high based upon my eating choices, and she wanted to get my order in before I died and she failed to get her tip.

I was on to her game.

I patiently waited for my food,  performing an ocular pat-down of every item that came out of the kitchen.

My stomach was growling and I had a hard time focusing on the conversation over the sound of my stomach eating itself.

Finally, the food arrived.  Well, some of the food.  Apparently the waitress felt like torturing me some more, so she brought out the food my friends ordered, and left me to sit and wait, salivating at the prospect of my food being so close, yet so far away.

I waited for her to say something spiteful, like “Dance, monkey, dance,” but instead she smiled at me and said “Yours takes a little longer and will be out shortly.

Translation:  I’m going to make you wait for your food, as it’s probably the only time today you will have an increase in heart rate.  (She wasn’t wrong.)

After what felt like a lifetime, but was probably only 3 minutes, the waitress brought out my pizza.  I couldn’t tell if it was what I ordered or not because the entire pizza was covered in arugula.  Seriously.  It was covering the entire carb-loaded plate of goodness.

food with lettuceShe looked at me with satisfaction in her eyes, and I swear I saw her flip me off as she walked away.  No wait, that was me who did the flipping off…

Why would this woman douse my pizza in tree leaves?  I didn’t understand it.  I considered asking her for dressing for my impromptu salad, but was afraid she would come back to the table wielding veggies and a fruit cup, so I refrained.

Despite its lack of dressing (and lack of anything fried or flavorful), it wasn’t half bad.  I mean, it wasn’t good enough for me to continue eating it, but it wasn’t horrible either.  Maybe that waitress was onto something with the healthy eating.

I would give that some thought as I rolled through the Dairy Queen drive thru later for dessert.

I pushed the leaves aside and began devouring the pizza goodness.  After a while, the lettuce became so overwhelming that I considered eating it to make more room for the pizza on my plate.

I took a bite of “salad” and figured it would be the best way to spite the waitress, as I was sure she wasn’t expecting me to eat it. In fact, I was confident she had a running bet with the dishwasher in the back as to whether I would touch the leafy greens.  Well she was about to lose her $5 bet to Manuel.

I stabbed some lettuce and shoved it in my mouth before I could reconsider my spiteful eating.

girl in jammies yawning


***If you have young children who wake you up early in the morning, you may want to reconsider reading this post.***

My husband likes to sleep.  No.  Strike that.  He loves to sleep.  It’s his favorite thing to do in the world (aside from mocking my British accent.  Bugga!).  He takes his sleep very seriously, and treats it like a job.  Any employer would be lucky to have such a dedicated employee so willing to do the job regardless of scenario.

Nice sunny day?  He’d prefer to nap.  Cinco de Mayo?  Um, not if there’s a comfy bed where he could take a siesta.  If sleeping were an Olympic event, he’d be the Michael Phelps of it (only without the jacked up teeth and the pot smoking).

So when Matt says he wants to sleep in, I know he’s serious.  Friday night he told me he wanted to sleep in on Saturday and he wasn’t going to set an alarm.  This was a change from his normal routine of getting up early on Saturday morning to hit the gym.  He’s such an obnoxious over achiever.

Naturally, I had no objection to him skipping the gym, as his frequent appearances at the gym make me feel bad about my lack of commitment to working out.  Not bad enough to make me go to workout, but still….

Since I’m an amazing wife who supports her man, I agreed to sleep in on Saturday and see where the morning took us.  It took us to sleep, which was fine with me.  We woke up about 9:30 a.m. to the sound of rain hitting our window.

blurry with umbrellasIt was a dreary day and we found ourselves with a lack of motivation to do much, so we flipped on the TV to see what was playing.

He immediately rejected my suggestion for “Gossip Girl” or “America’s Next Top Model.”  He said he wanted to watch something that didn’t make him dumber.  Since his recent purchase of text books as recreational reading, he’s become quite the brainiac.  We agreed on The Big Bang Theory.

It filled his requirement that the show be somewhat intelligent, and it filled my requirement to watch a show where I feel superior to the female lead.  (This is why I’m such a fan of America’s Next Top Model.  I’m confident I have more intelligence in my left breast than Tyra does in her whole head…although that girl sure can “smize.”)

We watched a couple episodes on our DVR, turning up the volume regularly to overshadow our grumbling stomachs.  We agreed it was time to get breakfast.  So around 10:30 a.m. we headed out the door to grab something to eat.

I was feeling especially motivated, so I put on a bra, although I didn’t bother to run a brush through my hair.  I wasn’t that motivated…

We headed to our favorite breakfast spot.  It’s a nice little establishment on the corner down the street where the locals regularly stop in for a quick bite to eat and a restroom break.  The staff is friendly and the floor is always clean.  The Quick Trip.

Their donuts are amazing.  Since we wanted to have a lazy day and needed to tire out our dogs to accomplish this task, we took all three of them in the car with us to the store.  We knew we couldn’t walk them in the rain, so we figured the next best thing was throwing them in the back of Matt’s Saturn for a spin around the block.

Matt stayed in the car with our canine friends and I headed inside to grab some donuts.  When I walked over to the bakery section (situated strategically next to the Pepto Bismol and the magazine rack), I noticed the selection was quite slim.

Just to clarify, the selection of donuts was quite slim.  The selection of magazines with half naked women on them was all stocked up.  QT needed to adjust its priorities.

I walked out of the store disappointed, and headed to the car.  I told Matt about the lack of supply and he immediately recommended we forge ahead in our quest for fried goodness.  I’d never loved him more.

donutsWe found ourselves at Dunkin’ Donuts and I went inside to avoid the long line in the drive thru.  After waiting behind an extremely hoosier family who seemed overly excited about purchasing donuts called “Munchins,” I placed my order, grabbed the fatty treats, and headed back to the car.

We arrived home and headed straight to the bedroom to eat our breakfast in bed while being entertained by the nerds on Big Bang.  We scarfed down our food and settled back to watch another episode.

By this time it was around 11:15 and our bellies were full and our eyelids heavy.  We agreed we needed to do what anyone else would have done in our situation.  We turned off the TV and took a nap.

We awoke at 1:30, fully refreshed and ready to take on the day.  Since we ingested about a million calories in a 90 second time frame and followed it up with a 2 hour power nap, we figured we should hit up the gym, at least for a bit.  After a sub par workout, we grabbed some lunch and headed back home.

I was exhausted and figured the best way to handle my exhaustion was to get a manicure and pedicure.

After all, I needed to relax.  I headed to the salon, thinking about what colors of polish I would choose, and what rude comments the workers would make about my chipped nails.

I also thought about what I would do after my pampering and realized there was only one logical thing to do afterwards; go tanning so I could take a nap.

To be continued…

utensilsNormally I like to cook.  (Yeah, like that was hard for you to figure out…a chubby girl who knows her way around the kitchen.  Shocking!)  Most of the time, I enjoy getting my hands dirty in the kitchen and concocting something amazing for dinner.

Interestingly, I also get my shirt dirty…and the counters…and the cabinets…and the baseboards.  I’m not a tidy chef.  So perhaps it was my husband’s irritation at the messy kitchen that made him accept an invitation to No Menu Monday.

Whatever the reason, last night my kitchen stayed fairly clean (except for the dog hair on the floor and random pieces of dog food scattered about, compliments of Shady Jack).

My friend, The Funniest Man Alive (not his real name…but seriously, he’s hilarious), found a local restaurant that does “No Menu Mondays.”  The concept is simple.  You make a reservation, go in and fill out a questionnaire, and then the chef prepares a 3 course meal just for you.

We were on board with the idea, especially since the restaurant served liquor.  Matt, The Funniest Man, Pajama Jeans and I made reservations for No Menu Monday and started salivating immediately.

waiter.jpgWe arrived and were greeted by our server, who was one holey cardigan away from a child molester.  He smelled like moth balls and I’m pretty sure he had something creepy stashed in a rental locker somewhere.

You could tell he was a hipster but “management” wanted him to be more mainstream for the restaurant, so he wore a black button down shirt, but I could practically hear his inner monologue scolding us for binding ourselves together in marriage.

He detested us immediately.  The feeling was mutual, as I noticed he was sporting crumbs from yesterday’s whole grain sandwich in his beard.

We looked at the questionnaire that was delicately placed in front of us.  There were only a few questions on it, and I wasn’t sure how these few inquiries were going to tell the chef enough about me to make a full meal.  Didn’t she need to know my sign?  My political stance?  Whether I’m Team Aniston or Team Jolie? (Team Aniston all the way.)

I decided to give her this information anyway, as I’m sure she was dying to know.  And I know the chef was female because creepy waiter guy kept referring to “her” although he could have been saying that to be ironic.  Fricking hipster.

The first question on the questionnaire was “Are you allergic to anything or have any dietary restraints?”

Naturally, I immediately advised I was allergic to cats…and grass…and trees…and anything outside.  I figured she wouldn’t make me a concoction of cats and hay weed, but this place was ultra hip so I wanted to cover all my bases.

The next question said “If the chef were a magic genie, what would you wish her to make?”

Okay, first of all, if the chef was so magic, she probably would already know what to make me and wouldn’t have to ask.  Strike one.  And if the chef were a magic genie, would I get only one wish and that wish was for one meal?

That seems like a lame genie to me.  I’d rather take a genie that has three wishes that aren’t limited to food.  Of course, I’d make my wishes about food, but I wouldn’t want that restriction.  Strike two.

Why am I giving strikes?

And seriously, this genie can’t be that magic if she actually has to make the food.  Isn’t the point of magic to create something without having to do any work?

Strike three.

I refused to answer the question and simply responded with “goat cheese.”

dislike foodThe next question said “What makes you say yuck?” to which I answered “Anal.”  It’s true, and I wanted the chef to know I was a classy gal (like she couldn’t already tell from the vodka stain on the paper and the wad of gum folded up in the corner of the page).

I realized she may have been wondering what kind of food made me say yuck, so I also wrote down “Duck” (mostly because it rhymed with yuck…and the vodka was really starting to kick in).  I also jotted down “Grown men dressed as babies” because that shit is just creepy.

The next question said “When you cook at home, what do you make? (Is it any good?)

Seriously?! This questionnaire is asking about my cooking skills?  How is this relevant to what the chef will prepare?  I suspected this was her elitist way of trying to make me feel bad for making mac and cheese from a box, coupled with hot dogs and applesauce.

Judge on sister.  And for the record, it is delicious.

The last question was a real stumper.  It said “When I say ‘belly’ you think: (a) the area below my chest and above my hips (b) no way! (c) yes, please

Multiple choice?  Really?  This chef was just getting lazy with the questions.  And was this a pot shot at my flabby belly?  Not cool. I figured this question was a way for the chef to get rid of the extra belly fat she took off the meat, so I circled “No way” and then, just to make my point, I wrote “Don’t even think about it.”  I considered following that up with “Beotch” but thought that might be a little harsh.


The rest of the table also answered the questions, although they were a bit more thorough than I was.  We gave our cards to the creepy waiter, who took them to the chef in the back (and probably took a hit off a bong on the way).

Despite my random answers to the even more random questions, the three courses I got were delicious, although I suspected my dessert came from a pudding cup.  Whatever.  It was fantastic and I practically licked the plate.

The rest of my table enjoyed their meals as well, although Pajama Jeans was a bit annoyed that the chef paired all of her food with red wine.  PJ doesn’t like red wine because she says all of it tastes like wood, but she sucked it up, risked the splinters, and downed every drop.  Even she admitted the wine was great.

Overall, No Menu Monday was a success.  It was fun and exciting and a little adventurous.  My only complaint was that the portions weren’t as big as I would have liked, but that’s probably for the best.  I initially asked creepy waiter if I could super size my items but he didn’t seem amused.  We left the restaurant and walked to our cars, talking about how we will have to come back and do this again.

Matt and I drove away and headed home, but first we made a stop at White Castle.  Hey, a girl’s gotta eat.

dogsI have the stomach flu and it sucks.  Anyone who stands within 10 feet of me knows I’m sick, either by the color of my face, or the mixture of smells emanating from my body.  I was scheduled to go to Florida for a girls’ trip, but had to cancel because of the flu.

Needless to say I’m not a happy camper.

And what in the world does that expression mean?  Is there such a thing as a happy camper?  I can’t imagine there is, as there’s no air conditioning or cable.  If I’m ever camping, I can assure you I won’t be a happy camper.

Tonight my husband went to a movie screening, as he lives a fabulous life as a movie critic.  Since I was supposed to be in fabulous Florida this evening, he already made dinner plans and left me on my own.  He’s so inconsiderate isn’t he?

I decided that if I’m sick and my body isn’t going to absorb any of the calories I ingest anyway, I might as well eat something delicious and fatty for dinner.  Naturally, I thought of Hardee’s.

Back Camera

Our sweet, clueless, Max

Because I’m far too lazy to eat my Hardee’s meal at the restaurant, I decided to go through the drive thru for dinner.  As if eating Hardee’s isn’t a dumb enough decision, I decided to make it exponentially dumber….I decided to take all 3 of my dogs with me in the car.

Clearly, in addition to losing control of my bowels, I’d also lost control of my senses as well.

I had a thought process behind this madness, I promise.  I figured there was no way I could take all 3 dogs on a walk, but they were wound up and needed to get rid of some pent up energy.  I figured a ride in the car would be a good way to get them out of the house, and would require no work on my part.  Obviously, I was delusional.

I got out the leashes and emphasized to the dogs that we were going for a ride only, and not a walk, as if their brains understood anything other than “Treat” and “Let’s hump whomever walks in the front door.”

My apologies to the AT&T U-verse salesmen.  I still don’t think he’s recovered from that gang bang.

I leashed them up and attempted to walk out the front door with all 3 dogs on leashes.  Not so much.  The dogs managed to wrap themselves around me and I practically fell out the front door.

Fortunately Shady Jack caught my fall and I avoided what would certainly be an embarrassing evening in the ER.

Miraculously, the dogs seemed to understand we were going to the car and not for a walk.  They pulled to the car and jumped in, excited about the trip.

Okay.  This was going to be easier than I expected.  I got in and started the car.  Bentley is my personal body guard, so he jumped on my lap to protect me from any dangers the road may provide.

Shady Jack jumped in the passenger seat, his tail wagging and his nose sniffing out the wrappers of 5 different power bars on the floor (and by “power bars” I mean Twix and M&Ms).

Max was too dumb to know what was going on, so he sat in the back seat and licked his crotch.

I pulled out of the driveway, wondering how successful this trip would be, and if I would return with all 3 dogs.  I wasn’t so sure.

As we headed down the road, the car started dinging a reminder to put on my seat belt.  I may be a rebel on some things, but I always wear my seat belt.  I looked down at the message board on my vehicle and it told me my passenger needed to put on a seat belt.

Obviously my car didn’t know that my passenger was a 60 pound pit/lab mix with a bad case of farts and a dislike for safety.

Shady Jack

Shady Jack is a happy dog

I continued to drive and tried to ignore the dinging, which only made it seem louder and more annoying.  The same thing occurs when I try to tune out any of Michael Bolton’s music.

Shady Jack obviously didn’t like the dinging either, as he became quite fidgety and wouldn’t sit still.  I decided the best way to get him to lay down in the seat was to turn on the seat warmer for him.

I turned it on high and watched his reaction, hoping the heat would calm him down.  The result was certainly interesting.

Instead of laying down on the warm seat and absorbing the heat, he continually lifted his paws as if he was standing on a hot seat.

This is not to be confused with sitting in the hot seat, which is what my husband will be doing when he gets home from his dinner and movie plans.

I pulled up to the drive thru to place my order.  When I rolled down my window, Bentley immediately barked at the screen and attempted to bite the voice coming from the speaker.

Obviously I was under attack.

Shady Jack also seemed intrigued by the sounds coming from outside, and took time away from his game of hot potato to get a closer look.

Max was unaffected and continued to groom himself.

I placed my order and drove around to pay.  When I pulled up, I handed the woman my credit card, careful to only allow enough room for my hand to slide through the window opening, as I didn’t want my five pound Yorkie to bite the employee’s hand off.

And then I realized my error, and no, it wasn’t my decision to have 3 dogs.  I realized I had no idea what I was going to do with a bag full of food.  Where was I going to put it in a car full of dogs?

The employee handed me my order while casually trying to snap a photo of me with her phone, as I’m sure she was planning on passing my picture around the break room as a “do not serve this customer” precaution.

I grabbed the bag of goodness and immediately shoved it under the driver’s seat…as if three dogs wouldn’t be able to smell a bag of steaming hot carbs.  Well…two of them could smell it.  Max seemed unaffected and looked blankly out the window.

I drove away, trying to keep Bentley on my lap and Shady Jack on his hot seat and away from my dinner.   Max rediscovered his crotch and resumed licking.

When we arrived home I realized I had yet another dilemma.  How was I going to get three dogs, my purse, a drink, and my bag of food out of the car without injuring myself or losing an animal?

Back Camera

Bentley is my body guard.

Clearly I didn’t think this trip through.  I decided I could do it all in one trip, as clearly I’m delusional with sickness.  I opened the door and Bentley fell out of the car, landing on his back.

I panicked and reached down to help him, at which time Shady Jack jumped over my body and exited the vehicle.  Fortunately his leash was stuck on the seat, so he was jolted back to the vehicle when the leash fully extended.

I unwrapped myself from his leash, grabbed Bentley’s leash, and exited the car, my bag of dinner in hand.  Hey, I had priorities.

Fortunately, Max didn’t seem to notice the car had stopped, or that 3 of the passengers had exited the vehicle, so I had some extra time to get him.

I set the bag of goods down on my front lawn and went to the back seat to free Max from the prison he was unaware he was in.  For some reason I couldn’t get the door unlocked, and the other two dogs pulled at their leashes, which were loosely wrapped around my right hand.

I finally opened the door to let Max out, at which time Shady Jack jumped into the back seat.  Obviously he was ready for another ride to a fast food joint. (Soon buddy, a milk shake was definitely in my future.)

I coaxed Max and Shady Jack out of the car, all the while keeping a hold on Bentley and a close eye on my bag of food, sitting helplessly on the lawn.  We walked up the steps to the front door and I fumbled with the keys.

I finally found the right one and put it in the door only to discover the door wasn’t locked at all.  Perfect.  Someone probably robbed my house while I was gone.  Whatever.  At least I would die with a full stomach.

It took two additional trips to bring in my drink, food, purse and phone.  As I made the third trip inside the house with my phone, I realized the dogs didn’t seem worn out from the ride at all, although I was positively exhausted.

I headed to the dining room and sat down to eat my dinner.  I pulled the food out of the bag and discovered they gave me the wrong order.  Seriously?!

Because I knew I wouldn’t survive a return trip to Hardee’s, and because I was sure my photo was already printed and hanging in the break room, I decided to eat whatever was in the bag and not take the food back.

Although it wasn’t the cheeseburger and fries I ordered, the sausage biscuits and gravy weren’t too bad….and just as predicted, my dinner ended the same way…with a trip to the restroom.

food for dog and catIt’s no surprise that I love to eat. Meals are my favorite time of the day (as are snack times, Starbucks breaks and anytime I get to see Jake Gyllenhaal without a shirt). But the worst part about mealtime is deciding what to eat.

My husband is a picky eater, and he typically doesn’t go for my suggestion of “Just put some Nutella on whatever you find in the kitchen and call that dinner.”

Can you believe it? He’s so picky.

Yes, I realize I could make a meal plan for the week so we would know what we were having each night, but that would take away from my Sunday afternoon nap time, and this girl needs her beauty rest.

So tonight when my husband got home from work, he asked the question he asks every night after work; “Whats for dinner?”

Please note this isn’t the only question he asks each night after work, but it’s one you can probably relate to. Other questions include “Which dog threw up in here” and “Why does our house smell like pee?”

I had a long day at work and wasn’t in the mood to make dinner, nor could I be bothered to come up with ideas. I focused on the sweet goodness of my Grey Goose and told him it was his turn to come up with something for dinner this time. I wasn’t going to do it.

It was like I told him he had to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for 30 people instead of simply figure out which restaurant from which to order. He was flabbergasted that I would leave such a big decision to him, and he let me know he wasn’t happy about it.

frozen dinnerIn his defense, I still won’t let him have a say in what decorations and artwork go in our home, so I suppose it wasn’t a big surprise that I normally don’t want him deciding what we will have for dinner.

And by “artwork” and “decorations” I mean whatever is on clearance at Home Goods and whatever pictures are in the damaged section of Garden Ridge.

He suggested I come up with ideas and he would make the final decision. Um, no. That would give him some sort of power, and I think we know how I feel about that. Plus, I wanted to hold the power of veto.

It was the closest I would ever get to my favorite show on television, Big Brother, only the veto in my house isn’t a necklace with a circle and a slash through it. It’s simply a glaring look and the ability to kick the groin with accuracy.

I told him he should throw out some ideas and I would tell him if they sounded good.

Because apparently he has the appetite of an eight year old, he suggested we have cereal for dinner. Immediately, I imagined a heaping bowl of Cocoa Pebbles or S’mores cereal.

I was actually fine with that suggestion, as I’m a lover of all carbs, and cereal is nothing but sugar and carbs: two food groups I think are staples, along with peanut butter and anything dipped in Ranch dressing.

I told him I was fine with the cereal idea, but we didn’t have any cereal so he would have to go to the store to get it.

Although we have 2 vehicles and the store is about a mile away, my suggestion he drive to the store was quite detestable to him, despite the accommodations provided.

guy eating cerealMy car even has satellite radio he could listen to on the way to the store…assuming I would let him take my car.

I usually decline because I don’t appreciate The Playboy Channel blaring the next time I turn on my car.

He said he didn’t have the energy to go to the store and that I should do it. I reminded him I couldn’t drive, as I had a drink, and I was nothing if not an obeyor of the rules, except for parking rules….and yielding…and speeding…

We decided to scrap the cereal idea because it involved work on our part, and after a long day, we couldn’t be bothered with such menial tasks.

I suggested we find a teenager who needed some extra cash and pay him to go to the store for us, but since we aren’t pedophiles, we don’t have access to the contact information of teens.

Yet another strike for us.

I asked Matt what he wanted and he said “I definitely don’t want pizza.”

I couldn’t fault him for this as we’ve had pizza quite a bit lately. I reminded him there were very few places aside from pizza joints that delivered. Chinese restaurants usually deliver but since we are dog lovers, we didn’t feel right about ordering “beef and broccoli” when we both knew it wasn’t beef we would get with a side of rice.

We went to our trusty friend, the “Internets” and silently thanked Al Gore for making that possible. We then looked up menu options for pizza places. I reminded him that many pizza places make more than just pizza.

We looked at a few websites and decided to order pasta from a place that delivered. He pointed to the phone and told me to call it in. Um, no. It was his night to deal with dinner, and I wasn’t calling it in.

We then took no less than 10 minutes arguing about which person should have the obligation to call our order in. I think we all know how that argument ended.

spaghetti and boySince our dogs can be a-holes while we’re on the phone, Matt stepped outside to place the call. After a few seconds I heard “What do you mean you don’t have spaghetti and meatballs?”

My dear husband shares the food preferences of an eight year old, and I thought his head was going to explode when he realized he couldn’t get the pasta he wanted.

I considered suggesting mac and cheese and applesauce, but I didn’t think he’d find the humor in that.

I walked away from the door so I couldn’t hear anymore of the conversation. The urge to make jokes was far too strong, and I knew he wouldn’t find my hilarity nearly as endearing as you all do.

We returned to the couch and waited for our dinner delivery, doing our best to avoid meaningful conversation. We needed to save that for dinner…while we watched reruns on TBS.

The food arrived and I stayed inside with the dogs while Matt stepped out to pay the driver. We figure a delivery person doesn’t want to be accosted by three dogs who have been licking their crotches for the past 15 minutes.

Of course, we don’t have a problem letting this happen to our friends…it makes them like family.

Matt brought in the food and took it to the table for dinner. I looked over at his dinner, and do you know what it was? Pizza. Seriously?!

I reminded him that his one stipulation for dinner was he that he didn’t want pizza. I asked him how he went from refusing pizza to affirmatively ordering it on the phone. He looked at me with his boyish grin and told me they didn’t have spaghetti and meatballs, and the fish sticks were all sold out.

photo for bill's holiday partyYou knew this story was coming.

Not necessarily that I told you about it, but if you know me at all, or read this blog somewhat regularly, you know that I would inevitably embarrass myself at a holiday function.  Mission accomplished.

My husband and I have an amazing friend, St. Frick, (not his real name) who lives an amazing life with amazing friends.

For some strange reason, we are included in his list of friends, most likely because we are the charity case and he feels sorry for us and our lack of taste in artwork.

A poster of Johnny Depp is considered classy, right?

He is known for throwing over the top parties and the invitations for these parties are highly coveted, as the food and drinks are delicious, and the company is fantastic.

Normally, Matt and I can be easily impressed with the artwork carved into the side of a watermelon at a buffet line, so maybe believing my tale of amazing food isn’t an educated decision.  But then again, if anyone knows good food…it’s this girl.

So trust me when I say his parties are fabulous.

We received the fancy invitation for the party and immediately thought it was an error, and delivered to the wrong house.  No one sends us fancy invitations to anything.

invitationThe last invitation we got was to a bridal shower in someone’s mom’s basement…no joke.  And that invitation was on a piece of computer paper.

I wish I was kidding about that.  So getting a fancy invitation with font other than Times New Roman was exciting to us.

The fact that it wasn’t on copy paper was just an added bonus.

The party wasn’t called a holiday party or an end of the year party.  No.  That wouldn’t be good enough.

Since it was after Christmas but before New Year’s Eve, the party was called “The After Party.”  Of course it was.

Now the only experience I’ve had with an after party is when the twin singing duo known as Nelson came to my college and we went to a bar afterwards where we ordered quarter pitchers and played darts.

Somehow I had a feeling this wasn’t what St. Frick had in mind, although I figured he might like me to bring those adorable long-haired twins.

My only other experience with an after party is what we used to call “after bars” in college, which was always at a frat house and it was in a basement with cheesy music playing and one candle lit to cover the stench of vomit, beer and STDs.

Again, I didn’t think that’s what St. Frick was imagining.

Naturally, Matt and I knew we were going to attend.  After all, this was a holiday party we could get on board with, as it didn’t involve drunk relatives or the child molester from down the street asking every boy under the age of 10 to sit on his lap.

christmas party

This isn’t us, but it’s an awesome photo so I wanted to share it.

We texted St. Frick to let him know we were in.  I’m sure he was less than thrilled when he realized the riff raff accidentally got his invitation and were planning on attending.

I could practically see him moving his expensive pieces of artwork into storage just to avoid another incident of me knocking something expensive over.

Because I’d never been to a fancy “After Party” before, I didn’t know what the attire would be.  Naturally, I figured Pajama Jeans would be appropriate, but thought I would ask to make sure.

I texted him and asked him what the attire was for the event.  Here is his exact response:  “No Pajama Jeans.  Holiday cocktail party.  Pretty.  Sexy.”

Does this guy know me or what?!  I both loved and hated how he knew I would wear Pajama Jeans so he immediately forbid me from wearing them.

I wasn’t sure what “holiday cocktail party” attire was, but I didn’t think a Christmas turtleneck with a duck in a Santa hat would fit the bill (no pun intended).  So I decided to grab my flashlight and go to my trusty closet for wardrobe options.

I figured cocktail party attire meant something fancy, and since I’d recently been to several cocktail parties, I had some outfits I knew I could wear.  Okay, I’d been to two parties in two months, but in my world, that’s a lot.

I found a dress that I thought would be appropriate, and I decided to spice it up with a faux fur little shrug.  The outfit was adorable, and it didn’t cost me anything, which made it all the more attractive in my eyes.

It was also shorter than the dresses I normally wear, so I figured it would meet the definition of “sexy.”

hair doneI decided to go all out with my hair if I was going to wear a fancy dress.  I spent a long time on my hair.  For me, anything more than 5 minutes constitutes a long time on hair.

I decided to go with my hair partially up and then swept back in a simple style that looked formal yet messy.  I’m not sure the messy look was intentional, but it looked like it was.

I’m not someone who uses hairspray, or any form of hair product, as evidenced by my simple hair style, but since this was a big event, I decided to be fancy and use some.

I located a bottle that had to have been 10 years old.  The sprayer was broken, but my husband was able to fix it so I could spray away.

I doused my hair in hairspray and when I was done the entire bathroom smelled like it did when I was in the 7th grade and thought crunchy curls were attractive.

Well…it almost smelled like that…minus the stench from the aftermath of a lunch of burritos.  Fortunately, no candles were lit in the house, which is a good thing, as I was pretty sure the entire room was a powder keg.

After coughing up half the can of Aqua Net, I emerged from the bathroom and grabbed my heels and jewelry.  Yes, heels.  I didn’t wear my Uggs to this event.  Can you believe it?

My husband was pleasantly surprised by my appearance, but I figured it was mostly because I matched and didn’t have any stains on my dress (yet).  After being with me for a few years, his standards dropped on what he finds acceptable.

angry army dudeWe headed out the door and to the party, all the while wondering if we were dressed up enough and if we would fit in.  After we parked the car I turned to my husband and gave him the usual pep talk I give whenever we go to a party with St. Frick.

Don’t fuck this up for us.  These people are awesome and we don’t want them to figure out that we bring nothing to the table, other than empty plates.  Put your game face on and don’t screw this up for us.”

Pretty motivational, right?

We walked up the path to his house and were in awe of the beautiful lights and decorations.  St. Frick knew how to throw a party and he definitely knew how to decorate one.  As we approached the house, I saw another couple walking up as well.

As we got closer, I looked at them in an effort to figure out if they were in similar holiday cocktail attire.  Upon closer inspection, I realized both of them were wearing jeans.  Pfft!

They were going to look like idiots when they walked in the door and saw everyone else dressed up!  I secretly couldn’t wait to watch them be humiliated.

clinking glasses

We walked in behind the dingy couple and surveyed the room.

WHAT?!  Where was the holiday cocktail attire?  There were people in nice jeans and fancy tops and heels, but no cocktail dresses.  Where was the sexy attire?  Was this a joke?

St. Frick approached me, gave me a hug and told me I looked beautiful.  Yeah, because I was completely overdressed.

What happened to the holiday cocktail sexy attire?” I asked.

He looked at me and smiled and said I looked perfect.

We forged ahead and stayed at the party until we shut it down in the wee hours of the morning.  I decided I wouldn’t let my cocktail dress get in the way of my enjoyment, and I didn’t.

I also wasn’t mad at St. Frick for his explanation of attire.  For a guy who only sees me in sweat pants and ratty t-shirts with no bra, it wasn’t a stretch for him to believe I would dress down for the event.

dogs with Christmas stuffPerhaps he thought my idea of “holiday cocktail” would be what everyone else’s idea was of dressy casual.  I couldn’t blame him.  But next time I get an invitation to one of his parties, I’m wearing Pajama Jeans no matter what he says…

couples on new yearsIt’s a new year and I’m back!  I apologize for my absence, as I’m sure you all found it difficult to go on without my daily updates.  I know I would.

But have no fear, I am back to the world of blogging, and to the world of paying for my own food.  One of those things is a good thing.

I have so much to catch you up on, but I will start with the recent holiday…and no, I’m not talking about Christmas.

I’m talking about New Year’s Eve….the one night a year where it is completely acceptable to get wasted on cheap champagne and wait for the ball to drop.

Actually, this description sounds a lot like every night of my college existence, only the balls we usually saw were those of the homeless man who liked to go through the dumpster behind our sorority house.  We named him Dan.

This year, my husband and I decided to lay low and do something low key for New Year’s Eve.  I suggested getting into our pajamas at 7:00 and watching a marathon of The Big Bang theory.

Who doesn’t love a few nerds on a Saturday night?

Oh, and the characters on the show are funny too.  (Yes, I realize that joke was pathetic, but give me a break…I haven’t written in a week.  I’m rusty and my pants are a bit tighter which adds to my irritability).

champagne glassesMy husband reminded me that watching reruns wouldn’t really differ from any other night, so we decided to do something else. I’m pretty sure that’s a sad reflection of our social calendar, but I’m cool with it because this activity allows me to wear sweatpants.

I would be agreeable to doing nearly anything if allowed to wear sweatpants and a hoodie…I would even watch a bad Adam Sandler movie, which is saying something, as he hasn’t made a funny movie since Happy Gilmore.

Seriously, that guy needs to say goodbye to his acting career…and his hairline.

Fortunately, a few of our favorite couples saved us from a pathetic night on the couch, and they invited us to dinner and then to dessert at one of their houses.  Since I can’t say no when food is involved, we agreed to go.

I realized this would require putting on a bra for the evening (and pants), but my friends were worth it, and so was the chicken Parmesan.

Naturally, I donned my Pajama Jeans for this event.  Nothing rings in the new year quite like drawstring pants with a fake zipper.

Fancy chihuahuaI was ready to party!  I even put in my contacts and threw on some lip gloss…you know…to be fancy.

After running a brush through my hair and throwing a Tide stain removal pen in my purse, Matt and I headed out the door to meet our friends.

We arrived at the restaurant and waited for our reservation all the while rolling our eyes at the uptight hostess who looked like she’d spent too much time with the eyeliner and not enough time with the dental floss.

As we waited we looked around at the other people waiting for their tables and were a bit shocked with what we saw.

Instead of Pajama Jeans and cardigans we saw short skirts and tube tops, and a lot more boobs than I would have liked, although I didn’t hear Matt complain.

Why were these people so dressed up for a night out at Bravo?  I mean, I love lasagna as much as the next girl, okay…a lot more than the next girl, but I don’t find it necessary to dress up for the delicious pasta dish.

Quite the contrary.  I find it best to stuff myself with pasta wearing expandable pants and a long sweater to cover the pasta baby that emerges after my meal.

Seriously, what kind of girl wears a short skirt and a tube top out in public? Everyone knows you can wear one or the other, but not both together.  Geez.  Someone needs to brush up on their Us Weekly magazines.

girl dressed upI realize I could stop that question right there and not go any further, but considering we live in the Midwest where it is literally freezing on New Year’s Eve, this question is even more perplexing.

Did ringing in the new year require slutty clothes and frost bite?

The snotty hostess led us to our table where our friends were already seated.  We sat down and immediately noticed a group of college girls at the table next to us.

They clearly got the memo about the slutty clothes, as they were collectively wearing the equivalent of one yard of fabric…between five of them.

Not only were their outfits tiny, although one of them was anything but tiny, they were also sparkly.  Seriously.

These girls were covered in sequins.  I hadn’t seen that many sequins since my dance recital when I was 7 years old.

Come to think of it, I was pretty sure the clothes these girls were wearing were about the same size as my costume that year, and that was when I was skinny.

They had sequins everywhere…or at least on the few parts of their body where clothing was located.  Their outfits were actually a bit blinding, as were their white thighs.

Srock stareriously.  If you’re going to go out half naked in the dead of winter, do us all a favor and hit up the tanning bed first.

Matt and I asked our friends whether the New Year’s Eve holiday dictated such fancy attire.

They agreed with us that New Year’s Eve isn’t all that fancy, especially when you’re at a restaurant that’s located in the parking lot of a shopping mall.

We spent the remainder of the evening looking at the various “fancy”outfits, and rating them by degree of slutiness.

It wasn’t how we anticipated spending our holiday, but it made for great entertainment, and it kept my mind off the fact that I actually had to pay for my liquor.

We left the restaurant, all of us in our normal clothes, and headed to my friend Sally Albright’s house for dessert.  Not her real name.

We agreed that as long as we celebrated New Year’s Eve together, there would be no pressure to dress up in sparkles and sequins.

In fact, we agreed that next year we will arrive at the restaurant in pajamas and slippers.  Maybe that will even things out.

If not, at least it will make for a comfortable evening.

shadow fightI love food.  This isn’t a newsflash.  In fact, if you know me at all, or read this blog regularly, you would know that my love of food transcends time and space.

It also transcends and a “Sorry We’re Closed” sign.  Yeah right.  You know you still have burgers in the back.

Being on vacation at an all inclusive resort is my definition of heaven.

Since I’m super important and demand luxury, or really just a room with free cable, we are staying at a fairly nice resort.

Don’t get me wrong.  Our standards are low, so when we say a “nice resort”, we mean it’s a place that requires you to wear pants to dinner.

NOTE:  This rule is non-negotiable, as I learned earlier this week.

Since Matt and I don’t like to spend money on things that aren’t liquor or pet-related, we made a conscious decision to make sure we get our money’s worth out of this vacation.

Naturally, we’re drinking like fish, although I don’t think fish drink, except for Phish heads. Those guys know how to party.

So I guess it can be said we are drinking like Charlie Sheen this week.  Only we don’t have hookers or drugs…or an annoying sitcom.

kids on beach eating ice creamUnfortunately, we feel like our incessant intake of liquor just isn’t enough to recoup the cost of the trip.  So we are making up for it in food.  Lots and lots of food.

I don’t want to tell you just how much we are eating because it’s completely embarrassing, but by my estimate, we are gaining a pound or two a day.  Okay, maybe that’s just me.

Part of the reason we are eating so much is because the food is absolutely fantastic, and I have an ongoing love affair with guacamole.

There are restaurants and an extremely large buffet for every meal, but we like the buffet for obvious reasons, so we usually stick with that.

We arrive at the buffet for every meal, focused, and ready to gorge ourselves.  It’s like a battle of sorts, and we treat it like one.

The objective is to get as much food as possible while expending as little energy as possible.

We begin each meal by ensuring we are wearing comfortable clothes that are expandable and don’t dig into our stomachs.

people planningThis is where those Liz Lange maternity dresses really come in handy, although Matt finds the dresses less than comfortable.

We descend upon the buffet together, in order to appear as a unified front.  We do a walk around first to scope things out and learn our options.  Recognizance is key, and we don’t take it lightly.

If only we took this same approach to purchasing a TV for our bedroom we would have a TV that stayed on when we walked across the room.

Unfortunately, a waiter seats us so we don’t get to pick out our exact seating location.

However, even though many of these servers speak minimal English, one look at the two of us clearly tells everyone we are there to party.  And by “party” I mean eat until we feel sick….and then get dessert.

After being seated, we begin the battle.  We head up to the lines together and each takes a plate or two.  I like to tell people I’m making a plate for my child, who is back at the table.  I get fewer stares that way.

We then elbow our way through the lines to get the best dinner we can.

boxing glovesA buffet line is one of those places where I won’t defer to children.  When it comes to a lot of things, I will sacrifice something for a child.

The glitter stains on my dining room curtains can attest to that.

I will give up my spot on the train for a child, or I will let a mother with a screaming kid go in front of me in the grocery line.  (Partially to get that kid out of the store).

But I won’t make any special accommodations for kids when it comes to a buffet line.  From eight to eighty, I don’t care what age you are.

Nothing stands between me and a second helping of mashed potatoes with a side of grits and pasta salad.  Nothing.  Not an artificial hip and certainly not a speech impediment.

Ma ma ma move out of the way.

Matt and I take our eating quite seriously on this trip, even though we know the chances of fitting into our work clothes when we return are slim to none.

In fact, the only thing that’s slim between the two of us right now is the distance between our stuffed bellies and the table.

We want to feel badly about shoving people aside to get the last quesadilla, but no matter how hard we try, we just don’t.  Maybe it’s the knowledge that they will make more, or maybe it’s that we are trying to teach these kids patience and sharing (we really are such givers).

Whatever the reason, we will continue eating our way through this vacation until we have gotten our money’s worth…or we get diabetes.

Oh shit!I recently had an embarrassing moment.  I realize I have these regularly, and at least once a day I discover I’ve either been talking to someone while sporting a milk mustache (or a real one if I’m not careful), or I’ve managed to inadvertently flash an entire city.

So telling you I had an embarrassing moment is kind of a no-brainer.  It’s like telling you that Donald Trump has a lot of money, or that Jessica Simpson can’t understand fractions.  It’s just something you know.

But recently I managed to step it up a notch with my embarrassing moments.  (I’m such an overachiever).  Of course, this story involves food, and it’s somehow bathroom related, which given the amount of gas I have on a daily basis, isn’t that shocking.

So let’s just get this story started.  Let the shame begin.

A few days ago I went to lunch with a couple coworkers.  I was on a lengthy conference call prior to the lunch and to keep myself awake during the call I drank copious amounts of Diet Coke (and no, it wasn’t combined with liquor…much to my chagrin…and my emergency stash of liquor was depleted during the last call).

Since I consumed approximately 2 liters of cola during the call, (and I’m not a camel despite my love of the desert), I needed to use the restroom.  However, my coworkers were ready to leave, and they would clearly be devastated if I didn’t come with them, so I left without using the facilities.

We went to a trendy restaurant where the entire place was open and everyone could see everyone else because of the layout.  I was happy as it made for good people watching and I was ecstatic because I could judge people from the comfort of my own table (while inhaling pretzels with dipping sauce.)  I hate to be judgmental while standing.  This restaurant was so accommodating.

We were seated on the second floor looking down on the other patrons.  I felt like a queen on her throne.  And the thought of a throne reminded me that I needed to go to the restroom soon.  I immediately asked the waiter where the restroom was located.

Okay, well, maybe not immediately, but after I ordered my drink (and asked about the specials…and ordered the pretzels.  Don’t judge.  I was hungry).  The waiter pointed to a door that was around the balcony on the second floor and before he could tell me anything else, I bolted towards the door.

I walked up to the trendy door that overlooked the restaurant and noticed it appeared to be a single restroom.  I was happy to know I’d have some privacy, but at that point I really didn’t care as nature was not only calling, it was texting, instant messaging and posting it on Facebook.  This girl had to pee.

woman bathroom signI opened the door separating me from sweet relief and was shocked at what I saw.  The restroom was apparently a make shift restroom complete with a toilet and sink stationed in what was originally a broom closet.

I had more space in my glove compartment, and that was stuffed with crackers, nail polish, and an emergency brush in case I was chased by the paparazzi.  (I’m waiting for them to realize that I’m famous and important).

The space was tiny, but that’s not what was particularly shocking about the sight.  What threw me for a loop was the woman sitting on the toilet doing her business.   What was worse is that I’m pretty confident she had been there a while as she appeared to have made herself comfortable and there was a fragrance all her own emanating from the small space.

She was sitting and leaning forward, fully focused on the task at hand (or butt).  She had her elbows resting on her legs and she was engaged in the battle of  her life(or at least it appeared that way given her red face and deep breathing methods).

At first I thought she was in labor and wanted to recommend an epidural, but then I realized the only thing she was giving birth to was a food baby.

It took me a moment to realize what was going on, so I stood there like a fool with the door open, exposing this woman (and her ratty underwear) to the entire trendy restaurant.  Once I computed what I saw (and once the noxious smell hit my nostrils), I did something to further embarrass myself.

I yelled “Oh shit!” and then slammed the door shut.  Immediately after I yelled the profanity I realized my behavior was in poor taste.

For those who hadn’t seen me open the door, they were aware of it when I screamed.  And why did I choose a profane word that was another word for poo?  I was basically announcing to the restaurant what this woman was doing.

For a moment I considered opening the door briefly and following up my “Oh shit” comment with “no pun intended”, but I didn’t think she would find the humor in that (nor did I want to expose myself to that smell again.  Clearly that woman ate a high fiber diet).

So I did what any self respecting person would do.  I busted ass and got out of there.  I practically knocked over a woman on my the way to my seat and then realized she was headed straight to the bathroom.  Perfect!

I grabbed her arms as if I was about to tell her the world was going to end (or that Community will be on hiatus).  In my mind, both are equally devastating.

I told the unsuspecting woman that the door wasn’t locked on the restroom, and there was a woman in there fully engaged in her duties.  She looked at me as if I was completely crazy (she wasn’t wrong), and nodded her head in agreement.  She probably thought I was imagining it all, and the fact that my hair was ratty and my sweater was covered in dog hair probably didn’t help.

girl whisperingThe woman walked toward the restroom and instead of opening the door, she stood outside the door and waited.  She was the perfect patsy!  I was hoping the restroom warrior wouldn’t necessarily remember who opened the door on her since her focus was clearly on her bowels and not her surroundings.

Maybe she would think the nice woman waiting to use the restroom was the a-hole who exposed her to the restaurant.  Yes, that was completely logical.

I walked as quickly as I could back to my seat, careful to keep an even pace, as my bladder was nearly overflowing.  I sat down and told my coworkers what happened, which resulted in ridiculous jokes about the event for the next several minutes.  I attempted to laugh a few times but found it painful since I still hadn’t used the facilities.  Of course, that didn’t stop me from drinking my iced tea.  After all, a girl needs fluids.

I kept my eye on the restroom door and finally the warrior emerged, sweaty from her battle, but looking more comfortable (and a few pounds lighter).  I considered going up to her and asking her what she ordered so I could avoid the same pitfall, but I was afraid seeing my face would trigger her memory and remind her I was the person who opened the door and not the nice lady in the cat sweater.

I was fearful I would trigger a post traumatic stress syndrome, and since I’m so caring and thoughtful, I decided to refrain.  (That, and she looked like she’d been through enough for one day).

However, the rest of the meal I had to keep my face hidden from her view, which wasn’t an easy task considering I was two tables down from her, and I’m a loud talker.  (I know.  You wouldn’t have guessed it, right?)

The worst part of the rest of the meal wasn’t the attempts to avoid eye contact with her (or the crappy dipping sauce for the fries), it was the fact that I knew I couldn’t get up to use the restroom because I would have to walk by her table and trigger her memory.  I had to sacrifice myself for the good of mankind (or maybe just her).  With every bite at lunch I was more and more aware of my situation.

air freshnerFinally the warrior left, most likely to purchase some Pepto and (hopefully) some room deodorizer.  However, at that point I couldn’t bring myself to use the restroom.

Maybe it was fear that someone would open the door on me and the nasty cycle would continue to repeat itself.  Or maybe it was because I never wanted to be confronted with that horrific smell again.  Whatever the reason, I decided to avoid that restroom.

The walk back to work was a painful one (and a slow one).  As soon as I arrived at the office I headed straight to the restroom, knocking on the door before I entered.  I tried to think of the lesson I learned as a result of the whole endeavor.

I learned to knock before I open a restroom door, not to tailor my profanity to a specific situation, and not to order the goat cheeseburger again (as it was clearly the cause of her issues).  Oh, and I also remembered I needed to buy scented candles.

guy eating burgerI’m an eater.  I realize this is shocking, but it’s true.  I fantasize about nachos and cheese the way teenage boys dream of boobs.  If eating was a sport I would be champion of the universe.

Have you seen the way I can put away a burrito?

So when I discovered the amazing goodness that is “food trucks,” I nearly wet myself with joy.  Seriously, I was drinking a Diet Coke and nearly spilled it all over my pants.

For those of you not familiar with this ingenious concept, a food truck is exactly what it sounds like…a truck filled with food.  T

hese food trucks drive around and sell food out of the truck.  It’s kind of like an ice cream truck, only without the creepy music and the sex offender driving the vehicle.

Some of these food trucks park downtown during my lunch hour, but since I don’t usually take a lunch hour, I rarely go to the food trucks.

I feel as if more than an hour should be devoted to eating, so I choose to boycott it completely and eat at my desk while perusing the latest orthopedic shoes fashions.

So when my friend The Nanny (not her real name, and not to be confused with Fran Drescher, who is super annoying), a fellow foodie, told me the food trucks were going to convene at a location near my house, I stocked up on Tums and told her I was in.

toy truckWe got a group together of people who love food as much as we do, and we agreed to meet at the happy place.

As I drove to the food trucks, I felt like a kid at Christmas or Hanukkah.  I’m soooo p.c. getting ready to open presents.  Would I have tacos?  What about a sandwich?

The one question I didn’t ask myself was “Will I have dessert?”  That would just be a ridiculous question.  That’s like asking if Charlie Sheen’s career is over, or if he would like another line of coke.  Duh.

I pulled up and saw people and cars everywhere, which meant the food would probably go quickly.  I mean, how many tacos can one small truck hold?

And I knew I would eat at least a third of its actual holding capacity.  I needed to get on it.

I  felt compelled to get to the trucks and protect my meat…literally.

Fortunately, the universe knew I needed some fish tacos ASAP, and a parking spot opened up, which I snagged quickly.  I threw the car in park, and practically ran to the food trucks.

guest checkOkay, it wasn’t so much a run as a jalk….and not so much a jalk as a brisk walk…and not so much a brisk walk as a regular walk.  I didn’t want to inadvertently work out prior to eating.

I found my posse.  Yes, that’s what I’m calling them…my posse.  I also met my husband there, as I sent him to the ATM to get us some cash. I  figured the food trucks didn’t want to be paid in apple pie flavored gum, Cheez-Its and a half empty bottle of water.

Yes, I’m a half empty kind of gal.  Matt and I secured our spot at the table with our posse (it sounds so cool), and we walked around the food trucks trying to decide what to eat.

Now I love my husband for many reasons, but one of them is his willingness to look away when it comes to me and all things food related.  Most people would be disgusted with my love of food trucks.

He and I agreed on the same food truck to start our feast.  We love the Cha Cha Chow truck so much, as their tacos are amazing.

We stepped up and placed our orders.  Matt went first, and then it was my turn.  I told her I wanted 3 tacos.

taco1She then asked a stupid question; would I like just the tacos or the tacos with a side of fries.  Really?  You had to ask that question?  My elastic waisted pants and my over sized sweater didn’t give you the heads up that I was here to party?

And by “party” I mean eat.  I gave the woman a disapproving glance and told her I wanted the tacos with fries.  After all, I was American.  Jeez.

Matt and I grabbed our food and headed to the table. I literally grabbed it from him, as I saw him eyeing my fries.  We sat down with our posse and began to eat the delicious goodness that is food from a food truck.

Approximately 3 minutes later, when all the food was devoured, we then began discussing what we would eat next.  After all, we couldn’t just have one meal.

The food trucks drove all the way to our part of the county to sell some food and we didn’t want to let them down.  That wouldn’t be neighborly.

We agreed we wanted to hit up one of the dessert trucks, but we couldn’t decide which one to go to, as they both had different and unique items on the menu.

Naturally, we chose the food truck closer to our table.  We weren’t there to work out.

I ordered a chocolate peppermint cupcake and wasn’t disappointed.  It was delicious!

woman with cupcakes

Not my friend Truffle.

My friend Truffle (not her real name), ate her entire cupcake before we even returned to the table to eat it. Clearly she’s awesome

I devoured my cupcake, barely coming up for air.  It was so wonderful that I wished I would have ordered more than one.

I looked up to see that another one of my friends had purchased two cupcakes.

She said one was for now and the other was for later.  I reminded her that it was later and I wanted her cupcake.

She wouldn’t budge, which is probably for the best, as I didn’t really need another cupcake.

I also didn’t need that third taco, but that didn’t stop me.

We chatted for a while and then headed to our cars to leave the food trucks to the other patrons.  I was happy I got to eat at the food trucks, and I was also happy I had friends who loved food as much as I did.

As I drove away I thought about what I would eat next.  After all, there was a grocery store just around the corner and I could use a little something to munch on…