New Year's resolutionsI hate new year’s resolutions.  The obvious reason is that I hate agreeing to do things that might be difficult.  That’s why I’ve never successfully completed a jigsaw puzzle, or an entire episode of the news.

I also hate resolutions because I like to think that I’m pure perfection, and I don’t need any improvement, which probably just shows I’m in a state of denial, but I don’t care.  I like to think I’m fabulous and without flaws.

Another reason I hate new year’s resolutions is because I will always fail to keep them, which just further reminds me that I’m a failure, and brings back childhood memories of letting down my 5th grade kickball team when I whiffed the ball and lost the game.

I still can’t look at a red kickball without getting misty-eyed.

So this year I decided I would make some resolutions that I knew I could keep.  That way, I would feel good about myself and my success, instead of feeling bad about myself and drowning my sorrows in Grey Goose.

Come to think of it, I will also celebrate my success with Grey Goose, so either way, there’s vodka on the table.  Here are a few of my resolutions for this year.  They should be your resolutions too because I think they’re pretty easy for anyone to keep.

1.  Eat good food

girl eating hot dogJust to be clear, this resolution isn’t to eat healthy food; it’s to eat good tasting food.  The two are completely different, despite what my personal trainer and my mother say.

Newsflash:  Spaghetti squash doesn’t taste anything like pasta, no matter how much you douse it in marinara.  So pass the pasta and shut it.

If I made a resolution to eat healthy food, the Chipotle I had for lunch and the Domino’s I had for dinner would not meet with that resolution, and I like to think of myself as a winner.

So vowing to eat delicious food this year is not only a resolution I know I can keep, it’s one I will take quite seriously. I’m dedicated to myself like that.

2.  Have as many embarrassing moments as possible

baboonThis is one resolution I can stick to even without trying.

For some reason, I manage to embarrass myself regularly; the way some people accomplish goals, or breathe air.

From dropping the bottom of my dress in the toilet to opening the door on a perfect stranger using the toilet, I get myself into some embarrassing situations.

Come to think of it…many of them involve toilets.  I don’t even want to know what that suggests about me.

3.  Come up with new and interesting excuses for why I can’t go to the gym

sickNo more “I’m sick” or “I pulled my scrotum.”

Those are old excuses that died with 2014, and any dream I had of fitting into clothes from the Juniors department ever again.

I’m also pretty sure that my physical trainer has caught on to the fact that one can only biologically have 2 sets of grandparents, yet I’ve managed to have nearly 6 of them die in the last year.

I think he’s starting to do that math.  This year I’m going to come up with new material for why I can’t make it to my workouts. Nothing is off limits this year.

I’m going to dig deep and dream big and look up new conditions on WebMD.

4.  Dress comfortably

sweater and hatSince I own a pair of Pajama Jeans, this is one resolution I’m confident I can keep.  I plan on not letting constricting pants get in the way of my comfort.  Please note this resolution goes hand in hand with resolution number 1.

Gone are the days of wearing pants that button, and dresses that cling to my fat rolls.  This year I’m going to branch out and wear more flowy clothes, which basically means I will be increasing my trips to the maternity clothes outlets.

If any of you have coupons for Motherhood, send them my way.  Those maternity pants aren’t cheap and I’m going to be tight on cash, especially considering all the good food I’ll be purchasing, and the money I’ll be wasting on a gym membership I won’t use.

5.  Make financially irresponsible purchases

pennies and manThis will be a fun resolution to keep, and one that will most likely encourage late night television viewing.  Nothing is a bigger waste of money than “only sold on TV” items that can easily be found at the local Wal-mart for a fraction of the price.

And with a Wal-mart purchase, there is the free added bonus of the sighting of a 55 year old male wearing a bathrobe and Speedo while demanding he be referred to as “Mr. Muscles.”

In addition to ridiculous television purchases, I also plan on buying lots of storage items that, ironically, will contribute to my storage problem by taking up space in my small house.

And maybe this year’s the year I finally let my husband buy a moped and start a moped gang.  He wants to call it Rolling Thunder.

I think this is a good start to my list of realistic resolutions.  I will keep you posted on my progress, but until then, I’m going to grab a Hostess snack cake (or 3) and call my trainer to tell him I won’t be at the gym tomorrow because my basement flooded and my workout gear is floating in sewage.


Other Places You Can Find Me On The Internet This Week

Oh Marriage! The 7 Funniest Things My Husband’s Ever Said To Me

10 Signs You’re Pushing 40 And Don’t Give An Eff

9 Awkward Stages of Seeing A Facebook Friend In Real Life

TheI despise exercise. (Hey, that rhymed!) Something about getting sweaty and out of breath just doesn’t appeal to me.  Those are the kind of activities that I usually get out of by claiming I have a headache or are having my “ladies’ days.”

Either way, I hate working out, which is evident as soon as you lay eyes on me, as my body is pretty much all mush and lots of guacamole.  Lots.

Zumba is a great way to lose weight, and it’s a lot of fun, if you think fun is bouncing around in a poorly ventilated room with a bunch of post-menopausal women and Gary, the creepy overweight guy who is at every class.  Every.  Fricking.  Class.

Some say running is best.  In my skinny days I ran and had a love/hate relationship with it.  I hated every second of the run but loved the loaded nachos that awaited me.  Now I prefer to skip the running and go straight to the nachos.

Aerobics is also another way to lose those extra pounds….if it was 1986.

The stationary bike is something many turn to in order to feel the burn.  Unfortunately, all I feel is the seat slowly riding up my a$$.  I really don’t want something shoved up there that’s been up many others before me.  I’m also just not that kind of girl.

What about an elliptal machine? That’s probably the best of all evils but it still requires me to go to the gym, and it smells like old man farts there so I prefer to stay away.  Those farts are probaly from Gary.

That leaves only one other option, and it’s the easiest of ways to exercise.  It requires no trips to the gym and no one will be around to judge you for just how hard you’re panting after 2 minutes.  It’s my exercise of choice, if I had to choose.  Of course, my favorite choice is to avoid it all together, but if I’m forced to try to fit into those ever-shrinking Pajama Jeans, sometimes it’s necessary to walk it off.

What is it?  Walking. It’s not hard and has the least chance of injury, so it’s a great choice for me.

Because you guys liked my Fat Girl’s Guide To Yoga so much, I decided to do a Fat Girl’s Guide to Walking.  Once again, it’s on a diagram so it requires minimal reading.  These tips are pure gold so enjoy.  And the best part of walking as a form of exercise?  You get to avoid Gary-farts.

Thefatgirlsguidetowalking (1)

Wanna know where else I’m on the web this week?  Here you go!

10 Signs You’re Pushing 40 And Don’t Give An Eff

5 Totally Superficial Things I’m Thankful For (Don’t Judge Me)

8 Things That Really Fricking Suck About Dating A Worry-Wart


fat girl's guide to yogaI’m not a fan of exercise.  Who is, really?  It’s a necessary part of life, but that doesn’t make it any less horrible.  When I was in high school and college I worked out all the time; so much so it was almost an addiction.  Sometime in law school I found a new addiction: Oreos.  And Doritos.  And pizza.  And Taco Bell.

Of course, I also discovered fat rolls.

I’ve gone back and forth with different workouts over the years but nothing has really stuck.  So I turned to the only option left. Yoga.

Yes, yoga.  At first I thought this would be a great workout because it meant I could sit down and call it exercise.  I also loved that I didn’t have to wear shoes.  I figured it couldn’t be that hard if it didn’t require footwear.

Obviously I was greatly mistaken.  After trying yoga several times I’ve decided that I hate it.  No.  I despise it.  I realize there are people who think it’s great, but there are also people in the world who don’t like cookie cake.  It takes all kinds of crazies to make the world go ’round.

Since I want to save my readers from the misery of downward dog, I’ve created a fat girl’s guide to yoga.  It’s pretty with pictures so it’s easy to read.  Yoga requires effort but following a guide on how to do yoga should be effortless.fatgirlsguidetoyoga (2)

I’m on the web other places this week!

Why Water Parks Are Like Bars

What’s In The Kardashians’ Storage Unit

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I’ve started going to the gym.  Award please.

Since I’ve been sick I haven’t been able to work out.  Best.  Excuse.  Ever.

Now that I’m feeling better, I have no reason to let my gym membership go unused (a.k.a. my fat tax).  I hit the gym this weekend with my husband, who is a total gym rat.  Being married to a guy with zero body fat is hard enough, but going to the gym with him is even worse.

Walking into the gym we were greeted by several regulars, all of whom said hello to him.  When their attention shifted to me, I saw pity in their eyes, but I could tell they were giving me a supportive “good for you” glance as well.

I approached the dreaded elliptical machine with hatred in my eyes and pre-emptive soreness in my thighs.  I knew that machine was going to beat up on me and I was hesitant to let the torture begin.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I mounted the machine and slowly moved my feet.  “Pedal faster!” it immediately shouted at me.  Okay, it didn’t shout it, but the exclamation point said it all.

It was calling me out on my half-assed attempt at exercise.  (Which is funny, because I certainly have more than half an ass.)

I don’t respond well to peer pressure, but I knew the machine wouldn’t register the calories I would burn if I continued at that pace, and I wanted to burn a few calories so I could eat the Sweet Tarts I had at home.  So I stepped it up.  Literally.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

Immediately I realized I hated working out and wanted to stop.  Why do people do this to themselves?

I looked over at my husband running on the treadmill.  He looked like a goddamned gazelle.

I pushed on, thinking about my beloved Sweet Tarts and how I was going to spend some quality time with them when I got home.  I thought that would get me through the work out.

It didn’t.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I hid the timer with a towel, as I didn’t want to watch the seconds tick away slowly.  I also wanted my towel close by.

I was already getting winded and I had barely pedaled faster, as per the machine’s instructions.

Soon I began sweating and my breath was labored.  I knew I was almost done with my 30 minutes but I couldn’t resist the urge to look at the timer.

It had been 2 minutes and 53 seconds.  Seriously?!

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

How did people do this on a regular basis?  How was my husband flying through the air without so much as a drop of sweat?

The only solace I took was seeing my favorite gym-goer.  He’s an old man who wears a lifting belt no matter what exercise he does.  The best part?  He uses the weight machines, hence, no need for the weight belt.

He looked at me and smiled and then gave me a thumbs up.  I have no idea what that meant, but I can only assume he farted and his thumbs up was to show he felt better.  That guy is one gassy beast, so I feel confident saying that’s the reason.

Somehow I managed to finish my workout on Beatrice, which is what I named that dreadful machine.  Beatrice was less than kind to me and yelled at me to “speed up!’ more than once.  She was a fricking drill sergeant.

I stepped off Beatrice and wiped her down, even though she deserved to wallow in my sweat.  I stumbled getting off of her but was careful not to fall face-first into her evil twin sister, Bertha who was standing next to her.  She looked equally as menacing as Beatrice and not at all forgiving.  I knew they were going to talk about me when I left.

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

photo credit: ShellyS via photopin cc

I headed to the door with my husband, proud I completed the workout, but mad I sweated enough to necessitate a shower.

‘”See you tomorrow!”  my husband said to the woman at the front desk as we left.  Um, what?  Tomorrow? I didn’t care if I never saw Beatrice again.  Apparently I was going to have to endure her screaming the following day.

One thing was for certain.  I was going to need another roll of Sweet Tarts if this gym thing was going to continue.

return to the gym


the fat taxIt’s tax season once again.  Normally I like the change in seasons as it gives me an excuse to buy new clothes to keep with the trends*, but tax season is no such fun.

*SPOILER ALERT:  The trends are always Pajama Jeans.

Come to think of it, I still buy new clothes when tax season comes around.  I can’t be expected to look at W2s in last year’s sweatpants.

All this talk of taxes and deductions (and clothes purchases) got me thinking about my waistline and how I need to reduce that along with my adjusted gross income.  If only it was that easy.

Sure, I could eat healthier.  I could, but I won’t.  I’d like to tell you that I’m going to make a conscious effort to limit myself to only 3 Oreos per night, but I’d also like to not make myself into a liar.

photo credit: 401(K) 2013 via photopin cc

photo credit: 401(K) 2013 via photopin cc

I’d like to tell you that instead of potato chips, I’ll eat kale chips instead.  However, baked weeds don’t have the same flavor as fried potatoes, so I can’t tell you such a thing.

And yes, potatoes are vegetables.  I googled it.

Since I’m not willing to eat roughage and limit my intake of processed foods,  I figured maybe I would focus on exercise and going to the gym.  As many of you know, I used to be quite the gym-goer.

Once a week makes you a regular gym-goer, right?

photo credit: I like via photopin cc

photo credit: I like via photopin cc

From personal training to zumba classes, I used to take a more active role in…well…being active.  Lately?  Not so much.  Granted, I’ve had health issues that have prevented my from hitting the gym, but those issues haven’t affected me for the past 10 years in that way…I just don’t like to go and I’m not going to start now.

So what to do?  Nothing.  I’m going to do nothing.

Maybe my monthly gym membership is just a tax.  A fine I have to pay for being fat.

A part of me wants to concede my defeat and cancel the membership entirely.  It’s not like I’m walking around in a size 0 pair of sweats.  My double chin tells the world I see the inside of a potato chip bag much more than the inside of the gym.

photo credit: stephenvance via photopin cc

photo credit: stephenvance via photopin cc

And yet, my gym membership remains active…unlike me.

Instead of making the effort to go to the gym and cancel my membership (there’s steps, so it’s a workout just to go there), I’ve decided to call it my “fat tax” and leave it at that.

There are taxes on all sorts of things in our great nation and this is just going to be another one of those things.  People pay additional taxes on cigarettes and alcohol.  Why not pay a tax on being fat?

If it means I can sit at home, watch “The Bachelor” and not feel guilty about avoiding the gym, then I’m all for levying this tax against me.

Hopefully it comes with a complimentary bag of chips…and Oreos.


photo credit: oxygeon via photopin cc

photo credit: oxygeon via photopin cc

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

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

Go there.  Do it.


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113It’s summer time, which means it’s time to hit the pool instead of hitting the gym.

Yeah right, like I hit the gym the rest of the year.

If did, I probably would enjoy the pool a bit more.  Hence, my theory for how to survive the swimsuit season.  Read about it here.  It’s an awesome idea.  (Duh).

So now that you’re equipped to go to the pool and not feel bad about how you look in a swimming suit (because you read my post), you need a few more staples.

Not stomach staples.  You look great the way you are.  Didn’t you read my swimsuit theory?

Read about the five things you need to take to the pool here.  Yes, I’m making you go to another site.  Deal with it.

You know you’d click just about anywhere to learn about what to take to the pool.  So one more click!


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Sarcasm and sweatMy husband goes to the gym every day.  I know.  He’s obviously a douche.  Believe me, I didn’t find him this way.

When we met, I was a runner and worked out every day.  I would actually crave it and if I didn’t make it to the gym, I would have a bad day.  WHAT?!  I was clearly delusional.

I wonder if I had a tumor that was pushing on my brain, forcing me to make irrational decisions.  My dad had a brain tumor years ago, although he just got sick and lost weight.  I definitely don’t have that kind.  (Don’t worry, he survived and is alive and well, and warning me of the dangers of diabetes.)

260What was I talking about?  Ah yes, making fun of my husband.

Somehow during our relationship, mostly at my prodding, my husband discovered running.  I, on the other hand, discovered mint-flavored Oreos.

Although I still go to the gym, I’m not a regular anymore like my husband is.  He goes every morning at 5:30, while I’m at home fast asleep, dreaming of pizza and wings.  It’s a system that works for us.

This morning, I went to the gym with him.  It was partially because I was awake when he went, and partially because I inhaled half of a cookie cake the night before.

No joke.  I totally did.

We headed to the gym, and when we arrived, two employees greeted us as we scanned in.  Matt went first, and then said the following to me:

You’re going to take your little card, and put it up here to the scanner.  It will scan it and let the gym know we pay for a membership for you.”

Both employees stared at me in horror.

getting kissWe have a very sarcastic relationship, and a phrase commonly heard in our house is “I’m so sick of your face.”  This is always uttered by me.

Am I sick of his face?  It depends on the day and the amount of butt grabs I’ve received, but I love my husband more than anyone.  Just don’t tell him that.

Of course, we sound serious and the woman looked at me in shock, clearly amazed that I allowed such condescension.  Clearly, she knew I normally wore the pants in the relationship, and was confused I was so passive.

Normally, I would call him a dick-face or an a$$, but I decided to have a little fun at his expense.

I looked down to the ground, scanned my card without eye contact, and slowly turned around.  Matt kissed me on the cheek and went to the weight room.  As he walked away, I looked pleadingly at the girl and mouthed “Help me!” before shuffling toward the elliptical machines.

I suspect the cops will be giving my husband a call later today to investigate the allegations the woman most certainly filed with the local police department.  I will make sure I’m not home when he gets the call.

Maggie's collage

Photos copyrighted by Maggie Stolzberg.
Reproduction of this material is prohibited and violates federal law.
Check out her site at
She’s a talented photographer and an even more amazing human being.

****NOTE:  We let the employee know we were joking.  This is a sarcastic post, and in no way is an attempt to mock those dealing with spousal abuse.  If you are suffering from abuse, there are options. PLEASE, contact the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1−800−799−SAFE(7233).  

You don’t have to live in fear, and there are resources to assist you.  If you have questions, visit their website at or tell the local authorities or someone you trust.  Although I jokingly reference it in this post, actual spousal abuse occurs and is no laughing matter.

It’s not your fault, but you can get help.****

woman runningThat photo isn’t me. I’d never wear blue pants.

I’m not a runner.  I’m not even a walker.  I’m not an exerciser of any kind, although I used to be.  Years ago I was addicted to working out, but then I discovered Oreos, and brownies, and Hardee’s, and pretty much all the things that make life worth living.

So I fell off the work-out wagon.  Actually, I don’t think the work-out wagon would actually be a wagon at all.  Sitting on that wagon wouldn’t be working out…but pulling the wagon would be.  So I guess I hopped aboard some sort of wagon and then didn’t do shit.

Either way, I stopped doing my daily cardio, unless you count for my mad dash to the fridge for the last pudding cup.  I used to run every day, and had a love/hate relationship with it, as I think everyone does.  No one likes to run, just like no one likes Pauly Shore.  If they tell you differently, they are a liar (or in the case of liking Pauly Shore, they’re just a douchebag).

This weekend I ran some errands with my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name).  It was nice to have some girl time, even though we didn’t talk about our lady parts once.  That’s not the point of girl time, despite what all men think.  Rather, it was nice to get away from work and shelter stuff and all the other things that seem to comprise my time.

At the end of the day, she said she had one more stop, and asked if I minded going with her to Fleet Feet to get a new pair of insoles for her running shoes.  Whatever.  There was a McDonald’s close by and I was blinded by the thought of a Diet Coke, so I agreed.

For those of you who don’t know what Fleet Feet is, it’s a store that focuses on running and working out.  It’s obviously stupid and annoying, but since I’m a good friend, I went anyway.

We walked into the store and it was packed with people.  Did these people actually enjoy running?  Didn’t they know there was an option of not running?  These people were clearly overachievers and no one I wanted to be associated with.  I walked around to keep myself busy and to keep myself from telling the sales lady she needed to eat a ham sandwich…and an entire bag of chips.

I walked around and found an area of bumper stickers for sale.  They mostly had “13.1” and “26.2” stickers.  See what I mean?  Overachievers.  And what a way to brag about it…you ran 26.2 miles…whoopty freaking doo.  I ate an entire sheet cake, yet I don’t have a bumper sticker denoting that accomplishment.

I looked around for a sticker that said “0.3” as I’m pretty sure that’s the most I could run without passing out or punching someone in the face due to sheer misery.  They didn’t have the sticker, so I moved on to another part of the store.

As I walked around the store, I realized I was the only one in there who was in double digit clothing.  Everyone else was a perfect size 4, and was presumably starving. I immediately felt guilty (not because I downed a wrap at Red Robin just prior to the errands.  I felt great about that).

I felt guilty because I realized I was actually screwing over the store.  By being fat in the store, I was suggesting to the other patrons that I was a runner too, and I was a believer in their products…which would be great if my stomach wasn’t hanging over my pants.

I felt like I should have worn a sign around my neck stating “I’m not a runner.  I’m just here for the brownies.”  At least that way people would know I didn’t use any of the store’s products, and my flabby arms shouldn’t be an endorsement for the store.  I couldn’t believe I wasn’t asked to leave immediately.

I decided to walk to the back of the store to hide myself from the crowd (and also to look for brownies).  I walked around the back of the store and hit the motherload.  No, it wasn’t a table of baked goods, although what I found was almost as exciting.  There was an entire section dedicated to foot problems and solutions.  What?!

As you know, I have foot issues and have to wear sweet orthopedic shoes that make me look like I pass out meds at a nursing home.  It sucks, but it’s the only way I can walk and not be completely miserable.  The foot area in Fleet Feet was complete with different remedies and relief options for foot pain.  Granted, my foot pain isn’t because I follow a strenuous running schedule, but more because I follow a strenuous eat/sleep schedule.  It’s rigorous.


As I looked at the various options, I realized I wasn’t alone.  Other patrons had discovered this section of the store (probably because I’m such a trend setter).  I looked up and saw I was the only woman under the age of 60 who was drooling at the foot products.  Seriously.  I was immediately reminded that I didn’t have an AARP card nor did I eat my dinner at 4:00 at Country Buffet (although this girl always appreciates a good buffet spread).

I slowly backed away from the orthopedic area, careful not to knock anything over.  I didn’t want to throw any of these old bettys backs out if they tried to pick up a fallen orthodic.  Amazingly, I escaped without incident, which was a triumph in itself.

I found Pajama Jeans who was working with an employee to find the perfect insert.  I sat down next to her, as all that walking around the store was exhausting, and I still hadn’t located a brownie.  The woman was talking to PJ about running and walking and the effect it has on her feet.  When I sat down, she didn’t seem to notice me, and kept talking to PJ as if I wasn’t there at all.  At first, I wanted to be offended, but then I realized the woman wasn’t wrong to ignore me.  I clearly wasn’t there to get into shape.  Whatevs.

We finally got the proper insoles for PJ and left the store.  It was a successful day of running errands (which consequently, was the only “running” I did that day…or ever).  PJ will probably break in those insoles in no time with her regular sprints and exercise.  Meanwhile, I will go back to what I do best, eating and writing a blog about eating.  I say you stick with what you know.


suitcaseWith my ever so glamorous job, I am required to travel from time to time.  Unfortunately, my travel isn’t to tropical places like Belize or The Bahamas (or any location where The Bachelor goes to find true love).

My trips take me to lovely places in the Midwest, where the corn is plentiful and everything smells like manure, including my hotel room.  How does that happen?

Since I demand only the best when it comes to my hotel stay, and because the woman with my company who books the hotels is a little afraid of me, I always like to stay at nice places that have the finest of amenities…and by amenities, I mean room service.

I’m currently out of town for work, and when I arrived at the hotel, I was greeted by the clerk with a generous hello and a piping hot cookie.  I’m not sure if the cookie was complimentary to all guests.  My guess is that it wasn’t because the clerk was holding it in her hand when I arrived, so I suspect it may have been her lunch.  It was delicious!

I headed up to my room, inhaling the cookie as I went.  I didn’t want to be rude and not eat the entire thing.

When I arrived at my room I opened the door and discovered the room was large and spacious…and handicap accessible.  Um, seriously?  Now I wouldn’t be so concerned with the handicapped room if I hadn’t just stayed in one.


Less than 2 weeks ago I was out of town and that hotel room was also handicapped. Well, I guess it was handicap accessible.  The room itself wasn’t handicapped, although it didn’t have a minibar, so I consider that a handicap.

Was the woman at my company who booked my rooms trying to tell me something?

She’d met me before, so she knew I was capable of getting around without too much difficulty, assuming I wore my orthopedic shoes.  So why the handicapped room?

And then I saw the bathroom, and didn’t care why.  There was a huge walk in shower! Perhaps others would be offended by regularly being assigned the handicapped room, but I like to consider it an elite status that few can attain.

It’s like getting the penthouse suite, assuming the penthouse has an entrance ramp, double wide doorways and safety mats in the shower.

And let’s face it, for those of you that know me, you know having a cord in the shower that I can pull when I slip on the soap may be a good idea after all.

Of course, the maintenance man who has to answer that call and find my naked body sprawled on the floor would probably strongly disagree.

handicappedI got settled into my spacious room and then I did something strange…I went to the hotel gym and worked out.  I know!  Crazy, right?

Perhaps the handicapped room was having an effect on me, and it made me grateful for the things I have, even if they are thighs covered in layers of bacon grease and onion rings.

Not literally, although that would be awesome.

After my short workout, I returned to my room, sweaty and worn out.  I had a meeting with a client so I needed to get in the shower and get ready to go.

I removed my sweaty clothes and walked into the bathroom wearing nothing but the sweat from the workout and my disdain for the elliptical machine.

I reached over and turned on the shower, and nothing happened.  The shower didn’t turn on.  It remained a steady stream of water from the faucet, with no water coming out of the shower head.

Seriously?!  Did the hotel think people in the handicapped room didn’t need to shower?

I was immediately irritated and questioned why I bothered to work out in the first place.  That’s what I get for trying to be healthy.  Had I laid in bed and watched TV, this wouldn’t have been such a catastrophe.

However, the fact that I worked out on the elliptical machine and was dripping with sweat, and the faint odor of garlic, I knew a shower was a must…at least if I wanted to keep working with this specific client

I walked to the phone, mentally drafting my lawsuit against the hotel for violation of the ADA.  How dare they discriminate against me?

I called the front desk and told them my shower was broken.  The woman at the front desk (who was probably still bitter about the cookie incident), advised she would send someone right up.  Frickety frick.  That meant I needed to get dressed.  This hotel was really getting on my nerves.

puppy in bucket of soap

I threw on some clothes and a disgruntled maintenance man, who I promptly named Donald, arrived at my door.

He was a bit shocked when my able body opened the door, as I suspected he expected to see a handicapped person utilizing the room.  He then gave me a judging stare and entered my palatial room.

The maintenance guy went straight to the bathroom and got to work.  I returned to the other room and continued to stew in my own filth and sweat.

As I sat there waiting for him to fix the faucet, I heard heavy breathing coming from the bathroom.

What was that guy doing in there? Was he okay?  Did he need CPR? I hoped not, as my only experience with that was the plastic doll I used during my CPR certification class.

I named him Eddie. (The CPR doll…not the maintenance man.  I named the maintenance man Donald, despite his nametag that said his name was Ron.)

Was Donald okay in there?  I thought about asking, but figured he might start a conversation with me about his various ailments (as most strangers tend to do), so I decided to Google “CPR on the maintenance man” and keep quiet.

That way I would be prepared.  I was also a bit disturbed, as my search came up with some interesting results.

As I waited for Donald to finish his work, or breathe his last breath, I decided to call my client and tell her I’d be late.  Fortunately, she is cool, and knows me well enough to know that some sort of disaster would inevitably occur to make me late.

This time it was due to a combination of my own body odor and the maintenance man’s impending heart attack.  Surely she would think one of the conditions caused the other, but which one caused which was still up for debate.

band aidFortunately, Donald finished his handy work shortly thereafter.  Judging by the increase in his rapid breathing, I’d say he finished just in the nick of time.

After he left my room, I disrobed and once again turned on the shower.  This time, it worked, and I silently thanked Donald for his hard work (and mentally made a note to recommend he see a pulmonologist).

The shower never felt so good, and I got ready without any further difficulties.

Although the broken shower was less than ideal, I’m still cool with the handicapped room.

That could have happened in any room, and I’m not going to judge all handicap rooms by this one room.  After all, if history is any indicator, I will be staying in another one next week for yet another business trip.