Rental carI recently went to Florida for vacation.  Okay, it wasn’t vacation so much as it was a “If I don’t get out of here I’m going to lose my mind” trip.

I take those pretty regularly, as I’m frequently on the verge of losing my mind.  You should know that if you read this blog.  Actually, if you read this blog, you most likely believe I’ve already lost it.

It’s not an illogical assumption.

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This is the kind of view I need when I work. Not a homeless man peeing on the sidewalk.

Whenever I go to Florida I rent a car.  I don’t need anything flashy, as I like to keep a low profile.  I don’t want to draw attention to myself in my tankini and pale legs.

I usually rent the cheapest car there is, which frequently doesn’t include power windows.  It’s okay.  I need the work out.

This trip was no difference, and I got a sweet ride, complete with automatic windows AND automatic locks.  I was ballin’.

I like to go to the same beach every day.  It’s down a long strip on A1A, which is Beachfront Avenue.  I’m confident the beach I frequent is the area Vanilla Ice sang about in his catchy tune that was completely stolen from David Bowie.

I drove around forever in my rented ride, feeling every bump and pothole in my less-than-luxurious automobile.  I finally located a spot on the street and parallel parked that bad boy.

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Who could find anything on a street like this?

I’m an amazing parallel parker.  This has nothing to do with the story, but I felt it was relevant.

I pumped approximately $20.00 into the meter, because I knew this particular municipality would give you a ticket if you were even one second over your expired time.

As always, I had a million things running through my head, so I grabbed everything I needed and scurried away to the beach for some relaxation.

Just kidding.  I scurried away to the beach to work, but it felt better than sitting in a stuffy office.

After several hours on the beach, I headed back to the car, excited to use my automatic unlocking device.  One problem:  I had no idea where my car was.

Sure, I could walk up and down and look for it…if I knew what it looked like.  I didn’t.

In all the rush of getting the car and getting to the beach, I completely forgot to pay attention to the type of car I rented.

Things like color, make, size and model were details I suddenly wished I would have noted. It was time for some investigative work.

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My only clue…the key to finding my car. Pun intended.

Looking at the keys told me it was a Toyota.  Great.  It’s not like that was one of the most popular cars on the road.  Yeah, that wouldn’t be difficult to find.

So I did what anyone would do in that situation.  I walked up and down the street clicking the unlock button, looking for my rental car and hoping the battery in the clicker was good.

Fortunately, the fine automobile I rented had a charged battery in the clicker, and I was finally able to locate my rental car.  It’s a Toyota Yaris, in case you were wondering.

Make no mistake, that’s something I won’t forget anytime soon.

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I named her Helen.
Isn’t that parallel parking job awesome?

Everybody loves Howard Stern. And by “everybody,” I mean probably about half of the population. The other half wants to chop off what are most likely disgustingly old and sagging balls and shove them down his throat.

Photo from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Stern

Photo from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Stern

I don’t really have a preference, although I agree he probably has disgusting balls. I fall somewhere in between wanting to have a beer with the guy (only if he’s buying), and wanting to feed him a scrotum sandwich with an extra dose of women’s rights.

I don’t know how to transition into this next part of the story so I’m just telling you I’m transitioning now, which is probably just making it worse. Follow along.

I’m currenty in South Florida, pretending like I’m a baller and not convincing anyone. I’m a horrible actress and I don’t think asking if they serve “Two-Buck Chuck” wine helped sell my story. (They don’t.) But a hey, girl’s gotta dream.

This afternoon I walked through the enormous lobby of the Ritz Carlton in West Palm Beach. In an effort to look important, (and to hide the fact I was wearing sunglasses from the dollar store), I looked at my iPhone as I briskly walked through the lobby. I wanted people to think I was reading important emails, when what I was really doing was checking to see if Amanda Bynes had any new Twitter updates.

SIDE NOTE: If you are not following her on Twitter, do it now. What’s wrong with you?

I quickly realized I couldn’t read and walk at the same time, so I headed for a comfortable looking couch to rest. I almost reached my safe place when I smacked into what I thought was a wooden mop with a black head.

I looked up, expecting to see the janitor and his cleaning supplies. As I lifted my head from my very important correspondence (tweet) I wondered why a janitor was bringing the cleaning equipment through the main lobby area. Didn’t he know very important people were tweeting in there?

And then I saw who it was.

It was fricking Howard Stern…all 92 pounds of him….

Frickety Frick!

I apologized in my best “I’m totally wealthy and I know who you are and don’t care because I’m really rich” voice. I don’t think he bought it. Or if he did, he wouldn’t have been willing to pay more than the dollar I paid for my sunglasses.

Immediately I cursed myself for not buying the fancy sunglasses at Target for $19.99. Had I known I would bump into America’s raunchiest/funniest radio host, I would have splurged. Once again, my love of bargains screwed me over!

He shuffled away with this wife Beth, who looked adorable in her floppy hat that probably cost more than my mortgage.

They both walked away and I realized that collectively they weighed as much as I did.

You know I’m not a good photo journalist, but you guys push me to be better, so here’s the best I could do without looking like a total freak show chasing him to his room with my iPad.

Isn't Beth adorable?

Isn’t Beth adorable?

 

Howard Stern in the hiz-ouse!

Howard Stern in the hiz-ouse!

Howard and Beth are looking to move to South Florida to avoid taxes in NYC, so says the word on the street (which is really just my Google search.) I don’t know if that’s true, but if they decide to move to Florida, do you think they will be looking for a roommate?

It could be just like “Three’s Company.” I would even be willing to be the super-annoying Janet and Matt could be the always dapper Mr. Roper.

Come and knock on our door, Howard! We’ll be waiting for you!

 

How to fix your iPad when the picture“Lisa, you shouldn’t be allowed to have nice things.”

This is something I heard from my parents nearly every day of my childhood.  Apparently I couldn’t be trusted with liquids and carpet.  Clearly my parents didn’t know that hardwood floors are the classier way to go, and my frequent spills on carpet were attempts to entice them to upgrade their home.

They never once thanked me for that.

(FYI: I have hardwoods in my home now and they are much easier to clean up spills.  You’re welcome, mom and dad.)

Somehow, this prohibitive phrase has been passed down from my parents to my husband.  I suspect this occurred when my husband asked my dad if he could marry me, and my dad then spent the rest of the afternoon trying to talk him out of it.

My dad’s a good guy that way, and Matt can’t say he wasn’t warned.

Most of the time, this regularly uttered phrase is both accurate and appropriate.  Admittedly, I say it to myself, most frequently after I accidentally back into something with my car (those trash cans come out of nowhere every Monday morning).

However, just because it may be true most of the time doesn’t mean I like that it is.

Whenever I manage to destroy something (which is about once a week), I fess up immediately.  There’s no point in trying to hide the damage, as it will eventually be discovered and everyone will look to the girl with the Kool-aid stained mouth as the culprit of the accident.  (The word “girl” here is loosely used.)

It’s not a far leap.  (A leap, incidentally, is how I caused the Kool-aid stain on the carpet.  Note to self:  A leap of any kind, no matter the distance, is impossible when done in heels while holding a beverage.  Lesson learned.)

But with my newest “uh oh,” I didn’t want to tell my husband right away.  Lately he’s been more irritable about my totally-not-at-all-preventable accidents.  He’s so judgy.

As you may recall, the face of my iPhone shattered recently when it came into contact with my friend’s driveway.  (Rather, the more accurate explanation is that her bully of a driveway came out of nowhere and smacked my iPhone around until his face broke.  I suspect this wasn’t the driveway’s first offense.)

That broken iPhone face was a bit of a traumatic event, not only for the iPhone, but also for my pride.  I had no choice but to fess up to my husband about the damage, mostly because he was with me at the time the assault occurred. The wounds from that injury are still somewhat fresh.

So this morning when I grabbed my iPad and noticed something wasn’t quite right about it, I didn’t dare mention it to my husband.  I was pretty sure he was still irritated about the demise of our last Apple product, and I knew he wouldn’t want to know about the new “boo boo” on my iPad.

As with the iPhone, the screen was in distress; although unlike my iPhone (RIP sweet baby boy), the screen wasn’t cracked.  Rather, red, green and blue colors swirled on the screen, creating a look quite psychedelic in nature.  I felt like I should pop in a Pink Floyd album and just enjoy the screen.  I doubted Matt would be on board with this though (he’s more of a Deathcab for Cutie kind of guy).

I also didn’t want to go all the way out to my car to grab the CD.  That would require pants.

Instead, I immediately double checked to make sure the Tylenol PM I took the night before wasn’t swapped out accidentally with hallucinogenic agents.  I can’t tell you how many times that’s happened.

Fortunately for my spinal column, the Tylenol PM wasn’t laced with anything.  Rather, it appeared as if the iPad screen broke when I gently dropped it on the floor the night before.  (This is one of those times where carpet would have been preferred.  Those hardwood floors can really kick you in the balls, or in this case, in the iPad face.)

The previous night I fell asleep while reading my hilarious blog.  As I dozed off, I gently dropped the iPad a few inches to the ground.  Apparently doing that affected the screen, making it look like a black light poster.

Although I certainly enjoy feeling trippy while reading USA Today on the iPad, I didn’t think Matt would enjoy it, so I knew I had to fix it.  But how?  I figured I would google how to fix it on my broken iPad.  I felt that somehow, using the problematic iPad to locate the solution would demonstrate to the universe my willingness to help.  (It would also demonstrate it to my husband as well, which would hopefully ease the blow.)

I found a video of someone tapping the iPad with a hammer and in the video, the tapping fixed the issue.  Since it was on the internet, I knew it had to be accurate, so I decided to give it a try.

Who would lie on the internet about hitting an iPad with a hammer as a mode of fixing a problem?

I located a hammer and quickly began hitting the iPad in the locations suggested by the video.  On the second tap, the screen restored itself and it’s completely back to normal!

The best part is that I don’t have to tell my husband that I broke the iPad, although I will definitely have to tell him I lost his hammer. (I’m not walking all the way down to the basement to put it back.)

So if anyone asks, nothing was ever wrong with the iPad, and everything is just fine.  On a more exciting note, I now know if I need a tough question answered, I can go to YouTube and find some very informative answers.  What do you think they will suggest for how to fix a broken heart?

Yeah, I would definitely recommend vodka for that too.

Bloodshed and Cheddar BallsI know, I know.  I’m behind on blogs.  Pipe down.  Doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder?  Actually, I don’t think that’s true.  In the case of my roommate, freshman year of college, absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder with her boyfriend, but it did make her grow genital warts.  True story.

I realize that it’s almost February and I’m writing a post about Thanksgiving, but doesn’t everyone love the holidays, no matter what time of year?  And Thanksgiving is the best holiday of all because it celebrates food, and freedom, and comradery, and killing Indians with cholera.

Well, maybe we don’t so much celebrate that last part, but it’s worth noting and shaming ourselves for…which is personally why I drink on that holiday.  I guess that means I’m a good American.

I really do have a lot of stories to tell you from when I was gone from the blog, but there’s only so much I can tell at once.   So bear with me, as some of these stories may not be timely. (Much like my college roommate’s “special visitor” one particular month which led to a pregnancy scare.  Another true story.)

But don’t get mad about it.  I’ve been backed up!  I feel like since I just had my gallbladder removed, I should make a joke about poo, but I won’t.  I’m better than that…and I also can’t think of anything clever to do with that joke.

On to Thanksgiving and the story.  This year we went to my brother’s wife’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving.  Isn’t that where most people go for the holidays?  I would like to think it’s because my brother’s wife’s parents think we are awesome and want to spend the holidays with me and Matt, but somehow I think pity plays a big role in our invitation.  Whatever, they had good wine.

As soon as we arrived, we felt like ass-hats because we didn’t make anything.  Don’t get me wrong, we brought something.  (We aren’t horrible people!)  That something just didn’t happen to be ours.  Rather, we snagged a bag of pies from my parents as they were loading the car.  We didn’t want to look like ass-hats…but we were fine being them.  (Side note:  “Bag of Pies” would make a great band name.)

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Since I have an amazing moral compass, I knew I needed to pull my weight, so I immediately began helping in the kitchen.  This may have been partly because I wanted to help, and partly because I wanted to make the cheese balls. I wanted to ensure I would have complete control over how much cheese was used for said balls. (Hee hee…balls…)

The recipe called for finely chopped nuts.  (I know, these balls and nuts jokes are getting to be too easy….much like my college roommate.)  Once I realized the “fine” description in the recipe wasn’t telling me that I needed to do a good job, I looked around for a food processor.  But for the record, had I chopped the nuts myself, I would have done a fine job.  Just FYI.

The processor was packed neatly in a box, instead of thrown in a random cabinet like it is at my house.  I immediately began trying to put the food processor together.  I wanted to earn my keep, and I was also seriously craving cheddar.

My brother’s mother in law, Hallmark (not her real name), and I decided to tackle this project together, because two heads are better than one, but also because she is a fan of the cheddar balls too.  (I’m resisting yet another ball joke.  I’m so mature.)

Unfortunately, Hallmark and I together may actually have been collectively more clueless than we were separately when it came to putting together the food processor.  Fortunately, we are both adorable and amazingly awesome, so it made up for our inability to follow written directions.  Since I was the guest, and wanted to show it wasn’t a complete mistake allowing us to crash Thanksgiving, I took the processor by the blade and took action.  Sadly, the blade retaliated against me by taking a chunk off the tip of my finger.  He was clearly not in the holiday spirit.

Immediately blood began gushing out of my finger, and dripped all over the nuts.  (Seriously, people.  Get your dirty minds out of the gutter.  I’m referring to the peanuts.)  I looked around helplessly and locked eyes with the one person I didn’t want to know about my mishap; my husband.  His reaction was exactly what I expected from him, although I can’t say it was out of line.

He shook his head as said in an exasperated tone, “Two minutes, babe.  You’ve been here two minutes.”

I want to say that he was exaggerating on the time.  I want to say that so badly.  But I can’t, because he was right, and I’m also fairly certain he rounded up.  At that point, the blood was gushing everywhere and judging by the look in his eye, I knew Matt wouldn’t be the first to volunteer blood for my inevitable transfusion.  Fortunately, Hallmark came to my rescue and helped me bandage my wound.  (Didn’t I tell you she was awesome?)

Matt gently sat me down on the couch and said we should “just sit here for a while.” Again, I wanted to be irritated with him, but I figured it would be more efficient to only drip blood on one spot of the carpet instead of all over the house.  I was a considerate house guest.

We waited for dinner to be served, all the while ensuring my finger remained over my head to stop the bleeding.  Finally, the food was ready and we proceeded to the dining room to eat.  I hoped the cheese balls were amazing, and fortunately, they were.  But then again, of course they were.  They had a little piece of me in every bite.

I’m also confident we will not be invited back next year, so Matt and I are now accepting invitations for Thanksgiving!

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I hate game nights.  Seriously.  I hate them.  And this isn’t like one of those things where someone says “I hate that I can eat whatever I want and don’t gain weight” when what they really mean is “I love that I eat whatever I want and stay skinny while you eat nothing but celery and get fat.”  (You know that person, and you want to punch her in the vagina.)  No, it’s not like that at all.  I genuinely hate game nights.

It’s not that I don’t like an excuse to hang out with friends and eat dip.  Believe me, that’s the only thing that entices me to come to a game night.  Well, that and knowing I can yell expletives at my friends and call their mothers whores and then at the end of the night we can still walk away friends…or at least I hope so.

I’m super competitive.  I will do anything to be first and I’m pretty ruthless about it.  Just ask the seven-year old I pushed out of the way at the grocery store when I jetted to the front of the line.  (But I got there first!  Sucka!)

My friend Downtown Christy Brown (not her real name) hosted a game night Saturday night.  Actually, she called it “not a game night-game night” because she knew I wouldn’t come otherwise.  (I also wouldn’t come if there wasn’t french onion dip.  What am I?  A communist?)  She assured me there would be guacamole, which is the secret key to get me to do pretty much anything, so I decided to come.  (Actually, it’s not a secret.  If you read this blog with any regularity, you would know that guacamole is my kryptonite.)

Because of the promise of amazing dips, Matt and I headed to DTCB’s house for a night of games (or as I like to call them “friendship testers”).   Please recall the last time I went to DTCB’s house, I dropped my iPhone on her driveway, shattering the face of the phone.  (The lawsuit against her and her homeowner’s insurance is still pending.)

I was extremely cautious when I arrived at her house, and I maintained a death grip on my phone until I was safely inside and away from her faulty and dangerous driveway.

When we got inside we all commented about how I managed to make it indoors without breaking something.  We figured the night would be a success.  We didn’t know how wrong we were.  (Insert ominous music here.)

After eating dinner, we all headed downstairs to begin the “not games.”  Pajama Jeans (not her real name), was in rare form, which doesn’t have anything to do with the story, but she was so hilarious with her bottle of wine that I feel obligated to mention it.

I made it clear to the others that I didn’t want to play a game.  To make my point clear, I went upstairs while they decided which torturous Milton Bradley creation would waste the next few hours of our lives.  Leaving the room was my way of taking a stand against “not a game night-game night.”  Well, it was mostly because I had to use the restroom, but also because I was taking a stand.  After all, there was a bathroom in the basement that I didn’t use.  Yeah.  Point made.

I went into their hall restroom on the main floor, not because it was the closest, but because I liked the reading material in there.  (Did you know that in 1979 a woman jumped off the 86th floor of the Empire State Building only to be blown back onto the 85th floor with a broken hip?  Yeah.  Now you see why I use her hall bathroom.)

I used the facilities and stood up to flush the toilet (because I’m an amazingly thoughtful guest).  I pulled down on the lever and the bastard broke off into my hand.  WHAT?!  Did I seriously just break their toilet?  The toilet in their new house they’ve only had for about a month?  Really?  And how was I supposed to flush the toilet now?

I stood there for a moment in panic mode.  I realized my purse and keys were just outside the room in the foyer.  I could grab them and make a run for it.  Sure, I’d abandon my husband, but he’d find his way back home eventually.  He’s got a good sense of direction and his dimples would get him a ride home for sure.

I considered pretending like I didn’t do it.  Maybe I could go downstairs and tell them the handle was broken when I went in there.  No.  I knew better than that.  Although DTCB may believe some lies I tell her (like Diet Dr. Pepper tastes exactly like Dr. Pepper), she would know this one immediately.  I had to fess up.  But first, I had to flush the toilet.

Because I’m a master of home improvement (and because I’ve had my fair share of toilet issues), I knew that if I removed the top of the toilet, I could manually flush it by pulling up on the flusher thing.  (Yes, that’s the technical term for it.)  I located the flusher thing, pulled up on it, and heard the toilet begin to flush.

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As I raised my hands to clap and congratulate myself for being so awesome, I brushed something in the tank.  Apparently the thing I brushed was important…and filled with water.  It came unattached and sprayed water all over my arm, the wall, and the trash can.  (This is the part where I really wish this blog was fiction…or at least that I was smart enough not to relay these stories).

Feeling the cold toilet water on my hand, I vomited a little in my mouth and then focused on reattaching the piece so it would stop spraying water everywhere.  Fortunately, it was a quick fix and I was able to put it back together without any issues.  Well, except for the part about the missing toilet flusher.  That I couldn’t help.

I casually called DTCB upstairs under the guise of needing more Diet Coke.  (I’m so smooth.)  I then proceeded to show her what I did.  As a token of my guilt, I slowly handed her the broken handle.  She accepted it and then we laughed for five minutes before returning downstairs to join our friends.

Fortunately, this broken toilet issue hasn’t affected our friendship, and DTCB and I are as good as we’ve ever been.  However, I’m pretty sure her home owner’s insurance is going to ban me from their house permanently.  Honestly, it’s not a bad idea…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such a happy ending to yet another embarrassing moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

touching at bar

I’m not a flirt.  Not even a little bit (unless milk stains and random winks due to contact malfunctions are considered flirting.  If so, then I’m a total hoe-bag).

I have no idea how to be sexy and the only time I’m remotely attractive is when I come home from the hairdresser with “sassy hair” (which immediately gives me an attitude and forces me to call everyone a beotch…even my husband).

Not only do I not know how to flirt, I don’t understand when someone flirts with me.  It just doesn’t take.  I’m actually pretty sure no one flirts with me except for maybe the homeless men I deal with, but I’m confident they don’t want to get into my pants for anything more than the Fiber One bar I’m stashing there.  (Think again boys.  I’m not that easy.)

Flirting never crosses my mind.  I don’t think it ever did.  I have no idea how I managed to snag my husband, but flirting wasn’t involved at all…just low cut shirts.  I’m lucky he’s a boob guy.

So today when I was driving back from an out of town obligation, I didn’t think twice when a guy in his thirties drove past me, turned his neck back and waved profusely.  I couldn’t see much of his face, but what I saw I didn’t recognize.

I had to take a moment to consider whether he was waving at me to say hello, or perhaps waving with a few less digits and telling me to f-off.  (It was a valid concern.  I’ve got a lead foot.  Seriously.  It’s lead.  It has a plate in it.)

We continued driving on the highway, and I moved over to the fast lane to pass him (homeboy obviously didn’t have cruise control).  As I passed him I looked over at him and once again, he smiled and waved ferociously at me.  What?  Who is this guy?  Is he trying to tell me something?  Is my tire flat?  Is Timmy trapped in the well?

As I passed him, I realized that I totally knew who he was.  I’m an idiot!  Of course!  It was a guy I hadn’t seen in a while, and that’s why it took me so long to recognize him.  Well didn’t I feel like a horse’s ass? (But not Columbus’s ass, because that horse is awesome…and tiny).  I decided to make up for my rudeness by pulling back and letting him pass me again so I could look at him and wave hello.  My brilliant tactic worked and I saw him approaching.  (Duh, it was a brilliant plan.)

Shortly after slowing down, he pulled up next to me.  Just as he did so I pointed at him, smiled, and then waved at him in an exaggerated way, my flabby arms flailing in the wind.  And in that split second after I waved and pointed, I realized it wasn’t who I thought it was.

It wasn’t anyone I knew.  It was a perfect stranger I was pointing and waving at and he was totally digging it.  Oops.  Oh well, I figured if anything else, I waved to a guy and perhaps brightened his day.

baby wavingApparently I not only brightened his day, I turned the flood lights on it and shone them directly into his car.  Desperate Driver got overly excited with my frantic wave and smile and returned it with a wave and a blown kiss.  Yes, he actually blew a kiss…as an adult man…to another adult…while operating a car.

I considered pretending to catch it and then throw it out the window, but Desperate Driver seemed like that might send him and his Jetta over the edge, so I refrained. Rather, I sped up to get away from him (and the kisses he blew.  I didn’t know him like that).

Just when I thought I was out of his sight, he sped up once again and drove up next to me.  I’m not sure what the proper etiquitte for car flirting is, but I got the feeling he wanted me to show some side boob.  I knew that wasn’t something I was interested in doing (at least not intentionally), so I held up my left hand as he drove past in the hopes that my wedding ring would throw him off the trail.

If anything, this tactic made him want me more.  I was forbidden fruit…only the good kind.  Not the moldy stuff in the fridge that you refuse to throw out for some reason.  My bling made him want me even more.  I was completely trapped.  I wanted to pull off at the next exit, collect myself (and refresh my Diet Coke), but I knew I couldn’t take an exit because he would think I was inviting him to do the nasty in a Walmart parking lot.

I had to think quickly about my options, as Desperate Driver would be back for more and I had to be ready for him.  I formulated a plan.  It wasn’t a McGyver plan (only because I didn’t have dental floss, a tampon string and a book of matches, otherwise, it would have totally been McGyver style).

Instead, I decided to drive really slow so he would eventually get sick of driving near me, speed up, and drive away. I knew Desperate Driver wanted to fly down the highway at 78 miles per hour and didn’t want to be held back by a blonde going the speed limit.

Fortunately it worked, although there were moments that driving the speed limit actually tested my sanity and I considered speeding up, knowing it would result in more flirting with DD.  However, I stayed strong and eventually he got sick of driving slow, sped up, blew me one last fleeting kiss and drove out of my life forever.

I woud like to say I was sad to see him go, but I wasn’t.  His waves and kisses made me feel dirty and cheap, and I’m better than that.  If he really wanted to woo me, he would have had me pull over at the local truck stop and ordered me buscuits and gravy.  Now that’s the kind of flirting I could get on board with.  I guess that’s why me and Desperate Driver are never meant to be.

Because I’m super busy and important, I have an iPhone.  I know, you’re jealous.  It’s 2012 and I have an iPhone…me and all the kids entering 7th grade.

It’s quite important that I have an iPhone, as I need to get emails, calls and texts throughout the day (and how else am I supposed to keep up on my Tweets without the Twitter app?)

I rely on my iPhone for so many things and when it’s not in my hand or within reaching distance, I get a little anxious (mostly because I need the latest Big Brother update, or to look at yet another hilarious e-card on Facebook).

Tonight I went to Downtown Christy Brown’s new house.  (Not her real name.)  She and her husband bought an amazing house and since Matt and I are gracious friends, we decided to come see their new digs.  Granted, we were lured there with the promise of free pizza, dessert, and the opportunity to openly curse them for purchasing such a large and beautiful home.

I think I yelled “God dammit” in every single room I entered.  Seriously. It was that awesome.

We pulled up to the DTCB palace, (this is not an exaggeration) and I was in awe of the place.  It was big and beautiful and they had a garage!  She was the first friend of mine to successfully purchase a home with an attached garage.  My envy oozed out of me (as did some gas from my earlier snack of chips and salsa).  I grabbed my phone and purse and got out of my car, trying hard to keep my jaw from hitting the ground.

And then it happened.

I don’t know how it happened, I just know that it did.  Before I knew it, my iPhone flew out of my hand and did a face plant on DTCB’s new driveway.  I like to think the phone took one look at DTCB’s palace, compared it to our house, realized he was living in a shack, and immediately committed suicide.  I can’t blame the guy.  I considered doing the same thing, only my weapon of choice would be death by chocolate…and vodka.

I reached down slowly to retrieve the phone.  I wasn’t sure if it was broken but I figured it wasn’t, as I’ve dropped that phone a million times and never had a problem.  That phone had nine lives.

Apparently the lives had expired because when I picked up the phone, I discovered the entire face of it was completely shattered…just like Tom and Katie’s marriage (I really thought those two were gonna make it…)

I didn’t know what to do, so I did the only thing I could think of.  When DTCB and her husband opened the door, I asked for their home owner’s insurance information so I could file a claim against their insurance for the obvious assault the driveway did to my iPhone.

scale2There’s no question that I like to eat.  No.  I love to eat.  One look at me and my double chins makes that crystal clear. 

I’ve always loved to eat, and it wasn’t until my mid-twenties when my eating caught up with me and I found myself living as a full time resident of Fatsville.  (Our mascot is Garfield, the lasagna loving cat, and our primary export is butane…some residents export more than others…)

I’ve known that I’ve been “chunky” for a long time.  Normally, I like to call myself fluffy, because it sounds much better than obese or fat and it makes me think of curling up with a fluffy blanket and a tub of ice cream.

Tonight, while I was at dinner stuffing my face with thousands of calories of buttery goodness, I realized that I’m a fat girl at heart.  Not just because I’m actually fat, and my heart is probably coated with cellulite, but because I act like a fat girl does.

This prompted me to start a list (because I love to number things.  It gives me a sense of power.)

So here are a few ways I know that I’m a fat girl.  Read up and take notes.  These are really enlightening thoughts.

1.  I will only attend social gatherings if there will be a good selection of food there.

I like to know that if I’m venturing out for an event, it’s worth my while.  I don’t mean that it’s a charitable event or it does something good for the environment; I mean I want to know if the food spread will be good.  Want me to come out and support Nurses for Newborns?

Not if all you have is a veggie tray and a rotisserie chicken.  Want me to bowl to help orphaned children?  Only if there are toasted ravioli and all you can eat pasta.  I’m not that charitable.

2.  No matter how full I am, I could still eat more.

I’ve heard people say things like “I just couldn’t eat one more bite.”  What?  Why not?  Of course you can.  Or at least, of course I can.  And I will.  I’m not a quitter.  If there is food on the table, even if my stomach is bursting and I’m actually sweating out steak sauce, I continue to eat until someone takes the food away.

So pass the rolls and keep the judgment to yourself (but please share your carrot cake).

3.  I remember events based upon what food was served.

I have a selective memory.  Some things I tend to remember quite well, while others are a bit more hazy.  Alcohol is typically involved as the cause for the latter.  Either way, I’m far more likely to remember an event in my life if I can associate it with food.  I’m like a fricking card catalogue of food and the Dewey Decimal system is in full effect in my brain.  First day of Kindergarten?

Woman Standing on Scale

Yeah, I remember it.  It’s filed under Sloppy Joes.  The day Princess Diana died?  I mourned her over corn dogs.  Nothing says the death of royalty quite like artificial meat dipped in a deep fryer.  So if you want me to remember something, make sure you serve something delicious (and lock the liquor cabinet).

4.  When I’m eating, I’m thinking about what and when I will eat next.

Doesn’t everyone do this?  While I’m chowing down on my foot long sub at lunch, I’m already thinking about my afternoon snack, and how long I have to wait until I can eat again.  I’m like a teenage boy who just discovered his father’s Playboy magazines and wants to slip off alone with them whenever he can.  In my case, the porn is chips and salsa with a huge helping of guacamole (and a side of shame and despair).

5.  When I go out to eat, my eye remains on the back room to see when they will bring out food.

I have a hard time concentrating on the conversation at a restaurant when I know that just behind those flapping doors is a world of food.  From chicken breasts to cheese balls, I know the only thing separating me from a wonderland of cholesterol and calories are those flimsy doors with windows made of plastic.

Every time a waiter slams through them, I wonder what delicacy he is holding and if I can get a glimpse, or even just a sniff of what he’s bringing out.  I realize this makes me sound like a serial rapist on an episode of Law and Order SVU, but I’m cool with that.  Christopher Meloni rocks.

And the final and most important way I know I’m a fat girl?  The scale.  She’s a fickle beast and although I tell myself she’s a lying nag…she’s probably telling the truth.  Either that, or she’s in cahoots with my pants.