I’m not a fashionista.  I know.  You’re shocked.  I pull off my fashionable Target maternity dresses quite well (I’m not pregnant), and I manage to style them with Forever 21 jewelry and clearance purses from Charlotte Russe.  I mostly wear dresses, not because I like to dress up, but because pants dig into my gut and I like to be free to eat as I wish (and let my belly fat fly freely).

I recently went to New York City.  (Yes, again.  I’m a total jet setter, flying coach in a middle seat.  Classy.)  My flight left super early at 5:40 a.m.  (Did you know the world functioned that early in the morning?  I do not.  Fortunately, the pilot did.)

I went to the airport sporting a very stylish pair of workout capris, a t-shirt and tennis shoes (and by “stylish” I mean mismatched and most likely covered in Diet Coke stains.)

Although I was in workout gear, I had no desire or intention to increase my heart rate for anything other than sprinting to the Cinnabon for breakfast.  I just wanted to wear my jammies, and I had to make myself comfortable to make up for the fact that I was wearing a bra. (You’re welcome TSA.)

I slept and most likely drooled the whole way on the plane, and arrived in New York ready to take on the day.  It was raining by the time I got to my hotel but since I already looked like someone’s cleaning lady, I decided not to change clothes and keep with my fashionable look.

I dropped off my luggage at the hotel and headed to lunch by myself where I ate a shameful amount of Mexican food.  As I was licking the bowl of guacamole clean, I received a text from Gansavoort.  (Not her real name, although it would be cool if it was).

Gansavoort is my super trendy friend who works for a fabulously famous fashion magazine.  I have no idea why we are friends, but I assume she feels sorry for me and I’m some sort of charity work for her.  I’m fine with it.  I was planning to have lunch with Gansavoort but she had to cancel due to something most likely super important and fabulous with the magazine.

Because I was having dinner with her later that night, I wasn’t too upset about the cancellation.  I also knew this would mean I wouldn’t have judgy eyes watching me as I made sweet love to my guacamole at lunch.  It was a win-win.

I digress with talk of guacamole.  Back to the text.

She said her super important meeting was cancelled and that I should come meet her at The Hearst Tower for an afternoon break.  Since I have no pride in myself, and I wanted to see where the infamous Nina Garcia worked, I texted back that I would be there.  (Actually, I texted back with a cute thumbs up emotocon, but whatever.)

jaw+drop.jpgIt continued to rain in NYC, and since an umbrella wouldn’t go with my snazzy outfit, I was forced to walk in the rain.  I looked like a depressed woman in a pharmaceutical commercial for herpes medication. 

I arrived at Hearst Tower and walked inside only to see huge escalators and fountains of water.  (Because just what I needed to see was more water coming down from the heavens.)  The doorman was immediately on high alert, as I was dressed to kill.

No, seriously, I looked like a serial killer.  I think he whispered something into his jacket lapel but I can’t be sure (mostly because the rain water spotted my glasses).

I went to the reception desk and stood in line behind two fashionistas who appeared to be high maintenance and on a juice-only diet (which most likely caused a diarrhea-only result).  They were obviously very important.  As I waited for them to finish their important business, Prada Shoes turned around with her wet umbrella in hand.  (Her name wasn’t Prada Shoes.

I’m sure it was something charmingly annoying like Princess or Luv.)  As she turned with her umbrella, Prada Shoes shook it like a Polaroid picture.  (The umbrella, not her booty.)

Water sprayed all over me, although it was hard to tell considering I was already soaking from my recent walk contemplating herpes.

“Oh,” she said, half laughing.  “I’m sooo sorry.”  P.S. said, in her most disingenuous tone.

“That’s alright,” I said, without missing a beat.  “I’m headed up to Elle Magazine for a fashion shoot and they have several wardrobe options available for me there.  No biggie.”

786I could almost hear her jaw hit the floor and I secretly hoped it would damage her shoes in the fall.

She and her friend, Gucci Bag, walked away, quietly trying to figure out which celebrity I was.  I considered telling them I was a famous author, as I was sure their eyes had never looked at anything other than “Curious George Goes Shopping,”  but I refrained.

I signed in with the receptionist (who probably thought I was homeless) and met with Gansavoort.  We had a good laugh about P.S. and G.B.

I may have been the one to show up at a fashion building in workout capris from Target, but at least I knew a crazy girl from the Midwest when I saw one.

If only I could see the look on P.S. and G.B’s faces when they discover I’m not on the cover of next month’s Elle.

I'm always the cantaloupeI don’t fricking like cantaloupe.  Does anyone?  If any of you actually like it, you obviously have horrible taste (as evidenced by your decision to read my blog).  Don’t get me wrong, I like fruit.

One of my favorite snacks is chocolate covered strawberries (assuming a chef sneaks into my house in the middle of the night and makes them for me.)  And what about bananas covered in Nutella?  Yes please.

As you know, I’m no fan of salad.  If I wanted to eat weeds I would go to Amsterdam and at least have a good time with it.  However, I will eat fruit salad, assuming it’s covered in sugar and served with a side of potato salad and hot dogs.  I’m so American.

I know what you’re thinking…”Come on Newlin.  Get to the point of this post.”  Okay, I’m getting there.  Calm down.  Couldn’t you read the title of this post? I’m the cantaloupe of the fruit salad.

Well, maybe I’m not so much the cantaloupe of the fruit salad, as my life is the cantaloupe.  It’s a melon of sorts.  Or maybe I’m a melon.  I don’t know.  My body looks like a melon.  Maybe I should have thought this post through further.

Normally, when I’m somewhere that is serving fruit salad, I’m at the end of the food line (because I’m first in the alcohol line.  I have priorities).  So by the time I get to the fruit salad, the only thing left is cantaloupe, melon, and a frown on my face.

But isn’t that really a metaphor for my life?  I can’t walk without falling, I can’t eat without spilling, and I can’t talk without making an ass of myself.

But you know what?  Even though I’m the cantaloupe of the fruit salad, I’m okay with that.  A lot of people like cantaloupe.  I may not be everyone’s flavor, but those people are missing out.  I can’t make them like cantaloupe, just like I can’t make myself like Kim Kardashian.

And cantaloupe isn’t too bad when it’s submerged in vodka.

woman with plane

First off, isn’t this picture of the woman with a paper plane incredibly creepy, yet awesome?  I’m scared of her, yet I want to know her story.

I was recently at Dulles National Airport in Washington D.C.  Not so much because I’m super important and the government needed my guidance (although I am, and it does), but more because I was visiting a friend out there.

However, I did make myself available to the legislators during the time I was there, advising I would be willing to provide advice on how to lead the country.  Most of them responded with threats of a restraining order.  (Um, drama!!!!)

I had a great time in D.C. (more stories to follow), but I was tired and ready to get back home to the Midwest where the temperatures were in the 100s and I had an excuse to lay around doing nothing.  (Note:  Although the heat is miserable, the exhaustion it brings is the perfect way to get out of anything you don’t want to do.  Thank you, heat wave.)

I had an early morning flight (10:20 a.m. is early, right?).  I arrived at the airport around 8:00 a.m., allowing additional time for the inevitable strip search that some TSA official would deem necessary on me.

ONE time I made a snide remark about the TSA uniforms, and that forever puts me on a “list?”  Someone needs a better sense of humor…and a new uniform.  Seriously.  They look like rent-a-cops.

Surprisingly, I got through security quickly, and found myself at the terminal a few hours early.  Since I was awake, I was obviously starving.  I’m not a huge breakfast person, as breakfast food is typically healthy and I prefer to eat junk all day.

Starting my day with eggs is misleading, as it suggests the rest of my day will include consuming healthy, organic products.  Not true.  I’m nothing if not consistent, so I like to start my day by eating crap, and continuing to do so all day.

For this reason, I knew I didn’t want breakfast food, but realized it may be difficult to locate a place that sold regular food for breakfast.  And then I saw it…the one sign on the horizon that gave me hope (and made me salivate).  Could it be?  Was it a mirage?  A figment of my imagination?  Did the full body search from the poorly dressed TSA official alter my vision (along with the way my underwear sat)?

dog with bowl

It was a Chipotle.  Yes, a Chipotle.  For those of you who are new to this blog, please know that I love Chipotle.  (And for those of you new to this blog, I’m impressed you’re still reading.  Seriously.)  I love Chipotle the way some people love their spouses…in a good way…not in a “I couldn’t take your gum smacking anymore so I stuffed your head in the freezer” kind of way.  Chipotle completes me, and if I could eat it for every meal, I would.

So when I saw the familiar Chipotle sign, I thought maybe it was a dream.  I immediately looked around for Ryan Gosling (because if it was a good dream, he would be involved…sans shirt).  I didn’t see Ryan or his bulging biceps, so I knew it had to be real.

I approached it slowly, careful not to appear too eager so as not to alarm the employees.  I figured I would alarm them for other reasons, but speed and excitement wouldn’t be one of them.  I arrived at the counter and said “Chipotle for breakfast?  Yes, please!”

The woman behind the counter didn’t understand English well…and she certainly didn’t understand sarcasm.

“No.  We no have breakfast items.  Only burritos.” She said, eying my flabby stomach and judging me for being so seemingly stupid.

“Oh,” I responded.  “I was just saying that I was glad to see I could get Chipotle for breakfast.”

“We no have breakfast,” she said to me again, looking irritated.

“I meant that I would like to eat Chipotle for breakfast.” I said, trying to clear things up.

Crickets.  Okay, not really crickets, but if we were on television (as I always like to pretend that I am), there would be crickets creaking during the silence as she blankly stared at me, most likely wondering how I managed to get through security.  (I wondered the same thing).

“You know what?  I’ll take a burrito bowl” I said, trying to get past the awkwardness.

sick girl

She prepared my meal, I paid and then and quickly moved to the dining area where I could molest my Chipotle in private, the way one is supposed to.  I ate every last bite (duh), and sat there pondering why Chipotle isn’t typically open for breakfast.

As I began drafting a petition for this cause, I felt a serious rumble.  Was it an earthquake?  A bomb threat?  I heard it again and realized it was coming from me…and my stomach…and my nether-regions.

Uh oh.  Airport Chipotle was fast acting!  I needed to find my way to a “safe place” as soon as possible. (And for you non-geniuses who are having difficulty following along, the “safe place” I’m referring to is a restroom.  Try to keep pace.)

I casually picked up my things, trying to control the strong signals coming from my bowels.  I saw a sign for a restroom and headed there trying to look casual, although I’m pretty sure running while squeezing my cheeks didn’t look so casual.

If you are picturing me running and holding my face, I need you to stop reading here.  You obviously don’t get me…or my bowel issues.

I walked into the hallway that had the restroom sign and already felt sweet relief…until I saw the string of urinals.  Um, unless D.C. is super forward thinking, women’s restrooms don’t typically have urinals in them.  (Right?)  Crap!  (Literally, crap.  It was becoming a necessity at that point).

I turned around and raced out of the men’s restroom before I saw something I didn’t want to see.  I came upon a “family restroom” and decided that I was a mother of three dogs, so that would work.  I ran into the family restroom and looked for the light, and couldn’t find it.  The strong door closed behind me and I was in complete darkness.  Seriously?  It was like I was in a closet, and I just hoped the closet had a toilet.

I frantically searched for a light switch but had difficulty doing so due to the lack of light.  (Ironic, huh?)  Finally, I decided light wasn’t necessary for what I was about to do.

As I sat there in darkness, listening to Don Henley belt out “Boys of Summer,” I realized maybe there was a reason Chipotle didn’t serve breakfast.  I crumpled up the petition I drafted and decided to leave Chipotle’s regular hours as they were.  Maybe they knew what they were doing after all…

I realize the title of this post is a bit vague, and most likely conjures up images of pigtails and slutty school girl outfits.  That wasn’t my intent.

What I mean is that I did it again…I once again made a fool of myself.  I realize this isn’t a shock to anyone, as I make a fool of myself quite regularly. It’s almost as natural as breathing for some people…or being annoying for any one of the Kardashians.  Nonetheless, it happened again.

Allow me to explain.  I was recently in New York City visiting some fabulous friends.  Somehow, Matt and I seem to have amazing friends who haven’t figured out that we are super lame.

Don’t tell them.  I don’t want them to figure it out, although I’m pretty sure my farts after every meal and my subscription to Tiger Beat are dead give aways that I’m super dorky. (Hey, I need to keep up with the younger generation so I will stay relatable.)

Our friends wanted to meet us for brunch at 1:30.  Yes, that’s 1:30 p.m.  Who knew that was time for brunch?  In my world, brunch is 10:00 and it consists of a cheeseburger with danishes for buns and a side of Cocoa Pebbles.  Now that’s a brunch…and it’s before noon…or somewhere near the noon hour.

In fact, when I eat “brunch” at 10:00 a.m., I’m ready for a late lunch at 1:30 p.m.  Apparently this isn’t how New Yorkers roll. Did my friends really expect me to go until 1:30 in the afternoon without eating breakfast or lunch?  They obviously aren’t as good of friends as I thought they were, as they were clearly trying to starve me.

Strike one.  (Frick!  I’m giving strikes again.  I have no idea why I do this.)

Matt and I were late to the brunch because we underestimated the time it would take us to walk to the proper subway.  I am a fricking Tom Tom machine with the New York Subway and I can get us anywhere in record speed with minimal transfers.

However, I couldn’t do much about the fact that the closest subway was several blocks away from our hotel, nor could I help the fact that my feet were on fire from walking so much.

Okay, I could have helped in that regard.  It’s called a cab.

We arrived at brunch and found our friends in the back room waiting for us at a table.  The four of them had already ordered drinks (because they’re awesome, and because we were late).

I immediately ran over to greet my friends.  I hadn’t seen them in a few months and we had much to discuss, beginning with important issues such as Mondo winning Project Runway.  (Sorry if I ruined that for any of you, but if you still have that season sitting in your DVR, you aren’t a dedicated fan.)

080

My friend, Gansavoort (not her real name), is super cool and works as a writer for a very popular fashion publication in New York.  I like to think I’m in her same league as I write this super cool blog that maybe one or two people in New York read.  Similar, right?

Since Gansavoort is in the fashion industry, she always has the cutest, most trendy clothes, and I’m always embarrassed to show up in my dress I got on clearance at Marshalls because it had a stain on the back.

Who am I kidding?  I’m going to get a stain on it anyway, so why not just buy it with a stain and save some cash?

Gansavoort was sitting across the table from me and I rushed over to greet her.  I was carrying my super trendy Vera Wang for Kohl’s bag, which is bulky and fabulous (and from 4 seasons ago).

I leaned over to hug her and it happened.  My bag struck Gansavoort’s bloody mary-filled glass, causing it to spill all over Gansavoort’s amazing (and probably super expensive) dress.

This isn’t the end of the story.  Not at all.  Since I’m an overachiever, and everything I do is full out, the spilled drinks didn’t stop there.  Of course not.  When her glass fell, it struck another glass that was also filled with bloody mary.

dominoIt was a domino effect of alcohol and not in a good way.  It felt like it was in slow motion and I felt like I was yelling “NO!” in super slow motion in that creepy slowed down voice you see on film.

Because I’m no stranger to spilling things on others, I did what I always do when I ruin someone’s dress that costs more than 5 months of my mortgage payments; I laughed and said “yeah, that happened.”

The waiters immediately descended upon our table with towels to clean up the mess.  Unfortunately, they didn’t bring enough, and they had to go back three different times to get more towels to clean up the spillage.

I felt like I was watching an Exxon Mobile cleanup project, only this one wasn’t using taxpayers dollars and hiking up the cost of filling my tank.

The towels began to accumulate on the table and since the drinks were bloody marys, the towels looked like a blood bath had occurred.  I considered looking around for Scarface, but figured even he wouldn’t like the site of all this red.

How do you recover from such an embarrassing incident?  I don’t know.  I’m not sure that I did.  The rest of brunch I felt horrible about the spillage (yet another way I differ from Exxon), and I kept replaying it in my mind.  Why did my purse knock over the drink?

Please recall this is the same purse that spilled water on strangers in Austin.  It was obviously the purse…and obviously Vera Wang’s fault. (Isn’t it always?)

Since Gansavoort is a great person, she hid her annoyance with my spill quite well, although I’m pretty sure I am now crossed off her Christmas card list.  Either way, she should feel somewhat vindicated, as less than two hours later, a pigeon did his business all over my white cardigan.  I would say we’re even.

park benchesCrappy things seem to happen to me.  I don’t mean that sometimes bad things happen to me, although sometimes that’s true (Hello extra 50 pounds…go away.)

I mean that literally, things involving actual crap regularly happen to me. Seriously.  It seems like I’m always physically dealing with crap (or poo, whatever you want to call it.  It’s shit either way you sniff it).

From my shifts at the animal shelter to picking up after my dogs at home to an unfortunate case of the runs after any encounter with White Castle.  (But that place is delicious and I will never stop subjecting my intestines to that toxic goodness.)

No matter what,  I seem to constantly be dealing with some sort of shit.  Literally.

Recently, my husband and I went to New York to visit some friends.  While we were there, we decided to take a stroll down the Hudson River Park.  It’s a park that’s a few miles long and overlooks the Hudson River (hence the clever name).

Since I’m a huge Law and Order fan, I wanted to see the Hudson personally, as that always seems to be where Lenny fishes out a body and then makes a funny pun.  Something like “This guy was just dying to get to the water.”

Okay, that’s a horrible example, but I’m not nearly as clever as Jerry Orbach, may he rest in peace.  Ba Bum.

Anyway, moving back on topic…Seriously people, focus.

So we all decided to walk down Hudson River Park.  We wanted to do this partially to enjoy the day, but also partially to see the freak shows at the park, which would make for good entertainment while making us feel better about our own lives at the same time.  It was a win-win.

We arrived at the park and immediately noticed several people dressed in very strange outfits…costumes, really.  They weren’t so much costumes as just random items glued to sheets or the back of cardboard boxes.

Immediately I got a flash back to the year I decided to go as “static cling” for Halloween and I just pinned a bunch of random things to my body.  These costumes had similar effort put into them, but I’m pretty sure they couldn’t blame their poor artistic ability on a five dollar budget and copious amounts of vodka.

clown at parade

There didn’t appear to be a specific theme to the haphazard costumes although we noticed several of them involved fish and the water.  Naturally we assumed these people were crazy, we just didn’t know to which degree.

We weren’t sure if they were “obsessed with Justin Beiber” crazy or if they were “the call is coming from inside the house” crazy.  Either way, we were intrigued and wanted to find out.

We noticed a flyer taped to the pier advertising a parade that was to begin shortly.  Perfect.  These people were obviously part of a larger production and we wanted to see more of it.  And of course, that’s the one day I left my flask at home.  Frick!

Despite our lack of libations, we decided to stay and enjoy the show anyway.  We walked a bit longer and then found a spot in the grass on the parade route.

Just as we were settled in, ready to begin reigning judgment on those in the parade, I heard my husband yell “Oh shit.”  I looked over at him and said “What’s with you?”

At that point he said in a completely monotone voice “A bird just shit all over me.”  Just as I was getting ready to laugh at him uncontrollably, he followed it up with “And it shit all over you too.”

Um, what?!  I was wearing a white sweater that I just purchased for the trip.

Ironically, the new sweater was a direct result of a permanent stain I got on my last white sweater.  (The stain was on the back of the sweater and I have no idea what it is or how it got there.  It will remain a mystery that haunts me…at least until the next unidentified stain crisis.)

I looked over my left shoulder and discovered my husband was correct.  I was covered in bird shit.  The worst part was that it wasn’t even normal bird shit (as if there is such a thing).  This bird has serious diarrhea and needed to learn the importance of a high fiber diet.

It obviously had some White Castle for lunch and was suffering from some serious anal leakage.  (Believe me pigeon, we’ve all been there…)

chick with pigeons

This woman has clearly never been crapped on by pigeons. I guarantee if she had, she wouldn’t be such a fan. Well, maybe she would. This woman looks creepy.

I looked over to our friends to see if they were also ambushed by the diuretic pigeon, but both of them were unscathed by the attack.  How is that possible?

The New Yorkers narrowly missed the shit storm.  Literally.  It was a mini storm of shit.  Perfect.  Of course the bird got me.  Of course it did.

The bird managed to hit two different places on my husband’s head.  Since he shaves his head, (my husband, not the bird.  I can’t comment as to this particular bird’s hairstyle), it was easy for him to clean it off and become poop-free for the rest of the day.  I wasn’t so lucky.

One of our friends told me not to try to clean it off, as he said it would be easier to remove the stain later if I just let it dry.  I wasn’t sure if he was correct.  That logic made sense, but part of me thought he told me that just so I would walk around all day with shit on my shoulder.

Immediately, I began singing John Denver’s “Sunshine  on my shoulder” but changed the lyrics to “Bird shit on my shoulder makes me icky….”

I figured the best way to deal with it was to hold my nose, laugh it off, and enjoy the rest of the day.  And that’s exactly what I did.  I didn’t want to ruin my day because of one pigeon’s case of the trots (or should I say “the flutters” in the case of this bird).

I shook it off and didn’t think about it again.  If people wanted to judge me, so be it.  But the real people they should judge were the people walking around NYC with a girl with bird shit all over her.

matt and lisa outside car

I don’t keep my car tidy.  I don’t even keep it picked up.  Honestly, I have no idea what’s living in my vehicle, but I’m pretty sure there’s enough mold to make at least one dose of penicillin that would kill just about anything (or at least Paris Hilton’s latest bout with the clap).

I would like to have a clean car; believe me, I would.  I just honestly don’t know how to master that feat.  (I guess I should start by not throwing half-used water bottles into the back seat.)

I usually don’t have regular riders in my car.  It’s not just because I prefer to drive alone so I can roll down the window when I get too gassy.  It’s also because my car is a complete disaster.

Those people who know me well just know this about me.  We don’t discuss it, we just agree to take someone else’s vehicle.  It’s kind of like the elephant in the room…or the Hardees bag in the back seat (isn’t that a saying?)

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t drive one of those cars where the trash is piled up so high that there is only a small space for the driver to get in, most likely to drive himself off a cliff during a psychotic episode.  It’s not like that at all (although sometimes I want to throw myself off a cliff when listening to Diane Rhem from NPR).

I can see out my windows and all seats are available…they are just difficult to get to at times. And don’t worry, I got that smell taken care of some time ago.

stuffed carI went on a work trip recently with several of my colleagues.  We all came from different offices to meet in the ever-so-exciting town of Indianapolis.  I decided to drive since it’s easier and there’s no limit to what luggage I bring, and whether my lotion is in a 3 ounce container.

(I also am still on a “heightened alert” list since that recent incident where I may have gotten sassy with a TSA official.  Hypothetically.)

My other colleagues from other offices flew (they are obviously not considered a threat to national security), and then they got a cab from the airport to the hotel.

The night I arrived, I stayed in my room making sweet sweet love to a chocolate mousse cake I ordered from room service, and then told the delivery man I was going to split it with my husband.  I think he knew I was lying, but he played along.

We met in the lobby of the hotel the next morning after I shamelessly scarfed down an omelet and hasbrowns in the comfort of my room, which was a judgment-free zone.  (Yes, I did need to eat the entire omelet, and the hashbrowns and BOTH pieces of toast.  Don’t judge.)

As we sat around waiting for all my colleagues to arrive, one of them said something to me about driving.  Yes, I agreed.  I would be driving myself to the meeting.  I suppose I just didn’t think about how the others would get to the meeting.  Maybe I assumed they would simply arrive without reference to travel, just like Batman.

“No,” Tom Bodett replied.  (Okay, Tom Bodett isn’t his real name, but his voice sounds exactly like Tom Bodett from those Motel 6 commercials.  I like to make him say “We’ll leave the light on for ya.”  He’s never amused with this, although I find it hysterical.)  “We will all be going in your car” Bodett said.

Wait, what?  I felt like he said it in slow motion.  Every thing slowed down and it took me a minute to process what he was saying.  Some of the delay in processing could have been due to the copious amount of Benedryl and Sudafed I had just ingested to mask the misery of my sinus infection.  I was practically a walking meth lab, only without the trailer park and burning hair smell.  (Okay, maybe a little of the burning hair smell.)

“Um,” I responded quickly.  (Yes, that’s the best response I could muster.  I’m not that great under pressure when the sinus pressure in my head could fill up the tire of a small riding lawnmower.)  “You are more than welcome to ride in my car with me, but you can’t judge me for how messy my car is,” I said, silently cursing myself for not even attempting to remove the trash heap in my back seat floorboards.

“It’s no big deal,” Tom Bedett said.  “I live out of my car too.”

Yeah, right.  He obviously didn’t know what he was in for, and I was just too sick to worry about it.  The valet brought my car around and attempted to put my luggage in the trunk.

kid in carseat

He returned to me with an expression of exasperation and exhaustion and I gave him a few extra bucks for his troubles, and told him to speak of the disarray of my car to no one.

I figured a few bucks of hush money was worth it.  I considered telling him to buy himself something pretty, but thought better of it.

We all walked to my car.  I walked slightly ahead of them hoping to get there early to clean out the car.  I don’t know what I thought I would accomplish in the 10 seconds I was there before the others arrived, but I felt like I at least needed to hope for a small miracle.

Perhaps the valet had miraculously cleaned out my car.  No such luck.

I opened the door to the backseat and saw the usual…papers covered in dog hair, bottles of water in varying degrees of consumption, a wadded up comforter for the dogs to sleep on, a variety of dog toys, and random receipts, napkins and Fiber One bar wrappers.

Perhaps what was most embarrassing was the pair of wadded up Spanx that were on the floor in plain site.  They were there from almost a year ago when I spoke at a convention and took them off because I couldn’t breathe and seriously thought they broke one of my ribs.

Those torturous pieces of Spandex remained in my car on the floor, where they were supposed to be.

But at that moment, I wished I would have burned them in a cleansing ritual, just as I would have liked.

I began grabbing things from the backseat and throwing them into the trunk…or at least trying to throw them into the trunk.  My trunk was packed full with briefcases for work, dryer sheets to make the car smell nice, random dog food, dog treats and water bowls, and what was most likely pieces of a wardrobe from every season of the year.

I was able to put a few things in the trunk before announcing to the group that they were going to have to stuff into the car and then hold onto their baggage.  (Not their emotional baggage, although I’m pretty sure at least one of them was holding onto some serious stuff, but that’s another blog for another day.)

You haven’t been embarrassed until you’ve seen your coworkers scrunched in your car, wrinkling their suits with their luggage, and avoiding eye contact with you so they don’t give away their true feelings about how you treat your car like a waste basket.

I felt like I needed to at least point out that although my car was a mess, my house was clean.  Strangely enough, this is actually true.  My house is always clean, tidy and picked up, although my car always looks like a tornado went through it.  I like to think it’s the ying and the yang of my life.

They all piled in the car with their suits and luggage, and although they didn’t say anything, I could actually hear them judging me internally.  I wish I cared.  I really do.

But all I could think about was how much my head actually weighed with the extra pounds of sinus drainage and if the additional pounds were the cause of my recent weight gain.  (It had to be…it definitely couldn’t have been all that room service.)

We arrived at our location and when the doors to the car opened, my coworkers literally fell out of the car with their luggage.  I looked down and one of the empty water bottles escaped the back seat.  It was most likely jumping to freedom and I didn’t blame it.  I looked at my coworkers and reminded them not to judge me and that I was super busy and important, and didn’t have time to clean my car.

They pretended like they didn’t care, but I saw one of them check to see if there was trash clinging to the back of her dress.  (It wasn’t an unrealistic concern.)

I would like to say my coworkers didn’t tell on me and my disgusting car, but I have a feeling they did.  If I get a gift certificate for a car detailing from my employer this year for Christmas, I will know those blabber mouths ratted me out.

code.jpg

I recently went to Austin for a large film festival (and for lots and lots of Tex-Mex).  Seriously, who am I kidding?  I went there for food with the secondary goal of seeing a film or two.

While I was there (and in between meals), I saw several documentaries.  I know, I know, Nerd Alert!!!  I can’t help it, but I seriously love documentaries.  Maybe it’s because they make me feel smart, or maybe it’s because they usually follow someone with a more disastrous life than mine.

Whatever the reason, I saw several while in Austin.  One of the films that caught my eye was a documentary called Code of the West.  It was about Montana and their fight in Congress over whether medicinal marijuana should be legal.

film reelIt sounded interesting and had a legal aspect I knew I would enjoy.  I also secretly hoped they would serve “special brownies” during the viewing, which was another reason I decided to see the film.

I got there early and waited in line for the doors to open.  I looked around and noticed I was a bit out of place.  The others waiting in line to see the film appeared as if they’d already had a sneak preview of the material, if you know what I mean.  (And you stoners definitely know what I mean.)

Most of the other patrons seemed content standing in line staring at the back of their hands, talking about how rad the weather was.  I had a hard time differentiating between which ones were hipsters and which ones were homeless.

I assumed most of them were hipsters, as I didn’t think the homeless would waste their limited funds on a ticket to a film festival, even if it was about pot.

When the doors opened for the film, I went inside and grabbed a seat next to a professorial looking guy.  He looked somewhat normal and I was only 50% sure he wasn’t going to whip out a bong during the film.

I must admit that was part of the reason I chose to sit next to him.   I really wanted to see a man in a blazer with leather elbow pads take a hit off a Snoopy bong.

Yes, I figured he would be the type to have a Snoopy bong.

professor.jpg

The film started and it was actually fairly interesting.  It was well done and fairly portrayed both sides’ position on legalizing marijuana.

However, I was a bit distracted by the tiny, itty bitty glaring problem with the film….the fact that the federal government specifically prohibits the drug.  That small tiny detail wasn’t fully addressed in the film and it left me wondering why.

See what I mean about these documentaries making me feel smart?

So I decided to ask the director at the Q and A after the film.

For those of you not in the know, a Q and A is a question and answer session, not “Quiznos appetizers” which is what I originally thought it meant, and why I stayed.

For some reason, during the Q and A session, the director actually chose me as one of the people to ask a question.

My guess is because I was the only person not wearing a Phish t-shirt and my eyes weren’t squinted and bloodshot (although I was munching loudly on a bag of chips).

When she called on me I asked her if there was a movement on the federal level to legalize marijuana, and if so, what that movement was.

She glared at me and gave me a snotty response that was quite defensive.  She was clearly not happy with my question, although I thought it was a good one, and one an educated person might want to know the answer to.

Apparently I was the only one interested in the answer.

photo credit: mloberg via photopin cc

photo credit: mloberg via photopin cc

It was obvious the director wasn’t prepared to answer questions any more serious than “Does mixing Mt. Dew and M&Ms destroy your buzz?” or “Which Ziploc baggie is the most durable?”  (Although I must admit, these were fair questions.)

I sunk into my seat, embarrassed by her harsh answer. Fortunately I found solace in the bag of chips I had, as did the professor sitting next to me.

When the Q and A was over, we all filed out of the theater.  I was so embarrassed that the director took offense to my question and I wanted to make it right.

In hindsight, I have no idea why I cared what a woman I would never see again thought of me, but I was caught up in the moment.  Perhaps the professor’s “pipe” smoke was getting to me.

I saw the director with a few others selling t-shirts promoting the film.  Perfect.  I decided to buy a t-shirt to show her I supported her film.  I’m not sure why I cared, but I did.  I went up to the stand and asked for a shirt.

I didn’t bother to look at it, as I didn’t care what it said.  I mostly wanted to demonstrate to this stranger that I was hip and cool, even if I had a 401k and was a registered voter.

When I got back to the condo, I pulled out my newest purchase and opened it up.  I expected to see a shirt advertising a documentary about law making.  What I saw was something completely different.  Here is the shirt:

code+of+the+west.png

Yes, that’s correct.  It’s a shirt with a huge marijuana leaf on it that says “Code of the West.”  Nowhere to be found is anything indicating this shirt references a documentary.  Nowhere to be found is any reference to lawmaking or government regulation.  Nope.

Instead, it’s a shirt suggesting the wearer believes that the code of the West is lots and lots of pot.  Great.

And if the front of the shirt didn’t scream “I’m a pothead” the back sealed the deal.  Please note the quote on the back says “Not all outlaws are criminals.”  Um, actually, that’s exactly what they are.  The definition of an outlaw is a criminal and vice versa.  Frickety frick.

I obviously can’t ever wear this shirt in public unless I want my car searched periodically and a cavity search done at the airport.

This is strictly a shirt to be worn in the comfort of my own home…with my Pajama Jeans of course.

old man on vacation with inner tube

I’m back!  I know it’s been more than a week since my last post and you are all anxiously awaiting a new post.  You’re probably wondering things like “What was she doing?” and “Where has she been?”  (these are to be whispered in Gossip Girl voice.)

The answer is that I’ve been on vacation in Austin, Texas, attending South by Southwest (or SXSW for those of us cool people in the know).  It’s a yearly festival in Austin where movies are released, bands are discovered, and hipsters unite for ironic discussions and thrift store sales.  It’s huge.

This was definitely my husband’s trip.  He loves movies and all things cinema, and I love TV and all things Kardashian.  I don’t want to love the Kardashians, but that family is a trainwreck and I can’t look away.  Seriously.  Bruce Jenner’s face literally looks like a train wreck.

So I decided to go to SXSW with my husband because I’m an amazingly awesome wife, and because I knew Channing Tatum would be there.  Don’t judge.  Like you would pass up an opportunity to see those abs?  Yeah right.

Since I don’t enjoy long movies (or anything with Matthew McConaughey), I decided to attend various documentaries instead of mainstream films.  They are shorter than feature films, the lines are shorter, and the people attending them are usually older, so I knew I would feel youthful surrounded by all those AARP cards.

After attending a documentary or two, I remembered how much I love documentaries.  I decided to see as many as I could, so I attended several documentaries, or “docs” as us cool people call them.  Okay, not so much cool people as just me.

I went from theater to theater, realizing there were many things about the world I had yet to learn; like how many different birds can be found in Central Park, or how Jennifer Love Hewitt still has an acting career.

I also realized my “fashionable orthopedic shoes” were the same shoes worn by a 270 pound woman with a mustache and a cat sweater.

After seeing several docs on Saturday, I decided to catch one more before heading back to the condo for an evening of Doritos, M&Ms and Law and Order reruns.  The film I decided to watch was a documentary about the journey of an American school bus to Guatamala, why it went there, and the people whose lives it affected.

school busRiveting, right?  I felt so empowered and knowldgable as I walked to the theater where the film was showing.  I knew I was becoming so well cultured, and even felt a little bit like a hipster.  Before long I would be playing Atari games and calling everything “rad.”

I got to the theater before the movie started, so I stood in line contemplating my near hipster status and wondering if I would look good in skinny jeans.

Just as I realized I couldn’t be a hipster because my wardrobe lacks t=shirts with superheros from the 80s on them, two men approached the line and stood behind me.

They appeared to be intellectuals, and not overly douchey.  I knew we would be standing in line a while, so I struck up a conversation with them.

I also knew I would need to use the restroom soon and didn’t want to lose my place in line.  If I had any hope of regaining my coveted spot, I knew I would have to make nice with the people behind me.

The men were both named John and they were fabulous.  They lived in New York City in what I can only assume was a fabulous neighborhood where people have brunch that doesn’t consist solely of different flavors of Cocoa Pebbles.

Although why would you want something other than that chocolatey goodness on a Sunday morning?

We chatted about various issues, and I realized we were getting along great.  I was totally pulling off the cool hipster vibe, although I was missing the required components of a bandana and an attitude problem.

Either way, I still sounded smart, which made up for the fact that I failed to appreciate just how much deodorant was needed on a hot Texas day. (A lot…you need a lot.)

Once the doors opened, we headed inside to find our seats.  Since I was getting along so well with the Johns (and since I couldn’t wait to sit down), I took the nearest seat next to the John duo and continued gabbing with my new friends.

The theater we were in had regular theater seats, but there was a long table that ran the length of the row.

waitressA waitress serves food and drinks during the movie, all of which are placed on the table.  This amazing theater and their fried goat cheese may have played a role in which documentaries I viewed.

We ordered our food and drinks and waited for the film to start.  Our drinks arrived in what appeared to be 2 Liter glasses filled to the brim.  The film began and our food followed shortly thereafter, also in large quantity.

Naturally, I was happy with the big portions, as I was thirsty from chatting, and hungry from being so charming.

After each film at SXSW, there is a Q and A with the director, producer, etc.  I wasn’t totally feeling the school bus film (it wasn’t as riveting as it sounded), so as soon as the credits came on, I grabbed my stuff and headed toward the door.

The lights weren’t up yet, and the credits continued to roll.  I looked over at my friends the Johns and apologized, but said I needed to go, as I had a very important meeting I needed to get to.

I think they suspected my meeting included a Snuggie and a new episode of 48 Hour Mystery, but they didn’t let on like they knew.

Instead of standing up to let me pass through the area between the seats and the table, they simply pulled their feet back to let me through.  That left me about a foot of space to walk through, which would normally be challenging, but in the dark it was near impossible (for this girl at least).

I tried to scoot out of the row, with my butt facing the Johns and my front and purse facing the table.  And then it happened.  Without warning.  My purse knocked over the 2 Liters of water on the table next to John #1.  It tipped over and spilled everywhere.  The table, the floor, the seat…and worst of all, my pajama jeans.

I looked up, paused, and said the first thing that came to my mind, which was “Yeah, so I totally just did that.”

angry army dudeThe Johns were not amused.  For people who pretended to be so accepting of others, they were pretty judgmental about the blonde in the pajama jeans and orthopedic shoes who knocked over their water with the purse she got free with a purchase at Dressbarn.  Some people are just so snobby.

I didn’t know what to do, so I did the only thing that would make it more awkward than it already was; I left the cup where it was, where it continued to pump out water like a fire hose, mouthed “I’m sorry” and bolted out of the row and out of the theater.

Once outside, I looked down at my wet pants only to discover the water landed in a not-so-desirable spot on my jeans.  Fantastic.  Fortunately, I knew how well my pajama jeans launder, so I knew a little water wouldn’t hurt the fabric.  My pride, yes?  But the fabric?  No.

I walked the several blocks to my rental car and headed back to the condo, continuing to replay the incident in my head.  I had so many questions.  How did I manage to knock the water over?  Why didn’t I stay and try to clean it up?

And perhaps most pressing of all…How was I going to find the Johns and get their numbers?

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.

girl prayingThe other day I had to go to Hannibal for work.  I know, I have a very glamorous job that allows me to go to such exotic places as Mark Twain’s hometown.

In all the times I’ve been there I’ve never seen Huck Finn, although I’ve seen several fences that could use a coat or two of Tom Sawyer’s paint.  I also find it humorous to rock out to Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” whenever I breeze through town.

The locals think I’m a headbanger looking for moonshine, but I get the irony.

It was an especially cold and windy day, which is my favorite kind of day in the Fall.  Not because I like wind or cold; but because I don’t like doing my hair.

I realize these things aren’t logically related, but then again neither are Kim Kardashian and personality, but people seem to continue to believe she’s relevant.

Here’s my logic:  if it’s windy, I can skip out on doing my hair and blame my disheveled appearance on the elements.

Of course, the wind can’t account for my mismatched socks and the stench of Static Guard, but whatever.

This is totally what I look like when I rock out in the car.

This is totally what I look like when I rock out in the car.

I arrived in Hannibal wearing a comfortable dress that went to my mid calf and was a bit flowy.

It wasn’t the nicest dress in the world, nor was it even remotely cute, but it was comfortable to wear in the car, which is my main criteria for attire.

I’m not sure if this makes my standards high or low.

I don’t like to travel in pants, as they dig into my stomach and take the focus away from rocking out in my car to Foreigner during the drive.  Not cool.

“Urgent” and “Hot Blooded” are too good of tunes to allow for distraction.

I got out of my car and walked to the passenger side to get my purse out of the front seat.  As I bent over to move the empty water bottles and Fiber One wrappers out of the way, a gust of wind blew my dress up, exposing my butt and my less than flattering underwear.

It took me a second to realize what happened, most likely because I discovered the remains of a bag of Gummy Bears and I became sidetracked.

But as I felt the cold breeze hit my cheeks, I realized something was not right.

I stood up and quickly pushed my dress down, careful not to drop the last few Gummy Bears.  Now that would be a travesty.

windyExposing myself in public?  Hey, it’s not the first time that’s happened outside a courthouse in a small town….just saying.

As I attempted to gather my thoughts, and my pride, I looked around to see if anyone saw anything.  I was hopeful that wasn’t the case, as it was after 10:00 in the morning so I figured most people would be at their jobs…or at their court mandated community service.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case, as I looked up to see one lone man walking across the street staring at me and smiling.

I knew he wasn’t grinning because of the Gummy Bears I was holding, although they are delicious.  Rather, I knew this guy just saw my butt and my ratty underwear from 5 years ago.

Crap.  Now what?  I thought about my options.  I could apologize to him quickly and hope he didn’t want to press charges, as I couldn’t use (another) indecent exposure charge on my record.

Or, maybe I should just embrace it, take a bow, and offer my autograph, which I  naturally sign as Leza Gibbons.  As I was contemplating which route to go, the smiling man (who I’ve named Gary) gave me a thumbs up.

thumbs up2A thumbs up!!!  What?!

What in the world did he mean with a thumbs up?  Was he suggesting he liked what he saw under my dress purchased from a sale bin in 2007?

Or was he simply giving me a rating, like Siskel and Ebert?  And if so, why was I only one thumb up and not two?

After all, I was working out with a trainer, and I only ate a few Gummy Bears.  The rest of the bag was empty from a previous drive.

Okay, maybe I was only one thumb up, but to Gary I should have been two thumbs for sure!

He looked like he’d had a rough life and the only criteria he had for a woman was that she have all her extremities and that she shave her beard before intercourse.

I was a little confused and very disappointed in his gesture.

I wanted to argue with Gary in an attempt to increase his score, but I knew I needed to go inside and work for a little bit.  Not long, but a little bit.

I grabbed my things and headed to the door, wondering if that was the last I would see of Gary, or if he would be camped outside my car when I returned, waiting to ask me to go to the soup kitchen for lunch.

I also wondered if I would be charged with indecent exposure for this event.  I suppose that’s something only God, and the prosecuting attorney for Hannibal, know.  Until then, I’m wearing pants…or at least cuter underwear.