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

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

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

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

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

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

1.  Eat good food

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

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

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

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

2.  Have as many embarrassing moments as possible

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4.  Dress comfortably

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

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

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

5.  Make financially irresponsible purchases

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

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

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

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

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

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Other Places You Can Find Me On The Internet This Week

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WHY ARE THEY IN RED RAIN COATS?! photo credit: PNG's e etc... via photopin cc

WHY ARE THEY IN RED RAIN COATS?!
photo credit: PNG’s e etc… via photopin cc

I’ve got an addiction and it’s super embarrassing.  No, it’s not an addiction to Fro Yo.  You already know about that.  Plus, it’s written all over my hips.

I’m talking about a television show addiction.  Before I tell you about it, please don’t judge.  Please keep in mind I’ve been home sick and not able to do much, so I’ve turned to the only thing I can to keep me occupied:  Netflix.

I’ve tried other programming.  I really have.  I’ve watched “big girl” shows like “Scandal” and “House of Cards” but those were only the beginning…a gateway if you will.  And now?  Now it might be too late.

I’ve gone off the television deep end.  I can’t stop watching “Pretty Little Liars.”

I’ll give you a moment to let this news sink in.  It’s a bit of a bomb I’ve dropped and I’ll allow time for the dust to settle for you to continue on.  I realize I’m normally sophisticated and regal, which is what makes this especially difficult to absorb.

Believe me, no one is more shocked or embarrassed about this than me.  It’s not at all what I expected.  Maybe in retrospect the signs of addiction were there and I just missed them.

photo credit: paulaenamarie via photopin cc

photo credit: paulaenamarie via photopin cc

Maybe I should have known that an addiction to “Gossip Girl” would lead to other shows.  I don’t know.  Maybe I just didn’t want to see it.

I didn’t stumble upon this addiction without some help from my friend.  Or maybe she isn’t my friend at all.  Pajama Jeans (not her real name) has been trying to get me to watch this for years.  She’s such a pusher.

Just try it once and see if you like it,” she said.  Isn’t that always how they get you?  The first taste is free…or in this case, the whole meal is free because I subscribe to Netflix streaming.

photo credit: nordhofsweden via photopin cc

photo credit: nordhofsweden via photopin cc

Either way, here I am, in the middle of season 1 and wanting more.  I can’t get enough.

Before you judge me too much, remember that this is a show that’s on ABC Family.  You know, the channel that’s brought you other television greats like….well….nothing.

You’re probably wondering if the acting is good.  Not really.  You’re wondering if there are celebrities in it that make it worth while.  Not unless you count that C-list actor Chad Lowe, who hasn’t produced any good acting since he played Becca’s HIV positive boyfriend on “Life Goes On.

photo credit: PNG's e etc... via photopin cc

photo credit: PNG’s e etc… via photopin cc

Yes, I just worked that show into this post.

Maybe it’s the theme song that sucked me in.  It’s catchy and it sticks with me all day long (mostly because I hear it every 45 minutes when a new episode plays).

So judge me if you must, but I can’t help my addiction and I can’t turn back now.  I’ve got too much at stake and I don’t have any other shows to watch.  I’ve got to stick with it.  I need to stick with it.

But don’t even think about confronting me about addiction in public.  I won’t talk about it and I’ll deny the whole thing.  I don’t want to be associated with this ugly addiction.  I will lie, and I will lie convincingly.

Come to think of it, I guess this makes me a pretty little liar too.

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Wanna read more of my stuff?  I’m in these books.  They’re hilarious.

I Just Want to Be Alone

You’ve Got Lipstick on Your Teeth

I’m also on NickMom with these new pieces

What a Phrase Means in Your 20s Versus What it Means In Your 30s

Schedule for Flossing

the (1)It’s the most wonderful time of the year!  Actually, that’s totally not true.  The most wonderful time of the year is summer, when it’s 100 degrees and I’m sporting a glowing tan (and a margarita).

I’m not sure why people think Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year, but I’ll go with it.  It’s an excuse to go to a bunch of holiday parties and stuff copious amounts of desserts from the buffet in my purse.

Don’t think I also don’t do that with liquor.  I totally do.  A flask works nicely to accomplish that task and it’s unassuming when shoved inside your coat pocket.

How did I learn this trick?  My parents.  Duh.  You recall what I found in their pantry.  If you don’t, please read about it.  I’m still chuckling.

Anywhoo…

I know you’ve been fretting about the holidays and what you should buy your favorite blogger.

Me, a-hole.  I’m talking about me.

Because I’m so selfless, I’m going to tell you all the things you should buy me.  I’m  so caring like that.

photo credit: Daniel*1977 via photopin cc

photo credit: Daniel*1977 via photopin cc

Before I give you my list, you’re probably wondering what I’m going to give you in return.

Um, this blog isn’t enough?  A few times a week I write random posts about absolutely nothing.  Isn’t that enough?

It should be.

Without further babbling, here’s a few things I’m demanding requesting for Christmas.  Note:  You don’t have to get just one thing.

Go crazy and get the whole list. The joy it will bring me will be worth it.

A book deal

Lipstick_Co-Author

Okay, so I’m IN this book, but I want a book all to myself! But seriously. You should still buy this one.

Yeah, I’m shocked I don’t have a book deal either.  It isn’t for lack of trying.  I’ve been writing sub-par content for two years now.  You’d think publishers and book agents would be knocking down my door.

If book agents and publishers are pretending to be people putting Chinese take-out menus on my door, then they’re definitely knocking down my door. Otherwise, not so much.

Pajama work pants

Why can’t I dress up yet still be comfortable?  They’ve somehow managed to do this with jeans yet I can’t get a pair of wool blend pants that don’t dig into my belly button?

Someone needs to make that happen.  That someone is you.

Vodka

This is a no-brainer and I’m sure you’ve already purchased this for me.  Good work.  Now go buy another bottle for me.  You know one won’t be enough.

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups eggs

Yeah, it’s Christmas.  I know, but that’s why I want these eggs so badly.

A sweater for Jerry and his Gangsta Gnome Boyz

gangstas in the snowAs you know, I have a gang of gnomes protecting my house and running illegal activities from behind my hydrangia bushes.  It’s the middle of winter now and those thugs are cold.

Jerry, the head gangsta, told me he’d like a hand-knitted sweater for him and his boyz.  Even though they’re dealing hot merchandise, they still get cold at night.

Wow.  I just asked for something that wasn’t even for me.  I’m so thoughtful.  This is yet another reason you should get me everything I want on my list.

What are you waiting for? Get on it.

Until then, I will continue to entertain you with my antics.  Isn’t that the best gift of all?

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

shoes

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

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

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

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

old clockI couldn’t put it off any more; I couldn’t avoid my personal trainer any further.

I was successful in staving him off until the middle of January, which is a fairly long time considering I’m pretty sure my trainer sees my love handles as his child’s college tuition (my flabby arms are most likely a second home at the lake).

I blame my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name) for the return the gym. I was perfectly content getting fatter each day, stuffing my face with Peanut M&Ms and any kind of sour cream based dip. But skinny Pajama Jeans had to throw a wrench in my plan, and a vegetable in my dip.

She texted me last week and asked when I wanted to return to the trainer. As you know, we train together with Marbie, our personal trainer. She is the star pupil and I’m the fat kid in the back throwing spit wads and farting loudly. Seriously. I get gassy when I do squats.

We took a bit of a break over the holidays because we are so important and had several holiday engagements. Since the holidays were over, I wanted to ease back into working with the trainer.

free weightIn my world, “ease back into it” means ignoring all mention of working out and faking a fever when my husband suggests going to the gym. Downtown Christy Brown (DTCB) was agreeable to my suggested course of action. I know this because we discussed it over dessert.

So when Pajama Jeans texted me about when I wanted to return to the gym, I considered telling her I would return to the gym when she stopped looking so adorable in her workout gear. She doesn’t sweat at the gym. She glistens.

I considered telling her I couldn’t return to the gym because I had been diagnosed with a rare condition called phatomothigh (pronounced “fat on my thigh”) but she’s savvy and I was fearful she would bitch slap me and tell me to return to the gym. She has a mean right hook.

So I reluctantly told her I could return to the gym, but not until Saturday. I figured that would give me a good several days of freedom and binging before returning to the torture chamber that is known as the local gym.

We agreed to meet with Marbie for our first return session on Saturday at 10:30 a.m. I liked the time because it would allow me time to sleep in and stuff my face full of donuts before the workout.

What I didn’t think about was the fact that the late morning workout had the opposite effect. It loomed over my head with every step I took that morning, which was basically just a few steps to the refrigerator and back. But still.

As the morning dragged on, I became more and more nervous about my return to the gym. Would I be able to do any of the workouts Marbie assigned? Deep down I knew the answer was no, but then again, I couldn’t do them before I stopped going either.

I also wondered if Marbie would pick up where we left off with the grueling work outs. Would he realize I hadn’t been to the gym in over a month? I was guessing the spare tire around my mid-section would tip him off to that, so I decided to wear a loose fitting shirt.

The dreaded moment arrived and since I couldn’t think of a viable excuse not to go, I grabbed my workout shake and headed to the gym. I was also disappointed in myself a bit, as I was already letting myself down.

blurry treadmillOne of my new year’s resolutions was to be more creative with excuses for not going to the gym, and that morning the only excuse I could come up with was diarrhea, which for me, is just a typical Saturday morning consequence of horrible eating and poor liquor choices.

I got to the gym early and jumped on an elliptical machine to warm up. Okay, I didn’t so much “jump” on it as drag myself onto it ever-so-slowly, secretly hoping I would injure myself in the process.

I realize it sounds strange that I would get to the gym early and begin a workout before my training session, but I had strong reasoning to support it. Since Marbie believes in torturing me, I like to try to control the kind of torture if I can.

I figure if I do some cardio before the workout begins, he will be less likely to make me do sprints and run on the treadmill, both of which result in crying and calling him the devil. So far this tactic has proved successful.

I hit the “quick start” button on the machine and began moving my legs. Um, ow. Within 30 seconds my thighs were burning and I looked down at the settings to see what gym rat had this machine set to previously.

Obviously the machine was on a high setting, which was the cause of my misery. Not so much. When I looked down I noticed the machine was on a normal setting, although I could only assume it was shorting out.

The guy next to me was probably present during World War I and he was running at a speed 3 levels higher than my machine, which was further evidence my machine was broken, and that guy was clearly a robot.

fan blowing streamersAfter a few minutes of elliptical riding, my heart rate was elevated and my spirit was broken.  My breathing pattern was also elevated and I swore I felt heart palpitations.

I was sweating profusely, which was pretty embarrassing considering the scrawny eighth grader on the bike in front of me seemed to be riding for his life without even breaking a sweat.

Judging by his glasses and E=MC2 t-shirt, I suspected the biking was a training regimen to help him outrun the bullies…and puberty.

Although I was bummed about being worn out, I was happy to see that my sweat had begun seeping through my t-shirt so it was visible.  I’d never been so happy for pit stains in my life.  Whew!

This would be proof for Marbie that I was engaging in cardio before my training session (or at least more than the normal cardio I do…which is running to the door from the parking lot because I’m late).

As I fist pumped my good fortune in the sweating department, I noticed Pajama Jeans walk in and head toward the machine next to me.  She looked adorable and I resisted the urge to smack her when she stepped on the elliptical next to mine.

She pointed out green circular stains on her machine, and we both concluded they were vomit from someone’s previous session with Marbie.  We agreed we wouldn’t fall victim to his cardio workout again.  We dug deep and kept going.

Pajama Jeans wanted to chat since we hadn’t seen each other in a while.  Although I was happy to see her, I knew if I spoke too much I would cut off oxygen to my brain and would soon find myself plastered on the floor next to the puke stains.  I focused on my breathing and listened to her talk about what she’d had for breakfast.  It was eggs and sausage on a croissant.  I wanted to kill her.

When it was time to start the training, we got off the machines and headed over to the training area to accept our punishment.  We saw Marbie, who looked surprisingly happy to see us.

girl with ballI assumed we would be greeted with condescension for succumbing to the holiday food temptations, but he seemed genuinely glad to have us back.  This just furthered my belief that he suffers from dementia.

He told us since we hadn’t trained in a while, he would give us a “back to basics” training session.  Woo hoo!  It really was Christmas all over again.  Fine with me.

He told us to grab some weights and we would get started.  We got to pick which weights to use?  Sucka!!!!

I was going to go easy on myself for this first session.  I grabbed 10 pound weights and said a quick thank you under my breath.  The session was going to be cake.

We walked back to meet Marbie, our heads filled with visions of cake and frosting. I also cursed myself for thinking the workout would be cake.  Why couldn’t the saying be something like “the workout will be kale”?

Marbie saw us walking slowly and told us to pick up the pace and start with 15 squat presses.  What?!

devilWhat happened to the easy workout?  I assumed that would entail some walking and maybe a bicep curl or two.  But squat presses?  I suddenly remembered why I referred to him as “diablo” under my breath.

It only got worse from there.  From push ups to ab work to arms, his back to basics training was more of a “make Lisa cry” training.  It worked.  I felt dizzy and exhausted and I definitely regretted the all you can eat buffet that I indulged in for a full week on vacation.

Who am I kidding?  No I didn’t.

By the end of the workout I was drenched in sweat and wanted nothing more than to pass out on the cool gym floor.  I didn’t even care if it was next to the dried puke stain.

As I left the gym, hobbling and dreaming of Bengay, I wondered why I put myself through this torture.

Why didn’t I just eat healthier and then I wouldn’t have to work so hard at getting rid of the extra pounds?

And then I remembered why; because M&Ms and Skittles taste a lot better than lettuce and radishes.

shopping bags and girl in jeansAs you know, my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name) has the amazing item that inspired her namesake, and I’ve been forever jealous.

My jealousy stems not only of the fact that she owns the jeans, but that she looks great in them.  Why are we friends again?

I’m not sure why I’ve never bought a pair myself.  Maybe it’s because I was afraid they wouldn’t be as comfortable as I hoped they’d be, or maybe it’s because I wasn’t up until 2:00 in the morning watching infomercials.  (Wait a minute…yes I was).

Whatever the reason, I’ve been hesitant to buy them.  Then that fateful phone call occurred and everything changed.

Unfortunately, I missed the call.  Isn’t that the story of my life?  I looked at my phone in the middle of the day on Sunday and realized I missed a call from Downtown Christy Brown (not her real name).

She left me a message, so I knew it had to be urgent, as she typically can’t be bothered with modern technology such as voice mail.

I assumed she was calling to tell me about a buy one get one free offer at Baskin Robbins.

I walked towards my closet to grab my sweat pants for my upcoming binge, and listened to the message.

girl with phoneShe sounded out of breath, which I assumed was just excitement about the prospect of double chocolate brownie sundaes smothered in whipped cream.

But she had something else to report:  K-mart had Pajama Jeans!  What?  K-mart?  As in Martha Stewart’s K-mart?

I was puzzled because the infomercials I had seen stated these items were only available through the TV offer and I was confident they wouldn’t lie to me about something so important as comfort.

I told her she must be mistaken, as they couldn’t be found in stores.  She assured me this was the real deal and asked if I wanted a pair.

Really?  Did I want a pair?  What kind of question was that?  That’s like asking if I wanted a second cupcake, or if I’d prefer not to see my personal trainer ever again.  Of course I did!

I was a bit disappointed in her questioning as I thought she knew me better than that.  Clearly the days of stuffing our faces with chocolate lava cake and wishing for expandable waistbands meant nothing to her.   I cherished that time and thought she did too.

I collected my thoughts, telling myself I could drown my misery in a milkshake, and told her I wanted a pair of Pajama Jeans asap!  She said she would buy me a pair and my heart skipped a beat.  Could it be that I would soon be the proud owner of a pair of the famed jeans?

credit card

I knew I needed to have a pair, as I couldn’t be the only one of my three closest friends that didn’t have them.  After all, I was a bit of a trendsetter.  People looked to me for the newest fashion and style updates.

I was like Vogue magazine for our friends, only I didn’t smell like perfume samples, nor did I find myself wearing a cocktail dress while perched on the top of a mountain holding a designer purse looking like I hadn’t eaten in months.

Wait a minute, perhaps I was more like the Mad magazine of our group.

Whatever.  I had to have the jeans.

DTCB called me after the purchase to advise she had them in her possession. I  told her to come to my house immediately or risk termination of our friendship.

I knew with such high stakes, she would make it to my house in record time, despite her bad driving and jerky automobile.

She arrived quickly, and my dogs alerted me to her presence by barking when she got about a half mile away.  I could barely contain my excitement.  This was better than Christmas! I got exactly what I wanted and didn’t have to sit through an hour of Christmas carols and Aunt Betty’s gallbladder stories.

blurry shot of jeansSomeone needs to tell that woman to lay off the fiber.  Seriously.

As DTCB opened the door to my house, I swear a ray of light shone down on her and I heard a chorus of angels singing.

It may have actually been my porch light and the sound may have been my dogs’ incessant barking, but whatever.  Don’t detract from my moment.

She came in holding the bag as if it was a delicacy, and in some ways it was.  Could it be possible that a pair of jeans could be cute yet comfortable?

I figured it was just a myth, like Bigfoot, or honest politicians.  But there they were, waiting for me to find out.

I opened the bag and saw them in all their glory, folded in the cardboard packaging.  At first I wondered why they were in cardboard, but then realized that some of my favorite things come in cardboard containers.

NOT: My favorite things aren’t raindrops on roses or whiskers on kittens, although I wish they were. If those things brought me joy I wouldn’t cringe every month when the credit card bill arrives.

guy in jeans with dogSome of my favorite things allow me to be lazy and entertained, which is the best way to be.  Items such as  TVs and blue ray players allow for this, and they come in cardboard boxes, as do refrigerators and boxes of cereal.

It only seemed appropriate that something so amazing as Pajama Jeans would come in the same packaging as frosted Lucky Charms (they’re magically delicious after all).

I couldn’t contain my excitement anymore, and the jeans I was wearing were digging into my stomach causing an indentation, so I ripped open the box and took out the jeans.

I looked them over and was excited to discover they looked like real jeans, just as the infomercial boasted.  I ran (okay, walked) to my bedroom to try them on.

I slipped them on and immediately felt more comfortable.  They were perfect.  And there was a drawstring!  A drawstring!  You know something is comfortable when it has a drawstring.

I emerged from the bedroom and modeled the jeans to DTCB and my husband (who couldn’t care less about the purchase).

They were comfortable and fashionable all at the same time.  It was at that moment I realized that anything is possible.

If I can find a pair of jeans that are more comfortable than lounge pants, then anything is attainable.  So maybe I could lose that 100 pounds in a few days time.  If not, I will still be comfortable in my Pajama Jeans.

And maybe this means I can stop shopping in the maternity section of Target.  Well, let’s not get crazy…

Last week I went to a soiree fundraiser.  Yes, a soiree.  I’m a big deal.

I may not know how to pronounce the word soiree, but the way I pronounce it is “open bar” and I like the way that sounds.

This soiree was a fundraiser for a local dog rescue group, so naturally I was interested.

The fact that it included food, drink, and a doggie fashion show was an added bonus. I want to dislike dogs in costumes but I can’t.  They’re adorable.  It’s the same way I feel about Dakota Fanning

Because I’m so important, I obviously needed an entourage for this event, although Turtle was nowhere to be found.  Pajama Jeans and Downtown Christy Brown (not their real names) and I went together and left our husbands at home to miss us.  Hopefully they would fold the laundry).

car on roadThe attire was cocktail, and as I’m a pro at cocktail parties, I knew it would be fine.  You are probably asking yourself “Has she gone to 2 cocktail events in the last 6 weeks?”  Why yes, yes I have.  Didn’t I tell you I was a big deal?

DTCB drove us to the event, and the entire way there her car would lurch forward randomly and make very uncomfortable sounds.  I wondered why she was driving like an 85 year old blind woman when she told me she needed an oil change.

After further investigation on my part, I discovered that what she meant by “oil change” was that she needed actual oil added to her car.

Because I’m a good friend, I wanted to distract her from the upsetting sounds her car was making, so I decided to fill the inside of the vehicle with noxious gas…my own.

I must admit it was quite pungent and did the trick, as soon the focus was on gasping for air and not on the jerky vehicle.  Mission accomplished.  My friends are so lucky that I’m so caring.

We arrived at the event and the valet guy was more than enthusiastic about parking our car, that is of course, until he got inside and the smell burned his nostrils.

guy holding stop signAs he directed DTCB to drive into the valet position he locked eyes with her and used hand gestures to move her closer to him.

When we were fairly certain were centimeters away from crushing his femur, he dramatically pulled his arm down in a strong motion, signalling “stop.”

Clearly this guy was a drama-major working the valet for an extra few bucks.

We headed inside and found our assigned table.  We were happy to discover it was up front, located next to the stage where the fashion show would take place.  Didn’t I tell you I was important?

We were unhappy to discover it was far away from the bar.  I understood it was a charity function and they didn’t want to lose all their money on my vodka addiction, so I didn’t fault them for making me walk a bit to get my fix.

We headed over to the drinks and I gave new meaning to bellying up to the bar.  I wasn’t wearing Spanx  because they are dreadful, so my stomach was hanging out, and I knew the only way to mask it was to douse it in liquor.

Oh wait, that’s the way I help myself forget about it.  Whatever, I didn’t have to look at myself all night, my friends did.  Suckers!

oliveIt’s no secret that I’m a vodka girl.  I love it.  I swear I would bathe in it if it wasn’t so expensive.

I will also admit that I am a bit of a vodka snob.  I like the top shelf stuff and I don’t mind paying extra for it.  The lack of hangover the next day more than justifies my bar tab the night before.

The bartender asked me what I wanted and I asked him what kind of vodka he had.  I expected him to provide me the names of several top shelf brands, but instead, he told me he had Seagrams.

Seriously?!  Was this bartender kidding me?

How could he tend bar if he didn’t know the difference between vodka and whiskey?  They aren’t even the same color!

I told myself he was color blind, as that was the only way I could excuse his behavior.

I reminded him that Seagrams isn’t vodka, and it seemed as if this was a revelation to him….like discovering that Captain Morgan isn’t really a captain, and that Ru Paul isn’t really a girl.

His response solidified my initial belief that this guy was someone’s paroled cousin who just got out of prison for cooking meth in his pick up truck, and this was a job he could report to his parole officer.  (Hey, I watch Oz).

bar stoolsI asked him again what kind of vodka he had, all the while giving him an ocular pat down to ensure he wasn’t sporting a weapon of any kind.  He pointed to various flavored vodkas in a brand I’d never heard of.

He tried to convince me it was a new brand but it was “all the rage.”  Um, did he think I wouldn’t know my vodka brands?  Vodka I know.  There was no such new thing.

It was probably something he cooked up in his basement now that his meth lab was on hold, at least until after his probation period ended.

My head was hurting with all this knowledge I was imparting on the felon, so I told him I would take a cherry flavored vodka with water.

He poured my drink and handed it to me in a cup the size of the Dixie cups at pre-schools everywhere.  Really?

I realized this was a charity event, but the price of the ticket was the approximate cost of 2 tires so I figured I’d at least get some top shelf vodka in something other than a sippy cup.

It was not to be.  Fortunately for me I have no shame (or class), and I promptly ordered another one “for my husband.”

Seriously, can you see the size of my drink?  Tiny

We walked around looking at the auction items and I spotted something I wanted.  I wrote down a bid and decided to watch it the rest of the night to see if anyone else would bid on it.  I mingled and talked to people, all the while keeping my eye on the prize.

Then I ran into a few of my friends who were also headed to the bar. I didn’t tell them it was my third trip, although they suspected it was when the bartender handed me my drink…before I ordered it.

auction bidsOne of my friends is a bit of a local celebrity.  I know….how cool am I?  She was emceeing the event, so she wasn’t drinking.  I decided I would drink her share of liquor.

We began talking and I had two drinks in my hands, as I didn’t want to run low on the precious substance.  Since I’m incapable of talking without my hands, I began flailing my hands about and spilled vodka on the floor.

GASP!  I was devastated.  Not necessarily about the loss of liquor, but that I would have to return to Jailhouse Rock to get another one.

My celebrity friend grabbed some napkins and cleaned up my spill, all the while silently asking herself why she was friends with me in the first place.  I’m sure it’s for the street cred.

The night continued and the food wasn’t that great, although the dessert was amazing, and that’s all that mattered.

After dessert, it was announced that the silent auction would be closing soon.  I stumbled back over to the auction table and made sure my bid was the last bid on the item I wanted.

It wasn’t, and I saw a guy writing in his bid under mine.  Whatever.  There was still time.  I stood back for a few minutes and then swooped in and wrote in a new bid about a minute before the auction ended.

shock.jpgIt was then announced that the silent auction was over, and I looked down to see I had won the item I wanted.  Woo hoo!

As I did my victory dance (being careful not to spill my drink), I looked up to see the guy who outbid me last time writing in a bid.  Oh no he didn’t!!!  The auction was over.

I spoke up and asked why he was writing in a bid when the auction was clearly over and I had won.  He pretended not to hear me, but I could see him holding his head in shame.

How dare he steal that item from me?  I mean, he paid for it, but whatever.  Some people have no class.

Shortly after losing the auction, we left.  I was devastated about losing and our feet hurt from our heels.  We found the drama major and had him pull our car around.  We tipped him with enough money for him to buy some new mascara, and we headed home.

As we rode back to my house, the car jerking forward and backward at random times, we decided that although we had dinner and dessert, we were hungry.

We hit up McDonald’s where we definitely looked a little overdressed.  We tried to convince the employees we were high rollers and just came from a soiree, but the fumes and smell coming from DTCB’s car told a different story.

I’m waiting to see all the pictures from that night and I know some of them will be posted on line.  I will scour the web looking for the identity of the person who broke the rules and outbid me on the auction item, and then I will send him a bottle of flavored Seagrams vodka.

It seems like the perfect gift for that idiot, and I know just the ex con who can make the delivery.

nutcracker.jpg

Somehow, I manage to stumble upon great things.  Not necessarily because I’m worthy of them (although I’m clearly very important), but mostly just because I think I’m lucky, and most likely people feel sorry for me.

Some people don’t like being pitied, but if my mess of an appearance makes people want to give me something for free, then pity away!

Tonight I went with my friends Downtown Christy Brown and Pajama Jeans (not their real names) to see the Moscow Ballet perform The Nutcracker.  We somehow managed to score amazing tickets to the performance, and although they were high dollar tickets, we got them for free

ballet dancersYou know, cuz we’re awesome and stuff.

Because the three of us can’t seem to do anything the right way, getting to the theater was a bit of a mess.  Here’s a breakdown of our timeline.  Please note that the show started at 7:00 p.m.

4:15-6:28 p.m.:  I teach an orientation class at the rescue shelter where I volunteer.  I had to finish with the class a little early so I could change at the shelter and get to the theater.

I feel a little like Clark Kent changing into Superman, only there isn’t a phone booth and the only super power I have is my ability to clear a room with my pungent gas.  It’s a gift.

I hum the Superman theme song as I change.

I change out of my shelter clothes, which smell of dog poo, dog hair and sweat, and change into my dressy clothes, which only smell of sweat and and dog hair.  It is an improvement.

As I walk through the shelter in my change of clothes, I see looks of surprise from several of the volunteers.  I’m not sure any of them ever saw me in a dress before, and the look is clearly quite shocking to them.

girl playing dress upI also think one of the volunteers was convinced I was a man until he saw me in a dress, as I always have my hair up, no make up on, and I talk to the dogs in a manly voice.

I think it makes me sound authoritative.

6:29 p.m.:  I receive a text from DTCB saying she will be late to meet us.  Duh.  She’s always late.  She doesn’t ever need to announce it, as it is assumed.

It would be like Paris Hilton telling us she is a slut-whore, or Richard Simmons announcing he’s gay.  We just know.

6:32 p.m.:  I arrive at our meeting location the same time Pajama Jeans arrives.  We chat about the upcoming ballet and take bets on what time DTCB will actually arrive.

The over/under is 7 minutes.

6:37 p.m.:  DTCB comes speeding around the corner to pick us up.  We follow her car to a secure parking lot so we can ride together and leave our cars in a safe location.

I’m pretty sure I have enough random water bottles and granola bars in there to feed the homeless, so I know my car would be a prime target for theft.  I also have the entire CD collection of Garth Brooks’ Greatest Hits, which is doubly enticing.

parking lot16: 42 p.m.:  We arrive at the secure parking lot, only DTCB leads us to the wrong one so we have to move.

6:44 p.m.:  We arrive at the proper parking lot, throw our cars into park and get into DTCB’s car.  She is blaring Christmas music and is full of the holiday spirit.

She is also full of Subway, as she stopped there on the way to meet us.  Fortunately, she got us sandwiches and chips, so we are happy.  Yet another reason we are friends.

6:47 p.m.:  Pajama Jeans and I inhale our sandwiches and chips while DTCB drives around downtown looking for the parking garage for which we have a VIP pass.

Let me remind you of DTCB’s driving style.  It’s jerky, and the car literally jerks forward and then backwards.  It’s not so much because she drives badly, but because her car is lacking a key ingredient:  oil.

So as she navigates the streets, jerking to and fro, Pajama Jeans and I inhale our dinner of carbs in approximately 5 bites, trying not to choke as we are thrown about the vehicle.

oil container6:51 p.m.:  We are driving around looking for our VIP parking spot. We are hoping to see signs, perhaps in flashing lights with our names on them.  No such luck.

Instead, we find ourselves driving the same 3 city blocks, passing the same 3 homeless men who clearly think we were drunk, or scoping the place out for a drive by.

6:54 p.m.:  Still driving around looking for our parking spot and beginning to think there’s no such thing as a VIP parking spot.

6: 57 p.m.:  I force DTCB to pull over so I can ask for directions to our super secret parking spot.  I instruct her to pull over in front of the theater so we can ask for directions.

She jerks the car forward and pulls in front of the theater….to the one spot where not a single person is standing.  I look at her in awe and ask her who she wants me to ask for directions.

She takes a minute to realize her error, and then pulls forward to a place where people are located.

6:58 p.m:  The screeching breaks from the car alert the police officer standing outside the theater, and he looks over to discover three women in a car without oil.

I can see the look of pity on his face as I ask him where the super secret VIP parking is located.  He tells us it’s the valet and points us in the proper direction.  I thank him and wait for DTCB to drive away.  No such luck.

valetShe sits and stares at me until I remind her the best way to get to the parking spot is to physically drive there.

6:59 p.m.:  We pull up to the VIP valet where we are greeted by a gentleman who clearly thinks we are lost.  He walks over to DTCB’s car, which is a fine automobile, but not nearly the caliber of vehicles which he is accustomed to parking.

He asks us where we are going and we show him our VIP pass.  He inspects it closely, as it’s clear he believes it to be a fake.  Once he’s satisfied, and confused, he takes the keys and the car.

He notes the discarded Subway wrappers strewn about the car and figures his tip from this car will be less than good.

7:00 p.m.:  We walk up the steps to the theater.  I realize I have crumbs all over my dress from inhaling my sandwich, and I attempt to brush them off, which only seems to grind them into my sweater dress, making their presence permanent.

I figure it’s okay since I forgot a necklace.

old elevator button7:01 p.m.:  We enter the VIP entrance where we are immediately questioned and told we are in the wrong place.

I’m sure my crumb-stained dress and the mayonnaise on my face didn’t necessarily scream VIP status.  We flash our VIP tickets and watch the look of surprise rush over the guards, who let us through.

7:02 p.m.:  A guard ushers the three of us to a private elevator where we are greeted by our own elevator attendant.

We immediately check our phones to ensure we didn’t time warp back to 1952, and then proceed.

Our elevator attendant, Maguy, greets us warmly and presses the button to take us to our seats.

I expected this elevator to be difficult to work since it clearly required an attendant to operate it, but it was a normal elevator, although Maguy pressed that button like a pro.

7:03 p.m.:  We arrive on the proper floor and exit the elevator where we are met by a large woman who immediately suspects we are crashers.

I’m sure my lingering smell of dog shelter and onions didn’t help substantiate our legitimacy.

We show her our tickets and she doesn’t even try to hide her surprise.  I’m pretty sure I hear her mutter under her breath “What is our world coming to?  These people are VIP?”

security pad7:04 p.m.:  She adorns us with VIP wrist bracelets and tells us we have access to the lounge where there is free food and drinks.  WHAT?!  Our VIP status allowed us to have free food and drink before the show?

How could I have missed that?  The bittersweet news washes over us and we agree to go to the restroom before hitting up our seats.

We are directed to a VIP restroom that is empty, as only VIPs are allowed to use it.

I expect to see velvet couches and men wearing loin cloths to be waiting for us in the restroom.  No such luck.

7:06 p.m.:  We head to our seats, passing through a few secure areas.  Every guard we pass looks confused at our presence and even more confused by our VIP status.

Obviously three girls smelling like farts and sub sandwiches aren’t the norm at these events.

7:07 p.m.:  We make it to our seats and discover they are in the VIP section with tables for drinks, and we are doubly mad because this is just a reminder that we could have had all the drinks our hearts desired had we been there earlier.

ballet dancer stretching7:12 p.m.:  DTCB whispers to me and asks to see my program.  Despite the fact she’s had the program a total of five minutes and walked a total of 20 yards, she’s managed to lose her program.

I hand it over and apologize that it’s wet from the Diet Coke bottle that spilled in my purse.

8:17 p.m:  Intermission arrives and we head to the VIP lounge to see what goodness will be there.  We are stopped by three different guards who are all convinced we are crashing the lounge.

We arrive and discover the lounge has cake pops and drinks ready for us.  Amaze-balls.

I grab two and head to a table to stuff my face.  I figure if I can down two before more people trickle in, I can get another two and pretend they are my first two.

And that’s exactly what we all did.  The cake puffs are delicious, although after the fourth one, my stomach feels a little uneasy.

It settles once I got another complimentary drink from the bar.

cocktail with fruit8:32 p.m.:  We return to our seats to watch the rest of the performance, drinks in hand.  Pajama Jeans is rocking a kiddie cocktail, but she looks so fancy doing it.

DTCB comments on the pretty costumes and advises her favorite part of the ballet is the tiara the woman is wearing.  She seems mesmerized by the glitter and goes into a bit of a trance.

It also could have been a food coma…I’m not sure.

9:18 p.m.:  The ballet ends and we push our way to the VIP section once again to see what other free goodies we can find.

We are disappointed to discover there are only drinks available, and no additional food.  I scold one of the guards who told me earlier that they would have desserts after the show.

I call her a liar and tell her I will be reporting her to her superiors.  She offers me a breath mint, which is either an attempt at kindness or a suggestion that I shouldn’t have onions on my sub.

I decline.

9:19 p.m.:  We head to our private VIP elevator and are escorted to the main level by Maguy, who has become even more of a pro operating the elevator.

ballet dancers10:04 p.m.:  I arrive home expecting someone to open the door for me and greet me with a warm washrag.  I’ve adjusted to my VIP status quite nicely.

Instead, I’m greeted by three rambunctious dogs and a husband wearing only lounge shorts and a pair of black socks.

I consider reminding him of my VIP status, but don’t want to make him feel inferior, so I don’t.

Please don’t be jealous of my amazing VIP status.  I realize it’s very intimidating, but I can’t help that I’m super important.

In the future, I would like to be addressed as a VIP and will demand to sit in the VIP section wherever I go.

I’m pretty sure this demand won’t be met, as the Country Kitchen I like to hit up on Friday nights has open seating.

This is NOT my stomach.

This is NOT my stomach.

I will admit I have let myself go.  I don’t mean in the personal hygiene department.  I still shower and floss regularly. Well, maybe not totally regularly.

What I mean is that I have let myself go in the weight category and have gained some serious pounds.  My friends tell me “it’s happy weight” in that I have gained weight since I got married because I’m living in such marital bliss.

This suggests that happiness requires me to fill my stomach with carbs.  Wait…it kind of does.

I don’t care if it’s “happy weight” or not, the result is the same: pants that dig into my stomach and a flirtation with the plus size area of the mall.

Interestingly, this area is strategically located next to an Auntie Anne’s.

In an effort to shed this “happy weight”, which does anything but make me happy, I’ve recently started working out with a personal trainer. I see him twice a week where he tortures me and makes me regret every single delicious thing I’ve eaten.

I kind of think he enjoys watching me suffer.  I share this training experience with two of my closest friends: Downtown Christy Brown and Pajama Jeans (not their real names).

scale5I figure if misery loves company, then complete agony must love a crowd, which is why I’m glad to share my pain with my friends.

After tonight’s horrendous workout, Downtown Christy Brown (DTCB) and I headed to our favorite place…Chipotle.

Pajama Jeans was out of town, and since she’s the fittest of the three of us, I think Marbi was irritated he was left with the two “chunky girls” so he worked us extra hard.

We decided to celebrate our good workout with salads from Chipotle.  I figured I would sit next to someone eating a burrito and ask them if I could just smell it.

We grabbed our salads and headed outside to discuss our workout regimen and the various ways we wanted Marbi to suffer.

At first, we felt bad about ourselves, but the more we got to talking about it, we realized being the fattest person at the gym is actually a pretty good thing.  In fact, it’s amazing!

So here are a few reasons why DTCB and I think it’s best to be the fattest person at the gym.

1.  Everyone has low expectations of you

down arrowNo one expects you to crank out a five-mile run on the treadmill or bust out a ton of reps with weights.  They’re just happy you finally took the step to take your fat butt to the gym.

The fact you showed up and used the gym membership you’ve been paying for is good enough for the regular gym-goers.

They don’t expect much from you, so any type of exercise is impressive to the hard bodies and their judging eyes.

2.  People automatically look out for you

look outSince you most likely have blood comprised of at least 50% milkshake, the regular gym members are concerned about your ability to work out…or even to walk the steps to get to the gym.

Seriously.  What gym puts steps to the entrance?  My gym does.

I’ve found fit people keep an eye on me as the fattest person in the gym to make sure I don’t hurt myself or pass out from overexertion.

Passing out would most likely occur before the workout started, as those lockers are difficult to open.

It’s nice to know that if I had a heart attack, or passed out from lack of oxygen, the fit people at the gym would know it and take care of it immediately.

3.  People will give up a machine for you

treadmillOther gym-goers look at you with pity as their eyes ask why you couldn’t just say “no” to the frosted donuts.  Although this may seem like a bad thing, it can be used to your advantage.

When all machines are full, there’s always someone in great shape willing to sacrifice a machine just to give you a chance at a little bit of a workout.

Granted, they may be giving up the machine because they know there’s no way you will use the machine for more than five minutes without experiencing heart palpitations.

Whatever.  Chivalry is not dead at the gym when you’re the fattest one there.

4.  You can stare at the good looking people and they won’t notice it

gym peopleUsually, there’s good eye candy at the gym.

My gym is comprised of old people and the junior high track team, so unless you have a fetish, there isn’t much to look at where I go.

But, if you are the fattest person at a gym with people who haven’t yet hit menopause, you’re in luck!  You can stare at the best looking people at the gym and you won’t be “that creepy person” or “the one I had to get the restraining order from.”

The good looking people with the rocking abs are just happy you’re at the gym, and are hoping you are looking to them for inspiration, or a tutorial on how to use the equipment.

It’s a free pass!

5.  The gym gives you free water

water bottleSpeaking of free, as the fattest person at my gym, I always seem to get a free water.

Maybe it’s because I look like I’m going to pass out, and the gym wants to avoid a lawsuit, but more than once I’ve been offered a water “because you look like you need it.”

Score.  My dehydration finally pays off!

6.  You get more personal space in the classes

Sometimes the aerobics and Zumba classes can get a bit full and space is limited in the room.  But, as the fattest person in the class, you can get just a little extra room on the workout floor.

This is definitely the case with me. Maybe it’s because people are worried I will pass out and fall on them as I head to the ground, or maybe they just don’t want to hear my panting and cursing under the breath.

I don’t care why no one wants to stand close to me, I’m just glad for the extra space.  Personally, I think it’s just because no one wants to stand by the fat girl.

7.  You get a “complimentary” sweat towel

woman with towelBecause I love free stuff, I’m especially happy about this perk.  At my gym, if you want a sweat towel you have to pay for it.  But, when you’re the fattest person at the gym, they give you one for free.

I think it’s because I sweat profusely all over the weight machine after only three reps of five pounds, and they don’t want my fatty perspiration all over the machine.

Maybe they’re afraid my love of cheeseburgers is contagious and can be contracted through my sweat.

I don’t care why I get the towel.  A free towel is a free towel, and it saves me from bringing my own, which means less laundry for this girl.

8.  Everyone around you is attractive and easy on the eyes

dog lookingIf you are the fattest person at the gym, no one looks worse than you.

Although this may sound like the kind of thing that would send someone running (or driving) to Dairy Queen for a large Blizzard, it’s actually a good thing.

It means that every single person that you see at the gym has a good body and looks better than you.  No one wants to look at the fat person…and you don’t have to…because that fat person is you!

The thin people are the suckers because they have to watch your fat jiggle on the treadmill for the five minutes you’re on it.  They’re the ones who have to cleanse their eyes after a workout…not you.

So there you have it fatties:  All the reasons why being the fattest person at the gym isn’t so bad.  I know I feel better about it.

So go have a Hostess 100 calorie pack (or three) and know that although your pants might not fit and you might have a permanent wedgie, you have it made at the gym!

woman doing downward dogIn an effort to prove to the world I’m actually mature and grown up, and to counter the fact that I eat children’s cereal for breakfast, my husband and I decided to increase our life insurance policies.

Well, that was my thought anyway.   Maybe he wanted to increase the amount so he could off me and turn the basement into a man-cave with the insurance money.  He knows my dead body is the only way he’s getting his man-cave.

Regardless of the reason, we decided to increase our life insurance policies.  I called our broker and was advised we would have to undergo physicals and blood tests since we were increasing the amounts.

Don’t go getting ideas about offing me blogger fans!  It’s not that big of a policy!

I left the task of scheduling our physicals to my dear husband. Sometimes I like to give him tasks so he feels important.  He told me he scheduled the appointments for Wednesday morning.  He told me this on Tuesday afternoon, after I stuffed my face with a cheesy salad and a personal pizza.

I knew I couldn’t drop 100 pounds in less than 24 hours, at least not without an extremely strong laxative and a 24 pack of toilet paper.  However, I was delusional enough to think I might be able to give the doctor the appearance I lived a healthy lifestyle.

blood pressureI was determined to do so, but knew I couldn’t do it without the help of my friends.

First up, I called my friend Downtown Christy Brown (not her real name).  She is usually my go-to friend when I need to drown my sorrows in cheesecake, or when I need to celebrate with cheesecake.

She’s pretty much my go-to friend whenever food is involved, which let’s face it, is all the time.

I knew if I wanted to win her over to help me get healthy for one night, I would have to bribe her with food.  I called her and started off by telling her that I wanted to hang out and get dinner that night.

After she finished devouring the candy bar she was noshing on, she agreed to grab dinner with me.  Perfect.  Then I went in for the kill.

I told her the price was that we had to exercise before our dinner….it was paying the piper of sorts.  Like the work before the reward.  It was as if I had punched her in the face.

I had to call her back at that moment because we mysteriously got disconnected.  It was strange because I swore I heard profanity in the background just before the disconnect.

measuring tapeShe said she would agree to my terms for dinner, but that we had to go somewhere extremely fatty after the work out.

I knew I had to eat a healthy dinner if I wanted to convince the doctor my stomach rolls were water weight and not vats of queso dip, but I didn’t want to give her even more bad news.

So, I did what any good friend would do.  I lied.  I agreed that we could work out and then get a fatty dinner.  She was on board.

I then called my friend Pajama Jeans for further support, hereinafter referred to as “PJ” (not her real name).  PJ is one of my thin friends whose thigh is the size of my right arm, and who thinks a belly roll is some kind of exercise you do at the gym, not what hangs over my pants.

As if her being thin wasn’t offensive enough, she is also adorable, which makes me want to punch her in the perfectly complected face.  Despite all of these downfalls, I like her anyway, and I try to look past these obvious flaws.

Instead of telling PJ that I wanted to get together to eat, I lead with the exercise part, and said I wanted to work out with her.

dog with leashShe was ecstatic that I wanted to get together and work out, but probably not because she wanted to hang out, but because she’s sick of looking at my flabby thighs at the pool.

She asked which kickboxing class we would be attending, and I broke the news that although I wanted to inflict bodily harm on someone, I advised that physical violence would have to wait for another day…or at least until after I had a few drinks.

As I knew going to the gym might actually kill me, I suggested we ease into the workout with a walk in the park.

I was hoping it would be better than a rigorous workout at the gym and would be like…well…a walk in the park.  She was agreeable.

DCTB came to my house and we drove to PJ’s house together.  DCTB had a skip in her step and a smile on her face, as she dreamed of pizza and wings.  I thought I could actually see mini T-ravs in her eyes.

We arrived at PJ’s house where she greeted us by bouncing out of her house in tiny yoga pants and an adorable tank top.

She walked up to us just as I successfully convinced DCTB that punching PJ for her cuteness wouldn’t get us any closer to eating dinner.

salad and tongsWe began our walk, and within 30 seconds, DCTB and I were sweating like crazy and panting like dogs.  PJ, on the other hand, appeared to be glistening as the sun bounced off her toned arms.

I decided I wanted to do a kickboxing class with her at a later point, as I wanted her to be my sparring partner so I could hopefully give her a bruise or two.

The three of us walked for an hour in the heat, which was no small feat for two of us.  PJ seemed unaffected by the walk and was ready to start doing lunges, as she thought the walk was just the warm up.

DTCB and I let PJ know we were done with the workout for the day (and for the week), and we were ready to leave and commence eating.  PJ was agreeable, as was DTCB, who was ready to dominate some nachos.

It was then that I told DTCB that we needed to eat something healthy so my blood test in the morning wouldn’t consist of two parts grease and one part cheese.

She was not happy, but at that point she was hungry and too weak to argue.

woman sleepingWe agreed on Bread Co and got salads, which DTCB and I inhaled in 3 minutes flat.  We sat and chatted while PJ ate her meal, all the while wishing we ordered a pastry for dessert.  DTCB suggested we get some frozen yogurt to reward ourselves, but I strenuously objected because of the blood test.

I was actually fairly proud of myself for saying no and decided I would reward myself the next morning with a milkshake (after the blood test, of course).

I headed home and spent the rest of the evening trying to sleep and ignore the hunger pains.

I couldn’t sleep so I tried to talk to my husband, but we couldn’t hear each other over our rumbling tummies, so we gave up and went to sleep, starving and irritable.

We got up early and got ready for work and waited for the doctor to appear at our house to do the physicals.

too lateHe told us we couldn’t eat in the morning so my husband and I sat around the house waiting, talking about all the cereal we were going to eat once the blood was drawn.

Our appointment time came and went, all the while the hunger pains becoming more intense.  Then, my husband broke.  He headed to the kitchen and I heard the familiar sound of cereal hitting the bowl.

I asked him what he was doing, to which he replied that he was doing “what he had to do.”  I heard the sweet sound of milk hitting cereal and knew I was a goner too.   I caved and ate cereal with my husband.  It never tasted so good.

We both left for work, realizing the doctor wasn’t coming and our physical wasn’t going to happen.

Apparently there was a mix-up and the doctor thought he was doing the next morning instead.  Later that day, when the error was discovered, we agreed we wouldn’t reschedule the physical for a while longer.  We were still irritable from the 12 hour fast, and my feet weren’t ready for another bout with PJ and her zeal.

So, we are holding off on increasing our life insurance for now, mostly because we don’t want to go without our Frosted Mini Wheats.  Here’s to hoping we don’t get hit by a truck in the meantime, well….unless it’s a donut truck…