I’m not a huge hockey fan, but what I am a fan of is dimples and a sexy butt. (This is one of the primary reasons I married my husband.) I don’t follow hockey regularly.  If I want to watch two people beat each other up, I’ll just watch my neighbors get into it across the street.

Plus, the hot dogs and beer are cheaper at my house.

However, as a St. Louis resident, I know I should at least be able to identify the regular players on the St. Louis Blues hockey team. It’s not so much to talk to them about hockey, but to reserve judgment if they talk to me and (1) sound hoosier and (2) are missing teeth.

One of the most dreamy of the St. Louis Blues is the assistant captain, Alex Steen. Yummy.

I feel like I should insert some lame joke here about how I wouldn’t mind melting the ice with that hottie, or make some inappropriate comment about a word that rhymes with puck.

But I’m classy, and you expect more from me out of a blog post, so I won’t stoop to that level.

steen.pngI don’t mean to brag, but last week I went on a date with Alex Steen.

Okay, maybe he didn’t see it as a date, but I did.

I talked to my husband about it, so don’t think you need to keep this dirty little secret for me (although that would be a great way to find out if he reads my blog).

The date occurred last Monday night. I realize Monday night isn’t a typical date night, but I’m no typical girl.

It started out as a meeting for an animal rescue group where I volunteer.

The location was at a restaurant/bar and after our meeting a handful of people (the dedicated ones), stayed to drink more. We’re really good volunteers.

Later in the evening is when my date, Alex Steen, stopped by. Although I was a few drinks in, I can assure you it was him. Other people saw us together and they can corroborate.

I promise.

Granted, we were sitting around with a group of about five of us, but I’m pretty sure this evening counted as a date with Alex Steen. Here’s why:

1. He paid for my dinner and drinks

photo credit: sarah_connors via photopin cc

photo credit: sarah_connors via photopin cc

Okay, so he paid for everyone’s dinner and drinks, but whatever. That’s just the kind of guy he is. I secretly think he paid the tab because he heard about the kind of girl I used to be, and was hoping to get some over-the-shirt boob action. (He totally could have).

Why does this make it a date? How many dates do you go on where the guy pays for the meal and drinks? If you’re a smart dater, (and I am), those are the only dates you go on.

If a guy doesn’t pay on the first date, then I don’t return his call for the second. Any guy I go out with needs to learn early that I like to eat, and he has to support that habit.

Picking up the tab on a first date is customary when the guy is interested in the woman. This is obviously what happened here.

steen and dog

2. He touched my leg more than once

Yeah, that’s right. He touched my leg.

I shall never wash those pants again…if only they were my Pajama Jeans! Several times throughout the night his hand and arm brushed upon my leg.

I’m sure he will say it was an accident, and we were sitting so close that it was inevitable that he would brush up against me. But we both know the truth.

He sooo wanted me.

3. We talked about our common interests

Here he is rescuing a puppy with the rescue I work with.

I love dogs. Shocking, right? Guess who else loves dogs? Alex Steen!

We are a perfect match! I mean, how many people on this planet share a love of dogs?

Wait…um…that might be a lot…but he shares my love of this particular rescue. Doesn’t that equal a love connection?

Sure, many of my friends also love this same organization and I’m not planning our weekend getaway together (it would be at a Four Seasons resort and spa), but Alex and I share a true bond.

Just ask him.

4. He laughed at my jokes

Isn’t that another sign of a good first date? He regularly laughed at my jokes and even engaged in discussion with me.

Okay, maybe they weren’t so much jokes, as just sentences I made; and maybe they weren’t so much sentences as incoherent comments with a string of conjunctions strewn inbetween.

Whatever the reason, he was laughing at the same time I was, which is fine with me. Whomever said “as long as they are laughing with you and not at you” is an idiot and has clearly never laid eyes on Alex Steen.

5. He looked longingly into my eyes

photo credit: sarah_connors via photopin cc

photo credit: sarah_connors via photopin cc

Yes, he looked longingly. Okay, maybe it wasn’t longingly so much as he was looking into my eyes to see if I was sober enough to drive home, but either way, he looked into my eyes.

Can you say that about the dreamy Steenster?

He obviously cares about me if he didn’t want me to drive home if I wasn’t sober. He has my back because he obviously wanted to see me again. I’m sure it didn’t have anything to do with the fact he’s training for the season and didn’t want to be associated with scandal that would result in his “girlfriend” getting in a car accident.

He probably just didn’t want the stress of worrying about me. He’s such a caring guy.

So there you have it; all the reasons why last Monday I had a date with Alex Steen. Don’t be too jealous, as you can watch him on TV as you root for The St. Louis Blues in the playoffs.

But hands off the Steenster. He’s mine.

photo credit: oxygeon via photopin cc

photo credit: oxygeon via photopin cc

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

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

Go there.  Do it.

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http://www.inthepowderroom.com/read/me-time/2013-08-facebook-is-better-than-class-reunions.html

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Boy in the street as crossing guard

STOP and read this warning first. Do you really want to ignore a kid in the street holding a stop sign?

WARNING: Please leave this page immediately and do not read this post if you are any of the following:

1. Incapable of understanding sarcasm. (This is a biggie!)

2. Planning on leaving me a mean comment about how horrible of a person I am. I’m a lawyer. I already know I’m a horrible person.

3. Planning on leaving me a message with improper grammar, spelling, and/or punctuation. Note: if you are leaving me a nice and funny message, then I totally overlook the grammar stuff.

4. Planning on calling me profane names. That’s why I have a mother-in-law.

5. Planning on leaving a hateful message on another post of mine where comments are allowed. Yes, you’re a genius for finding that loophole, but I’m the one who gets to approve whether your comments are published. If they’re hateful, I will trash them upon the first allegation of racism. I will then promptly mail you a Yani cd as punishment.

6. Own a pair of Teva sandals. This isn’t related to not wanting to read hateful comments. It’s just because…really? Do I have to explain why?

For those of you who pass these tests, you’re obviously awesome so read away!

bely dancerReally. This is not a rhetorical question. What’s the etiquette? Does Emily Post have any recommendations for this? I suspect in her high-fallootin’ society, she may not come across many belly dancers. She should. Maybe she wouldn’t be so uptight.

Like anyone really wants to read an Emily Post book about how to properly eat soup at an afternoon tea. Who wants soup at an afternoon tea? Who wants to even attend an afternoon tea? Is it Long island Iced Tea? If so, I could be persuaded to attend, but not if I have to speak properly, sit up straight or use the proper spoon. I’m also thinking a bra would be a requirement, and one I just can’t justify.

Anywhooo….

So what is the protocol for when a belly dancer dances at a restaurant during your dinner? I ask only because this happened recently and I had no idea how to handle the situation. Thus, I look to you: my sophisticated readers. Lord knows I didn’t know what to do other than hand her a brochure for a respected technical college in the area.

Recently, we attended a birthday party at a restaurant when the token belly dancer approached our table. No, we weren’t at a strip club, although it’s a valid question. Rather, we were at a great Greek restaurant, where a woman dances every Friday and Saturday night while patrons eat and try not to curse her for lack of belly fat. She sashees around from table to table, flipping her hips and making me uncomfortable.

Is belly button lint really that appetizing?

question markApparently so, as this restaurant has been doing this for years. I just never know what to do, so I usually bail to the restroom when I see her dancing our way, and try to Google “what do you do when someone belly dances at your table?”

Don’t Google this, my dear reader, especially in Google Images. You don’t want to know what it reveals…especially when you’re in a bathroom stall that smells like air freshener and humus-inspired excrement. Just an FYI.

But really, what should I do? Where do I look? I don’t want to look directly at her, but is it rude if I don’t watch? Will she be offended? Is she paid per view? I don’t want to cut into her rent money.

But if I do look at her, do I look her in the eye? I feel like I’m shaming her when I do that. Like I’m saying “Did the nail technician thing not work out? You can do so much more than this.” Wait…that might be the actual words I said to her. I can’t remember. The sangria was flowing.

What?! It was a par-tay after all. Did I want to slap the birthday girl in the face by not living it up? (I may have done that too. The pictures aren’t back yet. For now, I will adamantly deny it.)

Do I look at her abs? I feel like I should. She’s a belly dancer, after all. I guess she wants us to look, but then I feel like a creeper with a fetish. How long do you look? What if I stare too long? Not long enough? Do I ask her about her ab workout regimen? Not that I would follow it. I’m just wondering if I should ask.

It’s so stressful.

Are the belly dancers the classy version of strippers? Are they shunned by strippers? Do they start on the pole and then move their way up to the belly circuit? Is the belly dancing gig the glass ceiling of dancing gigs?

I have so many questions and so little answers. Unfortunately, the belly dancer of the evening, who I named Natasha, wasn’t keen on my questions, probably because I was shouting them out above the music. Whatever. I have an inquisitive mind.

I think her name was Sandra. Whatevs. She’ll always be Natasha to me.

But seriously, your insight is needed. We are returning to this restaurant this weekend and I need to know if I should wear my sunglasses at night so I can…so I can….(just like Corey Hart.)

Das Boot embracing his excitement
while also rocking the sweater and scarf ensemble.

My husband loves sushi.  I have no idea why he is so obsessed with it, as it’s just raw fish.  At any given time, we have raw fish in our refrigerator, but he won’t go near it, and doesn’t ogle it like he does sushi.  In fact, at home, he can’t be bothered to take the raw fish out of the fridge and throw it in the oven, but when we go to a restaurant, he will practically cut your hand off if you go for the last piece. (Although he can’t be bothered with raw fish at home, he can, however, be bothered to get in his car and drive to Hardee’s to pick up dinner instead.  The man is a mystery.)

Last night we went out for sushi with friends.  We had a Groupon, which sparked the choice.   Matt loves sushi and I love a bargain, so it was the perfect match.  (Just like me and Ryan Gosling…if he would just call me.)

We went with our friends Deutschemark and Das Boot (not their real names.  That would be super strange.). Das Boot is from Germany and has the coolest accent ever.  That has nothing to do with the story, but it’s worth noting.

Matt and I arrived late only to find our friends already at a table.  I hate being late, but what is a girl to do when the parking lot she usually parks in is full, and the overflow parking lot price had been doubled because of some lame car show in town?  I’ll tell you what she does; the only thing she can do.  She protests and parks several blocks away in a sketchy lot and prays her car is there upon her return.  (It was.)

The good thing about arriving late is our friends had already scoped out the place and were able to provide updates on the other patrons that we would be inevitably judging soon.  Doesn’t everyone do this when they go out to eat?  What else are you supposed to talk about?  Deutschemark and Das Boot are astute and had done their research perfectly.  They pointed out the couple on a first date, and the best find of the evening, a guy with a scarf, heavy eye lids of blue shadow, and an amazing purse.

Matt and I casually glanced over to make sure Deutschemark and Das Boot weren’t lying to us about their finds.  We immediately found the man, exactly how they described him to be.  He was beautiful and his eye makeup was impeccable.  I then looked to his man-bag, as I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and not call it a purse.  However, I had to immediately take back the benefit I gave him, because he had a very large purse.  It was black and actually quite nice.

Before I could say anything, my beloved husband spoke up and observed, “That’s a really nice purse.”

I was excited my husband had such great taste in handbags, but a little embarrassed he said this in front of our friends.  So I responded by asking him if he would like to join the gentleman at the table to further discuss accessories and feel up the gentleman’s bag.  (Yes, this is a double entendre and was meant that way.  You’re welcome.)

His response?  “What?  Is there something gay about one man complimenting another man’s purse?”

And that’s when the waiter arrived to take our order.

I considered trying to explain to the waiter that we weren’t judging the gentleman for carrying the bag, but were actually complimenting his choice, especially when considered as an ensemble for the rest of his outfit.  But then I figured he probably already knew we were a table he wanted to avoid, so I didn’t waste my breath.  I was hungry.

We ordered four rolls of sushi to start out with.  Matt and I assumed those four rolls were just for us, but apparently Deutschemark and Das Boot figured that would be enough for all of us to share.  We realized they must have been there much earlier than we thought and consumed several drinks.  Their judgment was clearly impaired about how much the Newlins were planning to consume.

The sushi arrived and Matt and I did our best not to molest the plate immediately.  It was served on a large square plate and arranged in groupings of each different roll.  The presentation was nice, and we were anxious to dig in.   And then we looked at the table next to us, and jealously set in.

The couple on the date had also received their sushi order, and it was served on a large wooden boat, complete with a bow and stern.  The sushi was served on the Promenade
Deck (as it should be.)  On the back of the boat sat a martini glass filled with shredded jicima and flashing lights.  What?!  Why did they get the sassy boat while we were left with a stupid plate?  We couldn’t eat the sushi presented when we knew it could come in something far more large scale.  We called our waiter over immediately.

We asked why they got a boat and we didn’t even get the equivalent of a dinghy.  He said we had to order at least five rolls of sushi to get the boat.  I pointed out this wasn’t fair, not only because he didn’t tell us that when we ordered, but also because we didn’t appreciate the clear classism that was going on in the restaurant.  Didn’t we look like people who deserved our sushi served on a luxury liner?  Clearly we demonstrated our impeccable taste with the compliments on the beautiful handbag across the room.  Obviously our waiter hated us.

We ate our sushi, all the while glaring at the couple next to us, telling ourselves the lacquer on the boat would give them food poisoning.  When it was time to order our second round, we did so, but once again ordered only 4 rolls.  I asked the waiter if he could make an exception and get us our next order served on an ocean liner.  I told him there would be two shiny quarters in it for his troubles.  (What?  I was already low on cash because of the parking incident.)

He said he would see what he could do, and we waited in anticipation, wondering if he would follow through, or if he was just another guy feeding us a line.  (I feel like there’s a fishing joke in here somewhere but I can’t find it.  Line.  Eating fish.  Boat.  I got nothing.)   We inquired if there was anything we needed to do to ensure the boat harbored at our table.  Das Boot suggested a large lighthouse to be placed in the middle of our table to ensure the boat would find us.  The waiter didn’t seem to get the humor, and I don’t think it was because of Das Boot’s accent.

When our second order came out, we were delighted to discover our waiter either had some clout with the kitchen staff, or he was motivated by that promise of an extra 50 cents.  Alas, our order arrived on a magnificent boat, complete with blinking lights.

We waived the boat in to shore, and for some reason, I felt it appropriate to make a backing up “beep, beep” sound as if the boat was a garbage truck instead of the beautiful yacht she was.  I also resisted the urge to yell “Thar she blows!”  I refrained because I was sure out waiter already hated us and most likely laced our boat with salmonella.

Most excited about the boat was Das Boot, who was like a kid at Christmas.  He stared in wonder as the waiter pointed out the various rolls and their locations.  He then began making comments about feeling like he was Leonardo DiCaprio and how he truly felt like he was king of the world.

Somehow, the sushi tasted better when eaten off the floors of the vessel, and we enjoyed each bite.  We cleared the ship and then requested our bill, as we had a party to attend and didn’t want to be late anymore than we already were.

When the bill came, we glanced it over to make sure everything was on the up and up and then we saw something that made us all laugh.  It was the cherry on top of our perfect dining experience.  Our waiter actually typed into the system “Customer requested boat.”

I’m not sure why we all found that hilarious, but we did.  I suspect it’s because the chef most likely granted our request because they imagined the requesting parties were a family of four, and the two small children wanted nothing more than the excitement of eating from a floating palace.  I can only imagine his surprise when he realized he granted the wish of four adults who clearly needed a hobby (but had excellent taste in handbags).

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.)

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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.

I’m not a huge hockey fan, but what I am a fan of is dimples and a sexy butt. (This is one of the primary reasons I married my husband. That, and he’s a really good dancer.) I don’t follow hockey regularly, (if I want to watch two people beat each other up, I’ll just watch my neighbors get into it across the street…and the hot dogs and beer are cheaper at my house).

However, I feel like as a St. Louis resident, I should at least be able to identify the regular players on the St. Louis Blues hockey team. Not so much to talk to them about hockey, but to reserve judgment if they talk to me and (1) sound hoosier and (2) are missing teeth.

One of the most dreamy of the St. Louis Blues is the assistant captain, Alex Steen. Yummy. I feel like I should insert some lame joke here about how I wouldn’t mind melting the ice with that hottie, or make some inappropriate comment about a word that rhymes with puck.

But I’m classy, and you expect more from me out of a blog post, so I won’t stoop to that level. You’re welcome.

steen.pngLast week I went on a date with Alex Steen. Okay, well maybe he didn’t see it as a date, but I did. I talked to my husband about it, so don’t think you need to keep this dirty little secret for me (although that would be a great way to find out if he reads my blog).

The date occurred last Monday night. Okay, I realize Monday night isn’t a typical date night, but I’m no typical girl. It started out as a meeting for an animal rescue group I work with.

It was at a restaurant/bar and we had our meeting initially, and then a handful of people (the dedicated ones), stayed to drink more. Hey, we wanted to support the establishment for supporting our cause.

Later in the evening is when my date, Alex Steen, stopped by. And although I was a few drinks in, I can assure you it was him. Other people saw us together and they can corroborate.

I promise. Granted, we were sitting around with a group of about five of us, but I’m pretty sure this evening counted as a date with Alex Steen. Here’s why:

1. He paid for my dinner and drinks

Okay, so he paid for everyone’s dinner and drinks, but whatever. That’s just the kind of guy he is. I secretly think he paid the tab because he heard about the kind of girl I used to be, and was hoping to get some over-the-shirt boob action. (He totally could have).

How many dates do you go on where the guy pays for the meal and drinks? If you’re a smart dater, (and I am), those are the only dates you go on. If a guy doesn’t pay on the first date, then I didn’t return his call for the second. Any guy I went out with needed to learn early that this girl likes to eat, and he was going to have to support that habit.

Picking up the tab on a first date is customary when the guy is interested in the woman and wants to see more of her. This is obviously what happened here.

steen and dog

2. He touched my leg more than once

Yeah, that’s right. He touched my leg. I shall never wash those pants again…if only they were my Pajama Jeans! Several times throughout the night his hand and arm brushed upon my leg.

I’m sure he will say it was an accident, and we were sitting so close that it was inevitable that he would brush up against me from time to time. But we all know the truth. He wanted a piece of this sassy body comprised of Chipotle, vodka, and rocky road ice cream.

He sooo wanted me.

3. We talked about our common interests

Here he is rescuing a puppy with the rescue I work with.

Here he is rescuing a puppy with the rescue I work with.

I love dogs. Shocking, right? Guess who else loves dogs? Alex Steen! We are a perfect match! I mean, how many people on this planet share a love of dogs?

Wait…um…that might be a lot…but he shares my love of this particular rescue I volunteer with, which rescues abandoned, abused, and stray animals. Doesn’t that equal a love connection?

I mean, many of my friends also love this organization and I’m not planning our weekend getaway together (it would be at a Four Seasons resort and spa), but Alex and I share a true bond.

Just ask him.

4. He laughed at my jokes

Isn’t that another sign of a good first date? He regularly laughed at my jokes and even engaged in discussion with me.

Okay, maybe they weren’t so much jokes, as just sentences I made; and maybe they weren’t so much sentences as incoherent comments with a string of conjunctions strewn in between.

Whatever the reason, he was laughing at the same time I was, which is fine with me. Whomever said “as long as they are laughing with you and not at you” is an idiot and has clearly never laid eyes on Alex Steen.

5. He looked longingly into my eyes

Yes, he looked longingly. Okay, maybe it wasn’t longingly so much as he was looking in my eyes to see if I was sober enough to drive home, but either way, he looked into my eyes. Can you say that about the dreamy Steenster? (That’s my new nickname for him. We totally hit it off.)

He obviously cares about me as he didn’t want me to drive home if I wasn’t sober enough to do so. He really has my back and obviously wanted me to be safe so he can see me again soon. I’m sure it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that he is in the middle of playoffs for the Stanley Cup and he didn’t want to be associated with scandal that would result in his “girlfriend” getting in a car accident.

He probably just didn’t want the stress of worrying about me when he needs to focus on the game. He’s such a caring guy.

So there you have it; all the reasons why last Monday I had a date with Alex Steen. Don’t be too jealous, as you can watch him on TV as you root for The St. Louis Blues in the playoffs.

But hands off the Steenster. He’s mine.

Indian womanMy friend Skinnypants (not her real name) is super skinny and adorable. (Yes, I am calling her Skinnypants in this blog.  I’m not feeling super creative.)

If I didn’t like her so much, I would hate her (although part of me secretly does.  She and her skinny jeans can suck it).  Over the last year, she has continued to drop weight from her tiny frame, while I continue to gain it on my ever expanding frame.

If we were cars, she would be built on the frame of an adorable Mini Cooper that would be purchased by a wealthy father for his adorably tiny 16 year old cheerleader daughter.

I, on the other hand, would be built on the frame of an F-150 and would be purchased by the 300 pound farmer for use hauling manure on the farm.  (But hey, at least I’d be more useful than a short skirted teen yelling out how to spell “defense.”  I got it.  I passed the fifth grade.)

What’s even more infuriating than her rapid and constant weight loss, is her allegation that she has no idea how she is loosing the weight.  She says it just keeps dropping and she doesn’t really know how she’s doing it.  Bitch.

Although I like my friend, I dislike her incessant weight loss.  I’ve been trying to deal with this issue internally like a good friend does.  I’ve accomplished this feat by talking about her behind her back and constantly rolling my eyes whenever she looks away.

I do all of this without her knowing because I’m a really considerate friend that way and I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

But now it’s just getting ridiculous.  Saturday she arrived at my house to go to lunch with me and my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name).  The three of us planned a long girls’ lunch at one of our favorite local restaurants.  (And no, it wasn’t the Quick Trip, although that’s a completely reasonable guess.)

Pajama Jeans arrived at my house first, and we discussed Skinnypants’s weight loss, and realized our burning dislike of her was directly proportional to the amount of weight she lost.  We agreed that if we wanted to save the friendship, we would have to stage an intervention with her.

After all, we didn’t want to lose our friend, but we also couldn’t be seen with someone who could actually fit into t-shirts from the children’s section at The Gap.  (Wearing a child’s Elmo t-shirt, whether done ironically or not, is just not something we could support.)

Skinnypants solidified our decision to proceed with an intervention when she walked into my house for lunch.  She was wearing a tank top and adorable skinny white jeans.  Was she trying to slap us in the face?  White jeans?  And skinny white jeans?

woman with donutTypically, white makes the wearer look heavier, or in my case, makes me look even larger than my stated poundage.  But somehow, Skinnypants managed to look adorable in the white jeans.  For a brief moment, I considered throwing ketchup all over her to ruin her perfect outfit, but I’m lazy and didn’t want to clean up the mess.

I also didn’t want to waste such a precious condiment on someone who wouldn’t appreciate its sugary goodness.

We drove to the restaurant together, chit chatting and pretending like everything was normal.  An unsuspecting Skinnypants sat in the backseat completely unaware of what was about to go down.  Part of me felt sorry for her, but one look at her toned abs and flat stomach melted away any pity I had for her.

I was also starving, as the protein bar I ate that morning curbed my appetite for approximately 3 minutes.  I was crabby.

We arrived at the restaurant, sat down, and ordered drinks immediately.  We also started out with an appetizer.  (What are we, animals?)  We allowed Skinnypants to make it through the appetizers and the main course unscathed, but after we ordered dessert, we knew it was time to put the smack down.

She got up to go to the restroom (hopefully not to purge), and Pajama Jeans and I decided the time had come to start the intervention (and to get a refill.  What did we have to do to get some good service from our waiter?)

Skinnypants returned and sat down, not knowing her life was about to change.  We confronted her immediately.  I started the intervention, mostly because I’m a bossy pants, but also because I was the heavier of the two of us, so I had more of an axe to grind (and a stomach to fill).

I channeled the counselor from “Intervention” and began my pep talk.  “Skinnypants,” I said, in my best authoritative voice, “We need to talk.  Pajama and I have noticed your consistent weight loss and we’re at a crossroads.  (And not the delightful movie with the same name starring the ever so talented Brittney Spears.)

 

blurry stop sign

 

It’s time to terminate our friendship, as we can’t continue down this path with someone who thinks a belly roll is a type of Pilates exercise.”

She looked shocked and dumbfounded, and I swear the sunlight hit her face just right at that moment and she was actually glistening.  It wasn’t helping her case.  “I can’t help it.  I don’t know how I’m losing weight.  I don’t even exercise.  And I don’t keep track of my weight.  I don’t even own a scale.”

This was not the right thing to say.  I could see the anger burning in Pajama Jeans’ eyes, and I physically put my hand on her shoulder to hold her back.  I knew a punch to Skinnypants’s face wasn’t the right way to start this intervention.

But seriously, the last thing a skinny person should tell two women struggling with weight loss is that she doesn’t know how she’s losing weight because she’s not exercising.

“Um, what can I do to keep this friendship alive?” she asked, looking at us with an adorable face that lacked a second chin.

“I’m glad you asked,” I stated, looking around anxiously wondering where the waiter was with the desserts (and my iced tea.  Seriously, homeboy needed to just leave the pitcher on the table).  You can commit to making this relationship work, but it’s going to take some effort and commitment on your part.  This is an intervention and we are demanding you stop losing weight.  Our friendship is on the line, and is there anything more important than the right to call Pajama and I your friends?”

skinny.jpgThis was a ridiculous question and she knew it.  Pajama Jeans and I are awesome, and anyone would be happy to call us friend.  We had her.  Now it was time for me to lay out the terms.

“We mean business.  This intervention is serious and we require several things to make this work.  First, no exercise.  We’re serious.  Not even a jaunt around the block.  If you’re serious about our friendship, you will avoid anything that could even remotely increase your metabolism.” We said, in our most menacing tone.

“Second, you need to increase your caloric intake.  No skipping dinner or just having a salad.  If you want to have a salad, it must be drenched in high calorie dressing and topped with fried chicken, the way salad is intended to be eaten.”

She stared as us both, trying to gauge how serious we were and whether we were committed to sticking to these guidelines.  One look in Pajama Jeans’ eyes told Skinnypants that we were dead serious.  Serious as a heart attack induced by a diabetic coma.

I’m not sure if it was the threat of losing our friendship, or the fact that the desserts arrived, but Skinnypants agreed to our terms and said she would eat more.  Happy with our intervention, Pajama Jeans and I turned our attention to the desserts we ordered and proceeded to stuff our faces.

We also made sure Skinnypants ate more than her fair share of the desserts, although we advised her we wouldn’t accept hoarding the desserts either.  She needed to share.

All three of us left the intervention lunch feeling good about our friendship and even better about our blood sugar levels.  I suppose only time will tell if Skinnypants sticks to her end of the bargain.

I’ve ordered a scale to be delivered to her home and have asked that it be set to read less than what she actually weighs.  I’ve also asked the delivery man to deliver the scale along with a chocolate pound cake and a gallon of ice cream.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

photo credit: Sebastian Mary via photopin cc

photo credit: Sebastian Mary via photopin cc

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

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

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

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

salad

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

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

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

I was on to her game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why am I giving strikes?

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

Strike three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

stomach.jpg

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needless to say I’m not a happy camper.

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

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

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

Back Camera

Our sweet, clueless, Max

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shady Jack

Shady Jack is a happy dog

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obviously I was under attack.

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

Max was unaffected and continued to groom himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back Camera

Bentley is my body guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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