food for dog and catIt’s no surprise that I love to eat. Meals are my favorite time of the day (as are snack times, Starbucks breaks and anytime I get to see Jake Gyllenhaal without a shirt). But the worst part about mealtime is deciding what to eat.

My husband is a picky eater, and he typically doesn’t go for my suggestion of “Just put some Nutella on whatever you find in the kitchen and call that dinner.”

Can you believe it? He’s so picky.

Yes, I realize I could make a meal plan for the week so we would know what we were having each night, but that would take away from my Sunday afternoon nap time, and this girl needs her beauty rest.

So tonight when my husband got home from work, he asked the question he asks every night after work; “Whats for dinner?”

Please note this isn’t the only question he asks each night after work, but it’s one you can probably relate to. Other questions include “Which dog threw up in here” and “Why does our house smell like pee?”

I had a long day at work and wasn’t in the mood to make dinner, nor could I be bothered to come up with ideas. I focused on the sweet goodness of my Grey Goose and told him it was his turn to come up with something for dinner this time. I wasn’t going to do it.

It was like I told him he had to cook a Thanksgiving dinner for 30 people instead of simply figure out which restaurant from which to order. He was flabbergasted that I would leave such a big decision to him, and he let me know he wasn’t happy about it.

frozen dinnerIn his defense, I still won’t let him have a say in what decorations and artwork go in our home, so I suppose it wasn’t a big surprise that I normally don’t want him deciding what we will have for dinner.

And by “artwork” and “decorations” I mean whatever is on clearance at Home Goods and whatever pictures are in the damaged section of Garden Ridge.

He suggested I come up with ideas and he would make the final decision. Um, no. That would give him some sort of power, and I think we know how I feel about that. Plus, I wanted to hold the power of veto.

It was the closest I would ever get to my favorite show on television, Big Brother, only the veto in my house isn’t a necklace with a circle and a slash through it. It’s simply a glaring look and the ability to kick the groin with accuracy.

I told him he should throw out some ideas and I would tell him if they sounded good.

Because apparently he has the appetite of an eight year old, he suggested we have cereal for dinner. Immediately, I imagined a heaping bowl of Cocoa Pebbles or S’mores cereal.

I was actually fine with that suggestion, as I’m a lover of all carbs, and cereal is nothing but sugar and carbs: two food groups I think are staples, along with peanut butter and anything dipped in Ranch dressing.

I told him I was fine with the cereal idea, but we didn’t have any cereal so he would have to go to the store to get it.

Although we have 2 vehicles and the store is about a mile away, my suggestion he drive to the store was quite detestable to him, despite the accommodations provided.

guy eating cerealMy car even has satellite radio he could listen to on the way to the store…assuming I would let him take my car.

I usually decline because I don’t appreciate The Playboy Channel blaring the next time I turn on my car.

He said he didn’t have the energy to go to the store and that I should do it. I reminded him I couldn’t drive, as I had a drink, and I was nothing if not an obeyor of the rules, except for parking rules….and yielding…and speeding…

We decided to scrap the cereal idea because it involved work on our part, and after a long day, we couldn’t be bothered with such menial tasks.

I suggested we find a teenager who needed some extra cash and pay him to go to the store for us, but since we aren’t pedophiles, we don’t have access to the contact information of teens.

Yet another strike for us.

I asked Matt what he wanted and he said “I definitely don’t want pizza.”

I couldn’t fault him for this as we’ve had pizza quite a bit lately. I reminded him there were very few places aside from pizza joints that delivered. Chinese restaurants usually deliver but since we are dog lovers, we didn’t feel right about ordering “beef and broccoli” when we both knew it wasn’t beef we would get with a side of rice.

We went to our trusty friend, the “Internets” and silently thanked Al Gore for making that possible. We then looked up menu options for pizza places. I reminded him that many pizza places make more than just pizza.

We looked at a few websites and decided to order pasta from a place that delivered. He pointed to the phone and told me to call it in. Um, no. It was his night to deal with dinner, and I wasn’t calling it in.

We then took no less than 10 minutes arguing about which person should have the obligation to call our order in. I think we all know how that argument ended.

spaghetti and boySince our dogs can be a-holes while we’re on the phone, Matt stepped outside to place the call. After a few seconds I heard “What do you mean you don’t have spaghetti and meatballs?”

My dear husband shares the food preferences of an eight year old, and I thought his head was going to explode when he realized he couldn’t get the pasta he wanted.

I considered suggesting mac and cheese and applesauce, but I didn’t think he’d find the humor in that.

I walked away from the door so I couldn’t hear anymore of the conversation. The urge to make jokes was far too strong, and I knew he wouldn’t find my hilarity nearly as endearing as you all do.

We returned to the couch and waited for our dinner delivery, doing our best to avoid meaningful conversation. We needed to save that for dinner…while we watched reruns on TBS.

The food arrived and I stayed inside with the dogs while Matt stepped out to pay the driver. We figure a delivery person doesn’t want to be accosted by three dogs who have been licking their crotches for the past 15 minutes.

Of course, we don’t have a problem letting this happen to our friends…it makes them like family.

Matt brought in the food and took it to the table for dinner. I looked over at his dinner, and do you know what it was? Pizza. Seriously?!

I reminded him that his one stipulation for dinner was he that he didn’t want pizza. I asked him how he went from refusing pizza to affirmatively ordering it on the phone. He looked at me with his boyish grin and told me they didn’t have spaghetti and meatballs, and the fish sticks were all sold out.

beach with computerMy husband and I spent Christmas sunning on the beach, stuffing ourselves with any drink that contained liquor, and any food that was put in front of us.  We really don’t have standards while on vacation….or when it comes to TV shows.

Unfortunately, our frolicking on the beach had to come to an end.  And by “frolicking” I mean that we laid around on the beach and napped, getting up only to pee in the ocean…or the pool with the swim up bar…just like everyone else.

sad girlWe left our amazing resort with our heads hung low.  A tear rolled down my face and I vowed to return soon.

The tear may not have been because we were leaving, so much as because we saw our bill from our spa services.

We arrived at the Puerto Vallarta airport after a near death experience in a Mexican cab.

We weren’t sure if the cab driver was blind, or if he just hated us, but we arrived at the airport thankful for our lives, and for Pepto Bismol.

We went through security and somehow managed to get through it in record time.  We were hungry, as our bodies had grown accustomed to eating every hour, so we headed to the first restaurant we saw and grabbed a booth.

As soon as we sat down we heard a somewhat heated argument at the table next to us.  We did what any self respecting Americans would do in that situation…we scooted closer and listened.

At first glance the argument seemed to be between a man in his 60s and a female wax statue.  The male was chastising the statue for being an idiot.  We figured this guy had a few too many Tequilas and thought he had found a friend.

However, upon closer examination we realized the wax statue the man was talking to was actually a woman.  She was thin and her skin looked like she treated it regularly with leather conditioner. Her hair was long and her boobs were younger than mine.

This was NOT them.  They didn't have matching sweaters on, nor were they this patriotic with their color scheme.

This was NOT them. They didn’t have matching sweaters on, nor were they this patriotic with their color scheme.

Matt and I are pros at eavesdropping because the upstairs neighbors at his last apartment were big fighters and we liked to listen and then take sides. It was usually the guy’s fault…but isn’t it always?

From what we could tell from the argument, the wax statue was mad at the old geezer because he was talking down to her about buying a house and escrow and “She isn’t an idiot.”

From what we observed, she actually was an idiot, so we couldn’t blame the guy.

He started berating her for not understanding basic math, or how to conservatively apply make up, and she started yelling back at him about how he shouldn’t treat her like she’s dumb, because she’s not (she is).

We figured the fight wouldn’t last much longer, and we hadn’t even received our drink orders yet.

After spending a full week together without distraction, Matt and I were happy to have the argument of the crazy people to sidetrack us from the realization we would have to hold yet another conversation with each other if their argument ended.

And then a wonderful thing happened…the argument continued..and continued…and continued.

They went from fighting about the real estate deal to fighting about how they were fighting, and then fighting about how they fought about that. I’m not kidding!

argue1It was a series of meta arguments that required an organization chart and a few more margaritas to follow.

She said she didn’t like the way he talked to her in the argument, and when she told him she didn’t like it, he got mad at her, and she didn’t like that either.

By my calculation, that’s a third layer of fighting. This argument had more layers than Inception, and I wondered if Leonardo DiCaprio would come walking through the door, preferably topless.

I felt a little guilty I didn’t pay for admission to watch this show. Part of me wanted to slap them for ruining our lunch and the other part wanted to tip them for their performance.

They argued about how they argued through our drinks, our dinner, and our check. It was quite a while, as the service at the Puerto Vallarta airport was less than stellar. Shocking, right?

We truly couldn’t believe two people could argue about something so senseless for such a long period of time, but then again, The View is still on the air.

After we paid our bill, we got up to leave and so did they. Strangely, they hugged and kissed, said they loved each other and walked away hand in hand…as if they didn’t just fight for 45 minutes about absolutely nothing.

I was a little pissed. With the heat of that argument I expected some serious hair pulling and crotch kicking.  Or at least I hoped for it.

We watched them walk away and realized we have it pretty good, as we rarely disagree; Mostly because I’m always right.

We also hoped they would be on our flight home, as it was a long flight and we wanted some entertainment but didn’t want to pay for the in-flight movie.

fighting on couch

couples on new yearsIt’s a new year and I’m back!  I apologize for my absence, as I’m sure you all found it difficult to go on without my daily updates.  I know I would.

But have no fear, I am back to the world of blogging, and to the world of paying for my own food.  One of those things is a good thing.

I have so much to catch you up on, but I will start with the recent holiday…and no, I’m not talking about Christmas.

I’m talking about New Year’s Eve….the one night a year where it is completely acceptable to get wasted on cheap champagne and wait for the ball to drop.

Actually, this description sounds a lot like every night of my college existence, only the balls we usually saw were those of the homeless man who liked to go through the dumpster behind our sorority house.  We named him Dan.

This year, my husband and I decided to lay low and do something low key for New Year’s Eve.  I suggested getting into our pajamas at 7:00 and watching a marathon of The Big Bang theory.

Who doesn’t love a few nerds on a Saturday night?

Oh, and the characters on the show are funny too.  (Yes, I realize that joke was pathetic, but give me a break…I haven’t written in a week.  I’m rusty and my pants are a bit tighter which adds to my irritability).

champagne glassesMy husband reminded me that watching reruns wouldn’t really differ from any other night, so we decided to do something else. I’m pretty sure that’s a sad reflection of our social calendar, but I’m cool with it because this activity allows me to wear sweatpants.

I would be agreeable to doing nearly anything if allowed to wear sweatpants and a hoodie…I would even watch a bad Adam Sandler movie, which is saying something, as he hasn’t made a funny movie since Happy Gilmore.

Seriously, that guy needs to say goodbye to his acting career…and his hairline.

Fortunately, a few of our favorite couples saved us from a pathetic night on the couch, and they invited us to dinner and then to dessert at one of their houses.  Since I can’t say no when food is involved, we agreed to go.

I realized this would require putting on a bra for the evening (and pants), but my friends were worth it, and so was the chicken Parmesan.

Naturally, I donned my Pajama Jeans for this event.  Nothing rings in the new year quite like drawstring pants with a fake zipper.

Fancy chihuahuaI was ready to party!  I even put in my contacts and threw on some lip gloss…you know…to be fancy.

After running a brush through my hair and throwing a Tide stain removal pen in my purse, Matt and I headed out the door to meet our friends.

We arrived at the restaurant and waited for our reservation all the while rolling our eyes at the uptight hostess who looked like she’d spent too much time with the eyeliner and not enough time with the dental floss.

As we waited we looked around at the other people waiting for their tables and were a bit shocked with what we saw.

Instead of Pajama Jeans and cardigans we saw short skirts and tube tops, and a lot more boobs than I would have liked, although I didn’t hear Matt complain.

Why were these people so dressed up for a night out at Bravo?  I mean, I love lasagna as much as the next girl, okay…a lot more than the next girl, but I don’t find it necessary to dress up for the delicious pasta dish.

Quite the contrary.  I find it best to stuff myself with pasta wearing expandable pants and a long sweater to cover the pasta baby that emerges after my meal.

Seriously, what kind of girl wears a short skirt and a tube top out in public? Everyone knows you can wear one or the other, but not both together.  Geez.  Someone needs to brush up on their Us Weekly magazines.

girl dressed upI realize I could stop that question right there and not go any further, but considering we live in the Midwest where it is literally freezing on New Year’s Eve, this question is even more perplexing.

Did ringing in the new year require slutty clothes and frost bite?

The snotty hostess led us to our table where our friends were already seated.  We sat down and immediately noticed a group of college girls at the table next to us.

They clearly got the memo about the slutty clothes, as they were collectively wearing the equivalent of one yard of fabric…between five of them.

Not only were their outfits tiny, although one of them was anything but tiny, they were also sparkly.  Seriously.

These girls were covered in sequins.  I hadn’t seen that many sequins since my dance recital when I was 7 years old.

Come to think of it, I was pretty sure the clothes these girls were wearing were about the same size as my costume that year, and that was when I was skinny.

They had sequins everywhere…or at least on the few parts of their body where clothing was located.  Their outfits were actually a bit blinding, as were their white thighs.

Srock stareriously.  If you’re going to go out half naked in the dead of winter, do us all a favor and hit up the tanning bed first.

Matt and I asked our friends whether the New Year’s Eve holiday dictated such fancy attire.

They agreed with us that New Year’s Eve isn’t all that fancy, especially when you’re at a restaurant that’s located in the parking lot of a shopping mall.

We spent the remainder of the evening looking at the various “fancy”outfits, and rating them by degree of slutiness.

It wasn’t how we anticipated spending our holiday, but it made for great entertainment, and it kept my mind off the fact that I actually had to pay for my liquor.

We left the restaurant, all of us in our normal clothes, and headed to my friend Sally Albright’s house for dessert.  Not her real name.

We agreed that as long as we celebrated New Year’s Eve together, there would be no pressure to dress up in sparkles and sequins.

In fact, we agreed that next year we will arrive at the restaurant in pajamas and slippers.  Maybe that will even things out.

If not, at least it will make for a comfortable evening.

shadow fightI love food.  This isn’t a newsflash.  In fact, if you know me at all, or read this blog regularly, you would know that my love of food transcends time and space.

It also transcends and a “Sorry We’re Closed” sign.  Yeah right.  You know you still have burgers in the back.

Being on vacation at an all inclusive resort is my definition of heaven.

Since I’m super important and demand luxury, or really just a room with free cable, we are staying at a fairly nice resort.

Don’t get me wrong.  Our standards are low, so when we say a “nice resort”, we mean it’s a place that requires you to wear pants to dinner.

NOTE:  This rule is non-negotiable, as I learned earlier this week.

Since Matt and I don’t like to spend money on things that aren’t liquor or pet-related, we made a conscious decision to make sure we get our money’s worth out of this vacation.

Naturally, we’re drinking like fish, although I don’t think fish drink, except for Phish heads. Those guys know how to party.

So I guess it can be said we are drinking like Charlie Sheen this week.  Only we don’t have hookers or drugs…or an annoying sitcom.

kids on beach eating ice creamUnfortunately, we feel like our incessant intake of liquor just isn’t enough to recoup the cost of the trip.  So we are making up for it in food.  Lots and lots of food.

I don’t want to tell you just how much we are eating because it’s completely embarrassing, but by my estimate, we are gaining a pound or two a day.  Okay, maybe that’s just me.

Part of the reason we are eating so much is because the food is absolutely fantastic, and I have an ongoing love affair with guacamole.

There are restaurants and an extremely large buffet for every meal, but we like the buffet for obvious reasons, so we usually stick with that.

We arrive at the buffet for every meal, focused, and ready to gorge ourselves.  It’s like a battle of sorts, and we treat it like one.

The objective is to get as much food as possible while expending as little energy as possible.

We begin each meal by ensuring we are wearing comfortable clothes that are expandable and don’t dig into our stomachs.

people planningThis is where those Liz Lange maternity dresses really come in handy, although Matt finds the dresses less than comfortable.

We descend upon the buffet together, in order to appear as a unified front.  We do a walk around first to scope things out and learn our options.  Recognizance is key, and we don’t take it lightly.

If only we took this same approach to purchasing a TV for our bedroom we would have a TV that stayed on when we walked across the room.

Unfortunately, a waiter seats us so we don’t get to pick out our exact seating location.

However, even though many of these servers speak minimal English, one look at the two of us clearly tells everyone we are there to party.  And by “party” I mean eat until we feel sick….and then get dessert.

After being seated, we begin the battle.  We head up to the lines together and each takes a plate or two.  I like to tell people I’m making a plate for my child, who is back at the table.  I get fewer stares that way.

We then elbow our way through the lines to get the best dinner we can.

boxing glovesA buffet line is one of those places where I won’t defer to children.  When it comes to a lot of things, I will sacrifice something for a child.

The glitter stains on my dining room curtains can attest to that.

I will give up my spot on the train for a child, or I will let a mother with a screaming kid go in front of me in the grocery line.  (Partially to get that kid out of the store).

But I won’t make any special accommodations for kids when it comes to a buffet line.  From eight to eighty, I don’t care what age you are.

Nothing stands between me and a second helping of mashed potatoes with a side of grits and pasta salad.  Nothing.  Not an artificial hip and certainly not a speech impediment.

Ma ma ma move out of the way.

Matt and I take our eating quite seriously on this trip, even though we know the chances of fitting into our work clothes when we return are slim to none.

In fact, the only thing that’s slim between the two of us right now is the distance between our stuffed bellies and the table.

We want to feel badly about shoving people aside to get the last quesadilla, but no matter how hard we try, we just don’t.  Maybe it’s the knowledge that they will make more, or maybe it’s that we are trying to teach these kids patience and sharing (we really are such givers).

Whatever the reason, we will continue eating our way through this vacation until we have gotten our money’s worth…or we get diabetes.

Oh shit!I recently had an embarrassing moment.  I realize I have these regularly, and at least once a day I discover I’ve either been talking to someone while sporting a milk mustache (or a real one if I’m not careful), or I’ve managed to inadvertently flash an entire city.

So telling you I had an embarrassing moment is kind of a no-brainer.  It’s like telling you that Donald Trump has a lot of money, or that Jessica Simpson can’t understand fractions.  It’s just something you know.

But recently I managed to step it up a notch with my embarrassing moments.  (I’m such an overachiever).  Of course, this story involves food, and it’s somehow bathroom related, which given the amount of gas I have on a daily basis, isn’t that shocking.

So let’s just get this story started.  Let the shame begin.

A few days ago I went to lunch with a couple coworkers.  I was on a lengthy conference call prior to the lunch and to keep myself awake during the call I drank copious amounts of Diet Coke (and no, it wasn’t combined with liquor…much to my chagrin…and my emergency stash of liquor was depleted during the last call).

Since I consumed approximately 2 liters of cola during the call, (and I’m not a camel despite my love of the desert), I needed to use the restroom.  However, my coworkers were ready to leave, and they would clearly be devastated if I didn’t come with them, so I left without using the facilities.

We went to a trendy restaurant where the entire place was open and everyone could see everyone else because of the layout.  I was happy as it made for good people watching and I was ecstatic because I could judge people from the comfort of my own table (while inhaling pretzels with dipping sauce.)  I hate to be judgmental while standing.  This restaurant was so accommodating.

We were seated on the second floor looking down on the other patrons.  I felt like a queen on her throne.  And the thought of a throne reminded me that I needed to go to the restroom soon.  I immediately asked the waiter where the restroom was located.

Okay, well, maybe not immediately, but after I ordered my drink (and asked about the specials…and ordered the pretzels.  Don’t judge.  I was hungry).  The waiter pointed to a door that was around the balcony on the second floor and before he could tell me anything else, I bolted towards the door.

I walked up to the trendy door that overlooked the restaurant and noticed it appeared to be a single restroom.  I was happy to know I’d have some privacy, but at that point I really didn’t care as nature was not only calling, it was texting, instant messaging and posting it on Facebook.  This girl had to pee.

woman bathroom signI opened the door separating me from sweet relief and was shocked at what I saw.  The restroom was apparently a make shift restroom complete with a toilet and sink stationed in what was originally a broom closet.

I had more space in my glove compartment, and that was stuffed with crackers, nail polish, and an emergency brush in case I was chased by the paparazzi.  (I’m waiting for them to realize that I’m famous and important).

The space was tiny, but that’s not what was particularly shocking about the sight.  What threw me for a loop was the woman sitting on the toilet doing her business.   What was worse is that I’m pretty confident she had been there a while as she appeared to have made herself comfortable and there was a fragrance all her own emanating from the small space.

She was sitting and leaning forward, fully focused on the task at hand (or butt).  She had her elbows resting on her legs and she was engaged in the battle of  her life(or at least it appeared that way given her red face and deep breathing methods).

At first I thought she was in labor and wanted to recommend an epidural, but then I realized the only thing she was giving birth to was a food baby.

It took me a moment to realize what was going on, so I stood there like a fool with the door open, exposing this woman (and her ratty underwear) to the entire trendy restaurant.  Once I computed what I saw (and once the noxious smell hit my nostrils), I did something to further embarrass myself.

I yelled “Oh shit!” and then slammed the door shut.  Immediately after I yelled the profanity I realized my behavior was in poor taste.

For those who hadn’t seen me open the door, they were aware of it when I screamed.  And why did I choose a profane word that was another word for poo?  I was basically announcing to the restaurant what this woman was doing.

For a moment I considered opening the door briefly and following up my “Oh shit” comment with “no pun intended”, but I didn’t think she would find the humor in that (nor did I want to expose myself to that smell again.  Clearly that woman ate a high fiber diet).

So I did what any self respecting person would do.  I busted ass and got out of there.  I practically knocked over a woman on my the way to my seat and then realized she was headed straight to the bathroom.  Perfect!

I grabbed her arms as if I was about to tell her the world was going to end (or that Community will be on hiatus).  In my mind, both are equally devastating.

I told the unsuspecting woman that the door wasn’t locked on the restroom, and there was a woman in there fully engaged in her duties.  She looked at me as if I was completely crazy (she wasn’t wrong), and nodded her head in agreement.  She probably thought I was imagining it all, and the fact that my hair was ratty and my sweater was covered in dog hair probably didn’t help.

girl whisperingThe woman walked toward the restroom and instead of opening the door, she stood outside the door and waited.  She was the perfect patsy!  I was hoping the restroom warrior wouldn’t necessarily remember who opened the door on her since her focus was clearly on her bowels and not her surroundings.

Maybe she would think the nice woman waiting to use the restroom was the a-hole who exposed her to the restaurant.  Yes, that was completely logical.

I walked as quickly as I could back to my seat, careful to keep an even pace, as my bladder was nearly overflowing.  I sat down and told my coworkers what happened, which resulted in ridiculous jokes about the event for the next several minutes.  I attempted to laugh a few times but found it painful since I still hadn’t used the facilities.  Of course, that didn’t stop me from drinking my iced tea.  After all, a girl needs fluids.

I kept my eye on the restroom door and finally the warrior emerged, sweaty from her battle, but looking more comfortable (and a few pounds lighter).  I considered going up to her and asking her what she ordered so I could avoid the same pitfall, but I was afraid seeing my face would trigger her memory and remind her I was the person who opened the door and not the nice lady in the cat sweater.

I was fearful I would trigger a post traumatic stress syndrome, and since I’m so caring and thoughtful, I decided to refrain.  (That, and she looked like she’d been through enough for one day).

However, the rest of the meal I had to keep my face hidden from her view, which wasn’t an easy task considering I was two tables down from her, and I’m a loud talker.  (I know.  You wouldn’t have guessed it, right?)

The worst part of the rest of the meal wasn’t the attempts to avoid eye contact with her (or the crappy dipping sauce for the fries), it was the fact that I knew I couldn’t get up to use the restroom because I would have to walk by her table and trigger her memory.  I had to sacrifice myself for the good of mankind (or maybe just her).  With every bite at lunch I was more and more aware of my situation.

air freshnerFinally the warrior left, most likely to purchase some Pepto and (hopefully) some room deodorizer.  However, at that point I couldn’t bring myself to use the restroom.

Maybe it was fear that someone would open the door on me and the nasty cycle would continue to repeat itself.  Or maybe it was because I never wanted to be confronted with that horrific smell again.  Whatever the reason, I decided to avoid that restroom.

The walk back to work was a painful one (and a slow one).  As soon as I arrived at the office I headed straight to the restroom, knocking on the door before I entered.  I tried to think of the lesson I learned as a result of the whole endeavor.

I learned to knock before I open a restroom door, not to tailor my profanity to a specific situation, and not to order the goat cheeseburger again (as it was clearly the cause of her issues).  Oh, and I also remembered I needed to buy scented candles.

old couple in old carI like to think of myself as young.  I mean, I can rock out to rap music and I watch “The MTV.”  I also know my way around the Internets and I know text lingo (lol, ttyl).

I’m a pretty young and hip chick, although the fact that I refer to myself as a “hip chick” might actually disqualify me from being either one of those things.

Although I’m forever young in my mind, I’ve recently realized maybe I’m not as young as I think I am.

Don’t get me wrong, I still laugh when someone farts (especially when I do it), and I giggle every time someone references any sort of genitalia, but there are some things that make me just seem old.

I hope I look better than this lady does when I'm old.  I also hope I have a drink in my hand.

I hope I look better than this lady does when I’m old. I also hope I have a drink in my hand.

Some of the things I’m okay with, and others I’m not.

I have a feeling I could make a very long list, and perhaps I will make it a recurring theme on my blog to break up the stories of how I’ve injured myself, or how my dogs have destroyed something in my house.

But for now, I’ve come up with five things that have made me realize I’m getting old.

Either way, grab your Werther’s Originals and your knitted afghan and read along about how I’m slowly deteriorating into old age.

I hope you can read this over the horrid smell of BenGay emanating from my sore muscles.  Mall walking is no easy task.

1.  Music in restaurants and rock concerts is really loud

girl covering earsI’m not sure when this discovery happened, but all I know is that it’s true.

A few months ago I went with my husband to see an indie band.  You know, cause I’m hip and stuff.

The concert was in a smaller venue and the music was so loud that it immediately pissed me off and I wanted to punch someone in the face.

I couldn’t understand why they felt the need to play so loudly, and why I was the only one with my hands over my ears begging them to play some Kenny G.

country guy singingI actually stepped outside to get away from the loud music. I also wanted to separate myself from my husband, as his head banging was a little more than embarrassing.

He looked like he was having a seizure and I didn’t want to be there when he inevitably herniated a disk.

I thought maybe this was a one time thing, but it seems wherever I go, I’m annoyed by the sound level of music.

Just this week I was in Chipotle again.  I know, I know, don’t judge.  Their music was so loud I actually considered complaining.  I didn’t because I didn’t want to adversely affect the amount of guacamole I received the next time I came in…which would be 2 days later.

But still, they need to turn that music down.

2.  I would rather stay home and watch the game and drink my beer.  It’s cheaper.

sports fan watching footballThis one was especially painful to realize.  I love going to a sports bar for some wings (and nachos, and toasted ravioli).

I also love watching the game and throwing back a few drinks.

See how hip I am?  I even used some cool language to refer to drinking.

At some point, however, I realized  I would rather stay home in my pajamas and watch the game.  I don’t have to wear a bra there.  It’s also more comfortable and no one judges me when I cuss at the TV, or when I fart during commercials.

My dogs look at me strangely when I do this, but I tell myself they’re not judging me.

soccer players watching tvI also prefer to watch games at home because the drinks are cheaper.  Whether I’m sipping (or pounding) vodka or beer, the alcohol is much cheaper to purchase in bulk at Friar Tuck’s than it is to buy a la carte at the bar.

And the people at Friar Tuck’s don’t expect a tip at the end of the night, even though they’ve screwed up my order and forgotten my side of Ranch (which is unacceptable).

However, I suspect Friar Tuck’s employees are figuring out I’m not having a party every weekend, and the liquor purchases are just for me, not for my many important guests who drink Miller Lite.

It’s so much easier to get up from the couch and make myself another drink.  The fact that I don’t have to wear a bra or make up is just an added bonus.

Pants are also optional.

3.  I wear orthopedic shoes

guy selling shoesThis isn’t so much a realization as a simple fact of life.  A sad, simple fact.  I’m pathetic.  I know.

I Recently discovered I have plantar fasciatis, which is a fancy way of saying I have pain on the bottom of my feet.

Orthopedic shoes, although less than attractive, alleviate the pain, so I think they’re magical.

The problem is they aren’t made by fashionable people.  Actually, I wonder if they’re made by people who are fashionable, but want to punish those of us with this condition.

I probably would do that, so I suppose I can’t blame “them”…whoever “them” are.

Most of my orthopedic shoes are flip flops and you can’t tell they’re special.

My workout shoes are a different beast entirely.  They’re white and hideous and look like they belong on the 55 year old head nurse at the retirement home, or to any male over the age of 60.

Oh, and they’re boat sized.  Seriously.  They’re huge.  My friends tell me they aren’t bad, but I know they’re lying.

Sadly, the orthopedic shoes are out of my control and something I blame on my mother, as this condition is hereditary.  Thanks mom!

4.  Game night with friends is really fun

kids in arcadeGone are the days of getting ready to go out at 10:00 at night.  By that time now I’m usually in bed, or nodding off on the couch to an episode of The Big Bang Theory.

My husband is completely obsessed with this show.  I think he might actually want to be best friends with Sheldon.

I remember when I used to go out with my friends to the bars and stay out until 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning.  Not so much now.  I’ve recently discovered game night and it’s amazing.

Matt and I have started hosting game nights at our house.  I realize this sounds super lame, and it probably is, but we love it and we have a blast.

I prefer all my guests to wear comfortable clothes, but pants are required.  We have ridiculous amounts of food and all sit around playing Catchphrase and Pictionary.

It doesn’t sound like much fun, but I assure you trying to guess “giving birth” when someone draws a picture of a woman with something shooting out of her vagina is pretty stinking funny.

If this makes me old then I don’t care.

5.  I am sometimes offended by lyrics in songs

guy with open mouth

Although I don’t have a problem with old school rappers like TuPac and Dr. Dre, I find myself becoming a bit offended by lyrics in today’s music.

This makes me not only old, but pathetic as well.  I realize this, but I still get irritated by the lyrics.  If the music is loud, then I’m doubly annoyed (See Number 1).

For instance, the song If I Die Young by The Band Perry is especially offensive.

Not just because the song is bad and the singer sounds like she is singing with marbles in her mouth, but because the lyrics seem to be glorifying death at a young age.

The first time I heard this song I thought to myself “Why would they do a song about dying at a young age when all these kids are being bullied and committing suicide?”

I then wept softly to myself because I realized I had become my mother.

But seriously.

And what about the E.T. song by Katy Perry.  Don’t get me wrong, I love me some alien action.  ALF was  my favorite show growing up.

I don’t think Kayne West singing about probing someone is particularly kid friendly or appropriate.  Wow, even typing that makes me realize I’m old.

Should I just sign up for my AARP card now?

I wish I could take these things back and rock out all night to offensive music turned up at a loud volume while wearing regular shoes in a bar.  But instead, I will turn down the volume, listen to some music by The Carpenters and enjoy game night in the privacy of my own home.

I may be getting old, but at least I will be comfortable doing it!

couple on grass

We have NEVER done this.

On Saturday night, after a work out that made me think of nothing but Mexican food, I knew there was only one option for dinner:  Mexican.

I advised my husband that he could either join me at our favorite local Mexican restaurant, or he could stay home, but either way, I was planning on shamelessly stuffing my face with fish tacos and copious amounts of salsa.

Although I’m sure the thought of refried beans inevitably dripping down my face was less than appealing to him, my husband agreed to go to dinner with me.

He had plans with some friends to watch “the fights”, but said he would rather hang out with me instead.

I have no idea what “fights” he was talking about, and for all I know, he and some buddies were going to watch a debate on the merits of paper versus plastic.

I can only suspect this was the case, as if it really was fights where two men were beating each other up, my husband prefered to watch that over observing me spill guacamole on my dress….and yes, I will spill guacamole on my dress…every time.

couple at dinnerFor some reason he thought it would be more fun to hang out with me than with with his friends at a smoky bar.  Although I was certain that wasn’t true, I knew either way, the night would end with him assisting a stumbling person to his (or her) car.

In the date scenario, that stumbling idiot would be me.

We made it to our favorite restaurant and got a great spot on the patio where we observed a young couple who appeared to be approximately 13 years old.

I realize they may have been older, but the older I get, the more I think everyone under the age of 25 is in junior high.

They were on a date and although I thought they looked too young to drive, they each had alcoholic beverages, so either they were old enough to drink, or they had a great fake ID.

I debated carding them and telling them I was with liquor patrol, but then my food arrived and I got sidetracked.

eavesdropMy husband and I eavesdropped on the lovebirds for most of our date night, which was fine with us, as their conversations about Bobby’s kegger and

Melissa being a slut were far more entertaining than our discussions about the need to fix the attic fan and get the dogs in for their vaccinations.

We finished our dinner and headed home, as we were full and needed to slip into something more comfortable…that is…something with an elastic waist.

We got home and were greeted by three rambunctious dogs who licked our faces and threw toys in the air to celebrate our arrival.

We were glad to have such a welcoming party, especially since we were feeling a bit down about our boring lives in light of the young college couple living the dream.

After changing into sweatpants and t-shirts, Matt and I found our favorite places on the couch where we proceeded to watch TV for a bit.

couple in bed waking upEventually, we retired to bed at 10:00 where we laid in bed with the dogs and turned on Forensic Files on Tru TV.

We watched two episodes of that show on our 10 inch TV/VCR combo that I still have from college.  I’m sure we will need to increase our contact prescriptions after that viewing.  Nothing says “I love you” quite like true stories about murder and kidnapping.

Before the night ended, I asked my husband for a rub down….of BenGay.  I was sore from my workouts and knew I needed another application of BenGay if I had any hope of getting out of bed in the morning.

After the liberal application of BenGay, we put on our glasses and climbed into bed with our respective books that we read until about midnight, at which time we turned off the light and went to bed.

kiss imprintThe next morning I woke up feeling refreshed and a little embarrassed that our Saturday night was so lame.

I thought about those college kids who probably stayed out all night, and I wondered when it was that we got so old.

It could have been when I started wearing bifocals, but since that was in the fourth grade, I don’t think that was it.  Seriously, the fourth grade!

Whenever it was, I realized that maybe getting older wasn’t so bad.

I had a great night with my husband, and although it wasn’t glamorous or super exciting, it was relaxing and comfortable, and that’s just how I like it.