Dear forty-something mom at the pool,Inner Tube in Swimming Pool --- Image by © Royalty-Free/Corbis

Yes, I’m talking to you, with the bleached blond hair that only partially hides the gray, and the mammoth glass of water that I’m pretty sure is spiked with something illegal.  I’ve been meaning to tell you a few things, and with the close of summer, now is the perfect time.

So scoot your low rider lounge chair over this way and listen up.  I would tell you to take notes but I wouldn’t want to ruin your manicure and I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to spell half the things in this letter, so I will read it aloud to you.  (That means “out loud.”)

1.  You don’t need more sun.

Throw on a hat and some SPF because your skin looks like it could be sold at a bike shop as chaps and a belt.  And those aren’t freckles, they’re sun spots, and although you believe you’ve been kissed by the sun, that isn’t true.  Judging by your crow’s feet, you’ve been dry humped really hard by the sun and then left outside to dry.

Instead of more sun you need binoculars and walkie talkies to locate your children.  Do you know where they are?  I’m not their babysitter because I can’t stand your kids and I’m assuming the pay sucks.  I don’t want to be responsible for kids, which is why I keep up to date on my birth control.  You should probably do the same.

So put down the Tiger Beat magazine and locate your children.  When you find them, slap them for me.  Not necessarily because they’re doing anything bad at the moment, but because I’m sure they deserve it.

2.  Your kids aren’t adorable and I hate all of their pool antics.

You might think it’s cute for your kids to splash around in the pool, yelping and screaming.  I don’t.  Teach your kid to swim.  Flailing around in the water is neither cute nor fun to watch and your kids’ high pitched screams are going to break my vodka glass, which will result in a wrath you don’t want to see.  So get your kids to swimming lessons so they will shut up and swim correctly.  But then again, natural selection might just play out here…

Never mind.  Return to the crossword puzzle in Star magazine you find so challenging.  (And the words you are looking for are “washed up.”  They are the answer to #21 across, which asks “What’s 8 letters to describe the pathetic woman at the pool.”)

3.  Get a bathing suit for a woman over twenty.

You might think you have a smoking hot body (and you probably do), but that heat you feel isn’t coming from your hot body, it’s the early onset of menopause.  So cover up your c-section scars and don a one-piece.  Your husband doesn’t want to see your deflated boobs and neither do I.

Believe it or not, they actually sell bathing suits in the adult section of Target.  Yeah.  They actually have an adult section at Target.  Go there immediately.

4.  Stop reading “Twilight” books.

You’re not a teenager and you’re old enough to be Edward’s mom (and yes, I know he’s a 111 year old vampire).  No one cares if you’re Team Edward or Team Jacob.  You’re about to be Team AARP.  Put the book down and pick up the sunscreen.  (See #1 above for more details.)

kid in pool

5.  Stop talking with fellow moms about your “charity work.”

We all know you don’t have a job.  Your bronze skin and beach body tells us you have plenty of time to GTL just like the kids on Jersey Shore (and you’re almost as annoying as they are).  But let’s not pretend you dedicate your life to good deeds.  Yes, you may recycle and you also might donate last season’s Gucci bag to the homeless, but you’re far from a philanthropist.  If you were so charitable, you would do the world a favor and sterilize yourself so you would stop bringing more brats into the world.

And look up.  Your kid is putting his boogers on the lining of the pool.  You’ve got a real genius there…

So there you go; those are some of the things I’ve been meaning to get off my chest for some time now about you.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, me and my swim dress are going to lay in the shade with a Jane Austin novel and pretend the world isn’t full of idiots.  Oh yeah, in order to make that happen, vodka will be involved.


I recently went to the East Coast to visit my friend Kvothe (not her real name) and her amazing family (including her dad who is most likely a CIA agent).  In addition to learning how to be a sharp shooter (and discovering I look amazing in protective ear wear), I wanted to do some other touristy things.

Normally I’m not a touristy person and I prefer to look like I’m a local in most places (except Branson.  NO ONE should be a local in Branson).  In keeping with my new found love of all things touristy, I asked Kvothe if there was a tourist trap nearby where we could shamelessly dump money for an afternoon.

The bar was my first option but it didn’t open until 3:00 p.m.  We had some time to kill before we started killing brain cells.

Kvothe is a huge animal lover and she suggested we go to a magical place…a place called The Land of Little Horses.  (Yes, it’s actually a real place.)  At first I thought she was making it up, and I asked her if the “land” had unicorns and reasonably priced car insurance (both are mythical creatures to me).  She said the place actually existed and we should go so I could see for myself.  I was intrigued.

We headed to the mythical place and I couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t Kvothe’s way of kindly suggesting I drop some pounds.  I’m what you would call “fluffy”  and Kvothe is what you would call “I hate that b*#ch because she’s skinny.”

Part of me wondered if she was taking me to this place to emphasize that although my ass looks large in my Pajama Jeans, it looks even larger when posed next to a 3 foot horse.

Maybe this was her way of pushing me to the fat girl edge so I would actually take myself to the gym, or at least restrain myself from carbs.  I pondered this thought in the car while downing chocolate no-bake cookies.

We arrived at The Land of Little Horses and I swear when we pulled up I saw a rainbow and glitter shoot from the sky.  It was located on several acres of land and even the mosquitoes seemed to have a skip in their step…or their flight…whatever.

We purchased two passes for the day and also bought containers of treats for the horses.  I know I am nicer to strangers when they present me with baked goods, and I wanted to return the favor to these miniature animals…only with dog food instead of iced animal crackers.  (Would that be cannibalism?)

We walked into the magical land and were immediately greeted by a goat who was either pregnant, or she was smuggling a small village into the country.  She was huge and ready to eat whatever food we would give her…even if we didn’t offer it.

Fortunately for her, I have a soft spot for fatties, so I gave her some extra treats (and a pamphlet on diabetes) and headed over to see the horses.

As we walked to the horses, we noticed something was following us.  We turned around and saw what looked like a horse…only it was shrunken.  It was like those Shrinky Dinks I used to make as a kid.  You know what I’m talking about.

They started out normal sized but after a quick stint in the oven, they turned into even more useless pieces of clay your mom was forced to wear for a week before throwing out in embarrassment.  (Don’t act like you didn’t love making ugly pendants for everyone you knew.  You did, and you were horrible at it.)

This Shrinky Dink horse was real and staring me straight in the eyes…or maybe more of the crotch, as that was more his eye level.  I looked at him and fell in love instantly.  I swear I heard “Dream Weaver” playing in the background, and if I looked closely, I could see him wink at me through his long lashes.  I could tell he felt it too.

I went over to him and petted him immediately.  I have no idea if miniature horses like to be petted, but I know miniature daschunds do, and I figured they were pretty much the same thing.  He loved it and nuzzled up close to me.  He kept getting closer and closer…until I realized he was pick-pocketing me for my horse treats.  It made me love him more.

I began doling out treats and we became instant friends.  Since we’re both completely food motivated, I knew this was going to be a solid friendship.  As I stuffed his face with food, an employee walked by and I asked her what my soul-mate’s name was.  Apparently his name was Columbus. Isn’t he the cutest thing ever?

After exchanging numbers and promising to keep in touch, I left Columbus because I was hot and needed some air conditioning (and a cooler pair of Spanx).  We headed inside a barn for a dog and pony show.   No seriously.

It was literally a dog and pony show. There were both dogs and ponies in the act doing various tricks and being ridiculously adorable.  I fell in love with one of the performers, who was a collie mix and stole my heart immediately.

I felt badly for betraying Columbus, but the heart wants what the heart wants (and my heart wanted some slobbery dog kisses from the collie.)  I named him Louie although I’m pretty sure that wasn’t his name.  It might have been Gretchen.

Louie was a typical actor.  He was a charmer and worked the room like he owned it.  That’s probably what drew me to him.  He was a crowd pleaser and only stopped occasionally for the obligatory crotch lick (his…not the crowd’s).

We locked eyes and with one fleeting glance, I knew we weren’t meant to be.  Not because he was a canine and I wasn’t.  It was because he lived the life of a star, who had so much blaze to him, and I couldn’t be the one to snuff him out.  He had to be free.  (Well, not really free.  You had to pay admission to see him.)

I left The Land of Little Horses with a heavy heart and a happy face.  I met two amazing miniature animals that day, both of which put a super sized hole in my heart; a hole that could only be filled with a root beer float.

I’m holding!  Well, sort of.  Right now the only thing I’m holding is a glass of lemonade and a Snickers bar, but I could be holding a gun too (although the handle would probably be smeared in chocolate).

I recently visited my friend, Kvothe, in our nation’s great capital.  I was there over July 4th, and I figured what better way to celebrate another year of freedom in this great country of ours than by learning to shoot a weapon.

Nothing says “happy birthday USA” quite like a rim shot from a revolver, and that’s exactly what I gave her.  (I didn’t want to give her a gift that she would return, like a sweater or the new Justin Beiber album).

My friend Kvothe (not her real name), is from Pennsylvania, which makes her super cool and not a Quaker. Seriously, I can’t emphasize enough that she is not a Quaker.

Kvothe’s father, Jack Byrnes (not his real name), is apparently quite the marksman.  He holds several national records for shooting and although he adamantly denies it, I’m pretty sure he’s in the CIA…or at least a contract killer.  Based upon this reason alone, I was super nice to him (and slept with my door locked).

At some point during my visit, Jack Byrnes asked if I wanted to learn to shoot a gun.  Um, yes please.  Obviously he was recruiting me for his secret government work.  It’s the only logical explanation.
He probably observed me slyly get up in the middle of the night and eat the rest of the homemade scones.  (Who wouldn’t do this?) I thought I did so without being observed, but apparently Big Brother is everywhere (and on three times a week on CBS!)

I told him I would love to learn to shoot guns.  I considered asking him if I could dress up like a gansta for the shooting session but thought better of it.  I didn’t know if his experience as an obvious trained assassin would put me in jeopardy with this type of clothing.  (Jack Byrnes swears he works with computers, but his sharpshooting skills suggest otherwise.)

The morning of the lesson we sat down with different guns and went over how each gun shoots, what kind of bullets are used and how to operate them safely.  Yeah, like we really need to go over safety.  I think we know I’m not that big of a liability for disaster.  Wait…maybe it was a good idea.

After we went over all the features of the weapons, we headed out to the shooting range.  It was in a secluded area and as we drove out in Jack Byrnes’ mini van (yes, a mini van…to keep us off the scent of his real job), I considered for a brief moment that perhaps he had a contract out on my life and this was the end for me.

I would go out in a blaze of glory in a maroon Town and Country mini van with cloth seats and a “Who rescued who” bumper sticker on the back…just as I always pictured it.  But then I realized that would be ridiculous because I’m far too awesome to want to “off.”  I dismissed the thought and focused on the guns.

We arrived at the shooting range and the fun began immediately.  I put on the sweet 80s headphones that were supposed to be for ear protection, but I think were really a throw back to DJ Jazzy Jeff.  I fist pumped and sang a chorus of “Parents Just Don’t Understand” and then grabbed a gun.

At first I was a bit shy about shooting because I was scared of the kickback.  The guns were powerful and I knew the kickback would be strong, but I didn’t know how strong.  Jack Byrnes sensed my hesitation (probably because he’s trained to do so), and he told me to think about something that made me mad and then pull the trigger.

So many things irritate me.  Long lines at Chipotle, bars that don’t serve Grey Goose and the entire cast of Glee ran through my mind.

That did it.  I pulled the trigger and I never felt so alive!  The kickback was strong but those stolen scones from the night before gave me the strength to handle it.

I shot again and again, getting better each time.  After each round I went to the target (not the store) and was surprised to discover I actually wasn’t that bad of a shot.  Immediately I texted my  husband and told him to shape up or deal with my wrath.  I’m sure he peed himself when he received it.

So all of you out there need to watch yourselves.  Now that I’ve been trained by a marksman and alleged computer expert (but probable CIA agent), the sky is the limit for me.

So if you want to make fun of this blog, beware.  (Although it would be a super easy target.)  I may be packing heat at any time and just might work towards my Conceal and Carry license.

*NOTE:  This is not a photo of us.  In case you didn’t know.*

I hate doing home improvement projects.  They’re horrible.  Actually, I hate doing any sort of improvement projects, whether home or otherwise.  (It’s why I don’t even bother dieting anymore.  I hate failure…is that a cookie over there?) I like to think that everything in my life is perfect and not in need of improving.

Unfortunately, my electric bill strongly disagrees.  Recently, we’ve noticed that our house is not overly efficient when it comes to energy.  This is something my house and I have in common.  When it comes to my energy, I also don’t seem to be energy efficient.

I rarely have the strength to walk across the room to throw away my gum wrapper, but I will sprint to the door to greet the pizza delivery driver and throw him an extra $5.00.  I guess I’m just selective with my energy.  So is my attic, but I can’t excuse my attic, as it doesn’t deliver me a veggie pizza.

We purchased our house from a total beotch and at least once a month we curse her and her do-it-yourself husband for all of the “home improvement” tasks they did themselves…most of which involved duct tape and Monster glue.

Although I believe those two items can fix nearly anything (except my first marriage),  they couldn’t help out in the insulation department.

I’ve been wanting to re-insulate the attic for about 6 months.  I kept casually mentioning it to my husband in the hopes he would get the project going.

By the way, do you know how hard it is to casually work into a conversation the words “attic,” “energy efficient”, “insulation” and “fart box?”  (Okay, the last ones didn’t have anything to do with the story but you try fitting those 2 words into a conversation…it’s harder than you think.)

Every time I would casually bring up the project, my husband would say he put it on his list.  “My husband’s list” needs to be a separate blog for a separate day, because that list isn’t so much a “to do” list as it is a “I’m going to say I’m putting this on my list to shut up my wife” kind of list.

I have a feeling he’s not the only husband with such a list.

Most likely because my husband wanted to prove me wrong about his little list, a few weeks ago he surprised me and said he was ready to insulate the attic.  I would have preferred a surprise that involved a day at the spa and a night alone with a pound of guacamole, but this was a nice surprise too.

I’ll take what I can get (and I’d like to get some chips with that guacamole).

Either my husband doesn’t believe in the voodoo of meteorology, or he likes to torture himself, as he chose the weekend when it was 107 degrees as the magical weekend to insulate the attic.  (I think he probably likes to torture himself.  Exhibit A:  he’s married to me.  Obvious torture.)

In addition to choosing the hottest day of the year to do manual labor, he also chose the day before my birthday, which was another strike against him.  (There I go again giving strikes…)


We begrudgingly set the alarm and got up at 7:00 Saturday morning.  I was already irritated.  We headed to Lowe’s to begin our project, or as I like to call it “our marriage tester.”

Anyone who is married and engages in a home project with their spouse (or ex spouse) knows what I’m talking about.  I knew there was a 60/40 chance we would emerge from this project still united in matrimony.  (You can decide which one the 60% represents…)

We actually researched this project the weekend before and discovered we would need to rent an insulation blower along with several packages of insulation….72 to be exact.

The previous week we asked the guy at Lowe’s if we would have any problem renting the machine and getting that much insulation.  He told us they had several hundred bags of insulation so it shouldn’t be a problem.

When we arrived at 7:30 a.m. at Lowe’s to get the machine and the insulation, we were shocked to discover they had only 19 bags of insulation to sell.  Obviously other people in the St. Louis area wanted to test their marriage and check something off their husband’s “list.”  We were in trouble but I was determined not to admit defeat, as I knew I had a small window of time to push this project through.

We rented the machine, bought all the insulation they had, loaded up the truck, and we headed home. (Okay, I watched them load it up.  Whatever.)  We unloaded the machine (okay, Matt and his friend did), and then we made two different trips to another Lowe’s for additional insulation.

couple smiling and paintingIt sucked.  Or should I say “It blew?”  (That joke was terrible but I’ve been away from blog writing for a while and I’m rusty.  Or should I say I’m dusty?  I will stop now with the bad puns.)

Miraculously, our marriage survived the numerous trips to Lowe’s.  I attribute that success to the copious amount of Diet Coke I slammed and the musical stylings of 2Pac.  Nothing says “let’s do this home project” more than gansta rap from the West Side…especially at 8 a.m.

We finally made it home, set up the machine, and spent the next 7 hours blowing insulation into our attic.  We also discovered that although you use a hose to blow everything into the attic, you might as well just shoot dust directly onto everything you own because that’s what is going to happen anyway.

Seriously.  Everything you own.

We finished the project that evening, covered in sweat, insulation, and a new found hatred for the previous home owners…who didn’t put ANY insulation in the attic.  No wonder our house was a hot box!

Running on pure anger (and a delightful foot long sub from Subway), we then proceeded to return the machine and the extra 22 bags of insulation we bought, clean the house, and put everything back the way it was before we started.  The project was complete!

Finally, we had something to cross off my husband’s list! I was so happy that I wanted to personally check “insulation installation” off the list.  (Doesn’t that sound like an 80s cover band?)  When I asked Matt where his list was, he told me he didn’t have an actual written list, but it was all kept “right up here” (and then he pointed to his head).

I then asked him if the list was kept in the same part of his brain that remembered the lyrics to songs wrong, or if it was in the part of his brain that seemed to always forget which nights Big Brother airs.  I’m still awaiting his response.

clinking lemonade glasses

Summer has arrived, and with it comes an influx of bored kids who should probably be going to summer school, or should at least take a shower every couple days.

Seriously. Yes, you’re growing the coveted hair under your pits, but that doesn’t mean you can’t take some soap to it every now and again.  It won’t fall out.  I promise.  It hasn’t worked on my pit hair and it won’t work on yours.  I can smell you from here.  No joke.

Every summer for as long as I can remember, kids have been setting up lemonade stands.  I like to think it’s because they’re miniature entrepreneurs, but I’m beginning to think it’s because they want to sit around and do nothing while acting like they’re working.

I suspect their inspiration comes from every single person in Congress…and/or Ce Lo Green.  Seriously, that guy has creepy small hands and we all know he doesn’t really do anything on The Voice except remind me I need a manicure.

My neighborhood is no exception to the lemonade stand epidemic, and I’ve noticed that one or two of them seem to pop up each year.

Because I’m totally awesome, (and addicted to sugar), I always stop at whatever lemonade stand I see (so long as I have a quarter and a hankering for artificial flavoring…which is always).

Last week Matt and I saw a lemonade stand in our neighborhood and immediately stopped to grab a few cold glasses.  It was on a Tuesday night, and we were headed to meet my friend The Nanny (not her real name) and her husband for Taco Tuesday night, but we figured we could take a sweet treat before we went (and after too.  Hello Dairy Queen…)

We grabbed a couple quarters, got out of the car and headed over the the small lad and lassie who were manning the booth.  (And by “booth” I mean a card table with some questionable stains on it.  And yes, I said lad and lassie.  Deal with it.)

quartersWhen we arrived, the lad and lassie made no attempts to sell their product.  I was expecting some sort of hook like “It’s the perfect day for some lemonade” or “What can I do to get you some much needed refreshment?

Instead, I got two kids with a thousand yard stare, one of which had a lazy eye, which made the stare particularly troublesome. I decided to focus on his nose in an effort to keep myself from following the stare of the lazy eye. (Who knows where that would lead.)

“Hi there,” my husband said.  He’s a real genius when it comes to dealing with kids.  “Whatcha selling?”  See what I mean?  Genius.

“We have lemonade” the lassie said in a completely monotone voice.  She may not have had a lazy eye, but her enthusiasm left much to be desired.  (As did her wardrobe.  Stripes with polka dots?  Child please.  You can’t pull that look off.)

We will take two, please” my husband said.  That guy is quite the charmer.  He slid two quarters across the dirty table and awaited his refreshment.

They are a dollar a piece,” Lazy Eye responded.

Seriously?!  A dollar a piece?  That’s two dollars for approximately 8 ounces of lemonade!  I could buy an entire container of Country Time for about three bucks, and it most likely wouldn’t have been handled by creepy kids with grimy hands and an eye condition.  What kind of robbery was this?

“Um, okay,” my husband responded, trying not to appear flustered for fear Lazy Eye might actually wail on him.  “I will have to go back to my car and get some more money.”

glass of lemonadeHe headed to the car while I stood there trying to make small talk with the lad and lassie (yes, I’m back to using those terms).  Those kids definitely didn’t have much going on in the conversation department.

I asked them if they liked Elmo or if they had any GI Joe dolls, but they didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.  They were obviously idiots.

My husband returned with two dollars and gave them the cash.  Lassie then proceeded to pour our two glasses of lemonade.  (I was definitely glad to see she was pouring, as I’m pretty sure her brother didn’t have the best hand-lazy-eye-coordination.)

Lassie handed us each a cup of lemonade and we walked away.  We got back to the car and we each took a sip.  Ew.  It wasn’t even cold!  What?!  Would it kill the kids to throw an ice cube or two into the mixture?  Who was their supervisor?

They clearly didn’t care about repeat customers or quality assurance.  Who am I kidding?  They were probably already packed up and three towns over by the time we took our second sip.  Those kids were total scammers and we were suckers.

Aside from the fact they needed a lesson in marketing and placement of their stand (along with a pair of corrective lenses), they also needed to learn about keeping the customer happy….and inflation.

Although I know times are tough, I’m pretty sure inflation hasn’t increased 75% in the last fifteen years.  If so, I need a huge raise…and Abercrombie and Fitch is still overcharging for their t-shirts.

Maybe I’m getting old, but I don’t think a dollar for 8 ounces of lukewarm generic lemonade is a deal.  I had half a mind to go back to the stand and ask for my money back, but feared I would throw the remainder of the glass in their faces, and I didn’t want another assault charge on my record (nor did I want to put anything in that jacked up eye).

Instead, we decided to chalk the incident up to stupidity (much like my reading of the “Twilight” series).  The worst part of the entire experience (aside from the acidy after taste), was the fact that we never got back the two quarters that we initially offered.  Hopefully they use those additional funds to invest in a business plan…or a co-pay for a visit to the eye doctor.

guy asleep with lemonade


Last night my husband and I attended a Fry-Day the Thirteenth party.  This wasn’t a typical Friday the 13th party, for starters, because the party was on Saturday the 13th.

There were no scary costumes or horror movies shown, and no one jumped out of dark places to scare anyone, although a game of hide and seek did get a bit out of hand.

I also got a little frightened when I saw the level of  vodka getting dangerously low, but that was quickly rectified with a quick trip home for more.

009As you know, we have an amazingly fabulous friend, St. Frick (not his real name), who lives an amazing life with his amazing friends.  We’ve met several of his friends, and for some reason, they like us, or they at least pretend to.

Matt seems to think it has something to do with my low cut tops, but we don’t really know.  So I continue to wear revealing clothes and we go with it.

Some of St. Frick’s closest friends and most fabulous, are the Pepperwomens (not their real names).  They are an adorable married couple who are so much fun to be around.

The Pepperwomens recently purchased a double frier, and decided to christen it with a party to celebrate all things fried.

Naturally, they invited us, as one look at my double chin lets anyone know I’m a girl who likes fried food.

We were ecstatic to get the coveted invitation to the Fry Day party, as not just anyone gets invited to the Pepperwomen’s parties.  At least that’s what we told ourselves.

007I decided to wear one of my new Liz Lange maternity dresses to the party to allow for maximum eating and minimum discomfort. It also was booby, so that was an added bonus.

We followed the smell of boiling grease and headed to The Pepperwomen’s for a night of artery clogging good times.  As we approached, I could actually feel my cholesterol levels rising and my waist expanding.

We arrived, said our hellos, made ourselves a drink and settled in to observe the frying in action.  Although I’m a fan of fried food, I’ve never actually fried anything, nor have I observed things being fried, so this was an exciting time for me.

It was kind of like watching laws be made in Congress, or Heidi Montag’s face be constructed by plastic surgeons (only the result in this case wasn’t nauseating).

The Fry-Day the Thirteenth invitation encouraged us to bring anything we wanted to fry, so people were frying lots of different foods.  From toasted ravioli to spinach, the fryer was at full speed, creating delicious foods that most definitely would result in heartburn for all involved.

008Mr. Pepperwomen was hard at work at the fryer, timing the food to ensure maximum crispiness.

He rivaled any 16 year old zit faced boy working the frier at a local fast food joint, only he didn’t have a math test on Monday or a closet full of stolen Victoria’s Secret magazines (or at least I hope he didn’t).

Now I’m no stranger to fried foods, and I’ve had fried mushrooms and fried fish, but I have never had fried spinach, so I was excited to try it.  Let me tell you, it did not let me down.

Who knew vegetables could be so good when dropped in boiling grease and smothered in Parmesan cheese?  If this was used in salads, I think I would eat a lot more of them.  Delicious!

As I stuffed my face with fried spinach and chased it with sweet potato fries, I observed the other guests at the party and noticed one thing (aside from the fact that all of them were amazing and worldly)….they were all thin.  What?!

How were a bunch of thin people at a party where the main courses were fried?  I was shocked.  Not that I was expecting the guests to look like contestants of The Biggest Loser, but I expected at least one or two of them to look like they may get winded from walking up a flight of stairs (aside from myself of course).

I was disappointed but then realized the thin people probably wouldn’t eat much, which would leave more food for me.  I quickly forgave them for their toned arms.

The night was so much fun, and we left with full bellies and indigestion.  The only thing I would have changed had it been my party, is I would have passed out complimentary Tums as party gifts.

All in all it was a good night, and I’m pretty sure I gained at least 5 pounds that I will wear with pride.  And I’ve never been so grateful for Liz Lange and her maternity dresses!!!

This weekend we attended a “white party.”  No, we aren’t racist, and this party wasn’t filled with hateful propaganda nor did it look like a scene out of American History X (although I would have been just fine if a hunky Edward Norton was there sporting the wife beater he rocked in that movie).

Rather, this party required everyone to wear white clothes to the soiree.  My husband and I have an amazing friend who throws parties like you wouldn’t believe.

He has a sarcastic sense of humor, which makes him quite dear to my heart.

He also looks like a thinner version of Santa Clause, if Santa Clause trimmed his beard and dropped f-bombs every other word.  So, to keep this blog G-rated, I will hereafter refer to this friend as “St. Frick.”

St. Frick sent out an invitation for the white party, making it clear that if we wanted to eat or drink at the party, we had to be dressed in white.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity for free food and top shelf liquor, I needed to find myself a white outfit.

Since I’m not a size 2 (and I dislike those that are), it was difficult to find a flattering white dress that covers my backside without looking like a semi.  (I will make a honking noise if you do the arm signal, but I won’t be happy about it).

064Naturally, I went to my go-to place in times of crisis…  It didn’t let me down.  I found a cute white sundress at a great price.

When I went to check out Target let me know that if I spent another $25, I could get free shipping.  I’ve never been good at math, but I figured this was clearly a bargain.

Why would Target lie to me?  So, I found another dress I liked, completed my purchase, and waited for the shipment.

The white dress arrived and although it wasn’t the cutest thing in the world, it would work as my ticket to all the top shelf vodka I could drink for the night (which by the way, is a lot).

My husband also found a white outfit, although he wasn’t nearly as lucky with as I was.

The night of the party we donned our white outfits and headed to St. Frick’s house for the bash.  As we walked to our car, Matt and I realized we looked like we were either getting married, or going to our jobs at the painters union. 

068Either way, we didn’t care because we knew were going to have an amazing time at St. Frick’s house.

We arrived and parked several blocks away, and followed the sounds of pumping music.  St. Frick has the most amazing house I’ve ever seen, and his patio/pool/pool house look like it came out of the pages of Crate and Barrel.

Whenever we go to his house we find ourselves cussing profusely, cursing how awesome his house is and how lame ours is.

We arrived and saw a taco truck in front of the house.  I love tacos and all things Mexican, so I bellied up to the truck and asked for some tacos.

The sixteen year old employee glanced at me and knew he would be earning his minimum wage making tacos for me all night long.

Begrudgingly he verified the taco truck was food for the party.  Woo hoo!

We walked to the backyard to get the party started and were shocked to discover it already started without us.

We walked into the back and saw several different sized balls hanging from the second story of the house.  It looked like there were bubbles floating everywhere and it was amazing!

We immediately found the bar.  It was located in the pool house, in case you were wondering.

I felt better with a vodka in my hand, and Matt and I walked around to check things out.  As I looked around, I noticed everyone was wearing white. We looked like were were members of a crazy cult, and not friends of the fabulous Mr. Frick.

Although I knew we most likely weren’t invited to to a cult ritual, I promised myself I wouldn’t trust anyone wearing white Nikes and I definitely wouldn’t drink purple Kool-Aid (unless it was mixed into my drink of course).

After downing my vodka, I set my glass down for two seconds only to look back and discover it magically disappeared.  Either I was drinking too fast or we really were in a mythical place.

I was impressed but knew if this place could make vodka magically appear instead of disappear, it would be my happy place.

As I stood there thinking about such an enchanted place, a woman in all black asked if I wanted another drink.  I really was in heaven!

The party was in late July in St. Louis in the middle of a heat wave, so it was over 100 degrees outside.  Everyone was covered in sweat, but no one noticed, either because they were too drunk to care, or too mesmerized by the hanging balls.

I fell into a category somewhere in between.

As I felt the sweat running down my back and into my unmentionables, I started a conversation with a lovely couple noticeably sweating more than I was, which may or may not be the reason I chose to stop and chat.

We talked for a few moments until the announcement that we could begin ordering tacos from the taco cart.  It then turned to anarchy as everyone bombarded the taco truck.

I suspect I spilled a drink and punched a woman in the face, but I got a good spot in line, so I figured it was well worth the violence.

To say the tacos were amazing would just be a slap in the face to the tacos. They were better than amazing.  They were the greatest things I ever tasted, and that’s saying a lot as I’m a bit of a food connoisseur.

I enjoyed my first round of tacos but needed more.  I was too embarrassed to return to the truck because I didn’t want the teenagers to think I was a fatty, as if they couldn’t tell.

So, I went incognito and sent my husband under the guise they were for him.  Right, like anyone would believe the guy with the flat stomach was getting more tacos while his overweight wife looked on.  Whatever.

I successfully finished my second round without spilling anything.  I was beginning to think St. Frick’s house had magical powers, as I always spill on myself.  Always.

I can eat a banana and somehow stain my shirt.  It’s a gift I have.  Really.  Some people can paint or draw with anything, I can make a mess out of anything.

With a belly full of tacos and vodka (the perfect storm), I got to mingle.  Since it was dark, people were wearing glow sticks like jewelry.  Not to be outdone, I made myself a necklace and anklet, as I’m trying to bring that look back…and failing miserably.

My husband and I chatted with friends separately and then met back up to swap stories.  We sat down by the pool with another couple and dangled our feet in the water, desperately trying to cool off.

I splashed water on my dress, hoping I could then use the excuse that the wet spots quickly forming under my breasts were water from the pool, and not massive amounts of sweat.  I’m not sure I fooled anyone.

We stayed a few more hours but ultimately left when our white outfits looked like napkins drenched in water.

We headed to the car sad it was over but amazed at how cool it was.

I hope I didn’t make an ass out of myself too much, but I suppose I won’t know until all the photos come back.

I just hope we get invited back, as there is nowhere else in the world I can go where the drinks magically appear and I leave a party without a stain on my dress

I absolutely love the pool, and during the summer months, I treat going to the pool like it’s my job…well, I guess I treat it better than a job because I don’t call in sick to it nor would I ever dream of taking a vacation day away from it.

We aren’t members of a nice pool, so we have to hit up the public pool, which is comprised of the local freakshows who are just one step above running through the garden hose in the front yard in cut off shorts and a tube top.

Recently my husband and I went to the pool to get some relaxation and see how many sno cones we could eat in one sitting before getting a brain freeze. We arrived around noon and secured our favorite lounge chairs near the diving board.

We love those chairs because we watch people jump off the diving board and critique them like Olympic judges, only we prefer to see belly flops, cannon balls, and the coup de gras…a face plant.

poolWe saved two chairs for our friends, and laid down to catch some rays.

After a few minutes we were sweating more than Sarah Palin during a history test, so we decided to get in the water.  We walked over to the shallow end and jumped in for some refreshment.

As we stood there contemplating what percentage of the pool was made up of pure urine, a man came over and sat on the edge of the pool near us.

He was about 45 years old, overweight, awkward, and most definitely on a pedophile list somewhere.  As we were getting up the nerve to ask him if his parole officer knew he was at the pool, we heard the most deafening and horrific sound ever….a fart!

And not just any fart.  A long and loud fart, with pitch and tone. This fart wasn’t tone deaf at all, although it was just as loud and obnoxious as Jennifer Hudson on the Weight Watchers commercials.  (We get it.  You lost weight.  Shut up already).

Before we could laugh or give the pedophile a chance to blame it on his floral swimming trunks or the ledge of the pool, he stunned us further.

He turned to us and said “Well, that was a rather loud toot, don’t ya think?

small__3139568197I swear to you, I am NOT making this up. My husband and I were stunned, and all we could do was agree with him.  After all, it was a rather loud toot.

And who calls it a “toot” anyway? That makes it sound like it was just a little sound from a choo choo train instead of a large foghorn sound from a freight train.

Was he trying to diminish the fact that his bodily function stopped our conversation dead in its tracks?

We didn’t get to address this with him further because he swam away just as quickly as he arrived…probably using his farts to propel him faster down the lap lane.

As we watched the sea of air bubbles following him as he splashed away, we couldn’t help but comment on how free that man must feel to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.
He was like the Gary Busey of Whitecliff Aquatic Center.
We decided to follow suit.  No, we didn’t spend the rest of the day ripping ass in the pool, (well, I suppose I can only speak for myself), but we decided to enjoy ourselves and not worry about what others at the pool thought of us.

It actually ended up being a pretty fun day, and we have the farting bandit to thank for that.

We would love to thank him in person, if only we knew which halfway house he was assigned to.


Peer pressure at the pool

Summer is almost over and I couldn’t be more sad about it. But to cheer me up (and hopefully you), I’m republishing one of my favorite pool stories from 2013. Enjoy!

***DISCLAIMER:  Sadly, this entire story is true, and has not been altered.  I wish it had been.***

I live in the Midwest, which means extreme temperatures for each season.  We don’t just have winter, we have winter that freezes the snot as soon as it comes out of your nose.  And we don’t just have summer, we have summer that scorches and boils the snot as it comes out of your nose.

Apparently in the Midwest we also have some serious sinus problems and constant nose drainage.

When the heat index is over 100 degrees in the Midwest, the only option to keep cool is to go to the pool.

Recently, I went for a relaxing afternoon, armed with my beach bag of pool necessities including trashy gossip magazines and iced beverages.

When I arrived, I jumped in the pool immediately to cool off.  As I doggy paddled gracefully in the shallow end, a boy came splashed over, looked me straight in the eye and said “Are you Jason’s mom?”

photo credit: R.O Mania♥ via photopin cc

photo credit: R.O Mania♥ via photopin cc

My body isn’t “swimsuit ready” which is why I rock the one piece with a cute little skirt.  This swimsuit was definitely a “mom” suit, so I took no offense to his question.

I advised the boy that I didn’t know Jason, nor was I his mother.

I would have thought that ended the communication, but he was persistent.

My goggles broke.  Can you fix them?”

At this point I felt a little sorry for Jason’s mom. Did she always have to deal with these random repairs?

The strap wasn’t attached to the goggles, so I reattached it.  I asked him if the repair was to his liking.

Instead of giving a polite answer, he held his pointer finger up in the universal “one moment” gesture, and went under water to test my handy work.

I hoped he wasn’t taking a closer look at my bathing suit.  If he did he would see the remnants of my lunch on it.  He didn’t notice but came up and said the fix was to his liking.  Considering he was quite picky, I was relieved.

Once again, I thought this would be the end of our interaction, but he stayed and stared.  In an effort at chit-chat, the seven year old told me his name was J.T. and it was his second day going off the diving board.  He said it with such pride it was as if he had just solved the oil crisis instead of simply jumping off a metal board.

photo credit: Yatmandu via photopin cc

photo credit: Yatmandu via photopin cc

I told him I was impressed because I was scared of the diving board.

He looked at me with a serious face, and asked: “Is it because you’re afraid the board will break if you get on it?”

Um….seriously kid?!  I realize I may have gained some weight, but did he think I was so large the diving board couldn’t support me?

After I caught my breath from the shock of his question, I responded.  “No, I’m just scared of falling.”

This answer was ridiculous to him, as the whole point of the diving board was to fall. He then became intent on getting me to jump.

He recruited his friend Jayden, who was sporting a mean mohawk.  Jayden said it was his first day going off the diving board and it was easy.

photo credit: melissaclark via photopin cc

photo credit: melissaclark via photopin cc

Any kid who could successfully pull off a mohawk was more brave than I was, so his diving board skills didn’t shock me.

J.T. thought about it for a second, and in an effort to coax me into jumping he said “I bet if you did a cannon ball off the diving board, it would make a huge splash.”

This kid was going to get cut if he kept referencing my weight.  I get it….I’m big.  Get over it.  I told him I wasn’t interested in jumping.

J.T. and Jayden then took things to a new level…a level I wasn’t expecting.  Without any hesitation, J.T. said “What are you, a scaredy cat?”  Jayden then began chiming in with his sing songy voice “Scaredy cat, scaredy cat.”

I may be fat, and I may look like Jason’s mom, but I am not a scaredy cat.  There was no way I was going to allow such accusations to fly.

photo credit: Carplips via photopin cc

photo credit: Carplips via photopin cc

I told the little terrors I wasn’t a scaredy cat.  Why did these kids care if I jumped?  Did they get a kickback from the pool?

In an effort to fully convince me, Jayden and J.T. said they would jump off and show me how to do it.  Grateful to have them leave the pool, I agreed to the plan.

They trotted over to the diving board, revealing their Spider Man and Cars swimming trunks, and proceeded to gracefully jump off the diving board.  As soon as J.T. emerged from the water post-jump, he pointed to me, and then pointed to the diving board.

It was time to pay the piper.

I hoisted myself out of the water.  As I stood in line, my heart started beating faster and I tried to keep my breathing steady.  There was no way I could back out now.  My pride was on the line, and I had to prove I wasn’t a scaredy cat…


Are you scared?” He asked, staring me in the eye.

photo credit: Neil Krug via photopin cc

photo credit: Neil Krug via photopin cc

Yes.” I responded to this devil child.

Is it because you’re a girl?”  This kid was clearly a masochist with his high pressure tactics and I suspect he’ll be selling timeshares in Nebraska in a few years.

No, it’s not because I’m a girl.”  I retorted.  “Are you saying girls aren’t as brave as boys?”

Not to be outdone, J.T. responded without missing a beat, and pointed to Jayden and said “No.  That’s what he said.”

Jayden was not happy about being thrown under the bus, but he didn’t refute it.  I’m not sure if it’s because he was deathly afraid of J.T. (who wouldn’t be?) or because the allegations were true.  Either way, he let it go.

It was my turn on the boards and I had a decision to make.  I could walk away and endure endless taunting for the rest of the summer, or I could buck up, pray the board held my weight, and make a huge splash.

I summoned my inner child and knew I couldn’t let these bullies get away with calling me a scaredy cat.

photo credit: Josh Kenzer via photopin cc

photo credit: Josh Kenzer via photopin cc

I took to the board, my legs shaky.  I knew if I looked down I would chicken out, so I just began running.  I ran with all of my might (which is pretty pathetic considering the diving board is only a few feet long).

I felt like I was running in slow motion (I probably was), and I swear I heard the song Chariots of Fire as I sprinted down the board.  Instead of jumping off I just continued to run until I no longer had footing under me.

I felt like Road Runner just moments after he realizes there’s no more road under his feet, assuming Road Runner wears a bathing suit akin to Jason’s mom’s.

I landed, most likely with a huge splash.  I emerged with a huge smile and laughing.  I couldn’t believe I was bulled by second graders.  The allegations of a scaredy cat still affected me in my 30s.

I swam to the edge and saw J.T. and Jayden cheering me on with a thumbs up.  I’m not so sure if they were happy I jumped or if they were reeling from the gigantic splash I made.  I decided not to ask.

I returned to my chair with a sense of accomplishment.  I hadn’t hiked to the top of a mountain or conquered my fear of snakes, but I mastered my diving board fear, thanks to two pushy second graders.

I was just hoped they stayed away from me for good, as I didn’t want them to discover my other fears.  They’d have me charming snakes in no time.

photo credit: Daniele Zedda via photopin cc

photo credit: Daniele Zedda via photopin cc