Everybody loves Howard Stern. And by “everybody,” I mean probably about half of the population. The other half wants to chop off what are most likely disgustingly old and sagging balls and shove them down his throat.

Photo from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Stern

Photo from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Stern

I don’t really have a preference, although I agree he probably has disgusting balls. I fall somewhere in between wanting to have a beer with the guy (only if he’s buying), and wanting to feed him a scrotum sandwich with an extra dose of women’s rights.

I don’t know how to transition into this next part of the story so I’m just telling you I’m transitioning now, which is probably just making it worse. Follow along.

I’m currenty in South Florida, pretending like I’m a baller and not convincing anyone. I’m a horrible actress and I don’t think asking if they serve “Two-Buck Chuck” wine helped sell my story. (They don’t.) But a hey, girl’s gotta dream.

This afternoon I walked through the enormous lobby of the Ritz Carlton in West Palm Beach. In an effort to look important, (and to hide the fact I was wearing sunglasses from the dollar store), I looked at my iPhone as I briskly walked through the lobby. I wanted people to think I was reading important emails, when what I was really doing was checking to see if Amanda Bynes had any new Twitter updates.

SIDE NOTE: If you are not following her on Twitter, do it now. What’s wrong with you?

I quickly realized I couldn’t read and walk at the same time, so I headed for a comfortable looking couch to rest. I almost reached my safe place when I smacked into what I thought was a wooden mop with a black head.

I looked up, expecting to see the janitor and his cleaning supplies. As I lifted my head from my very important correspondence (tweet) I wondered why a janitor was bringing the cleaning equipment through the main lobby area. Didn’t he know very important people were tweeting in there?

And then I saw who it was.

It was fricking Howard Stern…all 92 pounds of him….

Frickety Frick!

I apologized in my best “I’m totally wealthy and I know who you are and don’t care because I’m really rich” voice. I don’t think he bought it. Or if he did, he wouldn’t have been willing to pay more than the dollar I paid for my sunglasses.

Immediately I cursed myself for not buying the fancy sunglasses at Target for $19.99. Had I known I would bump into America’s raunchiest/funniest radio host, I would have splurged. Once again, my love of bargains screwed me over!

He shuffled away with this wife Beth, who looked adorable in her floppy hat that probably cost more than my mortgage.

They both walked away and I realized that collectively they weighed as much as I did.

You know I’m not a good photo journalist, but you guys push me to be better, so here’s the best I could do without looking like a total freak show chasing him to his room with my iPad.

Isn't Beth adorable?

Isn’t Beth adorable?

 

Howard Stern in the hiz-ouse!

Howard Stern in the hiz-ouse!

Howard and Beth are looking to move to South Florida to avoid taxes in NYC, so says the word on the street (which is really just my Google search.) I don’t know if that’s true, but if they decide to move to Florida, do you think they will be looking for a roommate?

It could be just like “Three’s Company.” I would even be willing to be the super-annoying Janet and Matt could be the always dapper Mr. Roper.

Come and knock on our door, Howard! We’ll be waiting for you!

 

My husband can be a funny guy at times. Granted, most of the time he doesn’t realize he’s being funny, but those are the times he’s at his best. It’s not that he’s funny because of the jokes he tells. I assure you, he is not. Actually, if my husband asks to tell you a joke, punch him in the jeans and run away immediately. Seriously. It’s for your own good.

Despite his inability to master the “knock knock” joke, he has an ability to make me laugh at the most random times. It’s one of the things I love most about him. So because I love you guys so much (and because I don’t have time to write a full blog post tonight because I’m super busy and important), I’ve decided to let you in on some of my husband’s recent statements that made me laugh.

*Please note that none of these statements are ones that made me want to run to the divorce lawyer and take him for his entire collection of old and stained movie posters. (They are stained from water basement from the damage, you perverts!) A blog post about those statements will be saved for another day. Somehow, those statements also manage to make me laugh, which is probably just pathetic.

**Please also note that all of these statements were said innocently by him, and not a single one of them were said ironically or with the intent of getting a laugh from me. I’m sad about that part, but it’s the truth. He was completely genuine in each one of these examples. Every. Single. One.

1. Mr. Obvious

Matt: “I hit my elbow!”

Me: “Where?”

Matt: “On the pointy part!”

Yeah, because I definitely want to know where exactly on your elbowyou hit your elbow. The very use of the word “elbow” tells me exactly where you hurt yourself. I want to know what object caused you pain, mostly so I can ensure that object is in the way the next time you tell me my purse should go “in the purse spot.”

2. Mathematician

Me (while standing in the pool on vacation): “How much of this pool is pure urine?”

Matt (while also standing in the pool): “I don’t know, but I’ve contributed to it.”

At least he’s honest. And who am I kidding? I contributed to it too.

3. Ghetto Superstar

Matt: “Soledad O’Brien is my home girl.”

 

I feel like I don’t even need to explain this one. She clearly is his home girl, and I’m totally cool with that. Of course, it would have been more appropriate if he was watching her on TV at the time, or if there was some reference to her anywhere at the time he made this declaration. Yes, that would have been appropriate, yet that wasn’t the case.

4. Loverboy

Me (standing in the ocean hugging him): “I love you.”

Matt: “I’m peeing right now.”

See, people?! This is another reason I don’t fricking hug people! The one time I venture out and try to hug someone, they pee on me and an hour of disinfecting my body begins.

5. Motivational Speaker

Matt: “Do you want to go on a walk?”

Me: “Yeah, let’s go.”

Matt: “I don’t want to.”

Wow. This guy really knows how to make a girl happy. I’m thinking I will use this tactic the next time he wants to engage in sexy time.

6. Comedian

Matt: “I’m a funny guy, you dick!”

The word “dick” was strongly emphasized. When he strongly belted out this statement, I can assure you, I thought it was hilarious. So maybe that makes him the dick.

7. Food extraordinaire

Matt: “That thing I order here is awesome!”

Me: “What is it?”

Matt: “I don’t remember.”

Well, I guess we will just order two of those.

8. Schoolboy

Matt: “Did I ever tell you my elementary school principal looked like Kurt Russell in a wig?”

Perhaps this is true. I’m not sure, but for the sake of his principal, I hope it isn’t, as Kurt Russell does not-a-pretty-girl-make. But what was most humorous (and disturbing) about this statement, was that he made it as he was drifting off to sleep. After this observation, I immediately threw away our copy of Overboard, which sucks, because that movie rocks. (It was her money all along people!!!!!  Who saw that coming?)

9. Judge and Jury

Matt (while laying on the beach in Mexico): “Not to be a snob, but is that woman using a god….damned….flip phone?”

Speechless….

10. Fashionista

Me: “You look creepy in that skull cap.”

Matt: “It’s not a skull cap, it’s a knit cap.”

Me: “What’s the difference?”

Matt: “I don’t know.”

And there you have it; a list of unintentionally funny things my husband said recently. I could go on and on and post several more quotes from him, but it’s getting late and I need to use my flip phone to order something amazing for him for dinner.

Funny things my husband said on vacation

 

During oShady Jack tie 1ur recent trip to Mexico, I was assaulted, beaten and abused…and I paid for it.  Kind of.  I received a complimentary body scrub after my massage at the spa was cut short. (I’m a girl who likes to get a deal, and this girl paid for a full hour of services.)  The masseuse was not happy she had to give me a scrub down.  I was not happy she had dry hands and a 5:00 shadow, but we all make sacrifices.  Unfortunately, she took her anger out on my skin cells, my muscles and my spine.  She was an angry woman.  I took it out on her tip.

Although the scrub down was painful and bordered on assault, I somehow found it refreshing.  I discovered when I came back home, that I was in a mood to deep clean everything I came into contact with.  I suspect this is some kind of psychological reaction to the attack, and will most likely require professional counseling to address (and probably many more trips to the spa).  But until then, I will embrace the desire to scrub, and disinfect everything in sight.

One night I was picking up random dog toys from around the house and I noticed Shady Jack’s toys were fairly filthy.  Although we have toys for all the dogs, Shady Jack cares most about them, and treats them like they’re his babies.

Well, not necessarily babies, because he carries them around by their necks and drops them in the water bowl.  If they were his babies, this would be attempted murder and we’d probably have to report him to the authorities and get him some professional help.  So maybe it’s more like he treats them like his prized possessions.

Shady Jack is a rescue dog who had a very rough life before coming to live with us.  He was abused by people and other dogs, and lived on the streets for about 2 years before being rescued.  He is an amazing dog and we love him very much.

Although we can’t confirm it for sure, we also suspect he may have been a pimp while living on the street.  Compelling evidence of this suspicion is this photo of him at doggie daycare.

Please note the activity in the background of the photo.  Doesn’t he look like he is protecting “the talent?”  The look in his eye says he means business and doesn’t want any disruptions while the bitch getting violated makes it rain back there.  (And don’t even think about getting offended by my use of the word “bitch.”  It’s totally appropriate here…because the female in this photo is clearly a prostitute.)

We’re pretty sure Shady Jack was a street hustler before he came to live with us.  The  way he is licking his chops in this photo is further confirmation that he knew how to get things done, most likely in the ghetto.  I feel like he should be wearing a long, pink feathered coat and have a paw full of pinky rings.  And maybe drink Hennessy from a chalice.  Don’t you think?  Yeah, we do too.

Those dog days are over for Shady Jack, and now his biggest problem is determining which bed to sleep on, and whether to pee on the rug in the kitchen or the rug in the dining room.  (I won’t spoil the surprise.  For those of you who come to our house, you can find this answer out yourself firsthand…or firstfoot.)

Other than the scars on his face and legs, you would never know about his sordid past because he constantly wags his tail and prances around with toys in his mouth.  He loves life, and if possible, he loves his toys even more.  The way he “loves” his toys isn’t the way that “hoodrat” in the photo above loves her Johns.  He’s far more sanitary than that.  Rather, he simply carries his toys around in his mouth.  (Well what do you know? I guess he does have that in common with the hoodrat above.)

Constantly taking his toys everywhere makes them dirty, and I learned some time ago, that washing them in the washing machine is not a viable option if you would like to save money.  However, it is a viable option if you want to pay your local washing machine repair man to come out and remove the toy stuffing from the motor and then purchase a new motor.

If that’s what you’re looking for, washing the toys in the washer is your best bet.  I like to think I’m helping my local business owner when I do such things.  Matt isn’t nearly as positive about the experience (or the charge) as I am.  He just doesn’t have perspective.

As I collected the stuffed animals from around the house, I realized they needed to be scrubbed, and I knew the washing machine wasn’t an option.  Suddenly, and without warning, I had a flashback to the Mexican scrub down and a chill went down my spine.  I had to get the toys clean.  I had to do it immediately.

toy+in+food.jpgI quickly gathered the toys and took them to the kitchen sink, which I filled with warm water and dish soap. Shady Jack seemed confused about where his toys were going, and  I explained to him they were going through a deep cleanse, kind of like a colonoscopy, but without all the shitting themselves.  He didn’t seem to understand, but stood next to me while I filled the sink with his babies.

*Please note the photo of the bunny face-down in the food.  We aren’t sure if the bunny threw himself into the food bowl, or if he was pushed. We just know his last moments were happy and filled with Beneful. An investigation is being launched with Shady Jack as the prime suspect.*

After letting them soak for a while, I started to scrub them.  However, the scrubber I had wasn’t getting the job done, and with my newly found obsession for scrubbing, I knew I wouldn’t stop until they sparkled.  (Or just stopped smelling like dog.)  I left the toys soaking and drove to Target where I picked up a new scrub brush that I knew would do the trick.  Sometime during this car ride is when I realized I lost my mind.  I just want you to know that I know that.  I blame the masseuse.

I returned home, scrubbed the toys and got them ridiculously clean.  Meanwhile, Shady Jack was inconsolable, wandering around the house as if someone stole his toys.  Wait….

I pointed out that I left him several rubber toys, and I only took the toys made of fabric.  He was not persuaded by my arguments, nor was he interested in the plastic pig that oinks.  Why would he be when all he wanted was a cloth sock monkey dressed like Dracula?

jack's cookiesI had to let the toys air dry, as I didn’t dare ruin the dryer with them.  Although I would have liked to support Mario the repairman and help fund his daughter’s new braces, I knew Matt wouldn’t want to pay for another house call.  (Clearly Matt was against orthodontics.)

I wrung the toys out and laid them on the drying rack.  Shady Jack stared at me with sad eyes and I swear at one point, a single tear ran down his face.  I’m not sure he could see the toys and how they looked, but if he could, he probably was horrified by the massacre of toys, all hanging from the gallows in different positions.  Perhaps he recognized a few of the positions from his street life.

I let the toys dry overnight and Shady Jack found consolation in a Kong filled with peanut butter.  However, the next morning he went straight to the counter where his toys were located.  Although he couldn’t see the toys from where he sat, he put his front paws on the counter and tried to grab a toy.  This was out of character for him, as he never tries to get anything from the counter.  He knows it’s off limits, and I think he respects other people’s property.  Again, a side effect of pimping on the streets.  I like to think he was compelled to attempt a rescue because desperate times called for desperate measures and his toys were in danger.

I couldn’t believe he remembered where the toys were or that he knew they were there despite not seeing them.  Studies say dogs don’t understand where an item goes once it’s out of their sight.  That’s why they never hover around the refrigerator even though that’s where their bones are stored.  So you can imagine my surprise when  I realized he knew exactly where his toys were.  I was so proud!

jack with toy

I decided to reward him with not one toy, but all of them.  I picked them all up and put them on the floor in a big, clean pile.  For a moment, I thought his head might actually explode.  I swear I could hear his inner dialogue at that moment screaming “My babies!!!  My babies are back!”

He rooted through the toys, picking up one and then discarding it for another one.  When he finally found the one he wanted (the teddy bear dressed like a reindeer), he took it and left the other toys to recover together.  He bounced away, happy to have his babies back, and most likely horrified they went through such torture.

I was glad his spirit wasn’t broken during the toy abduction of 2013.  But ever since then, sometimes I feel his eyes on me when I’m not looking.  I know he’s watching me even when I can’t see him.  It’s like he’s waiting to make his move and avenge the toy-napping.  I don’t know when his vindication will come, but I suspect it will be soon….and very very harsh.  I just hope his revenge doesn’t involve humping anything.

I fricking love going to the spa!  Yes, I used the word “fricking” because my love of the spa and pampering calls for a strong descriptive word, and that’s my PG version of the F-bomb.

Matt and I went to Mexico for the holidays and while we were there, we indulged ourselves with several visits to the spa.  We also indulged ourselves with ridiculous amount of food including one entire cheesecake, half of a french silk pie, and around 5 pounds of guacamole.  And by “we” I mean “me.”

At some point I think the wait staff figured out I didn’t have a sick child in my room whose dying wish was to eat an entire cheesecake in one sitting.

One morning during our trip, I got on the elevator to go to the gym.  Yes, I took the elevator to go to the gym.  My room was on the 3rd floor.  Did you really think I would take the stairs?  Pfft!

Why would I work out before I worked out?  Ridiculous. And close your mouth.  I know you’re shocked I went to the gym but reading this post with your mouth open in awe isn’t a good look for you.

Massages on the beachWhen I got in the elevator I was greeted by Rick, a friendly gentleman who was quite chatty despite the fact it was 8:00 a.m.  I know you’re thinking “Wow.  They must stay at a really nice resort if there are elevator operators.”  Um, no.  Rick wasn’t the elevator attendant, as it wasn’t 1952.  Rather, Rick was simply another guest at the hotel who had a clear affinity for the color red.  He had on a red shirt and red swimming trunks.  Did the reds match?  Of course not.  Immediately I pegged him as a communist.

“Wow, there are a lot of people going to the beach this early in the morning,” Rick in Red said, trying to start a conversation on the 20 second elevator ride.  (I will now refer to Rick in Red as RIR because I’m lazy and don’t want to type that out each time.  You should be able to follow along with this crafty abbreviation.)

For some reason I felt compelled to explain to RIR that I wasn’t going to lay on the beach, but I going to the gym instead.  I would have thought he could have deduced that from the work-out clothes I was wearing, and the water bottle, sweat towel and iPod I was holding.  Obviously RIR wasn’t an overly observant guy.

“I’m going to the gym,” I responded, feeling proud of myself for actually going instead of laying in bed telling myself I needed to work out and then ordering room service instead.

jacuzzi at spa

“Where do you shower after you work out?” RIR asked.

What the hell?  Who was this guy and why was he asking about my showering routine?  And why was I answering him?

I told him I shower in the spa locker room after my pathetic workout of walking slowly on the treadmill on an incline of 2. I probably didn’t need a shower afterwards, but I liked to use the spa’s shower, as it has dispensers on the wall for various body washes.  I’m a simple girl.

“You go to the spa here?” RIR responded.  I told him I did and it was nice.

“I bet sumthin like that is pretty expensive, huh?” he asked, obviously mistaking me for some kind of high roller.  “You know, I just go down to that Sea Breeze place down the beach and get an hour massage for $20.  It’s pretty good and the women are nice and do a real nice job.  You should check it out sometime and save yourself some money.”  (This should be read in a bit of a hillbilly accent with “Dueling Banjos” playing in the background.)

I don’t know why, but I could tell Rick knew a quality massage, and I was confident in his recommendation for some strange reason.

Later, I told Matt about my conversation with RIR and his recommendation to get a massage on the beach instead of at the spa.  Strangely enough, we were actually at the spa when I broached this subject, and we were both laying on the tables waiting for our massages to start.

“I think it’s worth a try,” I suggested.  “It will be a lot cheaper and a massage right on the beach would be nice.” I have no idea why I wanted to get his permission.  I had Rick’s recommendation.  What more did I need?

Matt wasn’t as convinced as I was, but that’s because he didn’t see the look in RIR’s eyes when he described how the women remove the sand from your feet during the massage.

“You will come with me to make sure I’m safe and that there’s no funny business.”  I said, assuring him.  “And by funny business, I mean anal.”

“Too bad we never have any funny business,” my husband muttered under his breath.  He’s clearly a jackass.

 

The next day, I decided to give the random women on the beach a try for a massage.  I couldn’t find the Sea Breeze location RIR spoke so fondly of.  I suspect that’s because the outfit was probably busted for smuggling women and heroin…or it was because it was Sunday and they were closed.  Both are plausible explanations.

I found another tent on the beach that looked somewhat on the up and up.  There was a guy with a clipboard standing out front, which completely legitimized the operation in my eyes.  Matt?  Not so much, as he has a strict “Don’t trust anyone with a clip board” rule.

I approached the gentleman and made an appointment for later that day.  He asked for my first name and we agreed I would get a massage at 5:00 for $30.00.  I could hardly wait.

When the time came, Matt accompanied me to the massage tent, where he said he would be there to make sure I wasn’t robbed.  (He made no mention of whether he cared if I was assaulted, so I suspect that wasn’t in his wheelhouse of concerns.)  He found a comfortable spot on the beach with a view of the tent.  Here he is ready to protect me from danger.

And here he is about 5 minutes later.  No joke.  I hadn’t even started my massage yet and this a-hole was sound asleep.  Rick wouldn’t have left me there alone to fend for myself; I just knew it.

TOTAL fail.

The tent was fairly small and there were five massage tables set up in a row.  There were five women working and an older overseer who looked like she would cut a bitch if someone got frisky.  She was obviously far more concerned about me than my sleeping husband was.

The massage began and although it was a little strange at first, it actually ended up being pretty good, especially for $30.00.  The only awkward time came about 10 minutes into the massage when the woman whispered softly in my ear “Do you want more pleasure?”  Or at least that’s what I heard her say.  Allegedly she said “Do you want more pressure” but I’m not so sure that’s really what she said.  Either way, my response was the same…a big fat no.

The hour went by quickly and once I stopped clenching from fear of assault from the rear, it was actually quite relaxing.  When the massage was over, I tipped the woman, who seemed utterly shocked by it.  I could see the mean lady eying the money, and I’m sure she snatched it from the masseuse as soon as I walked away.  (I hope she used it to buy some tweezers, as she had some mean chin hair.)

The next day I ran into Rick.  He was wearing the exact same red outfit as the day before, confirming my suspicion of his communist status.  I told him I took his recommendation and had a great massage.  I considered asking him about other recommendations for services in the area, but figured I would stop while I was ahead.  I wasn’t feeling brave enough to venture out again, and I didn’t want to rely on RIR for all of my entertainment needs.  That’s what the bar was for!

massage.jpg

I’m back, baby! Go ahead, admit it. You missed me and this blog. There’s no shame in admitting it. The only shame is mine for all the embarrassing things I do and the fact I am dumb enough to post it on a site approximately 3 people read.

Either way, I’m back in black! Seriously. Look at the photo. I’m literally wearing black. Look. And while you’re at it, check out the back hair on homeboy next to me. No wonder that guy is sitting in the shade in the pool. He’s practically sporting a winter coat with those luscious locks of wiry hair. You can almost smell the aroma of his Old Spice deodorant wafting through the photo. (Only the Original Scent though.  No Summer’s Breeze scent. He looks old school).

So I’m sorry for being away so long. I know you have been anxiously awaiting my return, mostly because there are only reruns on cable and it’s too cold to go outside and harass the neighborhood kids. I’m back to entertain you with my recent developments. I’m sure you’ve wondered why I haven’t written and I can imagine you all whispering in the “Gossip Girl” narrator’s voice “Where is she? Where has she been?” Well, unlike our favorite anonymous blogger from NYC, there are no secrets I’ll never tell. I have no shame that way. xoxo.

You’re probably wanting answers to the whispered questions posed above. Well I don’t have time to give you a complete update now, as the sun is out and I need to roll over to tan my back. But I can give you a preview of some of my adventures. It’s a teaser of sorts. A tickler. Something to wet your palette other than the Grey Goose you’ve purchased for me for Christmas.

Go ahead and ship that directly to my house.  I will get it when I return to the states.) I’ve been quite busy with several balls in the air. Since I can’t juggle and I try to avoid anything involving balls, I haven’t been able to manage my time efficiently. (Insert perverted joke here about balls.

But I’m back and dedicated to updating you on my regular antics that embarrass my husband and provide him more ammunition for what will inevitably be divorce papers. I know, I know, make with the teasers, right? Fine. Calm down. You’ve waited this long, what’s a few more poorly worded sentences?

Some of the upcoming updates will include my volunteer work with a neighborhood association for a neighborhood where I don’t reside; my smack down with two cats in heat; the day my husband spilled an entire beer on my newly dyed red hair; and the worst story of all…the betrayal of Pajama Jeans (the person, not the jeans, although those have fallen out of favor as well).

So sit back, grab your Chipotle and a glass of Greg Goose, and get excited for the upcoming posts. If we’ve learned anything from White Snake, it’s that you don’t know what you got ’till its gone (and that skin tight jeans never look good on men). I’m pretty sure they wrote that song about missing my blog, but no worries, as I’ve returned.

And don’t act like you won’t have time to read the updates. We all know you’re back at work but you’re not doing anything other than playing on Facebook and trying to beat your high score on Bejeweled. So get ready to feel better about your own life, as my ridiculousness always seems to remind people their lives could be worse. They could be me. You”re welcome. I’m prepared to update you on my recent happenings and embarrassing moments (of which there are several). And isn’t that really the greatest Christmas gift of all?

As you know, I recently did a scathing letter to the forty-something mom at the pool.  You’re welcome.  But since I’m an equal opportunity hater, I’ve decided the forty-something dad at the pool also needs a letter…just to keep things fair.  Okay, it’s not that I’m necessarily a hater.  I’m not.  I’m just an easily annoyed person who pents up all her rage and irritation and then takes it out on this blog that a total of five people read.  Here it goes.

Dear forty something dad at the pool,

Yeah, I’m looking at you.  But not because of your sexy body and No Fear swimming trunks. I’m looking at you because you’re a disaster.  And you’re not a disaster the way I am…where I play it off cute and make people laugh (hopefully).  You’re a disaster that makes me both happy and sad at the same time…kind of like eating all the guacamole.  So here are a few things you should know.

1.  You don’t have a six pack.

At least not on your body you don’t.  Although you may be sucking in your gut, you will need a lot more than a simple inhalation of breath to make that thing look attractive.  Here’s a hint:  when people talk about “six pack abs,” they aren’t talking about downing a six pack in 30 minutes.  Yes, that six pack technically goes to the area covered by your abs, but that’s not what they’re referring to.  They’re talking about crunches.  Do some.  But not now.  I don’t want to see your butt crack while you attempt to work out.  Save that shit for your mirror at home.

2.  You need a trim.

I’m not talking about your rapidly receding hair line; I’m talking about your chest hair.  You could french braid it, slap a bow on it and send it off to first grade.  No one wants to see that.  I’m not saying you should get your entire chest waxed.  I’m pretty sure you don’t have enough money to pay for that much time with a salon technician (or that many days off work).  I’m just saying perhaps you should run a pair of scissors over your chest every now and again.  If I can see your chest hair floating in the pool around you like a life vest, it’s too long.  And if you aren’t going to heed my advice, shampoo that shit every now and again.  It’s getting dandruff.

3.  Your butt crack isn’t attractive.

You may like to see a hint of a woman’s crack while she’s wearing a string bikini.  Maybe you think that’s sexy, I don’t know.  However, I assure you women don’t feel the same way about your crack.  The last thing we want to see when we go to the pool is your crusty crack and the hair peeking out from it.  (Take my advice on #2 above and apply it to this as well.)  No one cares about your junk in the trunk.  Hike up those shorts and get a wash rag in there every now and again.  You’re stinking up the pool and making us all sick, and we still want to get snow cones later.

4.  Stop pretending you’re super cool.

Seriously.  We all saw you pull up in the parking lot in your 1999 Dodge minivan.  Not only did we see it, we heard it because you seem to be missing a muffler (and any understanding of what women find attractive).  So put away your fancy keys with what you call a “clicker thing” that unlocks the doors.  We’ve all got one of those.  It isn’t super cool technology that just came out.  We are also no longer taping television shows on VHS, so don’t invite the poor lifeguard over to watch “taped” episodes of Dallas.  She doesn’t know what that means and I’m pretty sure she’s calling the authorities on you right now.  You better get to that van and skedaddle before the cops arrive.

dad with kids at pool

5.   Jumping off the high dive isn’t going to impress anyone other than your five-year old.

Yes, we can all see that you’re capable of climbing the ladder to the high dive.  That’s probably because you climb ladders everyday as part of your regular job.  We’re not impressed.  We also don’t care that you can make “a big ole’ splash” and yell “cannonball” when you jump off the board.  You aren’t the first person to do that and you won’t be the last.  The seventh grader behind you is getting ready to do the same thing, and he’s cuter than you and has less credit card debt.

Do you know what’s impressive to a woman?  A 401k and a dental plan.  You clearly don’t know about the latter as you have sunflower seeds in your teeth from about a week ago.  Grab some floss and get off the high dive.  And seriously, pull up your trunks.  You could smuggle a small child inside that deep crack of yours.

So there you go.  I’m equally offensive to both men and women.  I just hope none of them read this blog, as there are a few weeks left of summer and I still want to be let back into the pool.  I’ve got several more cannonballs to do!

Love,
Lisa

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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