woman with plane

First off, isn’t this picture of the woman with a paper plane incredibly creepy, yet awesome?  I’m scared of her, yet I want to know her story.

I was recently at Dulles National Airport in Washington D.C.  Not so much because I’m super important and the government needed my guidance (although I am, and it does), but more because I was visiting a friend out there.

However, I did make myself available to the legislators during the time I was there, advising I would be willing to provide advice on how to lead the country.  Most of them responded with threats of a restraining order.  (Um, drama!!!!)

I had a great time in D.C. (more stories to follow), but I was tired and ready to get back home to the Midwest where the temperatures were in the 100s and I had an excuse to lay around doing nothing.  (Note:  Although the heat is miserable, the exhaustion it brings is the perfect way to get out of anything you don’t want to do.  Thank you, heat wave.)

I had an early morning flight (10:20 a.m. is early, right?).  I arrived at the airport around 8:00 a.m., allowing additional time for the inevitable strip search that some TSA official would deem necessary on me.

ONE time I made a snide remark about the TSA uniforms, and that forever puts me on a “list?”  Someone needs a better sense of humor…and a new uniform.  Seriously.  They look like rent-a-cops.

Surprisingly, I got through security quickly, and found myself at the terminal a few hours early.  Since I was awake, I was obviously starving.  I’m not a huge breakfast person, as breakfast food is typically healthy and I prefer to eat junk all day.

Starting my day with eggs is misleading, as it suggests the rest of my day will include consuming healthy, organic products.  Not true.  I’m nothing if not consistent, so I like to start my day by eating crap, and continuing to do so all day.

For this reason, I knew I didn’t want breakfast food, but realized it may be difficult to locate a place that sold regular food for breakfast.  And then I saw it…the one sign on the horizon that gave me hope (and made me salivate).  Could it be?  Was it a mirage?  A figment of my imagination?  Did the full body search from the poorly dressed TSA official alter my vision (along with the way my underwear sat)?

dog with bowl

It was a Chipotle.  Yes, a Chipotle.  For those of you who are new to this blog, please know that I love Chipotle.  (And for those of you new to this blog, I’m impressed you’re still reading.  Seriously.)  I love Chipotle the way some people love their spouses…in a good way…not in a “I couldn’t take your gum smacking anymore so I stuffed your head in the freezer” kind of way.  Chipotle completes me, and if I could eat it for every meal, I would.

So when I saw the familiar Chipotle sign, I thought maybe it was a dream.  I immediately looked around for Ryan Gosling (because if it was a good dream, he would be involved…sans shirt).  I didn’t see Ryan or his bulging biceps, so I knew it had to be real.

I approached it slowly, careful not to appear too eager so as not to alarm the employees.  I figured I would alarm them for other reasons, but speed and excitement wouldn’t be one of them.  I arrived at the counter and said “Chipotle for breakfast?  Yes, please!”

The woman behind the counter didn’t understand English well…and she certainly didn’t understand sarcasm.

“No.  We no have breakfast items.  Only burritos.” She said, eying my flabby stomach and judging me for being so seemingly stupid.

“Oh,” I responded.  “I was just saying that I was glad to see I could get Chipotle for breakfast.”

“We no have breakfast,” she said to me again, looking irritated.

“I meant that I would like to eat Chipotle for breakfast.” I said, trying to clear things up.

Crickets.  Okay, not really crickets, but if we were on television (as I always like to pretend that I am), there would be crickets creaking during the silence as she blankly stared at me, most likely wondering how I managed to get through security.  (I wondered the same thing).

“You know what?  I’ll take a burrito bowl” I said, trying to get past the awkwardness.

sick girl

She prepared my meal, I paid and then and quickly moved to the dining area where I could molest my Chipotle in private, the way one is supposed to.  I ate every last bite (duh), and sat there pondering why Chipotle isn’t typically open for breakfast.

As I began drafting a petition for this cause, I felt a serious rumble.  Was it an earthquake?  A bomb threat?  I heard it again and realized it was coming from me…and my stomach…and my nether-regions.

Uh oh.  Airport Chipotle was fast acting!  I needed to find my way to a “safe place” as soon as possible. (And for you non-geniuses who are having difficulty following along, the “safe place” I’m referring to is a restroom.  Try to keep pace.)

I casually picked up my things, trying to control the strong signals coming from my bowels.  I saw a sign for a restroom and headed there trying to look casual, although I’m pretty sure running while squeezing my cheeks didn’t look so casual.

If you are picturing me running and holding my face, I need you to stop reading here.  You obviously don’t get me…or my bowel issues.

I walked into the hallway that had the restroom sign and already felt sweet relief…until I saw the string of urinals.  Um, unless D.C. is super forward thinking, women’s restrooms don’t typically have urinals in them.  (Right?)  Crap!  (Literally, crap.  It was becoming a necessity at that point).

I turned around and raced out of the men’s restroom before I saw something I didn’t want to see.  I came upon a “family restroom” and decided that I was a mother of three dogs, so that would work.  I ran into the family restroom and looked for the light, and couldn’t find it.  The strong door closed behind me and I was in complete darkness.  Seriously?  It was like I was in a closet, and I just hoped the closet had a toilet.

I frantically searched for a light switch but had difficulty doing so due to the lack of light.  (Ironic, huh?)  Finally, I decided light wasn’t necessary for what I was about to do.

As I sat there in darkness, listening to Don Henley belt out “Boys of Summer,” I realized maybe there was a reason Chipotle didn’t serve breakfast.  I crumpled up the petition I drafted and decided to leave Chipotle’s regular hours as they were.  Maybe they knew what they were doing after all…

I realize the title of this post is a bit vague, and most likely conjures up images of pigtails and slutty school girl outfits.  That wasn’t my intent.

What I mean is that I did it again…I once again made a fool of myself.  I realize this isn’t a shock to anyone, as I make a fool of myself quite regularly. It’s almost as natural as breathing for some people…or being annoying for any one of the Kardashians.  Nonetheless, it happened again.

Allow me to explain.  I was recently in New York City visiting some fabulous friends.  Somehow, Matt and I seem to have amazing friends who haven’t figured out that we are super lame.

Don’t tell them.  I don’t want them to figure it out, although I’m pretty sure my farts after every meal and my subscription to Tiger Beat are dead give aways that I’m super dorky. (Hey, I need to keep up with the younger generation so I will stay relatable.)

Our friends wanted to meet us for brunch at 1:30.  Yes, that’s 1:30 p.m.  Who knew that was time for brunch?  In my world, brunch is 10:00 and it consists of a cheeseburger with danishes for buns and a side of Cocoa Pebbles.  Now that’s a brunch…and it’s before noon…or somewhere near the noon hour.

In fact, when I eat “brunch” at 10:00 a.m., I’m ready for a late lunch at 1:30 p.m.  Apparently this isn’t how New Yorkers roll. Did my friends really expect me to go until 1:30 in the afternoon without eating breakfast or lunch?  They obviously aren’t as good of friends as I thought they were, as they were clearly trying to starve me.

Strike one.  (Frick!  I’m giving strikes again.  I have no idea why I do this.)

Matt and I were late to the brunch because we underestimated the time it would take us to walk to the proper subway.  I am a fricking Tom Tom machine with the New York Subway and I can get us anywhere in record speed with minimal transfers.

However, I couldn’t do much about the fact that the closest subway was several blocks away from our hotel, nor could I help the fact that my feet were on fire from walking so much.

Okay, I could have helped in that regard.  It’s called a cab.

We arrived at brunch and found our friends in the back room waiting for us at a table.  The four of them had already ordered drinks (because they’re awesome, and because we were late).

I immediately ran over to greet my friends.  I hadn’t seen them in a few months and we had much to discuss, beginning with important issues such as Mondo winning Project Runway.  (Sorry if I ruined that for any of you, but if you still have that season sitting in your DVR, you aren’t a dedicated fan.)

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My friend, Gansavoort (not her real name), is super cool and works as a writer for a very popular fashion publication in New York.  I like to think I’m in her same league as I write this super cool blog that maybe one or two people in New York read.  Similar, right?

Since Gansavoort is in the fashion industry, she always has the cutest, most trendy clothes, and I’m always embarrassed to show up in my dress I got on clearance at Marshalls because it had a stain on the back.

Who am I kidding?  I’m going to get a stain on it anyway, so why not just buy it with a stain and save some cash?

Gansavoort was sitting across the table from me and I rushed over to greet her.  I was carrying my super trendy Vera Wang for Kohl’s bag, which is bulky and fabulous (and from 4 seasons ago).

I leaned over to hug her and it happened.  My bag struck Gansavoort’s bloody mary-filled glass, causing it to spill all over Gansavoort’s amazing (and probably super expensive) dress.

This isn’t the end of the story.  Not at all.  Since I’m an overachiever, and everything I do is full out, the spilled drinks didn’t stop there.  Of course not.  When her glass fell, it struck another glass that was also filled with bloody mary.

dominoIt was a domino effect of alcohol and not in a good way.  It felt like it was in slow motion and I felt like I was yelling “NO!” in super slow motion in that creepy slowed down voice you see on film.

Because I’m no stranger to spilling things on others, I did what I always do when I ruin someone’s dress that costs more than 5 months of my mortgage payments; I laughed and said “yeah, that happened.”

The waiters immediately descended upon our table with towels to clean up the mess.  Unfortunately, they didn’t bring enough, and they had to go back three different times to get more towels to clean up the spillage.

I felt like I was watching an Exxon Mobile cleanup project, only this one wasn’t using taxpayers dollars and hiking up the cost of filling my tank.

The towels began to accumulate on the table and since the drinks were bloody marys, the towels looked like a blood bath had occurred.  I considered looking around for Scarface, but figured even he wouldn’t like the site of all this red.

How do you recover from such an embarrassing incident?  I don’t know.  I’m not sure that I did.  The rest of brunch I felt horrible about the spillage (yet another way I differ from Exxon), and I kept replaying it in my mind.  Why did my purse knock over the drink?

Please recall this is the same purse that spilled water on strangers in Austin.  It was obviously the purse…and obviously Vera Wang’s fault. (Isn’t it always?)

Since Gansavoort is a great person, she hid her annoyance with my spill quite well, although I’m pretty sure I am now crossed off her Christmas card list.  Either way, she should feel somewhat vindicated, as less than two hours later, a pigeon did his business all over my white cardigan.  I would say we’re even.

park benchesCrappy things seem to happen to me.  I don’t mean that sometimes bad things happen to me, although sometimes that’s true (Hello extra 50 pounds…go away.)

I mean that literally, things involving actual crap regularly happen to me. Seriously.  It seems like I’m always physically dealing with crap (or poo, whatever you want to call it.  It’s shit either way you sniff it).

From my shifts at the animal shelter to picking up after my dogs at home to an unfortunate case of the runs after any encounter with White Castle.  (But that place is delicious and I will never stop subjecting my intestines to that toxic goodness.)

No matter what,  I seem to constantly be dealing with some sort of shit.  Literally.

Recently, my husband and I went to New York to visit some friends.  While we were there, we decided to take a stroll down the Hudson River Park.  It’s a park that’s a few miles long and overlooks the Hudson River (hence the clever name).

Since I’m a huge Law and Order fan, I wanted to see the Hudson personally, as that always seems to be where Lenny fishes out a body and then makes a funny pun.  Something like “This guy was just dying to get to the water.”

Okay, that’s a horrible example, but I’m not nearly as clever as Jerry Orbach, may he rest in peace.  Ba Bum.

Anyway, moving back on topic…Seriously people, focus.

So we all decided to walk down Hudson River Park.  We wanted to do this partially to enjoy the day, but also partially to see the freak shows at the park, which would make for good entertainment while making us feel better about our own lives at the same time.  It was a win-win.

We arrived at the park and immediately noticed several people dressed in very strange outfits…costumes, really.  They weren’t so much costumes as just random items glued to sheets or the back of cardboard boxes.

Immediately I got a flash back to the year I decided to go as “static cling” for Halloween and I just pinned a bunch of random things to my body.  These costumes had similar effort put into them, but I’m pretty sure they couldn’t blame their poor artistic ability on a five dollar budget and copious amounts of vodka.

clown at parade

There didn’t appear to be a specific theme to the haphazard costumes although we noticed several of them involved fish and the water.  Naturally we assumed these people were crazy, we just didn’t know to which degree.

We weren’t sure if they were “obsessed with Justin Beiber” crazy or if they were “the call is coming from inside the house” crazy.  Either way, we were intrigued and wanted to find out.

We noticed a flyer taped to the pier advertising a parade that was to begin shortly.  Perfect.  These people were obviously part of a larger production and we wanted to see more of it.  And of course, that’s the one day I left my flask at home.  Frick!

Despite our lack of libations, we decided to stay and enjoy the show anyway.  We walked a bit longer and then found a spot in the grass on the parade route.

Just as we were settled in, ready to begin reigning judgment on those in the parade, I heard my husband yell “Oh shit.”  I looked over at him and said “What’s with you?”

At that point he said in a completely monotone voice “A bird just shit all over me.”  Just as I was getting ready to laugh at him uncontrollably, he followed it up with “And it shit all over you too.”

Um, what?!  I was wearing a white sweater that I just purchased for the trip.

Ironically, the new sweater was a direct result of a permanent stain I got on my last white sweater.  (The stain was on the back of the sweater and I have no idea what it is or how it got there.  It will remain a mystery that haunts me…at least until the next unidentified stain crisis.)

I looked over my left shoulder and discovered my husband was correct.  I was covered in bird shit.  The worst part was that it wasn’t even normal bird shit (as if there is such a thing).  This bird has serious diarrhea and needed to learn the importance of a high fiber diet.

It obviously had some White Castle for lunch and was suffering from some serious anal leakage.  (Believe me pigeon, we’ve all been there…)

chick with pigeons

This woman has clearly never been crapped on by pigeons. I guarantee if she had, she wouldn’t be such a fan. Well, maybe she would. This woman looks creepy.

I looked over to our friends to see if they were also ambushed by the diuretic pigeon, but both of them were unscathed by the attack.  How is that possible?

The New Yorkers narrowly missed the shit storm.  Literally.  It was a mini storm of shit.  Perfect.  Of course the bird got me.  Of course it did.

The bird managed to hit two different places on my husband’s head.  Since he shaves his head, (my husband, not the bird.  I can’t comment as to this particular bird’s hairstyle), it was easy for him to clean it off and become poop-free for the rest of the day.  I wasn’t so lucky.

One of our friends told me not to try to clean it off, as he said it would be easier to remove the stain later if I just let it dry.  I wasn’t sure if he was correct.  That logic made sense, but part of me thought he told me that just so I would walk around all day with shit on my shoulder.

Immediately, I began singing John Denver’s “Sunshine  on my shoulder” but changed the lyrics to “Bird shit on my shoulder makes me icky….”

I figured the best way to deal with it was to hold my nose, laugh it off, and enjoy the rest of the day.  And that’s exactly what I did.  I didn’t want to ruin my day because of one pigeon’s case of the trots (or should I say “the flutters” in the case of this bird).

I shook it off and didn’t think about it again.  If people wanted to judge me, so be it.  But the real people they should judge were the people walking around NYC with a girl with bird shit all over her.

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This wasn’t the same night we went to the theater, although this was one of the nights we were in NYC. I would never wear denim to the theater. I’m classier than that (and I spilled wine on that jacket.)

While in New York, my husband wanted to see a Broadway show. Since I’m super important, I’ve already been to some Broadway shows, but since I’m also an awesome wife, I agreed to go with him to another show. (I’m such a giver.)

We got tickets to see Phillip Seymour Hoffmann in “Death of a Salesman.” Okay, he got a ticket to see Hoffmann in the play and I got a ticket to see the dreamy guy who is going to play Spiderman in the upcoming movie. Dreamy guy is also known as Andrew Garfield, which is interesting as I wanted to yell out cat calls every time I saw him.  Rar!!!

He plays one of the sons, Biff, in the play, and at times he was even shirtless…talk about a show!  Those scenes were worth the ridiculous price of admission although I must admit I was a little sad he wasn’t wearing spandex in the play. (Seriously, I’m pretty sure Biff Loman would have rocked out the tights.)

We headed to the theater before the show started. (Note: The word “theater” is to be announced in an uppity British accent, as that’s the way I always pronounce it.) We arrived and noticed the doors weren’t open yet.

Naturally, I looked for the VIP entrance. In St. Louis, I’m kind of a big deal, and I get to go to the theater there as a VIP. Yeah, I know. Awesome right? Being a VIP has gotten me used to the finer things in life, like private bathrooms and toilet paper that’s more than 2 ply.

I looked around for the VIP entrance and didn’t see one. I asked one of the snooty women waiting outside the door where the VIP entrance was and she looked at me as if I was crazy (as if I was the one wearing a hat and mom jeans to a Broadway show.  I was smart enough to leave my mom jeans back at the hotel).

Snooty woman with poor taste in denim said there was no VIP entrance, and we all needed to go in the same doors when they opened.  Um, what?

Not wanting to make a scene, I agreed to go in the same doors as everyone else (but I wasn’t happy about it).  As soon as the doors opened, however, I then pushed my way to the front of the line and entered the theater first.  What else was I supposed to do?

Since our tickets were super pricey, and more than the cost of our flights, I assumed we either had front row tickets, or our seats were actually on the stage, and Willy Loman himself would be dancing around us.

I headed to the front of the theater to look for our rock-star seats.  I was irritated I had to wait in line with the commoners, but I felt vindicated that I would at least have VIP seating once inside the theater.  (Are you reading that in the uppity British accent?  You should be.)

An usher in poorly fitting pants stopped me and asked to see my ticket.  Obviously this guy wasn’t familiar with the St. Louis Newlins.  I showed him my ticket and he said we needed to go upstairs.  Of course!  How could I be so stupid?  We obviously had box seats.

Duh.  I felt like such a fool.  I apologized to him and headed upstairs to find my special seat and (hopefully) a vodka and water.  All this waiting made a girl thirsty.

We walked up what seemed to be approximately 50 steps, and found a set of more ushers.  Seriously, the theater wasn’t that big.  Perhaps the price of admission was so steep because the theater had to pay 100 ushers to work each show.

An usher pointed us to our seats and I told her there was some mistake.  She pointed to seats in the top mezzanine, which I was pretty sure were actually located on 50th Street instead of 42nd Street.  Seriously?!  Our seats were all the way up there?  Frickety frick!

I considered taking off my heels to begin the climb to our seats but thought better of it and hiked the trek in heels, all the while wondering which step would be the one to make me fall.

Surprisingly, I made it to our seats without incident (unless you count accidentally flashing my behind that was shoved into a pair of Spanx to the people behind me as an incident. Sadly, I do this quite regularly and don’t think this qualifies as an “incident.”  I’m sure the people behind me would disagree.)

We sat there for a few minutes and then I realized I should use the restroom before the show started.  Since we paid a second mortgage to come to the show, I needed to see every second of this depressing play.

I headed down to the main level and asked where the ladies room was located.  I was told it was in the basement, just like every restroom in New York City.

I made my descent to the bowels of the theater and immediately found the restroom.  It was conveniently located next to the bar.  Because I didn’t want to be rude to the bartender, I grabbed a drink after leaving the restroom.  I didn’t want to insult the man.  He was already wearing a cumber bun.  How much more humiliation could the guy take?

I headed to the steps, drink in hand, and began the climb.  After about 5 steps, my thighs began shaking and I realized I wasn’t in the kind of shape I thought I was in (and believe me, I don’t fool myself into thinking I’m in shape at all).

After another 5 steps I realized I was short of breath.  I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. I  figured a sip of my vodka would refresh me enough to make the rest of the trip.  Not so much.

I continued up what appeared to be an endless amount of steps.  With each step, my thighs burned a little more, my chest heaved a little more, and my will to live died a little more.  After the third flight of stairs I didn’t care if I ever returned to my seat; I just wanted the pain in my quads to subside.

girl yawningI figured if I died right there of exhaustion, the heading of the news story would read something like “Death of a fat girl at Death of a Salesman.”  I decided I was fine with that heading as long as it resulted in a push to install elevators in the theater. It would be my legacy.  If I couldn’t traverse these horrid steps, how could anyone over the age of 65?

Just about that time I saw two women whiz past me who were clearly AARP members (and no stranger to the 4:00 dinner buffet).  Neither woman had any problem walking up the mountainous steps, and neither one of them offered to help a sister out.  These theater types were quite rude.

After what felt like 30 minutes of cardio, I arrived back at our seats, confident I would get a nosebleed from the change in altitude.  My husband looked at me, concerned, and asked what took so long.

Naturally, I told him what anyone else would tell their husband.  I said that someone choked on an M&M at the concession stand and I had to resuscitate them and then run outside to flag down an ambulance.

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At a sandbar in the Financial District overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge. Yes, those are couches that glow, and yes, we have awesome friends who took us to this super secretive place. Otherwise, we would have ended up at an Applebee’s.

My husband and I just went to New York City for some good old-fashioned fun (and also because we apparently just LOVE getting blisters on our feet).

We are no stranger to this city, although we certainly aren’t hard-core New Yorkers who yell into their iPhones and rock out to their iPads without even noticing someone is standing next to them. However, in our recent trips, we’ve realized there are a few simple rules you should follow if you want to not look like a tourist in New York.

2nd attempt at nyc picture1. Always look annoyed with other people

This is a sure-fire way to make you look like a New Yorker. Just today, there was a group of menopausal woman trying to buy a Metro Pass. Between the five of them, they couldn’t figure out how to load a card into the machine to get a subway pass.

Their failure to understand the card purchase was super annoying (and disturbing, as I’m sure these women raised children at some point). My irritation got the best of me, so I did what any New Yorker would do; I huffed loudly, found another machine, pushed my way in, reloaded my card and stormed off in an irritated fashion.

It was exhilarating! Those women didn’t even know what hit them and before they could look up, I was headed downtown on the 2 train. I’m sure they will go back to their one-horse town and talk about the rude New Yorker who pushed through the subway line. Success!

2. Don’t stare up in awe at the buildings

Tourists seem to be wide-eyed about everything New York. True New Yorkers don’t give a crap about the buildings because they’re always late. It’s just a regular day for them and they don’t have time to look impressed or excited.  They need their grande iced double shot espresso with skim milk ASAP. And don’t even THINK of making it not skinny. Seriously. They will cut you for that. They’ve cut someone for far less.

3. Don’t stare at the subway maps

New Yorkers don’t need the subway maps. They have those routes permanently engraved in their memory.

If you need to figure out which line to take, download a subway app and casually look at it on your phone in between stops. It will make you look inconspicuous, and will also allow you to avoid eye contact with the crazy people on the train pandering for money, alleging they’re broke, yet forgetting that we all know they had at least a few bucks to enter the subway.

4. Wear trendy clothes

This is where I really struggle. n a city where Chanel bags are king, your Vera Wang from Kohl’s won’t turn any heads…or at least not for the right reasons.

5. Don’t be a wuss

Do I really need to explain this one? If so, then you shouldn’t even book a trip to New York, as you will be eaten alive before you leave the airport. No one cares that your feet hurt or that you’re chaffed from walking through the Village.

Shut up and move.

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I love to mess with my husband.  I don’t know if it’s my inner bully that compels me to do this, or if it’s just because I love watching him squirm.

Whatever the reason, I’m sure I should probably talk to someone about it in a professional environment.

But since my insurance is most likely maxed out on therapy sessions for me, it’s something I won’t ever explore with a licensed therapist.  (I’m pretty sure I’ve used up all my allowable sessions for issues like “Why doesn’t my hair grow past my shoulders?” and “Is Tupac really dead?”)

I’m sure I’m going to hell for the way I treat him sometimes.  But then again, I’m probably going to hell for pretty much everything I did during college, so I figure as long as I’m headed there, I might as well make the best of it while on Earth.

We are getting ready to go on a trip to New York City, and I recently realized we need new luggage.  I don’t mean that our luggage looks a little tattered, I mean that it is missing wheels and if we try to take it through security one more time we are going to be red flagged as terrorists.

Since I was recently placed on the heightened security list due to an unfortunate incident with diarrhea and a sassy TSA official with a power trip and a bathroom key, I knew we couldn’t take any chances with security.  New luggage was a necessity.  National security depended on it.

I headed to the store to find us some luggage that would be more durable than what we had before.  I was interested in the hard top luggage, as it is has a hard exterior shell (kind of like that chocolate liquid you put on ice cream that turns hard when it dries…  Great, now I want ice cream).

The reason I wanted the more durable luggage isn’t so much because I care if it gets destroyed in transit, but mostly because I want something sturdy to sit on while I wait for a cab, and that cloth stuff just isn’t cutting it.  (I think I may have also just found the reason why our luggage wears out so quickly…)

I got to the store and looked at the wide variety of luggage.  There were standard grey and black pieces, but I didn’t want those.  I like to be able to easily identify my luggage as it comes down the baggage carousel and grey and black luggage are the same colors as every other piece of baggage on the machine.

I want ones that really pop.  Our current luggage pops, but not in the way I like.  It literally pops open, which isn’t cool (not to mention that it lets the world know that I sometimes wear granny panties.  Deal with it).

I looked for something with bright colors that would be easily identifiable from a distance.  Nothing heightens anxiety for me more than staring at the baggage drop watching intently while each new piece of luggage drops down the chute.

Sometimes I like to place bets with my husband about which color of luggage will drop next.  Come to think of it, perhaps that gambling thing is another issue I should talk to a therapist about, but will most likely fill a session with questions about what it means that I secretly find Leland from Dog the Bounty Hunter attractive instead.

I looked around and then I saw them.  The perfect two pieces of luggage for us.  They were loud, they were colorful…and they were super girly.  Immediately I knew I must have them.  How could I resist these hearts and flowers?  Um, I couldn’t.

I pulled the luggage around the store to make sure they rolled appropriately and didn’t catch.  (Did you really think I wouldn’t take them for a test drive?)  Because I’m not a totally horrible person, I also grabbed two red pieces of luggage and headed to the check out.

I got home, pulled out the flashy pieces and brought them in the house.  I told my husband I found the perfect pieces of luggage for our trip and asked him to come check them out.  He walked into the room where the eye sores were located.  He stared at the pieces in awe and I swear I saw a tear roll down his face.

“What are these?” he asked, afraid to approach the flashy pieces.

“They were the only hard top luggage in the sizes we needed,” I responded without missing a beat.  “Just don’t look directly at them, as they have a warning label that says they could induce seizures,” I said, trying to make light of the situation.

“Come on.  You’re joking.” He said, as he slowly approached them.  “Where is our real luggage?”

“This really is it.  It’s all they had.  Sorry babe,” I said, trying to sound sincere.  “But if anyone call pull off walking through the airport with these bags, it’s you.” I said, trying to stroke his ego.  I then pulled the luggage into the second bedroom so we could begin using it to pack.  I didn’t look back at him as I didn’t want him to know this was a joke and I wasn’t really planning on using a third grader’s luggage to go on a trip.

I’m planning on revealing the red luggage to him the night before we leave in some dramatic fashion.  I haven’t figured out how I will make the big reveal, but I’m hoping he will be so excited about the new luggage that he won’t even notice my recent shopping spree on new orthopedic shoes.  This plan is perfect.  Let’s just hope he doesn’t read this blog…

code.jpg

I recently went to Austin for a large film festival (and for lots and lots of Tex-Mex).  Seriously, who am I kidding?  I went there for food with the secondary goal of seeing a film or two.

While I was there (and in between meals), I saw several documentaries.  I know, I know, Nerd Alert!!!  I can’t help it, but I seriously love documentaries.  Maybe it’s because they make me feel smart, or maybe it’s because they usually follow someone with a more disastrous life than mine.

Whatever the reason, I saw several while in Austin.  One of the films that caught my eye was a documentary called Code of the West.  It was about Montana and their fight in Congress over whether medicinal marijuana should be legal.

film reelIt sounded interesting and had a legal aspect I knew I would enjoy.  I also secretly hoped they would serve “special brownies” during the viewing, which was another reason I decided to see the film.

I got there early and waited in line for the doors to open.  I looked around and noticed I was a bit out of place.  The others waiting in line to see the film appeared as if they’d already had a sneak preview of the material, if you know what I mean.  (And you stoners definitely know what I mean.)

Most of the other patrons seemed content standing in line staring at the back of their hands, talking about how rad the weather was.  I had a hard time differentiating between which ones were hipsters and which ones were homeless.

I assumed most of them were hipsters, as I didn’t think the homeless would waste their limited funds on a ticket to a film festival, even if it was about pot.

When the doors opened for the film, I went inside and grabbed a seat next to a professorial looking guy.  He looked somewhat normal and I was only 50% sure he wasn’t going to whip out a bong during the film.

I must admit that was part of the reason I chose to sit next to him.   I really wanted to see a man in a blazer with leather elbow pads take a hit off a Snoopy bong.

Yes, I figured he would be the type to have a Snoopy bong.

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The film started and it was actually fairly interesting.  It was well done and fairly portrayed both sides’ position on legalizing marijuana.

However, I was a bit distracted by the tiny, itty bitty glaring problem with the film….the fact that the federal government specifically prohibits the drug.  That small tiny detail wasn’t fully addressed in the film and it left me wondering why.

See what I mean about these documentaries making me feel smart?

So I decided to ask the director at the Q and A after the film.

For those of you not in the know, a Q and A is a question and answer session, not “Quiznos appetizers” which is what I originally thought it meant, and why I stayed.

For some reason, during the Q and A session, the director actually chose me as one of the people to ask a question.

My guess is because I was the only person not wearing a Phish t-shirt and my eyes weren’t squinted and bloodshot (although I was munching loudly on a bag of chips).

When she called on me I asked her if there was a movement on the federal level to legalize marijuana, and if so, what that movement was.

She glared at me and gave me a snotty response that was quite defensive.  She was clearly not happy with my question, although I thought it was a good one, and one an educated person might want to know the answer to.

Apparently I was the only one interested in the answer.

photo credit: mloberg via photopin cc

photo credit: mloberg via photopin cc

It was obvious the director wasn’t prepared to answer questions any more serious than “Does mixing Mt. Dew and M&Ms destroy your buzz?” or “Which Ziploc baggie is the most durable?”  (Although I must admit, these were fair questions.)

I sunk into my seat, embarrassed by her harsh answer. Fortunately I found solace in the bag of chips I had, as did the professor sitting next to me.

When the Q and A was over, we all filed out of the theater.  I was so embarrassed that the director took offense to my question and I wanted to make it right.

In hindsight, I have no idea why I cared what a woman I would never see again thought of me, but I was caught up in the moment.  Perhaps the professor’s “pipe” smoke was getting to me.

I saw the director with a few others selling t-shirts promoting the film.  Perfect.  I decided to buy a t-shirt to show her I supported her film.  I’m not sure why I cared, but I did.  I went up to the stand and asked for a shirt.

I didn’t bother to look at it, as I didn’t care what it said.  I mostly wanted to demonstrate to this stranger that I was hip and cool, even if I had a 401k and was a registered voter.

When I got back to the condo, I pulled out my newest purchase and opened it up.  I expected to see a shirt advertising a documentary about law making.  What I saw was something completely different.  Here is the shirt:

code+of+the+west.png

Yes, that’s correct.  It’s a shirt with a huge marijuana leaf on it that says “Code of the West.”  Nowhere to be found is anything indicating this shirt references a documentary.  Nowhere to be found is any reference to lawmaking or government regulation.  Nope.

Instead, it’s a shirt suggesting the wearer believes that the code of the West is lots and lots of pot.  Great.

And if the front of the shirt didn’t scream “I’m a pothead” the back sealed the deal.  Please note the quote on the back says “Not all outlaws are criminals.”  Um, actually, that’s exactly what they are.  The definition of an outlaw is a criminal and vice versa.  Frickety frick.

I obviously can’t ever wear this shirt in public unless I want my car searched periodically and a cavity search done at the airport.

This is strictly a shirt to be worn in the comfort of my own home…with my Pajama Jeans of course.

 

suitcaseWith my ever so glamorous job, I am required to travel from time to time.  Unfortunately, my travel isn’t to tropical places like Belize or The Bahamas (or any location where The Bachelor goes to find true love).

My trips take me to lovely places in the Midwest, where the corn is plentiful and everything smells like manure, including my hotel room.  How does that happen?

Since I demand only the best when it comes to my hotel stay, and because the woman with my company who books the hotels is a little afraid of me, I always like to stay at nice places that have the finest of amenities…and by amenities, I mean room service.

I’m currently out of town for work, and when I arrived at the hotel, I was greeted by the clerk with a generous hello and a piping hot cookie.  I’m not sure if the cookie was complimentary to all guests.  My guess is that it wasn’t because the clerk was holding it in her hand when I arrived, so I suspect it may have been her lunch.  It was delicious!

I headed up to my room, inhaling the cookie as I went.  I didn’t want to be rude and not eat the entire thing.

When I arrived at my room I opened the door and discovered the room was large and spacious…and handicap accessible.  Um, seriously?  Now I wouldn’t be so concerned with the handicapped room if I hadn’t just stayed in one.

hotel

Less than 2 weeks ago I was out of town and that hotel room was also handicapped. Well, I guess it was handicap accessible.  The room itself wasn’t handicapped, although it didn’t have a minibar, so I consider that a handicap.

Was the woman at my company who booked my rooms trying to tell me something?

She’d met me before, so she knew I was capable of getting around without too much difficulty, assuming I wore my orthopedic shoes.  So why the handicapped room?

And then I saw the bathroom, and didn’t care why.  There was a huge walk in shower! Perhaps others would be offended by regularly being assigned the handicapped room, but I like to consider it an elite status that few can attain.

It’s like getting the penthouse suite, assuming the penthouse has an entrance ramp, double wide doorways and safety mats in the shower.

And let’s face it, for those of you that know me, you know having a cord in the shower that I can pull when I slip on the soap may be a good idea after all.

Of course, the maintenance man who has to answer that call and find my naked body sprawled on the floor would probably strongly disagree.

handicappedI got settled into my spacious room and then I did something strange…I went to the hotel gym and worked out.  I know!  Crazy, right?

Perhaps the handicapped room was having an effect on me, and it made me grateful for the things I have, even if they are thighs covered in layers of bacon grease and onion rings.

Not literally, although that would be awesome.

After my short workout, I returned to my room, sweaty and worn out.  I had a meeting with a client so I needed to get in the shower and get ready to go.

I removed my sweaty clothes and walked into the bathroom wearing nothing but the sweat from the workout and my disdain for the elliptical machine.

I reached over and turned on the shower, and nothing happened.  The shower didn’t turn on.  It remained a steady stream of water from the faucet, with no water coming out of the shower head.

Seriously?!  Did the hotel think people in the handicapped room didn’t need to shower?

I was immediately irritated and questioned why I bothered to work out in the first place.  That’s what I get for trying to be healthy.  Had I laid in bed and watched TV, this wouldn’t have been such a catastrophe.

However, the fact that I worked out on the elliptical machine and was dripping with sweat, and the faint odor of garlic, I knew a shower was a must…at least if I wanted to keep working with this specific client

I walked to the phone, mentally drafting my lawsuit against the hotel for violation of the ADA.  How dare they discriminate against me?

I called the front desk and told them my shower was broken.  The woman at the front desk (who was probably still bitter about the cookie incident), advised she would send someone right up.  Frickety frick.  That meant I needed to get dressed.  This hotel was really getting on my nerves.

puppy in bucket of soap

I threw on some clothes and a disgruntled maintenance man, who I promptly named Donald, arrived at my door.

He was a bit shocked when my able body opened the door, as I suspected he expected to see a handicapped person utilizing the room.  He then gave me a judging stare and entered my palatial room.

The maintenance guy went straight to the bathroom and got to work.  I returned to the other room and continued to stew in my own filth and sweat.

As I sat there waiting for him to fix the faucet, I heard heavy breathing coming from the bathroom.

What was that guy doing in there? Was he okay?  Did he need CPR? I hoped not, as my only experience with that was the plastic doll I used during my CPR certification class.

I named him Eddie. (The CPR doll…not the maintenance man.  I named the maintenance man Donald, despite his nametag that said his name was Ron.)

Was Donald okay in there?  I thought about asking, but figured he might start a conversation with me about his various ailments (as most strangers tend to do), so I decided to Google “CPR on the maintenance man” and keep quiet.

That way I would be prepared.  I was also a bit disturbed, as my search came up with some interesting results.

As I waited for Donald to finish his work, or breathe his last breath, I decided to call my client and tell her I’d be late.  Fortunately, she is cool, and knows me well enough to know that some sort of disaster would inevitably occur to make me late.

This time it was due to a combination of my own body odor and the maintenance man’s impending heart attack.  Surely she would think one of the conditions caused the other, but which one caused which was still up for debate.

band aidFortunately, Donald finished his handy work shortly thereafter.  Judging by the increase in his rapid breathing, I’d say he finished just in the nick of time.

After he left my room, I disrobed and once again turned on the shower.  This time, it worked, and I silently thanked Donald for his hard work (and mentally made a note to recommend he see a pulmonologist).

The shower never felt so good, and I got ready without any further difficulties.

Although the broken shower was less than ideal, I’m still cool with the handicapped room.

That could have happened in any room, and I’m not going to judge all handicap rooms by this one room.  After all, if history is any indicator, I will be staying in another one next week for yet another business trip.

ring.jpgI’m addicted to watching The Bachelor.  Believe me, that wasn’t an easy thing to admit, but don’t they say admitting something is the first step?

The first step to what, I don’t know.  But if it’s a step toward chocolate or shirtless men, I’ll gladly make it.

For those of you living in a cave, The Bachelor is a delightful show on ABC where a hunky guy with perfect abs and zero personality is chosen to look for the love of his life through a series of unrealistic dates including helicopter rides and skiing down a street in San Francisco.

Apparently the love of his life is one of a slew of amazingly attractive women who are all size 2 or smaller. Who knew love knew a size?  Apparently ABC does, and that size is nowhere near double digits….much like many of these women’s IQs.

Don’t get me wrong, some of the women who go on the show are sweet women looking to find love (or an acting/modeling/singing career).  Twenty five women come on the show mesmerized by the cameras and the newest Bachelor’s clinically whitened teeth.

They go on dates with the lucky guy, and he ultimately decides which one he wants to marry after a few short weeks.  The show is a train wreck and I’m in the first car on the train.  Choo choo!

Although we’re only a few weeks into this season of The Bachelor, I’ve noticed a few things that are typical of the dating show (other than the cheesy roses everywhere and the Bachelor’s incessant need to remove his shirt.  I’m not complaining…I’m just pointing it out).

So I decided to make a list of a few things I’ve noticed women say each season of this show.

“I’m really starting to feel something for him”

amoreYeah, it’s lust.  We all feel it for the tanned, oiled up guy doing push ups and saving kittens from a burning building.

What you are feeling isn’t love…you’re just horny.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s perfectly acceptable, but don’t confuse the tingling in your pants with a tingling in your heart.

“We have a real connection”

holding handsYou and the other girls this guy is currently banging.  I’m not sure if you looked around, but this guy is being seduced by 24 other women who collectively weigh the same as my right thigh. 

Of course you have a connection…but the connection isn’t so much with him as it is the shared chlamydia you all now have in common. 

Get some penicillin and you should be fine.

“I didn’t expect to fall in love”

candy heartsReally?  You didn’t expect to fall in love with a guy you’ve spent a total of 5 hours with?

Well you shouldn’t expect it because most normal people wouldn’t fall in love with a complete stranger in such a short amount of time, but since you appear to be 45 and desperate, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that you might fall for the man of the hour.

Come to think of it, I suspect you “fall” for guys fairly easily…or at least that’s what it looks like judging by the number of restraining orders against you.

And the one from the guy at the tanning salon is especially awkward, as I’m sure it makes for an uncomfortable session of spray tanning.

“I didn’t think it would be this hard”

couple in franceI know.  Traveling around the world first class and living in luxury mansions is a really rough road.

The free food and unlimited alcohol just make the whole thing that much harder to take.

I know I wouldn’t be able to put my life on hold for 8 weeks to travel the world for free.

Nope.  That would just be too difficult.  That, and I don’t have that much vacation time.

Apparently The Gap gives these women all the time off they need to find love.

“My walls are really starting to come down”

walls crumblingAnd by “walls” you mean pants.

You will throw yourself at this guy after a few drinks just to get some extra time with him, and a crotch shot or two for the cameramen.

Yes, I know, you’ve had a rough life and your heart has been broken so many times.

How dare your boss stay with his wife when he could have you and your credit card debt?

But it’s good to know you can jump into a completely free experience and feel your boundaries erode away (along with your pride).

“I didn’t know I could feel this way”

doberman with roseIt’s funny, but free stuff and liquor will do that to a gal.

I almost married my 55 year old travel agent when I discovered he could get me a free trip to the beach and comp all my meals and alcohol.  Now that’s true love.

I’m sure it’s no different in this scenario, what with all the time you spend alone with him. It’s so romantic when it’s just you and him in the moonlight…and the cameramen…and the boom mic guy…and the producers…and the director….

I will stop now, not necessarily because I’m out of overused phrases on the show, but because I want to get back to this week’s episode and I can’t spend anymore precious time tearing apart a show that brings me so much joy each week.

So I will sign off for now and return to my DVR, where I hope to find out if the daddy’s girl from North Carolina can finally stop crying long enough to say she loves the Bachelor after 30 minutes of chit chat.

She can do it.  I know she can!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fighting on couch