the (1)It’s the most wonderful time of the year!  Actually, that’s totally not true.  The most wonderful time of the year is summer, when it’s 100 degrees and I’m sporting a glowing tan (and a margarita).

I’m not sure why people think Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year, but I’ll go with it.  It’s an excuse to go to a bunch of holiday parties and stuff copious amounts of desserts from the buffet in my purse.

Don’t think I also don’t do that with liquor.  I totally do.  A flask works nicely to accomplish that task and it’s unassuming when shoved inside your coat pocket.

How did I learn this trick?  My parents.  Duh.  You recall what I found in their pantry.  If you don’t, please read about it.  I’m still chuckling.

Anywhoo…

I know you’ve been fretting about the holidays and what you should buy your favorite blogger.

Me, a-hole.  I’m talking about me.

Because I’m so selfless, I’m going to tell you all the things you should buy me.  I’m  so caring like that.

photo credit: Daniel*1977 via photopin cc

photo credit: Daniel*1977 via photopin cc

Before I give you my list, you’re probably wondering what I’m going to give you in return.

Um, this blog isn’t enough?  A few times a week I write random posts about absolutely nothing.  Isn’t that enough?

It should be.

Without further babbling, here’s a few things I’m demanding requesting for Christmas.  Note:  You don’t have to get just one thing.

Go crazy and get the whole list. The joy it will bring me will be worth it.

A book deal

Lipstick_Co-Author

Okay, so I’m IN this book, but I want a book all to myself! But seriously. You should still buy this one.

Yeah, I’m shocked I don’t have a book deal either.  It isn’t for lack of trying.  I’ve been writing sub-par content for two years now.  You’d think publishers and book agents would be knocking down my door.

If book agents and publishers are pretending to be people putting Chinese take-out menus on my door, then they’re definitely knocking down my door. Otherwise, not so much.

Pajama work pants

Why can’t I dress up yet still be comfortable?  They’ve somehow managed to do this with jeans yet I can’t get a pair of wool blend pants that don’t dig into my belly button?

Someone needs to make that happen.  That someone is you.

Vodka

This is a no-brainer and I’m sure you’ve already purchased this for me.  Good work.  Now go buy another bottle for me.  You know one won’t be enough.

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups eggs

Yeah, it’s Christmas.  I know, but that’s why I want these eggs so badly.

A sweater for Jerry and his Gangsta Gnome Boyz

gangstas in the snowAs you know, I have a gang of gnomes protecting my house and running illegal activities from behind my hydrangia bushes.  It’s the middle of winter now and those thugs are cold.

Jerry, the head gangsta, told me he’d like a hand-knitted sweater for him and his boyz.  Even though they’re dealing hot merchandise, they still get cold at night.

Wow.  I just asked for something that wasn’t even for me.  I’m so thoughtful.  This is yet another reason you should get me everything I want on my list.

What are you waiting for? Get on it.

Until then, I will continue to entertain you with my antics.  Isn’t that the best gift of all?

 

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No dog ingested beer or alcohol in conjunction with this photo or this post.
photo credit: Amarand Agasi via photopin cc

Dear beer,

I know I ‘m the last person you’re expecting to hear from.  Normally, my heart (and my liver) belong to vodka.  He’s always been my one true love and I’ve never hidden that fact from you.

I’ve passed you up a million times before last night.  I’ve walked right by you at bars, at parties, and even at BBQs.

I feel a little guilty about that but you’ve never been what I needed and I’ve never felt a desire to stray from my betrothed…until now.

Maybe it’s your curves, or maybe it’s your intoxicating smell, but something changed.  I’m finding myself drawn to you and I’m not sure why.

Maybe I’m getting tired of vodka.  He’s never been a cruel mistress (or mister), but perhaps I’m bored with him.

The alcohol is always colder on the other side of the bar.”

Isn’t that what they always say?

Maybe it’s true.  I’m not sure, but what I do know is I’m finding myself wondering what it would be like to spend more time with you and I’m wondering why we haven’t been closer before.

Sure, it’s most likely my fault.  You’re more than available.  I never have a hard time finding you at a sporting event, a wedding reception, or even the grocery store.

You’re not elusive like my dear vodka.  You’re everywhere.  I suspect that’s what pushed me away from you before.

But now…now it’s different.

beerI had a temporary moment of weakness last night and I gave into my urges and I just wanted to tell you thank you.  Thank you for last night. I had such an amazing time.

You were incredible.

Especially now that I know what we can be together, I’m sorry I initially resisted the urge to see you, but I’m glad I caved to peer pressure.

I had a long day yesterday and needed to relax. All the other beverages told me not to turn to you, which was mostly the cause for my hesitation.

They said you wouldn’t treat me right.

My stomach even chimed in, saying you were too rough on her sometimes.  She’s finicky so I didn’t take her pleas too seriously.

Dear beerVodka screamed the loudest.  He can be a needy sonofabitch.

Like the ever controlling paramour, he tried to point out that sometimes you make me feel like I hit my head repeatedly against the wall.

I promptly reminded him that feeling doesn’t come until the morning after we hang out, and it’s only if I spend a lot of time with you.  I told him I wouldn’t do that.

Just a taste.  That was all.  We both knew I was lying, but it was a lie I was willing to make.

Don’t get me wrong. Vodka has his faults too.  He can be bitter at times, and he doesn’t always get along with my stomach.

Then again, no one does, especially since my evil gallbladder Stan tried to kill me.

Either way, I knew I didn’t need bitter last night.  I just needed you.

I practically ran to your cold embrace, holding you ever-so-tightly by the neck.  I know that’s how you like to be held.

Don’t deny it.

Our time together was perfect, and although we had to part too soon, I want you to know I will cherish what we shared.

I’m looking forward to our next get-together.

Love Lisa

This woman cracks me up.  It's probably going to be me in a few years. photo credit: Diueine via photopin cc

This woman cracks me up. It’s probably going to be me in a few years.
photo credit: Diueine via photopin cc

Okay people, I’m super swamped with stuff* because I’m super important.

*I’m almost to the final level in Super Mario Brothers 2 and I can’t be bothered to update my blog.  A girl has priorities.

So, because I know you will shrivel and die without hearing from me regularly and reading my musings, I’ve decided to write a post with a compilation of some of my random Facebook updates over the years.

In a way, they’re my musings and thoughts, and every one of them is pure gold.  Obviously.

  • I just saw a guy at the grocery store at 8:45 this morning buying Vodka and pizza rolls. He’s gonna have a good day!
  • The best way to determine how much someone loves dogs is to see how many nose prints are on the inside of their car windows.
  • I just J-walked in front of a police officer.  I’m such a rebel!
  • A couple next to me at the pool has been arguing all day. I’m considering drafting their divorce agreement for free if they will shut up.
  • I need a power nap. And by “power nap” I mean a week of doing nothing but sleeping.
  • I’m  headed to the shooting range this morning to learn how to shoot a gun. If all goes well, I encourage you to be nicer to me, as I may be packing heat from here on out.
photo credit: niffyat via photopin cc
photo credit: niffyat via photopin cc
  • Last night’s workout was definitely counteracted by the Big Mac and fries I had for dinner.
  • Dear obnoxious biker dude, Yes, you have a Harley and it’s loud.  We’re all impressed and know you have big balls.  Now shut up.  It’s 6:30 a.m.
  • I just learned that my dog is the humper at doggie daycare.  Is that like the biter at kiddie daycare?
  • I’m going to dominate the golf tournament today. And by “dominate” I mean “sit in the golf cart and drink beer.”
  • I’m watching thin models on America’s Next Top Model while stuffing my face with pizza.  It’s invigorating.
  • Pre-marriage statement: “There’s frost on your car this morning…but I scraped it off.”  Post-marriage statement: “There’s frost on your car this morning…better leave early so you can scrape it off.”  **DISCLAIMER** Matt scraped my windows this morning. Whether prompting was involved is another story.
  • I fear my husband will discover it’s breast cancer awareness month and use it as an “opportunity to check for lumps.” Constantly.
  • I’m embarrassed to report that every night of vacation when the maid comes in to turn down our bed, we’re already in it. Pa-thetic!
  • I’m beginning to think that Halloween on Facebook is far better than Halloween in real life. I get to see everyone’s cute kids in costumes, but I don’t have to (1) get up to answer the door or (2) share my candy.
  • I’ve done nothing all morning and I predict more of the same for the rest of the day.
  • I’m a little embarrassed that I fell asleep at the spa today in the meditation room, but even more embarrassed that my snoring woke me up.
  • I’m hoping the Rams will feel my presence at the game today and pull out a win.  If not, I’ll just drink.  It’s a win-win.
  • It’s much easier (and more fun) to ingest calories than it is to burn them off.

So yeah, inspirational, right?  I’m pretty much like a daily devotional.

photo credit: Victor Bezrukov via photopin cc

photo credit: Victor Bezrukov via photopin cc

(RECIPE AT THE BOTTOM OF OF THIS POST)

Back CameraThis Memorial Day, my friend St. Frick (not his real name), invited us to his house for a pool party.  St. Frick is known for his ability to throw amazing parties (and his ability to shove five profane words into a sentence comprised of only three words.  It’s a talent).

We knew we would be in for a good time and we knew the only logical answer was to tell him we would be there.

We arrived at his place and discovered he and some other friends were already in the pool.  Judging by the various beer cans strewn about, they also appeared to have started the party without us (although I still contend a party doesn’t start until I arrive).

I immediately headed to the pool house to grab some libations and catch up with our friends.  I opened the refrigerator and this is what I saw:

At first I thought they were sliced lemons, which would go nicely with my Grey Goose, but upon closer inspection I realized they weren’t lemons, but Jello shots in a lemon rind.

Is that what it’s called?  A rind?

I was beside myself with joy.

Back CameraI decided to try one of them immediately.  After all, I didn’t want to be rude.  I was his guest and I was raiding his fridge to see what free stuff I could find.

What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t do a Jello shot (or three)?

They were delicious.  I decided to have a few more and bring them poolside for others to enjoy.  They were refreshing and alcohol laden, which are two of my favorite things.

I grabbed a couple more and sat on the edge of the pool.  It was like I was being healthy and eating fruit by the pool…if fruit was made of three parts gelatin and two parts vodka.  (If it was, I would eat a lot more fruit).

What kind of person comes up with this idea?  Obviously an awesome person.  I just didn’t know who would be brilliant enough to come up with this recipe.

Normally, if I’m motivated enough to make Jello, it’s done in a dirty bowl with cracks at the bottom courtesy of the time one of my dogs used it as a chew toy.

Don’t judge.  The bowl still works…just think twice about eating Jello when you come to my house…and watch for dog hair.

Back CameraDo you see these amazing Jello shots?  Look how perfectly sliced they are!

Upon closer inspection, I was amazed to discover there were no slices of skin on them, nor were there bloody lemon peels (or rinds.  Are we calling them rinds?).

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m pretty sure I would slice a finger straight off if I was going to slice up these lemon Jello shots.

Naturally, it would be my husband’s finger I sliced, and not mine.  After all, he would be the one holding the lemons while I sliced them.

After several Jello shots, a girl can’t be expected to hold the lemons steady.

Oh yeah, I may have forgotten to mention that when I make Jello shots I’m usually wasted on several of the shots by the time we get to the slicing portion of the recipe.

But everyone is like that, right?

recycleAs if these delicious gems of goodness weren’t already perfect, I realized there was another plus to them.  They are environmentally friendly!

You know my love of animals and of this beautiful planet (which is made even more beautiful by the presence of Jake Gyllenhaal and Andrew Garfield).

So with this recipe I can load up on liquor without feeling guilty about the environment.

I don’t need to be worried about filling the landfill with little Jello shots cups (mostly because when I eat these I will be too blitzed to think straight).

Actually,I’m probably helping the environment by doing Jello shots this way.  I am using biodegradable material for good use, while also supporting recycling.

I’m so considerate.

This is yet another way to give back to Mother Earth while drinking to excess.  Who knew being an environmentalist would be so fun?

The best lemon jello shotsDoes this mean I can stop shaving my arm pits?

Another bonus to these shots is that neighbors going through my trash (or just looking out their window to see me sprawled out on the lawn), won’t judge me for the large amount of plastic containers strewn about me and my body.

Rather, they will assume my drinking caught up with me and my liver finally gave out.  This makes for a peaceful afternoon nap on the front lawn…the perfect way to spend a Saturday.

What’s that you say?  Your neighbors don’t go through your trash?  Sure.

Whatever.  Keep telling yourself that, but do yourself a favor and go outside some night and see if your Us Weekly magazines are still in your trash can.

My guess is they’re not, as the nosy neighbor down the street wants to keep up with the Kardashians but can’t afford a magazine subscription (or cable…or the internet….those fricking Kardashians are everywhere).

So since I’m totally awesome and you guys are just dying to know how these Jello shots are made, I will tell you.  It’s actually fairly easy.  Here it goes:

RECIPE

1.  Cut several lemons in half. (You can also uses oranges, limes or watermelons)
2.  Scoop out the insides of each half lemon so it’s hollow.  (I suggest dumping the insides of the lemon into a large container of Grey Goose and water.)
3.  Make Jello as per the instructions.  (If you are making this for a party that I will be attending, please multiply the alcohol content by two.  Who am I kidding?  Multiply it by three.)
4.  Pour the liquid Jello into the halves, making sure not to overfill them.
5.  Place the lemon halves in muffin pans to hold them upright.
6.  Place the lemon halves in the refrigerator and allow the Jello to set.
7.  Once the Jello is done,  remove the lemon halves and slice the halves into smaller pieces.

Yes, it’s that easy.  I know.  Can you believe it?

And if you make this recipe, I will require you to bring over the equivalent of three whole lemons of Jello shots.

You didn’t think you were going to get this recipe entirely for free, did you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why am I giving strikes?

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

Strike three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

stomach.jpg

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

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

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

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

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

Last week I went to a soiree fundraiser.  Yes, a soiree.  I’m a big deal.

I may not know how to pronounce the word soiree, but the way I pronounce it is “open bar” and I like the way that sounds.

This soiree was a fundraiser for a local dog rescue group, so naturally I was interested.

The fact that it included food, drink, and a doggie fashion show was an added bonus. I want to dislike dogs in costumes but I can’t.  They’re adorable.  It’s the same way I feel about Dakota Fanning

Because I’m so important, I obviously needed an entourage for this event, although Turtle was nowhere to be found.  Pajama Jeans and Downtown Christy Brown (not their real names) and I went together and left our husbands at home to miss us.  Hopefully they would fold the laundry).

car on roadThe attire was cocktail, and as I’m a pro at cocktail parties, I knew it would be fine.  You are probably asking yourself “Has she gone to 2 cocktail events in the last 6 weeks?”  Why yes, yes I have.  Didn’t I tell you I was a big deal?

DTCB drove us to the event, and the entire way there her car would lurch forward randomly and make very uncomfortable sounds.  I wondered why she was driving like an 85 year old blind woman when she told me she needed an oil change.

After further investigation on my part, I discovered that what she meant by “oil change” was that she needed actual oil added to her car.

Because I’m a good friend, I wanted to distract her from the upsetting sounds her car was making, so I decided to fill the inside of the vehicle with noxious gas…my own.

I must admit it was quite pungent and did the trick, as soon the focus was on gasping for air and not on the jerky vehicle.  Mission accomplished.  My friends are so lucky that I’m so caring.

We arrived at the event and the valet guy was more than enthusiastic about parking our car, that is of course, until he got inside and the smell burned his nostrils.

guy holding stop signAs he directed DTCB to drive into the valet position he locked eyes with her and used hand gestures to move her closer to him.

When we were fairly certain were centimeters away from crushing his femur, he dramatically pulled his arm down in a strong motion, signalling “stop.”

Clearly this guy was a drama-major working the valet for an extra few bucks.

We headed inside and found our assigned table.  We were happy to discover it was up front, located next to the stage where the fashion show would take place.  Didn’t I tell you I was important?

We were unhappy to discover it was far away from the bar.  I understood it was a charity function and they didn’t want to lose all their money on my vodka addiction, so I didn’t fault them for making me walk a bit to get my fix.

We headed over to the drinks and I gave new meaning to bellying up to the bar.  I wasn’t wearing Spanx  because they are dreadful, so my stomach was hanging out, and I knew the only way to mask it was to douse it in liquor.

Oh wait, that’s the way I help myself forget about it.  Whatever, I didn’t have to look at myself all night, my friends did.  Suckers!

oliveIt’s no secret that I’m a vodka girl.  I love it.  I swear I would bathe in it if it wasn’t so expensive.

I will also admit that I am a bit of a vodka snob.  I like the top shelf stuff and I don’t mind paying extra for it.  The lack of hangover the next day more than justifies my bar tab the night before.

The bartender asked me what I wanted and I asked him what kind of vodka he had.  I expected him to provide me the names of several top shelf brands, but instead, he told me he had Seagrams.

Seriously?!  Was this bartender kidding me?

How could he tend bar if he didn’t know the difference between vodka and whiskey?  They aren’t even the same color!

I told myself he was color blind, as that was the only way I could excuse his behavior.

I reminded him that Seagrams isn’t vodka, and it seemed as if this was a revelation to him….like discovering that Captain Morgan isn’t really a captain, and that Ru Paul isn’t really a girl.

His response solidified my initial belief that this guy was someone’s paroled cousin who just got out of prison for cooking meth in his pick up truck, and this was a job he could report to his parole officer.  (Hey, I watch Oz).

bar stoolsI asked him again what kind of vodka he had, all the while giving him an ocular pat down to ensure he wasn’t sporting a weapon of any kind.  He pointed to various flavored vodkas in a brand I’d never heard of.

He tried to convince me it was a new brand but it was “all the rage.”  Um, did he think I wouldn’t know my vodka brands?  Vodka I know.  There was no such new thing.

It was probably something he cooked up in his basement now that his meth lab was on hold, at least until after his probation period ended.

My head was hurting with all this knowledge I was imparting on the felon, so I told him I would take a cherry flavored vodka with water.

He poured my drink and handed it to me in a cup the size of the Dixie cups at pre-schools everywhere.  Really?

I realized this was a charity event, but the price of the ticket was the approximate cost of 2 tires so I figured I’d at least get some top shelf vodka in something other than a sippy cup.

It was not to be.  Fortunately for me I have no shame (or class), and I promptly ordered another one “for my husband.”

Seriously, can you see the size of my drink?  Tiny

We walked around looking at the auction items and I spotted something I wanted.  I wrote down a bid and decided to watch it the rest of the night to see if anyone else would bid on it.  I mingled and talked to people, all the while keeping my eye on the prize.

Then I ran into a few of my friends who were also headed to the bar. I didn’t tell them it was my third trip, although they suspected it was when the bartender handed me my drink…before I ordered it.

auction bidsOne of my friends is a bit of a local celebrity.  I know….how cool am I?  She was emceeing the event, so she wasn’t drinking.  I decided I would drink her share of liquor.

We began talking and I had two drinks in my hands, as I didn’t want to run low on the precious substance.  Since I’m incapable of talking without my hands, I began flailing my hands about and spilled vodka on the floor.

GASP!  I was devastated.  Not necessarily about the loss of liquor, but that I would have to return to Jailhouse Rock to get another one.

My celebrity friend grabbed some napkins and cleaned up my spill, all the while silently asking herself why she was friends with me in the first place.  I’m sure it’s for the street cred.

The night continued and the food wasn’t that great, although the dessert was amazing, and that’s all that mattered.

After dessert, it was announced that the silent auction would be closing soon.  I stumbled back over to the auction table and made sure my bid was the last bid on the item I wanted.

It wasn’t, and I saw a guy writing in his bid under mine.  Whatever.  There was still time.  I stood back for a few minutes and then swooped in and wrote in a new bid about a minute before the auction ended.

shock.jpgIt was then announced that the silent auction was over, and I looked down to see I had won the item I wanted.  Woo hoo!

As I did my victory dance (being careful not to spill my drink), I looked up to see the guy who outbid me last time writing in a bid.  Oh no he didn’t!!!  The auction was over.

I spoke up and asked why he was writing in a bid when the auction was clearly over and I had won.  He pretended not to hear me, but I could see him holding his head in shame.

How dare he steal that item from me?  I mean, he paid for it, but whatever.  Some people have no class.

Shortly after losing the auction, we left.  I was devastated about losing and our feet hurt from our heels.  We found the drama major and had him pull our car around.  We tipped him with enough money for him to buy some new mascara, and we headed home.

As we rode back to my house, the car jerking forward and backward at random times, we decided that although we had dinner and dessert, we were hungry.

We hit up McDonald’s where we definitely looked a little overdressed.  We tried to convince the employees we were high rollers and just came from a soiree, but the fumes and smell coming from DTCB’s car told a different story.

I’m waiting to see all the pictures from that night and I know some of them will be posted on line.  I will scour the web looking for the identity of the person who broke the rules and outbid me on the auction item, and then I will send him a bottle of flavored Seagrams vodka.

It seems like the perfect gift for that idiot, and I know just the ex con who can make the delivery.

matt and lisa at a weddingFriday night I went to a happy hour for work.  Honestly, it was my true definition of “happy” because the food and drinks were free.

And since the food and drinks were free, we know I stayed far longer than an hour….it should have been called “happy evening” or “happy 3 hours of indulgence.”

Does it get any better than that?  Not for this girl.  I headed to the bar for the happy hour, and wore one of my favorite dresses from the Liz Lange maternity collection.

I was ready to get my drink on in my comfy, flowy maternity dress.

I arrived at the bar and discovered I wasn’t the first one there, which was shocking, as I’m usually first in line for these types of things.

Someone saved me a seat right next to a bucket of beer, so I snagged it.

I ignored the suggestion that the perfect spot at the table for me would be next to the alcohol.  I was sure it was just a coincidence.

We sat around and chatted as I drank the beer.  However, although I like beer, my true love is vodka, and I didn’t feel comfortable cheating on him with beer, even if it was a Michelob Ultra.

I like to drink Michelob Ultra and pretend I’m one of the people in the commercial who drinks Mich. Ultra after biking or running, even though the only strenuous exercise I did was walk briskly to the bar.

Either way, I worked up a sweat.

Although I enjoyed daydreaming of an alternate lifestyle where I chose clothes based on their cuteness and not on their ability to hide my flabby arms, I decided I had enough Mich. Ultra and wanted to switch to my true love…vodka.

I made the switch and wasn’t sorry.  Soon, the drinks were flowing like water and I was relaxing after a long week.

I walked over to speak to a friend when I looked down at the table and saw there was a plate of mozzarella sticks sitting on the table in all their glory.

vodka drinkI couldn’t believe who would abandon a plate of mozzarella sticks, but whoever they were, they were clearly no friend of mine.

I decided to punish the owners of the food by devouring the fried cheese.  It was the best way to teach them a lesson.  I put away the remainder of the mozzarella sticks, and casually walked away.

As if everyone in the bar couldn’t figure out that the stumbling girl in the maternity dress just downed the rest of the fried food.

Like it took Nancy Drew to solve that mystery.  The fact that I dropped marinara sauce on my dress also didn’t help.

After refreshing my drink, I realized I had been drinking for a few hours and hadn’t used the restroom yet.

I was a firm believer in not “breaking the seal” but I was getting a little uncomfortable, so I made the decision to use the restroom.

I walked into the restroom and saw there were two stalls.  The large stall was occupied, hopefully not by the person whose cheese sticks I stole.  I took the smaller stall.

toiletI realize I’m a larger gal (despite my ingestion of Michelob Ultra), but when I entered the stall, I couldn’t turn around and close the door, as the space between the toilet and the door could have easily fit in my purse.

Only a contortionist would be able to easily maneuver between the door and the toilet, and although I pride myself on being able to put my legs behind my head, that wasn’t the type of skill needed here.

As the woman in the other stall appeared to be drafting a novel in there, as a peek under the stall suggested she was setting up camp for the evening, I knew I had to make the small stall work.

I re-entered the shoe box and immediately moved myself as close to the toilet as possible without making contact with it.

I used my left hand and reached behind me to shut the door, doing everything I could not to dislocate my shoulder.  When I heard the door shut, I turned around and realized I successfully closed myself into the stall.

I did a small celebratory dance, but was then immediately reminded of why I was in the restroom in the first place.

splasing waterAt that point, I felt something wet on my leg and foot and looked down only to discover the fall out from the small stall incident.

Apparently, in my attempt to maneuver inside the stall, somehow my flowy dressed managed to land in the toilet.

Yes…the bottom left side of my dress had dunked in the toilet and was dripping toilet water from a bar all over my leg.

I muffled a scream and immediately looked at the toilet to see if the water was “clean” or a remnant of a drunk patron.

Fortunately, the water appeared to be clean, although I certainly wouldn’t want to drink it, and definitely didn’t want it dripping on my leg.

I was so repulsed so I wrung it out to get the dripping to stop.  However, in my vodka haze, I didn’t think to wring out the dress over the toilet.  Rather, I did so exactly where I was standing.

It made a loud sound and water began spilling on the floor, running out of the stall and into the main area of the bathroom.

girl covering faceI was relieved to have some of the foul water removed from my dress until I realized the woman in the next stall most definitely thought I missed the toilet and relieved myself all over the floor.

I was horrified and standing in toilet water.

I walked carefully out of the stall and disinfected my hands in an effort to remove some of the germs that most likely contained vomit from the last night’s drunk girls.

I also moved quickly, as I didn’t want the woman in the other stall to come out and see my face, although I’m pretty sure she would be able to identify me in the bar since I had a soaking wet dress.

I exited the restroom, trying to look normal, as if I hadn’t just dunked my dress in a cesspool of fecal germs.  I  located my husband and told him we needed to go.

He knew something was up, as I don’t typically leave events early when there are free food and drinks.

chinese take outI’m usually the last one at the party asking the wait staff for a doggy bag for the left over crab rangoon.

He knew something disastrous had happened.  I quietly told him of the melee in the restroom and pointed to my dripping dress and the line of water I left from the bathroom to where I was standing.

Surprisingly, my husband didn’t respond with shock or dismay at my story, but rather responded with “Of course you did” and proceeded to say his goodbyes to everyone.

We quickly left the bar before someone could piece together the trail of water and my sopping wet dress.

We headed home where I threw the dress into the washing machine with approximately a gallon of detergent.  I debated burning it, but determined the dress was too cute for such drastic measures.

I wanted to change and go back to the bar but knew that wasn’t in the cards.  I comforted myself by making a box of Kraft Mac and Cheese.

The faux cheesy goodness alleviated some of my disappointment, although some remained.

I did learn a valuable lesson that night…if I want to wear a flowy dress to a bar, I need to be more careful about not dunking it in the toilet.

Normally, one would think that lesson would go without saying, but in my little world, these things are normally learned the hard way.