Wednesday, October 27, 2010


Last night the husband and I went to a concert in a city an hour and a half from where we live.

I know.  A concert in another city on a week-night.  We are one crazy couple.  How does one prepare for such a concert in which you are mildly interested and your husband is dying to see.  Well, after you rush home from work to get ready as fast as possible and your husband tries to restrain himself from asking you "ready?"..."ready?"..."ready?" because he knows that it not only makes you move slower, but makes you feel like stabbing someone, you eat a snack in the car and listen to the band you are about to see until you decide all the songs sound the same and you don't want to listen to them anymore so you tell the husband to turn them off and then you go to sleep.

I woke up when we were five minutes away.  The husband was ready to sprint across the looooong parking lot to get to the House of Blues, but I made him slow down because my (sensible) shoes would not allow me to walk that fast.  Once we went through security check, my first order of business was to pee, find a place to sit, get some food.  Honestly, sometimes I don't know if I'm more of an eighty-year old woman or a two year old child.

There were no empty seats to speak of, so the husband and I found a railing to lean against.  I held our spots while he went off to find food.  He returned with chicken fingers, pizza, a bottled coca-cola for me and a beer for him.  I spent the next five minutes trying to upcap my soda then passed it to the husband who was also unsuccessful due to a broken finger that is possibly now more brokener.  (Do you think, that since my ulitimate dream is to be a published author, I shouldn't use words like more brokener?)

I went to the bar to ask for assistance with my bottle.  As I was waiting, a guy with a VIP tag came up to the bar, looks at me, wiggled his fingers, leaned over and said in a high pitched voice used for children under the age of seven, "hi."  I retorted, via my eyes, "screw you asshole.  I'm not a child, I'm a grown-ass wom..."

"Can I help you?" asked the bartender.

I handed her my coca-cola.  "Can you open this for me?"

She did.

Touche, wiggly fingered high-pitched guy.

A few minutes later the stage was filled with fog and people screamed.  With excitement.  But they should have been screaming in terror.  Like I was.  Clearly they don't know the dangers of fog.  Like when you're on the dance floor of a club at your friend's bachelorette party and they turn on a strobe light and fill the dance floor with fog and everyone around you loses their damn mind with excitement.  And you are filled with absolute terror, you're heart starts accelerating, you can't breathe and you can't get the hell off the floor because you can't see.  So you close your eyes and grab onto your friends until all returns to normal.  Except there is a very good possibility that when you open your eyes you won't be clutching your friend, but a seventy-eight year guy in a trucker hat who looks like the troll from the billy goats crossing the bridge story.

After the fog cleared, the lights on the stage dimmed and started to flicker. The screaming of the crowd intensified.  One person's scream to the left of me could be heard above all others.  "AAAAAAAAAA."  This continued, and continued, and they did not take a breath. "AAAAAAAAAA."  No breath.  I started to wonder if it was even a person making that sound.  No one can go that long without taking a breath.  "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."  I asked the husband, "is that a person?"  He says, "yes."  The scream continued.  No breath.

That's when I suspected someone slipped me drugs.   Because the sound was starting to make me panic.  I began looking around for the source.  I was convinced it was an equipment mal-function.  I was waiting for someone to do something.  Make the noise stop.  But it didn't.  And no one else seemed to notice.  I started to wonder if it was just in my head.  Like when you're in a room that's totally silent and you hear a high-pitched ringing in your head.

I was ready to bolt to the bathroom and hide, when finally the band came on stage and the "AAAAAAAAAA" stopped.  All I could see were their silhouttes and the one guitar player wore tight pants and had shaggy hair and reminded me of Hugh Grant's roommate in Notting Hill which made me feel kinda giddy because I felt like I was just transported to Britain.  But the band is actually from France, which made me feel completely disoriented, but it could have just been the drugs.

The band, which was Phoenix by the way, played my three favorite songs first, in order, which was totally awesome.  But then I didn't really know any songs for the next hour.  So I amused myself by watching the girl in front of me dance.  She was blonde and reminded me of my friend Juli.  She grinded on the bald guy in front her - who I was certain was actually a blow-up doll bodyguard until he clapped his hands at the very end of the concert -except it was more like bobbing because Juli would never grind.

Ha!  Yes she would!  Juli is the best girl to go to clubs with because she will totally grind with you on the dance floor, or, if need be, stand on the floor and spot you while your drunk ass dances on the bar at your bachelorette party.  Theoretically speaking, of course.

This girl reminded me so much of Juli that I was becoming convinced that it actually was Juli.  Then I remembered Juli dyed her hair brown so it couldn't be her.  And then I died a little.

Unless...Phillip, do you know where your wife was last night?  If she went missing for a few hours and returned with blonde hair then she was most definitely bop-grinding on a bald blow-up doll bodyguard guy whose hands were either remote-controlled to clap or he was actually a real person.

To get over my heart-break of the Juli look alike not actually being Juli, I looked up at the stage and was immediately cheered up.  In fact, I started cracking up.  The other guitar guy had his guitar slung around his back while he played the keyboard, and the neck of his guitar hung between his a penis.

I was thoroughly amused by this and then the husband leans over and says, "that keyboard player looks like..."

And I start shaking my head vigorously because I know he's going to say something about the guitar penis, and I think, THIS is why I married that man."

"...he's straight out of the eighties."

I was crestfallen.  "I thought you were going to say something about his penis."  The husband gives me a look which either meant I was disturbed or he didn't hear me.  We returned our attention back to the band.  The husband was rocking-out, which means he was standing and holding a beer, while I totally lost it, because now the guitar/keyboard player has shifted and the guitar was hanging further down his back, making the neck, aka penis, slap his leg.

At this point I realized I must blog about this situation.  I frantically searched my purse for something to write with.  My mom gave me a little notebook for my birthday for situations such as this, but of couse, I switched purses and didn't have it.  There was a paper menu on the railing next to me.  I wrested it from beneath on old guy's elbow and began scribbling furiously in the dark.

By the time I looked up again, the stage was covered in a sheet and the band was nowhere to be seen, but there was five minutes of a wap wap wap sound, like that of a bird caught in a ceiling fan, and the crowd was cheering like they liked this, which they totally did not, because honestly?  It was freaking annoying.

Finally the band started to perform again.  Non-Juli continuted bopping, and I periodically got all up in the biznas of the old guy next to me when I would lean over to catch a glimpse of the lead singer, who was blocked from my view by a large column.

At one point the music started slowing way down, until all that was left was the beat of the drum which was going so slow I thought it was going to stop my heart.  Why did I think that, you ask?  I don't know.  Maybe it's because of the same reason I once told the husband not to leave tile in the bed of his truck in case someone steals it and uses it to kill someone and the victim's family sues the husband.

Issues.  The reason is issues. 

Later in the concert, everyone started clapping, but I stopped my feet.  Because I'm a trendsetter.  For the last two songs, the band went down into the crowd and the lead singer sat on a stool and serenaded us.  Everyone loved the song, but I couldn't understand a word other than "twenty-one" and when, I thought, he said, "six, six, six, six, six, six."  But that made me uncomfortable so I pretended he was saying, "sex, sex, sex, sex, sex." 

After that song the lead singer said, "I want to sing More Than Friends for you," and the crowd started going nuts.  I got excited and said to the husband,
"do I know that one?"

"Something in French?" he said.

"Oh.  He's going to sing something in French?"

The husband: nod.

Yeah, needless to say, I didn't know it.

After that, the concert was over.

But wait...The Encore!  A song I knew.  Yeaaaaaaahhhhh!  I bop-grinded like non-Juli.

As the last note was sung and the last chord was struck, the place suddenly smelled like a Vegas hotel.  But one that was built 60 years ago, had seen way too much excess and debauchery in dark corners and smelled of stale smoke and bodily fluids.

It was the perfect ending.

Guess what Internets?  I have a new follower.  Let's welcome Mary Erin!  Mary Erin your award will be coming soon.  It may or may not have something to do with the night in college that you were going out with your roommates and one of them threw gatorade in your face and you washed your face and reapplied your make-up, but only on one eye...and didn't realize it until we had all gotten back from the club.

As usual, all typos in this story were totally intentional.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

My Love Affair with Food

Do I still have followers?  I'm pretty sure the number one rule of blogging is to not let eons of time pass between posts.  But it's not my fault.  I've been a criminal on the run, dealing with the fact that I invented The Facebook (I know.  It surprised me too.), getting lost in a town the size of shoe box and drowning in dressing and bacon.  Clearly there was no time left for blogging.

I should probably address each one of these separately so that I have something to write about for a few days.  We'll see what happens...

Let's deal with the dressing and bacon, because food completes me.

I'm in love.  With the new guy at my favorite deli.  And it's not because of his adorable boyish smile.  It's because he knows how to make a salad.  My kind of salad.

For the last month and a half the deli has been closed, which has been absolutely devastating to me, partially because I've had to go without their yummy food, but mainly because I hate envy people who can close down their store/shop/business for a month and go on a fabulous vacation.  I don't actually know that's why the deli was closed, I'm just assuming.  It's possible they closed because of some horrible personal tragedy, which is exactly why you shouldn't compare your life to others and be thankful for what you have.  That's my advice for the day.  Give thanks.

The person who used to make the salads was the cute lady who would mix all of my selected ingredients together, toss it in my selected dressing and yum!  Except that I always wanted more dressing...and more bacon.  She probably thought oh this is just the right amount of dressing and bacon for this little girl.  She couldn't possible want more than this.  But guess what?  I totally did.  But, of course, I never said anything, because hello fatty. 

But adorable new boy?  He could either sense the desperate dressing, bacon, dressing, bacon, dressing, bacon vibes emanating from my being, or he could just tell I'm the kinda girl who likes to super-size her dressing and bacon.  Whatever the case, it was amazing; hence being in love, hearts, rainbows and sunshine.  But not in love, hearts, rainbows, and sunshine, I want to marry you kind of way, because hello he's twelve. Okay, he's actually probably eighteen or twenty even, but when you're as old as I am, (late twenties) anyone under 22 seems like a baby to you.  Also, I'm already married and polygamy isn't really my thing.   My point is I'm in love, hearts, rainbows, sunshine, he can toss my salad any day. know what I mean. And I don't mean that.

Talking about bacon and dressing reminds of that time I tried to get a cupcake after work.  I never told you that story did I?  I think I started writing about it and then just never posted it.  Hold on.  Lemme check.

Yep, I did start writing it, and guess what?  It. Is. Awesome.  Except I never finished it and only have a vague recollection of how it ended.  So I'll post it and just make the rest up.

Cupcakes Are Assholes.  So is 7-Eleven.  And also, Moe’s.

Today at work I was daydreaming about cupcakes, which is not all that unusual except that it was actually work related.  I know.  How awesome is my job that I get to talk about cupcakes?  (Honestly?  Not that awesome.)

There is a store in town that makes to-die-for cupcakes, and after talking about cupcakes with my boss, obtaining a to-die-for cupcake became the single most important thing on my mind. 

It was a race against the clock.  Finish work, call husband to say I am leaving work to drive to friend’s house to pick up cell phone, husband starts talking about something, interrupt husband and say, “honey, can we talk about that later, I need to get to the cupcake place before they close,” leave the office, take a pee and fly down the stairs like a spaz, tell myself to calm the eff down - me and stairs don’t work out so well under normal, non spastic situations, and I’m pretty sure acting like a schizophrenic squirrel on crack while trying to attempt what most people have mastered by the age of three, is asking for trouble– fly out of the stairwell, start to run toward my car, but see people in the parking lot, decide to not embarrass myself, and walk like a normal person. 

While I’m walking I contemplate running, because while it may be embarrassing to sprint toward my car as if seeking cover from an impending asteroid attack (note, I’m pretty sure your car will not save you from an asteroid attack.  Asteroid are assholes.  They’re probably going to kill you no matter where you seek shelter. Unless you’re the lead actor in one of those end of the world disaster movies.), it makes for a more interesting blog story if I trip over my own feet and eat shit in the parking lot in front of an audience.  That is the state of confliction I live in these days: trying to avoid situations in which I make a complete ass of myself because oh-my-gosh-how-embarrassing and hoping to end up in situations in which I make a complete ass of myself because oh-my-gosh-this-would-make-a-totally-good-post.

I get in the car and check the clock.  It says I have eight minutes left until the little cupcake shop closes and I am denied an explosion of awesomeness in my mouth (get your mind out of the gutter you dirty whores) and all my dreams are crushed.

As I’m driving out of the parking lot I remember I have no cash. There is no way I’m paying for one cupcake with a credit card.  As I sit at the light and contemplate methods of suicide, I think I can’t put ONE cupcake on a credit card, but I could put TEN.  See that, my friends?  Those be some stellar problem solving skills.  I should work for NASA like Gary Sinese in Apollo 13 where he brings the astronauts home on a toaster or maybe it was a coffee maker or maybe it was on the power it takes to run one of those things.  I can’t remember because some asshole broke into my house and stole my VHS.  And by ‘some asshole broke into my house and stole it’ I mean I most likely lost it.  And I have been devastated. Because Apollo 13 is one of my favorite movies.  Because I can relate to the superior intelligence of astronauts.  On a side note, I think I should rename this post The One Where Everything’s an Asshole.  In related news, I think I have adult ADD. 

Yeah, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t just go off on a tangent about toasters and the space program and pick up where I left off.  If you don’t remember what I was talking about, it’s probably because you have adult ADD.  You should go to a doctor.  They’ll give you medicine for that shit, which you can sell for Anthropologie dresses.  That’s my way of saying I would have posted this fabulous piece of awesomeness earlier but I spent the last hour drooling over Anthropologie dresses online and lamenting over the fact that I can’t freaking afford the 8-10 dresses I just absolutely have to have, so uh, you should totally go by them for me.  Kay?  Thx.

So…anyway… before I can make the right turn on the highway to cupcake heaven, the ever-diminishing part of me that doesn’t want to become a huge fat blob, overrules the ever growing part of me that screams CUPCAKE GOOD, MUST HAVE NOW and I remain at the light.

And then my brain screams CHANGE!  CHANGE! CHECK YOUR PURSE FOR CHANGE!  So I do, and find quarter after quarter after quarter in the disgusting depths of my purse that I’m pretty sure is lined with mouse ashes, or maybe just a crumbled cookie – but seriously it’s probably mouse ashes because I’ve already emptied my purse of the crumbled cookie, like, four times and yet the crumb/ashes are still there.  Ipso facto, mice keep crawling into my purse looking for cookie crumbs, can’t find any, can’t find their way out, and die.

This story is weird.

After I unearth ten pounds of quarters – did I mention these to-die-for cupcakes are also the most expensive freaking cupcakes on the planet? – I look at the clock.  There is only six minutes until the store closes.  Which means they are probably already closed.  Because the people who run the cupcake shop are assholes.  (Okay, they’re actually not assholes, but I’ve got a theme going here.)

 I’ll spare you the details of my fantasies of obtaining-free-cupcakes-because-it’s-the-end-of-the-day-and-surely-they’re-just-going-to-throw-them-out-anyway-so-they-might- as-well-give-them-to-me on the twenty miles over the speed limit drive to the cupcake shop, and just tell you that, of course, they were effing closed.

The story would end here (you’re totally hoping it would), but cupcakes are assholes and they set off a chain of assholey events.

I go to the 7-11 to get gas and water.  While I’m pumping the gas, the evil cupcakes remind me of my other favorite thing in the whole world.  Donuts.  Seven-eleven sells donuts.  I go inside to buy my water and tell myself not to look at the donuts.  That even though they say they are delivered fresh each day, they are actually sitting in a rat infested back room and are full of lard and all kinds of disgusting evilness. 

I give myself mad props for ignoring the evil tempting donuts and head straight to the water cooler thingy. 

And then 7-11 became an asshole.  Probably because I wouldn’t buy their rat-turd lard- filled donuts.

I grab a bottle of Zephryhills.  Not cold.  I reach for one further in the back.  Not cold.  As I reach for the one further in the back my arm brushes a bottle of 7-11 water.  Freaking freezing. 

Touche 7-11, I won’t by your heart attack inducing donuts so you get me with your super cold toilet water.  I am a sucker for cold water. I can’t resist.  I grab a bottle and go up to the counter.  And do you know what they have up there?  Do you have any idea what they have on the counter? 

Go ahead.  Guess.  You’ll never get it. Here, I’ll count to three so you have time to guess, and then I’ll tell you.




Big Gulp Cups. 





Are you effing kidding me 7-11?  What’s the one thing I love more than donuts?  Donut Holes. 

My hands tremble as I retrieve my change.  I do not let my eyes wander back to the donut filled Big Gulp.  I bolt out the door, run to my car sans donut holes and unscrew my water. I tell myself that this water is no different than Zephryhills and Disani and Aquafina.  I tell myself it’s not moldy full of lard toilet water from the 7-11 bathroom.  (It’s pretty much a requirement that all food things sold at 7-11 be injected with lard.)  But as I drink it, I dry heave.

I am drinking toilet water and 7-11 is an asshole.

So that's where the story ended and I don't remember all the details of the rest, but here is what I do know...

After retrieving my phone from my friend's house I go to Moe's and everyone's all "Welcome to MOES!" which I totally hate, because it makes me feel all awkward.  Should I say hi?  Thanks?  I'm pretty sure the welcome is rhetorical and they're not looking for a response, which just makes it seem so in-genuine and the exact opposite of welcoming, which makes me wonder if that's the point.  Like they don't want you to feel welcome because they hate their jobs and they just want you to leave.  But without customers they don't get paid which seems like a really bad business practice, but when the hell do I know?  I'm just a girl trying to get a freaking cupcake.  Or in this case, a burrito.

Next, I remember there was a dad balancing  his can-barely-stand-on-his-own-two-feet-toddler on a two inch beam and I had to turn away so I didn't a.) scream what the hell kind of parent are you? and b.) see the kid's head split open when he tumbled to the ground.  Hey idiot dad, if you're reading this, you should teach your child how to walk when he's on the ground, not on a two inch beam four feet of the ground.  Honestly, you should have to pass a test and obtain a license to be a parent.

The Moe's employee takes my order.  "Two Joey's," I say.  The employee's eyes widen.  "Two?"

Yes, asshole.  Two.  I want two effing burritos.  Have you ever heard of someone ordering food to bring home to someone else?

Seriously, can you imagine what it's like to be that guy's boyfriend?  You want a soup and salad?  A burger and fries?  Cheerios and milk?

We get it dude, you have a small penis.  Stop trying to distract us from that fact by talking about how much food I eat, you're only making your inferior penis size more obvious.

Perhaps you think it's way harsh of me to accuse this guy of having a small wiener just because he asked if I wanted two Joey's (in case you've never been to Moe's a Joey is a burrito.  It's actually called a Joey Bag Of Donuts, which is totally misleading because they do not stuff a donut inside a burrito.  False Advertising if you ask me.) but let's remember I didn't get my to-die-for cupcake and am therefore completely justified in anything I say or do No Matter What.  Never mess with a girl who was denied her cupcake.
I think that's enough for now.  I'll talk about inventing The Facebook, being a criminal and getting lost later, so stay tuned.

And THANK YOU to Tab, Kins, and Juli for commenting on my last post. Your comments complete me.  Even more than food.  Definitely more than cupcakes.  And don't worry that I haven't friend requested you yet.  I have created my The Facebook page yet.  I've attempted to five times now, but I never get further than my name before I end up rocking myself in the corner.