Did I Just Do the Walk of Shame?

Posted on February 11, 2011 by romanticcomedygirl

It’s really late… my hair has flopped… my make-up is washed out and mascara has stained the fragile under-skin of my eyes… my clothes are wrinkled and I may have forgotten to close a button… I’m walking out of the last hotel room in a loooooooong hallway, praying that no one sees me.

Before I take a step, I catch the door and “loud whisper” back into the room, “I feel like I’m doing the walk of shame!” I hear a giggle from inside the room, let the door close, and pray no one sees me as I take the elevator down to my car. The valet isn’t even at the stand.. how embarrassing! When he does come out he looks at me without judgement. How kind. He probably sees this all the time. But wait! It’s not what it seems…

All of the Superfriends had dispersed, all but Cowgirl. So we were hanging out in the lair. And if you’ve been keeping up with the blogs, YES she was eating pasta Bolognese, and if I remember correctly, drinking red wine. And NO, before you jump to any conclusions this is not one of “those” stories, we both love men too much, which is exactly what we were talking about. Men and Career Choices. I mean what else is there, right?

So I’d like to make a “formal announcement” (yes my arms are lifted above my arms in a V).. I formally announce that at the next retreat, all the single ladies need to “get a little somthin’ something’ and then report back to the lair. Somethin’ somethin’ is NOT sex (although we would not judge anyone who got lucky)! What I mean by ‘somethin’ somthin’ is as follows: it starts slowly, perhaps with a brush of a cheek, or a teasing nibble of an earlobe and continues as far as you are want it to. It involves moonlight, stars, butterflies (in the stomach not flying around because that would freak out a Superfriend who will remain nameless), electricity (again, not from a socket but from that inner surge that goes from your mind straight down to the vajooge), anticipation which can be taken to the point of torment, teenage angst (that’s why it can’t technically lead to sex because where would the angst of longing go if you give away the milk and the cow…. what? I have no idea… that could have been tangentiling), ANYWAY back to… possibly a moon roof, because somethin’ somethin’ should be gotten in a place where you were forced to go as a teenager and couldn’t go to your house like: a car (preferably with a moon roof to see the moon and stars), a golf course, a hot tub (Sommelier will like that one), an empty and open hotel meeting room, a stable (I may be making assumptions here, but we do have a Cowgirl in the group), a dentist chair (I know, that’s a weird one, but not if you hook up with a dentist’s son who has the keys to his father’s office) or a playground (just watch out that the neighbors don’t call the cops.. that is very embarrassing.. not that I would know.. okay I would and I do- it’s embarrassing!) Feel free to add your own location in the comments below.

Somethin’ somethin’ is being with a guy for the first time or a week (it pretty much wears off after that) when you have that feeling that you had as a kid, before you knew what sex was but you were dying to find out, but you knew you weren’t going to find out yet.

When Shady and I broke up, I got a little somethin’ somethin’ with a 25-year-old. We were in my car, pulled over in front of a Malibu mansion, looking at the stars through the moon roof (really a sun roof but at night it’s a moon roof), and I felt like a teenager again.. and it was AWESOME!  We didn’t do more than kiss.. well, there may have been a little over the clothes groping, he was 25 and I’m stacked, so you can’t blame him for his wandering hands… but that’s part of the anticipation that causes the electricity.  He even brought a mixed CD with him for our “driving up the coast” pleasure. The funniest thing was when he told me he wanted to play me this cool song that made him think of me. It was “Killing Me Softly” by the Fujis. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was living in Manhattan when they recorded that song, because he was barely 13 then, nor did I really want to date myself by telling him that I had heard the original version by Roberta Flack on the radio when it was released in 1973, 10 years before he was born… so I tangentalize…

The bottom line is, I did not do a walk of shame, Cowgirl and I were just talking. And the single girls need to get a little somethin’ somethin’ and the married girls will wait in the lair to hear about our conquests and then tell us how glad they are to be married and not have to deal with this crap anymore…

WORD!

©2011

 

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She Drugged Us With Raw Food

Posted on February 10, 2011 by romanticcomedygirl

“Okay dive on in!” that’s what Sommelier said to the 5 of us girls as we jumped on the bed. It’s not what you think… There were desserts on the bed; Pina Colada pie, Banana Slug Surprise (is that a nut or a coffee bean? Because it’s in my mouth and if it’s a coffee bean, you girls are in for a long night- see the “what chocolate does to me” post… coffee is 10X worse!) Coconut.. something, and last and least Green Spirogyra, that’s algae and strawberry mush.

You’ve got to love Pilot. She was so thoughtful. Knowing that I couldn’t eat gluten or sugar, she brought us home treats from a raw food restaurant. When you get a group of highly elevated women together such as ourselves, you find there are many dietary restrictions; some can’t eat gluten, some no sugar, some no dairy, some must be raw, Pilot has something with.. I forget.. winter vegetables? some vegetarian, some vegan (don’t ask me the difference but there is one), some no wheat, some only pasta Bolognese, some will only consume food if a glass of wine is present, and on and on…

So again, Pilot was being very kind bringing us these magnificent desserts to be eaten on the bed, in the lair (Cowgirl’s bed, not Pilot’s). And it started out well, because I went for the coconut..something. It’s hard to go wrong with coconut. You can however go wrong with algae. Ironically, my favorites were others’ least favorites and vice versa. It wasn’t until 3 minutes into the bingeing that we all started the commentary on the desserts… what’s that thing on the banana surprise that looks like a slug… someone’s got to eat it. Were we hallucinating, because I don’t recall a slug in the take-out box when it was first opened. In fact we were all getting super giddy, and don’t blame Sommelier because I don’t drink, so it wasn’t the wine. I don’t even know who suggested that we were being drugged or if I’d just imagined the sinister laugh come out of Pilot’s mouth… but she’d been pissed since lunch, and she had every right to be…

Come with me, if you will, to a large dining table overlooking the Ocean at the Ritz Carlton. Beautiful women dressed to impress, sit in their chairs with little colored paper coded cards in front of them. GF (gluten free… I had that one, it was orange) DF (dairy free,) RAW (speaks for itself), VG (not vagina, vaginas are made of meat, this is for the vegans or the vegetarians,  I can’t tell them apart). Yes, we’re high maintenance. The gal next to me had a GF & a DF. I imagine Pilot had every color coded card there was in front of her. What I couldn’t imagine was what she had goin’ on at her end of the table. All I know is when my Caesar salad came out in typical “lettuce stalk” fashion with parmesan cheese and capers, I just cut up my lettuce (pain in the ass, why don’t they cut the dang lettuce!?) added a little olive oil and was set. That is until the gal next to me was served her plate, at which first sight, I almost choked to death. If laughing with lettuce in your mouth could make lettuce come out of your nose, that would have happened to me. My poor beautiful comrade was literally served a barren plate, but for the pre-mentioned uncut lettuce… hold on, I’m having a flash back and need a laugh break. It was frickin’ hilarious! It was like someone literally took the romaine out of the bag and placed it on a plate. I thought it was a joke… guess who didn’t think it was a joke.. MmmHmm.. Pilot. She’d been served the same plate, and she was not laughing.

I don’t know if you get irritable when you’re hungry, but I do. I don’t know how she reacted, because I wasn’t there, but the recap went somethin’ like this.

Pilot: (to waiter) What’s this?

Waiter: (Spanish accent) Salad, no dairy

Pilot: No, this is not a salad, this is a plate of rabbit food. Do I look like a rabbit- don’t answer that! I am paying 5 star hotel prices to stay in this 5 star hotel. Does this look like a 5 star salad to you?

The waiter took away the plate of rabbit food and returned with a beautiful salad filled with strawberries and lots of good stuff that made the table very jealous. When asked if that was her main course, Pilot was told, “No, it’s your starter salad.”

Unfortunately, based on Pilot’s dietary needs, the starter salad was a starter for her main course… another salad. I didn’t ask what came on that plate.

Let’s all have a drink and toast to Pilot.. Git ‘Er Dun Girl!

©2011

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News Flash Guys, the First Woman to Judge Your Penis Was Your Momma!

Posted on February 9, 2011 by romanticcomedygirl

Okay, I’ve written the title, and my mind instantly goes to… what picture am I going to use for this? A cartoon penis? Who wants to look at that? Overall, penises are pretty ugly. I don’t want to say that I’ve seen a lot in person, because that would make me sound like a slut, so let’s just say I’ve seen a lot of Playgirl magazines. It is a very strange organ. And even stranger is how different they all are, like noses. Some are out of proportion big, some are crooked, some have hair growing out of them (still talking about noses)… okay back to penises. First Love’s was perfect and I’m not being biased. As far as twig and berries go, he could have been a twig model.. if there was such a thing, and the berries were in the background where they belong, and well groomed. Who likes hairy berries? No one!  Shady on the other hand was ALL berries, like two ripe avocados hanging from a tiny twig.. at least that’s what I remember, I only saw it once or twice in seven years.

Anyway, back to the title, because you’re probably wondering what the heck brought this up. So Sister got a puppy, he’s two months old and… NO! This has nothing to do with us judging his puppy parts. Gross! What I was going to write is that we brought him over to Cool Mom’s house so he could play with her two enormous dogs (sidebar, if you’ve been keeping up with my posts you know that one of her “big” dogs shouldn’t be so “big”. I’m happy to report that she’s put her on a diet, and she’s getting svelte) well, pretty much any dog is enormous next to Sister’s 4.5lb pup. Cool Mom’s kids were running around the back yard as well, Spiderman (who’s 3 1/2) and the Spy (just trust me on these names, I know what I’m talking about) who’ now walking so fast he’s hard to keep up with, were doing their own thing. Spiderman was fishing in his swimming pool and the Spy was playing in the giant sports net set up on the astroturf. These kids got it good!

The big dogs started getting tired of the puppy and had to be put inside, so the puppy instantly ran to the Spy, after all he was the only one of us who didn’t look like a giant. The Spy was giggling and having fun. At first the puppy was licking his face, but then, as puppies do at that age, the teething kicked in. Cool Mom saw it coming and grabbed the Spy away just before teeth could snip at flesh (she’s so quick and motherly telepathic) but in mid lift, the puppy jumped up and bit at… his privates (I whispered those last two words). Now puppy teeth are sharp, but they can’t penetrate diapers so no harm was done, but that didn’t stop Sister from saying, “No biting the family jewels,” to which Cool Mom responded, “Yeah, he needs all the help he can get… he’s no Spiderman.”

There was a pause so sister and I could connect the dots, and then we all burst into hysterics, causing Cool Mom to admit that Spiderman was hung like the Hulk and the Spy, well…  Do penises have growth spurts or do they just keep growing proportionately to their original package until they’ve reached their maximum size?

Clearly this never came up in our house, as Sister and I both have D cups and (as Teri Hatcher said on Seinfeld) they are real and they are fabulous! Anyway, boy babies scare me. I always thought that if I were to have kids I’d want boys… but I forgot they come with a package. And I don’t want to be worrying that one day some perverted chick is going to be writing about his avocados or lack of.. cause that would be a very very twisted chick! Something tells me, Cool Mom will not be printing this one out to show to the Spy when he grows up. Don’t worry Cool Mom, I promise to make it up to him in future blogs….

©2011

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How I Met the Superfriends

Posted on February 9, 2011 by romanticcomedygirl

When I was in college, I was extremely active in my sorority. Non-Greeks would accuse us of “paying for friends.” My sorority dues did not go into other girls’ pockets so they would like me, the money had nothing to do with our friendships. What was unique about the Greek system, was the attraction process. Each sorority attracted their own group of like-minded girls. And within that large group, you found your “super friends.”

Years later, I’m still in touch with my early “super friends,” and now I’ve got a “grown-up group of super friends.” I met them in much the same way as I did my sorority sisters. The rush process didn’t involve going from “house to house” but instead from “hotel ballroom to hotel ballroom.” For the past eight years, I’ve been in too many hotel ballrooms to count. I’m a small business owner so I go to a lot of business seminars. When it came to finally deciding which business coach’s program I wanted to invest in, it was very much like the sorority rush experience.

I had spent the year targeting 5 well known business coaches and didn’t really feel a fit with their “audience” but I had to make a decision. A friend kept nudging me to attend one more 3-day-event. This was at a hotel ballroom in Vegas, and given by a business coach who in my opinion was too “girlie.” I’d seen her speak once on a panel with 6 men and 1 other woman. The men were the typical salesmen, whose events I’d been attending over the years,  the “other woman” was in a power suit, had a butch haircut, and said something like, “If you’re not motivated enough to join my program, you’re not going to make it!” In other words, she had “balls.” And then there was the girlie coach sitting with her perfectly shaped legs crossed under a tight designer skirt, with an animal print top, and stilettos that would make Carrie Bradshaw drool. Her hair and make-up were impeccable and obviously professionally done, and her jewelry sparkled and clanked as she spoke.

At the end of the panel I knew exactly whose 3-day program I was going to sign up for… the Chick With Balls! What the heck did I have in common with a “girlie girl?”

I attended the 3-day seminar given by the Chick With Balls, and guess who I met there? Predominantly guys (all of whom had balls… that’s just a guess, I didn’t actually check) and a lot of women with no balls. I was the ONLY chick with balls there (besides the Chick whose seminar it was… and her balls were getting bigger by the second..)

On the last day, we did a competitive exercise, and me being “the type” who goes all out for competition, came dressed for a red carpet event. It became so apparent that not only did I stick out like a sore thumb in this group, but that I also look fabulous in a glittery ball gown and heels… who knew? So, when I lost the competition to a twelve year old boy in an apron selling cupcakes, I knew these were not my people… and it was actually kind of scary to learn from a chick with bigger balls than all the guys in the room. So I allowed myself to be nudged to Vegas to see the “girlie girl.”

Now picture yourself walking through a desert, no water, food, or people in sight. You’re tired, hungry, dehydrated, and ready to give up, when all of a sudden you see what you assume must be a mirage… you go toward it and it’s materializing before your eyes… (cue the Enya) it’s Paradise!!! Only it’s not you, it’s ME, and the desert is Vegas and Paradise is a room filled with hundreds of women who look like me, dress like me, talk like me, think like me, have the same type A issues as me, and in the case of the “girlie girl” (who will from here on out be known as the Queen… because she’s the Queen of the girlie girls) hates to floss but knows she has to (like me!) and parks her car on weird angles (like me!!!!). The Queen had attracted a room filled with MEs!!!

And now in my second year of coaching with the Queen, I love shopping for jewelry, I wear 4 inch heels, and I get my hair blown out every week… oh and I also learn how to kick ass in business despite my lack of balls and wearing my new Chanel lipgloss! AND… the best part is that I’ve met the Superfriends, and they are: the Cowgirl, the Pilot, the Psychic, the Healer, the See-er, the Sommelier, and the Angel. The Angel isn’t in the program this year, but like all good angels, she still shows up to support us and we love her!

So now you know how I met my Superfriends, an amazing group of like-minded, gorgeous, fun, smart, and in Cowgirl’s words “woo-woo” women! Even though you can learn a little bit about them in my Cast of Characters, I had to formally introduce you because I’ve got a ton of stories, now that I just spent 5 days with them… so stay tuned!

©2011

 

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My Infatuation With Stink

Posted on January 11, 2011 by romanticcomedygirl

Okay, I’m just going to come right out and say it… my pits stink! And I guarantee, by the end of this blog entry, you’ll be wondering why in the time it took me to write this, didn’t I just take a shower and wash my pits? That is a very good question. The answer is… because there’s something strangely alluring about the stink. I can’t stop sniffing it. Right now Sister and Best Friend are reading this and saying out loud, “Eww! She’s so gross!” But they know what I’m talking about, and maybe you do too, maybe that’s why you’re still reading… or maybe you’re still reading because you’re just disgusted by me and want to see where this is going.

Well, as you know, this blog’s subtitle is ‘what happens before happily ever after’ and this is what happens, at least in my case. When I’m with a guy, I’m waxed or shaven, moisturized, deodorized, polished, blown out, teeth sparkling, mouthwashed, vajooge powdered, Q-tipped, and Cover Girl clean! But I’m not with a guy, so none of the fore-mentioned are goin’ on around here (imagine me circling my entire body from head to toe with my hands as if I had some street in me… which I SO don’t). Which means, in a word I..  stink. I think Tom Cruise said it best in Top Gun when he leaned into Slider and declared, “Slider, (sniff) you stink.”

Did I mention my old car was named Slider? Best Friend’s was Goose, and Sister’s was Maverick. I wanted Iceman, but they know me to well, so Slider it was. That’s Top Gun, gals, classic Chick Flick, because guys like it too. But all those topless guys playing volleyball? We know who they were marketing that film to.

Back to my pits. So admit it, when yours stink, you sniff them too, right? I’m not weird, because not only does Sister do it, but if Best Friend and I are sitting with her watching TV on the couch and she notices her pit stink, she’ll make us smell it. Now that’s gross… but not entirely unreasonable. There’s something about pit stink that you want to share. Maybe because it’s taboo in society (remember Taboo from the Brady Bunch.. that was such a scary episode.. random, sorry) any way, we are so conditioned to shave and use deodorant, and don’t get me wrong, I’m all for it… I’ve been to France, it is not pleasant to be surrounded by stinky pits, but… after spending my youth going from Love’s Baby soft, to Dry Idea roll-on, to Dove’s stick, to Mitchum with no white residue, which by the way, lasts 48 hours and is good for a lazy bummette like me, and a few brief fortes into Mennen’s Speed Stick, when I wanted to sniff under my arm and smell like my man of the moment (that stuff smells better than cologne), I’ve decided ENOUGH! I am going to bask in my stink for one day. I know what you’re thinking… someone as clean and fresh smelling as me doesn’t get that stinky in one day… and you’re right, it’s been over 48 hours… Okay, now not only am I over-sharing, but I’m grossing myself out. And I feel compelled to tell you that I have been doing the half-bath daily (better add this one to the glossary) that’s where you go in the bathtub and wash your bottom half, because ladies, as nasty as you think I am right now, I am very into hygiene, and you MUST remain clean ‘down there’ man in your life or not!

What I want to know is, how do girls who don’t shave their pits, and are ‘all natural’ aka don’t use deodorant, not stink? Is it their diet? Because I tell you, when I am shaven, which is most of the time, I slap on that Mitchum and like I said.. good for 48 hours. I don’t even stink after a Yoga class. BUT, the minute those little stubbles start pricking out, B.O.! It’s inevitable.

Okay, enough of this nonsense! I’m going to take a shower, shave, and deodorize. I’ve got things to do today, including a Gluten Free cooking class at Whole Foods (yes, I’m crazy like that) and who knows who I may bump into… well you’ll know, because I’ll tell you tomorrow after the class.  Wish me romance…

ps. in my search for this entry’s picture, I found 4 pictures of people sniffing each other’s pits. I thought it best to spare you!

©2011

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I’m In Love

Posted on January 10, 2011 by romanticcomedygirl

I know it sounds out of the blue, but it’s not. I’ve known him for a while. He was the lead singer in a band I was in.. I mean who doesn’t fall in love with their lead singer? I’d be playing piano or drums, and I wasn’t very good, but he always encouraged me… well, more like demanded I kept playing.  And then he would get on his motorcycle and do tricks, (I wasn’t on it, he rode alone). Sometimes he would sit on his motorcycle singing Bad to the Bone, which I thought was adorable. Anyway, I don’t know that I would call him sensitive, but I’m always amazed at how he remembers things we did like two years ago. With my memory I can’t remember what I did yesterday, but he’ll pull something out of the past and I’ll just be amazed by his detail for recollection. And then he’ll want to re-enact the whole moment which is really sweet.

Things were going really well, until he revealed his true identity to me. He’s a superhero, which wouldn’t be a problem if I wasn’t the bad guy, but for some reason I always have to be the bad guy. Okay, that’s not really the problem. The problem is he’s three. He’s Hip Mom’s son. I just love him! I’ve never been one to want kids, so he’s perfect, because I get to play with him all I want and then go home. I don’t know how Hip Mom does it. He is more exhausting than a guy my age! I think it’s because he thinks I’m funny, which causes me to feel this constant need to “keep that image alive” so I do things to make him laugh, (and when you’re three, the more stupid, the better).

Once, over a year ago, we were playing in Hip Mom’s living room, and he decided it would be fun to play with her fragile sea shells. I could feel my status of ‘favorite house guest’ about to slip away, so I removed the fragile shell from his tight grip, and he got very angry with me. I did not want an upset two-year-old on my hands, so I decided to teach him about ‘imagination’. And so the two of us sat on the living room rug, which was instantly transformed into a beach towel, and we went to the beach, and saw imaginary fish, and we imaginary swam, and had an imaginary picnic… and that’s when the trouble began! I could tell he was growing bored with his turkey sandwich, so I asked him if he wanted anything on it. He played along and asked for mustard. Well, I gave him mustard, but I added sound FX (AKA fart noises) and a mustard mishap, that landed a glob of imaginary mustard on my foot. This brought on a throw of giggles, which delighted me, but did I stop and enjoy the moment? No. I had to eat my foot with the mustard on it and then tell him that my foot tasted like a hot dog. I even smelled my foot and confirmed that it did indeed smell like a hotdog. Now he was in hysterics, and squirting imaginary mustard all over me, which was fun for about five minutes.. for me, he was still thoroughly amused. I had to think fast to end this game, so I started to pretend that when he’d squirt me, he’d miss, and I would bury the mustard under the sand. After a while, this began to frustrate him and I could tell I was losing him. Dang my need to be funny! I threw in a new element to the game… mustard ‘land mines’. I didn’t cal them that, no need for a two-year-old to know what a land mine is, but basically, as I walked toward him, I ‘accidentally’ stepped in the sand covered pile of mustard. I made sure he understood just how gross and squishy it felt… ah, to see the pleasure in a child’s eyes… and then I took it further… of course, falling face first into the mustard, sand in my eyes, mustard on my face, oh he was loving it, so much in fact that at three+ he still wants to play the mustard game every time I come over. Ahhh, I long for those days in the band. Being in awe of this young lead singer who knew every lyric to any Elton John song you could name, and by every lyric, I mean even the obscure ones that I couldn’t figure out.  I haven’t seen him in a few weeks and I miss him terrible. That’s how I know it’s love….

©2011

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If My Friends Could See Me Now…

Posted on January 5, 2011 by romanticcomedygirl

This is where all the Florida ladies would say, “Oy Vey!” Why? Picture this… Sandra Bullock in an old bikini that her housekeeper put in the dryer so the boy-shorts bottoms are all stretched out and baggy (not to mention pilled from sitting in one too many cheap hot tubs), surrounded by a group of cute little old ladies who are doing water aerobics. Have you seen that movie? I don’t know, it kind of rings a bell with me. Anyway… I seem to be developing a pattern of having you imagine something and then misdirecting you… because it wasn’t Sandra Bullock in the saggy bottoms… it was me. Today. And I wasn’t surround by cute little old ladies in a pool. It was Mom and some Foreign Guy who was staring at my bikini top which had not stretched out, but somehow managed to stay intact, which meant my boobs were spilling out the middle, because back when I was buying bikinis (that’s how long I’ve had this one) I couldn’t mix and match, so to get a size 2 bottom and I had to mash my D-cups into the matching top… yeah… bustin’ out. So enjoy leering Foreign Guy, enjoy!

Back to Mom, who upon learning the pool was heated, thought it would be a great mother/daughter bonding experience to go out this afternoon and walk in the pool. You have to understand, Mom, hears something on the news about corn, and cuts it out of her diet completely! Reads that a couple was attacked by a bear while hiking, and thinks anyone who hikes is bear bait (including Sister and me, who hike Runyon Canyon which no bear would dare enter, due to the horrid smell of dog crap roasting in the sun).

Yesterday, Mom’s physical therapist (she has to go to physical therapy for her knees because when she moved to Florida a few months ago, she thought it was ‘healthy’ to walk 12 miles a day with Dad… everyday, because it was sunny and everything’s close) told her it was not good to walk on pavement because of all the pounding on the knees. She and Dad attempted to walk on the grass early this morning, while normal people like me were still sleeping, but the grass was so wet from the sprinklers that their socks got wet. So that idea was kabashed and now it’s walking in the pool.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if five minutes into it I wouldn’t have gotten so winded. How pathetic that I used to make fun of sweet little old ladies doing water aerobics and I was about to drown after 10 walking laps.. and we were walking the short length. Mom was yapping away swinging her arms, I was trying to make working out in a pool cool, so I “jumped rope” in the water… harder than it sounds. Then from the looks of Foreign Guy decided 3 feet was not deep enough to jump in. When I went out to 5 feet, he finally left. Safely in 4 feet I started jumping again, doing crunches, side crunches, then walk a length really pushing that water down with my arms… I was making this a work-out, yo!

After 30 minutes I was done, exhausted. But not Mom, she wanted to walk for an hour. You go, girl! I’m going in the hot tub. Which I did, only to discover I was already sore. How sad is that? A half hour of Rocky Balboa moves in the shallow end and my abs were burning, my thighs were trembling, and my arms felt like I’d been holding up a car.

Seriously, if my friends could have seen me…

©2011

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Let’s Talk About Style… cough

Posted on January 3, 2011 by romanticcomedygirl

Okay, check out the guy to the left… now imagine him walking into the Price Club… NOW, imagine it’s not him but a guy who’s got him by 40 years, at least. His polo shirt tucked into his beige khaki shorts which are belted so far up that he’s proving that men, can in fact, have camel toe. He’s also wearing sandals… with tube socks… NOW imagine, it’s not one man but thirty seven men, all dressed the same way, the only variations being the color or pattern of their polo shirts and sneakers instead of sandals, but socks still pulled up to their knees!

That’s what I witnessed today. I was so struck by the site as they migrated toward the giant opened doors that I laughed out loud. Has that ever happened to you? You’re not talking to anyone, but something strikes you as funny and you can’t stop laughing and having no one to share it with, you keep laughing because you can’t get it out of your system?

I was mesmerized. Up and down the enormous isles of the Price Club I walked by one after another. I am clearly NOT in Los Angeles right now. Don’t they see each other? How is no one acknowledging this fraternity of fashion faux-pas? Even the angry tatted guys in Los Angeles give each other ‘the nod’ as they pass each other by with their black skinny jeans and tie-up boots in summer (unless of course they have tatted calves in which case they’re wearing cargo shorts).

Not that I was planning on dating a guy over 55, but if I were, that dream is now dead! I’m having awful flashbacks to Central Park, when I went to see Shakespeare in the Park. All the families were spread out on picnic blankets with their giant Igloos filled with food and drinks. The kids were running around like little sugar freaks, but I was stuck on ONE Grandpa. I know I should have shielded my eyes, but I couldn’t look away. As he sat atop his Igloo cooler, in his strained khaki shorts, his oversized beer gut hanging over what was surely a belt which had hiked his shorts up so high, that one “ball”… yes I said it, one ball had squeezed itself out of it’s suffocating covering. It was an unhealthy red color which kept my gaze from straying… was it red because the circulation was being cut off? Or for some stranger reason? “Look away!” I scolded myself, but I couldn’t. I’m nauseated at the thought…

And now, every time I go to the Price Club and see this mass gathering of khaki shorts, I’ll be stuck in the memory of the red ball, desperate for escape. Maybe I just won’t eat.

©2010

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What Chocolate Does To Me

Posted on December 28, 2010 by romanticcomedygirl

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Just because something is Gluten free and sugar free doesn’t mean that the chocolate in it isn’t going to affect me. (by the way, I typed that entire sentence in 3 seconds) which is how quickly I’d be talking to you if you were here with me because that’s what chocolate does to me. I’m trying to be kind and insert punctuation, but the reality is, when I eat chocolate my heart races and throbs in and out of my chest like a cartoon character, and I talk a mile a minute, non-stop, going from topic to unrelated topic, my mind races, my face sweats… good times! And I’m an addict. Did I mention that? I was literally diagnosed by a doctor when I was 23. You see, I’m rambling into the past now… you see, I had recently broken up with First Love, and the gym I was working at kept putting out chocolate kisses for Christmas (I know, defeats the purpose.. oxymoron, blah blah blah) what matters is, no one was eating them but me and I was up to 2 one pound bags a day going on two weeks. You know how I know it was two weeks…. hold on I need to take a breath… you know how I know it was two weeks? Because my sorority sister, who was now in medical school, was off on a two week cruise, and she was coming home the next day, so I decided to leave her a welcome home song (I’m infamous in my circle of friends for leaving spontaneous songs for birthdays, special occasions, or no reason at all, sometimes to the tune of a popular song, sometimes to a tune I make up … ooops chocolate tangent) anyway, I decided to leave her a welcome home song on her machine. Well back then, we had answering machines with tapes in them, which did not cut you off, so you had to leave your message and hang up. Well I didn’t hang up. “Chocolate” made me use up her entire message tape, which upon her arrival home, listening to said message and her 3 months of medical school, had her convinced I was high on cocaine.. did I mention in any previous blogs I only drank for one year of my life and it was when I was 15, I’ve NEVER done drugs, except the one time I smoked pot because of scary college football team peer pressure, and I hallucinated.. BREATH..

So, my sorority sister calls my mom to give her the diagnosis she’s created for me, and my mom freaks out and confronts me, to which I look at her as if she’s crazy, knowing that if I even dared try cocaine it would most likely kill me, but Mom, made me go to a doctor, to hear for herself that I didn’t need to go to rehab. The doctor confirmed that I was not a cocaine addict, but I was indeed a drug addict, the drug being caffeine. Dang it! Why make me love chocolate so much if I can’t eat it!!!

I’ve had to analyze this recently, as I’ve said in past entries, I’m working with a nutritionist (who by the way will be none too happy with me when she reads this, her objective is to calm and regulate my system not have me revved up like an indy 500 car). She wants me to log how I’m feeling when I want dark chocolate covered blueberries (or my cousin’s delicious “faux” Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and the culprit in this case gluten and sugar free chocolate pecan pie… she baked it especially for me. How can I let it go to waste… chocolate ramble) Anyway, I’m supposed to log how I feel before I eat it: is it a craving, do I need comfort food (CUPCAKES!!!!!!!!), do I feel I deserve a treat? I’m not really sure there are any other options and I know the former are all no nos. The bottom line is they taste frickin’ yummmy and I want them. Do I enjoy my heart racing- NO! Do I enjoy typing a mile a minute- NO! Do I enjoy staying up WIDE AWAKE until 4 am- NO! Will I do it again……………. yes. I have a problem people! Do you think Dr Drew has chocolate addicts in his celebrity rehab center, because I tell you, those celebrities may be hot messes, but I’ll give them a run for there money with one gluten free fudge brownie! And quite honestly, the gluten free, sugar free, does not taste even remotely as good as CUPCAKES!!!!!! But when you haven’t had real baked goods in over 6 months, they start tasting good. So I put in my food log that I wanted a snack and because they don’t taste that good it doesn’t count as a treat… well it shouldn’t.. it’s more of a torment of what once was and what can never be. Dang it! But I have a feeling my nutritionist is going to take dark chocolate covered blueberries off of the table soon, because I started out eating 4, then it went to 8 then 15… isn’t that how alcoholics fall off the wagon? They say they’ll just have one glass of wine, and then after a month it becomes 2 and then after 3 they’re in Dr Drew’s celebrity rehab with me RMC the choc-o-holic. Well at least I admit it, and I believe that’s the first step of 12 right? Oh who knows… Good lord my word count is 931 How did I manage over nine hundred words about nothing?

©2010

 

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Time to meet ‘Sister’

Posted on December 21, 2010 by romanticcomedygirl

I shower, I sweep my house daily, I wear clean clothes… well at least they start out clean until I stain them… speaking of, tonight’s stain is Grapefruit drippings, which brings us to tonight’s entry…

I’m having a sleepover at Sister’s tonight, with the dogs. If we were cartoons, she would be “Gem” cause she’s truly outrageous (and pampered) and I would be Pigpen. We are like the odd couple, obviously she’s Felix and I’m Oscar.

I show up at her house, and she has plastic and towels on the floor (it’s raining in LA), which manage to stay dry and clean yet the dog’s paws miraculously don’t leave a print on her floor. At my house, I have towels down, which are stained with mud and water to the point that it leaves a giant wet stain on my hardwood floor.. and there are still muddy paw prints in the living room (as well as muddy UGG boot prints).

Upon entering Sister’s house I notice candles are lit every where and there are three vases of fresh flowers. You see she’s normal, she lights her candles. I save mine for special occasions. What occasions? What am I waiting for? I do a similar thing with bubble bath and shampoo… I only use enough so I can make it last. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not cheap. I buy tons of shampoo and bubble bath, but it stands sadly expiring in the closet.

Everything smells good in Sister’s house… even her garage. I lifted the lid of her garbage pail expecting that rotting smell, I know so well from my own house despite using ‘odor protection’ bags, and it smelled like air freshener (we’ll see how it smells in the morning after a night with my grapefruit rinds).

Her bathroom is something out of the Four Seasons… I’m afraid to use a towel to dry my hands because they’re SO white and fluffy. Her toilet has blue water and smells good no matter what you do in it (she poo pooed my ‘go green’ slogan “if it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down” and yes, the pun was intended).

The dogs have been here for five hours already. In my house there would be enough fur balls on the floor to sweep into a small Shitzu and name, here.. not a hair to be seen. Does she have special powers? Has there been a spell cast upon her house? Has she made a deal with Mister Clean? There isn’t even dust on her TV screen. How is that possible? And trust me… Sister doesn’t clean!! Oh Hell, no! She has a housekeeper. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I have the same one. When I lived with Shady I lived in constant fear that “this is the week she’ll quit.” Sometimes I felt like I had to pay her extra. Even after Shady was thrown out, she still had plenty to do, despite me cleaning before she came (out of embarrassment). Across the way (Sister lived next door for 9 years, now she lives less than a mile up the street) our housekeeper (let’s call her M) should have paid Sister. I never understood what M did all day at Sister’s place. M would spend 8 hours at my house and 2 hours at Sister’s.

And of course Sister is drop dead beautiful, with a kick-ass body, and THE BEST designer wardrobe, so of course I want to borrow her clothes. She used to let me because she’s extremely generous, but then she’d see something I borrowed on my closet floor, or with a stain on it that I couldn’t explain, or that she hadn’t seen for months because I’d decided to adopt it until she noticed.. and slowly it became harder to catch her at home when I needed a ‘going out’ outfit. She lucked out that my shoe size is smaller than hers because Carrie Bradshaw would be jealous of her two closet shoe/boot collection, none of which I can borrow because of my tiny feet.

Sister always smells good. I ask her what scent she’s wearing. She tells me and I go to Loehman’s to buy it (Sister has no patience for Loehman’s), yet it never smells the same on me.

I do have ONE thing on sister… I can file like a mo fo! When my bills come in, I pay them and then file in the appropriate place. I shred those bank “checks” and any saved tax records past seven years. Sister on the other hand, puts all of her receipts and bill records in a Nordstrom bag, waits until Christmas when our friend has us over and lights a big beautiful fire in his fireplace. Then she throws her bag in the fire. I’m not sure if that’s legal so don’t tell anyone. Somehow, I think she got the better end of the deal, but I suppose that’s how all sister’s roll.

© 2010

 

 

 

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