Event: Bikini Wax
Oh Mother F!#&$#%#$ Holy S*%&#$*& Como Se llama! %*@$!@&% Kelly Clarkson! $!%&@ Mother of Pearl! &%@&!$ You're gonna put the wax WHERE? For the love !%&!$@%&! of all things holy @&%$! THAT HURT!
And to think, I paid for this.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Week Thirty
Event: Bought a refrigerator, bought a second refrigerator and swam a lap in an Olympic sized pool
Last Sunday while grocery shopping (not in a handicapped motorized cart this time) I decided to buy a miniature fridge for my office at work. I convinced myself a mini-fridge would help me eat healthier - you know, fill it with fruits and veggies and lean pockets. (I don't eat those things now but a mini-fridge in my office would definitely change my eating habits). I had this idea as I was stocking up on frozen dinners, pizza and ice cream. I digress.
Thursday night I came home, made a turkey sandwich for dinner and went along my merry way. It wasn't until I opened up the freezer at 9:45 to get some ice that I reached in and my fingers splashed into a bucket of water. That's when I noticed the items in my freezer were swimming in a pool of vanilla ice cream. As I hung my head in disappointment I looked down and saw my dog licking his way into neverland as juice from the bag of no-longer-frozen chicken breasts dripped onto the floor. Neat.
At that moment, my stomach started to make a funny noise. I slowly opened up the fridge part of the refrigerator and discovered it too was not working. There was condensation on the bottles. The lettuce was wilted. Not sure how I missed luke-warm turkey and mayo but I ate dinner like a biggest loser contestant on a snack break and never noticed a thing. I had to lie down.
After I regained consciousness and convinced myself I did not just eat meat that had been sitting in a warm fridge all day, I went to the store and bought a bag of ice. When I got home, I moved everything salvageable into a cooler and threw away 3 bags of brand new groceries. It wasn't until I made a second trip to get ice on Friday night that it dawned on me. I HAVE A BRAND NEW FRIDGE IN MY DAMN CAR. But living out of a cooler is fun. What an idiot.
Saturday I went to Sears and bought a brand new Bisque colored Frigidaire. Did you know that the color Bisque is about as popular as black and white with pink polka dots? After spending 4 hours trying to find the perfect Bisque match, I walked away with my second refrigerator purchase in one week. This one unfortunately won't be delivered for 8 days! Looks like the fruit, veggie and lean pocket lifestyle is closer than I think...
Being a grown up sucks, so yesterday I went to the pool and managed to do everything my dermatologist told me not to. I didn't wear long sleeves, I didn't wear a hat and I didn't wear spf 50 sunscreen. I did, however, manage to get a killer sunburn, convince myself that I need to be on a strict veggie and fruit diet because of how I look in my tankini, and while attempting to swim a lap in the Olympic sized swimming pool I managed to pull a muscle, almost drown, and successfully take in 4 gallons of water in one ear drum. (That side breathing thing is harder than it looks!) Giving up, I decided it would be more fun to do hand stands and dive for pennies, but it was about that time I realized everyone around me was wearing swim caps and goggles. They were serious. Kicking off the wall, heading back to the other end of the pool I saw a friend of mine walking towards me. Attempting to look like I knew what I was doing, I tried to swim fast and hard but the reality was I was waterlogged, winded and nursing an injury. I'm afraid my freestyle swimming stroke ended up being more like a freestyle-walk-backfloat-stop-for-a-breather-tadpole-frog-leg-kick-walk-some-more-doggie-paddle-oh-who-am-I-kidding-let's-find-the-ladder-and-get-outta-here-stroke.
I think I'll stick to golf.
Last Sunday while grocery shopping (not in a handicapped motorized cart this time) I decided to buy a miniature fridge for my office at work. I convinced myself a mini-fridge would help me eat healthier - you know, fill it with fruits and veggies and lean pockets. (I don't eat those things now but a mini-fridge in my office would definitely change my eating habits). I had this idea as I was stocking up on frozen dinners, pizza and ice cream. I digress.
Thursday night I came home, made a turkey sandwich for dinner and went along my merry way. It wasn't until I opened up the freezer at 9:45 to get some ice that I reached in and my fingers splashed into a bucket of water. That's when I noticed the items in my freezer were swimming in a pool of vanilla ice cream. As I hung my head in disappointment I looked down and saw my dog licking his way into neverland as juice from the bag of no-longer-frozen chicken breasts dripped onto the floor. Neat.
At that moment, my stomach started to make a funny noise. I slowly opened up the fridge part of the refrigerator and discovered it too was not working. There was condensation on the bottles. The lettuce was wilted. Not sure how I missed luke-warm turkey and mayo but I ate dinner like a biggest loser contestant on a snack break and never noticed a thing. I had to lie down.
After I regained consciousness and convinced myself I did not just eat meat that had been sitting in a warm fridge all day, I went to the store and bought a bag of ice. When I got home, I moved everything salvageable into a cooler and threw away 3 bags of brand new groceries. It wasn't until I made a second trip to get ice on Friday night that it dawned on me. I HAVE A BRAND NEW FRIDGE IN MY DAMN CAR. But living out of a cooler is fun. What an idiot.
Saturday I went to Sears and bought a brand new Bisque colored Frigidaire. Did you know that the color Bisque is about as popular as black and white with pink polka dots? After spending 4 hours trying to find the perfect Bisque match, I walked away with my second refrigerator purchase in one week. This one unfortunately won't be delivered for 8 days! Looks like the fruit, veggie and lean pocket lifestyle is closer than I think...
Being a grown up sucks, so yesterday I went to the pool and managed to do everything my dermatologist told me not to. I didn't wear long sleeves, I didn't wear a hat and I didn't wear spf 50 sunscreen. I did, however, manage to get a killer sunburn, convince myself that I need to be on a strict veggie and fruit diet because of how I look in my tankini, and while attempting to swim a lap in the Olympic sized swimming pool I managed to pull a muscle, almost drown, and successfully take in 4 gallons of water in one ear drum. (That side breathing thing is harder than it looks!) Giving up, I decided it would be more fun to do hand stands and dive for pennies, but it was about that time I realized everyone around me was wearing swim caps and goggles. They were serious. Kicking off the wall, heading back to the other end of the pool I saw a friend of mine walking towards me. Attempting to look like I knew what I was doing, I tried to swim fast and hard but the reality was I was waterlogged, winded and nursing an injury. I'm afraid my freestyle swimming stroke ended up being more like a freestyle-walk-backfloat-stop-for-a-breather-tadpole-frog-leg-kick-walk-some-more-doggie-paddle-oh-who-am-I-kidding-let's-find-the-ladder-and-get-outta-here-stroke.
I think I'll stick to golf.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Week Twenty-Nine
Event: Did grocery shopping while riding in a motorized handicap cart
While in the car driving home Friday night after hanging out with friends, I was suddenly hit with a craving for ice cream. It was after 11pm and no ice cream stores were open, so I tried to convince myself an apple would be just as satisfying. Unfortunately, my stomach won the battle and before I knew it I was pulling into my neighborhood grocery store, which just so happens to be open 24 hours. Lucky me.
As I walked in, almost skipping with excitement that a banana split was in my very near future, I noticed how empty a grocery store was at 11:15 at night. There were a handful of checkers hanging out and they all greeted me as I skipped by. Making my way down the first aisle, I realized I would need a cart or basket because after all, I was buying ice cream and all the fixin's. Making my way back towards the front of the store, I was scanning the checkout lanes for baskets and that's when I saw it. A free-standing, unattended motorized handicap cart. From this point forward, it needs to be noted that an alien jumped into my body, hijacked the real me and took over for the next 30 minutes. I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
Upon seeing the motorized cart, I suddenly decided that I had a terribly twisted ankle so I began to limp. No one was watching (hardly anyone was in the store) but I was convinced there was a hidden camera in the ceiling so I had to get my act together and quick. My limp became a full on I-can't-put-any-weight-on-my-left-ankle (or is it my right ankle?) so I was literally hopping on one foot as I approached the cart. I was committed at this point, so I pushed the power button...and...nothing happened. Shit! What in the hell am I doing? My palms started to sweat and at that moment, the nicest little checker guy walked over. I panicked and quickly said, "How late are you open?" He replied, "Until Thanksgiving." That cracked us both up, and the alien in me regained consciousness and said, "I did something to my ankle and just can't make it around the store without some help. Can I use this cart?" As the LIES were flying out of my mouth, I couldn't believe what was happening. Who am I? What am I saying? But now I'm knee deep into the lie of the century, so I kept going. The sweet checker said, "This cart dies all the time. Let's go get one of these." About 30 feet away he pointed to a row of handicap carts. Keeping up with my extravagant lie, I pulled out the fakest limp anyone has ever seen and made my way over to the cart. As he unplugged my new ride, he said to me, "So what happened?" And without pause, I launched into a story about how I was walking out my front door this morning on my way to work (which I never do) and I miscalculated the depth of the step and just slid right off, twisting my ankle. I then went so far as to SHOW HIM my ankle, as if either of us were going to see anything resembling a bruise! Sweetly, he told me I shouldn't worry - it probably wasn't broken because I wouldn't be able to put any weight on it if it were. Oh geez. I'm lying to the All-American Boy Scout of checkers. This is a train wreck.
I hopped onto my motorized handicap cart and made my way down the first aisle. Mortified, humiliated and cracking up the entire way, my first stop was the milk aisle. I pulled up right in front of the display, but had to get out of the cart to reach the milk. The fake limp was in its finest form and now I'm doing it in front of other shoppers. I started to feel bad about what I was doing and thought surely people were onto me, so I exaggerated the limp because I wanted to make damn sure people knew I was in serious need of medical attention. That's when I got back into the cart and discovered it would no longer go in a forward direction. The only direction I could go was backwards. Karma.
I backed out of the milk aisle, missing another shopper within an inch of her life, and giving it one more shot, I gently pushed on the forward button and thankfully the cart corrected itself and we were back in business. I then made my way through the majority of the store loading up the cart with ice cream, cotton balls and a dozen other things that WEREN'T on the list. I even went down the First Aid aisle (conveniently in front of my new checker friend) to look at ace bandages for my ankle. Whew. That really sold it.
When it came time to check out, I panicked at the thought of maneuvering through the checkout aisle, so I returned the cart to its home, gathered my groceries in my arms and hopped back to the check out aisle. I cannot believe I did all of this with a straight face.
As I checked out, my new friend asked if I needed help to my car. I told him I thought I could handle it, so I took the bags, said goodnight, and hopped out of the store all the way to the parking lot.
While in the car driving home Friday night after hanging out with friends, I was suddenly hit with a craving for ice cream. It was after 11pm and no ice cream stores were open, so I tried to convince myself an apple would be just as satisfying. Unfortunately, my stomach won the battle and before I knew it I was pulling into my neighborhood grocery store, which just so happens to be open 24 hours. Lucky me.
As I walked in, almost skipping with excitement that a banana split was in my very near future, I noticed how empty a grocery store was at 11:15 at night. There were a handful of checkers hanging out and they all greeted me as I skipped by. Making my way down the first aisle, I realized I would need a cart or basket because after all, I was buying ice cream and all the fixin's. Making my way back towards the front of the store, I was scanning the checkout lanes for baskets and that's when I saw it. A free-standing, unattended motorized handicap cart. From this point forward, it needs to be noted that an alien jumped into my body, hijacked the real me and took over for the next 30 minutes. I cannot be held responsible for my actions.
Upon seeing the motorized cart, I suddenly decided that I had a terribly twisted ankle so I began to limp. No one was watching (hardly anyone was in the store) but I was convinced there was a hidden camera in the ceiling so I had to get my act together and quick. My limp became a full on I-can't-put-any-weight-on-my-left-ankle (or is it my right ankle?) so I was literally hopping on one foot as I approached the cart. I was committed at this point, so I pushed the power button...and...nothing happened. Shit! What in the hell am I doing? My palms started to sweat and at that moment, the nicest little checker guy walked over. I panicked and quickly said, "How late are you open?" He replied, "Until Thanksgiving." That cracked us both up, and the alien in me regained consciousness and said, "I did something to my ankle and just can't make it around the store without some help. Can I use this cart?" As the LIES were flying out of my mouth, I couldn't believe what was happening. Who am I? What am I saying? But now I'm knee deep into the lie of the century, so I kept going. The sweet checker said, "This cart dies all the time. Let's go get one of these." About 30 feet away he pointed to a row of handicap carts. Keeping up with my extravagant lie, I pulled out the fakest limp anyone has ever seen and made my way over to the cart. As he unplugged my new ride, he said to me, "So what happened?" And without pause, I launched into a story about how I was walking out my front door this morning on my way to work (which I never do) and I miscalculated the depth of the step and just slid right off, twisting my ankle. I then went so far as to SHOW HIM my ankle, as if either of us were going to see anything resembling a bruise! Sweetly, he told me I shouldn't worry - it probably wasn't broken because I wouldn't be able to put any weight on it if it were. Oh geez. I'm lying to the All-American Boy Scout of checkers. This is a train wreck.
I hopped onto my motorized handicap cart and made my way down the first aisle. Mortified, humiliated and cracking up the entire way, my first stop was the milk aisle. I pulled up right in front of the display, but had to get out of the cart to reach the milk. The fake limp was in its finest form and now I'm doing it in front of other shoppers. I started to feel bad about what I was doing and thought surely people were onto me, so I exaggerated the limp because I wanted to make damn sure people knew I was in serious need of medical attention. That's when I got back into the cart and discovered it would no longer go in a forward direction. The only direction I could go was backwards. Karma.
I backed out of the milk aisle, missing another shopper within an inch of her life, and giving it one more shot, I gently pushed on the forward button and thankfully the cart corrected itself and we were back in business. I then made my way through the majority of the store loading up the cart with ice cream, cotton balls and a dozen other things that WEREN'T on the list. I even went down the First Aid aisle (conveniently in front of my new checker friend) to look at ace bandages for my ankle. Whew. That really sold it.
When it came time to check out, I panicked at the thought of maneuvering through the checkout aisle, so I returned the cart to its home, gathered my groceries in my arms and hopped back to the check out aisle. I cannot believe I did all of this with a straight face.
As I checked out, my new friend asked if I needed help to my car. I told him I thought I could handle it, so I took the bags, said goodnight, and hopped out of the store all the way to the parking lot.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Week Twenty-Eight
Event: Went to a Dermatologist AND got dumped by the Indian Doctor
This week I visited the Dermatologist - something I've never done and given my skin tone and freckle domination, it's something I've always needed to do. What prompted my appointment was this little white bump on my lip. It's been there for about 6 months, and I wasn't concerned until my aunt told me about this little white bump she had on her lip that had to be removed because it was pre-cancerous. Rut Roh Raggy, this could get interesting.
As I sat in the dermatologist's office waiting for the doctor to come in, my heart started to race as I replayed all of the sunburns I've had. There was no escaping it, I'm a sun worshiper and I have the freckles to prove it. But now really wasn't the time to try and win an award. As I sat there in my gown, in walked the whitest man I have ever seen. He hasn't seen the sun. EVER. We said hello and he fired up an overhead lamp the size of a beach ball, flipped down goggles with lenses so thick he could see through my gown and as I tried to explain what I thought the little white bump was he said, "Yep, it's a pimple." A PIMPLE? ON MY LIP? FOR 6 MONTHS? Oh for the love of all things holy are you kidding me? I've been sitting here doing Hail Mary's for a PIMPLE? (I'm not even Catholic, but I figured it couldn't hurt).
He asked me if I'd like him to pop it but I couldn't imagine anything worse. The great white hope leaning over my lip to pop my pimple? Thanks but no thanks. Back to 7th grade I go. Get out the wash cloth, soak it in warm water, apply gently to the stubborn 6 month pimple and BAM! Right on the mirror (sorry that's gross but we've all been there).
As I checked out of the Dermatologist's office, I was handed two brochures featuring head to toe clothing Casper suggested I wear to keep the sun off of my arms and legs. That of course was in addition to the strict guideline that I should be applying SPF 55 (at a minimum) on a daily basis. I will be sure to make that a part of my new year's resolution...in the year 2045.
And if having a pimple on your lip at 34 years of age isn't humiliating enough, I received a break-up text message Thursday night from my Bowling/Salsa Dancing/Indian Doctor. Apparently breaking up in person or over the phone is soooo 5 minutes ago. The new way to be dumped is via text message. And I quote, "I gave it a lot of thought. Don't think it will work fur us. I really had fun with u. U R really cool. :) Friends?" He then went on to say, "Honestly, I have never dated a girl who was older. When you told me how old you were, my not so thought out answer was it didn't bother me, but a well thought out answer is, it probably does. I didn't have a clear answer at the time so I gave it the benefit of the doubt...sorry." I couldn't type fast enough to respond and tell him that I couldn't agree more and that he was an IDIOT but I held back, told him I completely agreed we were not a match and I wished him the best of luck.
He then wrote, "Maybe you can introduce me to some girls at your office...ha ha...joking...want to go dancing again?"
And to think, this guy is single? Huh...
This week I visited the Dermatologist - something I've never done and given my skin tone and freckle domination, it's something I've always needed to do. What prompted my appointment was this little white bump on my lip. It's been there for about 6 months, and I wasn't concerned until my aunt told me about this little white bump she had on her lip that had to be removed because it was pre-cancerous. Rut Roh Raggy, this could get interesting.
As I sat in the dermatologist's office waiting for the doctor to come in, my heart started to race as I replayed all of the sunburns I've had. There was no escaping it, I'm a sun worshiper and I have the freckles to prove it. But now really wasn't the time to try and win an award. As I sat there in my gown, in walked the whitest man I have ever seen. He hasn't seen the sun. EVER. We said hello and he fired up an overhead lamp the size of a beach ball, flipped down goggles with lenses so thick he could see through my gown and as I tried to explain what I thought the little white bump was he said, "Yep, it's a pimple." A PIMPLE? ON MY LIP? FOR 6 MONTHS? Oh for the love of all things holy are you kidding me? I've been sitting here doing Hail Mary's for a PIMPLE? (I'm not even Catholic, but I figured it couldn't hurt).
He asked me if I'd like him to pop it but I couldn't imagine anything worse. The great white hope leaning over my lip to pop my pimple? Thanks but no thanks. Back to 7th grade I go. Get out the wash cloth, soak it in warm water, apply gently to the stubborn 6 month pimple and BAM! Right on the mirror (sorry that's gross but we've all been there).
As I checked out of the Dermatologist's office, I was handed two brochures featuring head to toe clothing Casper suggested I wear to keep the sun off of my arms and legs. That of course was in addition to the strict guideline that I should be applying SPF 55 (at a minimum) on a daily basis. I will be sure to make that a part of my new year's resolution...in the year 2045.
And if having a pimple on your lip at 34 years of age isn't humiliating enough, I received a break-up text message Thursday night from my Bowling/Salsa Dancing/Indian Doctor. Apparently breaking up in person or over the phone is soooo 5 minutes ago. The new way to be dumped is via text message. And I quote, "I gave it a lot of thought. Don't think it will work fur us. I really had fun with u. U R really cool. :) Friends?" He then went on to say, "Honestly, I have never dated a girl who was older. When you told me how old you were, my not so thought out answer was it didn't bother me, but a well thought out answer is, it probably does. I didn't have a clear answer at the time so I gave it the benefit of the doubt...sorry." I couldn't type fast enough to respond and tell him that I couldn't agree more and that he was an IDIOT but I held back, told him I completely agreed we were not a match and I wished him the best of luck.
He then wrote, "Maybe you can introduce me to some girls at your office...ha ha...joking...want to go dancing again?"
And to think, this guy is single? Huh...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Week Twenty-six AND Twenty-Seven (A double issue!)
(Week 26) Event: Salsa Lessons and First Date with Han Solo (from speed dating)
I used to think I was a pretty good dancer. Well, a pretty funny dancer anyway. Regardless, I was always fairly certain I had rhythm and a few good moves. Unfortunately, I have been spending most of my adult life in a comatose state because last Thursday night I learned I posses none of these things.
There's a bar downtown that gives free Salsa lessons every Thursday night (for a $6 cover...go figure) so two of my girlfriends and I decided we would take the plunge. The plan was to meet for the 8:30 "beginner" lesson and take it from there. This will be a fun girl's night out where we can pretend to be Latin, dance like idiots and make fun of ourselves later. That was a fine plan until I got a call from the Indian Doctor (whom I met at the Speed Dating event) asking if I could get together Thursday night! Despite my attempt to set up something right after work, he had a conflict and couldn't meet until 7:30. I tried to explain to him I had something else going on and would need to be done by 8:30 (didn't want to reveal what I was doing) but he probed and probed until I gave in and told him. He then said, "That's cool - I'll join you!" Oh for the love.
Thursday night I arrived at the bar at 7:30 and was surprised to find the bar was no longer open for business. Shoot. Quickly trying to figure out a back-up plan, my date suggested we go around the corner to a bowling alley (which conveniently had a bar). Perfect! As I made my way towards the bar, I looked back and he had stopped at the front counter. He was like, "Where are you going? We're going to bowl!" Clearly he hadn't noticed I was wearing a skirt, heels and a silk blouse. But, we signed up for a lane and when the girl behind the counter asked me what shoe size I needed I was like, "Um, I'm wearing heels, you see? That means I'm NOT wearing socks which means I'm NOT putting on stinky, fungus infected BOWLING SHOES!" Ok, I didn't really say that to her, but I did say it in my head. $3.75 later, I was the proud owner of a new pair of tube socks. Neat.
Mortified, we make our way to the lane and I begin to sweat through my silk blouse thinking about everything I had to concentrate on: 1) Wearing tube socks with a skirt required me to overcompensate and flex my calf muscles extra hard so he would focus on them and NOT on the socks. Problem is, I don't really have any calf muscles. Shit! 2) I can't run down the lane like I usually do because I need to be a dainty lady so I must maintain a lady-like pace. This will negatively impact my score. Dang. 3) When I bend over and release the ball, I mustn't bend over too much because my skirt might lift up a little revealing my polka-dotted granny panties (they're the only ones that were clean!)
For the record, I am generally a good bowler, but I got gutters left and right because I was focusing on everything BUT bowling. After the second frame, my date turned to me and said, "You know, you look like a school girl in that outfit." Not sure if that was a good thing or if I should turn in my ball and head home, he then said, "But don't worry, it's a turn on!" There are no words.
Luckily, 8:30 was here before we knew it (Thank God) so we packed up and headed out - tube socks and all. We arrived at the bar and were quickly thrown into the beginners Salsa lesson that had already begun. There were 5 other people in class not including my girlfriends who were late. Cha Cha. Let's begin.
For the next hour, we cha-cha'd, merengue'd and tango'd our butts off and for a brief moment, I was dancing with the stars...but flashbacks of tube socks and a mini-skirt threw me back into reality. My date was a good sport despite stepping on my toes more than I'd like to count. And while Stella may not have gotten her groove back, good times (and good laughs) were had by all.
___________________________________
(Week 27) Event: Played a round of golf
I mean how hard can it really be? Swing the club. Hit the ball. Ride in a little cart and drink beer. I mean, if you can drink BEER while playing this sport, can it really be that difficult?
Um, apparently so.
This week I went to visit my parents out of town and my dad took me to play my first round of golf. Ever. The problems began even before we hit the course, unfortunately. Since I hadn't planned on playing any sports while on vacation, the only clothes I brought were flip flops, capri's and t-shirts. When we decided this would be a fun father-daughter activity, I panicked, realizing I did not have the proper attire. An hour before our tee-time, I made a mad dash into Wal-Mart hoping Isaac Mizrahi had something cute in the shape of shorts or a skirt and a cute top. Oh, and tennis shoes. Luckily, I found the perfect combination and bought an entirely new outfit for $23.00. Gotta love it.
Dad and I arrived at the clubhouse, checked in, hopped on a cart and were on our way. For the record, I have hit golf balls before, just never played a round and have never had any formal training. This was going to be good. We stepped up to the tee and I received my first of many lessons: Keep your eye on the ball. Keep your head down. Keep your left arm straight. Swing the club as far around your body as possible. Don't drop your shoulder. Swing all the way through. Sheesh! So much to remember! I took my first swing and somehow managed to hit my own hand. Not sure how that happened. But, I got the ball in the hole 6 (ish) strokes later. Not too shabby for a par 4. On the second hole, I took a bigger swing and managed to hit the golf cart (which was behind me). I'm literally going backwards. My personal best, though, was the 3rd hole. The course was fairly straight with a slight jog to the left. It was a par 4 but I managed to get the little white piece of sh%&t ball in the hole in 15 strokes. Fore!
About half way through our game, a woman resembling Octomom meandered her way across the course, lollygagging with her boxer/pit-bull dog. Contemplating whether I should wait for her or not, I decided if I tried not to hit her, I would probably hit her, but if I did aim for her, I'd probably hit the dog and then I'd feel really bad. So I waited. Finally, she was out of site and we kept going. As we rounded the corner to the putting green, she was sitting on a bench next to her dog and she had made a bed of ice for her dog to lie in! As we drove by in our cart, she was feeding him ice while he was lounging in it. Clearly, someone else had hit her in the head....
We continued through the course and surprisingly I got better with each hole (I think it was my lucky Wal-Mart $10 sneakers). I learned that a wedge club has a "W" on it (not an "M") and a sand wedge has an "S" on it and you use it in the sand traps (did that twice - first time knocked the ball out with only removing about 4 grains of sand. Second time I whiffed and knocked out about a sandbox worth of sand).
At the end of 9 holes, my score was 60. We were losing daylight and I was just losing. Period. To think pro golfers sometimes score in the 60's playing 18 holes! Despite my horrific score, I did learn a thing or two. These may not be the technical terms, but it's how I interpreted them.
I learned:
-Birdie - An animal. Also a score you want because it's less than what you're supposed to get (I won't ever need to remember this one).
-Bogey - This is when you score 1 over what you're supposed to get (I had this plus about 5 on most holes)
-Caddie - similar to a pool boy, beer bitch, maid...but for clubs
-Slice - a ball that curves from left to right. Yeah, I meant to do that when I hit the golf cart. I was SLICING it.
Handicap - something I clearly have.
-Mulligan - When a golfer is not satisfied with their first shot, they take out a new ball and start again. I had 74 Mulligans.
I'm no Phil Nicklaus or Jack Mickelson but darnit there's just something about this game when all it takes is one great shot that makes you jump up and down (oops, not supposed to cheer) to make you want to sign up and do it again. I'm hooked FORE!ever!
I used to think I was a pretty good dancer. Well, a pretty funny dancer anyway. Regardless, I was always fairly certain I had rhythm and a few good moves. Unfortunately, I have been spending most of my adult life in a comatose state because last Thursday night I learned I posses none of these things.
There's a bar downtown that gives free Salsa lessons every Thursday night (for a $6 cover...go figure) so two of my girlfriends and I decided we would take the plunge. The plan was to meet for the 8:30 "beginner" lesson and take it from there. This will be a fun girl's night out where we can pretend to be Latin, dance like idiots and make fun of ourselves later. That was a fine plan until I got a call from the Indian Doctor (whom I met at the Speed Dating event) asking if I could get together Thursday night! Despite my attempt to set up something right after work, he had a conflict and couldn't meet until 7:30. I tried to explain to him I had something else going on and would need to be done by 8:30 (didn't want to reveal what I was doing) but he probed and probed until I gave in and told him. He then said, "That's cool - I'll join you!" Oh for the love.
Thursday night I arrived at the bar at 7:30 and was surprised to find the bar was no longer open for business. Shoot. Quickly trying to figure out a back-up plan, my date suggested we go around the corner to a bowling alley (which conveniently had a bar). Perfect! As I made my way towards the bar, I looked back and he had stopped at the front counter. He was like, "Where are you going? We're going to bowl!" Clearly he hadn't noticed I was wearing a skirt, heels and a silk blouse. But, we signed up for a lane and when the girl behind the counter asked me what shoe size I needed I was like, "Um, I'm wearing heels, you see? That means I'm NOT wearing socks which means I'm NOT putting on stinky, fungus infected BOWLING SHOES!" Ok, I didn't really say that to her, but I did say it in my head. $3.75 later, I was the proud owner of a new pair of tube socks. Neat.
Mortified, we make our way to the lane and I begin to sweat through my silk blouse thinking about everything I had to concentrate on: 1) Wearing tube socks with a skirt required me to overcompensate and flex my calf muscles extra hard so he would focus on them and NOT on the socks. Problem is, I don't really have any calf muscles. Shit! 2) I can't run down the lane like I usually do because I need to be a dainty lady so I must maintain a lady-like pace. This will negatively impact my score. Dang. 3) When I bend over and release the ball, I mustn't bend over too much because my skirt might lift up a little revealing my polka-dotted granny panties (they're the only ones that were clean!)
For the record, I am generally a good bowler, but I got gutters left and right because I was focusing on everything BUT bowling. After the second frame, my date turned to me and said, "You know, you look like a school girl in that outfit." Not sure if that was a good thing or if I should turn in my ball and head home, he then said, "But don't worry, it's a turn on!" There are no words.
Luckily, 8:30 was here before we knew it (Thank God) so we packed up and headed out - tube socks and all. We arrived at the bar and were quickly thrown into the beginners Salsa lesson that had already begun. There were 5 other people in class not including my girlfriends who were late. Cha Cha. Let's begin.
For the next hour, we cha-cha'd, merengue'd and tango'd our butts off and for a brief moment, I was dancing with the stars...but flashbacks of tube socks and a mini-skirt threw me back into reality. My date was a good sport despite stepping on my toes more than I'd like to count. And while Stella may not have gotten her groove back, good times (and good laughs) were had by all.
___________________________________
(Week 27) Event: Played a round of golf
I mean how hard can it really be? Swing the club. Hit the ball. Ride in a little cart and drink beer. I mean, if you can drink BEER while playing this sport, can it really be that difficult?
Um, apparently so.
This week I went to visit my parents out of town and my dad took me to play my first round of golf. Ever. The problems began even before we hit the course, unfortunately. Since I hadn't planned on playing any sports while on vacation, the only clothes I brought were flip flops, capri's and t-shirts. When we decided this would be a fun father-daughter activity, I panicked, realizing I did not have the proper attire. An hour before our tee-time, I made a mad dash into Wal-Mart hoping Isaac Mizrahi had something cute in the shape of shorts or a skirt and a cute top. Oh, and tennis shoes. Luckily, I found the perfect combination and bought an entirely new outfit for $23.00. Gotta love it.
Dad and I arrived at the clubhouse, checked in, hopped on a cart and were on our way. For the record, I have hit golf balls before, just never played a round and have never had any formal training. This was going to be good. We stepped up to the tee and I received my first of many lessons: Keep your eye on the ball. Keep your head down. Keep your left arm straight. Swing the club as far around your body as possible. Don't drop your shoulder. Swing all the way through. Sheesh! So much to remember! I took my first swing and somehow managed to hit my own hand. Not sure how that happened. But, I got the ball in the hole 6 (ish) strokes later. Not too shabby for a par 4. On the second hole, I took a bigger swing and managed to hit the golf cart (which was behind me). I'm literally going backwards. My personal best, though, was the 3rd hole. The course was fairly straight with a slight jog to the left. It was a par 4 but I managed to get the little white piece of sh%&t ball in the hole in 15 strokes. Fore!
About half way through our game, a woman resembling Octomom meandered her way across the course, lollygagging with her boxer/pit-bull dog. Contemplating whether I should wait for her or not, I decided if I tried not to hit her, I would probably hit her, but if I did aim for her, I'd probably hit the dog and then I'd feel really bad. So I waited. Finally, she was out of site and we kept going. As we rounded the corner to the putting green, she was sitting on a bench next to her dog and she had made a bed of ice for her dog to lie in! As we drove by in our cart, she was feeding him ice while he was lounging in it. Clearly, someone else had hit her in the head....
We continued through the course and surprisingly I got better with each hole (I think it was my lucky Wal-Mart $10 sneakers). I learned that a wedge club has a "W" on it (not an "M") and a sand wedge has an "S" on it and you use it in the sand traps (did that twice - first time knocked the ball out with only removing about 4 grains of sand. Second time I whiffed and knocked out about a sandbox worth of sand).
At the end of 9 holes, my score was 60. We were losing daylight and I was just losing. Period. To think pro golfers sometimes score in the 60's playing 18 holes! Despite my horrific score, I did learn a thing or two. These may not be the technical terms, but it's how I interpreted them.
I learned:
-Birdie - An animal. Also a score you want because it's less than what you're supposed to get (I won't ever need to remember this one).
-Bogey - This is when you score 1 over what you're supposed to get (I had this plus about 5 on most holes)
-Caddie - similar to a pool boy, beer bitch, maid...but for clubs
-Slice - a ball that curves from left to right. Yeah, I meant to do that when I hit the golf cart. I was SLICING it.
Handicap - something I clearly have.
-Mulligan - When a golfer is not satisfied with their first shot, they take out a new ball and start again. I had 74 Mulligans.
I'm no Phil Nicklaus or Jack Mickelson but darnit there's just something about this game when all it takes is one great shot that makes you jump up and down (oops, not supposed to cheer) to make you want to sign up and do it again. I'm hooked FORE!ever!
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Week Twenty-Five
Event: Speed dating
If you saw the movie Hitch, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. Picture a small, intimate bar. Small room. Small tables. And 22 men and women hoping not to be seen by friends, co-workers or Heaven for bid - exes. Welcome to Speed Dating.
A few weeks ago I reluctantly did a yahoo search for Speed Dating. A couple of sites came up so I clicked on the first one. It seemed normal. All of the men and women in the pictures were good looking and they looked like they were having a good time. So after doing a little bit of research (i.e. calling the main number and asking the person on the other end to promise me the men would be normal, nice, good looking, have all their teeth, etc.) I signed up. I also successfully talked one of my single friends into going with me. This will be fun.
We arrived at the bar 15 minutes before the event kicked off. We met in the parking lot, gave each other a pep talk, discussed some sample questions we'd ask (wanting to make sure nothing was too corny or inappropriate) and we headed in. As I opened the door to the bar, much to our horror sitting at the first table were two of our co-workers. Oh %!$#(*)$#@! great!
We entered into the semi-private room - closed off to the public for this special event - and were given a name tag and a score card. We were told there would be 12 guys, 12 girls, and each "date" would last 7 minutes. As I surveyed the room I saw 12 girls (all on time, of course) and only 3 guys. I'm pretty sure the remaining guys were shot-gunning beers in the parking lot. (Something I should have considered). The women were all very normal and pretty, but the guys...well, they needed a little work.
Before I could get my nametag on, a 5 foot nothing guy runs over and says, "Where should I put my nametag? I don't want to put it on my chest because then everyone will be looking at my chest and I'll be looking at all of your chests." Oh Lord. Here we go. He then exclaims he has an idea and we should all introduce ourselves using a word that either rhymes with our first name or an adjective that describes us using the same letter as the first letter of our first name. He then looked at me, and without pause, I blurted out, "Awesome Ashley!" (OMG is this happening?) The small group goes around and does the same painful exercise but thankfully the fun is broken up by a loud clang. I look over and I don't see a bell. I don't see a whistle. Instead, I see a GONG! A full-out Chinese gong. Nothing about this experience so far is normal.
As I made my way to table #7, I again survey the room, much more full now, and I'm relieved to see the guys have arrived. But, to my disappointment, I felt like I was at a Star Wars convention! Embracing my inner-nerd, I joyfully plopped down with my martini and began my first conversation. He tells me he is the son of a solar nuclear researcher and he found that studies show when women have to move table to table at speed dating, they become more aggressive and tend to select more guys. WTF? Am I in the twilight zone? More and more conversations went that way. One guy has a season pass to riding roller coasters, one guy told me he has been tested for genital herpes, and one guy is into gaming and recently took a trip to Switzerland to play games. Am I on Candid Camera?
Who knew seven minutes could feel like an hour and a half. Not to mention, the air conditioning wasn't working in our part of the bar. I was sweating so bad I couldn't keep my legs crossed, my Spanx became a permanent addition to my thighs and despite fanning my face with a table tent (trying to keep the "glow" at a minimum) I'm fairly certain at one point I resembled Tammy Faye Baker.
But wait, there's hope! The second to the last guy I talked to was actually promising. He's a doctor, my age, is cute and is from India. As the event wrapped and we were turning in our score cards, he walked up and asked me for my number and said he'd like to go out. I heard from him yesterday and we may be getting together this week.
You heard it here first. It may be a fairytale ending for the future Princess Leia and Han Solo.
(I probably shouldn't have told him I don't like curry...)
If you saw the movie Hitch, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. Picture a small, intimate bar. Small room. Small tables. And 22 men and women hoping not to be seen by friends, co-workers or Heaven for bid - exes. Welcome to Speed Dating.
A few weeks ago I reluctantly did a yahoo search for Speed Dating. A couple of sites came up so I clicked on the first one. It seemed normal. All of the men and women in the pictures were good looking and they looked like they were having a good time. So after doing a little bit of research (i.e. calling the main number and asking the person on the other end to promise me the men would be normal, nice, good looking, have all their teeth, etc.) I signed up. I also successfully talked one of my single friends into going with me. This will be fun.
We arrived at the bar 15 minutes before the event kicked off. We met in the parking lot, gave each other a pep talk, discussed some sample questions we'd ask (wanting to make sure nothing was too corny or inappropriate) and we headed in. As I opened the door to the bar, much to our horror sitting at the first table were two of our co-workers. Oh %!$#(*)$#@! great!
We entered into the semi-private room - closed off to the public for this special event - and were given a name tag and a score card. We were told there would be 12 guys, 12 girls, and each "date" would last 7 minutes. As I surveyed the room I saw 12 girls (all on time, of course) and only 3 guys. I'm pretty sure the remaining guys were shot-gunning beers in the parking lot. (Something I should have considered). The women were all very normal and pretty, but the guys...well, they needed a little work.
Before I could get my nametag on, a 5 foot nothing guy runs over and says, "Where should I put my nametag? I don't want to put it on my chest because then everyone will be looking at my chest and I'll be looking at all of your chests." Oh Lord. Here we go. He then exclaims he has an idea and we should all introduce ourselves using a word that either rhymes with our first name or an adjective that describes us using the same letter as the first letter of our first name. He then looked at me, and without pause, I blurted out, "Awesome Ashley!" (OMG is this happening?) The small group goes around and does the same painful exercise but thankfully the fun is broken up by a loud clang. I look over and I don't see a bell. I don't see a whistle. Instead, I see a GONG! A full-out Chinese gong. Nothing about this experience so far is normal.
As I made my way to table #7, I again survey the room, much more full now, and I'm relieved to see the guys have arrived. But, to my disappointment, I felt like I was at a Star Wars convention! Embracing my inner-nerd, I joyfully plopped down with my martini and began my first conversation. He tells me he is the son of a solar nuclear researcher and he found that studies show when women have to move table to table at speed dating, they become more aggressive and tend to select more guys. WTF? Am I in the twilight zone? More and more conversations went that way. One guy has a season pass to riding roller coasters, one guy told me he has been tested for genital herpes, and one guy is into gaming and recently took a trip to Switzerland to play games. Am I on Candid Camera?
Who knew seven minutes could feel like an hour and a half. Not to mention, the air conditioning wasn't working in our part of the bar. I was sweating so bad I couldn't keep my legs crossed, my Spanx became a permanent addition to my thighs and despite fanning my face with a table tent (trying to keep the "glow" at a minimum) I'm fairly certain at one point I resembled Tammy Faye Baker.
But wait, there's hope! The second to the last guy I talked to was actually promising. He's a doctor, my age, is cute and is from India. As the event wrapped and we were turning in our score cards, he walked up and asked me for my number and said he'd like to go out. I heard from him yesterday and we may be getting together this week.
You heard it here first. It may be a fairytale ending for the future Princess Leia and Han Solo.
(I probably shouldn't have told him I don't like curry...)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Week Twenty-Four
Event: Attended continuing education class for singles
A few weeks ago (Week Seventeen) I signed up for three continuing ed classes at the local community college. This week I took the class entitled "What's happening around town for singles". Deep down I hoped that this class would be filled with single firefighters, but my gut told me to prepare for a room full of lonely women doing the exact same thing I was: Grasping at straws to find some way to meet Mr. Right. Unfortunately, my gut was right. As I walked up to the church (yes, the class was held in a church - should've been my first sign) I took a deep breath, put on my lip gloss and forged ahead. Walking down the hallway towards the classroom, my heels kept me from making a quiet and discrete entrance, so instead I got the entire class's attention as I arrived. Grabbing the closest chair to the door, I surveyed the room - all women and 1 guy. Lucky for me, the 1 guy was sitting in the chair next to mine.
The instructor came in wearing Lee Jeans and a plaid shirt neatly tucked in that complimented his stark white tennis shoes. His white hair and wedding ring gave me pause. THIS GUY is going to tell me what's happening around town for singles? Houston, we have a problem. To add insult to injury he introduced himself and told us he was a minister - at that moment I played out multiple scenarios in my head, one of them being me jumping up on the table stomping my feet like a 3 year old screaming "I want my money back!" Instead, I played along.
The first thing we did was take a quiz. Did you know:
-45% of Americans above the age of 21 are single? (Where the hell are they)
-More people become single every day (divorce rate is rising - sorry, but where the hell are they)
-Married people are healthier than single people (Neat)
-Becoming single is the most traumatic/stressful event in one's life (either caused by divorce, death of a spouse, separation or jail).
In a nutshell, according to the married minister, being single is the worst possible thing in the entire world. And I paid money for this?
For the next two hours, the instructor, walked us through a 32 page booklet entitled "Guide to Singles Groups Around Town" where I learned about groups like "Parents without Partners", "Kosmopolitans" (45 and up only...darn) and "Talking Singles" where the purpose is: "Socializing, Friendship, a featured Speaker every night and activities that include games, dining out, concerts, day trips, dances and potlucks."
OH. MY. GOD. Kill me now.
We walked through the next 20 pages of the book one by one, learning about every church singles group in town. For each singles group listed, they would highlight the age group, purpose of the group, location, address and total membership. For example, Lord of Life Lutheran Church, ages 30-50, has bible studies, dinners and volunteer activities, membership: 8. Seriously? Eight members in your singles group? Stop the presses, I know what I'm doing Saturday night. And not once but twice we turned the page to a church group and the instructor said, "Sorry, cross that one out, the singles leader died." WTF? Are you serious? I was in the damn twilight zone.
And if this train wreck wasn't bad enough, Preacher Paul started handing out flyers featuring other things to do for singles. Like joining a Square Dancing Group called "Kountry Knights and Ladies". Or taking a trip for "9 Exciting and Educational days in London" - for married's or singles. I about laughed out loud (or cried) when I read the back page of the pamphlet. It read, "Prices are based on double occupancy. If you request a single room, there will be an additional charge of $425." AND THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING!
And finally, the last flyer he gave us put the nail in the coffin for me. Across the top in big bold letters it read, "Singles Dance Event at the Marriot - June 2010 - Ladies 1/2 price". But underneath this big, screaming headline all about singles it read, "Married couples welcome". Oh come on!
The next morning as I was checking my email, I saw I had an email from the instructor. Would you believe the one guy in the class emailed him and asked him to give me his number! So the Minister is playing match maker giving me the phone number of the one guy in the class! Too bad he wasn't my type, but seriously, what are the chances.
Lip gloss - $16
New skirt - $38
Singles class - $13
Having a Minister play match maker - priceless
A few weeks ago (Week Seventeen) I signed up for three continuing ed classes at the local community college. This week I took the class entitled "What's happening around town for singles". Deep down I hoped that this class would be filled with single firefighters, but my gut told me to prepare for a room full of lonely women doing the exact same thing I was: Grasping at straws to find some way to meet Mr. Right. Unfortunately, my gut was right. As I walked up to the church (yes, the class was held in a church - should've been my first sign) I took a deep breath, put on my lip gloss and forged ahead. Walking down the hallway towards the classroom, my heels kept me from making a quiet and discrete entrance, so instead I got the entire class's attention as I arrived. Grabbing the closest chair to the door, I surveyed the room - all women and 1 guy. Lucky for me, the 1 guy was sitting in the chair next to mine.
The instructor came in wearing Lee Jeans and a plaid shirt neatly tucked in that complimented his stark white tennis shoes. His white hair and wedding ring gave me pause. THIS GUY is going to tell me what's happening around town for singles? Houston, we have a problem. To add insult to injury he introduced himself and told us he was a minister - at that moment I played out multiple scenarios in my head, one of them being me jumping up on the table stomping my feet like a 3 year old screaming "I want my money back!" Instead, I played along.
The first thing we did was take a quiz. Did you know:
-45% of Americans above the age of 21 are single? (Where the hell are they)
-More people become single every day (divorce rate is rising - sorry, but where the hell are they)
-Married people are healthier than single people (Neat)
-Becoming single is the most traumatic/stressful event in one's life (either caused by divorce, death of a spouse, separation or jail).
In a nutshell, according to the married minister, being single is the worst possible thing in the entire world. And I paid money for this?
For the next two hours, the instructor, walked us through a 32 page booklet entitled "Guide to Singles Groups Around Town" where I learned about groups like "Parents without Partners", "Kosmopolitans" (45 and up only...darn) and "Talking Singles" where the purpose is: "Socializing, Friendship, a featured Speaker every night and activities that include games, dining out, concerts, day trips, dances and potlucks."
OH. MY. GOD. Kill me now.
We walked through the next 20 pages of the book one by one, learning about every church singles group in town. For each singles group listed, they would highlight the age group, purpose of the group, location, address and total membership. For example, Lord of Life Lutheran Church, ages 30-50, has bible studies, dinners and volunteer activities, membership: 8. Seriously? Eight members in your singles group? Stop the presses, I know what I'm doing Saturday night. And not once but twice we turned the page to a church group and the instructor said, "Sorry, cross that one out, the singles leader died." WTF? Are you serious? I was in the damn twilight zone.
And if this train wreck wasn't bad enough, Preacher Paul started handing out flyers featuring other things to do for singles. Like joining a Square Dancing Group called "Kountry Knights and Ladies". Or taking a trip for "9 Exciting and Educational days in London" - for married's or singles. I about laughed out loud (or cried) when I read the back page of the pamphlet. It read, "Prices are based on double occupancy. If you request a single room, there will be an additional charge of $425." AND THE HITS JUST KEEP ON COMING!
And finally, the last flyer he gave us put the nail in the coffin for me. Across the top in big bold letters it read, "Singles Dance Event at the Marriot - June 2010 - Ladies 1/2 price". But underneath this big, screaming headline all about singles it read, "Married couples welcome". Oh come on!
The next morning as I was checking my email, I saw I had an email from the instructor. Would you believe the one guy in the class emailed him and asked him to give me his number! So the Minister is playing match maker giving me the phone number of the one guy in the class! Too bad he wasn't my type, but seriously, what are the chances.
Lip gloss - $16
New skirt - $38
Singles class - $13
Having a Minister play match maker - priceless
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