Stripper Lodge

           Eric woke up this morning, and told me about a dream he had.  It was pretty strange, and fairly entertaining, so I thought I would share the account from his perspective...

        We went on vacation to Vancouver [B.C.], and you were going to work out, so I left the hotel and drove to the beach.  I was sitting on the beach with Kittles, when all of the sudden, I couldn't find her.  I panicked and started running back to the hotel in nothing but my swim trunks.

        Well, the only weird part so far is that he brought Lola to the beach without a leash.

        I got to the hotel and I realized that I had just left the car, and my backpack with my wallet and everything in it on the beach.  I tried to ask the concierge for help but he just told me, "Sir, you really need to put a shirt and shoes on here."  

        A reasonable request...

        I pleaded with him, "You gotta help me out.  I left all my stuff on the beach, and I can't find my cat.  I just need to get into my room so I can call my wife."  "I will need to see some I.D. before I can let you into one of our rooms," the concierge insisted.  A crowd began to gather, when, suddenly, some white trash strippers happened into the lobby.

        I know what you're thinking- don't worry, this doesn't get gross-  unless you are offended by accidental wildlife homicide.

        "Ya'll should come up to our lodge," the head stripper announced, "It's not a tawdry strip club.  It's more like a lodge.  Our Stripper Lodge is family friendly."  

        Eric was still trying to convince the concierge to let him into our room...

        "You can't get into your room," the concierge announced, "I'm closing the hotel- we're all going to Stripper Lodge!"  The lobby crowd cheered, and began to pile onto a bus headed for said destination.  I told them, "I need to find my cat and my wife.  I can't go to the lodge-"

        Okay, I am quite certain he added this in for my benefit only.  Like he would really need convincing to get on a bus headed for Stripper Lodge? Come on. 

        I ended up on the bus-

        Told you.

        -and I realized that Kitty was sitting next to me.  She was there the whole time!  Then one of the strippers noticed I was only wearing my swim trunks, so she gave me a pink t- shirt that said "Stripper Lodge" across the chest.  It was really tight.

        Obvi.

        On the way to the lodge we hit two deer- the stripper driving the bus was CRAZY."  

        She would have to be.

        We arrived at our destination, and Kitty and I were hanging out when I found someone to drive us back to the beach.  All my stuff was still right where I left it!

        That's the beauty of Canada- no one steals your shit or breaks into your car.  (*Ahem* LAKEWOOD!)

Rude.

        That's when my phone started ringing, and it was you, "Where have you been?! What the French toast* is going on?! Where is Lola? I've left you like eight messages!"  "I'm sorry," I tried to explain, "I left all my stuff on the beach, and I didn't have my phone.  I'll be back to the hotel in fifteen minutes- why were you working out for so long?"


*edited for my PG-13 reader(s)

        I think this dream is amazing for so many reasons.  First of all, if there were to be a, family friendly Stripper Lodge, would it not be in Canada?  It would, and you all know it.   I really like that this dream has a complete story line including a plot, conflict, and resolution.  Mainly, though,  I love that Eric was primarily wearing nothing but swim trunks, running, panic stricken through the streets of Vancouver while looking for a facially challenged Persian cat.

I was just waiting for you on the bus- duh!

        There's just one thing that worries me.  Does this mean all I do is work out and yell?  No wonder Eric ran off with Kittles and hopped the first bus he could find to Stripper Lodge.

Failed again

        My cat is snoring.  I didn't know cats could snore.  It's incredibly cute- if you like that sort of thing.

Which I do- obvi

         I did a bunch of errands today, and in turn, ran into those people who try to strike up conversations with you about whatever their cause du jour is.  I feel like they've really gotten good at making the passerby who doesn't stop look like a total jerk.  They used to say things like, "Hi, do you have a moment?" Easy to dodge that one- "Why no, kind sir, I do not have a moment."  Now they have subtly changed their tactics; they're making it personal.  For instance, this afternoon, one of those dudes said the following to me:

        "Do you have a minute to stop corporations from buying elections?"

        Well sheesh.  That's kind of a loaded question.  The truth is, in that moment, I just wanted to get my disgusting self, along with my groceries home. I wanted to ask him if he has a minute to look for a real job because I doubt soliciting signatures for some hippie dippy organization has a 401k plan, and he is definitely old enough to need one of those to pan out for him in the near future.  That would take to much breath and time, so of course, I just said, "No thanks."  

        Aren't I just a perfect jack wagon?  "No I do not have time to stop corporations from buying elections,"  kiiiiind of makes me sound like a horrible person.  There are worse inquiries, though.  Sometimes the question is more like, "Hi do you have a minute to help kids in Africa get clean drinking water?"  Mmmmm, I would, but I really gotta get to Pilates.  Which I do not say, but give the cursory, "No thank you."  Might as well just say, "No I don't- see ya in hell!"  Except, that person who is trying to give kids clean drinking water probably isn't going to be there, so that wouldn't really make sense. *sigh*

        Once I rescued a cat (who by the way, has turned out to be a little "special needs.")  Sometimes I do other stuff that helps people, too.

        We all have our causes, and the beauty is, they are shaped by our individual life experiences.  While I do care about a corporations not controlling elections, and clean drinking water for all, I can't fix everything.  Nobody can.  I just help in the ways that I can, as much as I can during each stage of my life.  Someday, I might need a little help myself, and a bit of good karma never hurt anyone.


       

       

Happy Valentine's Day, Fools.

         I wish I could say I have never been in one of these... but that would be a lie.  Did I ride around like a fool in  a stretch Hummer last Saturday night?  Absolutely, I did.  To my credit, it was not my idea.  We were in Portland for one of Eric's friend's 40th birthday party.   Good news: the night started out at a Lebanese restaurant called Al-Amir.  Ever had a Lebanese margarita?  I never even knew they existed until Saturday night, and now I have had 2.5 in my life time.  (Why so few, right?  I had a bit of an incident on Thursday night with Sangria sneaking up and biting me in the ass on Friday morning...)

        The other good - nay, excellent- piece of news about this whole gathering was the restaurant had a BELLY DANCER, which I know about.

Don't be confused by our similar body types- I'm the one on the right

        After dinner it was back to the Hummer, with our driver, Wayde.  I wasn't nearly drunk enough to ignore the nagging thought, "I bet there are a lot of dried liquids of unknown origin crusted on to these pleather seats."  And I didn't bring any Purell (rookie mistake.)  Ratsicles.

        The final destination (for most of the group) was a horrible place called Dixie's.  It wasn't so much the $10 cover that I hated.  It wasn't even the electric blue glowing bar ware the drinks were served in that made it suck.  It was more along the lines of the average age of the crowd being 23 years old that made me wish I was never born.  Well, that, combined with the fact that those kids looked about 17 years old, only confirmed the recurring greatest "going out" fear I have.  Last time I went to the Red Door here in Seattle, my friend Carly looked at our group, and then scanned the rest of the room.  "We're like the frickin' Golden Girls in here, Nik." 

       

Would the Golden Girls do this?

      There, I said it.  I'm afraid of being perceived as Betty White when I go to the bar.

This is what the kids at Dixie's saw when we stepped out of the limo

        Now, I like watching girls with daddy issues dance on the bar as much as the next guy, but when it started sounding like something I should try, I knew I had to get out of there.

        As many of you probably already guessed, I made Eric take me to get food.  And siiiiince we were hanging with old people who haven't been out in Portland at 1 am for approximately fifteen years, no one had any idea where to get food at that hour.  This was perfect because I already knew what I wanted.  Spicy mac and cheese from my favorite- Le Bistro Montage - obvi.

         If there is one thing to be learned from a birthday night on the town which included, but was not limited to being carted around in a stretch Hummer with a bunch of old frat guys to bars in which the clientele looked suspiciously like the cast of Jersey Shore, it is this:

        I win.*

Suck it, Jersey Shore.

        *I win for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is avoiding going out to bars for "fun" to try and meet a man- that would be way too exhausting.  Smarter not harder, people.

     

     
     

A Banana Omen

        I got out of my friend's car for our after work run around Lake Union, and nearly killed myself by slipping on a banana peel.  Seriously?  I thought that only happened in cartoons.

O'Doyle, I gotta feeling your whole family's going down

        It looked like a full moon tonight, so I started thinking this was a really bad banana omen.  (The true full moon is tomorrow night- I checked the lunar calendar- consider yourselves warned.)  I will admit, it was a strange run, nonetheless.  Normally, I am the one wheezing along, ready to shank anyone lurking in the foliage (I take no exception to killer rats.) Yet, my running buddy trots along oblivious, and light as a feather.  Tonight, I felt pretty good, and did not notice the two "hicks" who looked at us "weird."  It was probably the one run in an eon that said running buddy was
     
        a) not completely and utterly kicking my ass all the way around the lake, and
        b) noticing more killers than Yours Truly.

        Come on, we all know I am an expert at spotting a secret killer.

        We had planned to walk the second half of the lake, but since Katie's radar went up when she saw those fools, and I left my best shank at home, we had to haul balls for another two miles just to be safe.  I would be lying if I told you we weren't looking over our shoulders a little bit after that...literally.  No joke- we looked ridiculous.  Then Katie started telling me some legit scary stories about solo runs at night.  I would never run by myself at night because I have always been a huge freak.  Now, I also turn other people into equally huge freaks by propagating my Sherlock Holmes - like paranoia.

genius

        I had a friend point something out to me over the weekend,  "If you look around a room, and have to wonder who the freak is... you're the freak."  It's weird, I kept looking over my shoulder on this run, wondering where those killer freaks were, but I couldn't see any one behind me.

       

Who is this freak?

  

Don't pressure us, Anxiety.

         I have to tell you something.  I know there hasn't been a post for two weeks, and this is kind of over due.  I was no fun last Monday, so I didn't really think posting would be a good idea.  I thought it would be better to wait for inspiration.  So, yeah... I flew to work again today.  I'm pretty sure I almost died.

This was my most "dead" picture

        First of all, I had to get up at 0530 this morning, so I was almost technically dead when I walked out to my town car.  (That's right- town car, jokers.)  Second of all, when you fly in a tiny plane, there is almost always turbulence, and that makes me feel like I am about to be dead.  (See above picture.)  

        So, yeah... remember that time I thought I was cool because I flew to work?  I'm over it.  I have it on good authority that there is a legit prescription for flying that keeps one from becoming a born again Christian every time the plane hits a weird air pocket.  I even have a friend who has the perfect calculation for her "happy pill : glass of wine" ratio.  Still, we all know it's not cool to pop a Xanax before work, and when we hit turbulence this morning,  I was stone cold sober.  My stomach did that roller coaster drop thing, and I knew it was the end.  At that moment, my iPod blasted an Angels and Airwaves song, "Don't pressure us, Anxiety-  I'm a passenger.  So dangerous, Anxiety- just a passenger."  I felt like I was about to be a made for TV movie on Lifetime with a way skinnier person playing me.

Belly up

        I don't think I saw my life flash before my eyes, but I had two strong thoughts racing through the old noodle.  Dear God, I'm sorry for everything!  and I didn't kiss Eric before I left this morning.  (Truth  be told, I spent the 0400 -0500 hour kicking and punching poor Eric in his sleep because he was snoring me awake! Oops.) With the wind tossing our toy plane around like a rag doll, it took all of my will power not to give the grandpa next to me a death clutch around the ulna and radius region. (Don't be gross! They're arm bones, you pervs.) 

Right?

        I wasn't worried about God so much, as I was that I hadn't kissed Eric.  You can call me sacrilegious.  Call me a heathen.  But guess what, if God is out there, I am certain he or she would hear me.  And if he or she is a God worth believing in, then I know I would have found love and forgiveness should this have been my last morning on Earth.  Call me lame.  Call me a drama queen, but I would never be able to kiss Eric again if that freakin' plane crashed.  Can't live with that one.

       Hey fools, don't forget to kiss your favorite person(s) before you go to sleep tonight and before you leave the house tomorrow morning.   Obvi.

My two faves

     

        

Oh Baby

        About seven and a half years ago, I went to a friend's wedding.  As you might have already guessed, I was quite a bit younger back then- obvi.

Crimped my hair...sorry 'bout it.

        The day after the wedding, we went to have brunch and watch the happy couple open their presents.  I remember one of the gifts they received was a casserole dish, and the bride, Malora, seemed weirdly thrilled by this.  I sat there thinking, "Kill me if I ever get excited about a casserole dish.  When I get married, I'm asking for a new snowboard."  Actually, I think I might have said it out loud to our friend, Carly, and offended people.  I do that a lot by accident when I think I'm just saying things in my mind.  To my credit, I was only 23 years old.  Why wouldn't I want a snowboard?

       Last Saturday, I went to a baby shower for a friend.  It was a really nice event, considering I hate babies.  Just kidding, I really don't hate babies at all.  I work with them.  Sometimes I hold them.  Overall,  I would say I like them as a people group.  I just don't want one of my own.  Considering the shower goers were comprised of a minimum of three preggos, women who have already had at least one kid, and those who are planning on having kids, I felt like a giant alien face (which is funny, because, let's be honest all babies look like alien faces.)  If not an alien, I am pretty sure this makes me a horrible person.   

I do hold babies.  (I love this baby, PS.)

        I felt like a robot who hadn't been programmed to adore cute miniature baby booties or Onesies with silly expressions on them.  (Although, I did give Shandra a pretty hilarious Onesie with a blue ribbon on it that said, "Best in Show.") I leaned over to my friend Carly - yes, the same Carly from two paragraphs ago- and muttered, "Kill me if I ever get excited about a diaper bag."

         It makes me feel like there is something seriously wrong with me.  I wish I wanted a baby so that I could feel like a normal human.  Then again, I've been completely abnormal for thirty years, why start now?

Nachos on my face?  Maybe.

        I really don't believe I'm a horrible person, (no comments please) but I am a selfish person.  I'm totally set in my ways.  I go to Pilates twice a week.  I run at least three times a week.  I go to yoga on Sundays.  I get my nails done, my hair done, and my eyebrows waxed. Not to mention, Eric and I like living downtown, and we go to about 40 baseball games per season- none of this is conducive to having a miniature, helpless person tagging along.  But never mind these luxuries! Do you know what every new mother I know has told me at one point or another?  "I don't have time to shower any more."  You don't have time to- what the...?  Um, I kind of like showering, people.  Is that so wrong?!

        

        I know I sound like I'm whining, but it's good for me to feel like an alien robot sometimes.  It's a gift to be able to empathize.  Never felt like a heartless alien robot invading a baby shower?  Oh, no?  Well, ever felt like a freak for some reason or another?  We've all been there.  There's hope for all of us freaks, though, you know.  Seven years after I scoffed at my friends' cookware, I got married, myself.  Also, I got this really amazing  oval 6.75 quart cast iron french oven that  I just love.

Weirdly thrilling, no?

     

Pretentious work out gear, obviously.

        It should come as no surprise that I love to shorten words.  Perf, obvi, and totes (ie: totally- obvi) are a part of my daily repertoire.   However, it might be slightly confusing to see the perfectly long word "obvious" in the title of this blog entry.  Since when do I ever say the full word, "obviously"?  Well, you're about to find out, but first I have to digress for a second.

Sensei wisdom- go!

        The new year started out rad because I secretly ordered an obscene amount of unnecessary athletic clothing from the store a friend likens to "crack for women," Lululemon.  

If you don't know what this means, we aren't going to dignify your foolery by spelling it out on our store front for you

        I am fully aware that this store is full of pretentious, ridiculously over priced work out gear.  Eric calls it the "hundred dollar store" (as opposed to the dollar store.)  It sucks me in every time.  I compulsively check the "we made to much"  section of the store's website to see if the pair of running pants I am most recently obsessed with has been marked down below, well... one hundred dollars. (And, yes, they are that ostentatious.  Lululemon does not go on sale.  Sometimes they just make too much.  You're welcome, Universe.)  Confession: I bought sweatpants at this store.  And a hooded sweatshirt.  And running pants.  And a paper thin yoga cover up that has sleeves with thumb holes.  Don't judge me.  The hoodie has sparkles in it- what was I supposed to do?

Looks better on me- duh

       Bad news: I got busted by Eric.  Now, in his defense, he would never come out and tell me not to buy something.  He's far to clever for that.  He did, however, give me the look.  You know, the we're trying to save a down-payment for a house, and you're seriously going to spend - HOW MUCH- on *ahem* another pair of sweatpants.  So, as you can imagine, what came out of my mouth on the way to the cash register was a last ditch attempt to leave the store with merchandise in tow, and a minimal guilt trip.  "I won't buy any more clothes for the next three months!"  The words weren't all the way out of my mouth before I felt the blood drain from my face.  I felt dizzy- faint, even.  I tried to think fast.  How could I cover it up?  "I meant three weeks?  No wait!  I said three days." It was too late.  He heard exactly what I said, and before I could regain my composure...we pinky swore on it.  JUSTIN BEIBER.

         Ever since that horrific moment, random crap has been going wrong.  I forgot I was carrying a water bottle that was open and poured it all over my purse.   I lost my parking ticket and nearly had to pay for a whole day of parking down town.  I burned myself on the oven.  I got a paper cut from the cardboard holding the sanitary toilet seat covers.  I snagged my Lulu yoga cover up on the Velcro on my reusable shopping bag.  Well, that's what I get for trying to save the earth.  

        This brings me to my next point.  You should all be fairly well versed in the proper use of terms such as  "Ratsicles,"  and "Obvi,"  but when to go full on "obviously?"  Well, seeing as how I have stupid misfortunes that I bring upon myself on a daily basis, I can't very well swear every time they happen.  Well, I could, but people would think I have Tourette's.  So, instead of cussing when I poured water into my purse, I just sighed and said, "Obviously."  It's sort of like saying, "why wouldn't I have just done that?"  I would.  I'm me.  Obviously.

        Coffee poured on my shirt before I get to work? Obviously.

        Cat peed on the futon?  Obviously.

        Accidentally pinky swore off retail therapy for three months?  Obviously.

         Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do some laundry so I have clean fancy pants for the week, as I clearly can't buy any new ones before April.  Obviously.

There is no wind in my sales. (pun intended)