The fashion show

There is one night a year where I really just let myself go. I sit, eat, and wallow in my own self destruction in regards to the genes I was never given.  I usually am really accepting of my looks, and know that no one in the world is perfect.
 
Except for that one night, when obviously I realize, that there are, to my dismay, displays of utter perfection.
 
Last night….. was the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.  
 
First off, watching it when I was single was much more enjoyable. I would be able to sit on my couch, glass of wine in hand, other hand in a bowl of peanut M&Ms. Then, during commercials, stand up, on tip toes of course, and look sideways in my full length mirror. Then facing front wards. Then facing backwards, fully extending my neck so that I could get the full picture of my backside that is no way comparable to Adriana Lima’s
 
Last night was different. I had to watch the fashion show with Bobby. Obviously he didn’t protest. He even suggested we tape it and start watching it 30 minutes late so that we could fast forward the commercials. Typical man… can’t wait until the half-naked ladies come back.
 
As soon as it came on, I knew that it would be a problem watching it together. It started and literally, you could tell that Bobby was salivating, like a fresh porter house steak was in front of him.
 
“She’s hot”
 
“She’s from St. Louis”
 
“She’s got nice legs”
 
“Damn”
 
“That sucks! They blurred out her backside!”
 
This was going to be a long hour. Well, technically 45 minutes without the commercials.
 
At one point, Miranda Kerr was walking in the $2.5 million dollar bra and her husband stood up, giving her a standing ovation! Not once, have I walked in the door after dealing with hundreds of sick, angry people and gotten a standing ovation.
 
When I come home, the only expression I get are looks that say “What are we having for dinner?”
 
Even during the Pink portion of the fashion show where they are wearing HOODIES, he was in complete awe. I wear a hoodie every day after work and Bobby usually only notices it if there happens to be some kind of salsa stain on it.
After it was over, I was in our room, doing my usual ritual. Standing, twirling, critiquing, and completely regretting the Monterey Jack cream cheese dip I had an hour before.  
 
I knew Bobby was coming in, as I could feel the earthquake of the thundering herd that is Barley, our lab.
 
“Alright, this is your one shot; give me your best model walk”
 
Even though I was in baggy pajamas, and didn’t have time to grab my six inch heels, I tried my best, even using my arms as wings, for emphasis.
 
“Where are you flying to?”
 
“Shut up, this is what they do. You can give me my standing ovation now”
 
 
Today is the morning after.
 
I woke up the same 5’6”, brown eyed, big eared, socially awkward girl that I was last night. I can’t wear pink, it’s not really in my color wheel and I don’t like push up bras because I think that they make everyone, including myself, chunkier than they actually are.  
 
I woke up next to Bob, (and Barles, of course) who I know, that despite the one night of the year when he is treated to truly amazing feat of impeccable genes, the other 364 days of the year, he appreciates and loves me for who I am.
 
I think, and I hope, most men are like Bob. He loves that I can put back a few Rolling Rock fatty’s, eat hot wings and bask in my 122-125 pound (depending on the day, and if Chipotle was involved ) glory. Try having Chanel or Bhavinaila or whatever their names are over for happy hour. Enjoy your organic celery and cleansing enemas. I’ll take the extra 15 pounds, and one night of hating my body, for the other 364 days of pure, wonderful and gluttonous life. I’m glad I can share those days with a guy who really doesn’t give a damn that the only six pack I have on a regular basis, is that of Boulevard Wheat beer.
 
 
 
 

Lobster tail toasts and Honda CRVs

“GAMETIME OH YEAH” “TAILGATE OH YEAH”
 
“I BELIEVE THAT WE CAN WIN. I BELIEVE THAT WE CAN WIN”
 
“GAMETIME OH YEAH” “TAILGATE TIME OH YEAH”
 
Iz was a little “upset” when our weekend of fun kicked off with tums and bedtime at 10:15 thanks to the Shakespeare’s pizza incident.
 
How does he “repay” us? He screams at 15 minute intervals starting at 4:00 am.
 
What happened from 7:45-2:30 is really irrelevant in my opinion. “Football” was played, beers were had. The end.
 
Since we were all reunited, (and to give Columbia one last chance to win us over with decent food) we felt it was only appropriate to go out in something other than a hoodie and treat ourselves to a fancy steakhouse dinner to celebrate a good weekend.
 
We’re not talking about going to Ponderosa, people. This was a really nice place. They actually turn people away after a certain time because the wait gets so long. Lucky for us, we made it in the exclusive steakhouse. So this was our opportunity to really put on our classy pants and have a good meal.
 
Until the wine happened.
 
It wasn’t until Izzy was singing into his wine glass, and then the subsequent “toasting” with the lobster meat that I realized we probably belonged at Ponderosa.  It was shameful.  In vino veritas is clearly an accurate statement because at dinner, I think I asked TK if he was an accident. Oops.
 
This night, Izzy would be the one who turned in at 10:30.
 
The next morning, of course we had to go out the old tradition of Sunday Funday. Breakfast at Lulu’s or Lucy’s or whatever was great. Although I’m not sure I trust a restaurant that charges 25 cents extra for “crispy” hash browns, it was fine. Sleeping on TK’s adoptive grandmother’s bed (who he claims didn’t die in the house but I think we all know better) did a number on my lumbar region. After pleading, they took me to Wal Mart for mentholated back patches (which normally I buy in bulk at www.imgettingold.com , but didn’t happen to have my back up supply with me)
 
As we completely backed out of the parking space to go home, there was an obvious “crunch” coming from the back passenger side, right where Bobby was sitting. Good thing we updated his beneficiaries last week.
 
Shit.
 
As we got out of the car, a 60 something year old lady got out, clearly shaken by the whole incident.
 

“I’m sorry, normally I pull through so I don’t have to back up”
 
TK gets his insurance information out and his business card (ha ha) to give her the information.
 
“I’m just going to call my husband to make sure that I get all of the right information”
 
We are all standing around the cars, realizing the little Honda CRV took most of the beating. And then, she had the audacity to say this:
 
“I don’t want to scare you boys, but my husband is a judge”
 
First off, Ma’am, I realize that we’re all wearing sweats, we look like punk, homeless college kids and I’m in an owl trapper hat and sparkly Sperry’s, but you threaten my friends with a statement like that, then you threaten me.
 
“Yeah, well, they’re doctors” (true, even though TK is a Pharm D)
 
Just because I didn’t go for a rigorous curriculum, I felt I should be recognized too, so I added
 
“and I work in the disability insurance industry”
 
This would have been the opportune time to bring up the back ache, but I’m not that quick or witty.
 
Not sure why I thought those would be excellent retorts to her husband being a judge, but it really pissed me off. I got hot about it for a good hour.
 
After all was said and done, we drove home. Only to find that TK’s wallet was missing as we got into the garage. As we got back into the car to retrace the steps, we found the little lone wallet, on the corner of Broadway and itstimetogohome, completely intact. TK was so shaken; he forgot to take it off the roof as we drove away. Poor lil fella.
 
All is well that ends well, except for that CRV that has an indentation the size of a basketball in the back driver side. We all gave TK written statements in case this ended up in the hands of her circuit court judge husband.
 
It actually was kind of sad going home on Sunday. Izzy proposed marriage to TK so that they could get discounted medical benefits and we could all spend holidays together.
 
TK is thinking about it.  
 
 
 
 
 

"How is that my problem?"

This really isn’t a story about being married.

It’s more of a story of when you get married, you marry your spouse’s friends.

I consider Bobby’s BFF’s my brothers, and therefore, I relentlessly make fun of them.

Funny thing is that when you are in college, I always took for granted having them around. It felt like the party was never going to end… But because of a complicated algorithm, called “match”, we are literally spread out like points of a star in the Midwest. Unluckily for me, I ended up in the murder capital of the United States, St. Louis, Missouri. Oh what joy. Did you know that Missouri is one of the top 11 most depressing states to live in? Seriously, it was on www.health.com .On that sunny June day when Bobby is done with residency, I will follow the yellow brick road all the way down the best thing that has come out of Missouri, I – 70 west. Until then, I digress.

Bobby, Kelsey, Iz and TK’s weekend of fun started with a road trip to Columbia, Missouri for the Missouri Texas game (which Missouri gets no love in my blog so outcome of the “game” is therefore considered nonexistent in my world).

TK lives in a little grandma’s house in Columbia. Immediately I was jealous of his high vaulted ceilings, bathrooms that didn’t have blue toilets and lovely sitting room complete with crocheted coasters and a plastic parrot for conversation. This pharmacist was clearly living the good life. Once we arrived, we decided to experience the famous town fare: Shakespeare’s pizza and Truman’s sports bar.

I can clearly be really bitchy when I haven’t eaten in a long time. Apparently, so is TK. There was what we thought was an open table at the bar, so we sat down. We did notice a empty pack of KOOL cigarettes (classy establishment) but figured those people have left. A nice, innocent, college aged waitress came over to inform us that the table was actually taken, and the patrons had simply stepped outside.

TK’s fluffy response?

“How is that my problem?”

And we finally solved the mystery of why TK doesn’t have a girlfriend.

So after a couple of drinks and goldschlager shots, we went back to casa de TK and consumed the world famous Shakespeare’s pizza.

Sorry Columbia, you should not brag about this place.  I’m no foodie, but I am a human and I’m here to tell you that the food there was not edible.  Half of us threw up. The other half had heart burn and indigestion.  Thus our big weekend of fun kickoff promptly ended at approximately 10:15 pm.

Until 4:00 am the next morning……………

The 12 days of Bob

I've been gone for awhile, and I know that. Consider this an early Christmas gift. I am going to write for 12 days about Bob. He definitely gives me the material, that's for sure.

First up.... the fated trip to Columbia, Missouri. Stay tuned.

Worst. Day. Ever

Do you ever wonder why some people get their panties in a wad over different things? Some people get heated over politics. Others get froggy when it comes to banks and their overdraft fees. For some of us, it takes some asshole in a GMC Yukon to pull in front of us on 270 and 44 when it’s raining and there is a cluster F of traffic (These St. Louis drivers…. I digress)

Not Bob. He doesn’t really care about politics, is good enough with a checkbook that he doesn’t overdraft and he always has at least two car lengths in front of him, so bad drivers aren’t an issue. But on this particular Wednesday, one would have thought that world war three had just started at SLU hospital.

This telephone call happened at approximately 1:30 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon.

Bob: “I am so mad”

Me: “What happened?”

Bob: “This is the worst day ever”

Me: “Why, what happened?”

Bob: “Well you know how SLU got its accreditation renewed for the program?”

Me: “Yeah”

Bob: “And they were going to provide lunch for the Anesthesia residents”

Me: “Uh Huh”

Bob: “Well, I’m at Cardinal Glennon this month”

Me: “Okay….”

Bob: “No one called me over for the free pizza”

Me: “What?”

Bob: “Yeah, they had free pizza today and no one called me. So I missed lunch and had to get something at Cardinal Glennon. I’m so mad! I can’t believe that no one called me or even thought to save me a slice of pizza”

………. A pregnant pause later

Me: “You’re upset."

Bob: "Yup"

Me: "Over pizza"

Bob: “Well I’m upset that no one thought to page me about the pizza”

Me: “What kind of pizza?”

Bob: “Pizza Hut pizza”

Me: “Stuffed crust I bet”

Bob: “You aren’t making this better. I’m really pissed off.”

Me: “I guess I just don’t understand. War and famine in the world and you’re upset over pizza?”

Bob: “Pizza Hut pizza”

Worst. Day. Ever.

To each their own I guess.

Guess what we had for dinner that night.