I was all excited to blog about my fun trip to Birmingham, AL to visit my sister and celebrate my 3 year-old nephew’s birthday, which was today. Happy Birthday, Gavin, I never knew a 3 year-old could eat 4 cupcakes, two slices of pizza, a bowl of Gold Fish (crackers) and still be hungry. Oh and…. sorry, Marya, I wasn’t aware that you’re not suppose to let a 3 year-old eat 4 cupcakes.. IT WAS HIS BIRTHDAY FOR GOODNESS SAKES… the kid should have a day of sugar freedom.

Anywho, I WAS excited to blog about my weekend, however, I arrived back to Chicago, walked to the parking garage where my car was parked and found the passenger window in a 1,000 little pieces on the seat with a police notification on top explaining that my car had been broken into. ARE YOU FREAKIN KIDDING ME???? The dumbass got nothing since I’m not stupid enough to leave anything valuable in my car while I’m away for 3 days. The punk(s) broke my window, went through my console and glove compartment to find NOTHING!!!! I am parked in a gargage with security cameras on every corner (hence the fact the police where called the day it happened) and the idiots chanced it enough to break my window and rummage around to find, what? Tissues, car info and pink stilletos??

Now, I just watched “Taken” yesterday with my family. Badass movie with twists, turns and keeps your wheels turning. You really have to look beyond the obvious. So this gets me thinking, it’s very obvious that my car was broken into by a thief, however, nothing was taken. Could I have secret information and not know it? Is my boyfriend really an undercover agent and his enemies are now targeting me to get to him? Am I the chosen one like Keanu Reeves in “The Matrix” with no idea who is after me and the power I hold? I think I am part of a conspiracy, excuse me, while I journey to China to learn the arts of  ninjutsu, stealth, and combat so that I can take on my enemies.

Ahh… dreamland is fun and reality is not. Reality is that I can’t claim this on insurance as it will jack-up my payments and the window won’t meet my deductible anyway. So, I’m out of pocket for a window I can’t afford, in a bad economy, not to mention my hospital and doctor bills from 2 weeks ago.

YAY RAH, MAY!! I love May!! GOOOOOO MAY!!!

Eat it, MAY. June, where the HELL are you?

Everyone who has gone to Las Vegas has a story. It’s the nature of the beast, any place that’s nicknamed Sin City is going to be an adventure for anyone who goes, even my 57 year old mother who went for a nursing convention (even though her “wild” time was having one fruity cocktail in a casino – still, HER adventure.) From the horse’s mouth to third-party, I’ve heard some doozies, but I got a little uncomfortable at my girlfriend’s story. She was so dumbfounded by her encounter that she was still in disbelief two weeks later.

She was on a little trip to Vegas with a few girlfriends and they started talking to these men at a swanky bar. The man she was talking to was very handsome, a lawyer, checked-out well and was super nice. They met up the next night and after a session of cocktail throw-backs they reverted to making-out in public. She was in Vegas, right? Why not let your hair down? Seriously, she’s a conservative person… live a little! They then moved from the bar to the hotel lobby to the elevator to her room. The FREAKY part:

Here’s this hot guy in her hotel room – they’ve been making out in public for hours. As soon as they get to her room… he won’t kiss her, but he licks her ankles, feet and toes. Oh god… I’m going to puke. I’m just not a foot person. GAG!!! GAG!!! AHHHH! Then he turns her over, pulls up her skirt and licks her butt cheeks! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU FREAK???? So she’s in complete shock – freaking out – so embarrassed and doesn’t know how to take it so she turned around – think Sex in the City moment. Not taking the hint… he trys to prompt her to beat or whip him with something then starts talking like a straight-up masochist – she finally asks him to leave – appalled and shocked, he storms out. Slap me with a flapjack, but DUDE, you just met a complete stranger and licked her in places she’ll only touch with a washcloth and your reaction is shocked? I don’t know if she’ll ever go to Vegas again, but if she does, I know she’ll wear full-on Spanx (for rear protection, not belly control) and forgo sandals.

I have so many questions, but I’m too disturbed to ask them. Listen, I know this guy was in Vegas and I’m guessing his vacation goal was to live out some whacked-out fantasy inspired by Cinemax After Dark, but I know this girl, and she’s not the type to prompt that. You should see me right now… I’m red typing this.

I started Googling about sexual freakiness in Vegas… here’s a good article:

http://www.4hoteliers.com/4hots_fshw.php?mwi=3001

I leave you with this; Girl, I wish you were alone in this situation… but, I’m 100% sure, you’re not!

This is me distraught!

They say everything happens in 3′s, I would like to amend that to everything happens in 9′s if your Lauren Carol Taylor. Let’s review my glorious month of May:

• Hospitalized for kidney crap and out of commission for 2 weeks.
• I gained 12 lbs of water weight because of my kidneys and I’ve only lost 5lbs of it! My 3 year-old nephew touched my stomach and said “Baby?” I immediately explained to him that it was water weight and I was on an anti-inflammatory to dissolve my bloated belly. By the way, Gavin, it’s a sensitive subject and Aunt Lauren is dealing with it day by day!  He starred at me blankly with half his cupcake all over his face and up his nose then handed me the remains of it and said, “More.” I think he felt really bad.
• Ripped my pants 3 separate times.
• Wiped out (completely sober) – face to the ground, ass in the air – twice in public and in freakin daylight!
• Car broken-into and passenger-side window SMASHED! I didn’t claim on insurance because of my deductible so it was out-of-pocket. The guy who installed my new window didn’t speak English very well so on first try he put in the wrong size because he kept ending his sentences in “yes?” and I would then respond with “yes” because I had no idea what he was trying to say and didn’t have the patience to figure it out.
• My cable was interrupted. What?? Excuse me, I’m on automatic bill pay, how can this happen? Ma’am, you never returned your cable box when you switched to digital. Sir, please put down your crack pipe because I returned the box back in December and it’s disturbing that you guys can’t keep track of it. I went through a full day of arguing and negotiating down the charges then later, went through a drawer in my media center to find…. THE FREAKIN CABLE BOX I SWORE I RETURNED!!!
• On Friday, May 29, two days ago, I walk to my car to find a BOOT on it. Someone have Naomi Campbell slap me – why do I have a boot!?!  Apparently, a new law has been passed in Chicago that after two tickets, you’re tire is accessorized with a metal “boot.”  My boyfriend and I each got a parking ticket in the last 3 weeks and haven’t gotten around to paying them. Oh….. but with the boot, you pay like 10 times what your tickets are worth!! I wonder if the City of Chicago is hard-up for money? Great job, Major Daley, you absolutely, positively, do not suck. I bet you and Blagojevich are secret lovers.
• Wait.. I forgot one thing… after my car was booted, I went to get cash for a cab, the ATM next to my apartment was not dispensing checks, however, thank the Lord for this one, it was taking deposits. Yeah.. I’m taking deposits too. I had to run up to my apartment and borrow cash from my boyfriend. That sucked.

Needless to say, I am ESTASTIC that today is the last day of May. I refrained from locking myself in a padded room the past two days in fear that a piano would fall on me.

HELLO, Joyous June!!! Please do not wipe the floor with me like your older sister, Miserable May. I would be forever grateful as would my kidneys and new over-sized gut and ass.

1. I got home at 5:30pm, immediately put on my gym clothes so that I could go workout. It’s now 8:30pm and I haven’t left yet.
2. I ate 3 cookies while in my gym clothes and convinced myself I needed an hour for digestion.
3. After the “water weight” went away from a recent illness, 7lbs stayed glued to my stomach and butt.
4. I declared to my girlfriend last night that this was our summer and I WOULD HAVE A HOT BOD!!!! I’m serious this time, Erica, I can feel it…. our dream bodies are just a few months away…
5. I’m going to the beach in July to endure 22 year-old bitches sitting-up while laying out because they don’t have to assume a horizontal position to have a flat stomach.
6. When I look at recent pictures taken of me, I email them to my sister with specific instructions on what areas to airbrush.
7. My mom keeps telling me the older I get, the harder it will be to loose weight so I should get where I want to be now to maintain. Mom, I’m still young. I’m 32. I feel the same as I did when I was 22… just let me soak in this ice bath for two hours since I walked up two flights of stairs.
8. I’ve become that woman that looks at pictures of when I was 22 and longs for those days. Even though, when I was 22, I looked at pictures of when I was 18 and longed for those days.
9. I set a goal to loose 4 lbs this week. I wrote it on an 8×11 piece of paper, taped it to my bathroom mirror and now it haunts me every freakin time I look in the mirror… which is a lot.
10. Kirstie Alley…. that’s all I need to say.

Okay, I’m going to make this short and sweet because….  Girl, you’re not alone if you take on too much, try to get it all done in an impossible amount of time which then trickles down to letting all KINDS of business falling through the cracks! I have your sleeping pill right here, act like a 3 year-old and run around until you pass out with your sippy-cup (AKA wine for adults) from exhaustion in a dead man’s pose on the ground. Seriously, when my nephews nap, they look DEAD. It scares me… I’ll put my finger under their nose to make sure they’re breathing. They go, go, go so much that they give it up to the Sleeping Gods in whatever position or spot they may be in. It doesn’t matter if play-dough or a fudge round is in their hands… they’re going down… on top of the LEGO’s or Thomas the Train tracks. That’s what I feel like right now, but it’s not from molding play-dough or running around in circles until I’m dizzy – it’s from doing too much. You feel me. I know you do because you ladies are with me in the coffee line each morning forcing yourself to stand there, waiting your turn, yearning for caffeine freedom. No talking, no greeting until that coffee is in our freakin mitts and we chug ourselves back to life. I know I’m not alone as I’m bear hugging the person in front of me and them the person in front of them bracing each other from falling until our order is taken and coffee is served!!! I could never work at a coffee shop. No wonder those people are cracked-out on happiness at 6am because they have to do quadruple shots of espresso before they deal with the public. It enables them to welcome you in high-pitched voices and looking like they’re restraining themselves from coming across the counter and hugging the holy crap out of you. I fear them. “GOOD MORNING! Can I get you a fresh muffin or warm danish? Perhaps our new perfect oatmeal with a dash of cinnamon and healthy heap of raisins? No?  I completely understand.. before you exit though, please enjoy a banana for potassium and love from mother earth.”  Excuse me, Coffee Girl, I know you’ve just shot-up with caffine crack, but pipe down until I get a hit or your happy ass is going in the grinder.

I’ve completely gotten off the subject and I’m rambling, but I shouldn’t complain as I just got off IM with my counter-part in Kansas City and she’s a mom, wife, machine at work, social butterfly on every freakin committee in the world and she’s up doing cartwheels at 5am with no Columbian crutch. BITCH. Love you, but… Bitch. You give me no reason to complain. No kids… No husband.. All I have to do is feed myself whatever is in reach then pass out.

I lied. This was long and sour.. not short and sweet. The real question is… WHAT THE F$@& DID I BLOG ABOUT??!!!! Oh.. Girl, you’re not alone if you’re exhausted, delirious.. and talk WAAAY too much when in that state.

Come back tomorrow when I’ve tuned my engine. Good night, don’t let the bed bugs bite…. if they do, beat ‘em with a…ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ   

Exhibit A: Passed out from exhaustion on the spot, with my "sippy-cup"

I am speechless… Angela from Kentucky, I’m laughing WITH you.. not AT you. I just want to hug you right now and plant a HUGE KISS on your puffy little cheek! Gals, read Angela’s story and don’t be shy… join our group hug later:

I read yesterday’s post about the lady putting Febreze on her armpits instead of deodorant. I did just the opposite. I put deodorant on my face instead of this acne moisturizing treatment. Let me explain. The treatment came in a bottle almost actually like my deodorant,  it was roll-on. I was so incredibly tired, barely awake. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, then rolled the treatment on my face. I was pretty much asleep, eyes squinted during my whole routine. It was about 5 minutes before my face felt like it was on fire and I realized, I had put my deodorant on my face inside of my moisturizer!!!!! I tried to wash it off, but the damage was done – I had HUGE red whelps all over my face. I didn’t lie when I told everyone at work that I had an allergic reaction… I just left out the part that it was from deodorant applied to my face!

This is the best picture I could get discretely. He’s coming back from one of his bathroom trips. He loves the Milkshake song.

Yesterday, I was in Peoria, IL for work. In between appointments, I went to Starbucks to get some work done.  There was this tall, big guy, about 6’4″ / 250lbs sitting adjacent to me at another table. He kept getting up to go to the bathroom. He would start talking to himself, say “oh no,” under his breath, then rush to the bathroom. While he was gone the first time, his phone rang. HIS RING TONE WAS THE MILKSHAKE SONG! First off, that song haunts me (http://girlyourenotalone.com/2009/06/05/my-milkshake-brings-my-feet-to-my-mouth/). Second, I didn’t not see that ring tone coming from a huge, gym-short wearing guy that pretty much proclaimed he’s about to light-up the public bathroom before hitting a dead sprint.  His phone rang like 5 times. Each time, interrupting my steady work-flow. The Barista at Starbucks finally said, “Your milkshake is blowing-up over there, huh?” Priceless.

http://www.formerlyhot.com/

Photo by Pescatello CC, courtesy http://www.formerlyhot.com/

The hunt for flattering gymwear is never-ending, and I know you know what I’m talking about. Few women look good in those capri-length workout bottoms that are everywhere–they make a woman look like a peg leg pirate with stubby, wide thighs–and you have to be Gwen Stefani with her rock-hard abs to pull off track pants rolled down at the waist. No one, male or female, has everlooked good in elastic-waist sweats (think overstuffed sock puppet) and those of us who have had children generally cannot pull off the low-riding Juicy Couture-style terry bottoms without an excess of abdomen splooging over the top and sides. Don’t even get me started on the roll-waist yoga pants. Let’s just say they’re only look good on women without actual rolls at their waist.

Mind you, this is not the fault of our bodies. Our bodies are fine. It is due to lack of imagination or quite possibly sadism on the part of the designers of workout wear, who simply refuse to come up with workout bottoms that keep things smooth and tucked in, so you can go exercise without feeling like a lumbering buffalo on a treadmill.

Still, hope springs eternal, and the other day, it appeared that my faith and patience would be rewarded. I was in Filene’s Basement and rummaging through the racks. Suddenly, I spotted what appeared to be the perfect pair of black workout bottoms. My heart started to pound, not unlike when I spotted the man who is now my husband across the room at a friend’s wedding. I pulled the hanger off the rack to examine them. Simple, straight cut, highish waist to contain the wayward midriff, moisture wicking material….could these be the one? Finally, after all this time, just when I’d given up hope? Maybe, just maybe, I thought, tamping down any cynical instincts that bubbled up through my optimism. I’m going to try them on.

Quickly, as if they might evaporate in my arms, I ran to the dressing room, and tore off my clothes. Sliding my feet into the pants and then standing to hop them up over my butt, I had reason for optimism. The pants went over the sometime obstacle of my rear end without too much struggle, and hit me right at the waist, so there was no overhang. They were long enough so as not to flare out unflatteringly above my anklebone, and tight only where they should be. There were no rhinestones or sequins that would clog up my dryer’s lint filter, and the price was right. SOLD, I thought, and was already planning on swinging by the rack where I’d found them to see if there were any more in my size, so I could stock up. I slid them off and folded them, and prepared to put my own clothes back on.

And that’s when I saw it: The word CUTIE, in big turquoise felt block capital letters across the heinie. NOOOOOOOO!! I shouted in my mind. If I were in a sitcom (which at that moment I felt as if I was) the word would have had that drawn-out slow-mo distorted sound, as if I was being engulfed in abject horror  (which it was!) How had I missed that? Why would anyone sew the word CUTIE on someone’s ass, even if the ass in question might be cute, which, let’s be honest, mine is not, and really never was?!? I’m not putting my ass down–it’s fine, but no one would ever sew the word FINE on the back of a pair of sweatpants, and if they did, I wouldn’t buy them. Would you? Besides, if one has a cute ass, one doesn’t need the word CUTIE on it to call attention to its cuteness, and if one doesn’t, any writing whatsoever on the butt calls attention to what is probably better left unremarked upon.

I was so annoyed I didn’t even put the sweatpants back on the hanger, and left without even the socks I’d gone to Filene’s for in the first place. I think I’m going to start working out in a skirt, like the orthodox Jewish women in my building do. They do it for the sake of modesty. I’ll be doing it as a protest.

Thanks, Stephanie!

Girl, you’re not alone if having a bitch moment isn’t just an attitude… it’s a freakin result!!  A result of all the things, as women, we juggle everyday with more items on our TO DO list than minutes in a day.  I’m single with no children.  I struggle with just my sole commitments.  I faint at the thought of throwing a husband and children into that mix………………… okay, sorry, I just did it…. I fainted. I’m still on the floor… I’m typing from the floor with one hand because I can’t get up from the thought of adding other people to my plate…. wait… I fainted again. Please call 911 and send a hot EMT with a bottle of vodka.

I don’t know how you mothers do it!!  Red boots and invisible planes for all of you Wonder Women!! I actually have a Lasso of Truth and gold bracelets in transit to a fellow GYNA gal, Johanna. After a 15-hour day of hell, she sent the below post. I love the phrase she used, “Bitch Holiday.” Hang in there, Johanna and by all means, get your bitch on… but make sure you’re wearing stilettos!

Why is it that when you’re in a bad mood, people ask, “whats’ wrong?” or “is everything okay?” I mean, if you are in a bad mood, doesn’t that tell you that “something” is wrong or that “No, everything is not okay?”  Why can’t I just be in a bad mood, just to be in a bad mood? Maybe, I just want to be cranky and bitchy, or maybe, I just woke up not wanting to put up with shit.

Let’s see, got up at 6am, I rush take a shower and wake up the baby. I then feed, change him and go straight to daycare. I rush again, try to beat traffic on the I-495 only to inch my way to work.  While I’m inching my way to work, my company cell phone rings, one of my staff called out last minute.  Phone rings again, my boss looking for paperwork I submitted 5 days ago. 10am – walk into my office and rush to grab a cup of coffee, only to find there is no coffee. Why couldn’t the last person that made coffee, get some more coffee!!

11:30am - reviewing reports while answering calls when, I pull out my pen from my bag only to find a liquidity jelly-like substance on my hand and oh, now on my shirt. The pen exploded. WTF! Whatever! I then go for a break with my left-eye twitching from coffee withdrawals. I drive up to 7-11 to grab some coffee and a sandwich, “15 minutes miss, coffee coming fresh” My first thought, “give me a shot of whiskey instead, please.”  After I finally grab coffee, my husband, Lou, calls to ask about my day…… he really wanted to know if I was making something for dinner.  Since I am a good dutiful wife, I always have last minute dinners for those hectic days. Tonight, ham and cheese sandwiches, potato chips and  kool-aid.

Back to work, my boss calling again for paperwork, which again, I submitted a week ago.  “Please fax them again” he says.  “Sure”, I respond.  Fax machine “Out of Order.”  Okay, thats’ it!! UGH!! I’m back in my car, driving him another copy of the report I already submitted.   I get there, and he says, “Oh, thanks, but I found them.”  WTF? “Is everything okay?” he asks, I’m sure I appeared a little agitated. I leave, back in my car and into traffic.

My phone rings, daycare is calling. Tired and hungry, as I still didn’t eat the chicken sandwich snuggled in my bag, I’m now rushing to pick up Franco from daycare as he is not feeling well. I pick him up, he is crying. I put him in his car seat and I call Lou and his doctor. Finally, I see Lou waiting for me as I pull up to his pediatrician’s office. He takes the baby out the car, he is still crying, and hands him over to me so he can get his diaper bag. I hear gurgling sounds and feel some hot liquid on my breasts.  Okay, where is the liquor store!!!! I now have vomit in between my breast and I smell like a rotting mouse. I go into the my pediatrician’s office when I see eyes of disgust on me. Like these people have never had vomit on them before!  I try to clean myself up with little resources then wait in the waiting area. “What’s wrong?” Lou whispers.  I just take a deep breath and blankly stare at him. 6:30pm – Franco is fine, just a stomach bug. Give him liquids, liquids and oh, more liquids.

Finally, home and I see the mess, boxes and crap everywhere. We are moving next week.  I shower and pop a bottle of apple juice in Franco’s mouth. Next, Sandwiches and potato chips for Lou. I now begin to pack boxes. Lou helps but, takes a lot of breaks in between. 9pm – exhausted. I finish the last of the boxes only to find, that I need more boxes. I go into the bedroom to see if Lou is finished but, find him and Franco are asleep.

So, now I sit here writing this post, wondering why people question our mood, our “bitchiness,” as if they didn’t know!  Most likely we are bitchy because we are tired, sleep deprived and overwhelmed. We get up, and as women, mothers, wives, run around all day to make sure everything and everyone is taken care of.  Are we not allowed to have a bitch fest here and there? Are we not allowed to roll our eyes, grunt, yell, scream or take a stiff drink when the situation calls for it?

Tonight, right now, I embrace my bitchy side. So, on those days I don’t feel like enduring all of this, well, that is my Bitch Holiday.  I’m entitled to be a “bitch” when I want to!