Photos I’ve hoarded until now

We’ll start with more photos from the events following the Networking Extravaganza. . .

You’ll notice I am not participating in the tearing off of anyone’s clothes here.

I am, however, holding the three of us together with my leg.  Don’t ask me how this made sense.  It probably had something to do with my friends Jack & Coke.

Sometimes, I wonder why I suffer these fools. . . and then they sing for me, and well, how can you not love it?

Right, like I said before. . . this is my “Why do I suffer these fools?” face.  I’m pretty sure the thoughts running through my head were something like:  “Seriously.  How did I get here.  With these people.  Again.  Put the mother fucking camera down and get me a drink”.

I love when the Bobs are spontaneously simultaneously adorable.  It’s hard to get a good photo of the two of them because Bob will generally make a stupid face and argue that she looks stupid whether she tries or not, so she may as well try.  I love this photo.  So, ha!

Camera magic here!  NO – the boobs are REAL.  That is NOT the magic.  The magic is that he is certainly most definitely not actually licking my breast.  If he had been, I would have punched him square in the jaw.  I don’t know who actually took this photo, but I appreciate that my face was left out. . . you know, because we don’t need absolute confirmation that I was walking around with my chest on display like that.  Especially not in this here blog that my mom reads. 

This was a random photo from the last night of kickball.  I just think it’s funny. 

Uuuum, and this here’s our final Team Ramrod photo.  Those there are Incredibles masks and I’m not sure why that was such a great idea, but it was.  Except that you can’t “wiggle your eyes” (a Mr. Bobism) with those masks on.  Go ahead, try to wiggle your eyes.  10 points if you can tell me how one wiggles one’s eyes.  That Mr. Bob, sometimes he’s as adorable as a small child. 

I’m just posting this one because I took it and I think it’s pretty damn cool and also, if you ever meat meet this guy, you should ask him to take his shirt off.  When he refuses, you should rip it off him.  I promise, the reward is worth the risk.  One time, I climbed straight up this guy’s back (he’d stolen my cell and I needed to retrieve it, and he kept turning so that his back was to me).  He’s like a mountain.  I like knowing men who can stand completely still whilst a 145 lb. woman climbs up their back.  I’m not sure how often that would necessarily come in handy, but it’s good to know, just in case.

PS – I wish Mr. Bob would give me the photos he took at the charity event, and the Rolling Stones photos.  I really wanna post Rolling Stones photos.  Really, really. 

$17/month

For only $17/month, you, too, can get all of the following:

- Really bad skin (it’s like high school again, only worse!)
- The. Worst. PMS. Ever, which includes:
    -  The most fascinating mood swings ever!
    -  Neverending hunger which causes you to gain 8 lbs. in a week
    -  Undying hatred for all men
    -  A scathing bitch streak

No one told me how this birth control works.  Apparently, this tiny little pill that I take every day, at precisely the same time every day, is designed to make me as unattractive, fat, and unpleasant as humanly possible so that no man in his right mind would even consider having any sort of sex with me.

I mean, it’s working.  It’s not exactly what I thought I was signing up for, but it’s definitely keeping me from getting pregnant.

Just for good measure, it’s probably well past high time for me to complain about photos I haven’t received from ACL.  The “Where I bitch about Mr. Bob and the photos” section is a little sparce.

Catching Up

Here’s where I dump photos on you to try to catch up before I get too far behind. . .

Kickball last week. . . remember, we lost?  Boo!

But, we had FUN! 

I don’t even know how to tell you what was going on here:

The handshake:

Bob’s scare tactic:

Trying to intimidate the other teams (which would work if the other guy wasn’t SO SCARY):

My injury:

With any luck, I’ll guilt the Bobs into getting ACL photos to me muy pronto. 

ACL Day 2

Conversation I never expected I’d have:

Her:  Did he just stick a tampon up his nose?
Me:  Yes.  Yes, he did. 
Her:  He’s singing with a tampon.  Up his nose. 
Me:  I didn’t even know who this guy was, but now he’s my favorite ever.

We’re talking about Ben Kweller.  And, if you don’t know who he is, you need to learn.  This kid has heart.  He started late because he got a pouring bloody nose just before the show.  He apologized and started playing. . . and his nose bled.  A lot.  But, he played anyway.  His hands were covered in blood.  The cameras panned to his guitar – covered in blood.  He drenched several towels in blood.  But, he played on.  At one point, he stopped and asked if anyone had a tampon, and on cue, tampons flew to the stage.  I really thought he was kidding when he picked one up and unwrapped it.  But, nope, he stuck that tampon right up his nose and sang.

He wasn’t able to do the whole show.  He was really bleeding ridiculously.  He did half a dozen songs or so, and he tried so hard.  It was possibly one of the sweetest displays of dedication I have ever seen.  I fell in love with him on the spot.

We started the day with a schedule full of bands I’d never heard of.  At the end of the day, I’m a new fan of three:  Ben Kweller, Nada Surf, & The Raconteurs.

In case you were wondering, Mr. Bob is the keeper of the photos this weekend. . . so you can expect to see them in approximately 3.5 months.  I’ll be so excited to show them to you at that time because the lessons we learned today include:

*  Braids & bandana = WAY BETTER than pigtails.

*  My abs are magically photogenic.  In real life, I look like I’m stashing small children in my belly.  In photos, I look crazy buff. 

I’m off to bed. . . to rest up for tomorrow, which includes Tom Petty.  We made it all the way up front for Massive Attack for Bob tonight, so I get to be rewarded with as close to Tom Petty as we can get tomorrow.  I’m super excited.  WOOOOOO!

I made out with a rock star

Ok, so that’s totally not true.  But, I soooooo would have made out with this guy. 

So. . . that’s me, Emma, and Diana with the lead singer of Augustana.  I know, you wish you were us.  I would have licked him, but Emma wasn’t letting me anywhere near the guy. 

***edited to add:  HOLY MOTHER OF JESUS, is he touching my shoulder?!?!?!  I think he’s touching my naked shoulder!  How did I not know that happened?!  A rock star is touching my shoulder. 

Man, so the only thing that would make my life better right now would be if Mr. Bob got me the 1,972,346 photos he owes me that date all the way back to VEGAS!  That’s going to be a fun blog day.  Unless I die first, which is seeming increasingly likely.

There is hope for our future

Man, Emma talks a lot.  Like, think about how much you think is a lot and then multiply it by 4,000 and that’s half as much as Emma talks.  For real.

But, but, tonight, I found another reason to love that girl.  That Emma has some crazy good taste in music.

I almost didn’t go with her to the show tonight because I was thinking, “Eeeeeh, Emma’s pretty young and I bet we have very different ideas about what is good music and I don’t know that I want to spend my evening listening to bad music”.  But, then I thought, “Uuuh, what else will I really do if I don’t go, and so what if it’s bad, it can still be fun, so what the hell, it’s only $14″. 

And, then, THEN!, I got there and Emma’s all cozy with the band and she got us in for free and we took photos with the lead singer, and holy crap, it was really good music!

Check it out (Dad, you’ll like it, go listen):

http://www.augustanamusic.com

Emma’s favorite is Boston and as much as I wished she would QUIT TALKING DURING THE SONG AND JUST LISTEN TO IT SINCE IT’S HER FAVORITE, I have to agree with her, it’s a really good song.  How did I not know about these guys before?

Maybe it’s because I’m at a really good place in my life (despite the constant chaos), or maybe it’s because I’m emotional and in denial about it, but something about this music makes me so happy I want to cry.  I really like when I find new good music.  I especially like it when I’m in a good segment and I gain a new part of the soundtrack of my life to remember it by. 

Emma has promised to share the photos in a timely fashion (ahem, much unlike one Mr. Bob, you know).  I’ll post the one with the lead singer just as soon as I get it. 

Oh, also, though I was surprised to find that Emma and I see eye to eye on the music, we did learn that we don’t even remotely agree on men.  Blaaaaaah, she has crazy bad taste in men, but I’m forgiving her because, honestly, music taste is way more important. 

This weekend was too much

I can’t even remember half of the stories I was saving in my head to tell.  I needed to remember everything because it was the first Austin weekend without Bob and I wanted to make sure I had every story tucked neatly away in my memory to share with her later.

Then I drank all of the free drinks, and well, I think you probably know the rest of that tale.

Friday night was the cocktail party for which I was soliciting wardrobe advice.  I almost caved and bought this dress and these shoes:

I argued with myself all day Friday and decided to do the mature, responsible thing and save that $200 for nourishment and shelter.

I wore the previously mentioned dress #3 and I was no worse off for it.  Well, I mean, I probably would have met the man of my dreams and lived happily ever after if I had worn the above dress & shoes, but whatever.

So, the party was an anniversary party for a local charity.  We provided the design for all of the raffle prizes, so my wonderful, fascinating business partner and I were awarded free tickets to the event. . . which was especially wonderful because those free tickets provided us with access to 7 hours of free food & drink. . . an especially wonderful thing for an incredibly poor girl like myself.

We drank so much that the drink waiters knew us by the end of the night.  I’m not sure whether it was the jumping out from behind the palm trees to catch the drink waiter . . . or if it was the chasing of the drink waiter across the dance floor. . . or if it was the complaining to the boss of the drink waiters that they weren’t circulation nearly quickly enough. . . but something caused them to find us with every tray of drinks they carried. . . and they began saying things like, “Oh, there you are!” and, “I’ve been looking for you!”.  So, that could be good or bad depending on how you want to look at it.  It could mean we had a damn good time. . . or it could mean we are shameless drunks.  Your call.

I’m pretty sure there were about 82 events in the course of the evening that caused me to say, “OMG, this is the best part of the night, I have to remember to blog about this”.  Alas, I’ve got little to nothing now that the vodka has worn off.

I vaguely remember a guy that we affectionately coined “Suspenders” – because he was wearing suspenders (duh), but of more interest, because he was wearing suspenders and dancing like a madman.  He seriously thought he was the shit.  It’s not as funny now, but I’m telling you, it was hilarious then.  The best part was when the DJ switched gears on him and tossed on a slow song. . . causing Suspenders to grab his purse and storm off. 

Another highlight involved the executive director of the charity.  This guy’s got to be at least 65, maybe older.  I’ve met him a few times, and though I don’t know him well, I was shocked to see him on stage dancing with two young women in red dresses.  That, alone, was entertainment enough.  It was heightened only by the later raffle of a weekend at said executive director’s beach house, which apparently includes a “dancing machine”.  My fascinating, amazing business partner asked out loud the question in all our minds, “Is he the dancing machine?”.

Probably of most notable mention. . . the guy I’ve blogged about before, you know, the one with the universe and the butterflies and the past life?  He was there.  I managed to maintain an acceptable level of friendliness without flirting for what I’m going to guess was maybe 2 hours.  After what I’ll estimate was 10 drinks, my decision making skills began to falter and I became unable to comprehend the stupidity of my behavior.  For reasons that escape me now, I apparently thought it a good idea to spend the entirety of the remaining hours of the party dancing with this guy.  *shaking my head*  I accept, with remorse, the full consequence of this behavior, come what may.  This, this, is why I typically spend my drunk time with Bob.  She never would have allowed me to behave this way.  Never.

The other story involves another guy, and because I really like him, I’m not going to offer any details that might indicate who he might be. . . except to say that he asked no fewer than 6 times if we’d stay in his hotel room with him (instead of driving home).  When it became evident that he had found a girl who would stay in his hotel room him, I figured he had been insincere with me. . . and then he called Saturday to ask if I made it home OK.  He he.  Cute.

So, then, just when you thought my weekend couldn’t possibly get more fun. . . we went river tubing on Saturday!  Yeeeeeehaw!  My amazing, wonderful, fascinating business partner also accompanied me for this good time. . . and thank God she did because I’m not sure I would’ve known what to do otherwise.  She brought along a friend, who likely does not remember my real name and will forever refer to me as “Monkey Toes”, which, really, is ok with me.  I like monkeys.

We got up stupid early (I got approx. 5 hours of sleep) and headed to New Braunfels for a full day of sun and more liquor.  I didn’t really think I would drink that much, but I didn’t want to be the only dork there not drinking, right?  And, then I proceeded to become quite chummy with a guy whose full name is that of a cartoon character, and we, the two of us, drank an entire bottle of rum.  It wasn’t in the form of mixed drinks, either, folks.  The two of us are bad ass.  We drank that shit straight from the bottle.  That’s right, internet, I’m hard core.

At the start of the day, my cartoon character friend was anti-photo-opportunity.  By the end of the day, someone somehow got a photo of my legs wrapped around that guy’s head (that someone would be my business partner. . . and I bet she’ll share those photos with me faster than oh, say Mr. Bob).

I got sunburned from my head to my toes, lost one pair of sunglasses, and my top only came untied once er, um, much to my dismay, it has come to my attention today that my top came off on more than one occasion.  I don’t know how that happened without my knowledge and/or how the top was returned to it’s rightful position without my knowledge, but apparently that’s what happens when you chug rum.  Let that be a lesson to you all.

We were supposed to go home, shower, get dressed up, and head back out for a late night of partying, but thankfully, everyone bailed, leaving me to sleep for 14 straight hours. . . something I now get to do without the slightest feeling of guilt.  Living alone definitely has it’s benefits!

Independence Day 2006

HOLY SHIT, Internet.

You know you’ve had one hell of a good time when you wake up drunk. 

I don’t believe I’ve blogged much about all of the drunken good times I’ve been having.  Probably mostly because most of you don’t know me to drink much. . . and so you’d probably stop believing that it’s me writing when I tell you I’ve pretty much been partying (read:  drinking) every weekend for the past 3 months.  I know.  You don’t believe me.  You can ask Bob.  I’m pretty sure she’s been there for every sip of alcohol that has passed my lips. 

I’m doing a really good job of not blabbing to you about the situation with Lucky and the silly games we’re playing like “Who’s cooler?” and “Nice one minute, mean the next”. 

I’m also doing a really good job of not running my mouth about the stupid family shenanigans of late.

So. . . what that is going to inevitably lead to is me drinking.  You see the connection, right?

We (meaning Bob, Mr. Bob, and I) went out Monday night, which is what everyone did because Tuesday was a holiday, right?  We went out, and I fully expected it to be a relatively tame night because 1.  It was Monday.  People don’t get crazy on a Monday.  and 2.  It started out innocently enough.

Nevermind that there was a hobbit convention in town and/or I’m an amazon and am taller than 85% of men in Texas. . .

We met up with Emma and her friend, and Emma’s hair looked really good.

We had a few drinks and we danced, and it was all fine and normal except that I was too drunk to drive home, but that’s also becomming a staple and Bob & Mr. Bob are growing accustomed to sharing their apartment with me.  In fact, I’m considering asking if they’ll just bring me on as wife #2 so I never have to leave.  It would just be easier that way.

I’m pretty sure you’ll completely understand where this is going when I tell you that on the radio was the top 105 jams countdown, which consisted mostly of my high school soundtrack. 

DUE TO the countdown, we had no other choice but to turn on the radio and pour more drinks when we got home.  You all would have done the same thing because seriously, you’re just not going to hear “Funky Cold Medina” on the radio on any given day. 

I’m pretty sure I would have been fine without the extra drinks.  All I remember about the rest of that night was that Bob made us play some silly drinking game, and Mr. Bob is strong enough to pick me up and throw me around like a rag doll (a feat not many men even attempt). 

I slept on an air mattress in the media room (this is how fancy my friends are), and at some point in the night, had to crawl. . . which isn’t even appropriate because I couldn’t even make it to a crawling position. . . rather, I wiggled my way across the floor to the bathroom.  I swear to God, it must have taken me 30 minutes to go the 10 feet to the toilet, at which point I laid in front of the toilet, cursing because it wasn’t until then that I realized I’d somehow have to get myself off the floor and onto the toilet in order to pee.  So. . .I probably laid there another 30 minutes just trying to compose myself enough to accomplish that task.

I don’t remember how I got back to bed.

All I know is that I was still drunk when Bob woke me up at 10:30am the next morning.  So, I went back to sleep.  But, then I was still drunk when I woke back up at 11:30am.  I was supposed to go home and get my bikini so we could lay by the pool all day, but Mr. Bob wouldn’t let me drive. 

Somehow, we wound up on a boat.

Yeah, I don’t know if you followed the 4th of July weather in Austin, TX, but it was stormy.  We were on a boat in a storm.  You’d think that in a group of 7, someone would have been pretty grouchy about being caught in a storm.  Instead, we had a boat full of troopers who rode it out in quite possibly the most hilarious fashion.  It might only have been more fun if I hadn’t been hungover. 

We finished our holiday by driving in the rain to attempt to see the Zilker fireworks. . . which was a really good plan, but then a stupid cloud got in our way and all we could see was the glow of fireworks behind a cloud.  Damn clouds.

That, people, is how one successfully does up an Independence Day. 

Once again, there are a few select photos to accompany this story. . . but Mr. Bob is the keeper of those photos and he refuses to share them with me for reasons unknown to me.  I’ve tried to threaten him into giving them to me, but he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the possibility of never seeing his wife again.  I may have to resort to bribes. . . and I don’t even want to start guessing what kind of bribes it would take. . .

Pending Hotness Progress

Yesterday was my last session with my trainer.  “Woohoo!  We get to see photos of a hotter Snippy!” might be what’s going through your head. . . or out of your mouth right now. 

I’m sorry to disappoint you.

I’m embarassed to admit that I, still, am not hot.  I know, I know, you’re wondering wtf I’m talking about because you silly geese thought I was hot before the training, and the odds of me getting less hot are just really slim.  But, that’s where you’re wrong, Internet.  I was not hot by any means prior to the comencement of training.  In fact, I would almost say I was repulsive. 

You’re about to get even more confused.  Watch this.

I have not lost a single pound in the past 10 weeks.  The super space age machine tells me I’ve lost a minimal amount of body fat, but I don’t know if I believe in that machine.  It seems awfuly hokey to me that you could stand on a little machine and it can tell you how much of your weight is muscle, how much is fat, how much is bones, and how much is water.  I know, you’re making a face that says, “WTF?  There’s no such machine”, and I’m agreeing with you, Internet.  It just seems very suspicious that a machine could tell you that much just by standing on it, that’s all.

So, anyway, I’ve lost half an inch off my waist – NOT IMPRESSIVE, half an inch off my hips – AGAIN NOT IMPRESSIVE, and half an inch off my bust – INCREDIBLY UNIMPRESSIVE.  That’s the progress I’ve made in 10 weeks. 

Please join me in a chorus of “boooooo”s. 

The worst part of this whole thing is that not a single pair of my jeans fits me anymore.  All of the pre-trainer jeans are too loose and I have to constantly pull them up when I wear them, and the pants party jeans, well, I might have to just accept that I’ll never wear them out of the house.  I can put them on, but then all of the fat gets squished up over the top of the jeans and oozes out all over the place.  N.O.T.  H.O.T.

I will admit that I’m rockin’ some pretty smokin’ shoulders and biceps. . . and if I don’t wear a bra and turn just so, you can see the bones in my chest, but I think that’s mostly because my boobs are sagging so much these days (at the ripe old age of 29), that the skin is being pulled very tight against my bones when the bra comes off.

My legs are also noticeably stronger.  YOU probably wouldn’t be able to tell unless, for some reason, I already let you feel my legs before I started working out, and then you come and feel them now.  I can tell when I put lotion on.  I have legs of steel.  Another reason not to fuck with me. 

Otherwise, still a cow.  Moo.

Only now, I don’t have someone babysitting me to make sure I work out. . . and that I work out HARD.  Now, I’m on my own.  And, because I overcommit and take on waaaay too much, and fail to recognize the importance of making time for myself, working out always takes a back seat to whatever else is going on. 

God, I hope I don’t get fatter again.

So, I’m going back to Indiana in 2.5 weeks.  Do you think I can lose these 10 lbs. in 2.5 weeks?  I mean, since I haven’t lost them in the past 10, it seems likely, right?  I really wanted to go back skinnier!  DAMNIT!

At least in Indiana, though, I can come up with reasonably believable excuses not to wear a bathing suit.  NOT THE CASE in 4 weeks when I’m scheduled to go on a tubing trip. . . for which I fully expected to have a killer bod.  DAMNIT!

I’ll get some photos posted sometime.  Really.  I’m still waiting for my copy of all photos from Bob (for the record, this is Mr. Bob’s responsibility and he is SERIOUSLY slacking).  But, don’t then patronize me by telling me how much skinnier I look because I know better.  You’d be better served telling me I always looked good so at least then I will just think you need your eyes checked, which is better than me thinking you’re a big, fat, hairy liar.

The List

Bob and I regularly refer to The List.  Typically, the reference will come in the following form, “We can mark this off!”.  The List would be that list of things one must do during one’s life.  For example, the Hampster Derby?  Didn’t even know it was on The List, but there it was and it’s marked off!

Bob has offered me more opportunities to mark things off The List than any single person I can remember so far in my life.  If I were to present to you the list of things that I’ve marked off The List while spending time with Bob, you’d probably be very impressed.  She’s just that fun.  Or as she’d say, she’s good times.

I happen to currently be so overwhelmed with my life and all of the projects I’ve taken on that I don’t post here as often as I have things to share.  I also don’t often take time off from all of the seriousness.  So, the crazy times with Bob are of utmost importance, as I believe that’s what’s keeping me sane.

Another really good excuse for why I haven’t posted as much as I should is that I stopped taking my camera along when Bob got her smaller, much more mobile camera and became in charge of photos.  That doesn’t SEEM like a very good excuse until you realize that I’m still anxiously awaiting my digital copies of Vegas photos. . . and a slew of other insane events that have transpired since. . .

Like the 80s party.  I have ONE photo.  One.  One in which my foot looks like it has snapped right off my ankle because I insist upon standing as awkwardly as humanly possible when in the presence of several shorter people.  I’m not going to show you that picture because it’s disgusting.  I am more than happy to share photos from that night, just not that one.  So, whenever Bob gets those photos to me, I can tell you the story. . . about how we went all out, devoted ourselves COMPLETELY to the 80s theme, and headed out into the public realm.  When I have photos, I can tell you about how we stopped on our way to have dinner at Bennigan’s and how every single staff person in the restaraunt must have passed our table no fewer than a dozen times to stare.  Only a few had the nerve to ask WTF we were dressed like that for.  The others, I’m sure, just thought we were idiots. 

When I have photos, I can tell you how one of the waiters followed us out to give me his phone number because that’s how hot I looked in my 80s costume.  I mean, I’m old enough to be his mom, and I’m pretty sure he has to be about the most warped guy on Earth if he thinks that looked good, but I’ll take the ego boost.  Aren’t you dying to see photos?

When I have photos, I can tell you how we then went to the party and enjoyed hours of 80s music, and some 80s movie clips, and even 80s video games!  And, I’m not kidding, someone drove an old TransAm to the party.  I’m not kidding.  Despite our devotion to the theme, someone was even more devoted.  That’s how cool this party was. 

If I ever get photos, I can tell you how we bailed on the party because one of us had a little sister to attend to (for once, not me!). . . and then the rest of us went downtown still in our 80s outfits.  Most people wouldn’t dare, we did.  That’s how crazy things get when you’re with Bob.  I can tell you how that particular night was host to a biker rally, and how, despite our best, really outdated 80s look, we fit right in. 

I could possibly also tell you how I somehow wound up dancing on the bar. . . in a miniskirt. . .

But, it really just doesn’t do the whole event justice without photos, now does it?

Ahem, no pressure, Bob. 

I don’t think we have photos of last night. . . so I can tell you we randomly picked up and went bowling.  I went to Bob’s house to work out.  Somehow, we wound up at a bowling alley.  Sometimes, people act like bowling is for nerds or dorks or fat guys who drink too much beer.  Sometimes, people try to act like bowling isn’t cool.  And, if you’re one of those people, I’m sorry you’re missing out because our bowling experience was more fun than you could possibly imagine.  Did you know there’s a dedicated Bowling Party Station?  Dance music and disco balls and fog. . . and bowling!  Despite my lame shoulder, I bowled a 141 and kicked everyone’s ass with it.  BWA HA HA HA (Mr. Bob got beat by a girl). 

Somehow, I thought I was going to make that story a lot more amusing, but I think I blew it all on the 80s party.

I suck at blogging.

I feel really bad for anyone who keeps coming here daily to see if I’ve posted anything new.  I’m sorry.  Life has been really busy lately what with all of the personal trainers and trips to Vegas and helping plan weddings and trying to also maintain a life.  Whew!  I get sleepy just thinking about it all!

It seems as though one princess is simply too consumed with wedding stuff to figure out how to download and send Vegas photos, so you’re just going to have to hold your horses, internet, until she gets married, loses the stress hives, and gets back to her normal, not freaked out self.  Sorry.  I’d give you her email address so you could bitch at her about it, but I’m afraid she’d turn into one giant hive if she had any more stress to deal with.

So, the working out has been going.  Yes, that’s all, just going.  I haven’t lost a damn ounce, and the gym’s super space age scale tells me that I have actually gained body fat, so the personal training appears to be making me fatter than I was before.  That’s not exactly what I had envisioned when I started this process, but at this point I’m starting to feel like it just doesn’t matter.  Who really cares if my ass is this big?  Probably not very many people. 

The business is also going.  Yep, just going.  I’ve been doing soooo much other random bullshit that I dare say the business has suffered a bit.  My fascinating, amazing business partner and I spent some time last week hammering out a new marketing plan, and I have high hopes of getting that kicked off just as soon as this wedding is over.  Then, hopefully, I can report to you all that business is superb and that I’m a millionaire.  Won’t that be a fun day?  Indeed, it will.

So, somehow, most likely because Lucky is in love with Bob and her fiance (and, who can blame him really, he’s pretty cute), we convinced Lucky to venture out for a 10:30pm comedy show which really didn’t even start until 11pm.  It’s a miracle that we even got to go, first of all.  So, please take note of that. 

The host of Fear Factor is who we got to see.  And, I don’t know if you know, but he’s pretty hilarious.  Especially when he’s drunk.  He has very movey eyebrows and even if he just stood there and did eyebrow tricks, I think I’d have laughed my ass off.  I think he probably wouldn’t be as funny without the movey eyebrows.  Or the 6 shots of tequila. 

Also, I don’t remember what the Hell he said about monkeys, but I do remember that the word “monkey” or “monkeys” came out of his mouth and if you know me, you know that that alone boosts your approval rating like 200%.  Monkeys rule. 

We had a good time.  Bob helped herself to one bottle of wine.  I helped myself to a small village of mozarella sticks (WHY CAN’T I LOSE WEIGHT?!?!).  We laughed and laughed.

Then we left, and Bob’s fiance’s car was towed.  And, that wasn’t as funny.  I mean, it was kinda funny but only because my car was not towed.  But, mostly it was not funny. 

We are now one week from the wedding of the year.  I don’t want to get into the habit of making promises to the internet, but I think I’ll be out of excuses when the wedding is over, and will be around here a little more.

I know you can’t wait.