Another Friday, Another Gala, Another Opportunity to Make a Fool out of Myself

So...we're at another gala on Friday night. This time the invitation listed the attire as "Garden Party", whatever that means. Not being a fan of floral prints, I pretty much was stumped on what I should wear. "Why, you should wear that cute sundress Husband bought for you last Spring!" MIL declared. Seeing where my failure to heed her advice got me last time, I decide to comply.

I could *swear* that the dress fit when I put it on, but more on that later.

Anyway, the gala was held in a beautiful botanical garden with beautiful people and beautiful art work up for auction. Husband and I strolled around and admired the scenery, then made our way to our table under the tent. I located my place at the table and found that I was seated next to a distinguished gentleman who heads a world-renowned charity. I've met him in the past and was happy to be seated next to him as we always have a good time conversing. He may be important, but he sure is fun and unpretentious!


Dinner was catered by The Four Seasons and included filet mignon with creamy mushroom risotto and a seared bay scallop. It was wonderful. Unfortunately, as we tucked into our entrees the event planners sensed a captive audience and seized the microphone.

"Excuse me! EXCUUUUUSE MEEEEEE! EXCUSE ME!" she barked into the microphone. Her voice is so grating that people visibly jumped in their seats. Some turned her way, irritation written all over their faces. Others ignored her.

"I just wanted to remind you that we have a lot of wonderful art up for auction and to encourage you to go place your bids. This is a charity event, after all."

Let me just stop right here. Sure, we were guests of my Husband's parents and paid not one red cent to be there, however, it cost *them* quite a bit of money to host a table of ten people. Therefore, my irritation at this woman's fundraising tactics was on the behalf of my in-laws. And my hearing (she seriously has a very obnoxious voice). She drives home the point that money cannot buy class as she is one of the richest women in Austin.

She continued to browbeat us for contributions but most everyone tuned her out and resumed their respective conversations. She continued to browbeat us sporadically throughout the evening, but we all became very skilled at ignoring her.

Fast-forward to dessert. By now it is apparent to me (and some others, as I found out later) that my sundress very decidedly did not fit, at least not in the chest. Either the pregnancy hormones struck my chest that night, or my judgement is terrible. Either way, by the time our ganache glazed chocolate mousse mini-cakes were served, I couldn't breath.

Of course, no one needs oxygen in order to eat dessert, so I ignored my discomfort and dug in with relish! I was about halfway through the cake when my fork, topped with a big bite of cake, flipped into the air. On any other occasion I probably would have been too uncoordinated to catch that fork, but these were extenuating circumstances. Chocolate-mousse-ganache-covered cake cannot be wasted! I caught the fork midair and resumed eating my dessert. While munching, I mentally did the math. Let's see...gooey chocolate mousse cake on a fork, fork flies through the air, I stop the motion mid flight by catching the fork, cake appears to stay on the fork...

I snap my head around and start looking for traces of wayward chocolate mousse. Almost immediately, I spot some on the suit coat of the distinguished gentleman next to me.

Oh crap. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!

"Er, I don't know how to tell you this, John..." I begin. He turns my way.

"Yes?" he asks, smiling.

"Um, well, I believe you have cake all over your suit coat. I have no idea how it got there."

Okay, I didn't really say that last part. I may be gutless, but I'm not *that* gutless. What I really did was tell him in great detail the story of how my fork flipped up in the air and I caught it mid flight and blah, blah, blah.

"Oh really!" he exclaimed. (Seriously, this guy is awesome. Who else of his magnitude would act like my cake-fork-flying-through-the-air story was the least bit captivating?) "I'm amazed that cake didn't fly everywhere. You are very talented!" he said graciously.

"Well, see, that's the thing," I mumbled as I gestured down at his coat. His eyes followed my gaze and...

He laughed. Heartily. "Well, at least you're honest," he exclaimed. "You could have just kept quiet about it an later on, if I even noticed it, I would have thought that *I* did it."

Like I said, you can't buy that kind of class.

I Smell Dead People

Much like the kid in The Sixth Sense, I seem to have developed an uncanny ability to smell things, all things, even things that aren't visible to the naked eye. Take, for instance, yesterday...

Husband and I were walking the dogs. Suddenly I was engulfed by the heady scent of something or someone rotting to the core. There were no dumpsters (or dead bodies) nearby. Husband couldn't smell it. Only me. Lucky, lucky me.

Earlier I was sitting on the bed studying. I smelled something rank and looked across the room to see Le Pooch Grande tongue-washing her anal glands. She must have been 15 feet away!

One of my friends gave husband this book that is supposed to prepare him for pregnancy. In this book it advises the husband that his pregnant wife will develop a super-human sense of smell. The book suggested that the husband always keep his teeth brushed and that he should make sure everyone else on the block has brushed their teeth as well. This made me laugh because it is so, so true.

Watch out, my friends, because I have a bionic nose. In fact, I might volunteer my services to the local police department. You know, go out with them on DUI patrol or something. Even if someone has just a sip of alcohol, I can smell it on their breath. It's awesome. Really, really awesome (no, it isn't).

Don't worry, Melek, I don't smell you during our workouts.

Rats!

No, this post's title is not referring to my GMAT score (thank goodness), rather, it's referring to the nasty little rodents that have infiltrated our attic.

The Bug Guy just stopped by to see if he could identify what's chewing up the wires in our wall. I led him to our walk-in attic where, flashlight in hand, we searched for signs of rats. Almost immediately I spotted the droppings on the floor which, coincidentally, happened to be right where I was standing (I was wearing flip-flips because I'm bright like that). I squealed and danced my way back to the attic entrance. Once I had one foot safely outside the attic, I used the entrance door as a shield as I peered around looking for rats. "What's that?!?!?!" I shrieked as I pointed up towards the attic trellises; I was certain I saw a rat up there, hanging by its tail. The Bug Guy's eyes bugged out of his head as he whipped around and fixed the flashlight's beam on the ghosts of my imagining. This went on for a while before I realized that I wasn't being helpful. In fact, I had some concerns that I might cause this poor man to have a coronary.

For the record, rats don't generally scurry about during the day and they most certainly do not hang by their tails. Them's 'possums that do that!

I'll be back!

Sorry no postings lately. Been studying for the GMAT like mad which = no life. Will resume posting in a few days.

Wah Wah Wah Wipeout!

Today my friend "Mississippi" and I met for our bi-weekly walk around Town Lake. As always, we were enthusiastically chattering away, minding our own business, when all of a sudden we heard a commotion on Mississippi's left. We both turned to see a man in his fifties stumble-running by. Stumble-running is when you're running and your foot catches on something, say, the back of your ankle, and the forward momentum forces you to stumble along at the speed at which you were running. This advanced form of running often entails flailing your arms 'round and 'round like a windmill.

Either time stood still or this poor guy stumble-ran for a long time--I'm not sure which. All I know is that approximately 1 billion smart-ass comments flashed through my mind, but for some reason I resisted the urge to articulate any of them. I'm not cruel, I just honestly thought that he was trying to get our attention by way of physical comedy (I blame my thought process on all the Dick Van Dyke episodes I've been watching on Hulu). Any smart-ass comment uttered on my part would have been my way of going along with the joke.

Why do events of this nature tend to happen in slow motion? It seemed like an eternity before he finally bit the trail directly in front of us. The worst part is that I *still* thought this was some sort of weird way to flirt with us. Thankfully, Mississippi has more sense than I do.

"Are you oka-ay?" she drawled. The poor guy looked up, shaken.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I just couldn't...I couldn't stop."

Recovering my senses and noting the lack of skin on his knee, I offered my hand. "Here, let me help you up." (I've often seen basketball players do this on the court and I always thought it was a nice gesture. I was excited to be like a basketball player.)

He looked at my hand, then down to his left, then back up at me. "Uh...that's okay. I think I'll just stay down here for a while."

What--did my hand smell or something? Why wouldn't he take my hand?

"Let's go," Mississippi muttered under her breath, "Let the guy behind us help him out."

Huh? That is so unlike Mississippi. I was confused but I followed her like the follower I am.

A few steps away Mississippi said in a low voice, "His pants came down."

"Wha--what? His pants did what?"

"They came down. His pants came down when he fell."

Oh.

Glad to know it wasn't my hand.

The Boogeyman Comes Out at Night

You know that when I start a story with, "I was minding my own business when..." it means that some weirdo decided to start messing with me. Yesterday was no exception.

I was at the neighborhood 7/11 gas station, minding my own business, when I heard a man ranting. Actually, he was screaming.

"F-you! I'm going to get you! I WILL KILL YOU!!! YOU CANNOT DO THIS TO ME! I KNOW WHAT I AM DOING AND I CAN KILL YOU GOOD! YOU BETTER KEEP AWAY FROM ME BECAUSE I WILL KILL YOU!"

"Don't look, don't look," I told myself, "Just pretend like you're invisible."

I shrank into the driver's seat of my truck and peered around the gas pump. It was a large, wild-looking homeless man. He began directing his rant at the first person in his path: another wild-looking homeless man. Why do crazy people always seem to hang around 7/11's?

"AND I TELL YOU THAT THEY CANNOT DO THIS TO ME! I WILL KILL THEM ALL! I CAN KILL THEM, I KNOW HOW! I DON'T LET NOBODY MESS WITH ME!"

"Okay man, okay! I hear you! I HEAR YOU!! I HEAR YOU!! I HEAR YOU!" the other homeless man raged in return.

Great, now both men are screaming at each other and they're standing ten feet away from me, on the other side of the pump. Heart pounding, I decide to squirt them with the gas hose if they turn their attention my way.

Homeless Guy #1 keeps walking but starts apologizing. "Sorry man, I wasn't talking to you. I'm talking to those other people. I AM SO SICK OF THOSE OTHER PEOPLE!"

"I HEAR YOU!!! I HEEEEAAAAAR YOOOOOUUUUU!!!!!!" Homeless Guy #2 screams after him.

And then there's silence.

Homeless Guy #2 finally spots me plastered up against the side of my car.

"Sorry ma'am, sorry about that guy. A lady like you shouldn't have to listen to that sort of thing and I apologize. He's just crazy and he's always ranting like that. I seen him before and he's always ranting like that. Again, I'm sorry ma'am"

Huh? Was this the same guy screaming his head off not two seconds prior? I realize that he's waiting for a response so I squeak out, "It's quite alright and I appreciate the apology." I replace the gas hose and get out of there.

Fast-forward fifteen minutes later: I'm pulling out of the grocery and my attention is drawn to a man sitting at another bus-stop.

"STOP STARING AT ME YOU B---CH! YOU BETTER STOP F-ING STARING AT ME AND PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR OWN G-D BUSINESS. YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A STUCK-UP, WORTHLESS B--CH!"

It was Homeless Guy # 1 and he was talking to me, of course. I couldn't help it, I started to laugh. I've never been called a "stuck-up, worthless b--ch" before. At least, not to my face.

Later on I found myself considering Homeless Guy #1's situation. How did he wind up in our neighborhood? Clearly, he took a bus, but what led him here? There's not much for crazy, homeless people to do in these parts. And why was he at another bus stop mere minutes later? Did he get kicked off the original bus for his rantings? If that's the case, would another bus allow him to board? If not, how would he get home? Would it be possible for him to be marooned in our neighborhood?

Fast-forward to later that night, around 10 pm. Helicopter Butt (our middle dog) was following me everywhere, gently imploring with his eyes for me to please, please take him for a walk. I cannot say "no" to Helicopter Butt for he is the sweetest, most easy-going dog of our trio.

Side bar: we call him "Helicopter Butt" because when he's excited, his tail twirls 'round and 'round like the rotor blade of a helicopter. He has yet to go airborn, but I'm confident that, given the right stimulus, it will happen one day.

Back to the story.

Helicopter Butt melts me. I turn to Husband and declare, "Looks like I'll have to take the dogs for a walk. I don't have the heart not to."

"Okay, but I want Le Pooch Grande to sit this one out. Her paws are still sore from chasing the tennis ball on Sunday."

"Will you please go with me?" I ask, eyes batting, "I'm scared to go by myself."

This is crap, of course. I have no fear whatsoever of walking the dogs by myself at night. My neighborhood is safe and besides, it's just around the block. Granted, "the block" is half a mile long, but I've never felt threatened. Still, I really just want Husband there because, quit frankly, I love his company. We have some of our best, most fun conversations when we're out walking the dogs.

"Sure!" he says, ever the gentleman. We head out.

Mid-way around the block we decide to cut through a yard and make our way home. Little Husband is making me very tired and I need to drop into bed ASAP.

Chattering up a storm, we cross the yard and pop out on the other side of the block where I note, out loud, that it's incredibly dark.

As if on queue, a male voice calls out to us.

"Hey! HEY!"

We whip our heads around. It's Homeless Guy #1. I scream. Loud.

"Oh, I didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to know if you have a cigarette." His voice is rough and gravely. He lumbers towards us. He's like The Boogeyman.

"Run! Run, Husband! It's the crazy guy I told you about!"

I start running, top speed.

I turn to see Husband lightly jogging behind me.

"RUN!!!!" I call to him. He picks up the pace.

Homeless Guy #1 is offended. "Awww...I'm not gonna hurt you. I just wanted a...LOOK AT YOU BUNCH OF SCAREDY-CATS! RUNNING LIKE A BUNCH OF SCAREDY-CATS!"

Knowing the effect these cat-calls might have on Husband (nobody calls him a "scaredy-cat"), I turn to see that he's slowed his pace to a walk. Again I direct him to "run".

He runs, but he's pissed. He's no scaredy-cat. Running's for girls! It's clear that he's only running to keep up with me.

Naturally this happens on the ONLY NIGHT that we don't have Le Pooch Grande along on the walk. Le Pooch Grande would have let this guy have it!

We run all the way to our garage door where I frantically enter the unlock code. The door groans, cranks upwards and we scoot underneath. Husband shoots me a dirty look as he dashes over to the button that will close the door. I lean against the wall, relieved to be safe.

"We probably should have run around the block and tried to lose him so that he wouldn't see where we live." Husband says, a trace of irritation in his voice.

"Maybe so," I reply, "But I think I would rather be safe inside our house near a telephone than running around the block with that crazy guy out there."

Husband says nothing which means we are not in agreement. Fair enough, his point is a good one.

Still, at the end of the day I feel much safer behind a locked door with three loud dogs and an alarm system than outside running around at night.

What do you think? Were we foolish to lead him to our house? Should we have kept running?

Introducing Baby Femme!

Here is the first sonogram picture of Little Husband. "We are officially the proud parents of a blob!" was my husband's comment when he saw it. I took the liberty of labeling things for you since right now he looks like an indistinguishable blob. Aw heck--even with the labels he looks like an indistinguishable blob.

I also outlined the baby in black 'cause I have all kinds of time right now.

Also, I think I will start referring to the baby as a "he" until I am proven otherwise. I know, I know--that's asking for it, ha ha!