Embarrassing Realizations (Part 3 of ∞ )

All in the same day....

Realizing, as you arrive late to hot yoga, that you have no towel to sop your sweat/keep your clammy, slimy hands from slipping and letting you face-plant/wipe off your appendages so you can actually hold on to them.

Oh, LOLcats, is there anything you CAN'T do?

Further realizing the closest thing that will have to make due, out of the trunk of your car, is a sweater of grandmotherly proportions and quality that you purchased at a thrift shop in 1996 and have left in your trunk "just in case".

I think the layering was cool, a-la-Nirvana, circa 1996. I could be very, very wrong, though.

Upon implementation of said granny sweater, realizing that NEITHER your rubber yoga mat nor your acrylic/polyester/synthetic knit sweater stops hands and feet from slipping.

Then realizing that your I-only-wear-these-capris-when-I-haven't-washed-my-workout-clothes-and-they-are-all-that's-left purple capri pants display, quite clearly and nicely for all to see, that you sweat excessively in your groin.

You know, like this, except not nearly as nice, probably from circa 1987 or else free from the Goodlife Gym. What?!? It was free.

Fast forward to the end of a painful hot yoga class. Throw on a pair of jeans that happen to be in your dufflebag (does anyone under the age of 50 refer to these things as dufflebags, or is it just me? Just me. Okay.).

Go to the pet store, and shop at the grocery store for over an hour before realizing that your zipper is down.

Totally down. Completely open.

And, well, you just came from being drenched in hot yoga and therefore removed your sw-assy underclothes and put the jeans on as a temporary sweat cover until you were able to go home and shower.

Also noting that you are allowing a certain amount of... erm.... growth, in order to facilitate honeymoon sugaring (much like waxing).

Finally get into your car, giving yourself multiple, much-needed facepalms.

Awesome day and it's only 12:20pm.

Grin and bear it, folks. You've got another 12 hours of awake time to suffer through. Well, if you're me, that is.

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Win & Fail

So, sometimes I feel like the ultimate shitty blogger.
No good thoughts, no witticisms bringing the house down with lols, ROLFLOLs, or people choking on their chicken wing and dying due to my hilarious content.

I realized today that I promised to guest post at two other bloggers' sites... Bruce at JADIP and Krissy at Talkative Taurus.

I went all wedding-y and did stuff, and was sick and down and out in between, then went to California, was in hospital, came back home, now suffering nightmares and unable to sleep through the night. I never guest posted.

Full of the AWESOME.

I have also been given an award by Sam at a Redhead Named Sam, chosen at random, but have yet to make mention of it. So... I get a big helping of FAIL for that.

On the other hand?

I WIN on Wii.



I am currently ranked #1 on all of Rock Band 3 for "Blow At High Dough" by the Tragically Hip (an awesome Canadian band who never were able to crack North American mainstream). I did vocals solo on expert. Boo-yah.

The smarter it gets, the further it's gonna go. #1 on Rock Band 3

I also did 10-fucking-straight-minutes of hula hoop on the Wii fit. I'm sure I broke no records, but people. 10 MINUTES OF HULA HOOP. That has to count for something, right?

10 minute Wii hula hoop: Not for pussies the weak.

RIGHT?

Okay, so the actual number of spins is about that number divided by 5 (What?!? They throw 5 hoops at you and add it to your total... not my fault!)

No?

Goddammit.

Fine, here is an adorable picture of my sleeping puppy Ella (with me trying to protect her lady-like-ness):

Sleepy puppy with some class.

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I Look Like A Server - Also, Want To Help The Bloggess?

This is the last of my bleeding heart posts (the last one lost me two followers, for reals).

Jenny, THE BLOGGESS, is co-ordinating stuff here: http://thebloggess.com/?p=9474
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Moving on to other topics...

I bought a new wrap blouse and a high-waisted pencil skirt to wear to my work luncheon. It is one of two Christmas-y sort of dress up things I get to attend this year. They were both on sale (the clothing, not the functions), but I am still having a hard time justifying the buy. But, with all the weight loss, NOTHING FITS. So, I went for it.

BF said I looked great. I tried everything on last night to make sure it fit and I didn't look like a hooker or anything. I actually felt like I rocked it pretty well.

Then I got to the hall. I was the first one there. A client came in and asked me where to put his coat, and if I worked there. FUCK NO, I don't. I work for the engineering firm that invited you here. (And no, I am not an engineer, I am a lowly co-ordinator, but I still do engineery stuff, beeyotch! Yeah, I've been on a swing stage. Many times. EAT THAT, Mr. Client!).

Then I considered the fact that I was wearing a black tank top, white wrap blouse and high-waisted black skirt. Shit. All I needed was a tie and I would have matched the bloody wait staff (okay, they may have been wearing vests, too, I'm not sure).

My co-worker (we'll call him Colleague #1) came in and looked at me. First words out of his mouth? "Oh hey, do you work here? Can you go get me a drink or something? *snickers*".

JACKASS.

So of the 6 people there, 33% pointed out my outfit was very waitress-like. Which is obviously AWESOME because that was the look I was going for when I shelled out the money to actually buy a decent outfit for once. Friggin' awesome.

So more people came in, it was bloody freezing with the door opening so often, chit chat was had, mingling commenced. I smiled and laughed. I was already pissed that my hair was a big 80's pouf-ball disaster (over-diffusing = chia pet). I also added these pretty drop earrings into the mix, which I had originally assumed would be mostly covered by my hair being down. Once I put the sides up to control the pouf factor, I forgot that shit made me look some pink lipstick away from a Poison video. (Surprisingly more like the gentlemen in said video).

Then I wandered to the bar. And one of the three main manager-guys that I always joke around with asked me if I worked there and if I could get him a drink. He had not spoken with Colleague #1.

Fantastic.

So... I should have worn a pair of my ill-fitting pants with a tight belt, some random sweater, and donated the damn money to charity. Also? I get to wear the outfit again and hope no one approaches me and asks for more h'ors d'oeuvres.  (Yes I had to search for the proper spelling of that).  At least at the work function I had a company name tag on. Not at this next event.

Quadruple bonus? I went to the washroom about an hour before everything ended to find that my mascara had somehow morphed onto my upper eyelids, as well as under my eyes. It looked like I had been crying (trust me, I know that look + mascara). It has never happened to me before, but it was the icing on the cake. I looked like the saddest 80's rocker slash waitress slash bartender slash streetwalker this little town ever did have.

"Hi, I'm Stephanie, welcome to the luncheon." (minus the collar)

I blame it on the shitloads of concealer I tried to apply (albeit poorly, and, what's that you say? Blend? I'm not familiar with that... Pancakey make-up is not advisable? Really? Can you double check that? What's that you say? Liquid/cream clearance eyeshadow probably didn't help matters? Hmm. Well, where the hell WERE YOU when I was getting ready?)

Mark that one as a big, fat fail.

Before you all try commenting with soothing "It wasn't that bad" comments, just let me have this one. This monumental moment of semi-confidence to epic fail. Yes, I am sure it wasn't that bad at the end of the day. Whatever.

Fuck it, I'm wearing it out tomorrow night, too. To a RESTAURANT. I'll tempt fate. But maybe I will try to straighten my hair. And not wear dripping eye make-up. And drop earrings. And pink lipstick.

Nah, probably not.

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