My IBS can trump even Jimmy Kimmel...

So one of the things we were really looking forward to in California was going to the Jimmy Kimmel show. He is my favorite nighttime talk show host. The three of us were dressed in bright colors with nice scarves so that we would get picked to sit down in front. We had everything planned out, we had our tickets, our outfits, our hair and makeup, you name it, nothing could get screwed up. Except of course, my secret internal archenemy, my intestinal tract. It always seems to know just when to start acting up. I think it's been having a discussion with my teenage daughter on how to make my life miserable. Like clockwork, the rumbling started when we were waiting to go through the first security check. I tried to convince the skeptical lady that the fog horn she heard was my new cellphone ring tone, but she definitely wasn't buying it. When we were seated in the row right behind the cameraman, it was just so exciting I thought I would explode, and so did my descending colon. I think I must have burned a Zumba class worth of calories just squirming in my seat. I'm sure the guy sitting next to me thought I had some kind of undiagnosed central nervous system problem. It really was fun, and we made it through the 90 minute taping unscathed.  Next time we go I plan to sit closer to the band because maybe they'll think it's the trumpet they hear instead of my stomach.

Really, it's not that hard to imagine driving off Mulholland Drive...

So, one of the many things you must do when in California (or so we were told), is to take a drive down Mulholland Drive. 

The following are words I'd use to describe this road:

winding (whose idea was it to put a road on top of a mountain) 
scenic (I'm assuming; the only thing I ever saw were the floor mats)
breathtaking (don't forget your nebulizer)
awe inspiring (how did the contractors ever get building permits )
fast paced (the guy driving behind us might as well have been sitting in my lap, or at least have put a dollar tip in my underwear)
glamorous (it definitely pays to go to acting school)
hair-raising (never have I seen such a large percentage of toupees in convertibles in one place)
untamed (the rattlesnake and mountain lion warning signs were a little unnerving)

It was fun, and challenging, and oh so memorable, and next time I promise I'll open my eyes!

Smackdown: Sensible Moms vs Sexy Nightclub...

So, when we got to California, we had all kinds of plans to see famous people. After reading People magazine, it occurred to us that the best place to do this would be at the infamous Chateau Marmont. We were hoping to see all the most famous starlets and their hunks engaging in debauchery and shenanigans. After circling three times, we pulled up in our totally unsexy mom mobile and rolled down the back window. My friend, in her best Irish whisper, yelled out "where are the clubs, the clubs? You know, the clubs where all the stars go?". The extremely uninterested and super sexy valet sauntered slowly over and took a long look inside our rental and was like "you've got to be kidding me, you're a car full of old chicks". Not to be dissuaded, and after much convincing, he parked our car and sent us to the bar. Well, we were ushered to a lovely table where a girl in a satin nightie and garter belt took our order. She was so young and sweet, I wanted to give her a bathrobe to wear and sign her up for night classes. We ordered a sexy cheese platter and some exotic sounding cocktails and waited for Prince and the Revolution to show up. Let me tell you, the only shenanigans we had were our own, because our drinks were so stiff we were laughing our asses off  after just a few sips. It just goes to show you don't have to wear your lingerie out in public to have a hot tootin' good time.

Fly me to the moon, cuz it would be a hell of a lot easier....

So I have taken a little break from the blog because I was trying to do some Cameron stuff. I took a trip to California with two of my fellow WWCD ladies from work. Flying anywhere used to have such a great meaning to it. You just got on a plane and took off. Now, you go to the airport and proceed to take everything off, your jacket, belt, shoes, pedometer, Teds stockings, Depends brief, corset, neck wrap, knee brace, spanx, and hair net. In the old days, you didn't worry about bringing anything on the plane. You just needed your alcohol nips, cigarette lighter, two packs of Marlboros and a deck of cards. Now you can't bring anything over 3 ounces, so you pre-hydrate be drinking 20 gallons of water every day starting two weeks before your flight. It would be so great if they sold a seat located in the bathroom, because that's where I spent the entire flight.   When I actually took birth control pills, I didn't even know what a DVT was. On the plane I looked like I was practicing for the Indy 500 by the amount of times I flexed my foot to keep the blood flowing. We arrived intact, and what happened to us next is worth another entry tomorrow....

NYC, move over....

Anyone who tells you their 20's is the best time of their life has never been 46. Three friends and I took a whirlwind 28 hour bus trip to NYC and it was just the best fun I've had in a long time. It helps that we are not on a quest to meet men, get discovered by modeling agents, land a job or find diet food. I've realized those obstacles can really ruin your fun. We plowed through droves of people to seek out green magical drinks called "Wizard-tinis" packed chock full of liquor, shopped leisurely for scarves without the plaintive wails of small children, and based our plans only on what we wanted to do. We acted like careless fools, praying in a circle on the sidewalk to get into the audience at "Live with Kelly and Michael", and wouldn't you know it worked. Next up, a California trip to see Jimmy Kimmel and turn that town upside down....

Chronicling my weight loss is going to require intestinal fortitude....

So, I thought one thing that would help me in my final quest to reach an ideal BMI would be to chronicle my progress every week by taking photos of my changing body. I put on the traditional costume of sports bra and some granny panties and set up my camera on my bureau. Well, let me tell you, I think I may have stumbled upon a new career. My snaps rivaled those of the person who takes your license picture at the DMV. I had visions of myself as a crime scene photographer or a highway accident re-enacter. Maybe me and Marg Helgenberger could swap war stories.  I'm thinking of getting an NCIS tattoo on my bicep. Knowing how much my hip hurts will keep me on the right path, envisioning a pain free body is very motivating. And those awful pictures will definitely help...

The funnest thing about winning at slots is not knowing what you're doing....

Last weekend, we took a trip to Mohegan Sun which was a first for us. Not really on the bucket list, but it was definitely a trip. After strolling through and checking out the sights, I learned a lot about the gambling life. And that is that you need an advanced math degree from MIT to figure out what the hell you are doing. There are so many combinations of lines, bets and symbols to decipher, I feel like I may have stumbled upon the next think tank waiting to be discovered. One 90 year old woman was explaining to me Achems Razor on a 1/4 cent slot machine. Another "slotter" (who I really thought was Jabba the Hut wandering over from a Comic.Con convention) was extrapolating how it was possible to beat the odds at Wheel of Fortune. I learned so much, and the only downfall is that I now need a heart lung machine because I must have inhaled twenty packs of secondhand smoke in my quest for higher gambling knowledge...