Thursday, May 10, 2012

Big trip to the east for the Derby Gala

I was on my way to the Kentucky Derby one Saturday when I was kidnapped and held hostage at a private country club in east Reno. You see, BFF, an east coast Debutante and west coast Junior Leaguer, had a fantasy of creating an event to remind her of the days when she actually lived with her fabulously wealthy family and socialized with only the elite southern class of the U.S. (Pic below with Big Red and BFF)
Well who were we to squash her dreams of yore? So we put on our BIG girl britches, our Derby worthy frocks, and the most unbridled headdress we could pluck from Minnie Pearl's price-tag-laden hat collection. Having the sense of humor she does, BFF christened Big Red and me as the Bonnet adjudicators of the Derby and we adopted a third party, who I deem Mr. Martini due to his choice of liquid Valium to work his way through the day. So we swept through the room with all our vigor and glory to crown the most stylish headcloth. After which, Big Red proudly stepped up to the microphone to parade her Mint Julep induced southern drawl for the announcement of the winners.
The mic couldn't have been yanked from her at a more opportune time, because at that point she had decided to let anyone know who was listening (a couple of people) that this duo is for hire to host parties. And I say, "Um, no we aren't." I'm sure at that very moment the Kardashians and Paris Hilton were shaking in their stilettos for fear of losing their next Vegas gig to a couple of middle - no strike that - 3/4 aged loud mouths.( To the right is some MMA fighter, Attorney Girl, moi and Big Red)
And just my luck, as we wandered to the outdoors for a photo op with a Rose wreath-adorned horse who has never seen a race track, I run into an ex-BF while I'm gussied up in all my Southern regalia. As my friend Ginger so eloquently put it, "God hates you and you are going to H. E. double L." To which I reply, "Duuuh!" Has anyone ever had a BF take on the sudden urge to attend mass after being in your presence for a couple of hours? Yeah, me neither. But if that had ever happened to me, I'd say that BF may have had some good instincts. (Ginger, my prophecy, dolled up in all pink is to the left)

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

We went to St. Louis to get fat and it worked.

Big Red and I recently embarked upon a trip to St. Louis, a city that has never had the opportunity to entertain us, until now. Our first outing started with a stroll down "The Loop," which has no resemblance to a loop at all, unless walking straight down a sidewalk then crossing the street and walking back in the opposite direction constitutes a loop for you. I've renamed it "The Rectangle."

We quite possibly burned about 35 calories before deciding we need to imbibe in an Anheuser-Busch territory beer tasting. We had a line up of blonde, pale, dark, light, etc.
This was an exciting moment for us. We're in the land of foamy golden hops and barley. It took a total of two sips to remind us - WE HATE BEER. So off we went our arms swinging with the determination to get back to the room to gussy up for the evening ahead.

(Ciroc was the alcohol of choice with no Champagne in sight)

Our divalicious gal-pal from the home of the Gateway Arch whisked us away to Playboy Cappuccino to have our first culinary experience. Upon our arrival I must note there was no Hugh Hefner sighting, and there were NO Cappuccinos, lattes or espressos within miles of this gin joint.

After months and/or years of training our muscles and body to understand we are on the journey to thinner, healthier vessels - a large shiny paper plate of deep fried chicken, deep-fried shrimp and double-fried steak potatoes landed on our fold-out table next to the wooden bowl (not bucket) of ice. You say, why is there a bowl of ice on the table? Well naturally if we wanted our drinks cold, we were going to need this accoutrement. The only other food option was deep-fried Tripe delicately placed between two starch WHITE pieces of Wonder bread. I haven't had white bread, let alone the polka dot wrapped gooey brand since Black Oak Arkansas had a hit song, well, a song anyway.

(Woman in the far left corner of this pic said, "white girls dancing, scare me." I told her I scare myself.)

I apologize ahead of time for what I'm about to describe. But if you, like I, have taken the oath of whole grain style carbs, then you need to know - once you bite into the above mentioned sandwich - the remainder of your evening is spent thrusting your tongue to-and-fro at the rooftop of your pie-hole in an attempt to scrape off the residuals of this White Wonder. I'm beginning to think this might be the end to my weight problem. If I make this selection for every meal, I'd never get through it - and I must have burned 150 calories peeling off the fresh plaster of dough.

Oh, and after a night of debauchery in the greasy, nasty, yummy, luscious deep-fried department - don't bother seeking refuge in a Jamba Juice the following day, unless you want to buy the space and open one up yourself.