The lady in red

My awesome friend Lori B invited me to go a fundraiser for Arkansas Children's Hospital last week, and I was so excited... great cause, good company, and the chance to get dressed up... how fun is that?

The event is called the "Color of Hope Gala," and every year they pick a different color. This year was red.

I'm a brunette. I love wearing red!

For a few days I searched local stores for the perfect red dress to no avail. So I finally ordered one online and paid $20 for expedited shipping.

It arrived two days before the event, and I excitedly tried it on. Um, no.

Just like a 747, certain items have shifted during flight. I looked totally boobalicious. Not only were they hanging low, they were spilling out the side. And, let's face it, when you're in your late 30s, even if you're skinny and still perky, there's only a small amount of skin you can show in good taste.

So I frantically went shopping on Thursday and finally bought a red dress. It was one I'd tried on a week before and deemed mediocre. But 24 hours before an event, mediocre was acceptable.

I showed up to the gala and the first three dresses I saw were black, white and gold, respectively. Cheaters.

But we had a fabulous time. Lori B seemed to enjoy my snarky comments about all the women with their hooters on full display. I enjoyed the young girl sitting near us who had both bottles of wine on our table and proceeded to accidentally make a large donation (her husband was mad!). And I got to meet Herschel Walker, who was lovely. All in all, it was an awesome time!

I think I was born to be fancy. I do so enjoy it.

LORIpalooza

Had a fabulous weekend. Ran 6.2 miles on Saturday morning (ok, I walked part of it, but I still averaged a 12-minute mile, so hooray for me), and then got to spend the day with the awesome Jen and the rest of the fam.

I spent Friday morning setting up for the Cancer Challenge silent auction, had lunch with Krista, a work party, then dinner with Kelly.

Last night I had dinner followed by fro-yo with Lori B. I have a couple of more celebrations to come--including a Tulsa trip with Krista this weekend--then it's back to days on end that don't revolve around me. Any more than they usually do, that is.

So now I'm 38 and, amazingly, I still feel the same as I did at 37. Except I need to pop a lot more Aleve. But that could be related to the beating my poor body took Saturday morning. LORIpalooza is over. Bring it on, July!

Rest of the weekend pics are here.

What's wrong with you?

Just spent an hour on the phone commiserating with the other half of LoriSquared. We have so much in common besides our name. The excessive height. The sarcasm. The ambition. The sad singleness.

But, unlike me, she still possesses hope. She's still out there, going on tons of dates in the off-chance that the next one might be the right one. She still believes in love.

And I guess I believe in love, too. I just think it's elusive.

You can't be single for nearly four decades without developing a hatred for the inevitable questions about your sexual orientation, standards, or childbirth goals. I, for one, am sick of it.

Because, really, are my standards excessively high because I'd like a man who doesn't collect figurines? Because I don't need a man to protect me or pay my bills? If I say "no" to a date with a guy who's been married four times and beaten all of of his wives, does that really make me impossible to please?

But I guess we're all conditioned to question those who don't adhere to society's expectations. Just two days ago I had lunch with a pal who tried to set me up with Mr. Golf Injury. Turns out he's never been married. My first thought: "What's wrong with him?"

Eeek! What's wrong with me? Why do I automatically assume he's inherently flawed because he's never said "I do?" Maybe he, like me, never intended to still be sleeping alone. But life has a funny way of being impossible to predict.

And, just in case you're wondering, I don't have cats, I still like boys, and I'm not that picky. It's a dating jungle out there and I forgot my bug spray, so I'm hanging out in the tent for awhile. Maybe that makes me lazy or cynical or realistic, but I'm tired. In the meantime, if you find Mr. Wonderful wondering the streets of NWA, send him my way. But not if he's wondering what's wrong with me.

The fluke puke

If I had to choose an eating disorder, I would choose anorexia. While the physical act of chewing brings me joy and I have an unnatural love for food, I absolutely hate to throw up. So I'd rather do without than to binge and purge.

Unfortunately I've had my share of stomach bugs and once had severe food poisoning, but I've always managed to find an appropriate place to vomit. Growing up, our family had the "puke pan," a porcelain bowl my mom kept under the sink for bouts of sickness that she'd drag out when one of us was sick. We'd throw up, then she'd sterilize it and store it for the next family flu.

For three decades, I've managed to restrict my purging to private places. I'm not the girl who puked at a frat party in college or in a club during a date.

This afternoon, however, while driving down an innocuous Rogers street, my streak ended. I felt a bit nauseous, which I attributed to cramping, and then it happened. Projectile vomiting. While driving.

Have you ever had a puddle of puke on your brand new pants and on your steering wheel? Have you ever driven with your left hand because your right hand was streaked with vomit from trying to catch it before it was too late?

Much too little and much too late.

Thankfully I was only a few miles from my office, and luckily I'd done yoga at lunch and still had my workout gear in a bag in the backseat.

But I still had to pull up in front of our very glass building and walk into my office, which is next door to a vendor's glass-walled office, with puke from my neck to my shins. I had to visit the cleaning closet to secure Lysol and a trash bag to stash my (thankfully washable) clothes after stripping down in the bathroom.

Sadly, I had to cancel my Ruth's Chris dinner with Lori B, which I was really looking forward to. But that was less traumatic than sitting in vomit for my 45 commute.

Once home, I threw my clothes in the washing machine, liberally sprayed my car with carpet cleaner, scrubbed out the puke stains, and walked in the house to throw up again.

In case you're wondering, I had leftover cheese dip for lunch. No dairy for this gal for a few days, because I eventually got hungry again tonight and seem to be over whatever died in my stomach.

Granted, it could have been worse. Someone else could have puked on me.

The best things in life aren't free

Yes we can, indeed. And if you drank the Obama Kool-aid, there's no need to read further.

I openly acknowledge my high maintenance lifestyle. I consider pedicures and massages to be necessities in my monthly budget. I don't color my own hair or mow my own lawn. I insist on nice hotels, great meals, and fabulous handbags.

In other words, my life ain't cheap.

Luckily, I went to college and despite all the partying, managed to graduate and go on to earn a master's degree. My job is stressful and often it's more than 40 hours a week. But I don't mind because I'm fortunate to have a job I love, and because I am well compensated for thinking about work 24/7.

With a nice salary comes some nice perks, like a nice home and a dependable (albeit recalled) vehicle, cosmetics from a department store counter, and the opportunity to travel. See, I'm obsessed with weekend shopping trips and concerts and nice dinners. I find myself planning months full of weekends to Dallas and Kansas City. Right now I'm saving to buy my nephew a laptop for his high school graduation. I have 20th row tickets to see Bon Jovi in Tulsa next month. I'm headed to Temple twice in April, once for a race and once just because I miss Jen. I'm currently trying to talk Scott and Alisa into Dallas in May to see Jimmy Buffett, and I want to schedule girls' weekend with Sorne, Kelly and Amanda to see SATC2 Memorial Day weekend.

Ruth's Chris for dinner? That's just a Wednesday night for me and my pal Lori B. And in December, Krista and I will be happily ensconced in our Times Square hotel suite in NYC.

If you're going somewhere, I want to go. If a great band is playing, I want to see the concert. I like stuff. I like places. I love spending time with my friends.

But often, I find myself having to stop planning things. Not only do my weekends fill, but I run out of funds. And when you don't have money, you have to stop spending it.

Unless you're Congress. Then you can continue to spend money you don't have on people who don't need it.

See, when I use credit to pay for things, I have to pay it back with interest. Where's my blank check?

But you know what? If someone gave me a beautiful new red patent leather Louis Vuitton bag with the understanding that it was totally free to me, but someday my niece and nephews would have to pay for it, I'd say no. Because I believe in paying for my lifestyle, even if it means doing without.

You listening, Nancy Pelosi?

Let's make plans for July, when I might be solvent again!

It ain't easy being green

I hate Valentine's Day.

There are two nights out of the entire year that it really sucks to be single. One is New Year's Eve. The other, Valentine's Day.

The other 363 I don't mind being alone. Right now I'm watching a cheesy show on the CW in my flannel pajamas, wearing glasses and Crest white strips. My legs aren't shaved. My hair's in a clip. My top and bottoms don't match. Ah, the fabulous life of the single gal.

I just painted a purple accent wall in my bedroom. No man would let me do that.

Glamour aside, my life is going pretty well right now. I have plans with great friends three nights in a row this weekend. My job is good (and I'm grateful to have one). But Valentine's Day looms. That Hallmark, red rose and haiku festival of love. In 13 days. With no man on the horizon.

Without a doubt, the worst part of this stupid holiday is the pity others seem to think I deserve. Last year one of my coworkers felt bad that I didn't get flowers, so she left one of the 18 she received from her husband on my desk. Yeah, thanks for the pity rose, pal.

I usually get some cursory gifts from friends, with comments of "Well we didn't want you to not get anything today...." Seriously. I'm okay with that. It's much less painful than others wrapping stuff up because they feel sorry for me.

My pal Lori B, who's also single (and amazing, which makes me realize boys are really stupid) sent me an email today from a local restaurant, detailing their Valentine's Day plans. This is a first-rate joint, with servers and assistant servers and reservations and bottle service. They also have a great bar area that they're trying to establish as the permier Happy Hour locale of NWA.

So, on Thursday, February 11, they'll be featuring a fabulous mixer after work, and are encouraging patrons to color code themselves for easy identification. If you're taken, you're to wear red. If you're in a relationship but it's not serious, you're supposed to wear yellow. Single? Wear green.

What the heck is the significance of green? Red is the official color of Valentine's Day, so I suppose that makes green the color of mold? Not the bloom from the rose, but the extra leaves that get cut off. Why don't we all just stamp our forehead with a big "L" for loser and call it a night?

I can tell you one gal who won't be wearing green for Valentine's Day. I'll be in black in protest of this stupid holiday.

And no, I'm not online dating. Shut up.