My Master Plan

For many, MANY years I've been researching how to commit the perfect crime.

(Not that I ever would.)

I've read every Ann Rule book ever written, have buried myself in every show in the True Crime genre under the sun, have taken copious notes while watching Snapped!...

And then recently, while watching television, I couldn't find the remote and ended up having to sit through a commercial.

And that's when I discovered that all I have to do to commit the perfect crime is whiten my teeth afterwards...


and no one will recognize me.







I KNOW, RIGHT???

IT'S FREAKING BRILLIANT!!!

I could rob a bank in broad daylight wearing a name tag and leaving my business card behind and all I would have to do is whiten my teeth while driving home in the getaway car (with a vanity plate that says "Hi, I'm Dani, and I Rob Banks") and I would be unrecognizable before I pulled out of the parking space.

There I would be, waving at the surveillance camera, flashing my boobs and doing devil horns and not one single person would be able to pick my ass out of a line-up.  They'd be all, "No, it couldn't be her... look how white her teeth are!"


Before whitening:

"That's the bitch who robbed the bank!!"

After whitening:

"Who's this person?  She doesn't look familiar at all..."

I'm telling you, my plan is fool-proof.

Misery Loves Nothing

Even though mentally I'm like 15 years old, my body dropped off the bandwagon some time ago and is careening rapidly towards the dreaded 5-0.  (That's half a friggin' century, in case you didn't know.)  In just under 10 months, I will be *gag* 50.

Fifty.

50.

Oh, GOD.

I know, right?!!

Anyway, all these mysterious aches and pains keep creeping up on me and I spend a lot of time gimping around complaining.

(And getting zero sympathy from Dan.)

We have conversations that go like this:

Me:  *hobbling around like I'm 100 years old*

Dan:  *looking annoyed*  "What's wrong with you?"

Me:  "My back is killing me..."

Dan:  *taking it personally*  "Again?"

(Remember the time he stayed home from work because he was sore from playing baseball?  Exactly.)

After a few days of cataloging all of my grievances, I check WebMD and determine that I am, indeed, dying.

Then it goes away and is replaced by a different pain.

It's like my body can't decide how most effectively to kill me.

Meanwhile, last week, as you all know, I had an epic fall on the ice.  (If you missed it, you can catch up on my most recent bout of humiliation here.  Or not... no pressure.)

I was battered and bruised and in so much pain that I contemplated riding a Fatty Scooter through Walmart when I did my grocery shopping.  (I didn't.  The thought was fleeting and tempered with the fear that I would probably be the first person ever to crash into a shelf and be buried under falling cases of toilet paper or feminine hygiene products or with my luck, Preparation H, at which time I would die and eventually appear on Curious & Unusual Deaths, and my family would have to enter the Witness Protection Program and have their names changed, because of the shame brought upon their name by my fat and reckless clumsiness.  And hemorrhoids.)

Eventually, the pain dissipated, and even though my bruises have remained colorful and I spend what is most likely wayyyyy too much time checking out the blossoming hematoma on my hip (I'm waiting for a blood clot to break loose and enter my brain, killing me rapidly, most likely while I'm on the toilet) I have managed to recover relatively unscathed.

Until this morning.

God only know what I did during the 20 minutes of sleep I got last night, but it was apparently a doozy.

I woke up at 4:30-ish and decided to get up to pee.  (I always get up to pee.  If I wake up, I get up and pee.  I figure as long as I'm awake, right?  No? Just me?  Really?  Hmmm.)  I pushed Maisy and Javi out of the way, laid a pillow over Dan's face to muffle his snoring, swung my legs over the side of the bed and nearly passed out from the pain.

What.

The FUCK.

It literally felt like someone was stabbing me in the left buttcheek with an icepick.

The pain radiated down my leg AND up my back.

I gasped and clutched at my hip, trying to stand up.

Oh god... OH GOD...

I suddenly knew what it was.

Sciatica.  THE HEART BREAK OF SCIATICA.  (Or is it psoriasis that's heartbreaking?  I don't remember.)

Owwwwww.

OWWWWWWWW.

I had my first experience with sciatica last year, during which time I came to the intelligent conclusion that I had a rare case of buttcheek cancer.  The pain was excruciating.  When I eventually dragged my sorry ass to the doctor (literally), I already had my Living Will in place and was ready to call the family together to say my final good-byes, in what would be an Academy Award winning deathbed scene.

Dear Sarah Bernhardt,

I laugh in the face of your famous death bed scenes.


Ha haaa!


Let me show you how it's done.


Love,


Dani


When the doctor assured me it was sciatica and not a tumor, I was somewhat relieved.  Until she told me it was probably going to recur randomly.

Son of a BITCH.

Of COURSE when I get something terminal, it's something that won't kill me.  It'll just make me miserable FOR THE REST OF MY WHAT I'M SURE WILL BE AN EXTREMELY LONG AND AGONIZING LIFE.

Thank you, Karma!!  THANK YOU!

(Yes, I realize I'm bitching because sciatica won't kill me.  Don't expect me to make sense, mmkay?  My blog, my way.)

SO.

As I sit here in agony (which I am... this shit hurts) I decided to look for the goddamn silver lining.

In my head I'm thinking "Fuck la doublure d'argent!"  


(That's French for "fuck the silver lining!"  I wrote it in French because I wanted to say "Pardon my French" and actually have it be French.)

But a little ray of sunshine I am, so here are the things I am thankful for:


I am horribly thankful that none of these people are me.

Is this a dude?  I can't decide.

 

It's the little things, really.

Love is in the air...

Famous Love Quotes Throughout Time:

Touches you right here, doesn't it?  *bliss*

Friday, Dan came home from work, as he always does.  The little dogs were dancing and prancing around his feet when he walked through the door.

He picked up Javi, my Pomeranian, and cuddled him for a minute and gave him a kiss.

His picked up Maisy, my puggy, smooched her flat little face, and said, "Hi beautiful!!"  

He looked at me and as I leaned in for MY lovin', he said:

"What's that smell?  Did you fart?"

"Baby, did you pass gas?"

Welcome to my Fairy Tale.

Fatty Falls Down

It was Just.  Like.  THAT.

It's taken me a couple of days to blog about this because a) I'm still in pain, b) it's not quite funny yet, and c) all of the above.

Here's what happened:

It had been raining most of the morning and had finally cleared up.  I leashed up Javi and Maisy and joyfully went skipping down the stairs, ready to take a nice walk in the clean, damp air.  

As we frolicked down the steps, I noticed a giant puddle blocking my exit to the street.  The doglets had wisely paused mid-frolic, hesitant to get their prissy little feet wet.

I have no such inhibitions.

I have waterproof rain boots and I'm not afraid to use them.

"Come on, you two!" I yodeled, yanking their leashes and tromping my boot-clad foot into the puddle.

This, my dear people, is where I realized I had made a drastic error in judgement.

It was here that I had a lightbulb moment one minute too late.

It was here that I realized the puddle wasn't water, but black ice.

It was here that I crashed and burned and almost died.

(The death would have been from embarrassment, fyi.)

As my foot hit the ice I performed an impromptu jazzy little dance number, arms and feet flailing like I was attempting to take flight.

Like this, only without the joy.

  

I let go of the leashes and desperately grabbed at the wimpy pine trees bordering my sidewalk, hoping to find something strong enough to at least slow my descent to the frozen tundra of northern New York.  Sooner rather than later, my pile-driving ass hit the ground with a resounding thud...  

Then all was silent as I lay there, sprawled on the ice with pine needles raining gently onto my head.

Public Service Message for idiots from California who can't tell the difference between ice and water.

As I looked up (my first instinct being to see if anybody saw me fall... Because if a fat girl falls in the forest and no one is there to see it, it didn't really happen) I saw the headlights of a car slowly approaching, then creeping past as all occupants stared out the window at the shapeless, motionless blob in a bright pink sweatshirt lying bloody and bruised in the middle of an ice patch.

Like this, only less gansta and more hillbilly.

I could almost hear them inquiring within:

"What IS that?"

"Is it a bird?"

Clumsy flightless waterfowl?

"Is it a... plane?"

Ground control to Major Tom... ??

"No... no... I think it's a fat girl lying in the snow..."

Only without a helmet.

Javi bailed on me, obviously too embarrassed by my antics to even consider sticking around.  He sat by the door of the apartment building, deliberately not looking at me and pretending he had no idea who the ridiculous human lying on the cold hard ground could possibly be.

Maisy, on the other hand, took herself on a walk, seeing that I apparently wasn't going to bother.

Meanwhile, in the apartment not 10 feet from where I lay...

Thank you for your service.  Asshole.

Finally realizing that the earth was indeed NOT going to open up and swallow me, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees.  Obviously not learning my lesson the first time around, I grasped at the pine branches to help pull myself up.

The delicate aroma of pine filled the air as I came away with another handful of needles and no leverage.

At least my death will be piney-fresh, I thought, as another car drove slowly by.  

(At least THOSE people had the decency to look away when they noticed I was watching them.)

After attempting to stand and failing miserably, I realized my only way out of this predicament was to crawl on my hands and knees back to the relative safety of the apartment building.   As nonchalantly as I could,  I dragged my sad and sorry ass across the ice, through the slush and puddles and muck and mire, to the steps of the front porch, where, equally casually, I pulled myself upright and limped up the stairs.

Like this, only without dignity.

A catalog of my injuries included a sprained wrist, scraped palms, jammed thumb, three broken acrylic nails, sprained ankle, giant bruise on top of foot, bruised and shredded knee, bruised hip, and seriously damaged ego.

I've been feeling sorry for myself ever since.

Fuck you, Chinese Proverb.

And everybody was Ninja Fartingggg...

Okay, I think I'm finally ready to talk about it.

A week or so ago I posted about a telemarketer gone rogue, who was able to subdue me because I was weak from the effects of a Ninja Fart that Dan had hired to assassinate me in my sleep.

(You can refresh your memory here.)

It was a night like any other night.

Dan was snoring his ass off and I was lying awake, plotting his demise.  I had casually pressed a pillow against all of his air holes and was gently applying pressure when suddenly, out of the blue, a fart so powerful, so pervasive, so silent, leaped from his ass and with rapid-fire precision, proceeded to attempt to kill me without leaving so much as a mark.


I never even heard it coming.


One minute I was smothering my husband with a pillow  muffling Dan's snoring, the next I was practically levitating in a frantic effort to get air that was untainted with the foulest ass gas known to mankind.

This fart broke all laws of gravity.  It hovered in mid-air over my head (picture the Matrix, only without Keanu) and violated all rules of the time-space continuum.  (I have no idea what that means, but I can picture it in my head.) 

I clawed at the air and fell out of bed, crawling towards the window croaking, "Air... air... I need air..."  

I could actually feel my spirit leaving my body as I made one final, desperate lunge at the window, pushed it open, and stuck my head out in the frigid sub zero air.

I sat there breathing until icicles formed on my nose and fart crystals created a green cloud in the vicinity of Dan's ass.

When I finally climbed back in bed I was so weak and defenseless that I couldn't even kick the crap out of him with my icy little feet.  Instead, I just laid there, watching the ominous cloud of fart turn itself into the shape of a dragon and finally, finally, disappear into the atmosphere with a silent but deadly "poof."

When morning eventually dawned and Dan's alarm went off, I was still wide awake, terrified of the return of the Ninja Fart.  

After Dan hit snooze three times (have I ever mentioned how much I hate that?  JUST GET OUT OF BED.  Seriously.  SERIOUSLY.  I do NOT understand the purpose of snooze.  I just don't) he finally rolled over and gave me his sleepy good morning smile.

Dan:  *looking all innocent and sweet*  "MMmmmm... morning, baby... How did you sleep?"

Me:  *looking pissed off, haggard, and like I'd spent the previous 8 hours fending off Ninjas*  "I didn't."

Dan:  *looking surprised, even though I never sleep and he knows it*  "Why?"

Me:  *waxing eloquent about his snoring, his bed hogging, his snoring, his farting, his snoring, and finally, the Ninja Fart*

Dan:  *looking pleased as punch*  "Really?  IT WAS THAT GOOD?"

Yahoo! thinks I'm a dude

I've had my suspicions for a while now.  

I've managed to ignore all the spam screaming at me about how I can make my penis grow, or maintain my boner for extended periods of time.

I've quickly deleted all the "All Nude Teen-Age Sluts" emails, shake my head at the letters from beautiful blonde foreign women who are dying to meet me and desperate to send me pictures of their boobs, and roll my eyes at all the dirty porn that passes from my inbox to my trash can with one easy click.

But now there's a new development that I can't ignore.

Now I know FOR A FACT that Yahoo thinks I'm a dude.

I'm not a dude!  Now excuse me while I adjust my junk.

To add insult to injury, not only does Yahoo think I'm a dude, it thinks I'm an old dude.  With a small penis.  Who can't get it up.

Okay, maybe not "old" exactly, but middle-aged, single and desperate.  And apparently not hot enough to land myself a trophy wife.

So here's what happened:

I've been noticing a lot of emails from match.com and eharmony and other dating sites in my inbox.  

Dear Christianmingle.com aka "Find God's match for you!",

Is God really sitting in your main office looking for the perfect match for me?  Is he all, "Screw the situation in the Middle East!  The starving children in Africa will have to wait!  I need to find Dani a man!"

I view this kind of the same way I view Jesus's Facebook page.

I view it mockingly.

Love,

Dani

Delete, delete, delete, because let's face it:  Dan doesn't like it when I date, even if it's God's match for me.  He's unreasonable like that.  (I know, right?  Why do I put up with him?)

I know this has nothing to do with my blog topic but I think it's hilarious.

Anyway.

So then I started noticing those little ads that Yahoo puts on the sidebar.  And they all had a recurring theme.

And THAT'S when I knew FOR A FACT that Yahoo thinks I'M A MIDDLE-AGED DUDE.

Ad Number 1:

Date Single Women Over 50!

Ad Number 2:

Meet Single Women 50+ In Your Area!

(Ummm... in MY area?  Yeahhh... you might want to rethink that...)

I love long walks on the beach, puppies, and candle-lit dinners...

Ad Number 3:

I haven't been hard in YEARS...

And finally, the coup de grace...

Ad Number 4:

This is when the proverbial lightbulb went off over my head and I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Yahoo was under the distinct impression that I am a desperate middle-aged man with no pizzazz left in my tiny little pecker.

How...

insulting.

I mean, if I were a dude, I'd have PLENTY of pizzazz in my pecker.  PLENTY.  And my pecker would be HUGE.  Also?  Women would be lined up on my doorstep.  I'd be fighting them off with a fire hose. (No Freudian pun intended... I literally mean a fire hose.  You know, how you turn a hose on two dogs gettin' jiggy with it in your front yard because the children are pointing and laughing and let's face it, dogs doin' the dirty is not only embarrassing, it's hella awkward?  Like that.  THAT kind of hose.  Only bigger.  With more power.  Because I'm a MAN.)

Nothing phallic to see here, folks... move along...

Clearly, I need to set Yahoo straight.  

I mean, really... how could they mistake ME for a HIM?

What is it about me that screams "tiny limp penis"???

Is it my 5:00 shadow??

My athletic build?

My resemblance to Tim Curry in drag?

I mean seriously... what could it be?

Remember the time I shouldn't have said that?

Remember the time I deleted my entire blog when I went to click publish?  

Yeah... that sucked.  

I was this close to saying "fuck it all" and letting you all be blogless but since I am a giver, I decided to rewrite the whole $%$#@! thing.  Just for you.  

You're welcome.

And I shall.  Just for you.

I'm about to tell you something so shocking, so earth-shattering, so unbelievable, that it will change who you are, what you think, and even how you live.  This revelation will tilt the world on it's axis and life as we know it will cease to exist and you will enter an alternate reality where black is white and down is up and light is dark... (Okay, wait... that's the same as black is white.  Erase that.)

*cue theme song from Jaws*

No, not that.  Because that would be awkward.  That's just my little way of breaking it to you gently.  

Here it is:

Hi, my name is Danielle.  I say stupid shit because I think I'm funny when I'm actually not.

This is a chronic (but usually not fatal) disorder recently discussed in the American Medical Association Journal, JAMA.  In a fascinating article written by Dr. Utits Besaggi, he states:  "VDS (Verbal Diarrhea Syndrome) is characterized by the random blurting of inappropriate statements at inopportune times.  In a recent study, we discovered that the most likely sufferers of this disorder are short, plump females who's names begin with D and who often think they're funny, when in reality, they're not." 

They say the first step towards recovery is admitting that you have a problem. 

I started noticing the symptoms of VDS when I was around 13. I'm sure there were signs that my parents ignored, putting it down to precociousness, smart-assedness, or just blatant know-it-all-itis.

I ate my fair share of soap and spent enough time in my room thinking about what I'd done and waiting for my father to get home to last a lifetime.

But then...

Easter Sunday, 1976.  

Picture it:  

My grandparent's house.

Aunts, uncles and cute little cousins were all sitting around the table, about to feast on leg of lamb, mint jelly, mashed potatoes, and all the fixins.  Like the freaking Waltons, we were, all dressed up in our Easter finery with Pa at head of the table and Ma at the foot.  (Okay, not quite... but you get the idea.  On a slightly different note,  isn't eating leg of lamb on Easter somewhat cannibalistic?  I mean, what with the whole Lamb of God thing?  No?  Just me, then?)

Anyway, after the saying of Grace (grace?  Grace?  To capitalize or not to capitalize, that is the question...) my grandfather asked all the kiddies to go around the table and tell everyone what we wanted to be when we grew up.

My sister at 15 and myself at 13 were considerably older than the rest of our cousins, and for me, their cuteness was almost beYOND unbearable.  All I wanted to do was scarf down some mint jelly and mashed potatoes and escape their cloying adorableness by sitting in the car and reading my book.  I mean, seriously... was that really too much to ask?  My parents were so cruel.

Meanwhile, Cousin One announced precociously, "I want to be a fireman!"

Cousin Two squealed, "I want to be a MOMMY!"

My sister, aka Thoroughly Modern Millie, said primly, "I want to be a secretary."  (No really, Andrea... take one GIANT leap for woman kind.)

Then it was my turn.

Said I, "I want to be a high priced call girl."

All sounds of life came screeching to a halt, with the exception of my snorting and guffawing as I practically fell out of my chair, completely overcome with mirth at my own immense wit.

Forks paused in mid-air.

Wine glasses perched on the edges of shocked and appalled lips.

Eyes judged me.

My mother thought of 200 ways in which she could kill me with her bare hands.

Then she broke the silence by growling at me, while lasers shot from her eyes and her head spun in circles, (there may have been pea soup spewing from her throat, but I don't remember exactly), "Get. Out. To. The. Car. And. STAY. THERE."


Somewhere in the distance, the sound of the Death March played as I performed the long Walk of Shame (or, as my friend Amanda calls it, The Dance of the Shameless) out to the car, where I curled up in the backseat and blissfully read my book and pondered the fact that according to my mother, I had single-handedly ruined Easter and made Jesus cry.

Mission...

Accomplished.

(Personally?  I blame my cousins and my sister for this.  I wouldn't have had to throw myself under the bus if their responses hadn't been so... stupid.)

And they never even thanked me.

Other Types Of Random Blurting

Random Cellphone Blurting

Random Cellphone Blurting occurs when you have your ringtone set to something completely inappropriate and then forget to turn your phone off, like when you're in church, or in a meeting.

Or, in my case, sitting in on an IEP.

A couple of years ago, a friend introduced me to a free ringtone generator called myxer.com.  That's right, you heard me... free.

I suddenly had a new hobby.

I took great pride in finding the perfect ringtone for every single person in my address book.  Every hero needs a theme song, right?  Well, so did every person I've ever met, ever, at any time, ever, in my life.

I took this shit seriously, yo.  I chose personal ringtones like it was my job.

And for myself?  I went with Poe:  I'm Not A Virgin Anymore.  (Because that's what anyone would have picked for me.  Because it was perfect.)

On the day in question, I was supposed to sit in on an IEP regarding the student I was shadowing.  Naturally, this particular student had the most difficult parent in the district that year (which believe me, is saying something.  Our district is famous world wide for having THE most difficult parents on the face of this earth.  We're almost proud of it).  I had run home after school to let the dogs out and make a few phone calls, then raced back to the school, barely making it through the door in time to not be considered late.  I tossed my purse onto a desk and plopped down at the table with the principal, the superintendent, the teacher, the special ed teacher, the school psychologist, several other behaviorists, and every district muckety-muck that had nothing better to do that day.

It was apparently a Big Deal.

I put on my Professional Face and prepared myself to make profound and valid statements that would change the face of IEPs everywhere.

The parent opened the dialogue with a bang, by announcing that everyone who had anything to do with his child didn't know their ass from a hole in the ground.

Nothing new there... I doodled on my notepad, making it look as if I were paying close attention, by writing "don't know ass from hole in the ground..." 

The principal tried to smooth the waters by insisting that her staff were all consummate professionals in every way, and that everyone who had anything to do with his child was tops in their field and had nothing but the child's best interests at heart...

Right at that moment, from wayyyyyyyyy across the room, came the blaring sounds of Poe:

I'm not a virgin anymore...

Just thought you should know,

Before you let another lie slip through your crooked little teeth...

I don't think you wanna start that shit with me...

Oh dear God, the humanity.

Not to mention the dilemma.

Do I sit there along with everyone else and pretend I don't know who's phone that is?

Do I get up nonchalantly and go turn it off?

Do I impale myself right here, right now, with this pen?

Meanwhile, every single person at the table turned and looked... at me.

Well, FUCK.

It was at that precise moment I was struck with a bout of VDS.

Me, to a room full of people who had the power to hire or fire my ass:  "Sooo... in case you were wondering, I'm not a virgin anymore..."

Random Cellphone Blurting At The Grocery Store:

This is still too painful to talk about, so you can read about it here.




Random Blurting When You Don't Know Your Mother-in-Law Is On The Phone:


My most recent attack of VDS occurred Friday night.


I totally blame Dan for this one.


He was on the phone in the bedroom.


I got up to go to the bathroom, and as I was passing the bedroom I could have sworn I heard him say the word "whore."


Assuming (we all know what happens when we assume, yes?) he was talking to his brother, I stuck my head into the room and bellowed, "Who are YOU calling a whore?"


Dan:  *shaking his head at me and waving his hand in a shoo-fly motion*


Me:  *not to be deterred*  "YOU'RE a whore!"


Dan:  *frowning at me and shaking his head*  "Shhh... what are you talking about?"


Me:  *never, never knowing when to quit*  "Your DAD'S a whore!"


Dan:  *giving me a "you've gone crazy so shut the hell up" look*  "What??  Who's a whore?"


Me:  *practically doubling over with my own hilarity*  "Your MOM'S a whore!"


Dan:  *popping his eyes out at me in shock and horror*  "Dani!  Stop!"


Me:  *cackling like a hen about to lay a dozen eggs*  "Who are you talking to?"


Dan:  "I'm talking to MY MOM!"




Of course you are.

I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed...

And finally...

Random Blurting Of The Facebook Variety


I forget... a lot... that some of the people I love making fun of the most are on my Facebook and can see everything I post.

You know that video that went viral recently with the guy who shot up his daughter's laptop because of shit she'd posted on Facebook, that they were able to see because she was friends with their dog?  Yeah... like that.

Only with less gun powder.

So far.

Oh, how I wish I could remember who was on my Facebook Friends List.

Ohhhh, how I wish I'd think about that before I post certain things.

I'm a HUGE fan of poking fun at those precious and inspiring "motivational" pictures that people like to post on their walls.

One of my "friends" was literally one of THE worst offenders in posting this crap on her wall.  99% of her status updates were either deep and meaningful song lyrics (eyeroll... unless you're under the age of 30, don't do that.  Just... don't) or inspirational pictures with messages of pain and loss written across a beach setting with a woman in something white and gauzy walking towards the surf, apparently to drown herself because she is so misunderstood.  (That's my take on it, anyway.)


So she posted this picture:

And 200 of her closest friends said things like, "You are so strong!" and "Stop it!  You're beautiful!  It's HIS loss, not yours!" and "He doesn't deserve you!"

And I said...

"So stop putting out on the first date."

But no, that wasn't enough for me.  Because THEN I wrote an entire blog making fun of her by using all the "motivational quotes" that she posts on her wall.

And it became my most popular blog posting to date.

Then she blocked me.

And I was really bummed, because making fun of her brought a lot of joy into my life.

(You can read all about why I don't have friends here.)

Words to live by, my friends.  Words to live by.

Bringing Sexy Back

Last weekend, at around 1:15 in the afternoon, I meandered into our bedroom, where Dan was laying in bed watching basketball, to finally get dressed for the day.

As I was putting on the same dog-haired too-tight black yoga pants I'd worn the day before, this happened:  

Dan:  *barely glancing at me*  "Where are you going?"

Me:  "Nowhere... why?"

Dan:  "Then what are you getting all dressed up for?"

Yeah.

Exactly.  

Apparently, too-tight yoga pants that are covered in blonde pug hair and have a big bleach spot on the back are the new Dressing Up.

Now you know and can dress accordingly.

Look at you, all dressed up and fancy-like in your sweatpants...

I get all dressed up in my evening sweats and the bastard takes me to KFC...

Gonna pick up my lady and take her someplace reallll niiiice...

Wearin' my special eatin' clothes...

I feel so over-dressed... I didn't realize there'd be folding chairs...

So basically, what I gathered from our conversation is that a) I need to step up my game or b)  his expectations are really, really low.  After some deep thought, I've come to the conclusion that it's b)  his expectations are really, really low.

These are a few of the things that have helped me figure all this out:

Dan will want to go somewhere that there will be other people.  (In other words, we will be seen by fellow humans and may be forced to interact with them.)  He will make this decision on the day that I didn't shower, my hair looks like it got stuck in a ceiling fan, I spent the day pulling weeks and picking up dog poop from the yard, and am wearing grass stained filthy sweatpants and a t-shirt that I slopped coffee on earlier in the day.

He will also make this decision 8 minutes before we need to leave.

We will have this conversation:

Dan:  *all pumped up and rarin' to go*  "Hey, let's go get something to eat and go see a movie!  Blah blah blah starts in an hour and a half and if we leave now, we can go to the restaurant first and then get to the theater on time!"

Me:  *looking and smelling like I just rolled out of a dumpster*  "I need to get ready first... I have to shower and get dressed."

Dan:  "Why?  What's wrong with what you're wearing?  You look fine."

Wow, baby!  You look GREAT!  Who does your hair?

About a month ago, after a fat and lazy weekend during which time neither one of us had moved beyond the four walls of our apartment, our phone rang at 3:00 on a Sunday afternoon.  It was Dan's brother.  I woke Dan up, waited for him to wipe the drool off of his chin, and handed him the phone.  I went back out to the living room to lie on the couch and cuddle the dogs (and shove popcorn down my throat like it was my job).

A few minutes later, Dan came out and said:  "Dave wants us to come over and watch football and have dinner.  They have a bunch of people over."

Me:  *blinking and thinking, "Shit... people.  I hate people."*  "Ummm... okay... When?"

Dan:  "Right now.  Let's go."

Yeahhh... about that.  I don't think so.

I was still in my pajamas... the same pajamas I'd been wearing for two days (don't judge me).  One half of my hair was sticking to my head, the other half was standing straight up.  I smelled like a charming mix of pug, pomeranian, and whatever I'd spilled down my front.  

All the cool kids wear THEIR jammies in public...

Me:  "I'm not going anywhere until I take a shower.  And, no offense, but neither should you."

Dan:  *scratching himself and farting*  "Why? What's wrong with me?  Besides, we don't have time.  It's going to take us an hour to get there."

Me:  "Then we're either going to be late or we're staying home."

(Dude... I may be a disgusting slob at home but I'll be goddamned if I'm going to take my show on the road.)

Dan:  *looking confused and shocked*  "Why?  Just comb your hair and put on some jeans!"

I won't go into the details on how long we actually fought about this, but suffice it to say Dan wound up calling his brother in a snit and saying indignantly, "Well, I guess we're going to be late.  Apparently my wife can't leave the house without taking a shower."

Yeah... that makes me look reeeeallll bad, y'all.

Ahhh... be still my heart...

Other Danisms:

"I like you better without make-up."

"Why do you keep dying your hair?  I don't care if you let it go gray."

"What do you mean, you've gained weight?  You look beautiful!"

Okay, wait...

I changed my mind.

I'll settle for his low expectations.