Bless You

I have mentioned before my uncanny ability to embarrass myself in just about every type of public situation (try here, and here, and here). This time, though, it totally wasn’t my fault.


After an uncharacteristically crazy Friday night, we left my car downtown and took a cab home. At the time it was a great idea, but then upon waking the next morning, we vaguely remembered the conversation we’d had with my friend the night before. Mike’s car was in the shop, so she said that she would come get us the next morning and take us back down to get my car. It was already 11:00 when we finally rolled out of bed, and she was on her way to get us. We hurriedly dressed in our Saturday morning best, each donning jeans and a sweatshirt, Mike in a ball cap, and me in a straggly ponytail and the biggest sunglasses I could find. Definitely not our finest hour. My friend picked us up and dropped us off downtown where we began walking the block to the parking garage where we had left my truck so many hours before. As we walked in front of Zaidy’s, a delicious Jewish deli on Market Street, we realized we were both ravenous and decided to go in for a sandwich before we picked up our wheels.

The hostess sat us in a booth right up front, and although I didn’t argue, I would have much preferred a back-corner table where I could hide my unwashed hair and the remnants of Friday night’s mascara. We ordered Diet Coke and coffee and lots of water and sandwiches and fresh-cut French fries.

Mike and I traded sandwich halves, as is our tradition, and ate our late breakfast while joking around about the prior night’s goings on. We waited patiently for the caffeine to take effect. About halfway through our meal, the hostess sat another couple in the booth directly next to ours. I was facing the man; Mike and the woman were back to back.

This couple did not look like they had spent Friday night drinking more than their livers were ever intended to process. In fact, they had probably played backgammon in front of the fire, maybe enjoyed one glass of wine, and then they had turned in early; that was the only explanation for how prim and proper they looked. They were here at Zaidy’s at 11:30 for their second meal of the day, not their first, and they had most definitely showered before leaving their house. The man’s shirt and jeans were both professionally pressed, with straight, crisp creases trailing the lengths of both his arms and legs. The woman was equally cleaned and starched, not a hair out of place in her puffy early-90’s-ish coif. They smelled of Old Spice and Chanel Number 5, and they looked convinced, after taking us in, that they had been seated next to a couple of vagrants. They were politely trying not to stare, but not completely succeeding.

After the couple placed their order, our server moved on to us, deftly picking up our dishes and dropping the check. This is when Mike got greedy. Because of our seating position directly at the front of the restaurant, Mike had a straight-line view into Zaidy’s famous pastry case. He was eyeing the apple strudel, and I agreed that I wouldn’t mind a couple of bites of the huge Snickerdoodle. We flagged down our waitress, and she went off to grab our pastries and adjust and run our check on my debit card. She brought back the card and receipt and a paper bag with the warm sweets inside.

Mike picked up the bag of pastries and stood, walked two steps to my side of the booth, and reached out to help me. I handed him my to-go box containing a half a sandwich, then asked him to hold my credit card and the receipt while I gathered up my purse and jacket. He was standing directly over me with his hands full as the waitress passed behind him. This is why, when he felt that familiar urge, he neither covered his mouth nor turned away. Just as I was standing up with my purse in hand, my boyfriend released world’s largest sneeze directly on to my face. My bangs flapped in the substantial breeze, my face was soaked, and the sunglasses perched on top of my head were covered in droplets of God-knows-what. I looked right up at him, incredulous, touching my face and head. “What the hell was that?” I screeched at him.

As Mike started to defend himself, I looked up to find Mr. Backgammon wiping his face, clearing it of the soda he spat upon seeing my boyfriend attack me with a germy WMD. His wife was completely turned around in her seat, staring at us, trying to figure out what had happened. The man, who had looked to me like the type who might have been completely offended and disgusted by what he had just witnessed, couldn’t stop laughing long enough to explain it to her.

I dragged Mike out of the deli and we laughed all the way down the block and into the parking garage, our shrieks echoing off the walls.

One of these days we will learn how to behave in public. However, until we do, I’m really glad that we can spread joy to the people of Denver.


P.S. I hope that guy gets as much mileage out of this story as I plan to.

Sweet November

I didn’t want to jinx it by writing about it before, but now that November is over, I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate myself and my fabulous boyfriend on our first-ever dry month. That’s right, for thirty straight days, all of November, neither of us consumed even a sip of alcohol. It isn't as if we have ever been really hardcore drinkers, but we are quite social, and while in Europe, we ended up imbibing on Italian wine or Irish beer and whiskey almost everyday for 14 straight days. Then, upon our return, we were going out and catching up with the friends we’d missed while being gone for two weeks and drinking even more. A couple of beers here, a couple of glasses of wine with dinner there, a couple of crazy Friday nights here and there.

I was starting to wonder if my good time was actually dependent on drinking. Plus, let’s face it, I am definitely not in my twenties anymore, and the extra calories from the alcohol alone, not to mention the foods I decide to eat when my inhibitions are slightly lowered, are enough to turn me off of it while I am in the midst of trying to lose a substantial amount of weight. I also just wanted to see, or even to make sure, that I could do it. We did do it; here’s how it went down.

Week One was easy enough because there wasn’t too much going on. I did notice that I had a couple of actual cravings for a drink. I’m not sure if the cravings were physical or psychological, but either way, it made me feel kind of bad about myself. Things at work were a little stressful, and I would come home in a bad mood. Normally, I would think nothing of having a big glass of wine as I transitioned from being Angry-Work-Cara to becoming Nice-At-Home-Cara, but since I couldn’t have it, I became slightly obsessed (this is also the reason I am world’s worst dieter.) Maybe I was actually transitioning into Boozehound-Cara without realizing it. This was not the way I wanted to live my life. On the positive side, it was easy to make any cravings disappear by doing something physical. I would take my dog for a run, and then come home and drink tea and Crystal Light, and that seemed to do the trick. This was also the first week since I quit smoking that I didn’t even think about a cigarette. Was it just me, or was I actually becoming a healthy person?

The second Saturday of the month was a friend’s birthday party. We met the group for “drinks and dinner” at a local bar that is known for having the best burgers in Denver. Mike and I showed up to hang out for a couple of hours, had a small burger and a couple of Diet Cokes each and, surprisingly, a really good time. After dinner, the group was headed to a club, but we declined. We were home warm in our bed by 10 o’clock. The next morning, without having to force myself, I got up early and went for a run with my dog.

We went to a hockey game that Sunday night with a group from Mike’s work. This is where it gets interesting because Mike actually works for one of the biggest breweries in the country, and so free or extremely cheap beer is basically a staple in our lives, not to mention the source of the bread-winning income. (I’m not sure why, but writers do not get paid as much as analytical math-geniuses…it just isn’t fair.) Anyway, for his work event we had the luxury suite and the beer was free, a reward for Mike’s team performing well on a big project. Luckily, the water and soda were free, too. I had three bottles of water, a Diet Pepsi (surprisingly, there is no Diet Coke at the Pepsi Center) and, in between the twelve trips to the bathroom, I also managed to eat my weight (also known as a very large amount) in items selected from the junk food spread laid out before us. I ate a bratwurst, and then I ate nachos, and then I munched stolen handfuls from a huge basket of caramel corn until I felt like I was going to projectile vomit. I never felt like I was missing out by not drinking with everyone else, but then again, I made up for it by morphing into a huge hog in front of Mike’s co-workers. So much for the calorie deficit.

During the week, we had it down to a science. We made dinner together every night, never really thought too much about drinking, and went along our merry way. At least we wouldn’t have thought much about it if I hadn’t kept babbling about how well we were doing, and how sometimes I wanted a glass of wine, and how, wow, didn’t a beer sound good. Mike finally asked me why I insisted on continually talking about it, and honestly, I wasn’t really sure; I just felt like discussing it all the time. Mike on the other hand was planning to just power through it without talking about it, kind of an “out-of-mind, out-of-mind” mentality. For him, the first rule of the dry month was: don’t talk about the dry month. This is one of the main differences between Mike and I, I mean besides the fact that we have completely opposite personalities and ways of thinking. I needed to talk about it; I needed to bond with him over our shared goal. I was using it as a conversation cornerstone, while he was just going on with his life. I was driving him absolutely crazy. If he’d been allowed, I would have driven him to drink.

Week Three started with me weighing in at eight pounds less than I did on the first of the month. Eight!!! It also started with our Warren Miller extravaganza night (read about it in Ladies Room-ology 101). Everyone at our table was enjoying the five-liter jugs of wine they serve at Buca di Beppo. That’s right, they bring you wine in huge gallon-plus bottles which, unless you lift weights fairly frequently, are just about impossible to pour into your glass. I think that night was the hardest for Mike because his two best friends from college were there. This is also the night that I learned that people who are slightly intoxicated are much more hilarious and not nearly as annoying when I am slightly intoxicated, too. This was a valuable lesson, because it also made me wonder if I become slightly annoying and not very funny when I have had a few drinks. In my mind, a couple of cocktails makes the opposite happen, I become the life of the party and people begin falling in love with me left and right. By not drinking, I learned that, in my mind, I am wrong.

I’m sure you are beginning to see the pattern here. We went to all the usual events that we would normally go to for all of November, and we ordered drinks like Diet Coke and club soda, even getting wild once and having a round of Arnold Palmers. We were good, and it paid off. I lost weight, never thought about smoking, and actually felt like being active, instead of the usual where I am active, but I bitch about it the entire time. Plus, I never once felt like crap when I woke up in the morning. What an epiphany. My drinking habits are officially changed for life.

“Ummm, hello, Cara? This is adulthood calling, and I have arrived.”

The night of November 30th, Mike and I went to meet our friends at Happy Hour League. (umm, yes, we are sort of on a drinking team, but it isn’t as bad as it sounds) We drank water the whole time and caught up with everyone right up until we started to not completely like them anymore. Then we went home. The next day would bring the Santa Pub Crawl, a charity event that we attend every year. I would have drinks that night, but I would drink them armed with my new knowledge:

I do not need to drink to have a good time;
I am a grownup who does not have to give into peer pressure;
I am in charge of everything I put into my body; and
Anything that makes me lose eight pounds in three weeks is not only something I will try again, but it very well may become my new religion. Cheers.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner...

The mayor stopped by my house a couple of weeks ago. The actual mayor of Denver.

Let me preface this by saying that I am sort of obsessed with Mayor Hickenlooper. Not only do I find his politics inspiring, but I also think he is just plain cool. Remember his dorky little self-deprecating campaign commercials where he was riding around on the scooter? I mean, what other “normal” politician does that? And what other large city has a mayor who owns a bar? Plus his wife is a writer, so I feel that he understands my creative plight, and that if he were to get to know me, he would really like me, too. In summary, I think our mayor is the best. He is trying to help the homeless and save the environment and make Denver a great place to live, and I just really like him. In fact, I’m not shy; I’ll say it. I LOVE MAYOR HICKENLOOPER!

I suppose I should also preface the story with the fact that this night in particular was Halloween. And the mayor lives in my neighborhood. Oh, and he has a son who is about 6 or so. And also, uh, he didn’t really stop by to see me, but instead to bring his son trick-or-treating. But still, he did stop by.

After having lived in an apartment for the past seven years, this was the first time that I have had my very own house, and therefore my very own trick-or-treaters vying for their chances to take my candy. I was so excited to hand it out that I rushed home from work and carefully prepared my stash. I made sure to purchase the good stuff, too, none of the crappy candy that kids hate. I was going to do this right so that these kids would be talking about me for years. There were Snickers, and Skittles, and Mike and Ikes, and KitKats, and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. Oh yes, only the best for my very first trick or treaters.

The first group of kids came to the door. They rang the bell, and instantly my crazy dog decided that he was not down with little goblins and Power Rangers hanging out on our doorstep. As I opened the door, he started with his low growl and then crescendoed into his loudest, most ferocious bark. Blue is about the sweetest dog in the world, and he is usually a huge wuss. However, this night, he was determined to protect me from the throngs of 8-year-olds who were plotting to steal the chocolate that he would otherwise pilfer from the bowl while I slept, in turn, adding a trip to the vet to that week’s to-do list. He wasn’t going to give it up that easily.

When the next group of kids came to the door, I figured Blue would get the hang of it and calm down. Instead, he bared his teeth and started growling and barking again. This time, one of the kids on the porch burst into tears and turned and ran without even getting any candy. I could see that my suddenly certifiable Australian Shepherd was making damn sure that this would be my first and last year of catering to the trick-or-treaters of Denver. I could be giving out laptop computers next year, and they still wouldn’t risk ringing the bell. My dog was ruining Halloween, but I had an idea.

The weather was gorgeous, so I loaded up my arms with the huge orange bowl full of candy, my magazine, and a monster glass of wine and I went outside to sit on the porch and wait for the kids. Blue stared at me through the window as I flipped pages and sipped from my glass. He wore a look that said, “you will pay for this,” but I didn’t care; I was hell-bent on enjoying it.

The kids started to come in droves, and they were adorable. Chubby little pumpkins, a pair of identical-twin angels, a couple of those prostitute-y Bratz girls, a very believable Dracula, and even a little rap star with his own bling. I was loving it. My perfect neighbor from across the street came by with her daughter, world’s cutest two-year old dressed as a little, tiny, chubby-cheeked cow. We chatted for awhile, and then they headed back home.

Just as they were leaving, my favorite kid of night walked right up to me like he knew me. He was a Storm Trooper which, as a child of the 80’s, I totally appreciated. He said “trickertreeeeet” and I reached into the bowl and lifted a big handful of candy, about to drop it into his bag. He examined what was in my hand, then looked down into my bowl and said, “Actually, I’ll just pick my own” which he did. He deliberated, then selected two pieces and said “This will be fine, thank you” as if he were my boss reviewing a document I had just dropped on his desk.

I love kids who are so precocious like that. He was with a grown-up, a man dressed in all black, topped off with a witch’s hat. I looked up to see what genius had raised this adorable Storm Trooper. There, standing on my front steps, was the mayor, and in my infinite wisdom, with my internal editor completely starstruck, that is exactly what I said.

“Oh, the mayor is here,” I bleated out to no one in particular.

And I’m sure he was thinking no shit, lady, but instead he just smiled and said “Shhhhhhhh” because, with my highly intellectual and apparently somewhat loud words, I was giving away his presence to the entire population of the neighborhood.

That's when I saw him look directly at the biggest glass of wine in the world which just happened to be sitting next to my feet. I saw him look at it, and then he looked back at me and then immediately ushered his son back down the steps. I just stood there like the idiot that I was, devastated that I had just completely embarrassed myself in front of the man whom all of Denver would cheerfully elect President tomorrow if given the chance.

I’m sure that the mayor now thinks that I am the crazy lady of the neighborhood who gets drunk and tries to hang out with little kids for kicks. I’m sure that as soon as he was out of sight, he took away the candy I had given to his son and threw it in the bushes. I’m sure that he has probably placed me under some sort of government watch; if I look closely I bet I can see the undercover officers on stakeout in front of my house, blowing on their hot coffee, staring at my door, taking turns for bathroom breaks like on Law and Order. I’m sure of all of this.

Anyway, about twenty minutes later, I saw the mayor and his son again, this time walking up the other side of the street heading to my perfect neighbor’s perfect house. She opened the door wide, giving the mayor a glimpse of how the perfect residents of his city lived, gorgeous art, shiny hardwood floors, not a rabid dog in sight. She graciously introduced herself and made perfect small talk about the upcoming light rail projects and the Democratic National Convention coming in August. She did what I wanted to do, and she did it with style, and grace and without a gallon of cheap wine in her hand. I just sat there silently berating myself for being so inarticulate, and for wearing a ripped sweatshirt, and for not thinking to at least put my wine in an opaque plastic cup of some sort like all the other classy people would have done. I looked on as the mayor and my perfect neighbor chatted like old friends. Then it got even worse when the mayor turned around and caught me staring at him longingly over the top of my magazine. I was just innocently watching him and wishing that I weren’t such an idiot, but I am sure that, to him, my mournful gaze resembled borderline stalking. ARRRRRGGH! Why am I such a loser??

So, that was my Halloween experience. I finally met the mayor, and I acted like an enormous ass. I guess there is an upside, though, and that is that I will definitely get the chance to see my hero, the mayor, in person again. Unfortunately, it will be when he and his lovely wife pull up for their dinner date at my neighbor’s house next week. Why didn’t I think of that?