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Why didn’t I think of that.

I’m not new to TFLN, but, man, that one was just pure genius. Save the calories and only lose a little self-respect. Oh college.

I realize it’s Tuesday. But I’ll have you know that yesterday was Monday, which for most people is an inherently no bueno day. Not my favorite that’s for sure. A few things happened… I won’t get into them because who wants to read some Debby Downer post about a lame Monday. I can tell you that I for one am not interested in such nonsense. I will, however, tell you how my friend Lindsey decided to cheer me up. I’ll give you one guess? Do you have it? You think you’ve totally got it, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong.

Unless your guess was “order me a 60 oz. margarita while I was in the bathroom” you are wrong. Don’t believe me? Whatever. It was 60 effing ounces. 60. That’s huge. After drinking it, not only was I a little fuzzy on the details but I felt like a beached whale. FULL OF STRAWBERRY MARGARITA. I also had a rough looking character cheering me on at the bar. I somehow managed to remember that he had had only 3 beers while I was downing the 60 oz. Some call me observant, others call me competitive. I’ll take it either way. I won. Here is my drink.

And here is Lindsey looking less than thrilled with my progress.

We were no where near this coordinated.

Yeah, so I went to “step” class tonight with my friend Lindsey. She’s the one that was in the special looking photo with me from Race for the Cure, in case you’re keeping track. We decided to give it whirl, maybe get our arses kicked and go home sweaty. Instead we were surrounded by Cougars. 50 year old women with bodies harder than stone. They kicked our butts so far into last week I’m not sure I can show my face at that 24 hour fitness again.

They stepped, hopped, spun, tangoed and maneuvered themselves in ways that I thought only Shakira could handle.  While Lindsey and I, one row behind, gawked, hopped, laughed, stared and stood around lost for the better part of an hour. There were a few times we tripped, didn’t get our feet “fully” planted on the platform and definitely missed a few Mambo/Cha-cha steps on each round. If you’re ever looking for a good laugh, pay us to go again. The 55+ year old teacher didn’t know what to do with us, and clearly neither will you. If you’re stupid enough to video tape it… you might be lucky and find Nair in your shampoo. We learned our lessons: 1.) Scope out the class before you take it and 2.) We’ll never beat the Cougars, ever.

The first time I ever visited, well the only other time I’ve ever visited San Francisco I was about 14… a freshman in high school and still bordering on that awkward phase that lasted from birth to about 15. I was one of the lucky ones.

I remember wearing jeans that were much too short, a lack of makeup and some styling white tennis shoes. Hard to resist, right? I went with my Mom and sister (probably around 12 at the time) and left knowing that it would forever be one of my favorite cities. The strongest memories from that trip, though, revolve around food (shocker, I know) and the pay to use public restrooms. One specific story stands out. And here is goes:

We were in line for the trolley (the real San Francisco treat) and the line was wrapped around one block and making it’s way, very quickly, up the next. It was going to be a LONG haul. We probably could have walked, but we were bound and determined to make our way through the city on that specific tram. Well if you have never visited San Fran or seen one of the corner “pay to pee’s”, then you’ll know what I’m talking about, but if you haven’t… then try to envision an oblong structure standing on the corner. It’s green and covered in billboards, but rather clean. Once you insert your money, the electric door opens and produces a toilet and sink set up. All very normal.

Well, here’s where the story gets good. We’ve been in line for what seems next to for-e-ver. Sarah (my independent and pig-headed little sister) decided that paying to use the potty was over-rated. She’d just sneak in after someone, pee, and come back out. No prob bob. We went along with it because, well, what could go wrong? It’s a port-o-potty right?

She slyly snuck in behind the last toilet customer, the door slid shut and things seemed to be just in order. Then, thirty seconds later, the door slams open and water comes gushing out. We and our 100 new San Fran friends turn and gawk. Out comes Sarah covered in cleaning/toilet water. Please imagine this. Take a minute because it may take that long to fully absorb the pain, anguish, and embarrassment of the moment. Then please imagine what it feels like to be 12, wet, and in line for another hour with those close 100 friends that witnessed you one, being and idiot and two, being what we would call thrifty. Other’s may call it cheap, but whose keeping track.

So, we’re back in this great city, eating and cavorting (more on that later) when we stumble across one of those wondrous pit stops. Couldn’t resist taking a picture and wetting our pants laughing at the memory. So here you go. My sister all grown up, and a little happier and drier that the last time around.

Quote of the day. My mom to my dad:

“I thought I smelled Marajuana earlier… but I think its just you. Are you wearing your fufu juice?”

That’s all.