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August 2nd, 2010
Or, At Least I Didn’t Do Something This Stupid at My OWN Wedding.
(Although There is Still Plenty of Time.)
—-
So Saturday night, The Guy and I went to our friends Tiffany and Bob’s wedding. It was very lovely and sweet, and the sit-down dinner reception, held at Sam’s Town Hotel & Casino here in Shreveport, promised a good time as well.
(Tiffany and Bob really know how to party, is the point I’m driving at here.)
The bride and groom didn’t see each other prior to the ceremony, so after it was over, the guests departed for Sam’s Town while the wedding party and the families hung around the church to take pictures. Fortunately, they had a cocktail hour planned, so everyone got a drink and a few nibbles while we mingled and waited for the reception to begin.
Just as Tanya the Wedding Planner started ushering everyone into the ballroom, The Guy decided he needed to visit the men’s room. Sigh. Our seats at the Austin Table would have to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Standing outside the restroom, I saw something poufy and white out of the corner of my eye. Oh, CRAP! They’re here!
I dialed The Guy’s cell. “What are you DOING in there?!” I demanded.
“Washing my hands!”
“Well, Tiffany and Bob just got here! They’ll be walking in any minute! HURRY!”
Hurry he did, and very shortly, we were seated. The reception started, and a good time was had by all.
Two Haley-ritas later, I had to visit the little girls’ room. I excused myself, walked out of the ballroom, across the lobby and into the restroom. I was pinning back my hair and trying to decide whether or not I needed to reapply my lipgloss when once again, something white caught my eye.
This time, it was not poufy.
Or pretty.
JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH, IT’S A URINAL!!
I’M IN THE MEN’S ROOM!!
I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN HERE!!
I’M CATHOLIC!!
GAAAAAAAAH!!
And I scurried out the door, back across the lobby and into the relative safety of the ladies’ room. Whew! Thank God nobody saw me!
No one will ever have to know, I chuckled to myself.
—-
Later on, The Guy and I were standing by the candy bar shoving cookies and complimentary liquor (WHAT. They’re invited to OUR wedding) in our faces when his cell phone rang.
“Uh, baby? Do you have your phone?”
“Yep,” I said through a mouthful of cookie.
“Where is it?”
“In my purse.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
I choked on some crumbs. “Uh, I dunno?”
“Get your phone,” he said, and I made my way across the dance floor to my purse, which was hanging on the back of a chair. I dug in it. Then I dumped it out on the table. No phone.
“Somebody’s got your phone,” The Guy said.
S–t! I thought. I sent some really bitchy text messages earlier!
And then I remembered my calendar and all my contacts and my email and my Facebook account and…
OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod.
For the second time that night, I ran into the ladies’ room. It was the only place I could think of that I’d had my phone besides the ballroom. I looked on the counter and in the stall I’d used.
No phone.
OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod.
I exited the restroom and was just about to burst into tears when I saw The Guy talking to another guy over by the men’s room. Actually, they weren’t so much talking as laughing their heads off.
“I believe this is yours,” The Guy said, holding my precious, precious Droid out to me. I wanted to kiss it.
Then I realized where it had been.
—-
The Good Samaritan had walked into the men’s room and seen a phone laying on the counter. Figuring it must belong to one of his fellow guests at the reception, he decided to try to find out whose it was. First, he called the last number dialed, which was The Guy’s. When he didn’t answer, he figured his next best bet was to call the number labeled “Home,” which is my parents.
MY PARENTS.
When they answered, he told them he had found this phone in the men’s room at Sam’s Town Casino, and he was wondering to whom it might belong.
This might be a good time to mention that my parents don’t exactly…you know…approve of gambling. I mean, they don’t get all judge-y and crazy about it, but suffice it to say all three Phelan children are strongly discouraged from gambling except as it pertains to buying raffle tickets for charity.
(We go, as a family, to a casino exactly once a year. My mentally-handicapped Aunt Carol thinks nickel slot machines are, like, OMG THE FUNNEST THING EVAR, so each May, when her birthday rolls around, my parents give her $20 and indulge her. They stand around and scoff and I read the spa menu while she feeds 400 nickels into a machine and pulls the handle the corresponding 400 times, then we eat at the buffet.)
So naturally, what with the mention of the men’s room and all, my parents figured the phone must belong to one of my two hell-raising brothers. Their sweet, innocent, good Catholic daughter would nevereverever visit a casino except on Aunt Carol’s birthday!
…unless, of course, there was steak, tequila and The Chicken Dance involved.
(WHAT. So I happen to like The Chicken Dance. Sue me.)
So not only did I have to tell The Guy of my men’s room escapade, I also had to tell his friend and my PARENTS. Who then assumed I was drunk.
Because there is NO WAY they raised a child who is too stupid to READ THE SIGN OUTSIDE THE DAMN RESTROOM before she goes be-bopping in there to fix her eyeliner.
No way.
IN A CASINO!
To make matters even worse, at the end of the night, The Good Samaritan came up to me and said, “I’ve told that story to, like, three people already! Everybody’s getting the biggest kick out of it!”
FanTASTic.
On the bright side (and there is usually a bright side when I humiliate myself in front of 200 people and the whole internet), at least The Good Samaritan made the effort to return the phone to its rightful owner instead of saying to himself, “Oh, look! A Droid! Don’t mind if I do.”
And for that I am deeply grateful.
But I’m sure as hell going to read the sign carefully the next time before I enter the restroom.
IN A CASINO!
Your repentant
Kel
July 29th, 2010
According to our wedding website (and, I guess, the calendar, but I’m really bad at math), The Guy and I have 79 days to go until our wedding.
I’d be lying like a dog if I said I hadn’t experienced any stress. Both our lives are really busy right now, and it’s hard to find time for the stuff we NEED to do, let alone the stuff we WANT to do. But we’re trying to keep it in perspective: As long as we both show up, say yep when the preacher asks us the important questions and nobody catches on fire (always a possibility with us), the day will be a rousing success.
I suppose it would be fair to say that the majority of our stress stems from money worries. There’s an upside and a downside to having a short engagement:
Pro:
There’s less time for things to get completely out of hand. Let’s face it, when you’ve only got a four-month-long engagement, you can’t really start dreaming big dreams about Cirque-du-Soleil-type aerialists dressed up like big flaming gay lovebirds serving canapés by bungee-cording down from the ceiling.
(Wouldn’t that be cool, though?!)
Con:
You have FOUR MONTHS to come up with ALL THAT MONEY. And no matter how frugal you are, weddings are just plain expensive. It simply costs a lot of money throw a fancy party for 150 people.
And man oh man is it ever hard to pinch pennies where weddings are concerned. Part of the problem is that the Wedding Industrial Complex (WIC) would have you believe that without a $100 unity candle and a $50 guest book pen, your marriage simply isn’t valid. Even worse, you may look back one day and – dun dun DUUUUUN! – regret that you didn’t spring for the matching heart-shaped etched-crystal Champagne flutes.
Tanya the Wedding Planner is pretty good about keeping me on track. I’ll read about something I hadn’t even thought of, like maps to the ceremony location, and say, “Do we need…?” and she’ll say, “Dude, no. If they don’t have a GPS, they can Google Map it. Come on.”
(If you want a perfect example of the WIC at its worst, check this out.)
Still…
…it’s tempting.
The other day, my friend Amy posted a link to this very disturbing article on Jezebel.com. The author, a self-proclaimed “feminist,” nevertheless details her obsession with all things Wedding. She has the whole thing planned: She wants “a Maine wedding, with blueberry pie instead of cake, a royal blue vintage dress and forsythia and lily-of-the-valley everywhere.”
Here’s the thing: SHE’S NOT ENGAGED.
Uh.
I think most women fantasize about weddings to a greater or lesser extent at certain points in their lives. Hell, just listen to the conversation around you at any wedding reception.
“These peacock-feather centerpieces are gorgeous, huh?”
“Yeah, love them! My cousin had something similar, but hers had fall leaves and pheasant feathers.”
“Pretty! But you know, if I ever get married, I think I’d like those really tall centerpieces, the ones with the crystals dripping off of them.”
“Oooh! I’ve always thought a silver-and-black theme would be really dramatic…”
Most women like to plan stuff, from Christmas dinners at home to baby showers at the office. It’s just something we do. But this chick has gone a little bit too far down the rabbit hole.
There’s one part of the article with which I can DEFINITELY identify, though:
“[A wedding is] the tasteful, impeccably crafted and ingeniously designed display of one’s aesthetic leanings…As someone given frequently to pouring over the pages of Real Simple magazine, and doing daily checks of websites like Design Sponge and NotCot, the wedding is just another way to obsess over a certain type of self-expression and reflection. It’s design porn, only with the added bonus of being able to share my vision with my family and closest friends…And I think that’s really where the root of my obsession lies – in the ideal blend of public and private, personal style and manicured design. Like all elements of ‘personal style,’ we like to pretend weddings represent our individualism, our taste and our experiences. In the end…I just want to show the world a polished version of my innermost chaos.”
That is SO ME, people. And I didn’t even realize it until I read this article. As I told Amy, “I totally want people to show up and exclaim the following (in this order): 1. ‘Oh, they’re perfect for each other, and they’re so in love. I hope they’re happy together forever.’ 2. ‘HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD, they’ve got the best taste I’ve ever seen!’”
Our wedding is going to include the three things The Guy and I love most in the world – music, literature and theatre. The decor incorporates a lot of vintage elements (skeleton keys, an old typewriter, an antique Singer sewing machine case, buttons) with photographs (Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, John Prine), books and scripts. I want our guests to get a clear picture of who we are as individuals as well as who we are as a couple, and yes, I WANT TO CHARM THE EVER-LOVING PANTS OFF THEM. I want them to marvel that the bride is organized and efficient enough to make 200 cupcakes for her own wedding; I want them to coo over the banner hanging on the dessert table; and I want them to marvel at the hand-calligraphed “Just Married” sign on the back of Fiona.
And you know what?
I fully recognize that that’s UNBELIEVABLY egotistical.
But I don’t think I did until I read that article.
It made me see that while I scoff at the notion of buying a $100 set of engraved cake-cutting utensils, I’ve still, as Amy would say, “got the hook in [my] lip in a major way.” I think I had really started to believe that our “Big Day” – God, I hate that phrase – would be lacking somehow if I didn’t, I don’t know, EMBROIDER a bunch of shit.
So I’ve decided to calm down a little. I truly enjoy my crafty pursuits, and I plan to employ a lot of them in the wedding. But if I end up running out of time and having to write “WE DONE GONE AND GOT HITCHED” on Fiona’s back window in shoe polish, that’s OK, too.
WE WILL STILL HAVE A GREAT MARRIAGE IF I DON’T HAND-FELT CONDOM COZIES FOR THE HONEYMOON.
I must remember this.
Your less-obsessed
Kel
July 27th, 2010
The last time I used anatomical terms in a Bachelor Girl post, my mom wouldn’t speak to me for two days except to tell me how disappointed my grandmother would be. So I’m going to try to do this…gracefully.
STOP LAUGHING.
—-
So yesterday evening, I had to send The Guy out for…supplies. Of the “feminine hygiene” variety. It was, shall we say, an emergency.
As I approached The Guy with my request, I did so somewhat apologetically. Not because a woman’s menstrual cycle is anything to be embarrassed about, MOM, but because, not having grown up with sisters or anything, I figured The Guy might be somewhat embarrassed.
Boy, was I wrong.
“Really?!” he said excitedly. When I looked at him like he’d just suggested that we cancel the wedding, sell all our earthly possessions and use the proceeds to buy hallucinogenic drugs and a VW bus in Amsterdam, he explained, “It’s my first Boyfriend Mission!”
“Your first what-the-hell?”
“My first Boyfriend Mission! You know, to the drugstore. Except, since we’re engaged, I guess it’s more like a Fiance Mission. Why didn’t you ever send me on a Boyfriend Mission?”
“Because I never ran out of tampons before?”
And with a few basic instructions, off he went.
He came back half an hour later, a little sweaty and with a dazed look in his eye. “There’re just…so many options,” he muttered. “Light! Maximum! Overnight! Super! Super-plus! Wings! No wings! It’s…it’s…daunting.”
“Tell me about it,” I said, taking the plastic bag from him.
He did well on the tampon front, but this is what he brought home in the way of pads:
“What the eff?” I said. “‘For Sizes 14+’? What does that even mean? The size of one’s [REDACTED FOR MOM] is completely independent of the size of one’s jeans.”
“Oh God. I didn’t see that,” The Guy said. “Will they still work?!”
“I guess so,” I said and opened one up to look at it.
CHEESE AND CRACKERS. PEOPLE, THIS THING WAS A FULL 12 INCHES LONG. A foot long. A foot-long maxi pad. The Sonic Coney of maxi pads.
(And I know this for certain, because I just measured one. Which, in my world, translates to: The Guy just walked in to see his fiancee sitting on the sofa with her laptop balanced on a throw pillow and measuring a maxi pad with a Stanley LeverLock 16′ tape measure.)
(And you all wonder how I stayed single this long.)
“Uh, I don’t think it’s gonna fit,” I told The Guy.
“I FAILED!” he cried, fish-flopping onto the sofa. “I failed you! You sent me on my first Boyfriend Mission, and I FAILED!”
(Actors. They’re tres dramatic.)
“You didn’t fail,” I said. “You just…got the wrong size. Who is this thing made for, anyway? A menstruating hippopotamus?”
And you know what the worst part is?
THEY DIDN’T WORK WORTH A DAMN.
I guess I could fashion diapers for the cat or something.
Ideas?
Your perplexed
Kel
July 21st, 2010
1. Jessica the Web Mistress and I have been making some adjustments to Bachelor Girl lately. You may have noticed that booger-esque green favicon is gone, as is the superfluous “BACHELORGIRL.NET” that haunted the top of the page for a while. We also switched around the ads and stuff. Speaking of the ads…
2. We took down the BlogHerAds. We (BlogHerAds and I, not Jessica and I) had a, um, disagreement over my SmashBurger review. I didn’t make very much money from them, I definitely don’t get an appreciable amount of traffic from BlogHer sources, and I decided I’m very uncomfortable with anyone or anything besides me controlling B.G.’s content in any way. So…we yanked ‘em. Therefore,
3. I am now selling ad space on Bachelor Girl! Our rates are extremely reasonable, and we’re interested in all relevant, responsible advertisers (in other words, we shall respectfully decline any and all offers from Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club and Wild Orchid Cabaret, which, to my knowledge, has little, if anything, to do with orchids or cabaret). So if you know of anyone who might be interested in advertising with us, please tell them to email me!
4. How do you think Jessica and I can improve B.G.? We want your suggestions for ways we can improve the usability of the site, ideas for topics you’d like me to write about, people you’d like me to interview and anything else about which you’d like to give us your $0.02.
5. About that interview thing: I’m planning to interview The Guy for you very soon. I was trying to think of questions, and I was having a very difficult time (I mean, I kind of already know a lot about him, obvs) when it hit me: HELLO. WHY DON’T I LET YOU GUYS ASK THE QUESTIONS.
(No one ever accused me of being a quick thinker.)
So leave your Barbara Walters questions for The Guy in the comments!
Your taking-care-of-business
Kel
July 19th, 2010
As I’ve said before, The Guy owns a home in an older part of Shreveport. The house has good bones, but it needs a lot of updating, which we’ll start on right after we’ve finished splitting our last dollar among various wedding vendors.
(I kid, I kid.)
No, the main problem with the house isn’t The (Pink) Carpet of My Discontent. It’s the neighbors. Well, really, just one neighbor. I’m not quite sure how to describe him…I mean, he kind of defies words.
Oh, wait, no, he doesn’t: He weighs about 400 pounds and insists on power-washing his carport wearing only his boxer shorts. Got the picture now?
I know I sure do, BECAUSE IT’S PERMANENTLY BURNED ONTO MY RETINAS.
Even worse, he tries to camouflage his enormous belly by pulling the aforementioned underwear (HIS UNDERWEAR. HE IS IN HIS UNDERWEEEEEAAAAAR.) up to his breastbone, which makes everything down below, um, worse.
Remarkably worse.
FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, WEAR A T-SHIRT, YOU M$%^#&@*$%^#& MORON! I DO! AND I HAVEN’T DIED OF HEATSTROKE YET! THIS IS NOT A NUDIST COLONY FOR THE MORBIDLY OBESE, YOU F$^#*@&% F!&$^#@!!!
AND ANOTHER THING!!! STOP FILLING UP OUR GARBAGE CAN!!!
Ahem.
I’m so very sorry. Where was I? Oh, yes.
So Saturday night, The Guy and I were horsing around, and I gave him a melvin. He stooped and started waddling around like some kind of penguin with osteoporosis, trying to make me laugh, as he so often does.
It was then, ladies and gentlemen, that I made a grave error.
Kelly: HAHA! You look like the neighbor!
The Guy: [Stops dead in his tracks. Straightens up. Tucks his underwear back into his shorts. Adjusts his shirt. Then, and only then, does he fix me with his Eyes of Cold Fury.]
Kelly: [Foolishly - oh, so foolishly - KEEPS LAUGHING. What is WRONG with me, people?]
The Guy: [Contines to stare with Eyes of Hate.]
Kelly: [Still laughing! STILL LAUGHING! I think I have a disorder.] Wait, are you mad? You’re mad, aren’t you? Why are you mad?
The Guy: [Still with the Eyes.]
Kelly: It’s because I’m laughing, isn’t it?
The Guy: [Could totally win a staring contest with anybody.]
Kelly: This is just like the time Mere tried on a hat at the mall and I told her she looked like the guy from Blues Traveler.
The Guy: [The spell is broken. He begins to spit and sputter uncontrollably.] YOU TOLD MERE SHE LOOKED LIKE JOHN POPPER?!?! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!
Kelly: No! No. Not really. I mean, not in those exact words, no. I just meant that the hat looked like that one he wears all the time.
The Guy: Oh my God.
Kelly: WHAT. I’m much better at written communication, okay?.
—-
The other day, The Guy and I drove to Walmart to return a movie to the Redbox. I hereby admit that I parked in a handicapped parking space and waited while he went inside.
(Please do not email me to tell me I am a monster. 1) I would’ve moved in a hot minute if anybody with a handicapped tag had driven by. 2) He was supposed to be in and out in two minutes flat. 3) As evidenced by the above story, I may very well fit the clinical definition of “handicapped.”)
Anyway. About 10 minutes later (during which time NOBODY DROVE BY, I SWEAR), he stomped out of there, cursing all the way. And let me tell you: The Guy does not normally share my penchant for stringing together veritable daisy chains of profanities that can make dock workers blush with shame.
“What happened?” I asked as we drove away, and The Guy
EXPLODED.
To this day, I can’t tell you exactly what happened. All I know is, it involved a family of rednecks, a pair of overalls and a little girl on a Rascal. At one point, he started imitating the kid on the Rascal, complete with Rascal-esque sound effects.
(If you ever needed a reason to marry an actor, this is it.)
To the surprise of exactly no one, I DIED laughing. Like, to the point that I almost had to pull over on the side of the road.
Naturally, this only fueled his righteous indignation.
“I’m sorry, honey. I really am. I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at the situation, I’m laughing at you!…WAIT.”
So when was the last time you contracted foot-in-mouth disease?
Your verbose
Kel
P.S. Mere, I’m sorry. Still.
July 15th, 2010
New reader Carosteelmagnolia left a comment today that echoes the question people ask me lately more than any other:
—-
Dear Bachelor Girl,
Just stumbled into your blog and have enjoyed browsing–but am dazed and confused. If you are really, really betrothed, how will “Bachelor” girl evolve? And since I haven’t been following your story, how does your fiance feel about turning Bachelor Girl into Happily Ever After Wedded Wife?
Do tell.
—-
When I attended the Smashburger event Tuesday, I saw my friend Francesca Moreland there (she’s a partner in Williams Creative Group), and she asked me if planned to participate in the Red River Dragon Boat Festival again in September with her Rotary Club team.
“Nope,” I said, smiling.
“Why?!” she asked, her gorgeous green eyes getting huge.
“Because I’ll be planning my wedding!” I replied.
She squealed, hugged me, then started howling. “The Bachelor Girl’s getting married!” For the rest of lunch, whenever she introduced me to anyone, she said, “This is Kelly Phelan. She writes BachelorGirl.net, but she’s getting married in October.” And we’d start laughing all over again.
I mean, it IS pretty funny, if you think about it: I started this blog two years ago to convince the world (or at least Shreveport, LA) that being single is not a tragedy on par with genocide, and now I’m getting married in three months. “Thus is the power of effective marketing,” said Katie.
It’s also funny how my attitude toward Bachelor Girl has changed in those two years. In November of 2008, when Jessica the Web Mistress got B.G. up and running, I was kind of…defensive about being single in my thirties. And who wouldn’t be? New friends would come to my apartment and be really surprised that I had, you know, matching sets of sheets and more than two plates. I was like, “Dude, I’m not FERAL. Jesus.”
But as I started writing here and saw how many women – married, single, divorced, mommies, home-schoolers, empty-nesters and everything in between – identified with the B.G. lifestyle and attitude, I came to believe more and more that “Bachelor Girl” is less a marital status than a state of mind.
Yesterday, I got a new blogging gig, and I’m just incredibly excited about it – I’ll be contributing to Bodies in Motivation, a health and fitness blog.
(STOP LAUGHING.)
Rather than being a site where nauseatingly perky “experts” tell you that in order to be thin, you should wake up an extra hour early every morning to “meditate” and cook yourself an eggwhite-centric breakfast from scratch and devote AT LEAST an hour to the gym every day, it’s a place where real people talk about their goals and challenges. Basically, we tell you what works for us and come clean when something doesn’t.
(I’m still not sure I can tell hundreds of people my weight, though. But The Guy has assured me that if I lie to the readers, the floor will open up and I’ll drop straight into the pits of hell.)
Naturally, I’ve already started thinking about my introductory post, in which I’ll try to convince B.I.M.’s loyal readers that a health-and-fitness ne’er-do-well such as myself has ANYTHING useful to contribute. As I lay in bed last night, I thought about how to describe the Bachelor Girl philosophy, and this is what I came up with:
1. You can have anything you want if you’re determined enough to get it.
2. Less sitting around and waiting. More doing.
3. Do everything you can to love every part of your life, and you WILL end up happy.
I certainly won’t abandon those principles once I get married. If anything, I’ll be more committed to them than ever, because I’ll have a new family who’s counting on me to be the best person I can possibly be.
So I guess you could say Bachelor Girl has already evolved. As for the site’s name, it’ll change to MrsBachelorGirl.net after the wedding. Because me getting married isn’t the end of the story, it’s just the next chapter.
And if you think a 33-year-old Bachelor Girl writer marrying a 32-year-old Bachelor Boy actor, having Small Fries and arguing about the merits of Jackson Pollock Days isn’t going to be interesting, then you’ve got another thing coming!
A Diane-Sawyer-esque interview with The Guy is in the works, so we’ll get his thoughts about taking me from Miss to Mrs. soon.
Several of you have already weighed in, but for those of you who haven’t: What do you think about the B.G. going domestic?
Your affianced
Kel
July 13th, 2010
Last week, I got an email from the lovely Sara Hebert of Williams Creative Group, a local marketing and public relations firm. She’s working with SmashBurger, a nationwide restaurant chain that’s opening a franchise location, owned by Scott and Mary Quigley, here in Shreveport.
Anyway, Sara was planning a Social Media Luncheon wherein she was inviting local bloggers, tweeters, Yelpers and various other “social media rockstars” to try SmashBurger before it opens to the public and review it via our respective outlets, and would I like to participate?
UH, YEAH.
1. Dude, you had me at “social media rockstar.”
2. Also at “Haagen-Dazs milkshakes.”
3. I toiled in complete obscurity for FIVE YEARS. Call me a spoiled diva, but I feel that a free hamburger is my obvious due.
So this morning at 11:00, I eagerly made my way to 7503 Youree Drive and tried to remember my manners.
(As Todd on Air will solemnly attest, I did a failjob of that.)
I tried the Louisiana Burger (DUH), and I’ll be honest: I was a little wary. While some elements of it sounded delicious (applewood smoked bacon, Cajun grilled onions), other parts of it did NOT (remoulade sauce on a BURGER? And what the heck is an egg bun?).
PEOPLE.
IT WAS AH. MAZING.
If it’s not the best burger in Shreveport, it’s at least in the top three.
I also tried their regular French fries,which were delightfully crispy on the outside and mealy on the inside, as all good fries should be. I was dying to try the SmashFries tossed with rosemary, olive oil and garlic, and I actually prefer sweet potato fries, which they also have, but I judge burger joints on their regular fries . One of my dining companions and fellow “social media rockstar” Danielle Griffith had the Veggie Frites (flash-fried asparagus spears, carrot sticks and green beans), and while I didn’t taste them – I have this thing about bumming food off people I just met and who I want to like me – they looked delicious.
Oh my GOD, please stop babbling about frites or whatever already and TELL ME ABOUT THE SHAKES. I know you had one, you glutton.
Darn skippy I did, and it was everything I hoped it would be and more. I’ve been sitting here for, like, 10 minutes, trying to think of a way to describe it, and I have just three words for you:
1. Bread
2. Pudding
3. Milkshake
YES.
Why oh why did I have to discover this awesomeness three months before I have to stuff myself into a wedding dress?
This will be my undoing. If I look chubby on my wedding day, blame the shake.
Fortunately, though, SmashBurger also has reasonably healthy and surprisingly sophisticated salads and grilled chicken sandwiches on the menu. In the near future, I will go back with the noble intention of ordering a salad – probably the Harvest Chicken – and water. If I can just stay away from the shakes and the beer…
Obviously, the day was a smashing success.
(Heee. See what I did there?)
In closing, I’d like to give a big shout out to my fellow blogger Kathryn Usher for teaching me the Word of the Day:
“Man-panties.”
Use it often.
Your hungryhungry
Kel
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