I love a night out, having a purpose to wear something pretty, to apply perfume and make-up, and a reason to actually fix my hair. What I don’t love is the process it takes to get ready to go on such an outing. If you have a vagina, chances are you can relate to the inner dialogue that screams in my head Every. Single. Time. I go out.  It goes something like this:

4:49: I can’t wait to go out tonight. Should be fun. I’m supposed to meet the girls at 8:00. I have plenty time to clean my kitchen, mop the floor, cook dinner, practice spelling with son for tomorrow, and get ready. Hmmm…What should I wear? Oh, I’ll wear that green dress. What shoes? 

Ding: Oh, look, Beth mentioned me in a comment on Facebook. Wonder what it could be.

Two hours and seven minutes later …

Oh shoot! I have to cook dinner and get ready, but these girls keep talking about boobs and showing me naked pictures of men who look exactly like my book boyfriends.

Quickly types: “I have to go get dinner ready, mop the floor, shower, shave my legs and armpits, and work on spelling words for tomorrow’s spelling test. AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M WEARING TO GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT. See you later, girls.”

Runs through kitchen, pulls out frozen pizza, turns on oven, throws pizza into cold oven even though the directions clearly state preheat first, and grabs broom. Sweeps feverishly. Gets two paper towels and dampens them with water, puts one under each foot and scoots along kitchen floor like a penguin or a walrus or a pregnant woman purposely stopping at the place where son spilled Powerade after school. Looks around.

Good enough. Dangit, I forgot to set the timer on the pizza. It’s been about seven minutes. 

Sets timer for 18 minutes.

Runs to the shower. Strips and jumps into cold water.

Mother #@$% it’s cold. Who designed this place with the water heater in the attic? How am I supposed to shave my legs in this glacier cold shower?

Fifteen minutes later…Places two cotton balls strategically on cut ankles. Walks into closet searching for green dress. Pushes hangers aside in a panic searching for green dress like it’s the holy flipping grail.

Where is my green dress? 

Hand lands on dress. Pulls it off the hanger and tries it on. Stares at self for approximately eleven minutes and twenty three seconds in full length mirror.

Not bad.

Turns to the side. Sticks out chest and butt. Sucks in belly. Turns around. Looks over shoulder at butt.

Does my butt look funny? Oh my God. Yes. My butt looks terrible and weird. Is it the mirror? Why is my right butt cheek bigger than my left? How is it humanly possible to be this white? What is that? Is that a varicose vein? ON MY CALF? Jesus Christ!!! 

Pulls off green dress, throws it on the floor, and studies lopsided ass in the mirror.

I must have a tumor in my right butt cheek? Did I squat too much on one side? How can I build up my left cheek to match the right one?

Does 20 one legged left sided squats. Falls on the ground in underwear. Cries for a minute. Looks at the time.

What is that beeping? Oh no, the pizza. 

Runs into kitchen wearing only underwear and pulls slightly crispy (black) pizza out of oven. Calls kids for dinner.

“I’m not eating that,” Kid one.

“Gross. What’s that smell? Is something on fire?” Kid two.

“No darlings, it’s dinner. It’s a delicious pizza. Here sit down and have a slice, and I’ll let you have some of mommy’s candy stash for dessert.”

Little ungrateful brats don’t deserve my rolos. 

“I see your butt,” Kid two.

“Where are your pants?” Kid one in his best Lego Movie impersonation.

Leaves children cracking up and picking at burned pizza. Runs back into bathroom. Passes full length mirror and flips off reflection of lopsided ass.

Carefully walks into closet avoiding stepping on ass distorting green dress.

Maybe I’ll wear this white dress. It’s cute. No it’s going to rain. Throws white dress on the closet floor. Hmmm…how about this pink dress. That will look cute with the new bracelet Nikki convinced me to buy. Tries on dress, goes back to asshole mirror. Nope. Throws pink dress on the floor of closet. Ooohhh! I forgot about this. Takes never worn shirt from a hanger, holds it up to body, looks in the mirror, tries shirt on. Now I remember why it still has the tags on it. Hell no.

Walks out of closet defeated. Starts applying makeup. Turns on music to get in the mood for dancing. Shakes booty while powdering face. Daughter enters the room.

“Mommy, what are you doing? Why does your butt shake like that when you dance? It looks funny, mommy.” Breaks into hysterical laughter.

“Let’s turn on Bubble Guppies, my sweet honest little asshole girl.”

Runs back into bathroom ignoring both the full length mirror and the clock. Heart is racing. Runs to bar. Pours a glass of wine (shuddap it’s girls’ night out, and I’m ubering).

Back to the bathroom. Drinks wine while applying make-up. Pulls out new microfiber lash mascara purchased from friend who wouldn’t leave her alone on Facebook. Reads directions twice. Applies lashes.

What the actual? Eye is on fire. My eye is on fire. Eye is on fire. 

Runs to sink, puts eye directly under running water. When eye no longer feels like it is searing from its socket, stands up and looks in the mirror.

Great. I am a raccoon, with Medusa inspired hair. 

Hair is a complete halo of frizz. Sprays lion’s mane with leave-in conditioner then volumizer. Dries hair, continually tangling roll brush into hair and whisper screaming as the brush yanks clumps of hair out of scalp. Quality mirror check.

What is wrong with my hair? Why will it not lay down flat? Is that a gray hair?

Climbs up on counter and puts head up against the mirror. Plucks out three hairs just in case.

Why couldn’t the gray hair have been part of the scalping the brush just performed?

Notices smudges on mirror. Gets glass cleaner. Cleans smudge. Sees another smudge. Cleans it. Cleans the entire mirror. And the counter. And the shower.

Washes black stained face. Re-applies make-up. Opts out of microfiber eyes. Makes a mental note to delete “friend” from Facebook. Goes back into the fifth realm of hell aka the closet.

Pulls out nine dresses, three pairs of pants, five different tops, and two pairs of shorts. Throws all of it on bed. Looks at clock: 7:45. Grabs phone to request Uber. App has to do a manual update to work and asks for credit card number, phone number, drivers license number, name of first born child, social security number, bra size, and shoe size.

At least it didn’t ask for my ass size. 

Ding: Your uber will arrive in nine minutes.

Nine minutes? Nine minutes? 

Searches through nineteen outfits on bed, fourteen outfits on closet floor, and the dryer. Sits down in a panic on bedroom floor in nothing but bra and panties. Cries for about two minutes because:

I have absolutely nothing to wear. I must go shopping tomorrow. I have a lopsided ass, desperately need a tan and a hair cut, and my eye lashes are short and thin. I am not going. I want to stay home in my yoga pants and eat popcorn and rolos, but my kids just ate all my rolos. 

7:52 Ding: Your uber has arrived

Shit he’s early.

7:53 Ding: a text message from a friend: What are you wearing? I’m running late. I look like shit, and I’m already drunk.

Sigh. At least I’m not the only one.

8:01: Walks into closet.

Puts on green dress, gold earrings, and tan wedges. Kisses darling children goodbye.

8:24: Arrives at bar. Greets the girls.

“Oh my God, you look so cute. I love your dress. Your ass looks amazing. Let’s have a glass of champagne.”

I have the best friends in the entire world. 

Toasts with girlfriends. Hears favorite song. Drags girlfriends to dance floor. Dances and dances and dances, twirling around in a haze of green and gold. Smiling and laughing.

1:42: Quietly walks into house. Sheds green dress at the door, tan wedges in the hall, drops purse on the floor by the kitchen. Drinks 32 oz of water. Takes two tylenol. Walks into bedroom. Passes full length mirror. Winks and smiles at reflection.

Tell me, ladies … is it just me?

 

****Disclaimer: I’m on drugs and also a fall risk. (Just throwing that out there before you read any further.)****

Wait.I don’t need an intervention. I’m just on pain meds because I had surgery yesterday.

Do you feel sorry for me? Good. I need some pity. You’ll see why later. Keep reading. By the way, I’m in a lot of pain. I’m in more pain than I thought. Are you ordering me flowers? Don’t. Flowers die, and you don’t have my address, so you would probably send flowers to some other Mandi who would be like “Hey, why did I get flowers?” And then they would die. I’m digressing.

I guess I should tell you why I had surgery. No, I didn’t get boobs. I already have those. I said boobs. I really am on drugs. What was I saying? BOOBS!

Oh, yeah, why I had surgery. I’m kind of a gym rat, and by kind of, I am one. I exercise a lot. I usually play a little basketball with a friend and then we go to this class. The instructor calls it Pilates until you come to class, and then she says, “If you’re expecting traditional Pilates, you’re in for a treat.” She’s lying. It should probably be called “You’re about to get your ass, abs, arms and legs handed to you, and don’t even think about taking a break or stopping for a drink because I will yell at you, and I know your name!” But that’s too long to fit on the little calendar, so Pilates it is.

I’m a little competitive, so since I’ve been going to this class three times a week for over two years, I’ve made some friends in the class, and we started a competition. Who can out pilate the other. I like to win. Well, a week ago, I was in class and trying to win, but I kept having to take breaks, which is not my norm. I was dizzy and very nauseous. So much so that even the instructor came over to me and asked if I was okay. I muscled through (see what I did there?) and finished the class, but I could tell something wasn’t quite right.

Throughout the weekend, I felt worse and worse. I pushed through because someone very special had a very fun book release party, and I could not miss it, so I drank some wine and champagne and ignored the pain in my stomach.

Sunday night after a busy day of family and Easter egg hunts and eating my weight in chocolate, I had to lie down, which is also not my norm. What’s a nap? I decided I should call my doctor. Monday morning, she confirmed I had a hernia and referred me to a general surgeon. I met with him on Wednesday. He looked at me for two minutes and said, “That’s gotta come out,” so I had surgery yesterday. No big deal.

Here’s where you come in. See, no flowers, I need something else. Do you l love me? How much do you love me? I love you. A lot. I would send you flowers and tell you how much in the card, but those cards are really small, and flowers die. I only like moist tulips anyway.

Drugs are bad, kids.

What was I saying?

Oh yeah!!  I’m about to release my VERY FIRST NOVEL, and I am so excited. I would jump up and down and do cartwheels, but I have stitches, so I can’t. I’m reaching out to you, my people.

Here’s a little bit about the book:

Paige Preston wants to end her life. After an unsuccessful attempt, she lands herself in mandatory therapy with a sexy psychiatrist. When he and an even more alluring friend begin to help her break down the walls she’s spent a lifetime building, Paige begins to see something bigger than herself. Is it enough to pull her out of her dark world and help her finally feel like a human? Or will letting someone in be the final step toward her demise?

Dear Stephanie is a sinfully addictive walk through a world of beauty, affluence, and incidental love that effortlessly moves the reader between laughter, tears, heartache, and hope with the turn of every “Paige.”

I’m about to be in your face with everything Dear Stephanie (that’s the name of the book, by the way). I would love some internet love. I need volunteers to read and publish a review on release day. I need tweeters to tweet my stuff or even retweet. Help me pimp.

“Pimpin ain’t easy, but it’s necessary.” – Abraham Lincoln

If you want to have me, I would love to come play on your blogs and talk about the book and the characters. But anything you are able to do, even if it’s just to tell me not to freak out, I need, and I will be eternally grateful forever and ever. Isn’t that what eternally means?

So who’s in? Remember up there when you felt sorry for me? Use that. Help you help me. Wait. See? I’m on drugs.

Here’s a link to my new author Facebook page:  https://www.facebook.com/authormandicastle

It’s pretty empty, but get ready for some exciting teasers and giveaways and all those things I’m supposed to do that I don’t remember right now.

***I have no idea what I just wrote, and now I’m seeing double, so I apologize for errors and other things. I didn’t edit this.***