Tuesday, March 27, 2012

the new high-fiber diet

I have a friend who can be described as a "meat and potatoes kind of guy". His favorite foods are "goopy" (his word choice, not mine). Think: casseroles made with cream of [insert starch here]. Macaroni and cheese. Velveeta-on-white-bread sandwiches (no, really).

His 30th birthday is coming up and now he's "focused on the goal" (again - his words, not mine). He firmly believes that this will be accomplished by eating a high-fiber diet because it will make him "go" more often. I know, I know...not the best route for weight loss. But he knows his body better than anyone else, so we're all supportive. Plus, the drastic decrease in solid fats has got to do something, right?

Anyhoodle, I just got the following IM:

"all I've had today is oatmeal, a salad and an apple. oh, and fingernails."

I don't have the heart to tell him that fingernails are protein, not fiber.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

this is how we burlesque

Did you know "burlesque" is a verb?

Me, neither. But Cher and XTina say otherwise, so I'm inclined to follow their path of creative liberties on many things. So I'm on board with their poetic license here. Or at least for the purposes of a blog title.

Speaking of blogs: it's been a while for me. But, despite my absence, I've still been monitoring the spam comments from the occasional check-in. Did you know they actually have meds that can increase your peh-nis size? And plenty of people who want to sell 20-something-girls these products?

Who knew?

A few updates to get into before I tell the story that made me want to write here again. Full disclosure:

- I'm no longer a 20-something. And at this very moment, I'm writing myself a reminder now to take the "20-something blogger" tag off my page. Bless my aged heart.

- I'm no longer A Single. I am A Wife. And this guy is A Husband. (Specifically, mine - but I thought that point was pretty obvious.)

- I am most definitely still Not A Lisa. Nor do I plan to be A Lisa. Kids are not on our collective horizon. However, The Hus did tell me during our "do you want kids?" conversation that the answer was "no, definitely not. But I will love the crap out of any accident I might have with you." With an answer like that, how could he not be The One?

- I no longer have an office to toot in. Oddly enough, sometimes promotions come with floor moves and there isn't enough office space and maybe one of these days we'll get you back in one, but there's just not any availability right now, and I'm so sorry. Or so says my HR. It's been a year. Our senior level turn over at this place is way too low, if you ask me. (Jokes!)

Now that you're all caught up, here's the story. I'll try to keep 'em comin', as Married Life has proven to be quite delightful fodder for ridiculous stories.


Hus and I decided to try a new bar the other night. It's one of those delightful mixology joints where they say "what do you like to drink?" and you answer "things that are bourbon-y and boozy." Then they put a tiny glass in front of you that smells like a drunken grandfather picking fresh oranges in the orchard. These things make me happy.

However, the booze is not the focus of this story. It is the reason for it, as it usually is, but it's not the focus.

I noticed immediately that something was a little strange about the place when I went to the bathroom. All of the women were either of the jet-black-hair-with-severe-bangs-and-tattoos type, or they were dressed like they were going to a swing competition with full skirts and little patent mary jane heels. The dudes were not of your typical Dallas variety, either - most were in zoot suits and some sort of millenary accoutrement.

Whatever. It's Deep Ellum. It's artsy.

Then we settle into some bar stools to watch some Mavs (Hus) and keep inhaling our orchard drinks (me). Some older gentleman walks up and strikes up a conversation with me about the game. Ummm…that's kind of strange, too. I'm sitting by my husband. But whatever. It's Deep Ellum…?

Then the light comes up on the tiny stage in the corner and an older gentleman in a pin stripe suit, handlebar mustache and fedora announces himself as Tommy Fedora.

Uh oh.

He thanks everyone for coming out this evening to The Dallas Burlesque Club's March meeting.


And then says "please give a big warm welcome tonight to our guest speaker Something-Something-Sexy (can't remember) who's here tonight to talk to you kind folks about the art of stage kittening!!"


We were trapped. The only way out of that tiny bar was right past Stage Kitten herself and I was a little scared of the girls with the severe bangs and tattoos. Sooooooo…

We learned a lot.

My new goal is to be the guest speaker at The Dallas Burlesque Club's April meeting.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

The Motherland!!

This post is about vodka. And peripherally about Russia. Most definitely about my mother.

I really couldn't capture this story better than I just did in email form to my best friend J. Enjoy the slightly edited version based on the email that went to him and his boyfriend.

"Because I'm killing time at a bar before a Brazilian appointment and my clients aren't currently returning my calls, I thought I'd treat you boys to some quasi-drinky texts from my mother last night.

A little background: Holidaze is the annual holiday
shopping extraveganza put on by the Junior League. Every year, Mom
and Dad head on down to the local convention center (by the city gardens) to attend, then argue about who's sober enough to drive home. Post-event small town society drama stories are always a treat for me.

Also, last weekend my mother asked me to pick up some ginger beer from the liquor store because she wanted to make some Moscow Mules (which, as you know, I quite love). I was so proud of her Baptist soul.

Anyhoodle, I started the text conversation with:

"J told me today that Oprah and Gayle had Moscow Mules on their
camping trip the other day. We're so ahead of the trend curve."

Mom replied, four hours later:

"You dork. Where do you think I heard about the recipe!!!! Hahaha!"

Ten minutes later, also from Mom:

"Just got home from mistletoe. Kate N. and many others say hi."


"Hi to Kate N. and many others. And crap. I thought you were just inspired by my post-Gaga tweet months ago about being at the bar with the Mules. Guess we know who's actually ahead of the trend curve now... :)"


"Its all just illusion anyway. :)"

What? What does that even mean?

Then a follow-up 25 minutes later, after I didn't respond. You could
tell she had some time to think about it.

"Soo, don't break J's bubble. He thinks we're trendy. Let him!!"

Gentlemen, my mother...

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

travel update from the tub

Yes, I'm naked. And in serious danger of ruining my iPhone (and possibly myself) by sending this message while waterlogged. But, I'm in Chicago again and it must be said...

...my personal version of whiskers on kittens is a ginger martini. And taking a bath afterward with a glass of petite zinfandel while listening to a podcast about the finale of Lost? Well, that's just some brown paper packaging tied up with string.

Friday, June 4, 2010

the curse of the gifted

I have a gift. A seventh sense, if you will (in addition to my current sixth sense, which is being "a little bit psychic"). At any given moment, I will have a sudden urge to pee. And, when this urge pops up out of nowhere, I know the reason why - but there's no arguing with it. I must pee. And I'm going to suffer for it.

What's the reason that prompts my bladder, you ask? I can only assume that it's because my bladder has a very close relationship with the office bathroom just down the hall. And that bathroom must be whispering to my bladder:

"Come and see me now. The air is now at its dookiest. Come now!"

And, because my bladder is an asshole, it sets off the pee trigger. Which forces me to breathe in dookie-scented air for a good three minutes while I pee and wash my hands. It's uncanny, though. I can go for hours and hours without having to pee, but somehow, some way, five minutes before I feel the tingly pee pain in my pants, someone is undoubtedly in the bathroom releasing their hell hound of a shit and dookie-ing up the air for my arrival.

It's a bitch of a seventh sense, really. Stupid bladder.

Thursday, May 27, 2010


So I'm dating a boy. Have been for 5 months or so. I think we might be perfect for each other, as evidenced by a recent IM conversation that took place after the Jamaica trip was upsetting the natural order of my colon:

notlisa (5:05:14 PM): oh, by the way

notlisa (5:05:18 PM): i never pooped today

notlisa (5:05:22 PM): what-the-eff

newboyfriend (5:05:35 PM): ummm

newboyfriend (5:05:40 PM): you've got to be kidding me

notlisa (5:05:48 PM): i even had a big ol' fruit salad and an iced coffee for lunch

notlisa (5:05:56 PM): and coffee for breakfast

notlisa (5:05:59 PM): that's it.

notlisa (5:06:04 PM): oh, and a wishful thinking, "let's get this party started" cigarette this morning

newboyfriend (5:06:55 PM): I'm going to have some words with your bowels

notlisa (5:06:55 PM): i'm about to head home where i plan on having cigarette after cigarette until this Rosemary's Poopie decides to finally make its evil way into the world

newboyfriend (5:07:02 PM): ha ha ha

newboyfriend (5:07:05 PM): I love it

notlisa (5:07:21 PM): so annoying

newboyfriend (5:07:40 PM): no kidding...

Isn't he just dreamy?

another POV

No, not POV as in ad-speak as in "I'm a client and therefore must use marketing buzzwords, so what's your opinion of this" as in "I'm too much of a self-aggrandizing a-hole to ask for your perspective so I'm going to use an acronym instead" as in "what's your POV?"

Wow. Someone (see: me) isn't terribly happy to be back at the office after a week in Jamaica.

And why would I be? Here's that POV I mentioned above - my literal point-of-view for the past 6 days:

Except when that POV was blocked by a giant fruity drink. Sorry, no picture of that. Taking pictures whilst mid-sip requires far too much coordination.