Wednesday, November 26, 2008

whoops in translation

I'm not sure if you've seen this yet, but if not, enjoy: http://web.mac.com/olibeale/Iloveyoubut/home.html

And if you have, please enjoy again. No, really - I insist. Just swim around in them for a bit and find comfort in the fact that you are not the only annoyed one out there.

I think you might see where this is going. But first, let me frame up the story to best maximize your enjoyment.

My co-workers and I were discussing this site yesterday, sharing our favorites as well as possible "I love you, but" quotes that we should send in. We're agency girls, we've been around, we have spite to share. You know how we do.

I had sent the link earlier to an idle Boyfriend on IM, with the comment "I love this site so much I want to squeeze its many faces off." After our girly "I love you, but" bitch session, I turned around to find this comment blinking at me from my computer screen:

"Are you trying to tell me something with these?"

Dear sweet initial-capped Baby Jesus. Always with the drama, always with the veiled paranoia, always with the anxiety, always. My response:

"Um... 'I love you, but... you read way too much into things I send you on a whim from the innerwebs.'"

I probably should have included an emoticon of some sort to lighten the mood, but I consider those to be a last resort only to be used sparingly. You know, if you've just IM'd someone with "I just killed your cat. :)". The smiley is totally warranted. However, his rebuttal included no emoticon, either:

"'I love you, but some people think you are passive aggressive.'"

Considering I've been frustrated with him for the past two weeks and still have yet to grow a pair, stop beating around the bush and completely confront him, I'll go ahead and end this post with one word:

Touche.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

SPORTS!!

This past weekend was the annual Red River Round-Up. Actually, in my heart of hearts, it is still known as the Red River Shoot-Out - even though a certain telecom company (hint: starts with an A and ends with a T&T) changed the name when "shoot-out" was deemed far too violent.

Anyhoodle.

The Red River Round-Up, Texas/OU weekend, Red River Shoot-Out, whatever you want to call it - so long as you don't call it OU/Texas - was this past weekend. Just like every year, this weekend completely kicked my ass.

Before I go into the weekend details, there's something you should know about me: I'm not a sports fan. I don't enjoy football, I don't enjoy basketball, I definitely don't enjoy baseball, or really any other organized sport. When I was involved in athletics when I was younger, it was always of the non-team variety. Danny Zuko and I had a lot in common. I enjoyed water skiing, snow skiing, running, biking - basically anything that didn't involve a large group of people depending on my coordination or athleticism to win the game. Because, guess what? It wouldn't.

However, as much as I have never enjoyed team sports and the watching thereof, there is one thing I have always enjoyed: day drinking.

I'm not sure exactly why, but day drinking has always been one of my favorite activities. I think that it stems from that feeling of rebellion that courses through your liver when you're drinking vodka before the clock strikes noon. I know it's silly, but my conservative background still provides my psyche with a cheap thrill at being naughty and drinking so early in the morning. There are only a few times a year that this behavior is acceptable, nay expected, and they are:

- river trips

- lake house trips
- Pride Parades
- Sunday Funday
- Mexican vacations
- St. Patrick's Day
- Texas/OU Weekend

I like to think I take advantage of each and every one of them. Which means, because the day revolves around day drinking, I have to become a sports fan for 1/365th of the year and root for the Horns to kick some Sooner ass. Although, you should know this mostly involves me occasionally yelling "SPORTS!!" at the television set and asking my friends (who actually are true Texas fans) annoying questions such as "So who's winning the match?" and "Wait. I always forget... are we for the orange ones or the red ones?" They love me, they really do.

So this past weekend was no different. We arrived at the Designated Watching Location bright and early at 10 a.m. Well, my friends did. I, predictably, was 30 minutes late. I had two screwdrivers before the 11:00 kick-off and was feeling good about my understanding of the odds, the spread, the offense, the defense, and all the other sporty terms that people throw around prior to kick-off.

Around 11:45 a.m., my interest in the sports was waning and therefore decided that the only cure was more vodka. I completely gave up on orange juice as I believed it was holding me back and moved on to my go-to beverage of Ketel and water with a lemon.

At 12:00 p.m., genius struck. I decided that it was very, very important that we have some sort of half-time activity of our own. After perusing the Specialty Drinks menu (every bartender's worst nightmare), I discovered that they were able to prepare what they called a "Category 5!! This 44 oz. monster is the hurricane for 2 or more people!" I made this announcement loudly to my friends and declared that the half-time show would involve a Category 5 drinking contest and that everyone should go ahead and find a buddy.

At half-time, four pitchers of red nightmares were placed on our table, each with 2 straws sticking out.

My friend Lynn and I did not win. We were barely even contenders. However, we did finish the pitcher all by ourselves, just like big girls, with everyone in the small bar cheering all of us on.

And that's when the wheels came off.

The rest of the afternoon is a bit of a blur. There was macaroni and cheese eaten, fried green tomatoes passed around, shrimp cocktails ordered and - least of all to my interest - sports matches watched. My friend Lynn thought another Category 5 was the best of ideas, but I thought it was the worst of ideas. I compromised with her by ordering us two Ketel and waters and two Royal Fucks (our signature shot).

A compromise, that is not.

I've heard that Texas won the game.

Post-sports, it was time to stumble next door for celebratory Mexican martinis. I vaguely remember eating three chips dipped in salsa, diligently drinking my Mextini, having a few political discussions, then announcing that it was time for my annual nap.

Three more chips, one drunken attempt at seduction, one glass of water and one fight picked with my boyfriend later (exact words from me: "Why do we always have to talk about our FEELINGS?!"), I got that nap. It lasted 5 hours.

A smart person would have woken up, eaten a Quarter-Pounder-with-no-onions and gone back to bed.

Guess who has two thumbs, bad judgment and ended up standing in line at some random club in hopes of hearing an underground performance of ?uestlove, then giving up and drinking at her local neighborhood bar until close, listening to her friend shout "WON'T YOU TAKE ME TO!!" to the bartender, then hearing him follow up five minutes later with "FUNKY TOWN!!!!"?

This girl.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

lesson learned

I learned a very valuable lesson last night. Sometimes, I guess because of a time-space continuum or something else science-y that I don't understand, text messages will completely change as they travel from your phone to the other phone. I fell victim to this phenomenon last night.

When I sent the text it read: "So I miss you. Are you coming to Dallas anytime soon?" Based on my best guy friend's response to the text, I can only assume that in transit the content changed to "I want to have sex with you."

Or maybe it wasn't the text that changed. Perhaps his penis just finally acquired literacy?

Monday, September 22, 2008

treatise on boobies (and the attraction thereof)

Many moons ago, my boyfriend and I were driving to his hometown to attend his 10-year reunion. He had requested that I "wear something slutty", as he (believably) claims he was a huge nerd in high school and my cut-down-to-devil-may-care ensemble could gain him some much needed street cred. I politely refused, not necessarily because I'm against using feminine wiles to manipulate bunch of overgrown football players, but more so because my feminine wiles do not lie in my exposed d├ęcolletage. That area is more like 12-year-old boy wiles, not altogether terribly feminine. Don’t worry, though – I showed plenty of leg. Got to give them some sort of goodies to ogle. What kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t?

Anyhoodle, that conversation prompted a musing on my part.

Not Lisa: “You know, I just thought of something.”

Boyfriend: “Oh, God.”

Not Lisa: “Well, I just think it’s funny…”

Boyfriend: “uh huh…?”

Not Lisa: “It’s funny that you, a well-known boob man, ended up with me, of all people.”

Boyfriend: “I’ve made my peace with it.”

Not Lisa: “[string of expletives]”

Don’t you worry, he didn’t hear the end of that one for days. Weeks. Fine, months. Later that evening, I recounted the story for his best friend at the reunion:

Not Lisa: “…and then he said, without hesitation, ‘I’ve made my peace with it.’”

Boyfriend BF, after catching his breath from laughing hysterically: “Okay, I’m not going to defend him because that was a very, very stupid thing to say.”

Not Lisa: “No doy.”

Boyfriend BF: “But, perhaps I can offer some explanation from a fellow self-professed boob man?”

Not Lisa: “I’d love to hear you try.”

Boyfriend BF: “Well, as a boob man, I am partial to the breasts. However, it’s not necessarily the size that guarantees my appreciation. Sure, that’s a factor – but it’s further down the list. First on the list? I appreciate respectful boobies the most.”

Not Lisa: “Respectful?”

Boyfriend BF: “I need them to look me in the eye. Don’t look down at my feet, my eyes are up here. And yours always seem to maintain eye contact. Yours are FANTASTICALLY respectful.”

Not Lisa: “Don’t forget symmetrical.”

It was then that I began to truly respect Boyfriend BF’s opinion and decided that it was high time he find himself a nice lady with a respectful bosom.

Fast forward to this past Saturday night. I met Boyfriend and Boyfriend BF out for a drink after their long day of football-watching. Along the way, they had picked up a young lady who seemed quite taken with Boyfriend BF – and he with her. They had known each other in college but hadn’t seen one another in quite some time, therefore decided to celebrate their reunion with mass quantities of flirty, girly shots (her decision). Conversation turned to boobies (you know, like it does), and I told the above story, thereby painting Boyfriend BF in a wise and all-knowing light.

Fast forward again to Sunday morning. Boyfriend’s phone starts ringing around 9:45 a.m., just after Boyfriend BF dropped off his “date” from the night before. After much man-giggling, Boyfriend hung up the phone and turned to me.

Boyfriend: “He wanted me to thank you for telling the ‘respectful’ story. It earned him a lot of points and he and his penis are both eternally grateful.”

Not Lisa: “Wow. Gross. But they’re both more than welcome. So is he going to take her out on an actual date now?”

Boyfriend: “Um, probably not. Turns out he feels differently about her face in the light of day, doesn't think she's cute at all and isn’t planning to call her again.”

Moral of the story: although the boobies may take care, T.C.B. - it takes more than R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

hottie safari

So, as far too many of these stories start out, I had a few cocktails last night. I got to work this morning and, upon checking my email, saw an email to myself... from myself.

"Cell phone scavenger hunt for [client name] - alpha males scavenging on a hottie hunt. This may be dumb but it could work.

You're pretty tonight even though you ate a lot of Chick-fil-A and macaroni and cheese.

Love,
You"

I say such sweet things when I'm schnockered. And intelligent things? And how!

I honestly can't even tell you how much I ate last night. Countless Chick-fil-A nuggets, countless waffle fries, several servings of macaroni and cheese. And all of this in the name of making hundreds of Jell-o shots for a(nother) trip to float the Guadalupe River this weekend.

By the by, if you haven't tried the Macaroni and Cheese with Premium Bacon from Pizza Hut yet, you're no friend of mine. Sweet goodness, is that stuff delicious. The Core was arguing back and forth all day via email chain about whether or not to have Pizza Hut deliver Tuscani Pasta that night for dinner or if we should have Chick-fil-A. The Jell-o Shot Making Party Hostess finally made the executive decision to have a Chick-fil-A nugget tray for dinner that night but then, lo and behold, surprised us with a knock on the door from Pizza Hut. I've never loved her, or the Pizza Hut guy, so much in my life. Nuggets! Waffle fries! Dipping sauces! Wine! And macaroni and cheese - with BACON!!!

There are not enough exclamation points in the world to convey my delight.

Friday, August 22, 2008

totally normal airplane entertainment

Last Thursday morning found me at DFW airport, drinking a screwdriver with The Core in the Irish pub located in the international terminal. None of us gave a second thought to the fact that it was 8 a.m. and we were drinking. We were on vacation, logic and social standards be damned.

Fast forward through two drinks, a cup of yogurt and an hour later: we're on the plane. Sun Country Airlines offered us a delicious pre-packaged sausage biscuit with a sliver of cheese the size of a quarter and we were all happy as clams. However, after another 30 minutes of flight time the Martha Stewart Living had been read and People's special child star stories were devoured. What to do?

The Boyfriend and I had the following discussion:

Not Lisa: "What if you had to have your head shaved for one reason or another, or maybe you just up and Britney Spears'd yourself, and you realized that you had been living your whole entire life with a pentagram made out of moles on the back of your head?"

The Boyfriend: "I would be bad ass."

Not Lisa: "Wouldn't you be concerned? You had lived your whole life marked with a pentagram and had never known? Wouldn't you be scared of being marked?"

The Boyfriend: "No, because I'd be marked as 'Bad Ass'."

Not Lisa: "I'd be freaked out."

The Boyfriend: "That's because you're not a bad ass. Can I give you a tattoo?"

How's a girl supposed to say no to that? A red Sharpie was found in my messenger bag and this glorious piece of artwork was born:



I waited until he was finished to tell him that "beuty" is not the way you spell "beauty". He claims that he was concentrating too hard on writing in cursive to pay attention to spelling. I claim he's a copywriter who can't spell.

In case you're wondering, my claim is correct.

Also in case you're wondering, that image is a majestic dagger wrapped with a delicate rose. One represents pain, the other represents beauty. Or beuty, rather. It's pretty deep - it's okay if you don't get it.

The news of my intricate and detailed tattoo moved quickly up the plane and through the rest of The Core. My friend R ran back to our row and settled in between us, holding out her fore-arm and yelling "Ooh! Me! Me!!"

After much discussion and a practice sketch on the barf bag, R's tattoo was complete:



We were delighted with many things, namely the bad grammar theme that carried itself through to another tattoo (lifes' a beach, in case you can't see it), the cactus blossom detail and the idea of a potted cactus representing a beach. We were practically peeing ourselves at this point. The pun of "beach" instead of "bitch" and that we were headed to the beach and that someone's grandma had a shirt that said that and oh-my-gosh-that's-so-stupid - our heads were spinning with how hilarious we thought we were.

Until...

(Please note: as you're a reader of an anonymous blog, I should make it known that I have a mole on the back of my arm that stands proudly erect and that I will never remove. I can't see it and therefore, in my mind, no one else can. It's a pain-free perk of being a selfish person. This mole is well-known amongst The Core.)

Ahem. Until...

Not Lisa: "I really want another one."

R: "Totally."

Not Lisa: "We should plan a tattoo around my mole!!"

R: "OOOH!! A clown face!!!"



And, just so you can get the full 3-D effect that made us laugh so hard until we cried:



HOTT. With two Ts.

You're a crazy person if you think I didn't wear that proudly at the pool, the beach and later dinner and the disco-tech.

I miss Molezo already. And his hat complete with squirting flower.

The new plan is to re-create Molezo and book an appointment with my dermatologist, telling him I was in the sun for five straight days and really need him to check my mole. Hilarity ensues.

sneaky spam

"Associated Bank Business Online Banking"

Seriously? I'd be less suspicious if I saw my neighbor get a package marked "NOT PENIS CREAM".

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

what happens in mexico...

...gets blogged about anonymously. That's the new adage, no? Do shameful things and admit them via innerwebs to anyone who may happen across your confession?

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), this is not a list of shameful things I did in Mexico on vacation. It could not even be a list of non-shameful things that I did in Mexico, because that list would look like this:

- laid around whilst drinking and eating
- (see above)

The above list (or lack there-of) means, at least to me, that my vacation was a great success. My favorite trips are the ones that require the least amount of effort possible. Luckily, I usually travel with The Core and The Boyfriend, who have the exact same vacation expectations as I do. Our one requirement for our vacation destination was that it have a swim-up bar. Done and done. Our optional requirement was that our hotel also have a pirate ship, but unfortunately those are difficult to come by this day and age.

My only complaint about the trip as a whole has to be in regard to The Canadians. Not the country and its general population as a whole, but rather two very specific Canadians that we encountered during our trip. Both pretty young (22), both socially awkward, both looking for anyone to hang out with other than each other. Which was unfortunate for us, because The Core rarely likes to hang out with anyone other than each other. We've been called "welcoming and inviting", but only in the most sarcastic of tones.

Vancouver, a chain-smoking drug-dealer turned Canadian military dude, introduced himself to my friend Stacy on our second-to-last night in Mexico at the sports bar we tended to take over every night to play drinking games before our nightly excursion to the resort's disco-tech. He and his roommate Montreal had both been admiring (see: leering at) Stacy from across the bar and had finally consumed enough alcohol to move in for the approach. Please note, Montreal is a woman with absolutely zero interest in Roomie Vancouver - one thing she and Stacy had in common. Their opening line was bound to win her heart: "Hey, sup. You and your friends are the only ones speaking English so we thought maybe we could hang. I'm so sick of all this Mexican."

Please also note: Stacy is Latina, a heritage we insist on celebrating as often as possible with tequila. Not their smartest opening move.

I've used tampons with more personality than these two. Their awkward behavior resulted in the following conversations:

1) Lynn (while watching the Olympics): "Yeah, Phelps!! USA is kicking-ass! We're so great and stuff!!"

Montreal: "Well, did you know that Canada is twice the size of the United States with 1/10th the population?! I bet you didn't."

Lynn: "Wow."

2) Vancouver, to The Boyfriend: "So, what do you do?"

The Boyfriend: "I'm in advertising."

Vancouver: "Yeah? Do you make good money?"

The Boyfriend: "Eh, not really... but I do alright."

Vancouver: "How much do you make?"

The Boyfriend: "I'm sorry?"

Vancouver: "How much money do you make in a year?"

The Boyfriend, to everyone: "Let's do some shots!!"

3) Stacy: "Well, I'm pretty tired. I think I'm heading to bed now."

Montreal: "You're the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Vancouver: "Me, too."

Stacy: "Bye-eeee!!"


And that doesn't even begin to cover it. The Canadian/American comparisons went on all night, including interesting topics such as the price of cigarettes, the alcohol content in American vs. Canadian beer, and whether or not Americans could smoke Parliament Lights. And, in case you're actually interested, we learned the following:

- American cigarettes are more expensive and poorly packaged.
- American beer is weak. Vancouver drank 86 of them in an hour one time and didn't feel a thing. Yes, 86.
- Americans shouldn't be allowed to smoke Parliament Lights because we don't have a Parliament in our government. Good thing I quit smoking. I'd be in trouble.

After all the above awkwardness, The Canadians still thought we were life-long besties and tried to get all of our email addresses. I had been force-fed enough Sambuca shots at that point (Vancouver's idea, every time) to reach for the pen and begin to oblige when I heard "...so we can keep in touch and plan our vacations together next year!!"

Crickets. Lots of drunken, sad, Mexican crickets with nothing to do but chirp and fill the awkward air.

What? And, I'm sorry, but what?? Who are these people that go on vacation, force their way into an existing group, constantly make the entire group uncomfortable and then expect them to plan their vacation together the next year? Who are these people who constantly lean over and nose-breathe on the bare shoulders of girls they just met? Crazy Canadians, that's who.

And so Sambuca (and tequila, and vodka, and rum, and Corona - don't judge, it was a long day) gave me the solution: misspell my email address (oops!) and go do a lyrical dance to Bryan Adams "Everything I Do" on the disco floor, twirling my scarf through the air to emphasize the fluidity of the movement. I think that song was a present from sweet baby Jesus, giving us the vocal stylings of a very lovely Canadian after the painful Canuck nonsense we had endured. Who couldn't love a country that bore an adorable young man who sings that he "wants the world for you" and he'd "die for youuuuuuu"?

God bless Canada, after all.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

shrooms.

A friend of mine just told me the most horrifying story, told to him by another friend years ago. This particular friend of a friend worked at a hospital for a few years and managed to accumulate several disgusting gag-inducing stories that are always fun to tell at parties. Or, you know, on Wednesday mornings over coffee.

As most of these stories go, the particular patient being dealt with had engaged in something they shouldn’t have, which landed them in the hospital. This patient had a long-term bad habit with a slow descent into eventual hospitalization: over-eating. Think Gilbert Grape’s mom. We’ll call her Mama Grape.

They brought Mama Grape into the hospital for heart problems but, as she was laying in the hospital bed watching television, the hospital staff realized that her problems extended into the personal hygiene arena as well. They prepared a sponge bath and started with her feet, working their way up.

It came time for them to care for her abdomen and chest and, as they were professional hospital staff members, they didn’t think anything of her nudity and continued to clean. One of them lifted up one of her breasts to clean underneath and immediately had to stifle a gasp. Right where a bra under-wire should rest, they found a colony of mushrooms.

Mama Grape had mushrooms growing under her breasts.

I can’t help but imagine being one of those hospital workers, going about their already-uncomfortable business of having to deal with nudity on a regular basis, only to discover that things had been taken up a notch. There was actual fungi to be scraped off and cleaned. And how do you go about telling someone who’s sitting back, quietly waiting for the humiliation of a sponge bath to be over, that they had things growing on them that would have to be picked off and thrown in the trash? How did they not make an awkward “what, I’m a fun guy!” joke to break the horrified silence? How did they not give in to their gag reflex? How did they manage the situation without insulting Mama Grape and her hot son Gilbert? Do you ask if anyone thinks they're psychedelic?

I have no words. I wish I knew what theirs were.

It’s stories like these that make me such a sucker for programs like “The 200 Pound Tumor” and “The Man Whose Arms Exploded”. In case you’re wondering about those two, The Tumor did not disappoint. However, the Arm Explosion was really more of a slow bicep leak – LAME.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

napa valley, scene 1

This past weekend found me in Napa Valley with three of my favorite people from college: S, E and A. We finally became friends our senior year despite spending four previous years together and sitting next to each other in sorority meetings, classes, charity projects, musical productions and church services. We had stood next to each other for four years at rush parties, fraternity parties, social mixers and late night dance practices. It wasn’t until one fateful evening that we all four found ourselves standing next to each other once again after a particularly busy sorority meeting, all in dire need of a margarita. I think the exact words that caused four hearts to beat as one were “I’m so sick of this shit. Can we graduate already? I need a stiff drink.”

That one impromptu after-meeting drink naturally turned into four, which caused us to devise a plan to meet every week for the next year to discuss different topics over tequila. None of us had truly been friends before, but all of us were very interested in the others. We had watched the other three girls for four years, always wishing that we ran in the same crowds and had a reason to become friends. We had finally found it: liquor.

In the five years since graduation we’ve made a point to have a reunion each year during the summertime. The first four years were spent poolside in either Dallas or Austin, as the majority of our group lives in one of those two cities. However, this year’s trip was planned at the wedding reception of a mutual friend of ours, over wine. The logic may be tough to follow:

Not lisa: “Mmm… I like wine.”
S: “Mmm… Me, too.”
E: “Mmm… I love it so much I want to marry it.”
A: “Isn’t this wedding beautiful?!”
Not lisa: “Word. Hey, we should go to Napa for our reunion next year.”
All, in unison: “Word.”

And thus, with the vaguest of intentions, a trip was born.

Thursday, July 10, 2008

not lisa and boyfriend on: cremation

Boyfriend and I recently attended a funeral. It was an extremely sad occasion (you know, as opposed to the terribly joyful funerals...?) but, of course, we managed to entertain ourselves with inappropriateness.

not lisa: "The idea of a burial creeps me out. Will you please make sure that I'm cremated so I don't take up much needed real estate for all eternity?"

boyfriend: "Sure. Would you like me to do anything in particular with your ashes?"

not lisa: "Hmm... not really. Just throw them wherever. I've never been all that sentimental. (pause) On second thought, I'd like to be baked into a big dish of macaroni and cheese."

boyfriend: "Fine. But I'm not eating it. You know I hate leftovers."

Yep.

Monday, June 30, 2008

chicago trip highlights, bullet style

Because I’m incredibly lazy and pressed for time, I’m cheating on syntax and phrasing by way of bullets today. After three delays, my flight finally landed in Dallas last night at 1:45 a.m. so I have earned the right to laziness.

So much happened this weekend that I need to capture, and if I don’t get this down quickly I’ll forget it. At 27 (and after weekends like this one), the mind tends to go. Get ready to be bullet-ed… now:

- On the way to Chicago I let a stranger with adult on-set ADHD use my phone for internet access. In return, he gave me his friend’s seat in first class and sent his friend back to 26E. As a result of this exchange, the following occurred:
o Lots of wine (go figure)
o I had to read and prioritize 11 songs that he had written while he was in Costa Rica, one of which is about Matthew McConaughey. Mr. McConaughey previously dated First Class Dude’s current female obsession and now has a chicken-scratched insulting and heated song written about him on grid paper. My favorite part? The last four lines where FCD and MM reconcile their differences with “Should we keep up this fight? Nope, nope, nope. Let’s get together and smoke some dope, dope, dope.”
o I helped FCD pick out a logo design for his new company.
o I was offered a job with FCD’s new company and was told to email him with my starting salary. “Just tell me how much you want to be paid and we’ll work it out later. Your job will be to manage the marketing department and pick out music for me to listen to.” Yep.
o I discovered that FCD has political ambitions, despite his decidedly devil-may-care ensemble (mandals, jeans rolled at the bottom, yellow ringer tee with “CHICAGO” emblazoned across the chest, and a yellow and brown striped beanie covering up unwashed hair). He was playing golf with Caroline Kennedy and Bill Clinton on Saturday morning to discuss the possibility of him running as Obama’s VP.
o Free cab ride from O’Hare to downtown Chicago
o FCD became obsessed with my iPod and the music collection within, which caused him to buy it from me for $1,000. Not kidding. Luckily I had the whole thing backed up on a hard drive. If I hadn't, I probably wouldn't have taken the money. I love my music collection that much. That's normal, right?

- Two dinners at Giordano’s for stuffed pizza, all in the span of one weekend

- Drinks for my boyfriend’s co-worker’s birthday, whom I recently found out is the new Office Drunken Make-out Buddy of my ex.

- One of the best room service breakfasts I’ve ever had… it’s not often that you can get a cheese Danish with an All-American breakfast, and I can only assume that it’s because they represent two different cultures. I’m glad Chicago is open-minded about these types of affairs because crispy bacon and cheese? Yes, please.

- Discovering that Sears tower tour guides do not appreciate it if you look out at Lake Michigan and ask ironically “So where should we go to sign up for surfing lessons? Do they just have schools down by the beach?”

- Learning that the architectural boat tour is well-worth the money and humiliation of being a typical tourist.

- Creation of the world’s greatest tourist game, called Bar Roulette as Dealt by Cabbie. “Hi, we’d like to go somewhere in Wrigleyville/Lincoln Park/West Loop/etc. You get to pick the bar.”

- Drinking all day at the Pride Parade in Boys Town is a great way to get a hangover on your 10:30 p.m. flight home, which results in an all-too-sober 2 a.m. stop at McDonald’s in Dallas.

And there you go. Perhaps someday soon I’ll take one of the above bullets and turn it into a well-thought-out, well-written, cleverly entertaining anecdote for a later blog entry. Or, you know, not.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

nancy drew in the loo

What? Rhyming is fun, y'all.

And no, this is not another post about poo. Although that would go well with my rhyming scheme...

My work bathroom is freezing today. So cold that my friend Lynn claimed it was causing her leg hairs to grow their own leg hairs. That's some cold shit.

I just found myself in the handicapped stall (no, I'm not handicapped - but I'm a tall lady and enjoy the extra leg room), freezing to death and wondering if I had peed yellow icicles, when I reached for the toilet paper and noticed that the source of the cold air (and possibly evil itself) was coming from the toilet paper dispenser.

My mind begins to churn. "How is this possible? Is the toilet paper dispenser really a portkey? Should I just not touch the thing and drip dry so I'm not transported somewhere else while my pants are around my ankles? That would be awful! So embarrassing! Wow, Harry Potter references aren't even topical. Bless my heart. Where the hell is that cold air coming from?"

So, like any good self-respecting Nancy Drew, I decide to investigate (after I decide to wipe). After I check the other stalls and the sinks for co-workers, I get down on my hands and knees, looking up inside the dispenser for some sort of hole that would create a draft. Nothing. I feel around inside the dispenser for a hole. Nothing. "Where is this steady stream of freezing air coming from? And, if we had office mice, would they be smart enough to use this space to refrigerate their cheese?"

The bathroom door opens and I'm jolted back to my senses. It is only then that I'm aware that I'm crawling around with my HANDS ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR AT WORK. All caps are necessary because THAT IS DISGUSTING.

So, for the sake of hygiene, I've washed my hands of both the germs and the detective work. Some mysteries are better left unsolved, I suppose. If not, we never would have gotten that great TV show.

Friday, April 11, 2008

type write, not well

Did anyone else have one of those when they were little, or was I just a complete dork for wanting to learn how to type as quickly as my mother could? The Type Write and I would spend many an hour in the backseat of the family car on trips, just clicking away.

In case you didn't grow up in the 80s (or were doing interesting things in your childhood like "playing sports" or "building treehouses" or "not practicing administrative skills"), the Type Write was a small, red keyboard with a tiny screen across the top of it. You would turn it on, select a skill level 1-9, and then words would scroll across the screen. Your job was to type out the words without messing up, then advance to the next level. Skill Level 1 was all lower-case home-row keys (in other works asdf and jkl;). Skill Level 2 included the home-row keys, plus g and h - ooh, tricky! I hated Skill Level 9. Hated it with a passion. It was all the punctuation marks and symbols on the top row of the keyboard - those tricky ones that you have to shift to access and that no one ever really memorizes. Why would you ever put yourself through all that stress voluntarily? I tried it once or twice after my confidence had been built up with Levels 1-8, but every time my 7-year-old self would end up breathing hard and pitting through my splatter-painted t-shirt. Those scary symbols were just not worth it and I've never looked back.

Stay with me here; there's a point.

My cube at work backs up to my Sr. VP's admin, which is a superb position to be in if you enjoy eavesdropping. Which I do, and have become quite skillful. That skill was greatly rewarded today as I overheard the following one-sided conversation, just after she provided the other end of the phone with her email address:

"Right. No, wait. It's my first name, and then 'at'. You know, the 'at' symbol? Okay, no... you don't. Okay - here. Do this. Hold down your shift key, then press the number 2. That should make the 'at' symbol. Did that work? Yes! That's right! That's the 'at' symbol! Oh, you've heard of that before! Yes, that's it."

I can only assume that this is what happens to people who never even attempt Type Write Level 9.

Monday, March 31, 2008

to grandma's house i went

Yes, I know it's a dumb title for a post. But I'm feeling particularly Monday-ish in that I'm disoriented, a little sleepy, hungry (always so hungry on Mondays... why is this?) and less than creative.

However, despite all of these obstacles I still feel it necessary to capture the quaint country-ness that was my weekend. In one weekend I have learned more about aging, The War (aka WWII), "damn Meskins" (see: "racism and the elderly"), and tomato preserves than I ever thought I would in an entire lifetime.

My grandmother turns 85 this week and I flew down to South Texas to surprise her. She answered the door to her farmhouse at 7:30 p.m. in her green silk pajamas, peering through the diamond-shaped window as I pulled into the carport. I had to yell "Grandma, it's Not Lisa! Don't shoot!" as there's a shotgun permanently hanging above the front door, often used to discourage unwelcome visitors.

Have I ever mentioned that the women in my family are eccentric?

Here's an establishing shot that will give you an idea of where my grandmother lives: picture a farmhouse in 1961, as that's when it was built and nothing has changed since then. Picture incredibly dry farmland where it's always humid but it never rains. Picture a town that has 1,287 people and 11 miles down the road another town that has 483 residents - then picture an even smaller town between the two that barely shows up on Google Maps. That's where my grandmother lives.

As I was driving my borrowed car (borrowed from my aunt, not stolen from a stranger) from Corpus Christi to the farmhouse, I realized that I had never been alone with my grandmother. I would go visit her when I was younger, as my parents finally learned to take adult vacations and leave their only child with her grandparents, but my Papa was always with us. He and I were much closer than my grandmother and I ever were, as he was the big gruff teddy bear that I could convince to play dress-up with me. My grandmother was always so stoic, so German, so stubborn. She would discipline my smart mouth in my parents' absence while my grandfather made faces behind her back. My grandfather would take his pig-tailed granddaughter into town to "pick up the paper", but it was really just his daily excuse to sneak in some pancakes. My grandfather would joke around with the man at the gas station in the city, convincing him through his dark skin and perfect Spanish that he was from Mexico and had kidnapped a young gringo child for ransom. We would laugh the whole way home and I was never allowed to tell the rest of the family about our shenanigans. He taught me Spanish, he taught me how to handle a horse, he taught me how to watch out for snakes and he taught me how to find eggs in a hen-house. We swam in horse tanks, we rode bikes together and he showed me where the old embarrassing pictures of my mother were kept.

All the while, my grandmother watched through the window of the house, making sure that I was safe and sound but never put down the dirty dishes long enough to join in on our fun. They had to be washed thoroughly with soap and water before being run through the dishwasher and that was that.

As I grew older I began to better understand through off-hand comments from my mother that my grandmother was not entirely to blame for her attitude and approach to our visits. When I was swimming in the horse tank with my Papa I was too young to know that he had walked out on my Grandma many times in their 30 years of marriage, leaving her and their four children for weeks at a time. When I was placed on top of the family dog as if he were a horse I was too young to know that my Papa had a violent and physical temper. When I was helping pick tomatoes in the garden I was too young to know that my mother had a brother that I had never met because my Papa kicked him out of the house when he was 17 and hadn't spoken to him since. Even when I was 20 years old and my Papa passed away I was too young to know that he had planned for many years to leave his son $1.00 in the will so he couldn't contest his lack of inheritance with "I was left out accidentally."

It's funny what you learn as you get older. When I was a young child in red Mickey Mouse suspenders I thought my Papa could do no wrong and that my Grandma was a feared disciplinarian. As I grew through adolescence I saw the less-than-pretty side of my Papa and watched my Grandma maintain her emotionless demeanor through Papa's bout with Alzheimer's and then also through his funeral. After college I made the occasional visit to the farmhouse, but always accompanying my parents and conversing more with them than my Grandma.

However, this time we were alone. During our time alone I think I learned the most.

I learned that my Grandma is funny. That she can laugh to the point of tears at a seemingly randomly recalled memory, and then she feels it completely necessary to tell you in detail all about how her mother caught her at 14, kissing a boy on the front porch until midnight. That she remembers in detail that she had to do both Boy and Girl Chores while growing up on a farm in Nebraska, while her sister somehow managed to avoid the outdoor Boy Chores and the indoor Girl Chores because she was brainy and claimed to always be studying. That the very same sister didn't study or take tests for three months in protest to not being allowed to go on a date. She got her way, started studying again and still graduated as valedictorian.

I learned that my Grandma is a romantic. That she and my grandfather were married in secret for six months before they ever told any friends or family. Married women weren't allowed to finish high school in her day, but she and my Papa just couldn't wait so they eloped first and asked questions later. "We were just stupid kids..." she laments, but the mischief and romance glittering behind her glasses was hard to miss.

I learned that my Grandma is the strongest woman I know. That she raised two babies by herself for two years while my Papa went off to fight in the war. That she didn't even lay eyes on her husband in the entire two years that he was gone. That she and her two children subsisted on $100 a month from the government, making it from month to month on food rations. That she gave her coffee and sugar ration stamps to her in-laws because she knew they would enjoy it more than she would. That even during this time she was still able to pack up her two kids and move three states away to take care of her ailing grandparents while she waited every day for a letter with news of her husband.

I learned that my Grandma is an individual. That she was married for over 50 years but still doesn't understand why modern women feel as though they have to get married. That all you need to be happy is yourself and the company of others is just added blessing. That if you want to see a movie that no one else wants to see, you go by yourself - even if it is on a weekend. That she and my Papa fought "like cats and dogs", but she doesn't regret a single opinion that she's ever offered up.

I learned that I can still learn a lot from my Grandma.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

oh, romance

This morning I went through my (almost) daily routine of waking up, hitting the snooze button 7-9 times, begrudgingly taking a shower, then waking up Boyfriend so he can do the same while I do girly things like moisturize and put on my face.

This morning I walked to the bed and kissed him on the forehead, telling him sweetly that he better get his ass in gear or he would be late (again). He smiled slyly and reached for my towel, causing me to squeal and slap his hand saying "No time for love, Dr. Jones."

He then looked at me pointedly and said in an earnest voice "Well, it's not going to suck itself."

He's always been such the romantic.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

honesty is the worst policy

This evening I joined a few old college friends for our monthly catch-up dinner. We're a random assortment, to be sure, but I may just be the most "random" of the group. Within our small population we have a couple of teachers, two Child Life Specialists, one Leukemia Foundation fundraiser, a couple of marathon runners, a triathlete and two event planners. Those are their professional descriptions, at least. All of the above are card-carrying Bible-toting Baptists who get tipsy after one glass of white zinfandel.

I, well, obviously don't fit any of the above criteria. I think they keep me around for entertainment. That and they're all too sweet to take me off the Evite roster.

Every week we pass around a book that lists the date, the location where the dinner was enjoyed and the name of the person who planned it. It's our responsibility to write our name down as an attendee and then give a short update as to what's going on in our lives (no, seriously - that's what we do... keep in mind I had nothing to do with the tradition). Here are a few excerpts from tonight's dinner (none of them mine):

"I just got married and returned from my honeymoon!! Today was my first day back at work. I've really been looking forward to this dinner but not as much as I'm looking forward to going home to my new hubby!!!"

"Church has been really great lately. I'm running another marathon soon - either New York or Chicago, depending on which accepts me. Wish me luck!"

"Totally enjoying Spring Break!!!!"

"A family is finally moving into our lease house in Durango!! Finally, a family came along with good credit that is the answer to our prayers. Praise Jesus! We can't thank you enough!!!"

As I took my turn with the book, I couldn't help but think about writing the truth - complete with the required exclamation points.

"I saw Most Serene Republic last weekend and got so hammered that I barely remember my best friend's boyfriend trying to attack me while I was passed out in their bed! I went to visit my parents this weekend even though I really wanted to stay in town for an all-day drunk fest! I picked tonight's dinner location but I really wish I had a bottle of wine to help me get through it! Instead I'm going to drink this water because it's totally better for me!! The girl two seats down from me ordered a medium vegetable pizza but is "taking home" all but the one piece that she ate because she has an eating disorder which is evidenced by her skeletal body structure, gaunt face and malnourished hair!!! The girl who just got back from her honeymoon's husband just touched her boobies for the first time in 3.5 years while she was in the Dominican Republic contracting a urinary tract infection! 'The Honeymooner's Disease' - how cute is that??? Especially considering that the general consensus is that he's A Closet Gay!!! I've also been having recurring dreams about my best guy friend who is also my ex-boyfriend-type-person - things get tricky when you get older, right?!?!?!?!"

Needless to say, I didn't write any of this. But I thought it.

What would you have written, should the truth dare you to expose it?

she's a lady

When I was getting dressed yesterday morning, I was quite proud of myself for remembering to shave my legs when I put a skirt on that showed my bare (albino-esque) legs. It's still March, a bit nippy and I'm not known for my cold-weather tolerance. All of this usually adds up to one big excuse to wear layers of skin-covering clothing late into the spring season, therefore enabling me to swear off leg-shaving unless it gets excessively jungle-like down there. In other words, until the leg hair starts interfering with sexy time. In even more other words, until I'm on the brink of being able to wear my leg hair in dreadlocks.

Anyhoodle, I found myself celebrating the early spring silky legs by prancing around in my business casual, client meeting heels... until I realized that I could feel the breeze more on my ankles than I could on the rest of my legs. And the reason for that was the feeling of movement. Yes, I had missed such a large spot of hair on both of my ankles that I could actually feel them waving proudly in the breeze with every step I took.

Throughout the rest of the day I giggled with the thought of someone walking closely behind me, stepping on one of them and tripping me. My mind is nothing if not exaggerative.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

st. patrick's an asshole

My relationship with St. Patty’s Day in Dallas has been a rocky and tumultuous one and I just never know how Patty is going to treat me. The St. Patty's Day Parade and Block Party is one of the only things that Dallas does right and every year I've managed to get shit all over. Everyone crowds around lower Greenville, invading friends' houses who only invested in their real estate because of the close proximity to the annual event. Breakfast tacos are made, bloody marys are mixed and the jovial party generally begins around 8:30 a.m. The parade is usually around 10 or 11 but no one ever goes, and the people who do go are unable to recall it the next day. After the parade, street vendors pass out beer and corn dogs to event-goers who are already in "late night" stage at noon. Local business along the streets are filled to the brim with people wearing wrist-bands and green halter tops. All in all, it's general merriment - except for yours truly.

One year I was in Austin and couldn't attend the event. However, everyone else I knew did and had a good time. However, my boyfriend (now Ex) dropped his phone in a porta-potty full of poo and piss. Don't you worry, he reached in and pulled it out. Then put it back in his pocket. Then set it out in the sun at his friends house to "dry it out", sprayed it with Lysol and continued to use it for, well, ever.

The next year I was out of town for work because I kind-of sort-of lived in San Antonio at the time. That was an especially fun year because everyone kept calling me on my cell to drunkenly slur how much they missed me. Sweet sentiment? Yes. Completely depressing? Yes. A little annoying? Totally. Especially when you're sitting all alone in your hotel room at the Residence Inn.

The next year I finally got to experience it in all its glory. Unfortunately, that's when a drunk girl splashed a little vomit on my flip-flopped feet and we got locked out of my friend's house and I ended up peeing in his backyard. That's also when the Ex and I had our infamous conversation that went a little something like this:

me: "I really want to move to Austin someday. These drunken Dallas whores wearing heels and shorts to a block-party get on my very last nerve. Especially when they splash their vomit on my flip-flopped feet."

him: "You're one of those people who are never going to be happy in life. No matter what you have, you'll always want something different."

Awesome. Thanks for saying something that will haunt me every day for the next two years (and counting...).

Last year my job hit rock-bottom (thanks to a boss who never learned how to say no to his clients) I had to go sell telecom services in a PetsMart parking lot in Frisco (Dallas suburb). When I finally headed back to civilization I couldn’t get into the block party because it was too crowded and the fire marshalls were riding around on their horses, telling people they couldn't come in. I ended up drinking a beer in a back alley by myself, sitting on a cinder block like a homeless person. Not kidding. When I finally managed to talk to my friends (cell service doesn't work because of the swarms of people), they were all hammered and coming back to my friend's house to take naps. I picked up the guy I was seeing (now Boyfriend) as he was walking down the street and the first thing out of his mouth was "Katherine's friend Lacey totally wants to fuck me."

Awesome. Yet again.

Now that I think about it, it’s almost masochistic of me to attend this event and continue to try to date St. Patty. No thanks, “St.” Patrick my ass… keep your hands to yourself, please.

Monday, March 10, 2008

on a heavier note...

Once upon a time, many moons ago, Not Lisa was in love. She was a young girl who was not yet jaded by the ways of the world and was impassioned by the thought that one day she and the boy she loved more than anything else in the world would be together. She was very active in her Baptist youth group and thought that against all odds, she was meant-to-be with her boy best friend. They had the same faith, the same ideals, the same political beliefs, the same family structure, the same dream of an all-bed living room (not for sexing, necessarily - primarily for napping)... what more could a girl ask for?

Young Not Lisa was the young ripe age of 15 when she made this decision, and that boy was the end-all be-all of her teenage girlish dreams. He was an insightful, thoughtful, spiritual musician that embodied everything she thought she wanted. She and this young boy were best of friends and formed a pact deciding that, should they remain unmarried, they were to be each other's Forever After. And they believed it.

I know that everyone makes this pact with their best friend at one point or another, but the thing that set these two apart was their unfailing, unabashed and unapolegetic belief that it would actually come to fruition. They saw the next few years/possible decade as a period of experimentation. This was their chance to experience what was out there and to come back to each other more educated, more enabled to make their marriage successful and happy because of the other dating partners that had crossed their paths - no matter what.

My, how the times have changed.

You may recall a certain post in which I briefly described my first Dallas Restaurant Week as a time to drown my frustrations in vodka. Frustrations that resulted from a certain someone's engagement announcement. That certain someone just now, after four some-odd years of marriage and a 1-year communication hiatus, reached out to me via phone. I answered the phone with "So you guys are pregnant, right?" I was, as I all too often am, correct. While I am as happy as I can be for a friend of mine to procreate ("Do you know what you're getting yourself into? You know they cry a lot, right? And they shit themselves and expect you to clean it up?"), I feel it only necessary to post this handwritten letter that I was sent on 2/8/2001, from the boy I thought to be my very own 19-year-old end-all be-all.

"It's different... writing instead of the clicky-click of the keyboard. I wish you could be here now to sit with me and listen to this CD that has engulfed every musical dsire within me. It takes over the musical side of this boy while you consume everything else. I just spent the day with your dad, and I've been trying to come up with a good way to send this to you. What turned out to be the best way was just to be myself, and miss you like I always do. And allow myself to be completely vulnerable to anything anyone would possibly toss my way. What I wish more than anything is that you were here. As I read back over this, I wonder if someday I will have a son or daughter that might read this as well... and I want to take this opportunity to have a first greeting to them... even though they will know me long before they even learn to read things like this... So... hello, kid(s). I hope that you know how much your mother means to me, and you as well... That I am 19 years old, and addressing you as if you already exist... well, you do in my mind. I hope to God that by the time you read this, I will become a good father. And that will be known. I long to meet you. And I long to be the husband of your mother. She is a wonderful girl. I wish you could know her right now as I do... and no one else does. We've got some interesting stories... So enjoy life... and enjoy your CD, Not Lisa, and save this letter for him/her/them.

I miss you...
- your [redacted]
2/8/2001 11:12 p.m."

regarding redacted

The Boyfriend and I have a slight addiction to Redacted, Dan Murphy's blog. We firmly believe that we would be the best of couple friends with Dan and Brooke should we ever run into one another.

This addiction has also led us to the occasional delirious state in which we believe that we are much better acquainted than we actually are. Meaning, Boyfriend and I casually mention Dan and Brooke in conversation like we would any of our friends. But, in all actuality, we are only the creepy people they have never met - not even through blog comments - that have some sort of voyeuristic fascination with their lives.

For example, here's an all-too-unhealthy chat from yesterday:

not lisa (5:29:06 PM): i'm sick of dan's shit
not lisa (5:29:14 PM): he hasn't posted in what seems like forever
boyfriend (5:29:18 PM): he has not updated
not lisa (5:29:19 PM): and i'm getting a little tired of it
boyfriend (5:29:20 PM): I know
boyfriend (5:29:33 PM): it's not like he is doing anything
not lisa (5:29:48 PM): he's not
not lisa (5:30:05 PM): he's just laying around and playing with puppy while brooke's off at work
not lisa (5:30:13 PM): i bet he doesn't even make her dinner before she gets home
boyfriend (5:30:16 PM): seriously
boyfriend (5:30:26 PM): well, that's not his job
boyfriend (5:30:32 PM): that's women's work
not lisa (5:30:34 PM): the only thing he's using his computer for these days is ordering pizza online
not lisa (5:30:47 PM): your face is women's work.
boyfriend (5:30:58 PM): wiener
not lisa (5:31:11 PM): apparently spelling correctly is not men's work.
boyfriend (5:31:27 PM): what are you talking about?
not lisa (5:31:52 PM): dammit.
boyfriend (5:31:56 PM): ha
boyfriend (5:32:10 PM): I had it the other way at first too
not lisa (5:32:19 PM): weiner just looks smarter
boyfriend (5:32:26 PM): yeah
boyfriend (5:32:27 PM): I know
not lisa (5:32:50 PM): smarter, you know, for a penis moniker
not lisa (5:33:08 PM): ha
not lisa (5:33:20 PM): i just had to look up how to spell "moniker"
boyfriend (5:33:29 PM): you're pretty
not lisa (5:33:32 PM): the wiener made me doubt myself
not lisa (5:33:39 PM): tale as old as time.
boyfriend (5:33:43 PM): it can do that.

sunday funday

There are many things in this world that make me a happier-than-average camper. Many of those things were experienced yesterday in the span of only 10 hours. Namely:

- Brunch. And not just any brunch, but possibly The Best Brunch Ever. Great Mexican food, queso, queso refill (we went through the first bowl way before they even thought about bringing us our entrees), and $1 margaritas (we each helped ourselves to 3). Grand total for 4 people: $49.00, therefore winning Monica's Aca y Alla the title of The Best Brunch Ever.

- Rock Band. At 72 and sunny, it was just too pretty of a day to not play video games.

- Beer Pong. At 4 p.m. on the Lord's Day. Sweet. I lost the game, but with all the beer I had to consume I still consider myself a winner.

- Vodka. Because after brunch margaritas and beer pong, hard liquor is the next logical choice. I chose to mix my poison with berry-flavored Propel Invigorating Water because I wanted to get a head-start on fending off the inevitably incoming hangover. I think the B vitamins and caffeine did the trick as this morning I felt daisy-like in my freshness. That also could have been because I took my first shower since Saturday morning. Whoops. Sunday Funday hygiene is hard, y'all.

- Scene It. The details of this game are a little fuzzy, as it was an event that took place later in the evening. I do remember some serious and heated controversial discussion involving a Pee-Wee Herman quote on "all play".

- Macaroni and Cheese. We stumbled across the street to fill our bellies and discovered that, lo and behold, our blessed City Tavern not only serves the sauce but also God's modern day manna of macaroni and cheese. Hallelujah and amen.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

this is the part where Boyfriend goes berserk.

Our arguments always start innocently enough. Meaning: Boyfriend and I are doing something innocent (ie. watching TV, eating dinner, drinking adult beverages) and I start them because a) Boyfriend is so easily provoked and b) I am so easily entertained.

Take the other night, for example. We were laying on my couch flipping through channels when we found a nice treat: the very beginning of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Delight of delights, we caught it in its first five minutes. I guess it's bad luck on our part, but we always manage to catch the tail end of really good movies. I'll be flipping through the HBOs when I'll see what looks like a good hour of The Princess Bride. When I click on it, I'm immediately disappointed to see the credits rolling. As you wish, my ass.

So we watched the entire movie, even though it was edited for time and interrupted by commercials. Ferris Bueller is that good. As Rooney is caught, Ferris is not and the school bus drives away, I instigate (ahem, I meant "accidentally initiate") an argument.

"You know, if we were in this movie I don't really think I'd be Sloane. I'd have to be Ferris."

"You absolutely would not be Ferris! I would be Ferris!! What are you thinking?"

"Well, I'm typically the outgoing one, the social one, the spontaneous one, the one who shakes things up and schemes. And you're more... not Ferris."

I can see him consider my points and realize they have validity. However, he doesn't want to admit to any of that. He says:

"That's not true. Not even a little bit. I am so Ferris. If I'm not Ferris then who would I be? Sloane?"

"Well, let's see... you're a self-proclaimed neurotic. You're not terribly social and prefer the company of yourself or your girlfriend to the company of crowds. Your favorite thing is to next-step and plan ahead. You like routine and order."

"I'm not Cameron."

"I never said you were Cameron."

"It was implied."

"It most certainly was not. I'm just saying that you're clearly not Ferris."

"Well then, who the hell am I if I'm not Ferris and I'm not Cameron?"

"I never said you weren't Cameron."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

"Exactly."

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

i am The Other Woman.

My creative director and I always joke around about how I'm his work-girlfriend. We spend so much time together that it's all too true. We love each other's company, always laugh at each other's jokes, and spend more time with each other in the day than we spend conscious hours with our significant others.

However, today our "affair" was taken to a whole new level when his wife called him this morning and said "How, exactly, do you think it makes me feel when I see an email print-out to Not Lisa on the kitchen counter that simply asks 'will you marry me?'"

Some back-story: a few months ago, Creative Director had to take a trip with a few of our clients. Unfortunately, they had only enough money in the budget to take one agency person with them and Creative Director was their man. He gets uneasy when it's just him and the clients, as he has no filter and needs an account service person (see: me) to keep him in check. He also has no talent for entertaining clients, despite being the gay man that he almost is.

To help ease his social anxiety, I sent him a fairly comprehensive list of restaurant choices. They were categorized by client mood (varying from "I want to eat well on the company dime!" to "I'm going to get nipple clamped if my expense report is high.") and food genre, then punctuated by a Google Maps link giving him directions from the hotel to the restaurant. Obviously, the only appropriate reply to this email was "will you marry me?"

Fast forward to four months later, yesterday evening. Creative Director is going through his back-pack and pulling out (hee) any paperwork that he no longer needs. He doesn't think to actually put the trash in the trash can (creatives distract easily) and leaves it in a stack on the kitchen counter for his wife to accidentally find the next morning.

Three words come to mind: bless his heart.

All I could tell him when he recounted the story was "That's what you get for being such a whore."

Luckily, his wife really isn't mad. We have met and think each other is delightful. She also knows there is no reason for alarm. But, because she is so delightful, I do know that she's not going to let him live it down for the next couple of weeks.

However, there is one thought that is a bit unsettling... why did he take the time to go into his "sent" folder and print out the email with his reply at the top, rather than printing straight from his inbox the email that I sent him with the restaurant selections?

I posed this question to my friend Ryan who merely said "STOP the over-analysis." But where's the fun in that?

He also then said "I can't handle you right now. I have to go see my therapist and find my center again."

Friday, February 1, 2008

the re-invented walk of shame

I just experienced a whole new different walk of shame. And the sad thing is, I immediately thought of it as blog fodder.

I live in a fairly hip and young area of Dallas. One of my most favorite perks of the hood is the close proximity (see: stumbling distance) of several of my favorite bars in the city. Come Friday night, the patios are full and plenty of merry-makers are slutting around in their tight jeans looking for the next real estate mogul to buy them a vodka soda. It's a hoot.

However, tonight I have deemed myself sick and am looking forward to a nice night in with the Puppy and my Slanket. But as for sustenance... what to do? Luckily, amongst all the trendy hot-spots there is one beacon of flourescent-lit stability and convenience: the Henderson Grocery. I trekked on over in my sweatpants and fleece, pitying the poor girls who deigned to get all gussied up just to go out and search for dudes. They were in heels! I was in tennis shoes! I am a single gal about town who can't be bothered with Friday night nonsense! If I want to stay at home and be sick, so be it!

After I walked out the door and faced the two-story patio across the street, I realized that I was embarking on the new school walk of shame. I walked right on past all the porch-dwellers and valet guys carrying my fun Friday night in a brown paper sack: a box of macaroni and cheese, a bottle of wine and a pack of Parliament Lights.

I should probably go back and get some AAs for my vibrator.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

The Ex Box

One of m'ladies and I went to dinner last night with one of our most favorite and oldest friends. Afterward we decided that two glasses of wine just wouldn't cut it so we headed on over to an old jazz bar across the street with the intention of just "grabbing a drink." We grabbed four. One of the drinks wasn't our fault, though - some old man at the bar bought the entire place another round because it was his birthday. I hope someday to be that old coot that buys everyone a round in celebration of myself. So m'lady and I drank our free drink and then headed to our respective homes.

For the first time in over a month, Boyfriend was not waiting for me at my apartment when I got home. We had to have a talk (three talks, actually) about how I was feeling cramped with all the Together Time and that it's a good idea for us to sleep separately some nights. Two weeks later, he "moved out." It only took two weeks. Separation anxiety is a bitch.

Instead of going straight to bed last night when I got home, I decided it would be a good idea to open up a beer and go through The Ex Box. Three months ago, The Ex had given me a box filled with every memory we had ever created together and captured on paper - ticket stubs, pictures, pamphlet from the Louvre, menu from a bar in London, notes I had written him, etc. The Ex Box had been haunting me from the trunk of my car for months like the ashes of a dead relative that I couldn't bear to look at but also couldn't bear to throw away. By not going through it, the mystery of the contents had turned the Ex Box into the urn of our three-and-a-half year relationship. It needed to be done and I knew I didn’t want to do it sober, so last night the combination of wine, bourbon and my newfound living situation freedom made it seem like a genius idea.

Turns out, I was right. I went through everything, cried a little - especially at the notes from the beginning of our relationship when everything was baskets of kittens made out of rainbows - but laughed a lot more, and then went to bed. All in all I think it was a pretty good idea. It was depressing and hard to do but I really wasn’t nearly as sad as I thought I would be. There was a whole lot of laughing and “wow… I totally forgot about that”, rather than me sobbing myself into the night. And it’s over – yea!

I’m still not throwing it away, though. I just can’t. It’s going to hide on the top shelf of every closet I will ever rent/own. At least the urn is no longer haunting me with its contents. It's become a time capsule and a memory box... and there's nothing scary about that.

Well, except all the weight that I've gained since most of the pictures were taken. Queso, you are an evil bitch but I love you still. Same goes for you, margaritas.