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."

Me:

"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... :)"

Mom:

"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...

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.

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.

MFEO

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.

an accomplished woman: part deux

I have another office to toot in! I'll be in Chicago twice a month for the next three months. I've been here less than 18 hours and have already downed half of a deep dish pepperoni.

Why did that sound dirty? I'm talking about pizza, you perves.

Here's the view from my office:



I like to imagine that the 80-story building that I'm in here is exactly the same as four of my Dallas office buildings, just stacked one on top of another. With more intense security. I keep waiting for a retinal scan to be requested.

an accomplished woman

There are many reasons to be an independent, ball-busting dried up career woman (thank you, Romy and Michelle, for that quote). You take care of yourself, you have a sense of purpose, you feed your elitist hunger to be a part of a smaller, more intelligent sect of the population - while remaining incredibly humble, of course.

And, as I recently managed to do, you get your own office. With walls! Real walls. And a door! A real door. After the majority of my career being spent either in a cube or a shared office, this has been both refreshing and lonely all that the same time. However, today I discovered the two biggest perks of having my own little quiet 10x15' slice of heaven:

1) The accidental toot that just slipped out while I was
2) booking a Brazilian appointment

I've finally caught that carrot that's been dangling on the stick for all these years.

all in the family

I love my family dynamic. Growing up as an only child tended to blur the lines when it came to traditional family roles. My mother has always been 4 parts mother, 2 parts best friend, and 1 part Nazi dictator. My father has always been 1 part father, 6 parts little brother.

Weird? Yes. But it works for us. Mostly.

My father recently sold one of his antique cars to a guy in Chicago who just so happens to work for the same major corporation as all of my clients. The corporation employs close to 200,000 people so it wasn't that big of a stretch that worlds were bound to collide. However, to a small-town excitable restaurant owner like my father, the coincidence is of epic proportion.

The following email exchange occurred this morning:

Not Lisa: "Your car butt buddy in Chicago? I may see him soon. I'll be roaming the halls in Chicago on Monday and Tuesday, meeting with clients."

Not Lisa's Dad: "I can't believe this! What are the odds! I'm selling a car in Chicago to a guy that you might meet through work! What are the odds?!

And, AND! I will be in Chicago Monday and Tuesday, also! I'm leaving early Sunday morning and will be there Monday afternoon sometime.

You could leave early Sunday with me! Yeah, right!

How weird!"

Now, let's take a short break before continuing to count the sentences in that email. There are 10. Now take a second to count the exclamation points. There are 9. Remember how I used the adjective "excitable" to describe my father? I'd say it's pretty accurate. Now replace "excitable" with "dead-pan" small-town restaurant owner and you've got my mother.

Dad forwarded his exclamation point-riddled email to my mother, who then replied and blind-copied me: "Leave her alone. She has a job to do and doesn't need her daddy bugging her in Chicago. You can be alone. It will be fine."

Weird? Yes. But it works for us. Mostly.

do-gooder

I just chatted up a homeless lady on the street to avoid running into the married co-worker I'm rumored to be having an affair with, lest people continue to speculate if they see us together outside of the building. I gave her a dollar for her time.

Key word in that paragraph is "rumored". It seems as though a single woman can't be friends with a married co-worker without starting the tongues a-waggin'. Ridiculous.

Until today, though, it had only cost me a few hours of sleep. Now those bitches owe me money.

I guess I'll just write it off as charity. I should go back and get a receipt...

whiskey wednesday leads to self-discovery. again.

Every Wednesday, my team celebrates Whiskey Wednesday by gathering in my office and taking a celebratory shot (or three) of Jameson while conducting intelligent conversation. Today's conversation topic covered Tiger Beat.

It's a credible news source.

While on Tiger Beat's website doing research, I discovered that one young Justin Till (I think that's his name) looks exactly like a sweet, young, fresh-faced version of one of my best friends.

While sending out pictures to my friend and his boyfriend, playing online hangman and saying "Justin Till looks like _ _ _'s doppelganger.", I was called out by my team's creative director.

"Just look at her... she's glowing. She's at her best when she's up to no good."

And you know, he's right.

As a result of this off-hand comment, I realized that I've been up to no good and not blogging about it for far too long. Consider myself back in the game.

For a while, at least...