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...