i'm not lisa.

The Motherland!!

2010-11-11T15:56:00.001-08:00

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

2010-06-09T19:53:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-04T12:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-27T15:08:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-27T14:55:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-17T10:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-13T15:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-12T12:05:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-11T10:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-03-10T14:54:00.000-08:00

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...

3:30 a.m. pot theft

2009-11-20T12:44:00.000-08:00

Last night I went with a lady friend to go see New Moon. Yes, I'm that girl. I'm not THAT that girl, as were many of the young ladies standing in line at the mall movie theater last night. I've never worn moccasin Uggs with black leggings with a Team Jacob t-shirt, topped off with messy pigtails. I'm just not that kind of that girl.

Team Edward? Maybe.

Lucky for you, this isn't a movie review. All I can say about the movie is that with all the chest-baring, there wasn't a dry panty in the house. And that it wasn't nearly as bad as the last one. Mostly because of the chest-baring. I mean, "special effects."

The movie let out around 3 a.m. and I was dropped off at my doorstep only to turn around, hop in my car and head over to dog-sit for a friend of mine. Earlier that night, I had about 30 minutes in between working and movie and those minutes were meant for 30 Rock and some soup - not dog-sitting.

3:30 a.m.? That's meant for dog-sitting, obviously.

Upon arriving at my friend's house, I started to realize just how dark and creepy it is when digging for a key in a mailbox at 3:30 a.m. I let myself in, let the dog out, then busied myself doing what every dog-sitter does: dig through their friend's stuff.

I'm not interested in the normal snoopy type of things, mind you. I know what medications she has behind her mirror. I know what kind of vodka she has in her freezer (the none kind of vodka, because she drinks it too fast to freeze it). I know where her vibrators are stashed and what their names are. I'm interested in bigger and better things.

Namely, shit she's stolen from me.

Which is why I found myself walking out of a dark duplex at 3:45 a.m. last night carrying a bulky load, fighting to keep her 75 pound dog inside while balancing my precarious cargo. What did I steal?

Three pots. How does someone manage to steal all three of your pots? A giant 8 quart stockpot, a 4 quart pasta pot and my Crock Pot. Why would a single gal living alone with a 75 pound dog need all three of my giant pots?

I guess the better question would be "why would a single gal living alone with a 4 pound dog be stealing back her giant pots at 3:30 in the morning?"

Answer? Bitch, it's late November and I haven't had chili all year. And I AM that kind that girl.

a psychological commentary of sorts

2009-09-15T22:52:00.001-07:00

I've been thinking and, after two minutes of thought and three glasses of wine, I've come to a conclusion. Most sociologists attribute many of man's actions to one of three basic motivations: food, shelter or procreation. Basically, we're hungry? We eat, and find a way to make that happen. We're tired? We sleep, and find a way to make that happen. Same goes for sex.

But what has long been attributed to sexual attraction - a fit body, a sound mind and an ability to provide for and nurture potential offspring - is outdated. I'm here to propose that what we find so physically desirable in the opposite sex - a lean, muscular physique - is not necessarily the visual evidence of a person who us capable of providing for a family and/or protecting the potential household from harm.

In fact, I believe the embodiment of these physical attributes represents a much more desirable characteristic than merely providing for a family unit that may or may not result from a physical union with this person. Fit people are capable of having sex. And lots of it. And we're basely attracted to those who have the muscular structure that shows off their virility.

I'm not saying that the two ideas aren't correlated. I'm just saying that, after yesterday's extensive research on the subject, sex is quite the workout. I ran an Olympic triathlon last weekend but, after the seven bouts of sex I had yesterday on a "sick day" from work, my glutes have never felt better.

So ladies, when you feel as though your biological clock is ticking and you find yourself attracted to a lean, tight, muscular form - go for it with piece of mind. Your biological instincts aren't urging you toward this person because you're looking for a good, strong provider and you need to mate and settle down. It's Mother Nature whispering in your ear: "this man knows how to fuck. And how."

You're welcome.

creative (director) license

2009-08-31T22:14:00.001-07:00

I had the following conversation tonight with my creative director on the innocent topic of bike riding:

Me: "Well, I'm out. Going to ride my bike. Stationary, not mobile on the trails. Not really in the mood to get raped tonight."

CD: "Well, there go my plans for the evening."

best job description ever

2009-07-15T13:10:00.000-07:00

In a meeting the other day I saw a list of chefs that have been invited to participate in an upcoming client meeting. We'll refer to my favorite's as Jane Doe to preserve her anonymity, protect my job, and establish said chef as female.

"JANE DOE: NUT EXPERT"

I really hope we meet and she gives me a business card.

white trash is the new classy

2009-04-24T16:56:00.000-07:00

In order to give you a snapshot of the past two weeks that I've had, allow me to paint for you a pretty picture of my after-work activity this fine Friday evening:

- leave the office carrying 23 giant Post-Its full of ideas to be written up and thought through over the weekend
- head straight to nearest liquor store
- walk in apartment and make myself a business workin' man's cocktail (Jameson with a splash of water)
- beeline for my balcony to enjoy aforementioned cocktail, a Parliament Light and a single-serve bag of Cheddar Jalapeno Cheetos

I am one Red Bull and vodka away from redefining myself as Britney Lynn. God, I hope I'm not pregnant with Federline's baby.

more fun with quotes

2009-04-13T19:38:00.000-07:00

The other day, a friend of mine felt the need to threaten another friend of ours. Most people would resign themselves to a simple "shut up or I'll beat your face" or "quit it before I tell Mom." Not my friend. His retaliation if his demands were not met: "I will haunt your balls."

As if this statement isn't fantastic enough - because who wouldn't shudder in fear at the thought of a ball-haunting? - he went on to elaborate.

"Oh, yes - I will haunt your balls. I will bury your balls alive in an Indian burial ground, build a house on top of it, and force you to live there - sans balls. Then one day I'll crawl out of the TV set to get you."

I love my friends.

this is my job.

2009-03-23T17:41:00.000-07:00

Today in a brainstorm, an account sup used these words to describe how she'd ideally like for us to meet the objective:

"We're going for LOL, not WTF."

And she was serious. NFW.

the grand gesture

2009-03-19T23:14:00.000-07:00

Not to sound like Carrie Bradshaw again, but I've been thinking a lot (meaning, I've been thinking for the last 10 minutes) about The Grand Gesture and its implications in relationships. Recently coming out of a long-term, quite serious, emotionally taxing and wholly chaotic relationship myself, I've been contemplating all of the things that one must go through to get over and move on afterward. But with that comes thoughts of "what if...?" The biggest "what if...?" as of this moment is "what if... he showed up with The Grand Gesture?"

The Grand Gesture, according to a focus group of me, is something that is done out of selflessness, regardless of potential impending personal humiliation, to show the vast dedication that one has to making the situation work. No matter how bad it could have been, no matter what you've gone through; this is the one last chance the person has of making things work.

In my dating history, which has been enormously flawed and ridiculously time-consuming (I haven't been this single in over a decade, which I discovered the other day with a calculator and some self-therapy), I've been privy to at least three of The Grand Gestures.

The Grand Gesture part 1: My high-school boyfriend and I broke up at the Dairy Queen (I wish I could make this up) after a tumultuous three-week argument with my parents, where they felt as though he was becoming too controlling in my life. In retrospect, they were right in feeling that way. Also in hindsight, I was mid-adolescent and looking for anything that would validate my existence outside of the family. In other words, both parties had good points. After the steak finger break-up (mmm... steak fingers and gravy...), my not-so-much-boyfriend decided to have a volatile and tearful discussion with my parents about exactly why we should remain together. I sat idly by and watched, thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.

The Grand Gesture part 2: My college boyfriend and had been having difficulties with our personal relationships and were in the process of breaking up. The sexual chemistry was incredible - I still credit him (silently) with teaching me everything I know about pleasing a penis - but we were from different worlds. His was a world inhabited by self-aggrandizing assholes; mine wasn't. But The Grand Gesture came when we went to a university baseball game and he had the entire stadium serenade me with "Happy Birthday, to the girl in Section 2, Row 3 in the pink shirt." I was happily embarrassed by the limelight, but sat idly by and watched while thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.

The Grand Gesture part 3: My later college boyfriend and I were separated by a summer of an internship (on my part) and summer school (on his part). He came home with me in July and met my family, and they deemed him "too quiet and intense." Personally, I preferred these characteristics, as "too quiet and intense" translated to me as "the guy who gave me seven orgasms in one day without taking a break to discuss our relationship status." To this day, my friends simply refer to him as "Seven". I eventually realized that my parents were smarter than I was, especially considering they didn't have The Orgasm Fog to cloud their judgement. We moved toward a break-up and he decided that the only way to salvage the relationship was to show up in my home town, search for my parents throughout an entire day at their infernal small-town hot-spots (home, place of business, workshops, what-have-you) so that he could read for them a few excerpts from The Song of Solomon to describe his true feelings for their daughter. When he called to tell me this tale, I told him to drive himself the 101 miles back to his house and get his ass home. When he tried to explain himself later, I sat idly by and listened while thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.

So now, as I sit and wonder why I didn't get The Grand Gesture, I'm confused. Why would I even want The Grand Gesture? It hasn't done well in the past. The last long-term boyfriend (three-and-a-half years of relationship turmoil) resulted in a mix CD tucked under my windshield wiper and a bouquet of flowers in my doorway. Neither worked. Why would I daydream about my most recent ex showing up at my doorstep with a pained look in his eyes, then us kissing and ripping off clothes without even saying a word? The Grand Gesture doesn't work. It never has. It's always been a last-ditch effort to salvage something that was sinking too quickly to save in the first place.

So with that, I write this post. The Grand Gesture has been made in the past, and has been done so to show selflessness, regardless of potential impending personal humiliation. To show the vast dedication that one hast to making the situation work. But honestly, were any of them selfless? Were any of them done in abandon of personal and social implications? Is anything? And honestly, whatever he'd be offering wouldn't be worth the drama that would ensue.

We are finished.

lunchbox speaks out

2009-03-03T08:49:00.001-08:00

My creative director affectionately refers to me as Lunchbox, given my affinity for terribly fattening food and the fact that I'm constantly proclaiming that "I'm starving. Let's eat something already." Today he sent me an email asking "What is Lunchbox's opinion of this list?" Here's the link:

http://manofest.com/index.php?option=com_myblog&show=THE-10-BEST-CHAIN-RESTAURANT-FOOD-ITEMS-OF-ALL-TIME.html&Itemid=1

And, since all of my clients are at an off-site for the next four days and I have found myself with all-too-uncommon spare time, here was my response:

"10 – Chili’s Big Mouth Bites: Completely. Over. Rated. They’re always cold when they come out, the onion strings get soggy before they hit your table, they never put enough bacon on them and you always get a judging look from your local JuCo student waitress when you have to ask for extra ranch.

Lunchbox suggestion: Skillet Queso, the classic version with the perfectly round bits of pre-formed meat swimming in chili-cheese gravy. It comes in a giant plastic bag before they heat it up in the skillet. If you must have the Big Mouth Bites, make it part of a Triple Play so you can at least enjoy some Chicken Crispers (the classic, tempura-fried ones; not the new-school chicken-fried nonsense) and Hot Wings along with the tiny burgers.

9 – Applebee’s Loaded Mashed Potatoes: Pretty solid.

Lunchbox suggestion: Fiesta Lime Chicken with fries instead of rice, side of ranch dressing. It used to be called the Tequila Lime Chicken but too many old bitties got their panties in a twist because they thought the sauce was going to turn them tipsy.

8- IHOP’s Crispy Banana Carmel Cheesecake: Sick out.

Lunchbox suggestion: Patty melt on white bread with no onions, hashbrowns instead of fries, side of ranch and a short-stack of pancakes. Let the butter melt on top of the stack while you eat your sandwich, then spread it over the pancakes. You’ll be left with a soggy butter spot on top of the pancakes. Eat this first, then use the hole as a syrup caddy.

7 – PF Chang’s Crab Wontons: Meh.

Lunchbox suggestion: Lettuce Wraps and Mongolian Beef. No ranch on this one.

6 – WH Chocolate Chip Waffles: No mention of the perfectly round hashbrowns?

Lunchbox suggestion: Perfectly round hashbrowns, side of bacon, side of ranch.

5 – Ruth’s Chris Filet: Never tried it.

4 – Cheesecake Factory’s Fried Mac ‘n Cheese Balls: High marks.

Lunchbox suggestion: Order the Fried Mac ‘n Cheese Balls alongside a Well-Mannered Dirty Martini, extra olives. They stuff the olives with blue cheese. It’s classy. Oh, and ranch.

3 – Denny’s Moons Over My Hammy: Ham? Sick. And they don’t even use bacon on the sandwich. Plus, my college boyfriend used to order this one all the time and his voice was really annoying when he said it. He’s fat and bald now, though. No hard feelings.

Lunchbox suggestion: Superbird, upgrade to the seasoned fries, with two sides of ranch (one for your ‘Bird, one for your fries).

2 – Red Lobster’s Cheddar Bay Biscuits: Amasing.

Lunchbox suggestion: Cheddar Bay Biscuits with a side of ranch.

1 – Outback Steakhouse’s Aussie Cheese Fries: Absolutely my favorite chain-restaurant appetizer of all time. When working at the Tyler Outback, I just called these guys “dinner”.

Lunchbox suggestion: Order them as “layered cheese fries.” This way, they put half of the fries down, then cover them with bacon and cheese, then add the rest of the fries, then top those with more bacon and cheese. Totally worth the extra $1.49. You’ll need extra ranch, though.

Yep, pretty busy today…"

Thoughts? Additions? Builds? Feel free to contribute. These discussions were God's sole intent when he created online communities.

these kids these days...

2009-02-03T08:27:00.000-08:00

My account coordinator is a peacock. "Peacock" is the term my friends and I have given to any big-haired, heavily make-up'd Dallas girl tripping about at any given moment with a vodka cocktail and a purse the size of my car hanging from the crook of her arm. They always smell of Red Bull. It's an affectionate term when I use it on my AC, but generally speaking these girls are obnoxious. Their own particular bird call is "LET'S CROSS THE STREET HERE... BITCHES!!" And then they stumble out in front of my car in Uptown, causing traffic to back up while they totter slowly in heels, talking about that cute boy that just bought them a Jaeger Bomb.

Anyhoodle, my AC had quite the peacock-y moment this morning. When asked where the supplies for our 1:00 meeting were she replied, "Oh, they're in my roommate's car. My car is still in valet."

I laughed quite a bit and asked how she was feeling this post-Manic Monday morning. She eyed me quizzically and said, "I'm fine, why?" I said, "Well, usually when I accidentally leave my car in valet the night before I have a doozy of a headache the next morning."

She laughed and said, "No, bitch! It's been there since Saturday!! Whoopsie!"

Ah, youth. I shouldn't be too quick to judge, though. My debit card has been at the same bar for over a month now. Whoopsie!

a very carrie post

2009-01-27T22:37:00.001-08:00

Apologies are in order, first and foremost. First of all, to the two of you out there who actually check in on this blog: I'm sorry. Things have been crazy. Work has been crazy, family has been insane and even more lunatic, the personal life has risen to Sylvia Plath levels. For the lack of posting, I'm sorry.

Secondly, I apologize for the Carrie Bradshaw-esque tone of the impending post. It's going to happen, so just please bear with me.

I was just taking my dog outside in an ice storm and it hit me: the idea of stability. Stability in work, in relationships, in the day-to-day that makes us who we are. We grow accustomed to counting on those who count on us, sure - but how much of that should we really count on?

As I walked through the courtyard of my all-too-familiar apartment complex that I've grown accustomed to walking through over the past six years, I couldn't help but take baby-step after baby-step, measuring my footprints carefully to be sure I didn't slip in the ice. I was freezing my ass off, even while wearing two layers of tube socks - one layer of which extended all the way to my knees. All the while my dog, who is can apparently teach me more about life than I ever initially thought, forged her way through to pee. All she knew was the goal that lie ahead - peeing, no matter the cost. She didn't care that she hadn't seen frozen conditions like this in years, she didn't care that her tiny paws were completely frigid - she knew what needed to be done, our purpose for being outside, and she made it happen. All the while, I huddled with a glass of wine and cigarette in hand behind any structure that shielded be from the wind. All in all, I was impressed. Amused, nonetheless, but impressed.

All of this to say, I've been in an extremely cautious and dependent relationship for the past two years. He's depended on me for happiness, I've depended on him for fulfillment; the need to know that I myself was needed. As this relationship draws to a close and I wonder how to cautiously approach the conversation, all I can do is draw knowledge from a tiny dog. Don't shield yourself from the wind, clutching onto your cigarette and glass of wine, hiding from the situation. Do what needs to be done. In other words, piss or get off the pot.

And with that, I apologize once again for the Carrie Bradshaw-ness of this post and promise much more entertaining material in the near future. Namely, how I came to have an autistic boyfriend, how my friend and I fell in love with four magicians, and the ridiculousness that's encompassed the past two months.

Toodle-loo.

whoops in translation

2008-11-26T13:25:00.000-08:00

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.

SPORTS!!

2008-10-14T18:29:00.000-07:00

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.

lesson learned

2008-10-01T09:08:00.000-07:00

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?

treatise on boobies (and the attraction thereof)

2008-09-22T11:15:00.000-07:00

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 décolletage. 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.

hottie safari

2008-09-04T15:30:00.001-07:00

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.

totally normal airplane entertainment

2008-08-22T16:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-22T04:34:00.000-07:00

"Associated Bank Business Online Banking"

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

what happens in mexico...

2008-08-20T17:12:00.000-07:00

...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.

shrooms.

2008-07-17T11:58:00.000-07:00

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.

napa valley, scene 1

2008-07-15T11:57:00.000-07:00

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.

not lisa and boyfriend on: cremation

2008-07-10T02:03:00.000-07:00

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.

chicago trip highlights, bullet style

2008-06-30T12:16:00.000-07:00

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.

nancy drew in the loo

2008-05-15T13:47:00.000-07:00

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.

type write, not well

2008-04-11T15:13:00.000-07:00

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.

to grandma's house i went

2008-03-31T16:16:00.000-07:00

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.

oh, romance

2008-03-27T15:43:00.000-07:00

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.

honesty is the worst policy

2008-03-18T22:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-18T12:56:00.000-07:00

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.

st. patrick's an asshole

2008-03-12T09:11:00.000-07:00

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.

on a heavier note...

2008-03-10T21:55:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-10T15:35:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-10T14:29:00.001-07:00

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.

this is the part where Boyfriend goes berserk.

2008-02-26T15:25:00.000-08:00

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."

i am The Other Woman.

2008-02-20T14:35:00.000-08:00

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."

the re-invented walk of shame

2008-02-01T19:45:00.001-08:00

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.

The Ex Box

2008-01-30T07:55:00.001-08:00

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.

holy shit. (a more clever title than one might initially think)

2007-12-06T13:38:00.001-08:00

A few months ago a couple of my friends and I were lounging around a friend's apartment, enjoying No Pants Day. No Pants Day is an all-too-rare treat that happens when massive amounts of alcohol are consumed the previous night, causing party participants to collectively pass out in one location (usually in what is called "9-Spoon", where everyone faces the same direction and sleeps in a big spooning formation). The following day, the apartment crashers must abide by the following rules:

1) No pants are allowed. The name is not Pajama Pants Day, it is No Pants Day. If they must, participants are allowed to wrap a blanket, afghan or throw around their nether region.

2) Someone must provide breakfast and Gatorade. If breakfast and Gatorade are not readily available at the friend's apartment, someone must go out to retrieve them. Again, under no circumstances are pants allowed. This is why God invented drive-throughs, both of the fast food and convenience store variety.

3) At least three movies must be watched. Past and often-recurring favorites include Romy and Michele's High School Reunion, Super Troopers, Reality Bites and Sixteen Candles.

4) Appropriate underwear is highly recommended.

On this particular No Pants Day, one of my friends Lynn had an unfortunate stomachache. This is hardly uncommon, given the nature of traditional No Pants Day Eves and their natural association with buckets of hard liquor. Lynn eventually wrapped her lower half in a blanket and excused herself from the movie-watching festivities to spent some alone time in the bathroom.

Ten minutes later we hear - through the bathroom door - Lynn erupt in giggles. She throws open the door and yells "You guys! Get in here and look at this!! OHMYGOD!!!"

Three of us immediately jump up without even the slightest hesitation.

The Boyfriend (who was actually just Best Guy Friend at the time) remained seated on the couch, expressing his disgust for our bathroom interest.

"You guys are jumping up and running to look at her poop! That. is. sick. Sick. and. wrong."

Lynn showed us her twosie treasure and we all had to laugh. She had been in the bathroom for over ten minutes and barely had one goat-poop-sized ball to show for it. How is that not funny? We all had a good giggle and then resumed our positions on the overstuffed couches.

A few months later, the above event somehow crept into our conversation. The Boyfriend (no longer Best Guy Friend) had apparently been haunted for months and now felt it necessary to have a sit-down with me.

The Boyfriend: "I want you to know how much I love you."

Not Lisa: "Are you breaking up with me in a really fucked up fashion?"

The Boyfriend: "No. But I do have something very serious that I need to tell you. It's important that you remember this for always and forever."

Not Lisa: "Hmm... okay."

The Boyfriend: "I love you so much that I can't even begin to describe it. It's an embarrassing amount. I'm ashamed of it sometimes because dudes aren't supposed to feel this way, unless they're in an Oxygen movie. But - no matter how much I love you - I will never, ever, under any circumstances come and look at your poop."

I didn't know what to do with this. My friends and I have always been very open in our poo-communication. I was raised this way. My mom taught me how to count by making me take inventory of my poop in the toddler trainer potty. I paused for a bit before responding.

Not Lisa: "What if my poop came out looking like the Messiah and I needed a second opinion before taking a picture to upload on eBay?"

The Boyfriend: "Only if the Messiah had a holy halo created by pee. That's the ONE exception."

Fair enough.

tequila + bourbon = genius

2007-12-03T14:59:00.000-08:00

I went out with The Boyfriend to grab dinner on Saturday night at one of my favorite walking-distance restaurants. We split fajitas and I ordered two grande margaritas because my throat hurt. Don't judge; it totally helps.

After dinner we walked home, congratulating ourselves on not giving into our alcoholic friends who were sending us text messages and asking us to come out and meet them. "We're so responsible! We're so grown-up! We can go to dinner and drink without being tempted to keep drinking! We're so mature!"

We walked right past a bar called Lakewood Tavern and both of us piped down on the self-congratulatory exclamations.

Not Lisa: "Ohhh! So that's where that place is! I've heard about it several times but haven't ever been."

Boyfriend: "Yeah, me neither. I've always wanted to check it out, though."

Not Lisa: "Yeah... me, too."

We kept walking, neither of us saying a word and neither wanting to be the first to break. I won.

Boyfriend: "You wanna get a drink?"

Not Lisa: "Yep."

We about-faced immediately and strode straight into the bar. It was there that we decided to have many a drink (not singular by any means, who were we kidding?) while we waited for the PhotoHunt computer to open up.

It didn't. And, as I am not a terribly patient person, I entertained myself with Jack-and-waters.

The Boyfriend has never considered himself a patient person, either. He entertained himself by employing his own, very special, very tailored form of torture on me (and drinking Coors Lights, the hick that he is).

Boyfriend (with a sly look in his eye): "You know, I know you say all the time that you don't want kids. But really, you know you'll want them someday."

Not Lisa: "Stop it. You're trying to get me all worked up and I'm not giving into it."

Boyfriend: "No, really. Just admit it. You love your little nephew-type-person. You would love to have one to call your own." (nephew-type-person is my best friend's 9-month-old and it's true - I do love him. ONLY HIM.)

Not Lisa: "Shut your face. Quit being crazy."

This cheeky little cat-and-mouse game continued for the next two hours, breaking only to talk about sports and whatever headline happened to be scrolling across the television at the bar.

Finally, the combination of tequila, bourbon and baby talk attacks blended together in my veins and brought my blood to a raging boil. I could take this harassment no longer.

Boyfriend: "Don't you think it would be so much fun to have tiny little versions of the two of us running around the house?"

Not Lisa: "Sure, but the first thing they'd get into is your porn."

Boyfriend: "What?!"

Not Lisa: "You watch too much porn for us to have kids."

Boyfriend (whispering): "Could you please use your inside voice when you're talking about porn?"

Not Lisa: "Don't you whisper-yell at me. I am talking quietly. I'm sorry, I just don't feel comfortable having kids around someone who watches and owns as much porn as you do. One day, if we have kids, they're going to stumble across Mega Tits in the closet and have all kinds of questions. Or they'll come to me and say 'Mommy, when I grow up can I be a Hot Tight Teen?' They'll be watching Baby Einstein on the laptop and a pop-up will come across advertising 'Fuck dolls who like it in every hole!' I can't live like that. I don't think you want to live like that, either. Do you?"

He hasn't bothered me about the kid issue in days. Thanks, tequila and bourbon! I couldn't have done it without you guys. You two are the little liquors with the big, big hearts and I love you for it.

"hi, my name is Not and I'm an..."

2007-12-03T14:25:00.000-08:00

This weekend I received a late-night text message from a good friend of mine (we'll call her Lynn):

"Mega-Date is tomorrow and G-man still doesn't have anyone to go with him. Can you go? Just say yes."

Lynn and her roommates (both dudes) had come into some free Six Flags tickets and decided to plan The Event of Winter 2007: Mega-Date. Unfortunately, G-man was the only roommate in the house without a significant other and is, apparently, lacking in available-girls-who-are-just-friends. He and I are good friends so this request wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

Except, you know, G-man is one of my ex-boyfriends. That should come as no big surprise, given that I recently calculated that I've had a boyfriend for going on 11 years now.

Anyhoodle, I asked Boyfriend what he thought.

"Hey, do you mind if I go on a date with my ex-boyfriend?"

"Which one?"

Oh-so-funny, that Boyfriend.

When he realized I was talking about the non-threatening G-man that I dated so very long ago in another collegiate universe, permission was immediately granted. That was one motivating factor; the other was that he passionately abhors all things involving great heights (see: Six Flags' roller coasters).

So off we went on the Mega-Date. We rode the Titan three times, the swings, the Runaway Mine Train, the ShockWave. We ate funnel cakes and drank hot chocolate. We laughed at the Looney Toons characters in tights and took pictures while skipping through the park. G-man shot free-throws in the arcade while I yelled "Mama wants a Shrek doll!!" All in all, we had a blast. We acted like small children again and loved every minute of it.

This morning I was re-living the fun day through a conversation with The Boyfriend. And then I noticed a strange realization welling up in the back of my brain.

"Oh, my lord."

"What?"

"I just realized that I can't even remember the last time I did something with my friends that, in some form or fashion, didn't involve alcohol."

"Wow. You guys have issues."

I dared him to name the last time he was with his friends and they didn't consume at least a little alcohol. He named two times and I reminded him that, on both occasions, his 11-year-old brother was the reason they all got together. That they really would have problems if they involved him in their binge drinking.

I've tried all day long to remember the last time I got together with friends and didn't drink. I can't recall a single instance. Sure, we'll get together to watch TV together or meet up for casual dinners but someone has always had a rough day and comes equipped with wine or vodka.

Surely this isn't what they call addiction... is it?

Good grief, this is difficult. I need a glass of wine to get me through these hard times.

i am in a really bad halle berry movie.

2007-11-21T07:42:00.000-08:00

Arugula is no longer stalking Puppy; she's stalking me. I'm beginning to think she and I might possibly be joined by some cosmic umbilical cord.

Two nights ago, Boyfriend was lounging on my couch while I was off with The Core mocking the final episode of this season's The Bachelor. Jenni was just about to cry her bobble-head off when I got a text message: "Arugula is still here. And she's brought a friend." Yes, the other pizza place cat Olive had come along to visit Puppy through the window. Turns out they're not as good of friends as we previously thought - or maybe Arugula is the jealous type - because Olive was quickly run off. Arugula then spent the night on my porch and was "MAW"ing us in the morning.

Last night, things escalated.

I came home to mash some potatoes for The Core's First and Possibly Last Annual Thanksgiving Potluck Dinner. Arugula was on the porch, as usual. I made my mashed potatoes and drank half of the bottle of wine I bought for dinner (it was a long, long pre-holiday day). I gathered up everything - including the half-bottle of wine because I am classy - and got ready to head out. I checked one more time to see if Arugula was outside and this time, to my surprise, she wasn't. "Hmm..." I thought, "maybe she's finally given up on our little one-bedroom family and has gone back to the pizza place for more anchovies." Well done, Arugula. Well played.

I walked out to the parking garage to pack everything into my car. I walked up to my silver non-descript car and who should be laying on the hood? Arugula. Somehow, she managed to pick my car out of the massive parking garage housing about 100 other vehicles. That darn cat.

I shoo Arugula, pack up my car, start it up and immediately call Boyfriend. He answers.

"What's up, sweetness?"

"Have you ever seen Catwoman? Not the old one but the new one with Halle Berrry? The one that's so terrible it makes your brain bleed a little but you just have to keep watching it?"

"I watched the beginning but, unlike you, I have self-control. And self-respect. What the hell are you talking about?"

"I think I'm a Catwoman."

"You're pretty."

"No, seriously. I just walked outside and found that Arugula had moved from my porch to the hood of my car. She picked my car out of the 100 other cars and decided to take a little nap. It seems as though I have died an ugly death and then was rescued by a cat. Now that cat keeps following me because it wants me to know the truth about who I am. Oh god, I think I'm craving sushi."

"You're pretty. Go to dinner."

Just to further my Catwoman case, I met Boyfriend and Boyfriend's Mom after dinner for drinks at a place right by my apartment. We were walking back to their car and Boyfriend exclaims "Holy crap, that's Arugula! Running across the street!"

Luckily, it's not bad luck if a calico cat crosses your path. It's actually good luck if you're a Catwoman.

I went home and decided to have one last cigarette before getting ready for bed. I walked out on the back porch and found no Arugula. I didn't think this was strange at all, as she had just run across my path on the street a block away. I sit down, light my cigarette and exhale into the lonely air of my porch. I strangely missed her. I felt like I was visiting the house of a friend but the friend was off having fun with someone else. No less than 30 seconds passed before I heard the familiar and inquisitive "meow?"

Now I'm off to lunch to have a sandwich. Probably tuna fish.

i am in a disney movie.

2007-11-19T13:56:00.000-08:00

My dog wants a cat. Really badly, more than anything, "I-swear-I'll-take-care-of-it-and-feed-it-and-bathe-it-everyday, just-please-mama, can-I-have-a-kitty?" wants a cat.

It all started a few months ago when a stray cat started coming around my back porch every so often, just often enough to leave her smell so my dog's nose would go crazy when she was outside with Boyfriend and I. Then, every so often the cat would make an appearance at the window and my dog would go nuts. It was strange, though - she wouldn't bark protectively at the window in accordance with typical dog cat-sighting protocol. She would sit three feet away from the window and whine. She would whine for hours after the cat left the premises, crying for her potential playmate.

This happens once or twice a month and the Boyfriend and I are always entertained. "Puppy," Boyfriend would say, "if you promise Mom and I that you can go for six whole months without pooping on the floor, we'll talk about getting you a kitty." Puppy would always look at me, rolling her eyes, thinking "if I can't get him to give me one, surely I can play her." Unfortunately for Puppy, I like cats only a little more than I like babies... which means, no cats (or babies, for that matter).

A month or two ago, Boyfriend and I were eating dinner on the patio of the pizza place that backs up to my apartment. We noticed that Puppy's kitty was lounging in the corner of the patio, curled up in a warm spot by the fireplace. We asked our waitress about her and she explained that it was just a neighborhood cat and that the staff had named her Arugula. She came around pretty often because they fed her anchovies, even though they weren't allowed to encourage her presence in a restaurant. We were glad to know that someone was feeding her and that she had a cozy spot by a fireplace and went home to assure the puppy that her cat was living the good life at a pizza place and would never want to trade that life of luxury for a one-bedroom apartment. I also let puppy know that kitties like milk and that, although I currently had five cartons of milk in my refrigerator, none of my milk was fresh enough to still be in liquid form. Kitties like their milk pretty runny, I hear.

Yesterday, Arugula showed up again and puppy was thrilled. We heard her outside meowing around 2 p.m. and puppy immediately ran to the window and parted the vertical blinds with her nose. I told Boyfriend "well, this is new. She's never meowed before and Puppy has never gotten that close to the window. Do you think they do this when we're not home? Does Arugula just not realize that it's Sunday and the humans are a-foot?"

Arugula didn't leave. She actually meowed louder and, despite our calling and kissy-noises and scolding, Puppy continued to whine at the window for the next three hours. We finally just admitted defeat and turned up the volume on the TV. However, Puppy and Arugula were relentless. Boyfriend wanted a cigarette and we reasoned that if we were out on the back porch, Arugula would surely be spooked and would run off. Such a good plan, right?

So we opened the sliding door, holding Puppy in our arms, and Arugula scampered into the bushes. Puppy's cries got louder and more frantic, all the while wiggling to get out of my grip. I took her over to the bushes to show her that her kitty was gone and she seemed to be satisfied. Until she heard the very loud and plaintive "MEOW" from the bushes beneath us. I didn't want Puppy to catch ringworm or any other kitty diseases so I put her back in the apartment and shut the door. Puppy. Was. PISSED. She pitched a fit, she barked, then resorted to laying down and pouting until we came back in the house. During this episode, Arugula kept peeking around the corner and sticking her head through the gate asking "Meow?"

We meowed back that she was not allowed on the porch while we were out there. We don't want ringworm, either.

For the rest of the night, Arugula meowed at the window while Puppy whined on the other side. When we finally went to bed around 1 a.m. we had to convince Puppy to come to bed and leave her kitty alone. As soon as we left the living room, Arugula could no longer see movement from behind the vertical blinds and quit meowing. Until...

This morning we woke up and began to move about. Puppy lazed about in the bed until it was time to go outside, which is after I've showered and am presentable for public. She jumped out of bed and ran to the window to check for her kitty. We laughed because we thought there was no way that cat spent the night waiting for Puppy to return. We laughed until we heard a very excited "MEOW!"

Arugula was still there, waiting on Puppy. I took Puppy out to pee in the front and I've never seen a dog so fastidious in doing her business. She ran back to the front door and waited for me to let her back inside. Once the door opened, she ran back over to the sliding glass door and parted the blinds with her nose. "MEOW!"

I looked at Boyfriend and he simply said "Wow."

"I know! She couldn't wait to come back in and see her kitty."

"This is just getting ridiculous. I know how to KEEP a cat - you feed it. How do you get rid of a cat?"

"Who knows. My mom always used BB guns but I can't bring myself to shoot Puppy's kitty."

"Do you think they're planning something?"

I thought about this for a minute. "I do. OR, we're in a Disney animated movie and we don't know it. They should be together to serve some greater purpose and we're the stupid humans that just don't get it. The audience is so pissed at us right now."

"Good point. On some night, we're going to see Puppy and Arugula in the back alley under a full moon, sharing a meatball and eating the same strand of spaghetti."

The most embarrassing part of the story is that I double-checked the lock on the sliding glass door before I left for work this morning. I didn't want Puppy and Arugula going all Pinky and the Brain on our asses and me just handing them an unlocked door.

a modern-day scylla and charybdis... kind of

2007-11-19T13:22:00.000-08:00

Saturday I found myself at the Boyfriend's friend's house watching a college football game. It should be noted that I use the term "watching" very loosely as I was really just drinking beer among people who were actually watching the game. Either way, I got credit just for attendance.

I was seated on the couch next to the friend's little sister, who happened to be a junior at the very same college that I attended. We instantly bonded, playing the "do you know...?" game (we mostly only had the MUCH younger siblings of my classmates in common) and laughing over the idiosyncrasies that are as true today as they were six years ago. She was so young, so excited about drinking beer (she doesn't turn 21 until March, y'all!), so eager to hang out with the older folks while trying to be subtle about her college student status. She fooled no one, but there was really no reason for her to pull wool over anyone's eyes. She was cute, fun and fit in immediately. Shows how mature this group of friends is, right?

And speaking of mature... across the room sat Boyfriend's Most Responsible Friends, the ones with the baby. P is 10 months old and is absolutely adorable, if you like babies. I don't, particularly, but didn't really have much to complain about with this one. He was fairly quiet, not terribly fussy, and the worst thing that he did was stick his hand in the bowl of queso. Despite the unusual harmless nature of Baby P, though - I couldn't help but notice how exhausted his parents were. They wanted to stand for 30 minutes when they arrived because they had just driven the 45-minute commute from the suburbs. They were constantly searching for Cheerios, heating up formula, or chasing after Baby P to make sure that he didn't push any buttons on the TV or put his hand in any more queso. He would seem as though he was getting worked up to cry and they would immediately throw him up on their shoulders to cheer him up. All the while I was seated on the big over-sized couch, happily sitting still and sipping my beer.

Out of nowhere it occurred to me... I was smack in the middle of my past and my inevitable future. I know that this is no big revelation because we are constantly in the middle of our own present, but it has never been so well illustrated. Seated to my immediate left was my past self: a size 0 20-year-old who was excited about homecoming floats and sorority competitions, thrilled with the rebellious under-age drinking and whose only worry was how to get a summer internship with no work experience ("Isn't that why you have internships? To get experience??"). Across from me and to my right were two stressed parents, happy to have a family but constantly pushing and working to keep the baby from crying in public, worried about their relationship and how the stress of the baby has affected it, then digging for more Cheerios.

On the left, college life sounded like so much fun and I was a little jealous of her jean size. However, the more thought I put into it made me think about all the late-nights I spent studying only to pull a 60 on an accounting test. I thought about never having enough money and having to work a job at the library to pay for any extras at the end of the month, then skipping Spring Break trips with friends to wait tables for extra cash. I remembered living with roommates and the constant struggle to make 5 very different girls agree on one lifestyle and one apartment decor. I couldn't help but wince at the memory of wondering constantly if I was meeting the standards of my oh-so-conservative college friends and having the painful knowledge that I was living in the skin of someone else. The confines of someone else's rules of behavior. Under the heavy thumb of my parents' approval.

Once I thought about this, my jealousy waned.

Then I glanced across the room and saw the way Baby P's parents were working together for the overall good of their son. I was impressed with their efforts but also exhausted by them. "I know I'm not ready for that," I thought. "And I don't know that I ever will be." And I was comforted by my present, even though the past continues to haunt me and my future continues to frighten me.

Pretty deep for a college football game...

inappropriate.

2007-10-25T09:03:00.000-07:00

I recently found myself in a marketing brainstorm with about 69 (hee) other people. I have no idea whose great idea it was to invite 70 people to brainstorm together on new marketing techniques but, never-you-mind, we were all in attendance and ready to come up with groundbreaking and innovative ideas despite the inevitable groupthink mentality.

I was sitting toward the back, enjoying my catered breakfast of bacon and coffee while listening to the mediator set up the problem we were about to solve (or, attempt to solve). It was then that I heard the most inappropriate phrase I've ever heard articulated. Well, at least in the company of such a large group of professionals.

"We've been targeting 22-year-olds and getting the 18-year-olds. We've been targeting the 18-year-olds and getting the 15-year-olds. When we try and bullseye target the 15-year-olds we end up getting the tweens. What we really need to do is get out there in the marketplace and target the people we want as buyers. We need to GET OUT THERE and NAIL 15-YEAR-OLDS!!!"

I immediately clapped my hand over my mouth to catch the coffee that was about to spew forth. Who would say such a thing?! I looked around the crowd gathered and no one cracked a smile or said a word. I'm assuming these people were:

a) still asleep
b) not paying attention because they were too busy trying to figure out why Kim Kardashian and Tila Tequila have their own shows or
c) not as pervy as I am.

Or maybe I just haven't been in the business as long as these other people and "nail 15-year-olds" is a common battle cry. That's something they just didn't teach me in business school... but maybe it's just because I went to a conservative Southern Baptist college.

we are family

2007-10-24T15:25:00.001-07:00

My parents made the hour-and-a-half trek from deep East Texas to Dallas last night just to take me out to dinner. This was a very sweet gesture, though they both had ulterior motives that went beyond "well, we just miss you!"

My mom really wanted to shop at Z Gallerie and Crate & Barrel. What better places to visit in "the big city" than massive retail chains?!

My dad was visiting under the guise of "research for the restaurant" (he owns a restaurant in East Texas) but, truth be told, the man just likes to eat. Thus, the restaurant-owning.

So they shopped while I was at work and then met me at one of my favorite restaurants, which happens to be in one of the trendier areas of the city (see: bars, great shopping and gays - three of my favorite things). The food was excellent, as always, and the service was great. However, these were the true highlights of the evening:

- Troy Aikman showed up with his wife and two kids, causing my father to rubberneck for the next five minutes. "Does he actually have to wait for a table? I wonder if he valeted!"

- A very attractive gay couple walked through the door and my East Texas mother immediately got squirmy. After me asking if she was okay or if there was something wrong, she replied with "Oh, no. NOTHING is wrong. NOTHING AT ALL is wrong. I just... I just... I just really liked his purse."

- Upon ordering seeing the bill for two cocktails, an appetizer, three full entrees, a shared side item (mmm... mac & cheese) and a dessert my father exclaimed "$100 for three people!! I sure wish we could get away with these prices!!!"

I swear - we're not country, y'all.

lucy in the sky with... potato chips?

2007-10-24T11:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I almost hit my limit with this industry. My creative director put it perfectly, as he so often does: "If this were a sitcom, this is the moment when I would stand up, take the phone off mute, say 'That's it. I'm done.' and then walk out the door. Then the voice-over would say, 'And that was the exact moment I knew that advertising was no longer for me.' Too bad I actually have a wife and kids to support."

We were on a conference call with our client and another agency. The other agency began to compare our product (potato chips) with the Beatles. "They're so similar that they're almost the same," they began. This statement was followed up with a list of said similarities, one being that both are "brands that have their fingers on the pulse of America, therefore gaining widespread popularity by giving the people what they want."

Not okay.

the shoe game

2007-10-24T08:34:00.001-07:00

When it comes to Number Twos at Work, I am a huge hypocrite. I find myself feeling the urge - the down-town-push-down, if you will - and every time I find myself going through the motions of a pooping pep talk. "Everyone does it! It's a natural thing and it's no big deal! No one even notices. You don't have a one-person handicapped bathroom for personal retreat anymore, so you're going to have to suck it up like everyone else and pick a stall! Really, it's UNnatural for you to hold it. Now get in there and drop some business! People could care less!!"

And so I go, relishing in the fact that it's natural. Everyone does it. No need to feel embarrassed that a co-worker walks in mid-push. She poops, too!

Fast-forward three hours...

My relentless green tea addiction prompts me, once again, to visit the Ladies. I have a different agenda this time, though. No longer do I need the pep talk to push me over the hump of the pooping stigma. I have to pee! There's no shame in that! I can do that with the door open if I want, while two lesbians make out in the corner*!

So in I go, with all the confidence of... well... someone who has a lot of confidence. I pick the third stall (it's my favorite, as it's a taller toilet and I'm a bit of a leggy bitch) and take my time. Then I remember that the stall door next to me was closed and its occupant has been extremely quiet the whole time. There's the awkward silence that occurs when no toilet paper is being shuffled, no fluids are being released, no pants are being zipped. She's waiting it out; holding out for me to leave so she can finish up undetected. I know her game. She's lying in wait, knowing that if she were to be identified she wouldn't be able to look me in the eyes later as she passes me in the hall.

My hypocrite soul will not stand for this. She must be outed! Cue The Shoe Game.

I quietly finish my business and sneak a quick peek at her shoes from under the stall door. She's been ID'd! The rest of my day is chock full of hide-and-seek fun, looking at every woman's shoes as I pass them in the hallways. No chance that I'll be caught sitting at my desk reading blogs today. No way. I'm a woman on a mission.

Once I find those shoes, it's all I can do to restrain myself from pointing, giggling and saying "You dirty work pooper! I know it was you!! You dropped bombs like Hiroshima!"

Bless my heart.

*story for another time, my friend. Story for another time.

the sweetest thing

2007-09-27T15:02:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't a post about a narcissistic blonde, her ample-bosomed stalker-friend and their unfortunate brunette buddy with an extra-large uvula. Although, as much fun as I make of that movie, I secretly love it (and secretly own it).

However, this is a super-sappy post about Boyfriend who is currently working on what might actually be the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Here is a quick list of sweet things beaus have done in the past to win over my heart and affections (see: get in my pants):

- had a friend play acoustic guitar while he serenaded me under a bridge with a Beatles song (gay*)
- written poetry (gay)
- written postcards that featured hearts and pictures of tall buildings (creepy)
- brought me a small, furry, vibrating monkey with a pull-string from a NY trip (funny)
- had an entire (college) baseball stadium sing to me on my birthday (awkward)
- taken me to a "really nice, special occasion dinner"... at Outback Steakhouse (lie)
- procured tickets to a sold-out Radiohead show (awesome)

But none, I repeat NONE, have come close to what Boyfriend is doing for me this weekend. And, the tricky part is, it's not even technically for me. My dad's birthday is today and Boyfriend has spent the last two days creating a mix CD for him. Daddy-o's a bit of a car aficionado and is more than obsessed with his Mustang ride, so Boyfriend decided that the perfect present would be a CD he could leave in his car so he'd constantly feel like a bad ass. The title of the mix is "Bossman's Badass Car Mix" and the subtitle is "Put Some Stank on that 'Stang". Pops is going to lose his shit, especially when he sees the cover art with a huge, glistening Cobra emblem on the front.

A guy who cares about my family so much that he takes 5 hours out of his week to create a personalized gift for my dad? I'm sold. Not that I wasn't already...

Speaking of considerate... all songs were carefully selected by Boyfriend himself and some, despite being bad ass and quite stanky, just didn't make the cut. "I just don't think your dad would like to hear a song that would make him think 'that boy wants to put it in my daughter.'"

And that... is the sweetest thing.

*and not in a good gay way, which involves dancing with hot shirtless men and downing countless Jell-o shots

a stitch in time... is just plain good parenting

2007-09-26T13:34:00.000-07:00

I just left the Director's office and am even more baffled by her parenting skills than ever before. I didn't mention this previously because, well, it's ridiculous. However, I feel the need to share the craziness with you, dear Internet void.

On Monday, Director called my cell in a panic to tell me that she would be unable to attend the day's photo shoot because her son ripped his knee open and she had to take him in to get stitches. No biggie, right? Minor emergency, kids get stitches all the time, I can handle it - go take care of your bleeding son.

The plot thickens when she mentions later in the morning (while she's explaining to me the reasoning behind her oversight to send our client directions to the shoot - "Oops! I was busy with my son's birthday party and didn't think it was important!") that her oldest son has an appointment at 10:30 a.m. to get stitches.

I immediately smell 3-day-old sushi. Aren't stitches usually unplanned? Aren't stitches usually a last-minute decision? I don't really hear of anyone booking stitches days (or even hours) in advance. "Should I book a massage, a mani/pedi, or should I just get some stitches?" No one does this. Not normal.

The truth unfolds throughout the day. Turns out, homeboy cut up his knee on SATURDAY. Director, being a "mid-Western mom" (her words, not mine), thought it would "be okay" (again, her words) and put a giant Band-Aid (not Penny Lane) on it. So the poor child sleeps two nights with his gaping wound, bleeding through the bandages, before Mom of the Year finally decides that he may need stitches. So she books the appointment for Monday morning, shirks her work responsibilities, and takes the kid to the doctor. Turns out, he did need stitches. He actually needed many a stitch within six hours of cutting himself. Oops!

Doctor Man grafted (yes, it's true) the skin back to where it began, sealed it off with some sort of magic potion, then placed some medical stick-um over the wound (it's all very technical). He told them not to remove the bandage for 10 days, otherwise the graft wouldn't take and he would be badly scarred.

How do I know all of this? Because Director just told me that before he broke his cell phone in her face and ran out the door, he ripped off the medical stick-um bandage and threw it in her face. Her response, after causing the kid's anger by neglecting the wound for three days? "He can scar for all I care."

I'm considering putting CPS on speed-dial.

The following IM conversation just took place between myself and Boyfriend:

Boyfriend: "This kid is going to be president someday."
NL: "Or write one hell of a book."
Boyfriend: "From prison."

the prodigal brat

2007-09-26T09:28:00.001-07:00

So, Director's son has been found. He rode his bike five miles on Monday afternoon to his old house that the family lived in a year ago, broke into the empty house and spent the night playing video games with his friends and then sleeping on the floor of his old room. He then rode his bike to school the next day, only for first period, and then decided to spend the rest of the day doing as he damn well pleased. Meaning: playing video games.

First of all, let's all take a moment of silence to thank God that we're not parenting this child. Just the cost of all the electronic equipment would be devastating to my cocktail allowance.

Second of all, let's all take an hour of silence to thank God that Director is not our mother. Enough said.

Director decides that the best way to deal with the returned child is to take him out to dinner. He's not being punished for what he did. Instead, she's seeking professional help to determine how to better implement structure in his life.

Speaking of structure, the son woke up this morning and didn't want to get out of bed and go to school. Director let him stay at home today because she knew that his friends would ask him a lot of questions in between classes and she didn't want him to deal with the embarrassment.

I am not a parent and am therefore not allowed to make parenting judgment calls. However, I will say this: I am so glad I don't have kids. I'm going to spend two hours thanking God for that.

the devil wears talbots

2007-09-25T13:17:00.000-07:00

My director is insane. Certifiably. I'm sure there will be many posts to come about her crazy antics, but none can compare to today's incident. Let's list the crazy in order, shall we? It'll make things a bit easier to follow because, trust me, you'll need all the help you can get.

9:07 a.m. - I receive an email from Director, saying that she's going to be in late today because she's waiting for a phone call. I think nothing of it, as her constant tardiness is nothing new.

10:14 a.m. - I receive a frantic phone call on my cell. Director is trying to communicate through bawling and sobbing and after three tries I decipher the following: "My oldest son (he's 13) broke his cell phone in front of me last night and stormed out of the house. I couldn't find him and his friend said he wasn't over there. I woke up at 3 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep. I called the school this morning and he went to first period but he's skipping his other classes. The school wants to know if I want to involve the police, because he can't skip school. I have to make these decisions by myself and I... just... don't... know!!!" More sobbing ensues.

Because my job title is Account Supervisor and Family Counselor, I ask if she had contacted her son's father (her ex-husband) yet. Maybe he knows where he is? She bawls, "He doesn't get involved in things like this."

Let's pause for a minute in the story to sum up: her 13-year-old son runs away, she calls one friend who doesn't know where he is, and she goes to sleep. His father "doesn't get involved in things like this." Things like what, his missing children? Is this such a common occurrence that a precedent has been set? Geez Lewis.

1:07 p.m. - I return an alarmingly chipper voice mail from Director that was left during lunch. I call her back and she has to immediately drop because the police are arriving at her house.

1:47 p.m. - Director gives me a call back and tells me that the police just went through her entire house, looking for a hidden 13-year-old boy. They didn't find him. Turns out they have more information, though. They found out that his screenname for some online pirates game was used last night and apparently he was playing at the same time as another kid from school. They're contacting the game company to obtain the IP address that the screenname was on, then they're tracking down the physical house location of the IP address so they can run on over and bust his running-away-from-home ass. Two words: boo and yah. I was impressed with the high-tech sleuthing. Boyfriend's comment was "Wow. CSI: Crazytown."

So that's the last that I've heard. Guess I'll find out the conclusion tomorrow morning when I read the milk carton while I'm eating my Cheerios.

Oh, quit your judging. I'm not serious, I kid, I kid. I don't ever eat Cheerios.

"you can pee WHILE you drink!"

2007-09-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

Yes, that's a quote from one of my dear friends in reference to our upcoming weekend plans. The very highly-anticipated river floating trip is this weekend and The Core is getting excited. We're even bringing along a few dudes for a little added entertainment. In case you're unfamiliar with a Texas river float, the details are pretty simple: You buy a lot of beer, rent two tubes (one for yourself and one for your cooler), and then you float down a river for two hours. Genius, I know.

I will definitely be drinking my party-bikini off. As a nod to the superlatively white trash trip that this is becoming, it will be decorated with stars and bars. I love embracing cliches. Here is a list of reasons why this trip is more WT than a normal float-the-river trip:

1) We’re renting a van for the 3-hour drive because

2) too many people have DWIs and can’t drive that far. Because of that,

3) 3 people had to call their probation officers to get permission to leave the county. We also have

4) 12 people going and the cabin only has beds for 11 so

5) one person has volunteered to sleep in the walk-in pantry because

6) that’s the room with the most privacy, should he get some random Gruene, Texas ass.

I heart my friends, I really do.

reunited and it feels so... blah.

2007-09-17T15:50:00.000-07:00

If you should ever find yourself at a reunion that is not yours (or that is yours, and you're looking for an excuse to drink heavily), here's a very highly recommended game you should play:

Take a drink every time someone says the word "remember".

You. Are. Welcome.

i faked it.

2007-09-07T15:47:00.000-07:00

Every week, someone from my group of girlfriends (aka "The Core") cooks dinner and everyone else shows up at her house armed with many a bottle of wine. Last night, it was my turn. I cleaned, I cooked, I entertained, I taught piano lessons... and then I was exhausted.

Boyfriend has had an especially rough week and really needed some couch time with his lady, so I had promised earlier in the day to come over to his house after dinner to comfortingly coddle and pet him on the head. When the ladies left me, I could see this was no longer an option. There were wine glasses all over the place, Butterfinger wrappers strewn about, and pans with coagulating cheese sitting in my kitchen. It was also 11:15 p.m.

I'm normally a late-night person, so the time wasn't really an issue. However, I am inherently selfish and really needed to clean my apartment and lay on my couch while I finished off the leftover wine.

So, like any good single gal desperate to make her man happy, I faked it.

I don't normally condone faking it. Unless, you know, you're really sleepy. But last night, I reached back into my bag of tricks and that's all I could come up with. The phone call to Boyfriend went something like this:

B: "Well, hello!"
NL: (very sadly and possibly in pain) "Hi."
B: "How was dinner with your ladies? You don't sound too good."
NL: "It was fun, but something is going on downstairs."
B: "I warned you about your cooking."
NL: "It really better not be my cooking. I think it was that Mexican food that I had for lunch."
B: "What was for dinner?"
NL: "Chicken enchilada casserole."
B: "With extra cheese?"
NL: (sheepishly and defeated) "Yes."
B: "What else?"
NL: "Salad."
B: "With cheese and ranch?"
NL: "You know there's no other way to eat a salad."
B: "Mmm hmm. How was your day?"
NL: "It was good. Work was a little crazy and... wait. Sorry, this sucks. I have to call you back."

I hung up, watched TV for exactly 6 minutes, then called him back.

B: "Are you okay?"
NL: "Yeah, sorry. This whole experience is really gross to narrate."
B: "It's okay. You stay home and feel better. Better yet, I'll come over and pet your head on the couch instead."

I immediately felt incredibly guilty, but relieved (no pun intended) at the same time. Men accuse women of being manipulative all the time, and I've probably fallen into this category once or twice, but never have I used Big Potty Problems as a means to an end.

Although I did fart at a bar one time to get a guy to stop hitting on me. That's entirely different, though. And normal... right?

not lisa on: holiday engagements

2007-08-21T16:34:00.000-07:00

"If you propose to me during the Christmas holidays, you realize that the ring does not double as an engagement ring and a Christmas present, right? Those two occasions call for two separate gifts. This is not a two-birds-with-one-diamond type of situation."

And sometimes I wonder why Boyfriend always says "It's true what they say... you really can't choose the one you love."

boyfriend on: the hills

2007-08-21T16:31:00.000-07:00

"If I ever passed Spencer on the street, I'd kick his ass. No, really. I would. He deserves a good ass-kicking. I'd go all country on him, too. I'd put on a pair of boots first."*

Yep.

*Boyfriend does not actually own a pair of boots

to know is to be

2007-08-21T16:08:00.000-07:00

Dinner at Craft was amazing. Better than can ever be expected for less than $98 per steak (an actual price on the menu). I'm devoting my upcoming free Saturday to attempting to re-create their braised beef short ribs. Blah blah blah, nothing of interest here. Good food, cheap Restaurant Week prices, enough said.

But Restaurant Week events can't ever go off without a catch somewhere along the way. After dinner Boyfriend, my two friends and I decided that it would be an ironic hoot to make our way up to Ghostbar. Sorry, ghostbar. No initial caps here... we're way too pretentious. Anywho, we make our way to Dallas' latest attempt at becoming LA and are undaunted by the abnormally short line outside the entrance. My friend G and I are nominated as Group Representatives, probably because we're both tall. Tall = intimidating. We approach the bouncer standing ominously clutching his clipboard, occasionally putting his hand to his ear to listen intently to the Secret Service men on the other end. He could not have been a day older than myself, and seemed to be a former normal person. However, now he is Bouncer... here him roar.

Me: (confused that more trend-seekers are not forcing their way inside) "Is this the line to get in?"
Bouncer: "For the people on The List. Are you on The List?"
Me: "I sincerely doubt that." (Come on, it's Dallas. Not LA. And I am no LiLo, not by any means.)
Bouncer: "Then you'll need to go to the street entrance."

The street entrance? Like the commoners? Immediately I feel myself flushed with the feeling of rejection, upset that I had even bothered to take the time before I approached him to adjust my (minimal and sad) cleavage. This is by no means my scene and I typically have nothing but contempt for those whose scene it is, but that does not mean that I feel like any more of a person. That is, until I ask him a question about The List.

Me: "So, this List. If I were to get on it, how would I go about doing so?"
Bouncer: "To know is to be."

My friend G loses it at this point. He incredulously phrases a question that sounds more like a statement: "What did you just say."

Bouncer sighs, with a significant decrease in confidence: "To know is to be."

I erupt in giggles. This guy is losing faith in his own religion.

Me: "You're serious. You seriously just said that. You know that's ridiculous, right? Absolutely ridiculous?"

Bouncer's face falls as he hangs his head in sheepish expression and refuses to make eye contact with any of us. He is obviously embarrassed of his own words.

Just like my friends and I... when coolness quotients are in question, what better way to build yourself up than to tear an authority figure down? To quote an email pal of mine: "You verbally kicked that dude in the berries." Yes, I did. And I did it to make myself feel better. Guess what? It worked.

the infamous restaurant week

2007-08-14T12:41:00.000-07:00

Restaurant Week and I have a sordid past. The first year I participated was a drunken disaster, as my back-up husband proposed to his girlfriend (whom I thought was toast) that very same day. I decided that I had a fever and the only cure was more vodka.

I drank two martinis at home while I got ready for the evening, then made it to the (extremely nice and expensive) restaurant 20 minutes before my friends. I entertained myself by drinking two more martinis served up by a very cute waiter, then made my way to the table with my friends. A couple of glasses of wine later, my best friend's sister was having to reprimand me and tell me to "use my inside voice". I wrapped up the dinner by offering to put the entire tab (over $600) on my credit card and "you guyss can jus pay me back later." I was 22 and therefore my drunken behavior could be pardoned. However, lesser versions of this same experience continued to occur year after year. I suppose that I rationalize as thus: I'm not paying full price for this gourmet meal, therefore I should spend the amount saved on alcohol.

Last night kicked off my 4th year of Restaurant Week. We all politely ate our beef tenderloin medallions and laughed about my past drunken behavior. I had two glasses of wine, perfectly timing the consumption with that of my meal. I had my last sip of pinot noir right as I took my last bite of my chocolate torte and colored myself impressed. I was polite. I was cultured. I was a goddess. I was sober. I had kicked Restaurant Week's ass.

So, what else was there to do but celebrate and revel in my triumph? I got my car out of valet and called Boyfriend.

"Want to go have a glass of wine with me?"

It was tough to tear him away from his wrestling program ("it's not just sports... it's sports entertainment!!") but he obliged. We went to a quiet little wine bar over by my house and went to the bartender to order by the glass.

"Wouldn't it be more economical if we just bought a whole bottle?"

The rationalization began.

We bought a great bottle of Seghesio zinfandel, found a seat in the back of the bar, and talked our way through the whole thing. Boyfriend confessed that he wasn't quite ready to quit drinking just yet, and I was happy to go along with this. We had another couple of glasses of wine.

We then realized that, although we were still not ready to quit drinking, we were ready to quit paying for it. We went back to my apartment and cracked open a bottle of South African white.

The last thing I remember is the two of us getting into an argument about whether I should (Boyfriend's opinion) or should not (my opinion) take down every last picture of myself and my ex-boyfriend. We bet Tuesday night's dinner that there were less than 5 pictures on my fridge alone and that if that was the case, then they could remain in place because my ex and I are still friends. We counted and there were, in fact, more than 5 pictures on the fridge. I somehow refused to believe that I had lost the bet, though. The wine was louder than I was and apparently also a better arithmetician.

Today I am unshowered, have my hair in a ponytail, and am wearing flip flops and jeans with an untucked button-down. I'm going to have to change this shit before dinner at Craft tonight. Damn you, Restaurant Week!

baby talk

2007-08-14T12:28:00.000-07:00

All people seem to talk about these days are children. Are they going to have children, what age they'll begin having them, what they're going to name them. "I have to leave early to pick up my kids from summer camp." or "I have to go home - my oldest has locked my youngest in his room." Leave him there, I say.

Yesterday I was in a brainstorm where the team was supposed to develop new products for "Lisa". Lisa has one hour to herself during her day and she usually spends it catching up on laundry. 10% of Lisas feel guilty when they spend money on themselves rather than their families. Lisa spends 40 hours a week at work and rarely spends time alone with her husband "Michael." Lisa's life is not her own.

I spent the remaining four hours of the brainstorm in prayer. "God, please don't ever let me be a Lisa."

Lisa is admirable and impressive, but I do not ever want her lifestyle. I told Boyfriend later in the day that "I would be happy to have kids, as long as I don't have to make any sacrifices. I want to still be able to go out with my friends, lay on my couch whenever I want, finish off an entire bottle of wine while reading the last Harry Potter on a Tuesday, get my nails done, spend a quarter of my paycheck on expensive food that I will never see again. If a child can fit itself comfortably into that lifestyle, I'm all for it."

You can think I'm selfish all you want. I prefer to think I'm smart. And having a lot more fun than our gal Lisa.