I have a friend who can be described as a "meat and potatoes kind of guy". His favorite foods are "goopy" (his word choice, not mine). Think: casseroles made with cream of [insert starch here]. Macaroni and cheese. Velveeta-on-white-bread sandwiches (no, really).
His 30th birthday is coming up and now he's "focused on the goal" (again - his words, not mine). He firmly believes that this will be accomplished by eating a high-fiber diet because it will make him "go" more often. I know, I know...not the best route for weight loss. But he knows his body better than anyone else, so we're all supportive. Plus, the drastic decrease in solid fats has got to do something, right?
Anyhoodle, I just got the following IM:
"all I've had today is oatmeal, a salad and an apple. oh, and fingernails."
I don't have the heart to tell him that fingernails are protein, not fiber.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
this is how we burlesque
Did you know "burlesque" is a verb?
Me, neither. But Cher and XTina say otherwise, so I'm inclined to follow their path of creative liberties on many things. So I'm on board with their poetic license here. Or at least for the purposes of a blog title.
Speaking of blogs: it's been a while for me. But, despite my absence, I've still been monitoring the spam comments from the occasional check-in. Did you know they actually have meds that can increase your peh-nis size? And plenty of people who want to sell 20-something-girls these products?
Who knew?
A few updates to get into before I tell the story that made me want to write here again. Full disclosure:
- I'm no longer a 20-something. And at this very moment, I'm writing myself a reminder now to take the "20-something blogger" tag off my page. Bless my aged heart.
- I'm no longer A Single. I am A Wife. And this guy is A Husband. (Specifically, mine - but I thought that point was pretty obvious.)
- I am most definitely still Not A Lisa. Nor do I plan to be A Lisa. Kids are not on our collective horizon. However, The Hus did tell me during our "do you want kids?" conversation that the answer was "no, definitely not. But I will love the crap out of any accident I might have with you." With an answer like that, how could he not be The One?
- I no longer have an office to toot in. Oddly enough, sometimes promotions come with floor moves and there isn't enough office space and maybe one of these days we'll get you back in one, but there's just not any availability right now, and I'm so sorry. Or so says my HR. It's been a year. Our senior level turn over at this place is way too low, if you ask me. (Jokes!)
Now that you're all caught up, here's the story. I'll try to keep 'em comin', as Married Life has proven to be quite delightful fodder for ridiculous stories.
Enjoy.
Hus and I decided to try a new bar the other night. It's one of those delightful mixology joints where they say "what do you like to drink?" and you answer "things that are bourbon-y and boozy." Then they put a tiny glass in front of you that smells like a drunken grandfather picking fresh oranges in the orchard. These things make me happy.
However, the booze is not the focus of this story. It is the reason for it, as it usually is, but it's not the focus.
I noticed immediately that something was a little strange about the place when I went to the bathroom. All of the women were either of the jet-black-hair-with-severe-bangs-and-tattoos type, or they were dressed like they were going to a swing competition with full skirts and little patent mary jane heels. The dudes were not of your typical Dallas variety, either - most were in zoot suits and some sort of millenary accoutrement.
Whatever. It's Deep Ellum. It's artsy.
Then we settle into some bar stools to watch some Mavs (Hus) and keep inhaling our orchard drinks (me). Some older gentleman walks up and strikes up a conversation with me about the game. Ummm…that's kind of strange, too. I'm sitting by my husband. But whatever. It's Deep Ellum…?
Then the light comes up on the tiny stage in the corner and an older gentleman in a pin stripe suit, handlebar mustache and fedora announces himself as Tommy Fedora.
Uh oh.
He thanks everyone for coming out this evening to The Dallas Burlesque Club's March meeting.
Whoops.
And then says "please give a big warm welcome tonight to our guest speaker Something-Something-Sexy (can't remember) who's here tonight to talk to you kind folks about the art of stage kittening!!"
What?
We were trapped. The only way out of that tiny bar was right past Stage Kitten herself and I was a little scared of the girls with the severe bangs and tattoos. Sooooooo…
We learned a lot.
My new goal is to be the guest speaker at The Dallas Burlesque Club's April meeting.
Me, neither. But Cher and XTina say otherwise, so I'm inclined to follow their path of creative liberties on many things. So I'm on board with their poetic license here. Or at least for the purposes of a blog title.
Speaking of blogs: it's been a while for me. But, despite my absence, I've still been monitoring the spam comments from the occasional check-in. Did you know they actually have meds that can increase your peh-nis size? And plenty of people who want to sell 20-something-girls these products?
Who knew?
A few updates to get into before I tell the story that made me want to write here again. Full disclosure:
- I'm no longer a 20-something. And at this very moment, I'm writing myself a reminder now to take the "20-something blogger" tag off my page. Bless my aged heart.
- I'm no longer A Single. I am A Wife. And this guy is A Husband. (Specifically, mine - but I thought that point was pretty obvious.)
- I am most definitely still Not A Lisa. Nor do I plan to be A Lisa. Kids are not on our collective horizon. However, The Hus did tell me during our "do you want kids?" conversation that the answer was "no, definitely not. But I will love the crap out of any accident I might have with you." With an answer like that, how could he not be The One?
- I no longer have an office to toot in. Oddly enough, sometimes promotions come with floor moves and there isn't enough office space and maybe one of these days we'll get you back in one, but there's just not any availability right now, and I'm so sorry. Or so says my HR. It's been a year. Our senior level turn over at this place is way too low, if you ask me. (Jokes!)
Now that you're all caught up, here's the story. I'll try to keep 'em comin', as Married Life has proven to be quite delightful fodder for ridiculous stories.
Enjoy.
Hus and I decided to try a new bar the other night. It's one of those delightful mixology joints where they say "what do you like to drink?" and you answer "things that are bourbon-y and boozy." Then they put a tiny glass in front of you that smells like a drunken grandfather picking fresh oranges in the orchard. These things make me happy.
However, the booze is not the focus of this story. It is the reason for it, as it usually is, but it's not the focus.
I noticed immediately that something was a little strange about the place when I went to the bathroom. All of the women were either of the jet-black-hair-with-severe-bangs-and-tattoos type, or they were dressed like they were going to a swing competition with full skirts and little patent mary jane heels. The dudes were not of your typical Dallas variety, either - most were in zoot suits and some sort of millenary accoutrement.
Whatever. It's Deep Ellum. It's artsy.
Then we settle into some bar stools to watch some Mavs (Hus) and keep inhaling our orchard drinks (me). Some older gentleman walks up and strikes up a conversation with me about the game. Ummm…that's kind of strange, too. I'm sitting by my husband. But whatever. It's Deep Ellum…?
Then the light comes up on the tiny stage in the corner and an older gentleman in a pin stripe suit, handlebar mustache and fedora announces himself as Tommy Fedora.
Uh oh.
He thanks everyone for coming out this evening to The Dallas Burlesque Club's March meeting.
Whoops.
And then says "please give a big warm welcome tonight to our guest speaker Something-Something-Sexy (can't remember) who's here tonight to talk to you kind folks about the art of stage kittening!!"
What?
We were trapped. The only way out of that tiny bar was right past Stage Kitten herself and I was a little scared of the girls with the severe bangs and tattoos. Sooooooo…
We learned a lot.
My new goal is to be the guest speaker at The Dallas Burlesque Club's April meeting.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Motherland!!
This post is about vodka. And peripherally about Russia. Most definitely about my mother.
I really couldn't capture this story better than I just did in email form to my best friend J. Enjoy the slightly edited version based on the email that went to him and his boyfriend.
"Because I'm killing time at a bar before a Brazilian appointment and my clients aren't currently returning my calls, I thought I'd treat you boys to some quasi-drinky texts from my mother last night.
A little background: Holidaze is the annual holiday
shopping extraveganza put on by the Junior League. Every year, Mom
and Dad head on down to the local convention center (by the city gardens) to attend, then argue about who's sober enough to drive home. Post-event small town society drama stories are always a treat for me.
Also, last weekend my mother asked me to pick up some ginger beer from the liquor store because she wanted to make some Moscow Mules (which, as you know, I quite love). I was so proud of her Baptist soul.
Anyhoodle, I started the text conversation with:
"J told me today that Oprah and Gayle had Moscow Mules on their
camping trip the other day. We're so ahead of the trend curve."
Mom replied, four hours later:
"You dork. Where do you think I heard about the recipe!!!! Hahaha!"
Ten minutes later, also from Mom:
"Just got home from mistletoe. Kate N. and many others say hi."
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...
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...
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
travel update from the tub
Yes, I'm naked. And in serious danger of ruining my iPhone (and possibly myself) by sending this message while waterlogged. But, I'm in Chicago again and it must be said...
...my personal version of whiskers on kittens is a ginger martini. And taking a bath afterward with a glass of petite zinfandel while listening to a podcast about the finale of Lost? Well, that's just some brown paper packaging tied up with string.
...my personal version of whiskers on kittens is a ginger martini. And taking a bath afterward with a glass of petite zinfandel while listening to a podcast about the finale of Lost? Well, that's just some brown paper packaging tied up with string.
Friday, June 4, 2010
the curse of the gifted
I have a gift. A seventh sense, if you will (in addition to my current sixth sense, which is being "a little bit psychic"). At any given moment, I will have a sudden urge to pee. And, when this urge pops up out of nowhere, I know the reason why - but there's no arguing with it. I must pee. And I'm going to suffer for it.
What's the reason that prompts my bladder, you ask? I can only assume that it's because my bladder has a very close relationship with the office bathroom just down the hall. And that bathroom must be whispering to my bladder:
"Come and see me now. The air is now at its dookiest. Come now!"
And, because my bladder is an asshole, it sets off the pee trigger. Which forces me to breathe in dookie-scented air for a good three minutes while I pee and wash my hands. It's uncanny, though. I can go for hours and hours without having to pee, but somehow, some way, five minutes before I feel the tingly pee pain in my pants, someone is undoubtedly in the bathroom releasing their hell hound of a shit and dookie-ing up the air for my arrival.
It's a bitch of a seventh sense, really. Stupid bladder.
What's the reason that prompts my bladder, you ask? I can only assume that it's because my bladder has a very close relationship with the office bathroom just down the hall. And that bathroom must be whispering to my bladder:
"Come and see me now. The air is now at its dookiest. Come now!"
And, because my bladder is an asshole, it sets off the pee trigger. Which forces me to breathe in dookie-scented air for a good three minutes while I pee and wash my hands. It's uncanny, though. I can go for hours and hours without having to pee, but somehow, some way, five minutes before I feel the tingly pee pain in my pants, someone is undoubtedly in the bathroom releasing their hell hound of a shit and dookie-ing up the air for my arrival.
It's a bitch of a seventh sense, really. Stupid bladder.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
MFEO
So I'm dating a boy. Have been for 5 months or so. I think we might be perfect for each other, as evidenced by a recent IM conversation that took place after the Jamaica trip was upsetting the natural order of my colon:
notlisa (5:05:14 PM): oh, by the way
notlisa (5:05:18 PM): i never pooped today
notlisa (5:05:22 PM): what-the-eff
newboyfriend (5:05:35 PM): ummm
newboyfriend (5:05:40 PM): you've got to be kidding me
notlisa (5:05:48 PM): i even had a big ol' fruit salad and an iced coffee for lunch
notlisa (5:05:56 PM): and coffee for breakfast
notlisa (5:05:59 PM): that's it.
notlisa (5:06:04 PM): oh, and a wishful thinking, "let's get this party started" cigarette this morning
newboyfriend (5:06:55 PM): I'm going to have some words with your bowels
notlisa (5:06:55 PM): i'm about to head home where i plan on having cigarette after cigarette until this Rosemary's Poopie decides to finally make its evil way into the world
newboyfriend (5:07:02 PM): ha ha ha
newboyfriend (5:07:05 PM): I love it
notlisa (5:07:21 PM): so annoying
newboyfriend (5:07:40 PM): no kidding...
Isn't he just dreamy?
notlisa (5:05:14 PM): oh, by the way
notlisa (5:05:18 PM): i never pooped today
notlisa (5:05:22 PM): what-the-eff
newboyfriend (5:05:35 PM): ummm
newboyfriend (5:05:40 PM): you've got to be kidding me
notlisa (5:05:48 PM): i even had a big ol' fruit salad and an iced coffee for lunch
notlisa (5:05:56 PM): and coffee for breakfast
notlisa (5:05:59 PM): that's it.
notlisa (5:06:04 PM): oh, and a wishful thinking, "let's get this party started" cigarette this morning
newboyfriend (5:06:55 PM): I'm going to have some words with your bowels
notlisa (5:06:55 PM): i'm about to head home where i plan on having cigarette after cigarette until this Rosemary's Poopie decides to finally make its evil way into the world
newboyfriend (5:07:02 PM): ha ha ha
newboyfriend (5:07:05 PM): I love it
notlisa (5:07:21 PM): so annoying
newboyfriend (5:07:40 PM): no kidding...
Isn't he just dreamy?
another POV
No, not POV as in ad-speak as in "I'm a client and therefore must use marketing buzzwords, so what's your opinion of this" as in "I'm too much of a self-aggrandizing a-hole to ask for your perspective so I'm going to use an acronym instead" as in "what's your POV?"
Wow. Someone (see: me) isn't terribly happy to be back at the office after a week in Jamaica.
And why would I be? Here's that POV I mentioned above - my literal point-of-view for the past 6 days:
Except when that POV was blocked by a giant fruity drink. Sorry, no picture of that. Taking pictures whilst mid-sip requires far too much coordination.
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.
Monday, May 17, 2010
an accomplished woman: part deux
I have another office to toot in! I'll be in Chicago twice a month for the next three months. I've been here less than 18 hours and have already downed half of a deep dish pepperoni.
Why did that sound dirty? I'm talking about pizza, you perves.
Here's the view from my office:
I like to imagine that the 80-story building that I'm in here is exactly the same as four of my Dallas office buildings, just stacked one on top of another. With more intense security. I keep waiting for a retinal scan to be requested.
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.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
an accomplished woman
There are many reasons to be an independent, ball-busting dried up career woman (thank you, Romy and Michelle, for that quote). You take care of yourself, you have a sense of purpose, you feed your elitist hunger to be a part of a smaller, more intelligent sect of the population - while remaining incredibly humble, of course.
And, as I recently managed to do, you get your own office. With walls! Real walls. And a door! A real door. After the majority of my career being spent either in a cube or a shared office, this has been both refreshing and lonely all that the same time. However, today I discovered the two biggest perks of having my own little quiet 10x15' slice of heaven:
1) The accidental toot that just slipped out while I was
2) booking a Brazilian appointment
I've finally caught that carrot that's been dangling on the stick for all these years.
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.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
all in the family
I love my family dynamic. Growing up as an only child tended to blur the lines when it came to traditional family roles. My mother has always been 4 parts mother, 2 parts best friend, and 1 part Nazi dictator. My father has always been 1 part father, 6 parts little brother.
Weird? Yes. But it works for us. Mostly.
My father recently sold one of his antique cars to a guy in Chicago who just so happens to work for the same major corporation as all of my clients. The corporation employs close to 200,000 people so it wasn't that big of a stretch that worlds were bound to collide. However, to a small-town excitable restaurant owner like my father, the coincidence is of epic proportion.
The following email exchange occurred this morning:
Not Lisa: "Your car butt buddy in Chicago? I may see him soon. I'll be roaming the halls in Chicago on Monday and Tuesday, meeting with clients."
Not Lisa's Dad: "I can't believe this! What are the odds! I'm selling a car in Chicago to a guy that you might meet through work! What are the odds?!
And, AND! I will be in Chicago Monday and Tuesday, also! I'm leaving early Sunday morning and will be there Monday afternoon sometime.
You could leave early Sunday with me! Yeah, right!
How weird!"
Now, let's take a short break before continuing to count the sentences in that email. There are 10. Now take a second to count the exclamation points. There are 9. Remember how I used the adjective "excitable" to describe my father? I'd say it's pretty accurate. Now replace "excitable" with "dead-pan" small-town restaurant owner and you've got my mother.
Dad forwarded his exclamation point-riddled email to my mother, who then replied and blind-copied me: "Leave her alone. She has a job to do and doesn't need her daddy bugging her in Chicago. You can be alone. It will be fine."
Weird? Yes. But it works for us. Mostly.
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.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
do-gooder
I just chatted up a homeless lady on the street to avoid running into the married co-worker I'm rumored to be having an affair with, lest people continue to speculate if they see us together outside of the building. I gave her a dollar for her time.
Key word in that paragraph is "rumored". It seems as though a single woman can't be friends with a married co-worker without starting the tongues a-waggin'. Ridiculous.
Until today, though, it had only cost me a few hours of sleep. Now those bitches owe me money.
I guess I'll just write it off as charity. I should go back and get a receipt...
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...
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
whiskey wednesday leads to self-discovery. again.
Every Wednesday, my team celebrates Whiskey Wednesday by gathering in my office and taking a celebratory shot (or three) of Jameson while conducting intelligent conversation. Today's conversation topic covered Tiger Beat.
It's a credible news source.
While on Tiger Beat's website doing research, I discovered that one young Justin Till (I think that's his name) looks exactly like a sweet, young, fresh-faced version of one of my best friends.
While sending out pictures to my friend and his boyfriend, playing online hangman and saying "Justin Till looks like _ _ _'s doppelganger.", I was called out by my team's creative director.
"Just look at her... she's glowing. She's at her best when she's up to no good."
And you know, he's right.
As a result of this off-hand comment, I realized that I've been up to no good and not blogging about it for far too long. Consider myself back in the game.
For a while, at least...
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...
Friday, November 20, 2009
3:30 a.m. pot theft
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
a psychological commentary of sorts
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.
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.
Monday, August 31, 2009
creative (director) license
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."
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."
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
best job description ever
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.
"JANE DOE: NUT EXPERT"
I really hope we meet and she gives me a business card.
Friday, April 24, 2009
white trash is the new classy
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.
- 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.
Monday, April 13, 2009
more fun with quotes
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.
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.
Monday, March 23, 2009
this is my job.
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.
"We're going for LOL, not WTF."
And she was serious. NFW.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
the grand gesture
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.
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.
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