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.
Showing posts with label ah love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ah love. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
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?
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.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
a very carrie post
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
whoops in translation
I'm not sure if you've seen this yet, but if not, enjoy: http://web.mac.com/olibeale/Iloveyoubut/home.html
And if you have, please enjoy again. No, really - I insist. Just swim around in them for a bit and find comfort in the fact that you are not the only annoyed one out there.
I think you might see where this is going. But first, let me frame up the story to best maximize your enjoyment.
My co-workers and I were discussing this site yesterday, sharing our favorites as well as possible "I love you, but" quotes that we should send in. We're agency girls, we've been around, we have spite to share. You know how we do.
I had sent the link earlier to an idle Boyfriend on IM, with the comment "I love this site so much I want to squeeze its many faces off." After our girly "I love you, but" bitch session, I turned around to find this comment blinking at me from my computer screen:
"Are you trying to tell me something with these?"
Dear sweet initial-capped Baby Jesus. Always with the drama, always with the veiled paranoia, always with the anxiety, always. My response:
"Um... 'I love you, but... you read way too much into things I send you on a whim from the innerwebs.'"
I probably should have included an emoticon of some sort to lighten the mood, but I consider those to be a last resort only to be used sparingly. You know, if you've just IM'd someone with "I just killed your cat. :)". The smiley is totally warranted. However, his rebuttal included no emoticon, either:
"'I love you, but some people think you are passive aggressive.'"
Considering I've been frustrated with him for the past two weeks and still have yet to grow a pair, stop beating around the bush and completely confront him, I'll go ahead and end this post with one word:
Touche.
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.
Monday, September 22, 2008
treatise on boobies (and the attraction thereof)
Many moons ago, my boyfriend and I were driving to his hometown to attend his 10-year reunion. He had requested that I "wear something slutty", as he (believably) claims he was a huge nerd in high school and my cut-down-to-devil-may-care ensemble could gain him some much needed street cred. I politely refused, not necessarily because I'm against using feminine wiles to manipulate bunch of overgrown football players, but more so because my feminine wiles do not lie in my exposed 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.
Anyhoodle, that conversation prompted a musing on my part.
Not Lisa: “You know, I just thought of something.”
Boyfriend: “Oh, God.”
Not Lisa: “Well, I just think it’s funny…”
Boyfriend: “uh huh…?”
Not Lisa: “It’s funny that you, a well-known boob man, ended up with me, of all people.”
Boyfriend: “I’ve made my peace with it.”
Not Lisa: “[string of expletives]”
Don’t you worry, he didn’t hear the end of that one for days. Weeks. Fine, months. Later that evening, I recounted the story for his best friend at the reunion:
Not Lisa: “…and then he said, without hesitation, ‘I’ve made my peace with it.’”
Boyfriend BF, after catching his breath from laughing hysterically: “Okay, I’m not going to defend him because that was a very, very stupid thing to say.”
Not Lisa: “No doy.”
Boyfriend BF: “But, perhaps I can offer some explanation from a fellow self-professed boob man?”
Not Lisa: “I’d love to hear you try.”
Boyfriend BF: “Well, as a boob man, I am partial to the breasts. However, it’s not necessarily the size that guarantees my appreciation. Sure, that’s a factor – but it’s further down the list. First on the list? I appreciate respectful boobies the most.”
Not Lisa: “Respectful?”
Boyfriend BF: “I need them to look me in the eye. Don’t look down at my feet, my eyes are up here. And yours always seem to maintain eye contact. Yours are FANTASTICALLY respectful.”
Not Lisa: “Don’t forget symmetrical.”
It was then that I began to truly respect Boyfriend BF’s opinion and decided that it was high time he find himself a nice lady with a respectful bosom.
Fast forward to this past Saturday night. I met Boyfriend and Boyfriend BF out for a drink after their long day of football-watching. Along the way, they had picked up a young lady who seemed quite taken with Boyfriend BF – and he with her. They had known each other in college but hadn’t seen one another in quite some time, therefore decided to celebrate their reunion with mass quantities of flirty, girly shots (her decision). Conversation turned to boobies (you know, like it does), and I told the above story, thereby painting Boyfriend BF in a wise and all-knowing light.
Fast forward again to Sunday morning. Boyfriend’s phone starts ringing around 9:45 a.m., just after Boyfriend BF dropped off his “date” from the night before. After much man-giggling, Boyfriend hung up the phone and turned to me.
Boyfriend: “He wanted me to thank you for telling the ‘respectful’ story. It earned him a lot of points and he and his penis are both eternally grateful.”
Not Lisa: “Wow. Gross. But they’re both more than welcome. So is he going to take her out on an actual date now?”
Boyfriend: “Um, probably not. Turns out he feels differently about her face in the light of day, doesn't think she's cute at all and isn’t planning to call her again.”
Moral of the story: although the boobies may take care, T.C.B. - it takes more than R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
not lisa and boyfriend on: cremation
Boyfriend and I recently attended a funeral. It was an extremely sad occasion (you know, as opposed to the terribly joyful funerals...?) but, of course, we managed to entertain ourselves with inappropriateness.
not lisa: "The idea of a burial creeps me out. Will you please make sure that I'm cremated so I don't take up much needed real estate for all eternity?"
boyfriend: "Sure. Would you like me to do anything in particular with your ashes?"
not lisa: "Hmm... not really. Just throw them wherever. I've never been all that sentimental. (pause) On second thought, I'd like to be baked into a big dish of macaroni and cheese."
boyfriend: "Fine. But I'm not eating it. You know I hate leftovers."
Yep.
not lisa: "The idea of a burial creeps me out. Will you please make sure that I'm cremated so I don't take up much needed real estate for all eternity?"
boyfriend: "Sure. Would you like me to do anything in particular with your ashes?"
not lisa: "Hmm... not really. Just throw them wherever. I've never been all that sentimental. (pause) On second thought, I'd like to be baked into a big dish of macaroni and cheese."
boyfriend: "Fine. But I'm not eating it. You know I hate leftovers."
Yep.
Monday, June 30, 2008
chicago trip highlights, bullet style
Because I’m incredibly lazy and pressed for time, I’m cheating on syntax and phrasing by way of bullets today. After three delays, my flight finally landed in Dallas last night at 1:45 a.m. so I have earned the right to laziness.
So much happened this weekend that I need to capture, and if I don’t get this down quickly I’ll forget it. At 27 (and after weekends like this one), the mind tends to go. Get ready to be bullet-ed… now:
- On the way to Chicago I let a stranger with adult on-set ADHD use my phone for internet access. In return, he gave me his friend’s seat in first class and sent his friend back to 26E. As a result of this exchange, the following occurred:
o Lots of wine (go figure)
o I had to read and prioritize 11 songs that he had written while he was in Costa Rica, one of which is about Matthew McConaughey. Mr. McConaughey previously dated First Class Dude’s current female obsession and now has a chicken-scratched insulting and heated song written about him on grid paper. My favorite part? The last four lines where FCD and MM reconcile their differences with “Should we keep up this fight? Nope, nope, nope. Let’s get together and smoke some dope, dope, dope.”
o I helped FCD pick out a logo design for his new company.
o I was offered a job with FCD’s new company and was told to email him with my starting salary. “Just tell me how much you want to be paid and we’ll work it out later. Your job will be to manage the marketing department and pick out music for me to listen to.” Yep.
o I discovered that FCD has political ambitions, despite his decidedly devil-may-care ensemble (mandals, jeans rolled at the bottom, yellow ringer tee with “CHICAGO” emblazoned across the chest, and a yellow and brown striped beanie covering up unwashed hair). He was playing golf with Caroline Kennedy and Bill Clinton on Saturday morning to discuss the possibility of him running as Obama’s VP.
o Free cab ride from O’Hare to downtown Chicago
o FCD became obsessed with my iPod and the music collection within, which caused him to buy it from me for $1,000. Not kidding. Luckily I had the whole thing backed up on a hard drive. If I hadn't, I probably wouldn't have taken the money. I love my music collection that much. That's normal, right?
- Two dinners at Giordano’s for stuffed pizza, all in the span of one weekend
- Drinks for my boyfriend’s co-worker’s birthday, whom I recently found out is the new Office Drunken Make-out Buddy of my ex.
- One of the best room service breakfasts I’ve ever had… it’s not often that you can get a cheese Danish with an All-American breakfast, and I can only assume that it’s because they represent two different cultures. I’m glad Chicago is open-minded about these types of affairs because crispy bacon and cheese? Yes, please.
- Discovering that Sears tower tour guides do not appreciate it if you look out at Lake Michigan and ask ironically “So where should we go to sign up for surfing lessons? Do they just have schools down by the beach?”
- Learning that the architectural boat tour is well-worth the money and humiliation of being a typical tourist.
- Creation of the world’s greatest tourist game, called Bar Roulette as Dealt by Cabbie. “Hi, we’d like to go somewhere in Wrigleyville/Lincoln Park/West Loop/etc. You get to pick the bar.”
- Drinking all day at the Pride Parade in Boys Town is a great way to get a hangover on your 10:30 p.m. flight home, which results in an all-too-sober 2 a.m. stop at McDonald’s in Dallas.
And there you go. Perhaps someday soon I’ll take one of the above bullets and turn it into a well-thought-out, well-written, cleverly entertaining anecdote for a later blog entry. Or, you know, not.
So much happened this weekend that I need to capture, and if I don’t get this down quickly I’ll forget it. At 27 (and after weekends like this one), the mind tends to go. Get ready to be bullet-ed… now:
- On the way to Chicago I let a stranger with adult on-set ADHD use my phone for internet access. In return, he gave me his friend’s seat in first class and sent his friend back to 26E. As a result of this exchange, the following occurred:
o Lots of wine (go figure)
o I had to read and prioritize 11 songs that he had written while he was in Costa Rica, one of which is about Matthew McConaughey. Mr. McConaughey previously dated First Class Dude’s current female obsession and now has a chicken-scratched insulting and heated song written about him on grid paper. My favorite part? The last four lines where FCD and MM reconcile their differences with “Should we keep up this fight? Nope, nope, nope. Let’s get together and smoke some dope, dope, dope.”
o I helped FCD pick out a logo design for his new company.
o I was offered a job with FCD’s new company and was told to email him with my starting salary. “Just tell me how much you want to be paid and we’ll work it out later. Your job will be to manage the marketing department and pick out music for me to listen to.” Yep.
o I discovered that FCD has political ambitions, despite his decidedly devil-may-care ensemble (mandals, jeans rolled at the bottom, yellow ringer tee with “CHICAGO” emblazoned across the chest, and a yellow and brown striped beanie covering up unwashed hair). He was playing golf with Caroline Kennedy and Bill Clinton on Saturday morning to discuss the possibility of him running as Obama’s VP.
o Free cab ride from O’Hare to downtown Chicago
o FCD became obsessed with my iPod and the music collection within, which caused him to buy it from me for $1,000. Not kidding. Luckily I had the whole thing backed up on a hard drive. If I hadn't, I probably wouldn't have taken the money. I love my music collection that much. That's normal, right?
- Two dinners at Giordano’s for stuffed pizza, all in the span of one weekend
- Drinks for my boyfriend’s co-worker’s birthday, whom I recently found out is the new Office Drunken Make-out Buddy of my ex.
- One of the best room service breakfasts I’ve ever had… it’s not often that you can get a cheese Danish with an All-American breakfast, and I can only assume that it’s because they represent two different cultures. I’m glad Chicago is open-minded about these types of affairs because crispy bacon and cheese? Yes, please.
- Discovering that Sears tower tour guides do not appreciate it if you look out at Lake Michigan and ask ironically “So where should we go to sign up for surfing lessons? Do they just have schools down by the beach?”
- Learning that the architectural boat tour is well-worth the money and humiliation of being a typical tourist.
- Creation of the world’s greatest tourist game, called Bar Roulette as Dealt by Cabbie. “Hi, we’d like to go somewhere in Wrigleyville/Lincoln Park/West Loop/etc. You get to pick the bar.”
- Drinking all day at the Pride Parade in Boys Town is a great way to get a hangover on your 10:30 p.m. flight home, which results in an all-too-sober 2 a.m. stop at McDonald’s in Dallas.
And there you go. Perhaps someday soon I’ll take one of the above bullets and turn it into a well-thought-out, well-written, cleverly entertaining anecdote for a later blog entry. Or, you know, not.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
oh, romance
This morning I went through my (almost) daily routine of waking up, hitting the snooze button 7-9 times, begrudgingly taking a shower, then waking up Boyfriend so he can do the same while I do girly things like moisturize and put on my face.
This morning I walked to the bed and kissed him on the forehead, telling him sweetly that he better get his ass in gear or he would be late (again). He smiled slyly and reached for my towel, causing me to squeal and slap his hand saying "No time for love, Dr. Jones."
He then looked at me pointedly and said in an earnest voice "Well, it's not going to suck itself."
He's always been such the romantic.
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.
Monday, March 10, 2008
regarding redacted
The Boyfriend and I have a slight addiction to Redacted, Dan Murphy's blog. We firmly believe that we would be the best of couple friends with Dan and Brooke should we ever run into one another.
This addiction has also led us to the occasional delirious state in which we believe that we are much better acquainted than we actually are. Meaning, Boyfriend and I casually mention Dan and Brooke in conversation like we would any of our friends. But, in all actuality, we are only the creepy people they have never met - not even through blog comments - that have some sort of voyeuristic fascination with their lives.
For example, here's an all-too-unhealthy chat from yesterday:
not lisa (5:29:06 PM): i'm sick of dan's shit
not lisa (5:29:14 PM): he hasn't posted in what seems like forever
boyfriend (5:29:18 PM): he has not updated
not lisa (5:29:19 PM): and i'm getting a little tired of it
boyfriend (5:29:20 PM): I know
boyfriend (5:29:33 PM): it's not like he is doing anything
not lisa (5:29:48 PM): he's not
not lisa (5:30:05 PM): he's just laying around and playing with puppy while brooke's off at work
not lisa (5:30:13 PM): i bet he doesn't even make her dinner before she gets home
boyfriend (5:30:16 PM): seriously
boyfriend (5:30:26 PM): well, that's not his job
boyfriend (5:30:32 PM): that's women's work
not lisa (5:30:34 PM): the only thing he's using his computer for these days is ordering pizza online
not lisa (5:30:47 PM): your face is women's work.
boyfriend (5:30:58 PM): wiener
not lisa (5:31:11 PM): apparently spelling correctly is not men's work.
boyfriend (5:31:27 PM): what are you talking about?
not lisa (5:31:52 PM): dammit.
boyfriend (5:31:56 PM): ha
boyfriend (5:32:10 PM): I had it the other way at first too
not lisa (5:32:19 PM): weiner just looks smarter
boyfriend (5:32:26 PM): yeah
boyfriend (5:32:27 PM): I know
not lisa (5:32:50 PM): smarter, you know, for a penis moniker
not lisa (5:33:08 PM): ha
not lisa (5:33:20 PM): i just had to look up how to spell "moniker"
boyfriend (5:33:29 PM): you're pretty
not lisa (5:33:32 PM): the wiener made me doubt myself
not lisa (5:33:39 PM): tale as old as time.
boyfriend (5:33:43 PM): it can do that.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
this is the part where Boyfriend goes berserk.
Our arguments always start innocently enough. Meaning: Boyfriend and I are doing something innocent (ie. watching TV, eating dinner, drinking adult beverages) and I start them because a) Boyfriend is so easily provoked and b) I am so easily entertained.
Take the other night, for example. We were laying on my couch flipping through channels when we found a nice treat: the very beginning of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Delight of delights, we caught it in its first five minutes. I guess it's bad luck on our part, but we always manage to catch the tail end of really good movies. I'll be flipping through the HBOs when I'll see what looks like a good hour of The Princess Bride. When I click on it, I'm immediately disappointed to see the credits rolling. As you wish, my ass.
So we watched the entire movie, even though it was edited for time and interrupted by commercials. Ferris Bueller is that good. As Rooney is caught, Ferris is not and the school bus drives away, I instigate (ahem, I meant "accidentally initiate") an argument.
"You know, if we were in this movie I don't really think I'd be Sloane. I'd have to be Ferris."
"You absolutely would not be Ferris! I would be Ferris!! What are you thinking?"
"Well, I'm typically the outgoing one, the social one, the spontaneous one, the one who shakes things up and schemes. And you're more... not Ferris."
I can see him consider my points and realize they have validity. However, he doesn't want to admit to any of that. He says:
"That's not true. Not even a little bit. I am so Ferris. If I'm not Ferris then who would I be? Sloane?"
"Well, let's see... you're a self-proclaimed neurotic. You're not terribly social and prefer the company of yourself or your girlfriend to the company of crowds. Your favorite thing is to next-step and plan ahead. You like routine and order."
"I'm not Cameron."
"I never said you were Cameron."
"It was implied."
"It most certainly was not. I'm just saying that you're clearly not Ferris."
"Well then, who the hell am I if I'm not Ferris and I'm not Cameron?"
"I never said you weren't Cameron."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
"Exactly."
Take the other night, for example. We were laying on my couch flipping through channels when we found a nice treat: the very beginning of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Delight of delights, we caught it in its first five minutes. I guess it's bad luck on our part, but we always manage to catch the tail end of really good movies. I'll be flipping through the HBOs when I'll see what looks like a good hour of The Princess Bride. When I click on it, I'm immediately disappointed to see the credits rolling. As you wish, my ass.
So we watched the entire movie, even though it was edited for time and interrupted by commercials. Ferris Bueller is that good. As Rooney is caught, Ferris is not and the school bus drives away, I instigate (ahem, I meant "accidentally initiate") an argument.
"You know, if we were in this movie I don't really think I'd be Sloane. I'd have to be Ferris."
"You absolutely would not be Ferris! I would be Ferris!! What are you thinking?"
"Well, I'm typically the outgoing one, the social one, the spontaneous one, the one who shakes things up and schemes. And you're more... not Ferris."
I can see him consider my points and realize they have validity. However, he doesn't want to admit to any of that. He says:
"That's not true. Not even a little bit. I am so Ferris. If I'm not Ferris then who would I be? Sloane?"
"Well, let's see... you're a self-proclaimed neurotic. You're not terribly social and prefer the company of yourself or your girlfriend to the company of crowds. Your favorite thing is to next-step and plan ahead. You like routine and order."
"I'm not Cameron."
"I never said you were Cameron."
"It was implied."
"It most certainly was not. I'm just saying that you're clearly not Ferris."
"Well then, who the hell am I if I'm not Ferris and I'm not Cameron?"
"I never said you weren't Cameron."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
"Exactly."
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The Ex Box
One of m'ladies and I went to dinner last night with one of our most favorite and oldest friends. Afterward we decided that two glasses of wine just wouldn't cut it so we headed on over to an old jazz bar across the street with the intention of just "grabbing a drink." We grabbed four. One of the drinks wasn't our fault, though - some old man at the bar bought the entire place another round because it was his birthday. I hope someday to be that old coot that buys everyone a round in celebration of myself. So m'lady and I drank our free drink and then headed to our respective homes.
For the first time in over a month, Boyfriend was not waiting for me at my apartment when I got home. We had to have a talk (three talks, actually) about how I was feeling cramped with all the Together Time and that it's a good idea for us to sleep separately some nights. Two weeks later, he "moved out." It only took two weeks. Separation anxiety is a bitch.
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.Thursday, December 6, 2007
holy shit. (a more clever title than one might initially think)
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.
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.
Monday, December 3, 2007
tequila + bourbon = genius
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.
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.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
the sweetest thing
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
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
Friday, September 7, 2007
i faked it.
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?
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?
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
not lisa on: holiday engagements
"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."
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
"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
Yep.
*Boyfriend does not actually own a pair of boots
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