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.
Showing posts with label inappropriate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inappropriate. Show all posts
Thursday, May 13, 2010
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.
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, 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.
Friday, August 22, 2008
totally normal airplane entertainment
Last Thursday morning found me at DFW airport, drinking a screwdriver with The Core in the Irish pub located in the international terminal. None of us gave a second thought to the fact that it was 8 a.m. and we were drinking. We were on vacation, logic and social standards be damned.
Fast forward through two drinks, a cup of yogurt and an hour later: we're on the plane. Sun Country Airlines offered us a delicious pre-packaged sausage biscuit with a sliver of cheese the size of a quarter and we were all happy as clams. However, after another 30 minutes of flight time the Martha Stewart Living had been read and People's special child star stories were devoured. What to do?
The Boyfriend and I had the following discussion:
Not Lisa: "What if you had to have your head shaved for one reason or another, or maybe you just up and Britney Spears'd yourself, and you realized that you had been living your whole entire life with a pentagram made out of moles on the back of your head?"
The Boyfriend: "I would be bad ass."
Not Lisa: "Wouldn't you be concerned? You had lived your whole life marked with a pentagram and had never known? Wouldn't you be scared of being marked?"
The Boyfriend: "No, because I'd be marked as 'Bad Ass'."
Not Lisa: "I'd be freaked out."
The Boyfriend: "That's because you're not a bad ass. Can I give you a tattoo?"
How's a girl supposed to say no to that? A red Sharpie was found in my messenger bag and this glorious piece of artwork was born:
I waited until he was finished to tell him that "beuty" is not the way you spell "beauty". He claims that he was concentrating too hard on writing in cursive to pay attention to spelling. I claim he's a copywriter who can't spell.
In case you're wondering, my claim is correct.
Also in case you're wondering, that image is a majestic dagger wrapped with a delicate rose. One represents pain, the other represents beauty. Or beuty, rather. It's pretty deep - it's okay if you don't get it.
The news of my intricate and detailed tattoo moved quickly up the plane and through the rest of The Core. My friend R ran back to our row and settled in between us, holding out her fore-arm and yelling "Ooh! Me! Me!!"
After much discussion and a practice sketch on the barf bag, R's tattoo was complete:
We were delighted with many things, namely the bad grammar theme that carried itself through to another tattoo (lifes' a beach, in case you can't see it), the cactus blossom detail and the idea of a potted cactus representing a beach. We were practically peeing ourselves at this point. The pun of "beach" instead of "bitch" and that we were headed to the beach and that someone's grandma had a shirt that said that and oh-my-gosh-that's-so-stupid - our heads were spinning with how hilarious we thought we were.
Until...
(Please note: as you're a reader of an anonymous blog, I should make it known that I have a mole on the back of my arm that stands proudly erect and that I will never remove. I can't see it and therefore, in my mind, no one else can. It's a pain-free perk of being a selfish person. This mole is well-known amongst The Core.)
Ahem. Until...
Not Lisa: "I really want another one."
R: "Totally."
Not Lisa: "We should plan a tattoo around my mole!!"
R: "OOOH!! A clown face!!!"
And, just so you can get the full 3-D effect that made us laugh so hard until we cried:
HOTT. With two Ts.
You're a crazy person if you think I didn't wear that proudly at the pool, the beach and later dinner and the disco-tech.
I miss Molezo already. And his hat complete with squirting flower.
The new plan is to re-create Molezo and book an appointment with my dermatologist, telling him I was in the sun for five straight days and really need him to check my mole. Hilarity ensues.
Fast forward through two drinks, a cup of yogurt and an hour later: we're on the plane. Sun Country Airlines offered us a delicious pre-packaged sausage biscuit with a sliver of cheese the size of a quarter and we were all happy as clams. However, after another 30 minutes of flight time the Martha Stewart Living had been read and People's special child star stories were devoured. What to do?
The Boyfriend and I had the following discussion:
Not Lisa: "What if you had to have your head shaved for one reason or another, or maybe you just up and Britney Spears'd yourself, and you realized that you had been living your whole entire life with a pentagram made out of moles on the back of your head?"
The Boyfriend: "I would be bad ass."
Not Lisa: "Wouldn't you be concerned? You had lived your whole life marked with a pentagram and had never known? Wouldn't you be scared of being marked?"
The Boyfriend: "No, because I'd be marked as 'Bad Ass'."
Not Lisa: "I'd be freaked out."
The Boyfriend: "That's because you're not a bad ass. Can I give you a tattoo?"
How's a girl supposed to say no to that? A red Sharpie was found in my messenger bag and this glorious piece of artwork was born:
I waited until he was finished to tell him that "beuty" is not the way you spell "beauty". He claims that he was concentrating too hard on writing in cursive to pay attention to spelling. I claim he's a copywriter who can't spell.
In case you're wondering, my claim is correct.
Also in case you're wondering, that image is a majestic dagger wrapped with a delicate rose. One represents pain, the other represents beauty. Or beuty, rather. It's pretty deep - it's okay if you don't get it.
The news of my intricate and detailed tattoo moved quickly up the plane and through the rest of The Core. My friend R ran back to our row and settled in between us, holding out her fore-arm and yelling "Ooh! Me! Me!!"
After much discussion and a practice sketch on the barf bag, R's tattoo was complete:
We were delighted with many things, namely the bad grammar theme that carried itself through to another tattoo (lifes' a beach, in case you can't see it), the cactus blossom detail and the idea of a potted cactus representing a beach. We were practically peeing ourselves at this point. The pun of "beach" instead of "bitch" and that we were headed to the beach and that someone's grandma had a shirt that said that and oh-my-gosh-that's-so-stupid - our heads were spinning with how hilarious we thought we were.
Until...
(Please note: as you're a reader of an anonymous blog, I should make it known that I have a mole on the back of my arm that stands proudly erect and that I will never remove. I can't see it and therefore, in my mind, no one else can. It's a pain-free perk of being a selfish person. This mole is well-known amongst The Core.)
Ahem. Until...
Not Lisa: "I really want another one."
R: "Totally."
Not Lisa: "We should plan a tattoo around my mole!!"
R: "OOOH!! A clown face!!!"
And, just so you can get the full 3-D effect that made us laugh so hard until we cried:
HOTT. With two Ts.
You're a crazy person if you think I didn't wear that proudly at the pool, the beach and later dinner and the disco-tech.
I miss Molezo already. And his hat complete with squirting flower.
The new plan is to re-create Molezo and book an appointment with my dermatologist, telling him I was in the sun for five straight days and really need him to check my mole. Hilarity ensues.
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.
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