this is how we burlesque

Did you know "burlesque" is a verb?

Me, neither. But Cher and XTina say otherwise, so I'm inclined to follow their path of creative liberties on many things. So I'm on board with their poetic license here. Or at least for the purposes of a blog title.

Speaking of blogs: it's been a while for me. But, despite my absence, I've still been monitoring the spam comments from the occasional check-in. Did you know they actually have meds that can increase your peh-nis size? And plenty of people who want to sell 20-something-girls these products?

Who knew?

A few updates to get into before I tell the story that made me want to write here again. Full disclosure:

- I'm no longer a 20-something. And at this very moment, I'm writing myself a reminder now to take the "20-something blogger" tag off my page. Bless my aged heart.

- I'm no longer A Single. I am A Wife. And this guy is A Husband. (Specifically, mine - but I thought that point was pretty obvious.)

- I am most definitely still Not A Lisa. Nor do I plan to be A Lisa. Kids are not on our collective horizon. However, The Hus did tell me during our "do you want kids?" conversation that the answer was "no, definitely not. But I will love the crap out of any accident I might have with you." With an answer like that, how could he not be The One?

- I no longer have an office to toot in. Oddly enough, sometimes promotions come with floor moves and there isn't enough office space and maybe one of these days we'll get you back in one, but there's just not any availability right now, and I'm so sorry. Or so says my HR. It's been a year. Our senior level turn over at this place is way too low, if you ask me. (Jokes!)

Now that you're all caught up, here's the story. I'll try to keep 'em comin', as Married Life has proven to be quite delightful fodder for ridiculous stories.

Enjoy.

Hus and I decided to try a new bar the other night. It's one of those delightful mixology joints where they say "what do you like to drink?" and you answer "things that are bourbon-y and boozy." Then they put a tiny glass in front of you that smells like a drunken grandfather picking fresh oranges in the orchard. These things make me happy.

However, the booze is not the focus of this story. It is the reason for it, as it usually is, but it's not the focus.

I noticed immediately that something was a little strange about the place when I went to the bathroom. All of the women were either of the jet-black-hair-with-severe-bangs-and-tattoos type, or they were dressed like they were going to a swing competition with full skirts and little patent mary jane heels. The dudes were not of your typical Dallas variety, either - most were in zoot suits and some sort of millenary accoutrement.

Whatever. It's Deep Ellum. It's artsy.

Then we settle into some bar stools to watch some Mavs (Hus) and keep inhaling our orchard drinks (me). Some older gentleman walks up and strikes up a conversation with me about the game. Ummm…that's kind of strange, too. I'm sitting by my husband. But whatever. It's Deep Ellum…?

Then the light comes up on the tiny stage in the corner and an older gentleman in a pin stripe suit, handlebar mustache and fedora announces himself as Tommy Fedora.

Uh oh.

He thanks everyone for coming out this evening to The Dallas Burlesque Club's March meeting.

Whoops.

And then says "please give a big warm welcome tonight to our guest speaker Something-Something-Sexy (can't remember) who's here tonight to talk to you kind folks about the art of stage kittening!!"

What?

We were trapped. The only way out of that tiny bar was right past Stage Kitten herself and I was a little scared of the girls with the severe bangs and tattoos. Sooooooo…

We learned a lot.

My new goal is to be the guest speaker at The Dallas Burlesque Club's April meeting.

another POV

No, not POV as in ad-speak as in "I'm a client and therefore must use marketing buzzwords, so what's your opinion of this" as in "I'm too much of a self-aggrandizing a-hole to ask for your perspective so I'm going to use an acronym instead" as in "what's your POV?"

Wow. Someone (see: me) isn't terribly happy to be back at the office after a week in Jamaica.

And why would I be? Here's that POV I mentioned above - my literal point-of-view for the past 6 days:



Except when that POV was blocked by a giant fruity drink. Sorry, no picture of that. Taking pictures whilst mid-sip requires far too much coordination.

white trash is the new classy

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

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

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

these kids these days...

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

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

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

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

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

SPORTS!!

This past weekend was the annual Red River Round-Up. Actually, in my heart of hearts, it is still known as the Red River Shoot-Out - even though a certain telecom company (hint: starts with an A and ends with a T&T) changed the name when "shoot-out" was deemed far too violent.

Anyhoodle.

The Red River Round-Up, Texas/OU weekend, Red River Shoot-Out, whatever you want to call it - so long as you don't call it OU/Texas - was this past weekend. Just like every year, this weekend completely kicked my ass.

Before I go into the weekend details, there's something you should know about me: I'm not a sports fan. I don't enjoy football, I don't enjoy basketball, I definitely don't enjoy baseball, or really any other organized sport. When I was involved in athletics when I was younger, it was always of the non-team variety. Danny Zuko and I had a lot in common. I enjoyed water skiing, snow skiing, running, biking - basically anything that didn't involve a large group of people depending on my coordination or athleticism to win the game. Because, guess what? It wouldn't.

However, as much as I have never enjoyed team sports and the watching thereof, there is one thing I have always enjoyed: day drinking.

I'm not sure exactly why, but day drinking has always been one of my favorite activities. I think that it stems from that feeling of rebellion that courses through your liver when you're drinking vodka before the clock strikes noon. I know it's silly, but my conservative background still provides my psyche with a cheap thrill at being naughty and drinking so early in the morning. There are only a few times a year that this behavior is acceptable, nay expected, and they are:

- river trips
- lake house trips
- Pride Parades
- Sunday Funday
- Mexican vacations
- St. Patrick's Day
- Texas/OU Weekend

I like to think I take advantage of each and every one of them. Which means, because the day revolves around day drinking, I have to become a sports fan for 1/365th of the year and root for the Horns to kick some Sooner ass. Although, you should know this mostly involves me occasionally yelling "SPORTS!!" at the television set and asking my friends (who actually are true Texas fans) annoying questions such as "So who's winning the match?" and "Wait. I always forget... are we for the orange ones or the red ones?" They love me, they really do.

So this past weekend was no different. We arrived at the Designated Watching Location bright and early at 10 a.m. Well, my friends did. I, predictably, was 30 minutes late. I had two screwdrivers before the 11:00 kick-off and was feeling good about my understanding of the odds, the spread, the offense, the defense, and all the other sporty terms that people throw around prior to kick-off.

Around 11:45 a.m., my interest in the sports was waning and therefore decided that the only cure was more vodka. I completely gave up on orange juice as I believed it was holding me back and moved on to my go-to beverage of Ketel and water with a lemon.

At 12:00 p.m., genius struck. I decided that it was very, very important that we have some sort of half-time activity of our own. After perusing the Specialty Drinks menu (every bartender's worst nightmare), I discovered that they were able to prepare what they called a "Category 5!! This 44 oz. monster is the hurricane for 2 or more people!" I made this announcement loudly to my friends and declared that the half-time show would involve a Category 5 drinking contest and that everyone should go ahead and find a buddy.

At half-time, four pitchers of red nightmares were placed on our table, each with 2 straws sticking out.

My friend Lynn and I did not win. We were barely even contenders. However, we did finish the pitcher all by ourselves, just like big girls, with everyone in the small bar cheering all of us on.

And that's when the wheels came off.

The rest of the afternoon is a bit of a blur. There was macaroni and cheese eaten, fried green tomatoes passed around, shrimp cocktails ordered and - least of all to my interest - sports matches watched. My friend Lynn thought another Category 5 was the best of ideas, but I thought it was the worst of ideas. I compromised with her by ordering us two Ketel and waters and two Royal Fucks (our signature shot).

A compromise, that is not.

I've heard that Texas won the game.

Post-sports, it was time to stumble next door for celebratory Mexican martinis. I vaguely remember eating three chips dipped in salsa, diligently drinking my Mextini, having a few political discussions, then announcing that it was time for my annual nap.

Three more chips, one drunken attempt at seduction, one glass of water and one fight picked with my boyfriend later (exact words from me: "Why do we always have to talk about our FEELINGS?!"), I got that nap. It lasted 5 hours.

A smart person would have woken up, eaten a Quarter-Pounder-with-no-onions and gone back to bed.

Guess who has two thumbs, bad judgment and ended up standing in line at some random club in hopes of hearing an underground performance of ?uestlove, then giving up and drinking at her local neighborhood bar until close, listening to her friend shout "WON'T YOU TAKE ME TO!!" to the bartender, then hearing him follow up five minutes later with "FUNKY TOWN!!!!"?

This girl.

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.

hottie safari

So, as far too many of these stories start out, I had a few cocktails last night. I got to work this morning and, upon checking my email, saw an email to myself... from myself.

"Cell phone scavenger hunt for [client name] - alpha males scavenging on a hottie hunt. This may be dumb but it could work.

You're pretty tonight even though you ate a lot of Chick-fil-A and macaroni and cheese.

Love,
You"

I say such sweet things when I'm schnockered. And intelligent things? And how!

I honestly can't even tell you how much I ate last night. Countless Chick-fil-A nuggets, countless waffle fries, several servings of macaroni and cheese. And all of this in the name of making hundreds of Jell-o shots for a(nother) trip to float the Guadalupe River this weekend.

By the by, if you haven't tried the Macaroni and Cheese with Premium Bacon from Pizza Hut yet, you're no friend of mine. Sweet goodness, is that stuff delicious. The Core was arguing back and forth all day via email chain about whether or not to have Pizza Hut deliver Tuscani Pasta that night for dinner or if we should have Chick-fil-A. The Jell-o Shot Making Party Hostess finally made the executive decision to have a Chick-fil-A nugget tray for dinner that night but then, lo and behold, surprised us with a knock on the door from Pizza Hut. I've never loved her, or the Pizza Hut guy, so much in my life. Nuggets! Waffle fries! Dipping sauces! Wine! And macaroni and cheese - with BACON!!!

There are not enough exclamation points in the world to convey my delight.

napa valley, scene 1

This past weekend found me in Napa Valley with three of my favorite people from college: S, E and A. We finally became friends our senior year despite spending four previous years together and sitting next to each other in sorority meetings, classes, charity projects, musical productions and church services. We had stood next to each other for four years at rush parties, fraternity parties, social mixers and late night dance practices. It wasn’t until one fateful evening that we all four found ourselves standing next to each other once again after a particularly busy sorority meeting, all in dire need of a margarita. I think the exact words that caused four hearts to beat as one were “I’m so sick of this shit. Can we graduate already? I need a stiff drink.”

That one impromptu after-meeting drink naturally turned into four, which caused us to devise a plan to meet every week for the next year to discuss different topics over tequila. None of us had truly been friends before, but all of us were very interested in the others. We had watched the other three girls for four years, always wishing that we ran in the same crowds and had a reason to become friends. We had finally found it: liquor.

In the five years since graduation we’ve made a point to have a reunion each year during the summertime. The first four years were spent poolside in either Dallas or Austin, as the majority of our group lives in one of those two cities. However, this year’s trip was planned at the wedding reception of a mutual friend of ours, over wine. The logic may be tough to follow:

Not lisa: “Mmm… I like wine.”
S: “Mmm… Me, too.”
E: “Mmm… I love it so much I want to marry it.”
A: “Isn’t this wedding beautiful?!”
Not lisa: “Word. Hey, we should go to Napa for our reunion next year.”
All, in unison: “Word.”

And thus, with the vaguest of intentions, a trip was born.

st. patrick's an asshole

My relationship with St. Patty’s Day in Dallas has been a rocky and tumultuous one and I just never know how Patty is going to treat me. The St. Patty's Day Parade and Block Party is one of the only things that Dallas does right and every year I've managed to get shit all over. Everyone crowds around lower Greenville, invading friends' houses who only invested in their real estate because of the close proximity to the annual event. Breakfast tacos are made, bloody marys are mixed and the jovial party generally begins around 8:30 a.m. The parade is usually around 10 or 11 but no one ever goes, and the people who do go are unable to recall it the next day. After the parade, street vendors pass out beer and corn dogs to event-goers who are already in "late night" stage at noon. Local business along the streets are filled to the brim with people wearing wrist-bands and green halter tops. All in all, it's general merriment - except for yours truly.

One year I was in Austin and couldn't attend the event. However, everyone else I knew did and had a good time. However, my boyfriend (now Ex) dropped his phone in a porta-potty full of poo and piss. Don't you worry, he reached in and pulled it out. Then put it back in his pocket. Then set it out in the sun at his friends house to "dry it out", sprayed it with Lysol and continued to use it for, well, ever.

The next year I was out of town for work because I kind-of sort-of lived in San Antonio at the time. That was an especially fun year because everyone kept calling me on my cell to drunkenly slur how much they missed me. Sweet sentiment? Yes. Completely depressing? Yes. A little annoying? Totally. Especially when you're sitting all alone in your hotel room at the Residence Inn.

The next year I finally got to experience it in all its glory. Unfortunately, that's when a drunk girl splashed a little vomit on my flip-flopped feet and we got locked out of my friend's house and I ended up peeing in his backyard. That's also when the Ex and I had our infamous conversation that went a little something like this:

me: "I really want to move to Austin someday. These drunken Dallas whores wearing heels and shorts to a block-party get on my very last nerve. Especially when they splash their vomit on my flip-flopped feet."

him: "You're one of those people who are never going to be happy in life. No matter what you have, you'll always want something different."

Awesome. Thanks for saying something that will haunt me every day for the next two years (and counting...).

Last year my job hit rock-bottom (thanks to a boss who never learned how to say no to his clients) I had to go sell telecom services in a PetsMart parking lot in Frisco (Dallas suburb). When I finally headed back to civilization I couldn’t get into the block party because it was too crowded and the fire marshalls were riding around on their horses, telling people they couldn't come in. I ended up drinking a beer in a back alley by myself, sitting on a cinder block like a homeless person. Not kidding. When I finally managed to talk to my friends (cell service doesn't work because of the swarms of people), they were all hammered and coming back to my friend's house to take naps. I picked up the guy I was seeing (now Boyfriend) as he was walking down the street and the first thing out of his mouth was "Katherine's friend Lacey totally wants to fuck me."

Awesome. Yet again.

Now that I think about it, it’s almost masochistic of me to attend this event and continue to try to date St. Patty. No thanks, “St.” Patrick my ass… keep your hands to yourself, please.

sunday funday

There are many things in this world that make me a happier-than-average camper. Many of those things were experienced yesterday in the span of only 10 hours. Namely:

- Brunch. And not just any brunch, but possibly The Best Brunch Ever. Great Mexican food, queso, queso refill (we went through the first bowl way before they even thought about bringing us our entrees), and $1 margaritas (we each helped ourselves to 3). Grand total for 4 people: $49.00, therefore winning Monica's Aca y Alla the title of The Best Brunch Ever.

- Rock Band. At 72 and sunny, it was just too pretty of a day to not play video games.

- Beer Pong. At 4 p.m. on the Lord's Day. Sweet. I lost the game, but with all the beer I had to consume I still consider myself a winner.

- Vodka. Because after brunch margaritas and beer pong, hard liquor is the next logical choice. I chose to mix my poison with berry-flavored Propel Invigorating Water because I wanted to get a head-start on fending off the inevitably incoming hangover. I think the B vitamins and caffeine did the trick as this morning I felt daisy-like in my freshness. That also could have been because I took my first shower since Saturday morning. Whoops. Sunday Funday hygiene is hard, y'all.

- Scene It. The details of this game are a little fuzzy, as it was an event that took place later in the evening. I do remember some serious and heated controversial discussion involving a Pee-Wee Herman quote on "all play".

- Macaroni and Cheese. We stumbled across the street to fill our bellies and discovered that, lo and behold, our blessed City Tavern not only serves the sauce but also God's modern day manna of macaroni and cheese. Hallelujah and amen.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Anyhoodle, I asked Boyfriend what he thought.

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

"Which one?"

Oh-so-funny, that Boyfriend.

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

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

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

"Oh, my lord."

"What?"

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

"Wow. You guys have issues."

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

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

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

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

"you can pee WHILE you drink!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I heart my friends, I really do.

the infamous restaurant week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The rationalization began.

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

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

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

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