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.

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.

sneaky spam

"Associated Bank Business Online Banking"

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

what happens in mexico...

...gets blogged about anonymously. That's the new adage, no? Do shameful things and admit them via innerwebs to anyone who may happen across your confession?

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), this is not a list of shameful things I did in Mexico on vacation. It could not even be a list of non-shameful things that I did in Mexico, because that list would look like this:

- laid around whilst drinking and eating
- (see above)

The above list (or lack there-of) means, at least to me, that my vacation was a great success. My favorite trips are the ones that require the least amount of effort possible. Luckily, I usually travel with The Core and The Boyfriend, who have the exact same vacation expectations as I do. Our one requirement for our vacation destination was that it have a swim-up bar. Done and done. Our optional requirement was that our hotel also have a pirate ship, but unfortunately those are difficult to come by this day and age.

My only complaint about the trip as a whole has to be in regard to The Canadians. Not the country and its general population as a whole, but rather two very specific Canadians that we encountered during our trip. Both pretty young (22), both socially awkward, both looking for anyone to hang out with other than each other. Which was unfortunate for us, because The Core rarely likes to hang out with anyone other than each other. We've been called "welcoming and inviting", but only in the most sarcastic of tones.

Vancouver, a chain-smoking drug-dealer turned Canadian military dude, introduced himself to my friend Stacy on our second-to-last night in Mexico at the sports bar we tended to take over every night to play drinking games before our nightly excursion to the resort's disco-tech. He and his roommate Montreal had both been admiring (see: leering at) Stacy from across the bar and had finally consumed enough alcohol to move in for the approach. Please note, Montreal is a woman with absolutely zero interest in Roomie Vancouver - one thing she and Stacy had in common. Their opening line was bound to win her heart: "Hey, sup. You and your friends are the only ones speaking English so we thought maybe we could hang. I'm so sick of all this Mexican."

Please also note: Stacy is Latina, a heritage we insist on celebrating as often as possible with tequila. Not their smartest opening move.

I've used tampons with more personality than these two. Their awkward behavior resulted in the following conversations:

1) Lynn (while watching the Olympics): "Yeah, Phelps!! USA is kicking-ass! We're so great and stuff!!"

Montreal: "Well, did you know that Canada is twice the size of the United States with 1/10th the population?! I bet you didn't."

Lynn: "Wow."

2) Vancouver, to The Boyfriend: "So, what do you do?"

The Boyfriend: "I'm in advertising."

Vancouver: "Yeah? Do you make good money?"

The Boyfriend: "Eh, not really... but I do alright."

Vancouver: "How much do you make?"

The Boyfriend: "I'm sorry?"

Vancouver: "How much money do you make in a year?"

The Boyfriend, to everyone: "Let's do some shots!!"

3) Stacy: "Well, I'm pretty tired. I think I'm heading to bed now."

Montreal: "You're the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Vancouver: "Me, too."

Stacy: "Bye-eeee!!"


And that doesn't even begin to cover it. The Canadian/American comparisons went on all night, including interesting topics such as the price of cigarettes, the alcohol content in American vs. Canadian beer, and whether or not Americans could smoke Parliament Lights. And, in case you're actually interested, we learned the following:

- American cigarettes are more expensive and poorly packaged.
- American beer is weak. Vancouver drank 86 of them in an hour one time and didn't feel a thing. Yes, 86.
- Americans shouldn't be allowed to smoke Parliament Lights because we don't have a Parliament in our government. Good thing I quit smoking. I'd be in trouble.

After all the above awkwardness, The Canadians still thought we were life-long besties and tried to get all of our email addresses. I had been force-fed enough Sambuca shots at that point (Vancouver's idea, every time) to reach for the pen and begin to oblige when I heard "...so we can keep in touch and plan our vacations together next year!!"

Crickets. Lots of drunken, sad, Mexican crickets with nothing to do but chirp and fill the awkward air.

What? And, I'm sorry, but what?? Who are these people that go on vacation, force their way into an existing group, constantly make the entire group uncomfortable and then expect them to plan their vacation together the next year? Who are these people who constantly lean over and nose-breathe on the bare shoulders of girls they just met? Crazy Canadians, that's who.

And so Sambuca (and tequila, and vodka, and rum, and Corona - don't judge, it was a long day) gave me the solution: misspell my email address (oops!) and go do a lyrical dance to Bryan Adams "Everything I Do" on the disco floor, twirling my scarf through the air to emphasize the fluidity of the movement. I think that song was a present from sweet baby Jesus, giving us the vocal stylings of a very lovely Canadian after the painful Canuck nonsense we had endured. Who couldn't love a country that bore an adorable young man who sings that he "wants the world for you" and he'd "die for youuuuuuu"?

God bless Canada, after all.

shrooms.

A friend of mine just told me the most horrifying story, told to him by another friend years ago. This particular friend of a friend worked at a hospital for a few years and managed to accumulate several disgusting gag-inducing stories that are always fun to tell at parties. Or, you know, on Wednesday mornings over coffee.

As most of these stories go, the particular patient being dealt with had engaged in something they shouldn’t have, which landed them in the hospital. This patient had a long-term bad habit with a slow descent into eventual hospitalization: over-eating. Think Gilbert Grape’s mom. We’ll call her Mama Grape.

They brought Mama Grape into the hospital for heart problems but, as she was laying in the hospital bed watching television, the hospital staff realized that her problems extended into the personal hygiene arena as well. They prepared a sponge bath and started with her feet, working their way up.

It came time for them to care for her abdomen and chest and, as they were professional hospital staff members, they didn’t think anything of her nudity and continued to clean. One of them lifted up one of her breasts to clean underneath and immediately had to stifle a gasp. Right where a bra under-wire should rest, they found a colony of mushrooms.

Mama Grape had mushrooms growing under her breasts.

I can’t help but imagine being one of those hospital workers, going about their already-uncomfortable business of having to deal with nudity on a regular basis, only to discover that things had been taken up a notch. There was actual fungi to be scraped off and cleaned. And how do you go about telling someone who’s sitting back, quietly waiting for the humiliation of a sponge bath to be over, that they had things growing on them that would have to be picked off and thrown in the trash? How did they not make an awkward “what, I’m a fun guy!” joke to break the horrified silence? How did they not give in to their gag reflex? How did they manage the situation without insulting Mama Grape and her hot son Gilbert? Do you ask if anyone thinks they're psychedelic?

I have no words. I wish I knew what theirs were.

It’s stories like these that make me such a sucker for programs like “The 200 Pound Tumor” and “The Man Whose Arms Exploded”. In case you’re wondering about those two, The Tumor did not disappoint. However, the Arm Explosion was really more of a slow bicep leak – LAME.

napa valley, scene 1

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.