an accomplished woman: part deux

I have another office to toot in! I'll be in Chicago twice a month for the next three months. I've been here less than 18 hours and have already downed half of a deep dish pepperoni.

Why did that sound dirty? I'm talking about pizza, you perves.

Here's the view from my office:



I like to imagine that the 80-story building that I'm in here is exactly the same as four of my Dallas office buildings, just stacked one on top of another. With more intense security. I keep waiting for a retinal scan to be requested.

an accomplished woman

There are many reasons to be an independent, ball-busting dried up career woman (thank you, Romy and Michelle, for that quote). You take care of yourself, you have a sense of purpose, you feed your elitist hunger to be a part of a smaller, more intelligent sect of the population - while remaining incredibly humble, of course.

And, as I recently managed to do, you get your own office. With walls! Real walls. And a door! A real door. After the majority of my career being spent either in a cube or a shared office, this has been both refreshing and lonely all that the same time. However, today I discovered the two biggest perks of having my own little quiet 10x15' slice of heaven:

1) The accidental toot that just slipped out while I was
2) booking a Brazilian appointment

I've finally caught that carrot that's been dangling on the stick for all these years.

all in the family

I love my family dynamic. Growing up as an only child tended to blur the lines when it came to traditional family roles. My mother has always been 4 parts mother, 2 parts best friend, and 1 part Nazi dictator. My father has always been 1 part father, 6 parts little brother.

Weird? Yes. But it works for us. Mostly.

My father recently sold one of his antique cars to a guy in Chicago who just so happens to work for the same major corporation as all of my clients. The corporation employs close to 200,000 people so it wasn't that big of a stretch that worlds were bound to collide. However, to a small-town excitable restaurant owner like my father, the coincidence is of epic proportion.

The following email exchange occurred this morning:

Not Lisa: "Your car butt buddy in Chicago? I may see him soon. I'll be roaming the halls in Chicago on Monday and Tuesday, meeting with clients."

Not Lisa's Dad: "I can't believe this! What are the odds! I'm selling a car in Chicago to a guy that you might meet through work! What are the odds?!

And, AND! I will be in Chicago Monday and Tuesday, also! I'm leaving early Sunday morning and will be there Monday afternoon sometime.

You could leave early Sunday with me! Yeah, right!

How weird!"

Now, let's take a short break before continuing to count the sentences in that email. There are 10. Now take a second to count the exclamation points. There are 9. Remember how I used the adjective "excitable" to describe my father? I'd say it's pretty accurate. Now replace "excitable" with "dead-pan" small-town restaurant owner and you've got my mother.

Dad forwarded his exclamation point-riddled email to my mother, who then replied and blind-copied me: "Leave her alone. She has a job to do and doesn't need her daddy bugging her in Chicago. You can be alone. It will be fine."

Weird? Yes. But it works for us. Mostly.

do-gooder

I just chatted up a homeless lady on the street to avoid running into the married co-worker I'm rumored to be having an affair with, lest people continue to speculate if they see us together outside of the building. I gave her a dollar for her time.

Key word in that paragraph is "rumored". It seems as though a single woman can't be friends with a married co-worker without starting the tongues a-waggin'. Ridiculous.

Until today, though, it had only cost me a few hours of sleep. Now those bitches owe me money.

I guess I'll just write it off as charity. I should go back and get a receipt...

whiskey wednesday leads to self-discovery. again.

Every Wednesday, my team celebrates Whiskey Wednesday by gathering in my office and taking a celebratory shot (or three) of Jameson while conducting intelligent conversation. Today's conversation topic covered Tiger Beat.

It's a credible news source.

While on Tiger Beat's website doing research, I discovered that one young Justin Till (I think that's his name) looks exactly like a sweet, young, fresh-faced version of one of my best friends.

While sending out pictures to my friend and his boyfriend, playing online hangman and saying "Justin Till looks like _ _ _'s doppelganger.", I was called out by my team's creative director.

"Just look at her... she's glowing. She's at her best when she's up to no good."

And you know, he's right.

As a result of this off-hand comment, I realized that I've been up to no good and not blogging about it for far too long. Consider myself back in the game.

For a while, at least...

3:30 a.m. pot theft

Last night I went with a lady friend to go see New Moon. Yes, I'm that girl. I'm not THAT that girl, as were many of the young ladies standing in line at the mall movie theater last night. I've never worn moccasin Uggs with black leggings with a Team Jacob t-shirt, topped off with messy pigtails. I'm just not that kind of that girl.

Team Edward? Maybe.

Lucky for you, this isn't a movie review. All I can say about the movie is that with all the chest-baring, there wasn't a dry panty in the house. And that it wasn't nearly as bad as the last one. Mostly because of the chest-baring. I mean, "special effects."

The movie let out around 3 a.m. and I was dropped off at my doorstep only to turn around, hop in my car and head over to dog-sit for a friend of mine. Earlier that night, I had about 30 minutes in between working and movie and those minutes were meant for 30 Rock and some soup - not dog-sitting.

3:30 a.m.? That's meant for dog-sitting, obviously.

Upon arriving at my friend's house, I started to realize just how dark and creepy it is when digging for a key in a mailbox at 3:30 a.m. I let myself in, let the dog out, then busied myself doing what every dog-sitter does: dig through their friend's stuff.

I'm not interested in the normal snoopy type of things, mind you. I know what medications she has behind her mirror. I know what kind of vodka she has in her freezer (the none kind of vodka, because she drinks it too fast to freeze it). I know where her vibrators are stashed and what their names are. I'm interested in bigger and better things.

Namely, shit she's stolen from me.

Which is why I found myself walking out of a dark duplex at 3:45 a.m. last night carrying a bulky load, fighting to keep her 75 pound dog inside while balancing my precarious cargo. What did I steal?

Three pots. How does someone manage to steal all three of your pots? A giant 8 quart stockpot, a 4 quart pasta pot and my Crock Pot. Why would a single gal living alone with a 75 pound dog need all three of my giant pots?

I guess the better question would be "why would a single gal living alone with a 4 pound dog be stealing back her giant pots at 3:30 in the morning?"

Answer? Bitch, it's late November and I haven't had chili all year. And I AM that kind that girl.

a psychological commentary of sorts

I've been thinking and, after two minutes of thought and three glasses of wine, I've come to a conclusion. Most sociologists attribute many of man's actions to one of three basic motivations: food, shelter or procreation. Basically, we're hungry? We eat, and find a way to make that happen. We're tired? We sleep, and find a way to make that happen. Same goes for sex.

But what has long been attributed to sexual attraction - a fit body, a sound mind and an ability to provide for and nurture potential offspring - is outdated. I'm here to propose that what we find so physically desirable in the opposite sex - a lean, muscular physique - is not necessarily the visual evidence of a person who us capable of providing for a family and/or protecting the potential household from harm.

In fact, I believe the embodiment of these physical attributes represents a much more desirable characteristic than merely providing for a family unit that may or may not result from a physical union with this person. Fit people are capable of having sex. And lots of it. And we're basely attracted to those who have the muscular structure that shows off their virility.

I'm not saying that the two ideas aren't correlated. I'm just saying that, after yesterday's extensive research on the subject, sex is quite the workout. I ran an Olympic triathlon last weekend but, after the seven bouts of sex I had yesterday on a "sick day" from work, my glutes have never felt better.

So ladies, when you feel as though your biological clock is ticking and you find yourself attracted to a lean, tight, muscular form - go for it with piece of mind. Your biological instincts aren't urging you toward this person because you're looking for a good, strong provider and you need to mate and settle down. It's Mother Nature whispering in your ear: "this man knows how to fuck. And how."

You're welcome.