Ugh.  I just.  He’s just. Dreamy
I’m sure he loves puppies too.

DATE NIGHTThe other night my husband and I went on a date.  Yes, an actual date.  Well, sort of.  Now that I think about it, he didn’t pick me up at the door and I certainly didn’t get flowers.  I guess that’s fair because I didn’t put out.

We decided to go to one of those swanky theaters with the super comfy seats and menus with real food.  Not that a three pound bag of Skittles and a gallon bucket of popcorn aren’t real food.  They totally are.  Throw in a box of fish sticks and some applesauce and that’s what got me through college.

The movie selection for our date night was “Gangster Squad.”  Since Matt reviews movies, he already saw it and knew I would like it.  I also knew I would like it, but for a different reason.  That reason’s name?  Ryan Gosling.

Excuse me one minute.  I need to wipe the drool off my chin.  And off my computer. Oh crap, it’s on my shirt too.

DISCLAIMER BEFORE YOU READ ANY FURTHER:  I love my husband more than anything in the world.  That was made perfectly clear by the fact I didn’t leave him when he first started wearing what he calls his “indoor/outdoor shoes.”  The bottom is black rubber and the top is red felt that goes completely over the top of the foot.  They look like shoes Peter Griffin wears.

When Matt first wore the horrendous concoction of craft supplies, I asked him why he liked them, and he said they were great because you could wear them both indoors and outdoors.  I pointed out that was the beauty of ALL shoes, not just those made of faux fur.  Instead of calling them “indoor/outdoor shoes,” I suggested he just call them “shoes.”  I, on the other hand, will continue to just call them “ugly.”  (On a totally unrelated note, those shoes have mysteriously gone missing.)  END OF DISCLAIMER

Anyway, if I didn’t leave him when he busted out cartoon shoes, then you know I’m in it for the long haul.  But there is something about Ryan Gosling.  He’s just….he’s just a fine specimen of a person.  I’m sure he’s really gentle and kind.  I can totally tell by looking at him.  You can tell a lot from a person’s abs eyes.

So I was persuaded to go to the movie because there would be food, drinks, waiters and Ryan. Oh, and my husband too.  (Love you babe!)

I loved the film, and not just because of Ry-Ry, although that significantly contributed to my overall approval.  Since it’s a gangsta movie (although not at all similar to TuPac’s “Gangsta Party”), there were lots of guns and shooting.  A totally unexpected consequence of seeing the movie was my desire to shoot guns again. (Please recall I pretty much mastered the art of shooting when I went to a gun range this summer.)

A totally expected consequence of seeing the movie was my desire to see more of Ryan’s guns.  And by guns, I mean biceps, and by biceps, I mean abs.

The date night was great, even if Ryan didn’t bother to throw a girl a bone and flash a pec or two.  Despite this clear crime against cinema, I enjoyed myself, and also enjoyed the popcorn…and the soda…and the stir fry.  Don’t judge.  I’m recovering from surgery and need my strength.

Das Boot embracing his excitement
while also rocking the sweater and scarf ensemble.

My husband loves sushi.  I have no idea why he is so obsessed with it, as it’s just raw fish.  At any given time, we have raw fish in our refrigerator, but he won’t go near it, and doesn’t ogle it like he does sushi.  In fact, at home, he can’t be bothered to take the raw fish out of the fridge and throw it in the oven, but when we go to a restaurant, he will practically cut your hand off if you go for the last piece. (Although he can’t be bothered with raw fish at home, he can, however, be bothered to get in his car and drive to Hardee’s to pick up dinner instead.  The man is a mystery.)

Last night we went out for sushi with friends.  We had a Groupon, which sparked the choice.   Matt loves sushi and I love a bargain, so it was the perfect match.  (Just like me and Ryan Gosling…if he would just call me.)

We went with our friends Deutschemark and Das Boot (not their real names.  That would be super strange.). Das Boot is from Germany and has the coolest accent ever.  That has nothing to do with the story, but it’s worth noting.

Matt and I arrived late only to find our friends already at a table.  I hate being late, but what is a girl to do when the parking lot she usually parks in is full, and the overflow parking lot price had been doubled because of some lame car show in town?  I’ll tell you what she does; the only thing she can do.  She protests and parks several blocks away in a sketchy lot and prays her car is there upon her return.  (It was.)

The good thing about arriving late is our friends had already scoped out the place and were able to provide updates on the other patrons that we would be inevitably judging soon.  Doesn’t everyone do this when they go out to eat?  What else are you supposed to talk about?  Deutschemark and Das Boot are astute and had done their research perfectly.  They pointed out the couple on a first date, and the best find of the evening, a guy with a scarf, heavy eye lids of blue shadow, and an amazing purse.

Matt and I casually glanced over to make sure Deutschemark and Das Boot weren’t lying to us about their finds.  We immediately found the man, exactly how they described him to be.  He was beautiful and his eye makeup was impeccable.  I then looked to his man-bag, as I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and not call it a purse.  However, I had to immediately take back the benefit I gave him, because he had a very large purse.  It was black and actually quite nice.

Before I could say anything, my beloved husband spoke up and observed, “That’s a really nice purse.”

I was excited my husband had such great taste in handbags, but a little embarrassed he said this in front of our friends.  So I responded by asking him if he would like to join the gentleman at the table to further discuss accessories and feel up the gentleman’s bag.  (Yes, this is a double entendre and was meant that way.  You’re welcome.)

His response?  “What?  Is there something gay about one man complimenting another man’s purse?”

And that’s when the waiter arrived to take our order.

I considered trying to explain to the waiter that we weren’t judging the gentleman for carrying the bag, but were actually complimenting his choice, especially when considered as an ensemble for the rest of his outfit.  But then I figured he probably already knew we were a table he wanted to avoid, so I didn’t waste my breath.  I was hungry.

We ordered four rolls of sushi to start out with.  Matt and I assumed those four rolls were just for us, but apparently Deutschemark and Das Boot figured that would be enough for all of us to share.  We realized they must have been there much earlier than we thought and consumed several drinks.  Their judgment was clearly impaired about how much the Newlins were planning to consume.

The sushi arrived and Matt and I did our best not to molest the plate immediately.  It was served on a large square plate and arranged in groupings of each different roll.  The presentation was nice, and we were anxious to dig in.   And then we looked at the table next to us, and jealously set in.

The couple on the date had also received their sushi order, and it was served on a large wooden boat, complete with a bow and stern.  The sushi was served on the Promenade
Deck (as it should be.)  On the back of the boat sat a martini glass filled with shredded jicima and flashing lights.  What?!  Why did they get the sassy boat while we were left with a stupid plate?  We couldn’t eat the sushi presented when we knew it could come in something far more large scale.  We called our waiter over immediately.

We asked why they got a boat and we didn’t even get the equivalent of a dinghy.  He said we had to order at least five rolls of sushi to get the boat.  I pointed out this wasn’t fair, not only because he didn’t tell us that when we ordered, but also because we didn’t appreciate the clear classism that was going on in the restaurant.  Didn’t we look like people who deserved our sushi served on a luxury liner?  Clearly we demonstrated our impeccable taste with the compliments on the beautiful handbag across the room.  Obviously our waiter hated us.

We ate our sushi, all the while glaring at the couple next to us, telling ourselves the lacquer on the boat would give them food poisoning.  When it was time to order our second round, we did so, but once again ordered only 4 rolls.  I asked the waiter if he could make an exception and get us our next order served on an ocean liner.  I told him there would be two shiny quarters in it for his troubles.  (What?  I was already low on cash because of the parking incident.)

He said he would see what he could do, and we waited in anticipation, wondering if he would follow through, or if he was just another guy feeding us a line.  (I feel like there’s a fishing joke in here somewhere but I can’t find it.  Line.  Eating fish.  Boat.  I got nothing.)   We inquired if there was anything we needed to do to ensure the boat harbored at our table.  Das Boot suggested a large lighthouse to be placed in the middle of our table to ensure the boat would find us.  The waiter didn’t seem to get the humor, and I don’t think it was because of Das Boot’s accent.

When our second order came out, we were delighted to discover our waiter either had some clout with the kitchen staff, or he was motivated by that promise of an extra 50 cents.  Alas, our order arrived on a magnificent boat, complete with blinking lights.

We waived the boat in to shore, and for some reason, I felt it appropriate to make a backing up “beep, beep” sound as if the boat was a garbage truck instead of the beautiful yacht she was.  I also resisted the urge to yell “Thar she blows!”  I refrained because I was sure out waiter already hated us and most likely laced our boat with salmonella.

Most excited about the boat was Das Boot, who was like a kid at Christmas.  He stared in wonder as the waiter pointed out the various rolls and their locations.  He then began making comments about feeling like he was Leonardo DiCaprio and how he truly felt like he was king of the world.

Somehow, the sushi tasted better when eaten off the floors of the vessel, and we enjoyed each bite.  We cleared the ship and then requested our bill, as we had a party to attend and didn’t want to be late anymore than we already were.

When the bill came, we glanced it over to make sure everything was on the up and up and then we saw something that made us all laugh.  It was the cherry on top of our perfect dining experience.  Our waiter actually typed into the system “Customer requested boat.”

I’m not sure why we all found that hilarious, but we did.  I suspect it’s because the chef most likely granted our request because they imagined the requesting parties were a family of four, and the two small children wanted nothing more than the excitement of eating from a floating palace.  I can only imagine his surprise when he realized he granted the wish of four adults who clearly needed a hobby (but had excellent taste in handbags).

Bloodshed and Cheddar BallsI know, I know.  I’m behind on blogs.  Pipe down.  Doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder?  Actually, I don’t think that’s true.  In the case of my roommate, freshman year of college, absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder with her boyfriend, but it did make her grow genital warts.  True story.

I realize that it’s almost February and I’m writing a post about Thanksgiving, but doesn’t everyone love the holidays, no matter what time of year?  And Thanksgiving is the best holiday of all because it celebrates food, and freedom, and comradery, and killing Indians with cholera.

Well, maybe we don’t so much celebrate that last part, but it’s worth noting and shaming ourselves for…which is personally why I drink on that holiday.  I guess that means I’m a good American.

I really do have a lot of stories to tell you from when I was gone from the blog, but there’s only so much I can tell at once.   So bear with me, as some of these stories may not be timely. (Much like my college roommate’s “special visitor” one particular month which led to a pregnancy scare.  Another true story.)

But don’t get mad about it.  I’ve been backed up!  I feel like since I just had my gallbladder removed, I should make a joke about poo, but I won’t.  I’m better than that…and I also can’t think of anything clever to do with that joke.

On to Thanksgiving and the story.  This year we went to my brother’s wife’s parents’ house for Thanksgiving.  Isn’t that where most people go for the holidays?  I would like to think it’s because my brother’s wife’s parents think we are awesome and want to spend the holidays with me and Matt, but somehow I think pity plays a big role in our invitation.  Whatever, they had good wine.

As soon as we arrived, we felt like ass-hats because we didn’t make anything.  Don’t get me wrong, we brought something.  (We aren’t horrible people!)  That something just didn’t happen to be ours.  Rather, we snagged a bag of pies from my parents as they were loading the car.  We didn’t want to look like ass-hats…but we were fine being them.  (Side note:  “Bag of Pies” would make a great band name.)

processor.jpg

Since I have an amazing moral compass, I knew I needed to pull my weight, so I immediately began helping in the kitchen.  This may have been partly because I wanted to help, and partly because I wanted to make the cheese balls. I wanted to ensure I would have complete control over how much cheese was used for said balls. (Hee hee…balls…)

The recipe called for finely chopped nuts.  (I know, these balls and nuts jokes are getting to be too easy….much like my college roommate.)  Once I realized the “fine” description in the recipe wasn’t telling me that I needed to do a good job, I looked around for a food processor.  But for the record, had I chopped the nuts myself, I would have done a fine job.  Just FYI.

The processor was packed neatly in a box, instead of thrown in a random cabinet like it is at my house.  I immediately began trying to put the food processor together.  I wanted to earn my keep, and I was also seriously craving cheddar.

My brother’s mother in law, Hallmark (not her real name), and I decided to tackle this project together, because two heads are better than one, but also because she is a fan of the cheddar balls too.  (I’m resisting yet another ball joke.  I’m so mature.)

Unfortunately, Hallmark and I together may actually have been collectively more clueless than we were separately when it came to putting together the food processor.  Fortunately, we are both adorable and amazingly awesome, so it made up for our inability to follow written directions.  Since I was the guest, and wanted to show it wasn’t a complete mistake allowing us to crash Thanksgiving, I took the processor by the blade and took action.  Sadly, the blade retaliated against me by taking a chunk off the tip of my finger.  He was clearly not in the holiday spirit.

Immediately blood began gushing out of my finger, and dripped all over the nuts.  (Seriously, people.  Get your dirty minds out of the gutter.  I’m referring to the peanuts.)  I looked around helplessly and locked eyes with the one person I didn’t want to know about my mishap; my husband.  His reaction was exactly what I expected from him, although I can’t say it was out of line.

He shook his head as said in an exasperated tone, “Two minutes, babe.  You’ve been here two minutes.”

I want to say that he was exaggerating on the time.  I want to say that so badly.  But I can’t, because he was right, and I’m also fairly certain he rounded up.  At that point, the blood was gushing everywhere and judging by the look in his eye, I knew Matt wouldn’t be the first to volunteer blood for my inevitable transfusion.  Fortunately, Hallmark came to my rescue and helped me bandage my wound.  (Didn’t I tell you she was awesome?)

Matt gently sat me down on the couch and said we should “just sit here for a while.” Again, I wanted to be irritated with him, but I figured it would be more efficient to only drip blood on one spot of the carpet instead of all over the house.  I was a considerate house guest.

We waited for dinner to be served, all the while ensuring my finger remained over my head to stop the bleeding.  Finally, the food was ready and we proceeded to the dining room to eat.  I hoped the cheese balls were amazing, and fortunately, they were.  But then again, of course they were.  They had a little piece of me in every bite.

I’m also confident we will not be invited back next year, so Matt and I are now accepting invitations for Thanksgiving!

cheeseball.jpg

I know every day you all sit with baited breath awaiting each of my posts.  You ask yourselves “Will there be a post today?  I just need more Lisa Newlin!”  I totally understand.  I would be the same way if I wasn’t around me constantly.  I’m lucky that way.

So grab a breath mint for your baited breath and get ready to read.  I don’t know what baited breath is, but I assume it smells like fish bait, which I assume smells bad.  So I guess what I’m saying, in a way, is that all of you have bad breath.  Errr……any….way……

Back on topic…I am here to make your dreams come true! (Or as my husband says almost everyday when he goes to work, “I’m headed to work where I’m MDCT.”  (Making Dreams Come True.)  My husband can be a real douche, but I, on the other hand am clearly awesome and ready to hand out some serious prizes.  I feel like Oprah with all this wish granting.

As you can see from my fantastico blog headers, I’ve added a new tab for links to some of my published columns.  Yeah, that’s right, there’s lots more stuff to read!  So look at the top of the blog and click on the hilariously titled header “I’m Legit!  Mah Published Works” and get to reading.

Okay, okay, I didn’t so much add the tab, as my friend at www.driedonmilk.com did.  I don’t know what I’m doing with this blog.  I can barely type coherently let alone be involved with web design. Come on, now.  You know me better than that.

So, back to the header.  You really need to focus.  Clicking on the new header will take you to a page with links to different places where my columns are published.  As you know, I write a syndicated column that’s published in  various newspapers and magazines across the U.S.  Why someone publishes my work remains a mystery, but I go with it. (And if you don’t know about  my columns, then you haven’t read all my blog posts and you should be punished.  Your punishment shall be to read all my blog posts.)

Get excited, because now you have several new installments of my antics and musings to read.  Don’t worry, they are still mostly nonsensical and just because they’re published in fancy periodicals doesn’t mean I talk in a sophisticated voice and use big words.  I don’t.  However, since I’m a lawyer in real life, I typically write columns about being a lawyer and being all professional and stuff.  Hence, when I say I’m legit.

I think we all know I’m not really that professional, but please go with it.  Someone from my work might actually read this blog and we don’t want to burst that bubble.

The locations attached to the links are not the only places where my columns are published, but these are the only places I could find on line that had links you didn’t have to pay for.  Because I care about my readers and know you’d rather spend your money on links that result in something more exciting than me complaining about spandex, I’ve included links to the free stuff.  You’re welcome.

So enjoy some new posts free of charge, because that’s how I like to do.  And if you know of any newspaper, web page, magazine or journal that is crazy enough to want to pick up my column, let me know.  Sorry, I had to do a shameless plug.  It’s pathetic, but it’s the least you could do since I didn’t make you pay for any of the links.

Enjoy!

work photo

 

During oShady Jack tie 1ur recent trip to Mexico, I was assaulted, beaten and abused…and I paid for it.  Kind of.  I received a complimentary body scrub after my massage at the spa was cut short. (I’m a girl who likes to get a deal, and this girl paid for a full hour of services.)  The masseuse was not happy she had to give me a scrub down.  I was not happy she had dry hands and a 5:00 shadow, but we all make sacrifices.  Unfortunately, she took her anger out on my skin cells, my muscles and my spine.  She was an angry woman.  I took it out on her tip.

Although the scrub down was painful and bordered on assault, I somehow found it refreshing.  I discovered when I came back home, that I was in a mood to deep clean everything I came into contact with.  I suspect this is some kind of psychological reaction to the attack, and will most likely require professional counseling to address (and probably many more trips to the spa).  But until then, I will embrace the desire to scrub, and disinfect everything in sight.

One night I was picking up random dog toys from around the house and I noticed Shady Jack’s toys were fairly filthy.  Although we have toys for all the dogs, Shady Jack cares most about them, and treats them like they’re his babies.

Well, not necessarily babies, because he carries them around by their necks and drops them in the water bowl.  If they were his babies, this would be attempted murder and we’d probably have to report him to the authorities and get him some professional help.  So maybe it’s more like he treats them like his prized possessions.

Shady Jack is a rescue dog who had a very rough life before coming to live with us.  He was abused by people and other dogs, and lived on the streets for about 2 years before being rescued.  He is an amazing dog and we love him very much.

Although we can’t confirm it for sure, we also suspect he may have been a pimp while living on the street.  Compelling evidence of this suspicion is this photo of him at doggie daycare.

Please note the activity in the background of the photo.  Doesn’t he look like he is protecting “the talent?”  The look in his eye says he means business and doesn’t want any disruptions while the bitch getting violated makes it rain back there.  (And don’t even think about getting offended by my use of the word “bitch.”  It’s totally appropriate here…because the female in this photo is clearly a prostitute.)

We’re pretty sure Shady Jack was a street hustler before he came to live with us.  The  way he is licking his chops in this photo is further confirmation that he knew how to get things done, most likely in the ghetto.  I feel like he should be wearing a long, pink feathered coat and have a paw full of pinky rings.  And maybe drink Hennessy from a chalice.  Don’t you think?  Yeah, we do too.

Those dog days are over for Shady Jack, and now his biggest problem is determining which bed to sleep on, and whether to pee on the rug in the kitchen or the rug in the dining room.  (I won’t spoil the surprise.  For those of you who come to our house, you can find this answer out yourself firsthand…or firstfoot.)

Other than the scars on his face and legs, you would never know about his sordid past because he constantly wags his tail and prances around with toys in his mouth.  He loves life, and if possible, he loves his toys even more.  The way he “loves” his toys isn’t the way that “hoodrat” in the photo above loves her Johns.  He’s far more sanitary than that.  Rather, he simply carries his toys around in his mouth.  (Well what do you know? I guess he does have that in common with the hoodrat above.)

Constantly taking his toys everywhere makes them dirty, and I learned some time ago, that washing them in the washing machine is not a viable option if you would like to save money.  However, it is a viable option if you want to pay your local washing machine repair man to come out and remove the toy stuffing from the motor and then purchase a new motor.

If that’s what you’re looking for, washing the toys in the washer is your best bet.  I like to think I’m helping my local business owner when I do such things.  Matt isn’t nearly as positive about the experience (or the charge) as I am.  He just doesn’t have perspective.

As I collected the stuffed animals from around the house, I realized they needed to be scrubbed, and I knew the washing machine wasn’t an option.  Suddenly, and without warning, I had a flashback to the Mexican scrub down and a chill went down my spine.  I had to get the toys clean.  I had to do it immediately.

toy+in+food.jpgI quickly gathered the toys and took them to the kitchen sink, which I filled with warm water and dish soap. Shady Jack seemed confused about where his toys were going, and  I explained to him they were going through a deep cleanse, kind of like a colonoscopy, but without all the shitting themselves.  He didn’t seem to understand, but stood next to me while I filled the sink with his babies.

*Please note the photo of the bunny face-down in the food.  We aren’t sure if the bunny threw himself into the food bowl, or if he was pushed. We just know his last moments were happy and filled with Beneful. An investigation is being launched with Shady Jack as the prime suspect.*

After letting them soak for a while, I started to scrub them.  However, the scrubber I had wasn’t getting the job done, and with my newly found obsession for scrubbing, I knew I wouldn’t stop until they sparkled.  (Or just stopped smelling like dog.)  I left the toys soaking and drove to Target where I picked up a new scrub brush that I knew would do the trick.  Sometime during this car ride is when I realized I lost my mind.  I just want you to know that I know that.  I blame the masseuse.

I returned home, scrubbed the toys and got them ridiculously clean.  Meanwhile, Shady Jack was inconsolable, wandering around the house as if someone stole his toys.  Wait….

I pointed out that I left him several rubber toys, and I only took the toys made of fabric.  He was not persuaded by my arguments, nor was he interested in the plastic pig that oinks.  Why would he be when all he wanted was a cloth sock monkey dressed like Dracula?

jack's cookiesI had to let the toys air dry, as I didn’t dare ruin the dryer with them.  Although I would have liked to support Mario the repairman and help fund his daughter’s new braces, I knew Matt wouldn’t want to pay for another house call.  (Clearly Matt was against orthodontics.)

I wrung the toys out and laid them on the drying rack.  Shady Jack stared at me with sad eyes and I swear at one point, a single tear ran down his face.  I’m not sure he could see the toys and how they looked, but if he could, he probably was horrified by the massacre of toys, all hanging from the gallows in different positions.  Perhaps he recognized a few of the positions from his street life.

I let the toys dry overnight and Shady Jack found consolation in a Kong filled with peanut butter.  However, the next morning he went straight to the counter where his toys were located.  Although he couldn’t see the toys from where he sat, he put his front paws on the counter and tried to grab a toy.  This was out of character for him, as he never tries to get anything from the counter.  He knows it’s off limits, and I think he respects other people’s property.  Again, a side effect of pimping on the streets.  I like to think he was compelled to attempt a rescue because desperate times called for desperate measures and his toys were in danger.

I couldn’t believe he remembered where the toys were or that he knew they were there despite not seeing them.  Studies say dogs don’t understand where an item goes once it’s out of their sight.  That’s why they never hover around the refrigerator even though that’s where their bones are stored.  So you can imagine my surprise when  I realized he knew exactly where his toys were.  I was so proud!

jack with toy

I decided to reward him with not one toy, but all of them.  I picked them all up and put them on the floor in a big, clean pile.  For a moment, I thought his head might actually explode.  I swear I could hear his inner dialogue at that moment screaming “My babies!!!  My babies are back!”

He rooted through the toys, picking up one and then discarding it for another one.  When he finally found the one he wanted (the teddy bear dressed like a reindeer), he took it and left the other toys to recover together.  He bounced away, happy to have his babies back, and most likely horrified they went through such torture.

I was glad his spirit wasn’t broken during the toy abduction of 2013.  But ever since then, sometimes I feel his eyes on me when I’m not looking.  I know he’s watching me even when I can’t see him.  It’s like he’s waiting to make his move and avenge the toy-napping.  I don’t know when his vindication will come, but I suspect it will be soon….and very very harsh.  I just hope his revenge doesn’t involve humping anything.

I have a feeling several of you were enticed to read this blog because of the title and were hoping for some racy photos.   Well look no further than to the left.  You’re welcome.

And now, back to the story about my hospital antics after the recent attack on my life (by my gallbladder).  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, I suggest you read my blog more regularly.  You should be ashamed of yourself.

When I last left off, I had just been told I had a roommate in the hospital, and was unfairly judged by the nurses, who thought I was a stripper.  I decided since the nurses clearly didn’t understand sarcasm, I needed an ally in my corner.  I decided to approach the roommate who was literally in my corner.

When I finally spoke to her, I introduced myself and told her I was there for gallbladder surgery.  She told me her name and I was disappointed it wasn’t Rizzo.  However, I decided to call her by that name anyway.  After all, she wasn’t my boss, applesauce.

She said she was also in for gallbladder issues, but had already undergone surgery.  Her next words solidified our friendship for ages to come.  “You know, if you have to fart while you’re in here, just do it.  It won’t bother me at all and you really should fart if you need to.  You will feel better.”  I loved her immediately.  It was like we were soul mates.  I wanted to ask her if she wore orthopedic shoes and had bifocal lenses, but I didn’t want to be too forward.

I felt like I was in “The Parent Trap” or an episode of “The Brady Bunch” the way we had curtains dividing the rooms.  I considered ringing for a nurse and asking to borrow either a magic marker or duct tape so I could delineate a line down the center of the room to divide up our space.  But since the nurses were convinced I was a jaundiced low class stripper who was too good to pee in a hat, I didn’t dare ask for any favors.  We didn’t need the dividers anyway.  We were soul mates, after all.

Our beds were diagonal from each other and when we pulled the privacy curtains open, we could see each other perfectly.  Why would we want privacy curtains?  We were both without undergarments and we’d already established it was a free-for-all farting zone.  The need for privacy left with our underwear.

It was kind of fun having a roommate.  I don’t have a sister, so I don’t know what it’s like to share a room.  (However, I have a brother who is ridiculously fashionable and can work miracles with an iron and stubborn wrinkles.)  Since I’ve never had a sister, I never experienced sharing a room and staying up all night giggling and talking.  I realize being hyped up on pain killers and anti-nausea medication probably isn’t how most sisters bond while growing up, but I was embracing the experience.  (However, I’m almost confident this is why the Jenner sisters are so close.)

Jello.jpg

Since we both had the same type of surgery, we were prevented from eating for several hours, even after the surgery was completed.  As you know, keeping me from food for more than 30 minutes is dangerous, so keeping me from eating for several hours is life threatening (for the person withholding the food…not for me.  I’ve got plenty of extra body fat to live for days.)

When the time came for us to eat, we poured over the hospital menu together and discussed how many things we would order.  We agreed 5 items each was a good start.  After all, we wanted to ease our way back into things slowly.  We called the nurse and told her our orders.  Since she didn’t bring a pad and paper and couldn’t remember everything we ordered, she had to step out to grab something with which to write.  We couldn’t contain our excitement.

And just like that, our hopes and dreams were dashed.  The nurse, who obviously hated us and wanted to kill our dreams, returned and said we couldn’t order any of the items but the only thing we were allowed to have was Jell-o.  Seriously?!  Jell-o?  Like “Bill Cosby wearing a horribly ugly sweater and turtleneck while talking like a robot” Jell-o?  That kind of Jell-o? Surely there was a mistake.

Nope.  No mistake.  We were relegated to eat nothing but Jell-o.  Did Rizzo and I let this get us down?  No.  (Probably because we were too hyped up on pain meds and were sidetracked counting all the unicorns floating around the room.)

So instead of complaining, we decided to take it in stride.  We each ordered a Jell-o and asked that it be put in fancy bowls to make us feel important (and because that’s how it’s served in the commercials, and if it’s good enough for Bill Cosby that way, it’s good enough for us.)

We anxiously awaited the delivery of our Jell-o.  When it arrived, much to our horror, we discovered it was orange Jell-o, which is clearly the bottom of the barrel when it comes to Jell-o flavors.  They were trying to send us a message.  It was like the severed horse head in the bed, or the dirty sock on the doorknob.

We knew what the message meant, but we weren’t going to let them get to us. We were the Grease Girls after all.  (I went ahead and gave us that nickname without telling Rizzo.  I didn’t want her to not like it and think I was lame.)  We dug into the orange Jell-o as if it was our favorite flavor to show we weren’t phased, but also because we hadn’t eaten in 18 hours.

And then something amazing happened.  The orange Jell-o was delicious.  I’m not sure if it was the fancy plastic bowl it was served in, or the plastic sporks used to shovel it into our mouths, but somehow, it was perfection.  Between bites, we asked the nurse what the delicious flavor of Jell-o was, as it was clearly a special blend only available to VIPs.

“It’s orange Jell-o,” was the nurse’s monotone response.

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Could it be?  Was it true that we were just eating normal orange Jell-o?  No, it was far too delicious to be regular Jell-o.  Whatever it was, we didn’t care.  After we scarfed down the servings, we promptly asked for more.  The nurse asked which flavor we wanted for our second helping, and we nearly squealed with excitement, although it could have been pain.  Pain may be the more logical reason here for the squealing.

We couldn’t believe we had our choice of flavors.  We both decided we wanted to try everyone’s favorite flavor of Jell-o….red.  Yes, red is a flavor.  Do you know what flavor red Jell-o is?  Strawberry?  Cherry?  Raspberry?  Yeah, we didn’t know either, so we settled on calling the flavor red.  Don’t judge.

And as quickly as our hopes were raised, they were dashed again by Nurse Sassy Pants, who told us we couldn’t have red Jell-o.  There it was again…the nurse trying to keep the Grease Girls down.  I asked why red Jell-o was off limits.  Perhaps I could slip her a five-spot and change her mind.

Unfortunately, Nurse Sassy Pants wasn’t open to bribery (or humor) and said we couldn’t have red Jell-o because if we threw up, it would be hard to tell if we were throwing up blood or just red Jell-o.  I wanted to be offended that she would think we would gorge ourselves on gelatin until we puked, but I knew the facts.  She wasn’t out of line.

Red Jell-o then became more appealing than ever.  It was like the forbidden fruit….which in this case, was gelatin with red food coloring.  From that moment on, we vowed that if we ever got out of that place, we would only eat red Jello as a sign of solidarity.  Until then, we were going to eat the crap out of every other color of Jell-o.

And ate we did.  We decided to throw ourselves a Jell-o party at the stroke of midnight.  I cannot emphasize enough how true this story really is.  We asked the nurses to deliver several servings of various Jello flavors to our room promptly at midnight so we could have a Jell-o par-tay.  Don’t get me wrong, we weren’t throwing the stereotypical female Jell-o party where partially clothed women wrestled in pools of Jell-o.  We would never waste Jell-o that way.

Rather, we were in hospital gowns that opened in the back, and one of us (me) was catheterized.  It wasn’t a sexy kind of party.  It was more shameful than anything else.

The nurses started bringing us extra cups of Jell-o just as the clock struck midnight.  I’m really not kidding about this.  One nurse came in a little before midnight and brought us her offering.  She said she set a reminder for herself and didn’t want to be late, so she brought it early.  Clearly she knew the Grease Girls were not messing around about Jell-o delivery.  At least she got the message.

The other nurses also brought us cups of varying flavors, although I suspect it wasn’t so much to fill our needs as it was to keep us from paging constantly for refills.  We weren’t embarrassed though.  Jell-o was our only vice in the hospital aside from farting, but we had to do the latter to survive (BECAUSE WE JUST HAD ABDOMINAL SURGERY, A-HOLES!)

We binged on Jell-o for what seemed like a lifetime, but what was more likely about 15 minutes.  After all, we were on lots of pain meds and our stomachs were full of air from surgery.  We didn’t have a ton of room to store the Jell-o.

After we gorged ourselves, we both drifted blissfully off to a drug and gelatin induced sleep.  I can’t speak for Rizzo, but that night I dreamed of red Jell-o, and it tasted better than ever.  And Big Foot.  I also dreamed of Big Foot, but that part wasn’t nearly as delicious.

before surgery

As you know, I recently had my gallbladder, Stan, removed.  He was a real whippersnapper of a guy who always complained about what I ate and dictated when I went to the bathroom.  So basically, he was my mother in law, only far more attractive…and nicer…and sans the cigarettes.

I realize you’ve all been ridiculously worried about me and my recovery.  I know this by all of the flowers and “get well” cards you’ve sent.  Yeah, that’s right.  People have been sending me these things.  Don’t you feel badly that you haven’t done one single thing to let me know you want me to get well soon?

How am I supposed to know your well wishes if you don’t send them to me in a card with a picture of a dog holding a balloon in his paw?  (NOTE:  I believe your well wishes are far more genuine when they are accompanied by a Target gift card.)

I’m definitely on the mend, although I’ve got a long way to go before I’m back in the saddle again.  (By “saddle” I mean eating solid foods and not leaking gas from every orifice of my body.  I apologize to those within sniffing distance during my recovery period.)

Even though I’m doing better, it’s been a long road.  When I awoke from surgery, I was greeted with a huge punch in the gut at full speed…by a robot….with a fist full of razorblades.  Okay, that last part wasn’t true, but that’s what it felt like.

I woke up from surgery and before I could get the anesthesiologist’s digits to see how she concocted such goodness, I was overcome with intense pain.  Wasn’t surgery supposed to help the pain instead of make it worse?  Obviously, in addition to my gallbladder trying to kill me, my surgeon was too.

932I was quickly given more pain meds, probably because I threatened the nurse’s first born child. (I also may have told her I would cut her if she didn’t give me strong meds ASAP.  May have.  The hospital is still investigating the alleged assault claim.  Some people are sooooo sensitive.)

I was wheeled back to my room where I was informed I had a roommate.  What?  A roommate?  I didn’t know roommates were a thing in hospitals.  I was already upset there wasn’t a spa or a lounge area, but the roommate thing was a little much.

Then I realized it might be fun.  Immediately I envisioned us staying up late, braiding each other’s hair, chomping gum and calling boys on our rotary phone only to giggle and hang up.  We would also put our hair in curlers and sing songs about love and dreamy boys with leather jackets.  Clearly, I thought I was getting a roommate from the movie “Grease.”  I secretly hoped it was Rizzo.

At that point, I began humming “You’re the one that I want” and thinking maybe the roommate thing wouldn’t be too bad after all.  I just hoped there was a drag race with muscle cars later.

As I was picturing how my hair would look in curlers, I heard the nurse yell to another nurse across the room.  “She’s gonna need a pole!”  Everyone heard this assessment, including my new roommate Rizzo.  (Why was this nurse trying to embarrass me?!)

“THEY TOLD ME NOT TO WEAR UNDERWEAR FOR SURGERY!,” I blurted out immediately, trying to protect my reputation. (I had to impress Rizzo.)

“What are you talking about?” the nurse asked, staring at me as if I just admitted I licked the sofa.

“I don’t need a pole.” I responded quickly. “I’m not that kind of girl.  I will pay with insurance.” was all I could say, half joking and half serious.  What I didn’t say was that even if we had a pole, I wouldn’t have been able to do exciting moves anyway because I just had abdominal surgery.  (It’s quite the core workout.)

“We need to get you a pole for your IV” she told me, enunciating the last few words slowly, as if English wasn’t my first language. (In her defense, I did just come back from vacation and was super tan, so I let it slide.)

After getting me settled in (with my pole), I asked to use the restroom.  Nurse Sassy Pants said I could go, but she needed me to pee into a hat.  Um, seriously?  What kind of place was this?

Didn’t she know I was a chick and didn’t have great aim in the urinating department?  (Then again, what guy does?)  And why would I pee into a hat?  What kind of hat?  A baseball cap?  A helmet?  A top hat like the one Honest Abe wore?  Is that why he always wore it?  So he’d have a place to urinate?

Nurse Sassy Pants led me to the restroom and pointed to what she referred to as a hat, which was really just a plastic container shoved inside the toilet.  She clearly had an interesting imagination…or a strange understanding of fashion.  I’d hate to see what she would do with a jock strap if she wanted me to pee into a hat.

Later that evening, the doctor came in to check on me.  I refused to pee in the hat and I suspect this caused concern, which triggered the doctor’s visit (and a strongly worded note in my chart).  When the doctor came into my room he looked at me and immediately said “Are you tan or are you jaundice? This is important.”

Seriously?!  Apparently he was worried about infection and wanted to know if my glowing hue was from the sun or from bacteria and parasites eating away at my insides.  I told him I thought it was the former, but couldn’t be sure.

Unfortunately for me, my new roommate, Rizzo, watched all of this unfold, and I knew she most likely had a horrible impression of me.  Between thinking I was a stripper, to peeing in a hat, to looking yellow, I knew I had a rough road to convince her I was an amazing superstar.  But I knew I was up to the task.  After all, my skin was already halfway to that color.

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Click here for the conclusion of the saga

No, Matt didn’t come to his senses and finally leave me, although that’s a totally reasonable conclusion to draw and something he should probably consider.  But you know I keep that guy locked down with a combination of witty humor, amazing cooking and intimidation and fear.

It’s actually one part humor, one part meatloaf, and 5 parts fear. It’s a recipe for a happy marriage.

But seriously, the inevitable happened.  Again, I realize there are lots of ways this post could go, but I know you readers are impatient, so I won’t leave you guessing any longer.

My internal organs are trying to kill me.  That’s right.  Last week they launched a coup to overthrow me as their leader.  Not cool organs, not cool.

Last Friday night I began to have a horrible pain in my stomach.  I thought it was my body’s way of punishing me for putting away 2 brownies, so I tried to deal with it, because I’m a martyr that way.  (Okay, it wasn’t 2 brownies, it was 4.  Geez! Get off my back!)

Speaking of my back, that started hurting too.  Badly.  It continued to get worse and I found I couldn’t get comfortable and the pain was excruciating.  Not as bad as watching the chick from South Carolina in the Miss Teen USA 2007 pageant try to answer a simple question, but it was still pretty bad.

Too specific of a reference?  Don’t you remember her with her “heretofores?”  If not, you must find it on YouTube….but only after reading my blog.

We knew it was time to go to the ER when I diverged from my normally pleasant and charming self and started snapping at my husband.  I believe I told him at one point to “get online and figure out what’s going on with me instead of sitting around doing nothing.”  That’s a direct quote.  Please feel free to confirm it with him, but be gentle, as I think he may still be emotional about this incident.

We went to the ER where I was whisked away to see a doctor immediately.  I’m not kidding.  That totally happened and it was rad.  (My friend Stacia is trying to bring back rad, and since I have such a loyal following on this blog, I’m going to make it happen…because I change lives that way.  So read her blog too.  http://www.driedonmilk.com/  )

When I met with the doctor he asked me some questions and through slurred words and partial sentences, I was able to tell him about my pain.  By that time the pain meds kicked in and I can only imagine I was even more hilarious than normal.  However, Matt was a total downer because he made me tell the doctor about the brownies I ate pre-pain….and the pizza.  Whatever.  He was just trying to ruin my high from the pain meds.

After a CT and an ultrasound, it was determined there was an attempted murder at issue and the culprit was my gallbladder.  Granted, it was a super infected, swollen and throbbing gallbladder, but that doesn’t matter.  The intent to kill was the same and I took it as a personal attack (as did my stomach and spine, which felt like they were exploding.)  The doctor said I needed surgery immediately to remove it before it ruptured and killed me.

As I prepared a mass text alerting the news media to increase the terror alert to red, I felt compelled to ask the doctor something.  “Doctor,” I asked.  (In all honestly, it might have sounded more like “Dooooc…..terr……”)  “Was the cause of this attempted murder the brownies and pizza?  What was the impetus for the attack?”

The doctor’s response?  A glorious one.  “The cause wasn’t anything you ate.  You have a very infected gallbladder that’s a result of a virus or bacteria, and not from anything you ate.”

Sweet vindication.  I looked at Matt and did my “I’m right and you’re wrong, so suck it” dance, which is one I do several times a day.  But since I was in pain it was more along the lines of a small hand gesture involving one choice finger.  He still got the point.

I’m sure the surgeons argued over who got to operate on this sweet specimen of a body, and the doctor who lost the argument was the unlucky soul who performed the surgery.  Lucky for me, I liked him a lot.  Lucky for him, he’s a fan of sarcasm, so we were able to easily communicate.  Matt looked on, most likely mentally drafting his divorce petition.

As you can tell, I survived the attempt on my life, and emerged the victor over that vindictive gallbladder.  I wanted to keep his lifeless body (I’ve determined it’s a “he” and his name is Stan), However, apparently there are safety issues with that and the hospital didn’t want me removing him from the hospital.  (Insert eye roll and gesture previously used on my husband.)

Funny, because they didn’t seem to mind me bringing him into the hospital…they actually welcomed that with open arms (and wallets).  Come to think of it, I think they should pay me for allowing them to keep him.

splinter.jpg

They told me it was something about it being hazardous materials, but I think that’s just their way of disguising the real issue.  That, or they wanted to protect me from further harm from that piece of crap.  He was a real S.O.B.Maybe they are using my gallbladder in some secret underground operation.

Do you think Stan is now the leader of a rogue group of crime fighters?  Like maybe he’s the Splinter to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?  Definitely.

So I’m now recovering from the attack and I’m out of the woods.  In this sentence, “the woods” is “the hospital.”  I’m on the mend, and as I’m sure you can tell from this post, I’m also under the influence of some serious pain meds.  Don’t judge me if there are typos or random words or sentences that don’t make sense.  I blame the meds.

Sock monkey.

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Click here for part 2 of the saga

stinky hands

I realize the title of this post could be talking about many different things.  Based upon the amount of dairy and carbs I ingest on a daily basis, you would be entirely accurate to guess the answer to the question posed in this title is “That smell is your disgusting ass, Lisa.  It smells like someone ate dog $hit, vomited it up, ate it again, and then $hit it out.”

I realize that was a graphic explanation, but for all of you who have had the pleasure of being with me after I’ve inhaled Mexican food, you can attest it isn’t far off.

Anyway, on with the story.  Yesterday my husband and I were picking up around the house, preparing for the cleaning people to come.  No, we don’t have a cleaning lady, although I wish we did.  I would name her Marta and she would be wonderful.  She would smell of Lemon Pledge and Pine Sol and I would pay her in cash, gift certificates and coupons for cleaning supplies.

Since I haven’t been able to find a Marta to clean our house (or someone willing to answer to that name), we are stuck cleaning ourselves, which is not as fun as it sounds.  It’s a marriage tester for sure, as there’s nothing more romantic than asking your husband to bring the bleach up from the basement because “that creepy stain in the bathroom isn’t coming up with Soft Scrub.”

However, my brilliant husband recently purchased a Living Social deal for a cleaning service, so we decided to cash in on that bad boy for the new year.  Those poor suckers!  We were preparing for their arrival and as we did so, we both kept coming back to the same question: “What’s that smell?!”

NOTE:  Other questions we kept coming back to included “How many months after the expiration date is cheese still good?,” and “Why do we have so many pairs of fuzzy handcuffs and why are they in the kitchen?”  The answer to the cheese question is one month.  Any longer and you will have penicillin, which can save you quite a bit in pharmacy charges if you hold onto it.  So grab yourself some cheddar and save it for cold and flu season!  You’re welcome.

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It wasn’t as if our house smelled horribly raunchy, or at least not to us it didn’t.  We were used to the smell of dog and the constant stench of rotting cheese.  But it was the smell of actual $hit that was permeating the air, and in the kitchen no less.  I realize I could make some comment about how food I make tastes like $hit so that’s why the kitchen smells that way.

But I wouldn’t do that because I’m a kick ass cook, so I know that couldn’t be the cause of the funk.

As the day progressed, we found the smell of poo more and more pungent and we began to think we were losing our minds.  We checked the regular spots in the house that our dogs have deemed toxic waste disposal units.  If any of you have dogs, you probably know that in every house, a dog will find their favorite spot to crap and leave it for you to find later…sometimes when you are barefoot.

It’s not a regular thing they do each day, as most dogs are potty trained and do their business outdoors.  (Meaning they poop outside, they don’t conduct business transactions and sign contracts out there.)

After checking the regular dumping sites and coming up empty handed, we were stumped as to the cause of the smell.  “It literally smells like someone $hit in the kitchen,” I said, opening the fridge and grabbing cheese to make myself some nachos.  (Hey, even amidst crisis, a girl has to eat.)

“You’re right,” Matt responded.  This is a phrase he has to say a lot, as I’m always right.

Just then I looked over and saw something on one of our white cabinet doors.  I  knew it wasn’t there before as I scrubbed the cabinets just before we left for vacations.  Those things were pristine!  As I approached the spot, the smell strengthened and I soon realized this cabinet was the cause of the stench.  I looked closely and saw a large piece of dog poop clinging to the cabinet.  Seriously?!

I don’t have to tell you which dog was responsible for this amazing feat.  You already know.  It could only be a special dog.  I don’t mean special in the sense of “He’s our perfect angel who is priceless and flawless.”  I mean special in the sense of “He smells other dogs’ wieners constantly, rubs up against things like a cat, and licks the wall randomly.”   You guessed it.  The dog responsible for the fecal matter on the cabinets was none other than this guy.  Max.

How did he do it?  I have no idea.  How did he get caught in the curtains and need assistance getting out?  How did he get himself stuck laying in the grass on top of the small dusting of snow we had last week?  Who knows?  Max definitely doesn’t know.  I’m not sure he knew he pooped at all, let alone that he defied gravity by doing so on a vertical surface.

Instead of confronting him with his action and getting the blank stare he gives every time he looks at anyone, I simply cleaned it up with paper towels and immediately took them out to the trash so the stench would no longer haunt our house.  Max went on with his life unaffected, and returned to licking his crotch and trying to bite at the sounds coming from the TV.

I fricking love going to the spa!  Yes, I used the word “fricking” because my love of the spa and pampering calls for a strong descriptive word, and that’s my PG version of the F-bomb.

Matt and I went to Mexico for the holidays and while we were there, we indulged ourselves with several visits to the spa.  We also indulged ourselves with ridiculous amount of food including one entire cheesecake, half of a french silk pie, and around 5 pounds of guacamole.  And by “we” I mean “me.”

At some point I think the wait staff figured out I didn’t have a sick child in my room whose dying wish was to eat an entire cheesecake in one sitting.

One morning during our trip, I got on the elevator to go to the gym.  Yes, I took the elevator to go to the gym.  My room was on the 3rd floor.  Did you really think I would take the stairs?  Pfft!

Why would I work out before I worked out?  Ridiculous. And close your mouth.  I know you’re shocked I went to the gym but reading this post with your mouth open in awe isn’t a good look for you.

Massages on the beachWhen I got in the elevator I was greeted by Rick, a friendly gentleman who was quite chatty despite the fact it was 8:00 a.m.  I know you’re thinking “Wow.  They must stay at a really nice resort if there are elevator operators.”  Um, no.  Rick wasn’t the elevator attendant, as it wasn’t 1952.  Rather, Rick was simply another guest at the hotel who had a clear affinity for the color red.  He had on a red shirt and red swimming trunks.  Did the reds match?  Of course not.  Immediately I pegged him as a communist.

“Wow, there are a lot of people going to the beach this early in the morning,” Rick in Red said, trying to start a conversation on the 20 second elevator ride.  (I will now refer to Rick in Red as RIR because I’m lazy and don’t want to type that out each time.  You should be able to follow along with this crafty abbreviation.)

For some reason I felt compelled to explain to RIR that I wasn’t going to lay on the beach, but I going to the gym instead.  I would have thought he could have deduced that from the work-out clothes I was wearing, and the water bottle, sweat towel and iPod I was holding.  Obviously RIR wasn’t an overly observant guy.

“I’m going to the gym,” I responded, feeling proud of myself for actually going instead of laying in bed telling myself I needed to work out and then ordering room service instead.

jacuzzi at spa

“Where do you shower after you work out?” RIR asked.

What the hell?  Who was this guy and why was he asking about my showering routine?  And why was I answering him?

I told him I shower in the spa locker room after my pathetic workout of walking slowly on the treadmill on an incline of 2. I probably didn’t need a shower afterwards, but I liked to use the spa’s shower, as it has dispensers on the wall for various body washes.  I’m a simple girl.

“You go to the spa here?” RIR responded.  I told him I did and it was nice.

“I bet sumthin like that is pretty expensive, huh?” he asked, obviously mistaking me for some kind of high roller.  “You know, I just go down to that Sea Breeze place down the beach and get an hour massage for $20.  It’s pretty good and the women are nice and do a real nice job.  You should check it out sometime and save yourself some money.”  (This should be read in a bit of a hillbilly accent with “Dueling Banjos” playing in the background.)

I don’t know why, but I could tell Rick knew a quality massage, and I was confident in his recommendation for some strange reason.

Later, I told Matt about my conversation with RIR and his recommendation to get a massage on the beach instead of at the spa.  Strangely enough, we were actually at the spa when I broached this subject, and we were both laying on the tables waiting for our massages to start.

“I think it’s worth a try,” I suggested.  “It will be a lot cheaper and a massage right on the beach would be nice.” I have no idea why I wanted to get his permission.  I had Rick’s recommendation.  What more did I need?

Matt wasn’t as convinced as I was, but that’s because he didn’t see the look in RIR’s eyes when he described how the women remove the sand from your feet during the massage.

“You will come with me to make sure I’m safe and that there’s no funny business.”  I said, assuring him.  “And by funny business, I mean anal.”

“Too bad we never have any funny business,” my husband muttered under his breath.  He’s clearly a jackass.

 

The next day, I decided to give the random women on the beach a try for a massage.  I couldn’t find the Sea Breeze location RIR spoke so fondly of.  I suspect that’s because the outfit was probably busted for smuggling women and heroin…or it was because it was Sunday and they were closed.  Both are plausible explanations.

I found another tent on the beach that looked somewhat on the up and up.  There was a guy with a clipboard standing out front, which completely legitimized the operation in my eyes.  Matt?  Not so much, as he has a strict “Don’t trust anyone with a clip board” rule.

I approached the gentleman and made an appointment for later that day.  He asked for my first name and we agreed I would get a massage at 5:00 for $30.00.  I could hardly wait.

When the time came, Matt accompanied me to the massage tent, where he said he would be there to make sure I wasn’t robbed.  (He made no mention of whether he cared if I was assaulted, so I suspect that wasn’t in his wheelhouse of concerns.)  He found a comfortable spot on the beach with a view of the tent.  Here he is ready to protect me from danger.

And here he is about 5 minutes later.  No joke.  I hadn’t even started my massage yet and this a-hole was sound asleep.  Rick wouldn’t have left me there alone to fend for myself; I just knew it.

TOTAL fail.

The tent was fairly small and there were five massage tables set up in a row.  There were five women working and an older overseer who looked like she would cut a bitch if someone got frisky.  She was obviously far more concerned about me than my sleeping husband was.

The massage began and although it was a little strange at first, it actually ended up being pretty good, especially for $30.00.  The only awkward time came about 10 minutes into the massage when the woman whispered softly in my ear “Do you want more pleasure?”  Or at least that’s what I heard her say.  Allegedly she said “Do you want more pressure” but I’m not so sure that’s really what she said.  Either way, my response was the same…a big fat no.

The hour went by quickly and once I stopped clenching from fear of assault from the rear, it was actually quite relaxing.  When the massage was over, I tipped the woman, who seemed utterly shocked by it.  I could see the mean lady eying the money, and I’m sure she snatched it from the masseuse as soon as I walked away.  (I hope she used it to buy some tweezers, as she had some mean chin hair.)

The next day I ran into Rick.  He was wearing the exact same red outfit as the day before, confirming my suspicion of his communist status.  I told him I took his recommendation and had a great massage.  I considered asking him about other recommendations for services in the area, but figured I would stop while I was ahead.  I wasn’t feeling brave enough to venture out again, and I didn’t want to rely on RIR for all of my entertainment needs.  That’s what the bar was for!

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