Kissing at receptionFor those of you who read my blog regularly, you know that I frequently talk about my husband.  That poor guy puts up with so much of my abuse.  But then again, so do you, my dear reader.

Why do you read this blog again?  No seriously.  Why?  Send me an email and tell me.

Anyway, I know with every one of the posts I write about funny stuff my husband says, you’re wondering “How does she do it? How does she have such a happy marriage?”

I know you’re also wondering when Matt will wise up and realize he can do better and there’s plenty of other women out there who don’t fart like guys.

I’m wondering the same thing.  I’ll just stock up on air freshener until then and hope he doesn’t figure that out.

snapshot of getting marriedSince I regale you with random information that’s not at all useful, I’ve decided to switch it up and make this a useful and informative post.  Yeah, I know.  I’m trying something new and different.  Don’t get used to it.

Without making you wait any longer (mostly because I know you have short attention spans), here are Lisa Newlin’s secrets to a happy marriage.

These tips work for me, and they may work for you too.  But then again, do you really want to take advice from a chick who thinks watching The World’s Strongest Man on a Saturday night is a perfect date night?

Whatever. Just look at the pretty pictures and read it anyway.

close up of getting married 1.  Fear

Your husband should always be at least a little scared of you.  No more than 10% though.  Anything more than that would just make you a bitch.

2.  Compromise

This is done on his part only.  Your compromise is dealing with his wet towel on the floor every day of his existence, so you can’t be expected to compromise on which pizza joint you will patronize for dinner too.

You’re far too important for that.

0753.  Let him know you’re the boss

Can he have a guy’s night watching The Fast and the Furious and playing X-box?  Of course he can (assuming the parents of the 9 year-olds down the street are cool with it too.)

But don’t let him know you’re totally fine with getting him out of the house for a couple of hours.  Build suspense for a while, and he may just try to bribe you.

That leads me to my next point…

walking after wedding4.  Bribe him

To quote Martha Stewart*, “It’s a good thing.”  Granted, she is usually referring to making garden tools out of spaghetti and toilet paper rolls when she says that, but the phrase applies here as well.

Society tries so hard to convince us that bribery is a bad thing, what with all the scandals and whatnot.  However, bribing works.  Just ask the mafia.

*Note:  Don’t quote Martha Stewart when it comes to stock advice.

5.  Hire a cleaning lady (or man)

I’m not picky about the gender.  Either way, hire someone else to clean the house.  Lord knows you don’t want to do it, as you’re too busy bribing him, making him compromise, and letting him know you’re the boss.

Plus, it’s pretty hard to impart fear in someone when you’re elbow-deep in toilet water.

Now go and prosper and be happily married.  You can send your thank you gifts directly to me.  Cash is best.  Or burritos.  If you send cash, I’ll use it to buy burritos.


Secrets to happy marriage

What my call history says about me

The National Security Agency (NSA) is apparently collecting phone records from millions of Verizon customers.  This comes as part of a top secret court order issued on April 25, 2013.

As a Verizon customer, I’m not overly concerned about the data collection, as I have nothing to hide, other than a few extra pounds, of course.

Don’t worry, though.  I hide those under flowy shirts and long dresses.  Let’s keepthat top secret.

What I’m more concerned about is what my call data says about me, and what NSA will gleam from my phone records.

So, I decided to take a look at my call history over the last few days to see what kind of data is being collected on me, and what kind of profile would be created based upon such data.

I’m so patriotic.

The results were disturbing, but then again, if you read my blog and/or posts, you already knew that.  Here’s what my investigation revealed.

<Cue ominous music>

Over the last several days, I’ve made a number of calls to food establishments.

This is yet another example of my patriotism.  From calling to obtain hours of operation, to asking if I can use expired coupons from a competing chain, to making reservations under the name “Ivana Humpyu,” the number of calls I’ve made to restaurants is a bit embarrassing.  As a result, I won’t disclose that information.

Side note:  I’m beginning to think my extra pounds and my personal goal to eat the entire contents of a buffet table may be logically related.

Second side note:  Ponderosa does not accept expired coupons from Old Country Buffet.  Who knew?  Apparently Ponderosa did.

In addition to food related calls, I also saw an abundance of calls to my doctor.

Granted, there’s a perfectly good reason for the calls, but it still looked suspicious nonetheless.  And no, it wasn’t for warts.

I got those taken care of last visit.

There were also several calls made to Los Angeles in an effort to locate Ryan Gosling’s agent.  I can no longer contact Ry-Ry personally, as the restraining order specifically prohibits “any contact of any kind.”

So until the restraining order is released (come on 2015!), I will continue to stalkcall his agent for updates on Ry-Ry’s whereabouts.If you ask me, Ryan overreacted when he found me taking a much-needed soak in his tub.  Apparently he’s a shower kind of guy.  Noted.

It’s not a crime to end up at the same place he does, right?  (According to the LAPD, itis a crime if there’s a court order in effect.  Pft!)

That’s as far as I got in my phone record investigation.  At that point I decided I was hungry and needed to order a pizza, follow up with my doctor on that prescription ointment, and then send my love to Ry-Ry.

See?  A totally normal call history.

sucker1They say there’s a sucker born every minute.  I don’t know if that’s true, and I don’t know if that cliche is talking about people or actual suckers.

I hope it’s referring to people and not actual suckers, as I would think  more than one lolly pop a minute would need to be born in order to meet the public’s demand.  (By the public, I mean me.  I love me some suckers.)

<unwraps third sucker of the day>

Speaking of suckers, two amazingly hilarious websites have agreed to allow me to grace their pages with my ridiculousness.  Yeah, they clearly had a moment of weakness.

Granted, it’s probably because I weakened them by reading my blog aloud to them in a British accent; just as my blog is meant to be read.

Regardless of the reason, they responded to my threats request, and agreed to bring me on.

kid looking with binoculorsSuckas!

So please check out these two amazing websites, as both are hi-larious.

The first one is In The Powder Room, which is a page with shorter posts (500 words or less).  I know!  Can you believe I can limit myself to 500 words?  They struck a mean bargain.

My first post is about the interesting aroma in the air in NYC in spring.  Semen.  It’s semen, people.

Yes, I cite a legitimate website and article and this is actually a legitimate thing.  Just read about it.

dog looking at computerThe second site is Humor Outcasts, which is a funny website that has varying articles, columns, small quips, etc.

It’s a great site where you can spend hours reading all different kinds of things.

My first post there is what I think should be on Kim Kardashian’s baby’s registry.  I also coin the name “Baby Karwestian,” which I think is going to go viral.

I mean, come on.  That name is brilliant.

So please check out these posts and support me in my writings there.  I don’t want to get kicked out of The Powder Room and it would just be embarrassing to be outcast from a place with “outcast” in the name.

baby looking at computerNot to be confused with the rapper, OutKast.

So unwrap those suckers and read some of my posts.  And then comment and say how much you love them; unless you hate them.

Then just lie.

Christmas EveFor those of you who regularly read this blog, you know my husband frequently says some funny $hit.  You also know that I’m a complete fricking mess and the biggest mystery of all is why my husband stays with me.

That’s a different post for a different day.  I suspect a mental health professional(s) will be needed for that analysis.

Whenever my husband says something particularly inspiring ridiculous funny, I write it down in my phone so I can refer to it later.

Okay, I don’t actually write it down, but I type it into my phone, cursing the iPhone for not knowing what I want to type and cursing my mom for giving me fat fingers.

I suffer through all of this so I can write one of these fabulous posts that you all love so much.  You’re welcome.

So here are more funny things my husband said when he wasn’t trying to be funny.  Yes, all of these are true, and yes, I also can’t believe he wasn’t snatched up before I found him.

The religious type

While driving around looking for a parking spot in a nearly full lot, my husband saw an open spot and went to pull into it.  He then saw the sign stating it was  “Clergy Parking Only.”

Matt:  “Damnit clergy!”

DSC00319Master of Puns

Matt:  “Who was that?”

Lisa:  “Someone wanting us to switch our credit card to a zero interest card for 9 months.”

Matt:  “Did you tell her we had zero interest in that plan? ” (grins sheepishly)

Vegetable lover

After not receiving his pad Thai with vegetables,

Matt: “I don’t need any of those bullshit veggies in my way.”

Financial Planner

Matt:  “I wish we had millions. I’d buy a f*cking wave runner. I’ve always wanted a wave runner.”

DSC00937Timeless Classic

While looking at shrubs for sale at the store, and staring at the shrubbery/bushes.

Matt:  “That’s a big bush. Like 1970s bush.”

Inspirational Coach

Matt:  “Did you ever read that thing I sent you via email?

Lisa:  “No, what was it?”

Matt: “It was uplifting, goddamn it.”

Trend Setter

Matt:  “I had a fanny pack when I was younger. It was cool and I put my Velcro wallet in it.

DSC00463Fun Police

Matt:  “Why is that guy being so loud?

Lisa: “He’s just trying to have fun.”

Matt:  “He’s doing it wrong.”


Lisa:  “I like this bedspread. It’s not masculine but it’s not feminine either.”

Matt:  “Aw, you just described me.”

Friend to Everyone

Matt:  “He’s a nice guy.”

Lisa:  “He defriended me on FB.”

Matt:  “F*ck that guy.”

Sound Machine

Matt:  “I’m just laying here making noises. Why is that creepy?”

Aren’t you inspired?  Me too.  I’m sure there are more, but my fat fingers just couldn’t record the comments fast enough.  That, and I didn’t want to put down my ice cream to type with both  hands.

I just wasn’t willing to make that sacrifice.

Don’t worry, though.  There will be more of these.  There always are.

funny crap my husband says, May 2013


Back CameraThis Memorial Day, my friend St. Frick (not his real name), invited us to his house for a pool party.  St. Frick is known for his ability to throw amazing parties (and his ability to shove five profane words into a sentence comprised of only three words.  It’s a talent).

We knew we would be in for a good time and we knew the only logical answer was to tell him we would be there.

We arrived at his place and discovered he and some other friends were already in the pool.  Judging by the various beer cans strewn about, they also appeared to have started the party without us (although I still contend a party doesn’t start until I arrive).

I immediately headed to the pool house to grab some libations and catch up with our friends.  I opened the refrigerator and this is what I saw:

At first I thought they were sliced lemons, which would go nicely with my Grey Goose, but upon closer inspection I realized they weren’t lemons, but Jello shots in a lemon rind.

Is that what it’s called?  A rind?

I was beside myself with joy.

Back CameraI decided to try one of them immediately.  After all, I didn’t want to be rude.  I was his guest and I was raiding his fridge to see what free stuff I could find.

What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t do a Jello shot (or three)?

They were delicious.  I decided to have a few more and bring them poolside for others to enjoy.  They were refreshing and alcohol laden, which are two of my favorite things.

I grabbed a couple more and sat on the edge of the pool.  It was like I was being healthy and eating fruit by the pool…if fruit was made of three parts gelatin and two parts vodka.  (If it was, I would eat a lot more fruit).

What kind of person comes up with this idea?  Obviously an awesome person.  I just didn’t know who would be brilliant enough to come up with this recipe.

Normally, if I’m motivated enough to make Jello, it’s done in a dirty bowl with cracks at the bottom courtesy of the time one of my dogs used it as a chew toy.

Don’t judge.  The bowl still works…just think twice about eating Jello when you come to my house…and watch for dog hair.

Back CameraDo you see these amazing Jello shots?  Look how perfectly sliced they are!

Upon closer inspection, I was amazed to discover there were no slices of skin on them, nor were there bloody lemon peels (or rinds.  Are we calling them rinds?).

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m pretty sure I would slice a finger straight off if I was going to slice up these lemon Jello shots.

Naturally, it would be my husband’s finger I sliced, and not mine.  After all, he would be the one holding the lemons while I sliced them.

After several Jello shots, a girl can’t be expected to hold the lemons steady.

Oh yeah, I may have forgotten to mention that when I make Jello shots I’m usually wasted on several of the shots by the time we get to the slicing portion of the recipe.

But everyone is like that, right?

recycleAs if these delicious gems of goodness weren’t already perfect, I realized there was another plus to them.  They are environmentally friendly!

You know my love of animals and of this beautiful planet (which is made even more beautiful by the presence of Jake Gyllenhaal and Andrew Garfield).

So with this recipe I can load up on liquor without feeling guilty about the environment.

I don’t need to be worried about filling the landfill with little Jello shots cups (mostly because when I eat these I will be too blitzed to think straight).

Actually,I’m probably helping the environment by doing Jello shots this way.  I am using biodegradable material for good use, while also supporting recycling.

I’m so considerate.

This is yet another way to give back to Mother Earth while drinking to excess.  Who knew being an environmentalist would be so fun?

The best lemon jello shotsDoes this mean I can stop shaving my arm pits?

Another bonus to these shots is that neighbors going through my trash (or just looking out their window to see me sprawled out on the lawn), won’t judge me for the large amount of plastic containers strewn about me and my body.

Rather, they will assume my drinking caught up with me and my liver finally gave out.  This makes for a peaceful afternoon nap on the front lawn…the perfect way to spend a Saturday.

What’s that you say?  Your neighbors don’t go through your trash?  Sure.

Whatever.  Keep telling yourself that, but do yourself a favor and go outside some night and see if your Us Weekly magazines are still in your trash can.

My guess is they’re not, as the nosy neighbor down the street wants to keep up with the Kardashians but can’t afford a magazine subscription (or cable…or the internet….those fricking Kardashians are everywhere).

So since I’m totally awesome and you guys are just dying to know how these Jello shots are made, I will tell you.  It’s actually fairly easy.  Here it goes:


1.  Cut several lemons in half. (You can also uses oranges, limes or watermelons)
2.  Scoop out the insides of each half lemon so it’s hollow.  (I suggest dumping the insides of the lemon into a large container of Grey Goose and water.)
3.  Make Jello as per the instructions.  (If you are making this for a party that I will be attending, please multiply the alcohol content by two.  Who am I kidding?  Multiply it by three.)
4.  Pour the liquid Jello into the halves, making sure not to overfill them.
5.  Place the lemon halves in muffin pans to hold them upright.
6.  Place the lemon halves in the refrigerator and allow the Jello to set.
7.  Once the Jello is done,  remove the lemon halves and slice the halves into smaller pieces.

Yes, it’s that easy.  I know.  Can you believe it?

And if you make this recipe, I will require you to bring over the equivalent of three whole lemons of Jello shots.

You didn’t think you were going to get this recipe entirely for free, did you?

Party like it's 1999For some reason, my husband and I have amazingly fun friends.  I have no idea how we got so lucky to have so many fun people in our lives.  I like to tell myself it’s this blog that makes me so popular, but I’m pretty sure it’s only popular in retirement homes and prisons (or at least so says my Google Analytics statistics).

So when we were invited to a pre-rehab party at our friends’ new house, we immediately said yes.  Our friends purchased a house and are going to rehab it before moving in.  The party was a christening of sorts, and I couldn’t have been more excited.  A pre-rehab house party is my kind of party.  I could spill wherever and whenever I wanted to.  Perfect.

Because they hadn’t yet moved into the house, we knew it would be a bare bones party.  Don’t worry.  I checked beforehand to make sure food would be served.  Otherwise, our RSVP would have been quite different.  This wasn’t only a BYOB kind of party, but also BYOC (bring your own chair).

Yeah, that kind of party.  I considered bringing bean bag chairs but figured they would be hard to transport and I knew if I sat in one of those after a few drinks I would never get back out again. (They seriously suck you in…like a cult, or True Blood.)

My husband and I packed our cooler full of libations, grabbed our portable chairs, and headed to the party.  We pulled up to the new house and had to check the address more than once.  Was this really the house they bought?  It was huge and glorious.

Before we even got out of the car we deemed our friends “assholes” for buying such an amazing house.  Part of me wanted to go back home in protest of their new mansion, but I already knew what appetizers were being served and I’m a girl who can be persuaded by french onion dip.  (Always. I can always be persuaded by french onion dip.)

When we walked in the door the house’s awesomeness pretty much punched us in the face. It was a home built in the early 1900s and was enormous.  It had a glorious staircase and a beautiful sitting room with an old time stove.

There were massive windows that were open and bare, without curtains cluttering the view.  The only things missing were Mammy and Miss Scarlett.  (Since there were no curtains, I assumed this home was Tara after the war.)

We took a tour of the house, cursing our friends with each new room we saw.  Almost every entrance to a new room started with one of us emphatically shouting “God dammit!”  It was especially painful when we discovered their master bathroom was larger than both of the rooms in our 2 bedroom house.  Ouch.

After realizing we aren’t doing anything with our lives, we headed back to the main floor to drown our sorrows in alcohol.  By that time, the music had started and my friend Trainwreck (not his real name) was on the mic (and by “mic” I mean he plugged his iPod into the speakers).  Trainwreck has music ADD.

I’m not sure if that’s a medical diagnosis, or something we made up after a few cocktails.  Either way, the bottom line is that he can’t listen to an entire song without changing it. I’m sure on a long road trip this type of characteristic would be annoying, but for a house party, it was awesome.

He knew how to jam and soon there was a circle of people in a room hanging out and screaming the lyrics to “Gangsta Paradise.”  Of course, we weren’t in a circle dancing, we were in a circle sitting in our comfortable chairs.  After all, we aren’t kids anymore.  We have back issues.  (Okay, maybe not everyone has back issues, but this girl’s sciatica can be a real bitch).

dancingIt felt like it was the 90s and we were back in high school and someone’s parents were out of town.  We rocked out to Snoop Dogg and sipped our gin and juice, checking bedrooms occasionally to make sure two couples hadn’t snuck off to get frisky.  Considering nearly everyone at this party was married, we realized it was a slim possibility but we wanted to live like high schoolers again so we pretended.

The dance party raged on, and although Kid n Play didn’t make an appearance, we had a great time anyway.  My husband and I  left the party with mixed emotions.  We were happy to have lived like high schoolers for a night, but we were also bummed to leave the mansion and head back to our 2 bedroom home.  We got in the car and blasted TuPac.  It took away most of the sting.

I’m holding!  Well, sort of.  Right now the only thing I’m holding is a glass of lemonade and a Snickers bar, but I could be holding a gun too (although the handle would probably be smeared in chocolate).

I recently visited my friend, Kvothe, in our nation’s great capital.  I was there over July 4th, and I figured what better way to celebrate another year of freedom in this great country of ours than by learning to shoot a weapon.

Nothing says “happy birthday USA” quite like a rim shot from a revolver, and that’s exactly what I gave her.  (I didn’t want to give her a gift that she would return, like a sweater or the new Justin Beiber album).

My friend Kvothe (not her real name), is from Pennsylvania, which makes her super cool and not a Quaker. Seriously, I can’t emphasize enough that she is not a Quaker.

Kvothe’s father, Jack Byrnes (not his real name), is apparently quite the marksman.  He holds several national records for shooting and although he adamantly denies it, I’m pretty sure he’s in the CIA…or at least a contract killer.  Based upon this reason alone, I was super nice to him (and slept with my door locked).

At some point during my visit, Jack Byrnes asked if I wanted to learn to shoot a gun.  Um, yes please.  Obviously he was recruiting me for his secret government work.  It’s the only logical explanation.
He probably observed me slyly get up in the middle of the night and eat the rest of the homemade scones.  (Who wouldn’t do this?) I thought I did so without being observed, but apparently Big Brother is everywhere (and on three times a week on CBS!)

I told him I would love to learn to shoot guns.  I considered asking him if I could dress up like a gansta for the shooting session but thought better of it.  I didn’t know if his experience as an obvious trained assassin would put me in jeopardy with this type of clothing.  (Jack Byrnes swears he works with computers, but his sharpshooting skills suggest otherwise.)

The morning of the lesson we sat down with different guns and went over how each gun shoots, what kind of bullets are used and how to operate them safely.  Yeah, like we really need to go over safety.  I think we know I’m not that big of a liability for disaster.  Wait…maybe it was a good idea.

After we went over all the features of the weapons, we headed out to the shooting range.  It was in a secluded area and as we drove out in Jack Byrnes’ mini van (yes, a mini van…to keep us off the scent of his real job), I considered for a brief moment that perhaps he had a contract out on my life and this was the end for me.

I would go out in a blaze of glory in a maroon Town and Country mini van with cloth seats and a “Who rescued who” bumper sticker on the back…just as I always pictured it.  But then I realized that would be ridiculous because I’m far too awesome to want to “off.”  I dismissed the thought and focused on the guns.

We arrived at the shooting range and the fun began immediately.  I put on the sweet 80s headphones that were supposed to be for ear protection, but I think were really a throw back to DJ Jazzy Jeff.  I fist pumped and sang a chorus of “Parents Just Don’t Understand” and then grabbed a gun.

At first I was a bit shy about shooting because I was scared of the kickback.  The guns were powerful and I knew the kickback would be strong, but I didn’t know how strong.  Jack Byrnes sensed my hesitation (probably because he’s trained to do so), and he told me to think about something that made me mad and then pull the trigger.

So many things irritate me.  Long lines at Chipotle, bars that don’t serve Grey Goose and the entire cast of Glee ran through my mind.

That did it.  I pulled the trigger and I never felt so alive!  The kickback was strong but those stolen scones from the night before gave me the strength to handle it.

I shot again and again, getting better each time.  After each round I went to the target (not the store) and was surprised to discover I actually wasn’t that bad of a shot.  Immediately I texted my  husband and told him to shape up or deal with my wrath.  I’m sure he peed himself when he received it.

So all of you out there need to watch yourselves.  Now that I’ve been trained by a marksman and alleged computer expert (but probable CIA agent), the sky is the limit for me.

So if you want to make fun of this blog, beware.  (Although it would be a super easy target.)  I may be packing heat at any time and just might work towards my Conceal and Carry license.

day at the spa

I enjoy the finer things in life.  It’s why I refuse to buy the store brand of peanut butter.  (Don’t even think of convincing me that stuff tastes anything like Jif.)  I have become accustomed to a certain life style.  Wait, perhaps I should clarify.

I like things that make me feel good (and full).  I have no problem spending money on things that fall into those categories.  However, things that don’t fall into those categories typically fall by the waste side.  It’s why you will never see me wearing an outfit free of at least one stain or deodorant mark, and why I consider anything less than 5 years old “totally in fashion this season.”

But when it comes to pampering myself, I cut no corners.  I’m a regular spa goer and I don’t care who knows it.  (Okay, maybe a little I care, as I took a spa day recently on a Thursday, and I don’t want my boss to know.  But aside from him…I don’t care who knows it!)

I decided I needed a break from the day-to-day drudgery that is my life, which basically consists of working, complaining, and cleaning up dog excrement.

To reward myself for not totally losing my mind, and for not cursing out the dry cleaners for what I can only describe as date rape on my checkbook, I booked myself a 90 minute massage at The Four Seasons and set out for a day of relaxation and serious price gouging.  (Five dollars for a Diet Coke and it doesn’t even have alcohol in it?  No thank you!)

On my way to the spa, I called in my order for lunch.  I realized this made me look like a total douche to the staff, but I didn’t care.  I figured if I worked in a spa, I would consider all the patrons total douchebages regardless of whether they pre-ordered a salad or not.

I was prepared to deal with their judging eyes.  I was used to it, since I always request a man’s robe when I get there.  (They are so much roomier and have bigger pockets to steal the free mints.)

I arrived, checked in and headed to the locker room.  The attendant followed me, despite the fact she knew I was a regular customer.  Perhaps my stained sweatpants and disheveled hair suggested I was someone who might steal a towel or two (I was).

outside spaWhen we got to the locker area, she looked at me and said “Do you remember how to work the lockers?”

Um, do I remember how to operate something that requires only minimal finger dexterity and the IQ of one of those sweet bottles of lotion I was going to swipe?  Yeah, I got it.  I told her I could handle it and she walked away.

I switched into my robe and headed to one of the relaxation rooms to wait for my food.  I sat down and began chatting with two women who were also getting their relaxation on.  They just had massages and seemed totally relaxed (the bottle of wine they were sharing seemed to be helping in that regard).

I liked them immediately.  We began doing what I call “the spa talk,” which is where we all pretend that being at the spa is a totally normal thing and we aren’t totally freaking out inside because the bath towels smell like eucalyptus.

(Seriously, how do they do that?  And now you know why I steal.)   The “spa talk” typically includes comments about other spas and services, which is just a way for the spa goer to legitimize themselves to another spa person.  It’s like how the mafia is with foot soldiers, or how Jessica Simpson is with everyone.

We chatted for a while and then I was called away for my lunch, which was a $28 vegetarian Cobb salad with a water.  Seriously.  That’s what it cost.  I’m convinced they are in cahoots with my dry cleaner.

I scarfed down the salad in approximately 3 bites, and then to fill myself up, ate the entire basket of bread.  Did you really think I would eat just a salad for lunch?  Oh, that’s so cute.

I was then “collected” for my massage by my favorite masseuse, Mary, who is older than my mom but has hands like a Hungarian baker.  I love her and her outdated Birkenstocks (even I know those are out of style.  Get with it Mary.)

After the service I changed into my suit and headed out to the pool for some sun (and a nap).  I walked through the cafe area on my way to the pool and noticed the two women I spoke to earlier.  They were finishing up their lunches and drinking what I can only assume was another bottle of wine.

We chatted about my service and how fabulous it was.  I told them I was headed to the pool for some fresh air (and because I was gassy) and that they should join me, but sit downwind.  They agreed and collected their things.  As they did so, I looked at one of the other tables and noticed a full glass of champagne, along with an empty glass and an open bottle.

“What’s the story here?” I asked, as I slid over to the table.

“Oh, a woman sat there waiting for a guy who never came.  She drank her glass and then left,” they said, with pity in their voice for the girl who was ignored and was most likely in the bathroom cutting herself at that exact moment.

I wanted to feel sorry for her.  I did.  But all that came out was “So….where are we on this champagne?”

They looked at me and one of them said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we…”

champagne photoBefore they finished the sentence I picked up the full glass of bubbly and took a drink.  It was delicious, and definitely didn’t taste like the $2.99 gas station brand of which I’ve grown to love.

I looked up at them, expecting to see judgment in their eyes.  Instead, I found approval.  Without another word, we all 3 moved quickly, grabbed glasses and the bottle of champagne and headed to the pool on the roof.

We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking someone else’s champagne, chatting, and enjoying the sun and the pool.  The three of us realized we got along great, and had similar personalities (the similarity being that we were all awesome).

When the day drew to a close (which was coincidentally when the alcohol ran out), we said our goodbyes and parted ways.  But not before scheduling another spa day for the three of us.  No joke.

We are scheduled to return in three weeks, and this time, we are hoping two different women get stood up for lunch.  Although would it kill a girl to order a bottle of Grey Goose instead of champagne next time?  Here’s to hoping!


After finishing our strenuous day of napping, Matt and I decided we needed to get ready for our Saturday night plans. For some reason, we manage to have amazingly awesome friends. I have no idea how this happens, but somehow it does.

We try not to understand it, but just go with it instead. It’s one of the world’s greatest unsolvable mysteries, like how Stonehenge was created, or how the Kardashians remain famous.

No matter the reason, we count our blessings that we have such amazing friends, and go to whatever events they invite us to. This past Saturday, we were invited to a large party at some friends’ house. They have a group that goes to fish frys every Friday night during Lent and eats and drinks heavily during that time (and in between that time…and before that time…and after that time…)

They call themselves The Tilapia Mafia and they are awesome.  They even have t-shirts and sweatshirts for those lucky enough to become “made” into the group.  Since Lent recently ended, our friends threw a Tilapia Mafia Last Supper at their house.

It was complete with a large fish fry, several kegs of good beer and tons of food. Since our friends are classy, there was also flippy cup games and beer pong. I know, classy, right?

We pulled up to the party and I gave the pep talk I give my husband before every fun event we somehow get invited to. It goes something like this: “Don’t fuck this up. Seriously. We don’t want these people to realize we aren’t cool, and if they do, I’m blaming it on you. So put your game face on and don’t be a bitch about it.”

Inspiring huh?

scoldWe headed inside and were greeted by the smell of alcohol and fried food…two of my favorite things.  The food spread was amazing and laid out in the kitchen, where we immediately went to stuff our faces.  No walk around the house to say hello to people, no chit chat about the weather.  (It rained that day.  What’s there to discuss?)

We figured we would cut to the chase and immediately begin gorging ourselves on dinner. After all, we didn’t want to be rude to our hosts and not eat.  Since one of the hosts was a chef, we figured it would be a slap in the face to her if we didn’t gobble up everything she set out to eat.  We’re considerate friends that way.

After eating a plateful of food (or two plates full…don’t judge), we decided to walk around and mingle a bit.  We filled our drinks and headed to the back yard to chat and pretend as if we weren’t both wondering when the dessert would be revealed.

We started chatting with a woman on the deck who was drinking beer and chatting about the “good ole days” of getting drunk in college.  I loved her immediately.  After chatting about our favorite fast food restaurants to crash at 2:00 a.m. (Del Taco and Jack in the Box).

I asked her what she did for a living.  She looked at me dead serious and said “I’m a microbiologist.”

Um, what?!  Who says that?  I kind of chuckled and made some comment about how I was the inventor of the push up bra,  and then I realized she was serious.  She was actually a microbiologist.  Frickety frick!  I knew that profession existed but I didn’t know anyone who actually did such a thing.  It was like meeting a Muppet!

I feel like a microbiologist is one of those professions kids say they want to be when they grow up, but don’t really know what it is or that it requires studying and a coke habit to get through school.  No wait…that’s a lawyer.  (Who would fathom being such a ridiculous profession as a lawyer anyway?)

I couldn’t believe I was talking to a real microbiologist, and I commented something to that effect.  I looked to the people standing around and asked what the chances were of actually meeting a microbiologist at a party.

Two of the others standing in the group chimed in and said they were also microbiologists.  What?!   This was getting freaky.  I immediately scanned the room for other professionals I didn’t think existed, like astronauts, or honest politicians.  None of those were found.

I slithered away from the conversation with the microbiologists, as I didn’t want to put myself in a situation to look even dumber than I already did.  Who knew I would be surrounded by people who had what I believed to be fictional jobs?


I walked around and located my husband.  He was at the flippy cup table trying to explain to the German national how to play.  My husband was several beers in and at that point couldn’t tell you what brand of beer he was drinking, let alone how to play a drinking game.

The fact the guy he was speaking to was from Germany and spoke broken English didn’t help.  It was like watching Paris Hilton try to understand anything at all.  Seriously.

After my drunk husband proceeded to stumble (literally) through the explanation, the German (not his real name), gave the flippy cup game a try.  After a few rounds of trying, and my husband yelling profanity in the German’s ear in an effort to motivate him, the German became frustrated and yelled in a thick German accent “I’ve never been flipping these cups before!

At first I thought there was going to be a smack down between my husband and the German, but it appeared as if my drunk husband had a bond with the German and they were determined to make it work.

They practiced a little longer and then got a group together to play flippy cup…the way that all young professional people in their 30s do at a party inspired by religious events.

beer steinAfter several rounds of flippy cup, and what I can only assume were curse words from the German, my husband retreated from flippy cup defeated…and drunk.  My husband doesn’t get drunk very often, but when he does, it’s a sight to see.  Everyone else loves Drunk Matt, except for Sober Lisa.

Sober Lisa isn’t so much a fan, as she has to watch him all night to make sure he doesn’t pee on something he’s not supposed to, or punch someone in the face.  It’s like babysitting a 5 year old, only most five year-olds don’t randomly yell profanity and dry hump anything that moves.

As the night wore on, the drinks continued to flow for my husband, and I knew it was time to go when he kept randomly yelling “Damn it German!” whenever the German entered the room.  I gathered my drunk hubby and said goodbye to everyone.

We headed to the front of the house to gather our things from the living room.  We walked into the room and discovered a drunk man sitting on the couch staring at the wall.

When we entered the room he immediately said “Damn it!” quite loud.  I looked around for the German, as I figured my husband’s trend of offensive yelling had caught on, but I didn’t see him.  I asked the stranger if everything was okay, and he said it wasn’t.

He said he had farted and did so in the living room because no one was there, and that we messed up his perfect farting spot by entering when we did.  He seemed legitimately pissed about it.

We apologized and advised we would hold our noses and retreat immediately without telling anyone about his secret spot (as if the permeating smell of rotting pumpkin mixed with Stetson and Jim Beam wouldn’t alert others to his farting locale).  I grabbed my husband and headed to the car, doing my best to convince him to stop yelling “Heil the German” as we walked down the city street.

Fortunately we made it to our car safely, which was a bit of a miracle considering most people would probably take my husband’s yelling offensive instead of endearing comments about his new friend.  I like to think criminals were deterred from approaching us because my blabbering husband appeared crazy…but it also could be because we probably totally reeked of crazy guy’s farts.



mardi gras maskAfter we left the wrong house, and successfully convinced the homeowners not to press charges for breaking and entering, we walked to the front and were once again greeted by the crazy hopscotch lady.  And by “greeted” I mean “assaulted.”

The Nudist and I decided we would take a chance and ask her for directions to the address we were looking for.  We hoped that our question about directions would divert her away from the fact that she never successfully forced us to play hopscotch.

I showed her the address and she grabbed the paper out of my hand, as if it had the secret to life on it, or maybe just the ending to the last Harry Potter book.  Seriously, who dies?

now!She stared at the address and then told us to go down the street, to the left, and down the alley.  Simple enough.  A normal person would have said thank you, held onto her purse tightly, and walked away.  But of course, I’m not a normal person.  Regular?  Yes.  Normal?  No.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fresh smell of urine from the street corner; but whatever the reason, I decided it would be a good idea before we left to make a joke to the crazy lady…the crazy lady who tried to force us to play hopscotch…the crazy lady who I was partially sure was attempting to hatch babies in her basement at that exact moment.

I looked at her and said “You aren’t sending us down a dark alley so you can rob us and have your way with us are you?”

I know.  I’m an idiot.  She looked at me as if I was the crazy one, and not her, who was sporting knee highs and a dress that any young Pilgrim would have envied.

The Nudist slowly began backing away from me, no doubt to avoid the splatter of brain matter that would inevitably occur when my skull was bashed open by the hopscotch enthusiast.

The crazy hopscotch lady looked at me with anger in her eyes, although it could have been a reaction from the chalk dust. She said “Clearly you don’t live in the city.”  What?!  I don’t, but that has nothing to do with my question.

I was trying to make a joke.  A bad joke, yes, but a joke nonetheless.  I was trying to make her laugh, and she didn’t seem like she would respond well to the chicken crossing the road stories that are so hilarious.

I wanted to respond sarcastically that I thought we were going to be robbed in the middle of the day among hundreds of thousands of people.  And even if we were robbed, it wasn’t like we had anything of value with us anyway, unless she counted my purse full of binging food for drunken snacking.

Seriously lady?  Get it together.

streetsSince there was no way to recover from the bad joke and the crazy hopscotch lady’s anger, we retreated quickly down the alley, hoping for the comfort of a mugging to make us feel more alive.

Fortunately, we arrived at our friend Ore Ida’s house (not her real name), without any further difficulty or illegal trespassing.  We found her in the basement with her husband, making gallons of hurricanes…just like a good host does.

This is one of the reasons I love her so much…she knows how to make a mixed drink.

I watched her pour 2 bottles of liquor into the concoction and immediately poured myself a glass of delicious goodness.  I wanted to drink some of it before it disappeared, and I also wanted to take the edge off after the hopscotch debacle.

We slammed a drink or two and then headed down to the parade to observe the drunk mayhem.  On the way to the parade we were propositioned to show our boobs for what appeared to be a half eaten sucker and Mardi Gras beads that had been making the rounds since I was in diapers and not just a few weeks ago when I had the stomach flu.

We kept walking, declining the invitation to flash a couple thousand people on a street corner.  Ore Ida advised that the woman asking to see boobs was an equal opportunity offender, and frequently asked to see penises as well.

Sure enough, we heard her proposition some young guys to show their genitalia in return for some beads and a glimpse at the old woman’s cleavage.  They too, declined, much to our chagrin.

beadsAfter the parade we headed to the next party on our list. The list that was scrutinized by the crazy hopscotch lady, and was partially covered in chalk…and most likely a spell she’d cast.

I wasn’t sure where the next location was, but a friend of mine at Ore Ida’s place had already been to the second party, so she walked there with us.  As we walked, I pointed to a building down the street, and reminisced about a Mardi Gras from days past, where my friends and I snuck into an awesome party undetected.

Somehow, we managed to sneak into an amazing party a few years ago that had covered areas in the backyard and a heated tent filled with food and bottles of liquor.  Part of me wondered if that actually happened or if it was a dream, but the photos from that day confirmed we successfully penetrated the party.

The photos also confirmed that I don’t look good without a bra….and that whiskey makes me dance…and the combination of the two is less than attractive.

As I spoke about the amazing party from a couple years back, we approached the second party.  As I walked up, I noticed the covered areas in the backyard and the heated tent filled with food and bottles of liquor….wait a minute….OMG!

The second party was the party I crashed a few years back!  Memories of gyrating to Elton John came flooding back, and I secretly wondered if the homeowners ever got the smell of my farts out of their sofa.  If experience is any indicator, chances are they didn’t.

We approached the front door and were met by a police officer, who asked if our names were on the list for the party.  Clearly the homeowners got smart and decided to have security to keep out the riff raff, which in this scenario, would be me.  Fortunately, I now know the homeowners, and my name was on the list.

copThe cop gave us wrist bands and granted us entrance to the party but only after commenting on The Nudist’s appearance and failing miserably at an attempt to get her number.

We found one of the homeowners almost immediately, and he gave us a tour of the house.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him I knew his house quite well, especially the cold tile in the bathroom on the second floor.  It hugged my face in just the right way.

He walked us around the house and took us to the backyard where the fabulous party was in full swing.  I looked around and confirmed that this was the location of my prior trespassing at a previous Mardi Gras.

Now that I’m thinking about it, I seem to have a trend of entering homes uninvited each year of Mardi Gras….

sending textWe stayed for a while until I got a text from my husband asking me where I was.  I told him I was at the second party, and he should join us, but he said he wanted to go to “the big party.”  I told him to head there and we would be there shortly.

We said our goodbyes and left the second party to head to “the big party” to meet my husband and our other friends.  I knew the party would be big (hence the clever name).

I knew the party would be a bit crazy.  But I had no idea just how crazy, and awesome, the party would be, although I was about to find out…