Resolution Solution

I was recently asked to speak to a group of women about marketing a new home based business. I was told I would be on at 12:30 for a roughly 30 minute talk. Somehow wires crossed (a nice way to say someone fucked up royally) and in actuality I was suppose to be speaking at 11:00. (I swear it was 12:00, I have the original phone notes…honest)!

I walked in a mere hour late to a silent room of 250 women with empty plates and clinking forks. Once spotted, I heard a gasp as if they saw the second coming of Christ. (Unless you re Jewish, in that case it would be the first)

Then a … “Oh thank God she’s here! Let’s give a warm round of applause for our key note speaker Lisa Wynn”! I hear a few lame claps among whispers.

There I stood in my winter coat holding a bag of literature blinking in the doorway of the County Convention Center, feeling as if I were in a bad naked dream where you can’t locate a classroom and your legs won’t move.

The only thing missing was that feeling of falling.

In dead silence I walked up to the podium as if walking to the gallows. It was so quiet I could hear my hair grow.

Where were my damn notes.. in my purse? I began to dig now. I unearth a pen with two TUMS stuck to the side of it and a dried up lip-gloss wand.

I did what I do best when befuddled or ready to cry.

I made some lame joke about embracing your inner Franklin Planner and how my speech was about becoming a successful business person, which included confirming things.

I was pitting out my new red shirt.

And here I thought I was running early and stopped at Wendy's to down a chicken sandwich and a Frosty in the parking lot, while singing to Sisters Sledge on the radio.

Thankfully I recovered quickly and had an hour long lineup of people wanting to talk gleaning 21 new members to my business group.

Somehow, I always fix stuff.

It's the nurse leftover in me. I cannot stop trying. Cannot fail. Nothing can die.

Not on my shift.

My friends and family say I "make them nervous". They ask how things always happen to me that:

A) Don't kill me and

B) I don't wind up in jail for.

Someone said to me today: "Why don't you make a list of New Years Resolutions..you know, be less spontaneous for once."

Ok, for those who really know me, and God help those who are just getting to, I have always been known as a fly-by-the-seat of my pants sorta gal. I don't like structure, or tight schedules. I was forever driving on fumes and getting tragically low in my check book through college and beyond.

Like to three cents.

I have been known to sleep in box cars in Greece, too tired to care that rats shared close quarters, went paddle boating naked in Austria (as a cruise ship strolled by honking its horn with 2000 passengers screaming off one side.) I was held as a prisoner by two mafia members all while refusing to pay extra for "water" at their hotel, I visited 16 countries on $600 and came home with 15 bucks leftover, 600 pictures and a killer tan.


I have held three jobs as a single mother, started six companies over the course of ten years, if I include the cleaning toilets gig, watched people be born and watched people die, navigated the Tokyo subway system at 3am drunk and smoking (I don't even smoke), spent three weeks on Patong Beach Thailand, missing the Tsunami that washed it away by five years,three days and two hours.... swam in a cave in Phi-Phi Island off the coast of Vietnam, and rode an elephant through the rain forest after a mud slide. (Don't ever scream while riding an elephant going up a hill...no traction on those big round feet)

I have successfully changed a tire in the dead of a Minnesota winter on a 79 Dodge Polara at 47 below windchill, broke into and stole blueberry muffins from a bakery after a night of binge drinking with my old roommate Cheryl, ran into Harrison Ford on the beach in La Holla Ca, literally, and almost crashed in a 747 en route to Hawaii in 1986. (Rocking and praying takes on a whole new meaning here...)

Every day is an adventure that I could never plan even if I planned it.... and with that, stuff magically happens to me, good stuff, good people, good times, incredible memories.

Maybe God feels sorry for me and is making up for lost time because he was really busy with other things when I was a kid. Perhaps due to the fact that I was raised by a sect of evangelical freaks who thought dumpster diving was Christmas shopping and powdered milk was good, or knocking the wind out of a kid was fair punishment for not hearing your name when called for dinner.

Whatever the case may be, just maybe he is blessing me now with rich life experiences and good friends.

My brother Jeff regularly mumbles “only you” and rolls his eyes every time I excitedly tell him another "Lisa" story as he likes to call them, which usually consists of how I happened to sit next to Oprah on a misconnect flight from Toledo to Chicago and how she wants me to do all her PR and then hands me the key to her house in case I happen to be in the hood…well not that, but close.

I get pretty lucky not trying, For 2007 will try not to try more. That's when life happens. When we don't plan, resolve, resolute, plot, schedule and make silly lists for ourselves.

I kinda like it that way.

Friends in Deed


The first time I met Brenda, three years ago, we were both standing in my entryway scolding our kids. I knew I liked her right away. She was tough but fair..not a typical mom, no Christmas sweaters, no craft hobbies. She was a personal trainer and coach she said..I was so impressed.

She had fire in her eyes, and a warm smile.

Our boys soon became inseparable. Their typical boyhood antics drove us both crazy. Running through the neighborhood, forgetting everything.... they were all over the board that year.

We were both exhausted.

We instantly bonded at her kitchen table that sweltering hot North Carolina summer.

I, flipping though the pages of her fitness magazines, her crazy running around doing nine things at once while frantically re-pushing the button on her damn Sensio coffee maker as if it were pods of heroin.

Within two years of our friendship, we began acting WORSE then our kids.

I now fully expect Brenda to pull down her jeans and press her white ass against her front door window each time she sees me pull up. She has shamelessly taken off her underware at a fine restaurant without anyone knowing, (skirt) and launched it across the outdoor patio over top of patrons heads. (The manager brought them back to her reminding her of the importance of keeping them on)

We have been known to hold hands in public just to shock, grab each others boobs in pictures, and tear through a store to remodel her entire house in 20 minutes while she was on break from work. (Yes its true, chairs, area rugs, pillows, artwork, plants and a complete Queen sized bedding ensemble)

We soon found out we both share the same passion for writing and escaping life at times, love the beach, NYC, and sometimes even share the same dreams for the future...

We concluded that we don't cook much (we heat) we have testosterone and should have been men minus the "unit" or back hair, working out is a must, and we will buy into any facial product because we are gullible and desperate. (dog shit? For wrinkles? OK I'll take three.)

We have traveled together, laughed together, drank together, told each other our deepest thoughts and biggest secrets and sobbed over hurts. She has read me a Dr. Seuss book as I lay my head in her lap...("oh the places you'll go"...I think I even sucked my thumb...)

I am miss "sassy pants..gotta know what the hell is on your mind".... and she puts up with me.

She looses everything.... and I put up with her..

We honestly share true joy, fun, honesty and gratitude for each others friendship. There is nothing I wouldn't do for her. (OK, I'd donate a kidney but draw the line my Sephora lip plumping lip gloss...she'd loose it in a heartbeat.)

This week we had a photo shoot together for some business promos we had, and a mini fashion shoot I did to send to a local agency who sees a need for a 42 year old women in a much to low-cut vintage dresss... dunno...a print ad for Geritol..? Fiber? (Look she is constipated and still wears polka-dots, walks, talks and smiles)!

We had a blast together that day,..messing around...being stupid... she...trying to make me laugh in the background...

The proofs popped into my email box tonight as I sat curled up in bed with a glass of wine....it brought tears to my eyes and made me smile to realize I had to move 1200 miles from MN just to find her....when I am an old woman I will look at these pictures and know that I lacked nothing in her selfless friendship and I am blessed.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Never ones to spend much time with their grandchildren, my now ex-in-laws were always notorious for the “drive- bys”, zipping past the house, slowing down only to toss birthday gifts out onto the lawn for my then small children.


This annual drive-by was to cover all past birthdays for three grandchildren with clearance rack gifts tied up in Wal-Mart bags.

Usually it was raining.

Sadly my kids would shriek with pleasure seeing the blur of their Grandparents van go by, then run outside to collect the bags littering the rain soaked lawn.

This year is the first year I never have to worry about spending time with my in-laws again, and I would be lying if I said I felt guilty about it. We were always polite to each other, but sometimes you just know when you see life out of a different window.

The holidays were a little odd...a picnic table in a living room for the occasion with several card tables attached, covered with food in bulk containers. A dog on the table surfing the butter, and nobody seems to notice. “Go ahead, pet him so he goes away” my MIL would yell, with chip dip dripping from the corners of her mouth and down her shirt while on her 4th beer.

I fantasized about stabbing her with a Tide Pen.

She is the only woman I know who sets off a smoke alarm before a stove timer.


A paper plate with an entire loaf of white bread is stacked into a teetering tower, exquisitely placed next to a tub of margarine donning a knife jammed into its center. Generic potato chips and a warm six- pack of Cream Soda add to the holiday sparkle. Expired and mutilated olives float lifelessly in a jar next to green Jell-O with shredded carrots, looking like someone’s aquarium froze up.

I am thankful for one thing, if it were a degree above freezing outside, we would be eating in the garage on her set of mismatched TV trays with space heaters. Minnesotans love to entertain in garages. It is actually considered an “outdoor” activity.

With her ever present cigarette dancing from side to side displaying it's amazing three inch ash; I actually witnessed this monstrous ash give up its fight and break off into a bowl of potatoe salad. I watched in horror as she whiped it and the last of the mayonnaise together in one fatal stir.

And all these years I thought it was pepper.


My anger jolted with each visit I always promised myself, “this is the last time I am spending the holidays with the Clampets....who think Chardonnay is a fabric.”

My FIL thought I was an elitist because I had been to a museum, and have 400 per square inch thread count sheets from T.J Maxx.

“Art is for queers, sheets are for sissy’s” he’d say.

He loved to inform me that he had just eaten dinner over the sink, farted in church, drank from the milk carton, and has a urine flow issue.

Because he was into wood work and furniture refinishing, I’d inform him back that I am painting “good wood”, pounding nails into sheet rock and planning to hang pictures without measuring all before getting my nails done.

I say this in jest (who me)? But looking back over the years,I always felt we were not worth the effort to them to make it a special day, wrap a gift, or share a visit with my kids.

I have never met a selfish person who is truly fulfilled with no regrets.

I have noticed something about relationship worthiness. As Antoine de Saint-Exupery said most eloquently ~“The one thing that matters most in a relationship is the effort put towards it.”

Yep, you can measure relationships by one thing: Effort

People may not remember what you do or say to hurt them, but they will always remember how you made them feel.

When someone feels insignificant, they feel undervalued and hurt. Be a giver of more than you take. (Why does "under promise and over deliver" lead to sales success)?Take time to connect with others and cultivate relationships. Relationships require a balanced amount of time and attention.Relationships need continuity.

My in-laws were so sporatic with efforts, they have no foundation with my kids. Everyone looses.

Effort in the dictionary says: An earnest self-less attempt.

The best gift you can give someone this new years season is time and effort.

Lisa ~

PS: Yes. That really IS a real photo of butter from her house and NO they dont read blogs and NO I don't care if they did (evil smile)!

Franny Got New Drapes

I think insanity runs in my family and I am frightened.

Many of my relatives, living or dead, I am starting to see.... are freaks.

My Grandmother, until her death several months ago insisted that "Franny," her next door neighbor for 30 years, would steal the tulip bulbs from her garden at night and replant them in her own. "Nobody has that shade of a Tiger Lily but me." She would scream.

She also insisted that Franny would systematically cut the buttons off my Grandfathers winter jackets in the back hallway when she came to borrow a cup of sugar. Grandma would disappear into the kitchen to fetch the "cover up condiment," and Franny would apparently be madly hacking off buttons with a scissors she brought just for the occasion.

"They were expensive brass buttons, and her son had a military uniform she could use them for....." Grandma would snap after she left.

She began hiding the jacket.

Franny was a red headed Lucille Ball look-a-like who was drunk 100% of the time and smoked three packs of Camels a day. She could hardly stand up let alone cut a button off a coat without amputating all of her fingers.

I clearly remember being about five- years- old sitting on the back stairs watching Franny teeter back and fourth against the door frame smiling at me through watery eyes with lipstick smashed on her teeth.

As a kid, when I would be telling my Grandma a story, thinking she was listening to me and that I had her undivided attention, she would look out the porch window and say "I see Franny got new drapes"...

I also remember sitting on the floor at Grandmas with my brother watching television only to hear my Grandma scream..”I know what you two are doing! Get those hands out of the cookies”!Not even near the kitchen..we would just stare at each other, shrug our shoulders and continue to watch Scooby-Do.

Grandma had many quirks. She used to insist I sleep with no underwear on (only loose PJ pants) because “a vagina needed to breathe..if you don't, you'll just tear that thing right up"

She also refused to leave the house until she had “a good healthy BM”. We would wait for hours playing games on her front porch until we heard her light a match. Then we could leave.

I often wondered what constituted a “healthy BM” in her eyes. A floater? A diver? A sinker? Did it go according to shape, size or color? Smell or length? Did she measure it? Weight it? Poke it with a stick? Photograph it? Chart it? Make a list of averages?

She was consumed with stools and GAVE my mother and her sisters caster oil enemas (key word here is GAVE) until they were 15 years-old. I asked my Mother why she never refused.

She blinked and said “I guess I never thought to”. (Twighlight Zone music playing here…)

I also have a cousin named Karen, whom back when I was about 19, thought that Satan spoke to her through the kitchen table and that her OBGYN was following her a week after giving birth to her son.

Did no one think to themselves… “Gee, maybe we should call a doctor? Maybe she has some postpartum depression, or that she is just frickin INSANE”?? Rumor has it that she ran away with her children and was never seen or heard from again. Did anyone call the police? Was there an ongoing investigation? Hell nooooooo…

Here’s my Mother on the phone with a relative: “So.. Karen never showed up at either of her parents funerals…ya…sure, no idea. Sort of rude donch know?? Ya alrighty, you betcha…bye-bye.”

God help me if I was ever kidnapped.

"Yeah did ya hear? Lisa never showed up after school??... geez...been three weeks now, sorta rude dontcha think? Teenagers..she's such a rebel”….

In the meantime I would be found 30 years later as a maggot infested bag of bones in a 6 foot hole at Black-Dog Park, found by some horrified jogger whose dog stumbled across my skeleton still sporting a plastic head-band and a monogrammed sweater from 1982.

As for Karen, personally I think her equally freaky family or illegal immigrant ass of a husband killed her and she is buried in her a yard in Vienna VA.

I may have been born into a freaky family tree, but thank God I grew my own branch.

Truth or Hair; Are You Pristine Down There?

If you are feeling "kinky" down there, "hair no evil" girlfriend.

I just learned of a new product today from another savvy sisters blog. Ok, when I first heard of "Betty hair Dye...for the hair down there, I have admit to laughing.

I guess The drapes should match the carpet..right?

Then I got to thinking about my own situation. Now I have always been a natural Blonde, with the last several years off admittedly highlighting my hair for some shine, golden highlights and added body...(somehow the extreme damage we pay big bucks for makes styling easier.) But just when I thought I was "up on things," I had an enlightening conversation with my "in the know" sister-in-law. Everything I know about any current trend, I glean from our 20 minute phone conversations griping about carpooling and our combined relatives. It went something like this:

SIL: Oh I have a landing strip now, did I tell you?

Me: A what?

SIL: A landing strip...ya know..down there??

Me: You shaved?

SIL: Noooooo, I had a wax, a semi-Brazilian done at the salon today...it's amazing! Everyone is doing it...sexy, clean, feels nummy in lace....your brother LOVES it!

Me: (Gagging at the visual of my brother even having sex...) "Did it hurt"?

SIL: I don't remember. They gave me lots of Chardonnay while I waited.

After hanging up I immediately raced to the bathroom and stripped naked from the waist down. God dang, is this even acceptable? I mean, I keep the garden trimmed but how much better can a wax job be for $35 plus tip?

I had an appointment within five minutes.

I had never given my pubes much thought with the exception of the regular "gray pube" check because apparently this is where they will spring up first, and when that happens I will simply shit.

The next day, while laying on the wax table I found myself with the same jitters of first time sex, not knowing what to expect, or if my parents would walk in.

I sat in a teeny pair of paper panties with bees imprinted on them, while listening to a vat of 200 degree wax bubble in the corner like a cauldron. The tech walked in, explained the procedure and with the ease and skill of a surgeon began twisting me into impossible positions while slathering me with hot honey wax with a wooden tongue depressor.

Watching this would be every guys dream I thought. I could put this on U-tube.

She next began pressing several (I'm taking like 30) strips of fabric over each tiny wax application, rubbing it and........ R-I-P-P-P....... tore it back. My eyes started to tear up when she moved towards the back end....geez!

I asked for a spinal block. They didn't have one. She gave me more wine.

Now with my new found partial wax jobs (Yes I have done it three times since) I am hooked and cannot imagine NOT doing it. She was right. Something about sliding on a Victoria Secrets lace panty afterwords is an amazing feeling.. even jeans feel great.

Now, apparently there is more work to be done....so I relented and ordered my very own "Blonde Betty" kit tonight. I am going to drink three glasses of wine, get a cab to my next wax job, treat myself to more underware and promptly come home and finish off the landscape myself.

I will blog about the results unless I damage myself beyond repair.

Here is what the owner of "Betty" had to say on her website at: http://bettybeauty.com/our_story.html


"...WOW! Thanks to everyone for your support. Betty is getting so much love and attention! From Vogue Magazine to Daily Candy, fans have been finding out about Betty and reaching out. We have heard from young and old, male and female, from New York to Sydney Australia! Once you try it, please let us know how you like Betty -- your feedback is important. Get your Betty ready!"

Back in New York, I told a salon-owner friend about it. She responded, "I'm sure my clients would love a product like this, and I'd use it myself!" Not only did she like the idea of matching her chestnut brown hair, but also - she confessed - she desperately needed to cover some grays she'd recently discovered down there!

My next stop was to ask a gynecologist friend to estimate the percentage of her clients whose hair down there didn't match the hair on their heads. As it turned out, almost no one matches!

The Mystery of HGUG
 

Every woman knows what HGUG is.

Its the ongoing mystery of "hot guy ugly girl" syndrome. To me it is right up there with other universal mysteries such as "why do bath towels smell funny after one use" and  "why do I always get seated next to people who smell on airplanes".

Women just don't understand what vibes these unattractive mavens emit to gain the undying devotion of a guy who looks like he is a district manager for Hermes or Chang, writes her love letters as hipster Haiku's, knows just how she likes her coffee, rubs her back during a football game and washes her car every Saturday morning in a tight black tank top.

Here is a prime example. Years ago there was a really good looking guy in my department at the airline I worked for.Any of us girls would have licked his spit off the floor just to get a taste of him.

When we heard that Felicia "face-picker" Johnson was engaged to Mr. "we want to smell your neck and taste your spit", none of us believed it, that is until she showed us the rock on her pudgy little finger. Watching her beam from ear to ear in her Christmas sweater with light up snow man, was when I heard the sound of my nervous system collapsing.

I have since wondered what these girls do to get these guys. These girls who are sweet..... but come ON people, we are talking ugly like what happens when first cousins have kids kind of ugly.What do these girls do to get these guys?

Do they make a mean lasagna? Acrobats in the sack?

OK, here is the scary part. I have always thought the guys I dated are hot.But what if I am one of these UG's with an HG and nobody is telling me? What if I am only a 2 on the 1-10 scale? (Yes, every girl secretly wishes she knew her number but is to afraid to ask).

The trick here is to ask a guy what he thinks of another random girl in a restaurant. We choose a girl who is better looking than what we think we are. When he says she's a 9 we can rest assured we are near 7 (If he says 5 it takes a full 30 minutes and two more Gin & Tonics to lubricate my brain that I am a 3.

There is also the reverse problem of HGUG (Hot girl-ugly guy) The beautiful girl with a killer body who laughs at everything "stinky bald guy" says, rests her hand on his arm and swings her flowery smelling tresses, but we all know the answer to that one.

Money.

So with that said, I will continue to wonder what is up with HGUG as I see these mismatched couples frolicking and kissing in the park. And if I am one of them... I never want to know.

Exorcism and Pound Cake


Most of my yoga friends are into the occult on some level; it seems the two go hand- in- hand. Just because you can bend funny, do you need to become a witch?

I'm not much for the stars, it scares me and I know why.


Call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from all the deliverance attempts I watched my mother perform in our living room as I hung over the banister watching at age nine, with my clueless pajama-clad brother next to me, excavating his nose.


I always knew when Mom made coffee and pound cake; Satan was coming to visit.


I guess if you "found Jesus" back in 1974 you must have received some sort of certificate giving you the go ahead to drive out dark forces in a twelve-by-thirteen living room with worn green carpet without a second thought.

I think my mother expected dramatic results of head-spinning-mouth-foaming-seizure-inducing proportions to manifest,but all she got was some lost soul sitting in one of our plaid Lazy-Boys with a cup of coffee in hand, waiting for something to happen.

She would try to practice her new "spiritual gift" on others, sometimes cruising a party listening for any mention of illness. New catch phrases became commonplace in our household. Words like "church split", "seeker friendly church", "prayer circles", "rapture", "second coming", (has nothing to do with sex) "slain in the spirit", "under the blood", "tithe" "redeemed", "and "spiritual warfare".


These deliverances were new and exciting to my now "Earth Shoe clad" mother, but they didn't stop at mere mortals.

It soon became apparent as a handy venue for broken appliances, lost keys and attempts to raise our three dollar gerbils from the dead.

She once walked around the house in a frenzy verbally rebuking Satan and demanding he return her lost sunglasses, claiming "spiritual harassment."

(I always doubted that Satan got-off on screwing with sunglasses in all his spare time down in Hell.)

My skeptical father walked outside and located the glasses in her car,shaking his head. She insisted an angel returned the bug-eyed-wonders swearing they were not there before.

I wondered why an angel wouldn't have just put them back in her purse.

My Mother eventually started leaving tiny booklets in public bathrooms all over town, which outlined in grave detail "How to be Saved" with cartoon pictures of colorful hippie's in bell bottoms burning in hell.

I could never imagine someone dropping to their knees in a Walgreens restroom reciting the sinners prayer under a hand dryer.


Our home was also stripped of all remnants of a "secular" life.

Shot glasses were removed along with yarn "God's Eyes" from our trip to Mexico, all "Woman of..." calendars, Sonny & Cher, the Cowsills and Neil Diamond found their new home in the attic. Gone were all brandy sniffers,Donny Osmond records (including matching lunch box), Native American Art, poker chips, dice, family Vegas photos, questionable movies or books, and any Far Eastern furniture (unless we were prepared to say we picked it up on a Missions trip)

Christian magazines replaced lingerie catalogs in my parents bathroom and Bible quiz trophies magically appeared on our dressers (I think Dad had them made for the occasion..as I have never won a thing in my life).

Halloween was strictly off-limits replaced by fake substitutes called "Harvest Parties" meeting at churchs or "Home Group", decorated with scattered hay bales and cornstalks instead of witches and ghouls.

Every child showed up as a generic "Bible Character" in a sheet, belted with a rope from the garage, wearing borrowed sandals. If we chose not to go, we sat in the dark in the basement eating burnt home-made popcorn balls until all trick-or-treater's were safely back home with their pillow cases full of chocolate.


Soon my parents bought matching guitars for prayer meeting worship sessions. (The last thing I ever remember they bought that matched was a set of red-white and blue bowling balls for the "beer-n-bowl" league a year earlier.)

Always the Euntrepreneur, I quickly figured out that storage unit companies should market to newly converted Evangelicals to hide their crap so kids from other new Evangelical families won't accidentally stumble on their booty.

Then there was the time our washing machine broke.

I found Mom in the laundry room, kneeling on top of the groaning metal mass laying her hands on its bubbling lid, rebuking demons at the top of her lungs, with rollers in her hair,and her blue smiley face earrings swinging madly back and forth while forcefully demanding Satan to take his hands off the Maytag, restoring it in whole in the name of Jesus.

Looking on with a friend, taking in this washing machine revival for a minute or two, I decided I needed to get her out of there fast. If she told her parents, I was doomed. Any future overnights or birthday parties would be out of the question.

Walking upstairs we grabbed a handful of cookies, taking full advantage of Mom's dealings with the Devil.

Normal just was a setting on a dryer in our house.

Some years later my parents had a garage sale and got rid of the "Bible on tape" series, dozens of eight tracks of the Gaither Trio Singers, three worship tambourines, sandals, earth shoes, the miracle sun-glasses, guitar sheet music and mass amounts of literature and VCR tapes on The End Times.

Later that summer I saw Jesus at Walgreens wearing my Mothers old sunglasses, buying a Gaither Brothers CD.

He winked at me and walked out.

He was wearing Earth Shoes.

So You Think Your a Stud do Ya?

Ok we've discussed all the things that girls shouldn't do to get a guy. What about the things guys shouldn't do when trying to get a girl?Things that make us want to jam a sissors in our retina just to get out of a date with them once we actually see them; realizing they don't look at ALL like their picture.

A few years back, a newly divorced friend of mine wanted to post herself on a dating web site and solicited my help in writing it. (Becareful what you ask for)!

So instead of listing all the charming attributes us gals seek in a guy (because we all know that men are in a constant state of denial and will think they posses all things good, regardless..)

I decided to list what women WOULDN'T want and throw these simple creatures for a loop. They would either have to "think" and quite possibly a light bulb would go off in their head, or they won't respond at all, thus weeding out the undesireables because no guy can change all his crap this fast, nor could he hide it.

It was the perfect personal ad and it read something like this:

Woman seeks mate for her best friend. I am writing this because I know her better than she knows herself and I have seen her laugh, cry, break stuff, PMS, barf, seen her sober and drunk, peaceful and hysterical, and laugh until she peed her pants on several occasions. She is blonde and tall and beautiful and if you mess with her heart, you will have to tangle with me...not a good thing as I have nothing to loose.

I seek a man for her who has a credit score that is higher than the number of women he has slept with. Must have a high end rental or home without blinkers on it. No souped up Cameros, fuzzy dice, duct taped windows, or ash trays on the dash with two-way tape.

No sticky bean bag chairs with porn mags hiding underneath it, no plaid sofas with wagon wheel arm rests. No black light posters, no speakers over one foot tall (I don't care if you got them free from the drive-in that closed in 1978) No light-up running boards on your truck, no chains outlining your license plates.

No decorating with shot glasses, jars of pennies, match books from trips, no Vegas spoon rests, cork, beer can pyramids, Budweiser towels as drapes, no spool end tables, deer or fish heads mounted on the walls, no TV trays, no nasty smelling bed sheets with crust in the center, no wooden tree clocks from the Sate Fair, no paneling, no hanging plants from a macrame holder you made in home economics your senior year. No dishes with dried egg on it mixed with ashes and ketchup in the sink.

Must have all original body parts, this includes hair and orthodontics. No mullets, no yellow teeth and must know what tooth whitening and floss are. No smoking, no B.O, no crotch rot or over grown patches of nasty-ass pubes (WE don't need the floss)

No Brut or Racquet Club, Polo or Old Spice cologne in your glove compartment to mask it either. No wide belts with name stamped in, no turquoise belt buckles, no Frye boots circa 1982, no Members Only jackets, no diamond earring studs or gold chains, no pink polo shirts with flip up collar.

Must posses an impressive job or talent.

Job must not be related to any of the following: "Sales rep", account rep, (aka: collections jerk) public relations,band member trying to hit it big, bowling alley manager, bouncer, fast food, casino or airport custodian, no working at Jiffy-Lubes or similar (I don't care if you are lead oil change guy), no used car dealerships, or any 100% commission jobs of any kind...this means you are so damn behind on your draw, that you live with your mother or she pays your trailer rent and makes you and your friends tater-tot hot-dish to eat while watching the game and you spend all your extra money on Tivo and beer.

Cannot be a boring conversationalist, talking only about yourself, any vile baggage, old parole officers you now party with, treatment center flings, sexual addictions you are "working to overcome" or speak of any physical attribuites of old girlfriends, ... this includes all sorts of reminiscing and rants.

If you still smoke pot with your friends every weekend, and have a Frisbee collection to de-seed it, you grow it, or deal it while looking forward to drinking the bong water and possibly making muffins or a BBQ marinade with it;

... you need not apply.

When my friend returned home that night, she found dozens of emails waiting. She called me screaming..."they said ..." I want your friends phone number who wrote this"..............you so suck!!

(I guess some men do get it)!

Do my tricepts look small in this shirt?

I'm lighthearted once again on day three of my period (spotty, no cramps) gives me new clarity on life as the horns have retreated back into my skull secretly covered by my hair until next month; when I will crawl back into the bitch cave and feel sorry for myself.

Why do women always nag men?

"Do these jeans make my butt look big"?

"Do you think that waitress is pretty"?

"Do you like me as much as you did 4 minutes ago when I asked you last"?

"If I gained 387 pounds, would you still want to have sex with me"?

Does a guy ever say to a girl: "Does this shirt make my tricepts look small"?

It's unfair to put a guy through this twisted mind screw.

Bottom line, guys don't express themselves because they are simple creatures.

They like you if they spend time with you. Once he is with you, don't ask him if he really, really, really likes you.

He's there.

He likes you on some level. Go with it already.

Guys also show their affection by putting up with us. We spend one complete week a month being moody, short tempered and needy. They also put up with the fact that they will get one week of NO real sex, dreading the verbal attacks.... and find us head first in a bag of chips with an empty ice cream pail next to the Midol while sobbing uncontrolably at a Hallmark commercial.


I contacted some of the closest males in my life asking for suggestions for a testosterone prospective. (I was fully expecting to hear "three feet tall, no teeth and a flat head to rest a beer on..." Here is the short list:

Learn to accept football
Don't wear a costume that requires a mustache
don't always leave him with the bill
Avoid celebrating every occasion and half anniversaries
don't own a dog that fits in your purse
don't doodle your first name and his last name
don't derail the "fun" train at week twelve and emerge in sweat pants
don't surprise him with short hair
And DON'T do any drunk dials no matter how tempting when you are out with your girlfriends.

Also don't buy clothes for him (You see them coming a mile away..the guy in the lime green sweater looking like he is going to cry, with "arm candy girl" at his side beaming while he is in his own cashmere hell.

Don't cling like a bad rash and don't stare at him while he sleeps. That's just plain creepy. (P.S. Your Psycho)

My tip to girls: Never be the wild woman you are in the sack right off the bat. Hold the missionary position for as long as you can without falling asleep, and when he suggests flippping you over, say your "embarressed, scared or you feel dirty"... (Hide the fuzzy handcuffs, gadgets, lotions, and gizmos until later telling him they are "new")

Recycle those old moves later.

Girl Interrupted

chiv‧al‧ry [shiv-uhl-ree] The sum of the ideal qualifications of a gentleman, including courtesy, generosity, valor, or the gallant act of being complimentary to a woman.

After a morning of the typical Saturday grind of laundry, sheets, toilets and floors, feeling a little frumpy and overwhelmed, I decided to take a break and go to the mall. The hours of writing and worry are taking their toll this week.

I take an extra long hot shower, shave my legs, sport my best bra and panties, slather on my favorite body lotion from head to toe, throw on my heels and fav jeans. Next, my lucky Banana Republic jacket and scarf. I take extra time with my make-up, hair and say "what the hell" out loud while painting on a rare set of crimson red lips.


I grabbed my sunglasses and took off in my car with Nora Jones "Turn Me On" cranked on the CD player.
Once in the mall, I return some shoes, stroll through some shops and buy myself a Starbies when I feel a slight touch on my arm which startles me. Looking up I stare into the clear blue eyes of a very old man.

"Are you Miss America he asks"? smiling...
.
"What"? I asked confused.

"Are you Miss America...because if you aren't you should be. I watched you walk through here glowing like a shining star...you're a beautiful young lady..absolutely stunning shining like that..."

He stood smiling. From ear to ear in the sweetest most genuine way.

"Are you married? Or just happy"? He asked with a wink.

Before I could answer, he put a knobby finger gently on my lips and said "Shhhh don't answer...because whatever fellow is lucky enough to have your heart, has a lucky horse shoe in his back pocket....."

He picked up my hand, kissed it and walked away.


I don't know why it hit me, one simple comment from a stranger, but I cried in my car because it touched me so. This man wasn't hitting on me, had no ulterior motive, wasn't buying me a drink to pick me up, hell he didn't even have a bad combover.

He just said it because he had to.

No strings attached, no expectations. He said I was pretty because he thought so. He owed me nothing and could have just walked on by never saying a word.

I imagined him as a young man sliding a tiny silver box across the table of a beautiful woman, smiling... telling her how beautiful she was tonight in the glow of holiday lights.

He tells her because he had to.

I imagine him as my own father as a young man, throwing me in the air while I squeal with laughter hugging his neck. He smiles at me and brushes a blonde lock of hair away from my eyes and says "your beautiful..."

The power of a strangers words made me remember that chivalry is not dead. He is at the mall in a red shirt, smiling simply because he has to.

Bra & Order

Last night I decided to go to the gym and work off a little PMS bloat.

Remembering that my gym clothes were in my car from my well meaning plan of going earlier in the day, I decided to change right there.

In the shroud of darkness I preceded to remove my shirt and lacy bra and fumbled around as my boobs got caught in my spandex tank top..(you know that built in bra thingy inside... and how it gets all twisted and caught up in the girls)?

I struggled to find both openings, line them up; while trying not mess my ponytail and still breath.

Starting my car I casually slipped in a CD. I glanced up to see the soft orange glow of my neighbors cigarette as he stood on his deck taking in the whole peep show from a mere 10 feet away smiling.

It was then I realized I had my dome light on.

I simply could not back out of the driveway fast enough.

This morning he gave me a sly smile with a nod when we passed in the street.

Note to self: Never. I mean NEVER assume nobody is watching.

PMS-ing and out of M&M's.

I left a crabby message on the voice mail of a dear friend today. Friend laughed, a true sport. I hate when my other self crawls out from behind the Tampon box and gets analytical and pouty.

Thought my credit card was lost. I was on the phone with the bank all morning canceling all cards attached to it (3). Later found it under my car seat along with 4 French fries, my brothers house key I swore I never had (I had to climb through his window once) and a faded prescription for ADD medicine from 2003. How fitting. The same seat I checked 4 hours earlier.

The dog peed and pooped in the house: twice. My dining room is now apparently a toilet. I might start using this area myself.

Its closer to my computer.

My son remembered he needed to write (and type, double spaced, 14 font with photos) a report at 10:00 PM last night, due this AM, worth 3 test grades and his life.Completed it with visual time lines. I now know all the details of the African- American Renaissance of 1920. I hope I get another "A" on this timeline. The last one I did on the "Silk Road of China" at 2AM was stellar.

Ran out of glue stick half way through again.

Is Your Compass Broken?
Relocating your authentic self
By: Lisa Wynn

If you were to be asked “Who are you”? What would you answer? Most likely “I am an accountant, a wife, a mother, an attorney”. The answer is often not what you are, but what you do, how you see your function in this life. Are you defined by what you do? If you cannot answer who you are, at your very core, than it may be because you really don’t know.

When I consult clients on business, I ask them, “If nobody was around, and it was you on an island, stripped of all your duties and expectations, who are you? What drives you? What have you always wanted to do, to try? What are your interests, your curiosities? What moves you!? Gives you Goosebumps? Rocks your world?

I can almost hear them blink.

So many women today have lost their “authentic self”. Many have never known it. This would be your true self. The stuff you are made of. The authentic self is the real you at your very core. Another higher level of existence, the one most women are not in touch with. Just you, without childhood contracts, (those have expired) inherited roles, or what you think your friends and family expect you to be. Who is this authentic self? It is a collage of your knowledge, your desire to grow, your passion and talents, things that require expression?

We were created as creatures of communication. Yet we simply go on with our day doing what we do, never nurturing our authentic true selves. I speak with dozens of women who are slowly loosing time and youth, to quite possibly look back with regret.

Fictional Self

Several women live in their fictional self. They feel incomplete, as if a vacuum lives inside their heart. After listening miserable complaining women, I am convinced that depression is “The gap between expectations and reality”. Soon they are blaming a spouse, the kids, or their own bad luck for the dreary life they lead. Life is choices, and only you can make the correct ones for a happy fulfilled you. You may have found it predictably easier to play your “inherited” roles, juggling a million tasks because you can. But at what cost? Stressed, exhausted and yelling?

Going on like this, without taking real time for ones own dreams will suck the life out of you, taking with it the critical energy needed to accomplish genuine fulfillment. You are not defined by a perfect house or perfect kids. You are a valuable human who deserve happiness and fulfillment. Alone time, fun time, learning time, girl time. I cannot explain how much better I feel by simply walking away from my desk and going to a coffee house with a book.
My goal this year…renting a cottage by the water for one weekend to write or journal alone with a large bag of M&M’s and a pot of tea. It’s ok just to “be”.

If you are not in your “authentic self”, this means you are living as your fictional self ignoring your authentic self, walking around with a broken compass. The Fictional self gives you false information about who you are, and blocks the balanced reality you need in order to be guilt free in perusing your goals. Understandably there is balance in everything, and I am certainly not suggesting women suddenly pack up and abandon the family to go “find themselves.” Quite the opposite. You can be the best “me” without giving up “you” or anyone else. You don’t get married, start a business, or have children to give up half of you. You did it to add to you.

So find your authentic self and follow your heart!