tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50472422739250987042024-03-05T05:47:37.895-06:00elle michelle~unedited~Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.comBlogger340125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-76584747286923774422013-02-18T21:31:00.000-06:002013-02-18T21:31:15.512-06:00So... this happenedNew blog:<br />
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<b><a href="http://lisaisamomnow.blogspot.com/">lisaisamomnow.blogspot.com</a></b>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-24220564203203204342012-08-22T10:18:00.001-05:002012-08-22T10:18:10.542-05:00Hello?Is this thing on?Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-9678208645395868402011-12-05T20:00:00.001-06:002011-12-05T20:01:17.049-06:00I'm over here right now<a href="http://elleemcee.tumblr.com/">http://elleemcee.tumblr.com/</a><br />
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Mostly because I'm still desperate for the social sharing of The Goog and I need to believe that Tumblr is the answer.<br />
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So, let's be friends.<br />
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I'm promise to be more brief and thereby less obnoxious.<br />
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(That last part is a lie.)Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-2412797330875372952011-11-16T21:34:00.001-06:002011-11-16T21:45:05.543-06:00Typical<i>Scene: Talking on the phone with my mom one weekend morning.</i><br />
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<b>Me:</b> Yeah, I just got woken up by my wine being delivered.<br />
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<b>Mom: </b>Oh, most people wake up with coffee, but I guess, with you, it's wine.<br />
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<b>Me: </b>I guess?<br />
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<b>Mom: </b>Yeah.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> Well, the delivery guy was terrified of Rocco. He rushed my signature and didn't even check my ID!<br />
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<b>Mom: </b>Aw.<br />
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<b>Me: </b>What if I was underage??<br />
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<b>Mom: </b>What if you were an FBI agent??<br />
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<b>Me:</b> Ri--what, what?<br />
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<b>Mom:</b> FBI!<br />
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<b>Me:</b> So... Basically, you're saying it's more believable that I'm an FBI agent than that I'm under 21?<br />
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<b>Mom: </b>...Yeah.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> ...<br />
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<b>Me: </b>Whatever, you're almost 60.<br />
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-49174594136615998712011-11-10T23:51:00.001-06:002011-11-11T00:10:21.463-06:00Twilight, part two<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/angilio">Ang</a>, <a href="http://ingoodtasteblog.net/">Maris</a> and I just watched Twilight part two.</span><br />
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I'm still not clear whether this was Breaking Dawn or New Moon, but there was definitely no sex in it. Much like <a href="http://ellemichelleunedited.blogspot.com/2008/11/twilight-review.html">my first review of a Twilight movie</a>, it was hilarious.</div>
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The movie starts out with Bella in a field with an old lady, who I assumed was her dead grandma. Turns out, it's her old self, in a dream...? Or something? I mean, she IS turning 18 which is SO FUCKING OLD. (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lG_OezlTZ1A">So. What's the symbology there?</a>)</div>
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Next thing that happens is Jacob running into the scene with his long, gross hair. Instead of hoping for a sex scene, I start praying that this is the movie where he chops off that god-awful mane. (Spoiler: it is.)</div>
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Speaking of hair, Bella basically doesn't shower for the entire movie and her hair looks way worse than mine after 3 days of not showering and 24 hours sitting in the rain with no access to an umbrella. Tragic.</div>
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There's also a lot of rain in the movie.</div>
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Aside from the long man-hair, greasy girl mop, rain and not-so-subtle symbolism, the second Twilight movie is also filled with shirtless men. Or maybe "men," in quotes, since I think they may be 17 and under. Related: how many 17-year-olds do you know who have broad shoulders and six-packs? Not in my high school, kiddos. Not in my high school. Or my adulthood, except for the gays.</div>
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Oh, and did I mention they kill off the one black guy in the entire movie? I bet he was half-Jewish too. As two half-Jews, Maris and I are one-whole offended. I think. (There was a decent amount of wine and champagne during this viewing so things get a little hazy...)</div>
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What else do you need to know? Edward didn't really make an appearance except for weirdo ghost-like visions in Bella's head, Dakota Fanning looked pretty, Carlisle started developing a British accent, Edward wore a robe that I really think was a dress for Hugh Hefner-esque cross-dressers...</div>
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Other random events:</div>
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<li>Edward and Bella say "I love you." About 4 second later, he dumps her. <a href="http://ellemichelleunedited.blogspot.com/2011/11/best-gif-ever.html">Bye, bitch</a>.</li>
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<li>To illustrate the passing of time, we see Bella sitting in a chair while the camera swirls around her and the months pass by on the screen.</li>
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<li>Bella has crazy screaming dreams and her dad rushes into her room to comfort her every time. Something about her being a grown woman makes me feel weird about this.</li>
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<li>Bella gets all bad-assy after the breakup and jumps on a random motorcycle with a random dude who looks more like a teddy bear than the murderous thug we're supposed to think he is. AND she does this even though Ghost-Edward tells her not to. <a href="http://ellemichelleunedited.blogspot.com/2011/11/best-gif-ever.html">Bye, bitch</a>.</li>
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<li>We realized that the chick who plays Bella's BFF Jessica is the same girl who appears in<i> Up in the Air</i>. Thanks, IMDB!</li>
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<li>Vampires still run fast.</li>
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<li>JACOB FINALLY CUTS HIS HAIR. I guess turning into a werewolf does that to a guy.</li>
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<li>Speaking of Jacob, he totally parkours up Bella's house to get into her bedroom. Pretty sure he was shirtless.</li>
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<li>Bella goes off the deep end -- literally -- when she hurls herself off a cliff into the murky water below. She pops up, floats around for a while on the surface, then "slams" her head into a rock... I CALL BULLSHIT. Do you know how hard it is to move fast in the water? I don't think you could knock yourself out if you tried. But, no matter, because a shirtless Jacob saves her.</li>
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<li>Bella continues to be depressed, at which point I urge her to invest in some Lexapro. And maybe take a shower.</li>
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<li>Bella keeps acting like she's into Jacob and going to kiss him, but never does. Because she hates abs?</li>
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<li>Bella keeps trying to email Edward's sister with the bad hair (I guess bad hair is a major theme in the movie), but all emails go to that goddamn Mailer Daemon. Send fail, Bella.</li>
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<li>Buuuuut, Alice still shows up at Bella's door because Alice see the future! And she saw Bella throw herself off the cliff! And get knocked unconscious! And die! ...Except that last part didn't happen. Geez, Alice, take a lesson from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sylvia_Browne">Sylvia Browne</a> and get your psychic shit together.</li>
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<li>Bella and Alice fly to Italy via Virgin airlines, which Angie says had monitors on the seats and you can message people in other seats, all creepy-like. I hope that's not a lie. because that sounds awesome.</li>
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<li>At the end of the movie, Bella wants to be turned into a vampire, which Edward says he'll do "on one condition." ...... "Marry me." I feel like it would have been fantastic is Bella was like, "Look... you're great... but, I mean... being immortal and committing to marriage is, like, a big thing. And have you seen Jacob's abs?"</li>
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Eh, that's basically all I remember.</div>
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Overall, I have to say that I enjoyed the first one better -- maybe because I had no idea how bad it was going to be and I was just so damn tickled the entire two hours. This time, I expected ridiculousness and I got it. But the edge goes to part one simply because it had the element of surprise.</div>
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I'm planning to watch part 3 sometime in the next, like, year or whatever, so let me know if you want to take part of this mess.</div>
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Just don't forget the wine.</div>
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<br /></div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-19891337831567855142011-11-02T22:52:00.002-05:002011-11-02T22:52:28.246-05:00Best gif ever?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i52.tinypic.com/2je435x.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="http://i52.tinypic.com/2je435x.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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Basically.</div>
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Related: I miss you, Goog Reader. NEVER FORGET.</div>
<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-20499467135895710242011-10-29T13:56:00.002-05:002011-10-29T13:56:53.425-05:00Terrifying or terrified?Happy Halloween from the most humiliated little shark on the planet.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n5mD-a-VCUw/TqxMLEkcXeI/AAAAAAAABEg/bZ1E9t-Os_E/s1600/roccohalloween.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n5mD-a-VCUw/TqxMLEkcXeI/AAAAAAAABEg/bZ1E9t-Os_E/s320/roccohalloween.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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Thanks to Aunt Suz for passing along Hanny's old costume.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-40113055923192542832011-10-25T22:58:00.001-05:002011-10-25T22:58:56.098-05:00Gives "spooky" a whole new meaning<div style="text-align: center;">
What started out like this...</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TG9gdH1r6Eg/TqeE6gYc5AI/AAAAAAAABD8/lDg_UqRge1w/s1600/pumpkins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TG9gdH1r6Eg/TqeE6gYc5AI/AAAAAAAABD8/lDg_UqRge1w/s320/pumpkins.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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...was planned like this...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvj834gJTqUfkydajll6C_WVs_q29e-nJTs-br5fp-1EvlxsBmONcmaA4LBrfJu58X6fTnaRpLMuX8BSqBd5kTmovqhborbuHMlTbVCrNYTPle-GdzNYfh3gW-UsMhlsAWeJYN3iXRRorv/s1600/pumpkins2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvj834gJTqUfkydajll6C_WVs_q29e-nJTs-br5fp-1EvlxsBmONcmaA4LBrfJu58X6fTnaRpLMuX8BSqBd5kTmovqhborbuHMlTbVCrNYTPle-GdzNYfh3gW-UsMhlsAWeJYN3iXRRorv/s320/pumpkins2.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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...and then turned into this...</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dis3UNeH1h8/TqeE7aFqSMI/AAAAAAAABEM/HZg3-9hmZus/s1600/pumpkins3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dis3UNeH1h8/TqeE7aFqSMI/AAAAAAAABEM/HZg3-9hmZus/s320/pumpkins3.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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I call him: "The Diabolical Redneck." Who needs all their teeth anyway?</div>
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Happy Halloween, y'all.</div>
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<i>The finished products:</i></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rrGDueTUTiU/TqeE7oDORwI/AAAAAAAABEU/ZcHb8iZPMFA/s1600/pumpkins4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rrGDueTUTiU/TqeE7oDORwI/AAAAAAAABEU/ZcHb8iZPMFA/s320/pumpkins4.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-84359771040045054372011-10-25T09:37:00.002-05:002011-10-25T09:37:37.454-05:00Just...no.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8T25v9xsDtU/TqbJdGOsfQI/AAAAAAAABD0/u2uaBgvCyXk/s1600/snook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8T25v9xsDtU/TqbJdGOsfQI/AAAAAAAABD0/u2uaBgvCyXk/s1600/snook.jpg" /></a></div>
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That is what popped up on my TV this morning.</div>
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I thought to myself, "Lisa, you have never seen an episode of Jersey Shore. I know your initial reaction is UGH HATE, but maybe give her a chance."</div>
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So I did.</div>
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And now I hate myself.</div>
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But not as much as I hate the word "guidette."</div>
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<br /></div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-72516146716645765912011-10-13T20:00:00.002-05:002011-10-15T10:09:00.474-05:00Apartment of deathTonight, it rained it Chicago and everyone forgot how to drive.<br />
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I don't know why. I don't make the rules.</div>
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After sitting in traffic for about an hour, I finally got home to my apartment. As I walked up the back stairs, I heard a faint beeping...</div>
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BEEP-BEEP-BEEP...BEEP-BEEP-BEEP...</div>
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<i>That's not coming from my place, is it?</i> I thought.</div>
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Okay, it definitely is.</div>
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I threw my key into the lock and pried it open (janky old door), wondering just how long the beeping had been going on and how bat-shit-crazy-insane Rocco probably was after hearing it nonstop.</div>
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That's when I realized it was my carbon monoxide detector.</div>
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And my place smelled like gasoline.</div>
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OH MY GOD WE ARE GOING TO DIE.</div>
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In one fluid motion -- that's what it felt like, but I bet I looked more like an epileptic on meth -- I grabbed Rocco by the collar, swiped his leash from the couch and hauled ass outside.</div>
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Standing in the rain, I frantically called Dave and told him about how our apartment had turned into a beeping deathtrap. He told me that carbon monoxide doesn't smell and that I needed to call our neighbors to tell them what was going on. I demanded that he come home immediately and marched upstairs with my confused dog. We hug out with our cool neighbors while trying to describe what that smell was. Gasoline? Poisonous gas? GASOLINE? Totally gasoline.</div>
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We also brainstormed the source of the problem -- no question there. It was our "handyman." He sets up shop in our basement and makes random shit for our landlord. The latest project has been a pair of doors. Whatever.</div>
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Anyway, Tony soon decided I should go downstairs and open the windows while Lindsay decided she would call our landlord and give him a piece of her mind. I did, and also took a time out to put on some sweatpants and grab a few beers because, duh.</div>
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By the time Dave came home, our place didn't smell as bad and he decided it was safe to head back down to our floor. Also, he determined that the weird smell was clearly spray paint that our "handyman" had been using on the doors he was building.</div>
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So here we are.</div>
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The apartment's been aired out, I don't think I'm high and our dinner just arrived. All is right with the world, but just in case we don't wake up tomorrow, it's been nice knowing you.</div>
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<br /></div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-78695975869496632542011-09-28T18:41:00.000-05:002011-09-28T18:41:34.226-05:00All the things<a href="http://www.facebook.com/lisacapretto">My</a> current Facebook status:<br />
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<b>Happy Daughter / Mother / Breast Cancer Awareness / Puppy Dog / Wearing-White-After-Labor-Day / Gambling / Palm Tree / Hipster Appreciation / Dyslexia / Tea Party / Pygmy-Goat-Riding-A-Unicycle Day/Week! I love/hate all/some of those things. If you do too, repost, like, comment on, share, print, frame and worship this status.</b><br />
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amirite?<br />
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<i>PS - The palm tree mention is throw to my mom. HI, MOM.</i>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-13054520694929755812011-09-18T22:39:00.000-05:002011-09-18T22:39:16.467-05:00Expert travelers...or somethingDave's been on Long Island for the past 10 days and is almost halfway through his business training for work. (Yeah, it's about as exciting as it sounds.) Meanwhile, I have successfully fed myself and kept this apartment from looking like a home on Hoarders, so things are going QUITE well over here too.<br />
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Tomorrow, though, I leave my dear Chicago and venture off to Denver for some work training of my own...whatever that will include. I'll only be there for a few days, but I'll be renting a car and hopefully only getting lost 5 or 6 times. Really, anything under 10 would be rad.<br />
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Anyway, this coming weekend, Dave gets a break from training and travels over to Manhattan for some good, ol' city fun. And, apparently, he's very excited about it.<br />
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So, my New York friends, keep an eye out for this nerd. Might I suggest you focus on gutters, bar floors and gypsy cabs....?</div>
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-52559852117448435822011-09-15T12:28:00.004-05:002011-09-15T12:28:48.954-05:00My drunk grandma......Now has her own corner of The Interwebs.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mydrunkgrandma.com/">http://www.mydrunkgrandma.com</a><br />
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You're welcome. Or, I'm sorry. I'm not sure which yet.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XNXcrNJz9rM/TnI1u3_cH6I/AAAAAAAABDk/w-hGCmSq8zc/s1600/grandma-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XNXcrNJz9rM/TnI1u3_cH6I/AAAAAAAABDk/w-hGCmSq8zc/s1600/grandma-small.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-56019476064645644342011-09-12T19:30:00.000-05:002011-09-12T19:30:09.380-05:00Renegade<a href="http://www.renegadecraft.com/chicago">Renegade Craft Fair</a> has its pluses. It's close enough for me to walk to, it takes place during a glorious time in Chicago and it even has some cute things for sale.<br />
<br />
But it's also overrun with hipsters, some handmade trash and high price tags, and THAT is super-annoying.<br />
<br />
So when I see posts <a href="http://chicago.craigslist.org/chc/mis/2592599067.html">like this</a> (Missed Connections), I can't help but smile.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDhopCOlTqbqui0Y7KxjvfZhpRjFql0rp1GEnmeZUki3MTCIL23d0LBLOdl0XaikBBAUoMPgrv8OGtkibXypaOYndDsu2g4Gcre_Tz3Diq1DD51V5k9zeYd9by9x9HPxTa_-WIN3pg0FdD/s1600/renegade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDhopCOlTqbqui0Y7KxjvfZhpRjFql0rp1GEnmeZUki3MTCIL23d0LBLOdl0XaikBBAUoMPgrv8OGtkibXypaOYndDsu2g4Gcre_Tz3Diq1DD51V5k9zeYd9by9x9HPxTa_-WIN3pg0FdD/s400/renegade.jpg" width="316" /></a></div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-62316731753258071482011-09-12T11:55:00.000-05:002011-09-12T11:55:05.697-05:00Of life and legsOver the last decade or so, I've found that the stages of a gal's life and relationship status can be measured by the state of her legs.<br />
<br />
In my experience, there have been 4 leg/life/relationship levels.<br />
<br />
<b>Status: </b>Single<br />
<b>Legs: </b>Shaved often enough, but only really before heading out for the evening<br />
<b>Reason: </b>You never know. *wink, wink*<br />
<br />
<b>Status:</b> In a relationship<br />
<b>Legs:</b> Shaved to perfection. With shaving cream, even!<br />
<b>Reason:</b> Look how flawless I am. You totally want to marry this.<br />
<br />
<b>Status:</b> Married<br />
<b>Legs:</b> Shaved haphazardly in a speedy shower<br />
<b>Reason:</b> I'm late for work and it's not your birthday.<br />
<br />
<b>Status:</b> My business-traveling husband is in New York for the rest of September<br />
<b>Legs:</b> I have legs?<br />
<br />
It's a new low, y'all.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-46820934292929696892011-09-09T11:33:00.000-05:002011-09-09T11:33:46.565-05:00Open mouth, insert foot, cash paycheckWell, folks, it looks like my <a href="http://ellemichelleunedited.blogspot.com/2011/07/professional-purgatory.html">professional purgatory</a> is coming to an end. Here's how things have gone down.<br />
<br />
<b>Sam</b><br />
Sam, the dude with no real personality (read: not cool work) proposed (offered me the job) with a verrrrry expensive ring (excellent salary). I told him I couldn't accept because I was waiting for Barry. Sam didn't care to wait so he moved on. Bye bye, Sam.<br />
<br />
<b>Barry</b><br />
Oh, Barry. Rather than proposing outright, he asked me to start living with him (writing for free for <a href="http://www.barackobama.com/get-involved">his blog</a>) for one week. I agreed...but the work I had to do was not suited to my strengths. Suffice to say I was disenchanted. So, after all this time, I broke up with him. I think it was the right thing to do.<br />
<br />
<b>Miles</b><br />
Remember when I was all, <i>oh, this bullshit guy</i>? Well, we're totally getting married. He waited for me, there turned out to be a lot of substance there, I like his family (my new coworkers) and it just feels right. And the work? The work looks awesome. We're talking magazine-style publications, kick-ass marketing campaigns, shocking creative support from the top and lots of room for creativity. We're working out some details now, but the wedding should be at the end of this month.<br />
<br />
So there you have it. Retirement will be over, I'll have to start wearing pants again and my bank account won't be so shriveled up. (ZAPPOS, I'VE MISSED YOU.)<br />
<br />
It's a new step -- hopefully one in the right direction -- and I'm excited to see what will come next.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-63294090326531673112011-09-06T13:24:00.000-05:002011-09-06T13:24:11.621-05:00Someone had a bad dayOver the weekend, I received a text from a random (773) phone number informing me, "This is my new number."<br />
<br />
Unsure who "my" referred to, I tried to think which of my friends was not only getting a new number but was also absent-minded enough not to tell me who the heck they are. I came up with nothing. Sooo, I responded.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-94g9F_AevG4/TmZjF-x5ljI/AAAAAAAABC4/395mWivVq78/s1600/mysteryperson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-94g9F_AevG4/TmZjF-x5ljI/AAAAAAAABC4/395mWivVq78/s320/mysteryperson.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<i>Done. Won't hear from them again</i>, I thought.<br />
<br />
The next morning, I was awoken by my phone going off before 8:00. As I do with all communication attempts before I've rolled out of bed, I ignored it.<br />
<br />
Then my phone beeped again. Again, I ignored it.<br />
<br />
When I woke up an hour and a half later, I checked my phone and saw this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QvzQ1rN71Jogwip1hu48UMT7Vli0l-S7mZy0E4g1nwLWFdjlkLJNunEvUK34yjNm-ZdDWtdWGF2w-Htr5uKEhCri4mbhQHb4eiHhZwHp7a_jOCiWucgDVpIXOihhjSgbPI2YcrY6-T4h/s1600/mysteryperson2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_QvzQ1rN71Jogwip1hu48UMT7Vli0l-S7mZy0E4g1nwLWFdjlkLJNunEvUK34yjNm-ZdDWtdWGF2w-Htr5uKEhCri4mbhQHb4eiHhZwHp7a_jOCiWucgDVpIXOihhjSgbPI2YcrY6-T4h/s320/mysteryperson2.jpg" width="253" /></a></div><br />
Oh, dear. My sweet, dumb, mystery person. Not the best morning for you.<br />
<br />
So I responded much more directly this time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9c2i6_h31I9AfIT5CxC9BLJn9jXN1yGtNC1EFKO57OkTXugxHEKzwsW3BfC5j2op_-NrUg_1_kU2jijuR_zRNCkyisHkU8bYYZHJ3ungMvv9OTX3EwwOOe_VgAUyFnZ6ZNFwBuRbtG6Z/s1600/mysteryperson3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9c2i6_h31I9AfIT5CxC9BLJn9jXN1yGtNC1EFKO57OkTXugxHEKzwsW3BfC5j2op_-NrUg_1_kU2jijuR_zRNCkyisHkU8bYYZHJ3ungMvv9OTX3EwwOOe_VgAUyFnZ6ZNFwBuRbtG6Z/s320/mysteryperson3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And then all was right with the world.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-46098916277209363312011-08-25T12:27:00.000-05:002011-08-25T12:27:20.454-05:00Alaskan near-death cruise?Mom and Dad are back from their Alaskan cruise.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rLta2c3gfXE/TlaFzfthZ9I/AAAAAAAABCs/7_zJpWKLuv8/s1600/alaska-mom-bear.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rLta2c3gfXE/TlaFzfthZ9I/AAAAAAAABCs/7_zJpWKLuv8/s400/alaska-mom-bear.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Alive.<br />
<br />
Thank god.Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-33240036277437313272011-08-23T13:33:00.000-05:002011-08-23T13:33:46.613-05:00A sucker for nail colorI rarely get manicures.<br />
<br />
Mostly because I opt for basic color rather than <a href="http://ecams.tumblr.com/post/6020440317/thats-my-hand-on-the-bottom-love-this">this cool shit</a>, and I simply can't justify spending the money (or getting my ass off the couch) to have someone do what I can do in my home...albeit sloppier and slower.<br />
<br />
But one thing I do spend money on is nail polish, which is exactly what I just did in anticipation for <b>Fall/Winter 2011</b>.<br />
<br />
Behold:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bXrluWlhN5M/TlPu2kZAhtI/AAAAAAAABCY/sqdQU3_IlaY/s1600/british_racing_green.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bXrluWlhN5M/TlPu2kZAhtI/AAAAAAAABCY/sqdQU3_IlaY/s1600/british_racing_green.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b> British Racing Green</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Dark, “hunter green” that was the backstage darling when used at this season's shows.</i></div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5eO0kxPGelCR5MyFJKYkKqGcoGLJa4YHJ6-8Rr6DgK2LHVZSNGIYTNc3zuU6Jx7tKzZ1VT89q9uaE7ODcxrxBpqA0HBXCHuuewJQCOikoHzXh5uOtXNUeo8rbU2ySURoO46rmRWh2mrdi/s1600/fash_pack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5eO0kxPGelCR5MyFJKYkKqGcoGLJa4YHJ6-8Rr6DgK2LHVZSNGIYTNc3zuU6Jx7tKzZ1VT89q9uaE7ODcxrxBpqA0HBXCHuuewJQCOikoHzXh5uOtXNUeo8rbU2ySURoO46rmRWh2mrdi/s1600/fash_pack.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Fash Pack</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>An edgy and unusual color. Putty meets mushroom. Sounds strange and wrong, but somehow it works, like deep fried Mars bars. </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihF_OowQwVBLiE3HpIp_6AOPb8xR6Qdtku1KWKPrjwssHJwQ2Eqk0BGG5YfwJyKQpFgJh8Wbl9x3q61M9FysD1WNjwvzWtD9aHjnL08JY13LxrhaTh2sVPtDI1hUPqbgZQlJfRPxtI1nQX/s1600/pillar_box_red.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihF_OowQwVBLiE3HpIp_6AOPb8xR6Qdtku1KWKPrjwssHJwQ2Eqk0BGG5YfwJyKQpFgJh8Wbl9x3q61M9FysD1WNjwvzWtD9aHjnL08JY13LxrhaTh2sVPtDI1hUPqbgZQlJfRPxtI1nQX/s1600/pillar_box_red.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Pillar Box Red</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>A good red is like your favorite LBD. It makes you look and feel your best, even when you’re faking it.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-swyzEK54nJw/TlPu3JOpqHI/AAAAAAAABCc/EqXyOfUwwX0/s1600/chimney_sweep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-swyzEK54nJw/TlPu3JOpqHI/AAAAAAAABCc/EqXyOfUwwX0/s1600/chimney_sweep.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Chimney Sweep</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Smudgy, sexy, and just a little dirty. A proper charcoal grey with a touch of a metallic finish. Hot.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIpP3nsjKqd1rVJzczCxWrEn8A3huJbktZ2XMmc6xvqS1jhgAd_NQ8N-m5EqVHLWrk8ZrulZLPu7y8eoy0MvD66XFvCQDnKL1qAfnBB3aDiiBwcDD1vs1pGc07YGmt0onct5ssPWzebpH/s1600/la_moss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIpP3nsjKqd1rVJzczCxWrEn8A3huJbktZ2XMmc6xvqS1jhgAd_NQ8N-m5EqVHLWrk8ZrulZLPu7y8eoy0MvD66XFvCQDnKL1qAfnBB3aDiiBwcDD1vs1pGc07YGmt0onct5ssPWzebpH/s1600/la_moss.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>La Moss</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Vampy and full of red wine, just like its inspiration.</i></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.butterlondon.com/">ButterLondon.com</a></span></div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-55353928817879490862011-08-19T10:43:00.000-05:002011-08-19T10:43:27.575-05:00Hide yo' kids, hide yo' iPodsJ recently had a break-in to her apartment. Thankfully, she wasn't there when it happened, but good lord that's freaky. Someone else. In your home. Taking your stuff. I kind of wanted to move her into my second bedroom for a while, but anyone who knows her knows that the offer would be met with a genuine smile and a "no thanks, you're being insane" eye roll.<br />
<br />
Even though I've been locking all the doors I can possibly find ever since I heard this news, I don't think anyone would have an easy time getting into my particular apartment because of my gigantic dog...<br />
<br />
As much of a <a href="http://ellemichelleunedited.blogspot.com/2011/04/omg-daddys-home.html">lover</a> as he is, he <i><b>sounds</b></i> like he could do some serious damage to your bones if he hears you outside.<br />
<br />
Like my own little murdering alarm system.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L7yeE9i6jwg/Tk6B-28Ll9I/AAAAAAAABCU/-QBg4n6CaQU/s1600/rooco-bandana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-L7yeE9i6jwg/Tk6B-28Ll9I/AAAAAAAABCU/-QBg4n6CaQU/s320/rooco-bandana.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
But I realized something this morning.<br />
<br />
If we ever buy a house -- like, with more than one story -- he'd let anyone in, as long as they break into a floor that he is not on.<br />
<br />
Burglars above us, on the roof? "No biggie," he'd think.<br />
<br />
Thieves below us, in the basement? "They probably belong there."<br />
<br />
Roly-poly kleptos stealing all the food from the kitchen (while Roc rests in MY bed upstairs)? "I wonder if they'll drop anything for me..."<br />
<br />
FAIL DOG.<br />
<br />
(Yet another reason not to buy a single-family place.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, stay safe out there, people. Lock your doors, lock your windows and let me know if you ever need to borrow The Roc.<br />
<br />
<br />
Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-59506705206029436782011-08-08T11:02:00.000-05:002011-08-08T11:02:49.046-05:00Puppy updateWell, <a href="http://ellemichelleunedited.blogspot.com/2011/06/decisions-decisions.html">Bella</a>'s gone and we're back to being a one-pup household.<br />
<br />
She was obviously a sweetheart, but it was a little too much for us to handle -- and would have become impossible once Dave starts work and begins traveling 4 days a week. (SINGLE PARENT FTW.) I have decided that I don't want to be outweighed by my pets, so we can only get little fouffy dogs from here on out.<br />
<br />
Of course, the good news is that our little girl went to a foster-to-adopt home with a woman that works remotely and can give Bells the attention she needs. Fingers crossed it works out because that dog really deserves it.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, Dave casually mentioned something to me while on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/onetailatatime">our rescue's Facebook page</a> the other day...<br />
<br />
"Hey, Lis, look at how cute this pit is."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n_nWBg-c9yU/TkAEhrVYGHI/AAAAAAAABCQ/rfq9xGc2pgo/s1600/treasure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n_nWBg-c9yU/TkAEhrVYGHI/AAAAAAAABCQ/rfq9xGc2pgo/s320/treasure.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<i>Yes. Cute.</i><br />
<br />
Cue me scrolling through to read the comments about this sweet-looking gal.<br />
<br />
<b>Cue me seeing DAVE comment about fostering her.</b><br />
<br />
"Oh, yeah, I said we might be interested in fostering her," he shrugs.<br />
<br />
<i>You what, now?</i><br />
<br />
"Just a foster, not adopt! Come on, look at that face."<br />
<br />
<i>Look at MY face.</i><br />
<br />
"We'll just do a meet-and-greet and see if she and Rocco get along."<br />
<br />
<i>I don't recall that ever being a problem with Rocco.</i><br />
<br />
"Oh, look, they already emailed us."<br />
<br />
<br />
So, we may be fostering another Court Case pup next week. And we may not. Someone is already interested in adopting her, so she might not even need a foster home at all. We'll see...<br />
<br />
Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-5405369695462721392011-08-07T09:12:00.001-05:002011-08-08T10:53:47.404-05:00Breaking up is hard to doWell, <a href="http://ellemichelleunedited.blogspot.com/2011/07/professional-purgatory.html">Miles</a> took a leap and invited me to go away with him for a weekend out of town. To meet his family. To be, ya know, SERIOUS.<br />
<br />
(Translation: I was invited to interview at the company's HQ out west. This, after 2 phone interviews, 1 local in-person interview and a writing sample.)<br />
<br />
I got a weird feeling like he was going to propose on this trip.<br />
<br />
So, like an abnormal person, I panicked. I don't really want to take this step in our relationship. I mean, I'm seeing other people! Other people that I like better! My instinct was to spill my guts to Miles and tell him about my other main prospect (<a href="http://ellemichelleunedited.blogspot.com/2011/07/professional-purgatory.html">Barry</a>). I don't want to waste Miles' money if I'm not really all that into him. I'll sleep better if I put it out there. But is that the right move, professionally?<br />
<br />
To find out, I called <a href="http://www.etsy.com/people/fiercepotato">my friend</a> to ask her what she thought I should do.<br />
<br />
"Well, what if Barry comes back tomorrow and tells you 'no'?" she asked. "Would you want to be with Miles then?"<br />
<br />
"Nope," I told her. "Maybe Sam. Most likely Carl. Not Miles though."<br />
<br />
We talked through all the details and my friend confirmed my instincts. It was time to have The Talk with Miles. Time to be honest. Time to do the right thing.<br />
<br />
Which is what I did on Friday.<br />
<br />
And then I held my breath.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="text-decoration: underline;">Update:</b> Miles totally doesn't care and still wants me to visit. Okay, bud, will do, but this isn't going to end well (for you).<br />
<br />
Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-45248790671436269082011-08-04T13:21:00.000-05:002011-08-04T13:21:55.184-05:00He called the shit "poop"If there's one thing I know about my husband, it's that he will always laugh at a poop joke. Without fail. I guess most men will. But one little poop joke recently took his amusement to a level I had never experienced before.<br />
<br />
It won't surprise you to learn that the joke came from Louis CK. Before I link it, let me just set the scene...<br />
<br />
We are driving back from our beach vacation, listening to one of Louis' sets from 2010. Specifically, Dave is driving and I'm in the front seat.<br />
<br />
The joke starts out about Louis' 3-year-old daughter getting bit by a pony and soon drifts into poop territory.<br />
<br />
With the first visual description of a turd, Dave bursts out into booms of laughter. His mouth is wide open, his eyes are watering and he is practically having an amusement-induced seizure.<br />
<br />
"TAKE...THE...WHEEL," he gasps, in between convulsions.<br />
<br />
<i>What the hell is wrong with my husband? I've never seen him so giddy he's practically blind!</i><br />
<br />
I then begin exploding with laughter. Not just because the joke is hilarious (it is) but also because I have never seen this man laugh so hard at anything during our 7 years together.<br />
<br />
I grab the wheel and take over the steering while Dave alternates between approving claps and involuntary convulsions. This goes on until I can no longer see the road through my tears and beg him to drive himself. With one hand clutching his stomach, he puts his other hand on the wheel and manages to get through the entire poop joke without killing us.<br />
<br />
So what was so funny?<br />
<br />
This.<br />
<br />
<div><div style="text-align: center;"><embed allowscriptaccess="always" flashvars="songId=78118011&pid=8293595290765977138" height="77" id="FlashDiv" quality="high" src="http://www.myspace.com/music/song-embed?songid=78118011&getSwf=true" style="display: inline;" width="400" wmode="transparent"></embed></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Either that's the most hilarious clip I've ever seen or else I was beyond delusional after hours upon hours of travel.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-63165721912751079982011-08-01T16:16:00.001-05:002011-08-01T16:16:00.788-05:00How Pandora should beI love Pandora.<br />
<br />
I would love this Pandora even more.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/theoatmeal-img/comics/state_web_summer/pandora.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/theoatmeal-img/comics/state_web_summer/pandora.png" width="371" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Via <a href="http://theoatmeal.com/comics/state_web_summer">The Oatmeal</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5047242273925098704.post-66618104670523274752011-07-31T16:57:00.000-05:002011-07-31T16:57:55.484-05:00Professional PurgatoryI'm at a point in my coming-out-of-retirement job search that is nothing short of awkward. Uncomfortable. Uncertain.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>I don't like it.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>I imagine it's a lot like dating a few different guys at once -- one of which you really, really like, but you're still unsure about how he feels. <b>If my job search were a relationship</b>, this is where I'd be with Suitor #1. Let's call him Barry.</div><div><br />
</div><div><b><u>Barry</u></b> and I have flirted before, but we've been on 3 actual <strike>interviews</strike> dates. He's out of my league, but I'm going for it anyway. Sure, it <i>seems</i> like he might be ready to make it official, but he moves soooo slowly. All my cards are on the table and the final decision rests with Barry now. It's a waiting game. Will he call or won't he? Should I wait? How can I not? I NEED TO KNOW WHERE THIS RELATIONSHIP IS GOING, BARRY. I know you told me you need more time, but I'm dying over here.</div><div><br />
</div><div>In the meantime, there's Suitor #2. We'll call him <b><u>Sam</u></b>. Sam and I are going on <strike>interview</strike> date number 2 this week, and I'm still sorting through my feelings. He means well, he tries hard and he's made it clear we could be together for the long haul. He's got a lot more money than Barry, but less personality. And I don't know how long he's willing to wait while I wait for an official proposal or rejection from my first love.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Then, there's Suitor #3: <b><u>Miles</u></b>. Miles is like my boy toy. I'm not terribly interested in him, but I like having him around as an option. We've got our second <strike>interview</strike> date this week too. Dude can't really afford my tastes, but he adores me and I like the attention. I'm charming the pants off him and using his affection to fill the void I feel from Barry's silence. I know. Pathetic.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Finally, there's Potential Suitor #4. <b><u>Carl</u></b>. We have a <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/angilio">mutual friend</a> and even though I know nothing about him, that's good enough for me to keep him in the running. She likes him, I'd like him. We could be great together.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And as if this isn't enough of a mind fuck, I'm still giving my number out to other suitors too. Maybe "The One" is still out there.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Or maybe I'm just ridiculously neurotic.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Either way, I'm hoping this mess with all be straightened out within a month so I can get the hell out of professional purgatory. I guess I'm just not meant to play the field.</div><div><br />
</div></div>Lisahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17093389505340672294noreply@blogger.com2