Go on and put your ear to the ground, you know you will be hearing that sound....

Have you ever met someone and felt a connection?

Like a for real, serious face connection?

It’s like every word this person says is a direct reflection of the deepest recesses of your soul? Echoing thoughts and feelings that you never believed you could share with another person?

The very idea that there is someone in the world that not only understands you, but feels the same way, rocks you to the core of your being?

Like, “for reals” feelings. Feelings that I didn’t even know I could admit to myself.

I’ve met that person and I’m scared.

Scared of rejection? Scared to end up alone? Scared it’s too soon?

No.

Scared because that person is Amy Winehouse and that bitch is on crack.

Besides our obvious shared love for liquid eyeliner for daytime wear, we both run around just so we don’t have to think about thinking.

Our tears dry on their own.

We can both sniff out Tanqueray.

I relate to every song.

(Except maybe Rehab, I think the closest I’ve come to needing rehab was when I almost put myself in a diabetic coma by eating an entire bowl of uncooked brownie mix one night in college. What? We made it without eggs. Make brownies not frownies.)

I guess it just goes to prove that you can find a soulmate in the last place you would expect. Maybe it’s a colleague of your best friend that you’ll meet in a local bar. Maybe it’s a boy from your fifth grade class. Maybe that person is passed out in a dark alley known for its thriving and active drug community.

I guess the moral of the story is that he/she is out there. Keep looking. Also, don’t do drugs.

Life: The Compliment Sandwich

If you’ve ever had a performance review, you know all about the compliment sandwich.

It’s supposed to lessen the blow of criticism. It gives you a high five, punches you in the face and ends with ice cream.

Por ejemplo:

“Jackie, you are extremely creative and bring some great ideas to team meetings. Unfortunately, you are a horrible writer and we’re terminating your employment, effective immediately. Lastly, I like those earrings, green is a good color on you.”

See what I did there?

I’ve decided to add a reoccuring theme to my blog called “Life: The Compliment Sandwich” and discuss something I like, something I hate, and then something I like, again. Hopefully, by using this tried-and-true feedback method, life will eventually improve its overall performance.

Life, I love….

The combination apple corer/slicer. Holy cow. This had made eating an apple an efficient and enjoyable experience. I won’t even consider eating an apple without one. I have one in my office and one at home. I don’t know how I survived without it for so long. All that gnawing and spinning the apple in your hand to approach it from another angle. If you don’t stop biting soon enough, you end up at the seeds. I never really had that problem because about three bites into an apple, I was bored and just stopped. Apple? No thanks, that seems like too much work. I always wished apples came in neat, prepackaged slices like its long time comparative counterpart, the orange. Combination apple corer/slicer makes what seemed like an impossible dream…a reality.

Life, I hate….

Puka shell necklaces on guys. Stop the insanity. It’s like a beacon hanging from your neck , just peeking around the corner of your collar, telling women around you, “Hey ladies, do NOT take me seriously.”

Guys, if you’re approaching a rack of necklaces and other assorted neck wear, recite the following:

If it’s from the sea...just let it be.

Life, I love….

Unexpectedly finding money in a pair of jeans, winter coat, during a purse change or inside of the front pocket of a hooded sweatshirt. The other day I was making a brown purse to black purse transition and found $10 in the small zippered section. Granted, that money was mine to begin with, so it’s not like it’s “new money” and all of a sudden you have $10 you didn’t have before. You always had it, you just didn’t know its exact location. Here I am, going about my day, having NO idea that I’m secretly on a treasure hunt. You would have thought I found the meaning of life. Maybe the meaning of life is money by surprise? If money was no object (which it very much is) I would just hide money in clothes on purpose, to be found at a later date. You know, be the change you wish to see in the world....

Don't call it a comeback...

And hello.

So I’ve been on a little hiatus. A blogging sabbatical, if you will.

There has just been a lot going on up in this piece. Some good, some bad, some crazy awesome, some horrendously unawesome.

I haven’t really been doing a lot of writing and I’ve clearly failed you. I’ll make you cookies (or buffalo chicken dip), just ask and you shall receive.

I’ve been trying to figure out what to write as my “comeback” post and was inspired by a little touch of heaven. A website we all know, some love, some hate, some use it to stalk, some use it to date….and all I know is, MySpace has been cracking me up lately.

What is it about the online community that makes people turn into creepy lunatics? Honestly.

Talking to people, in real life, is just not that difficult. After about age 20, if you tell me you’re shy and can’t talk to people, I might try to punch you in the face. You’re not shy; you’re just not trying hard enough. If you’re normal, just say normal things. Simple.

The same rules apply when talking to people online. Usually if you’re writing to someone online, it’s completely unsolicited. That being said, mayyybe try a simple introduction. A nice, PG-rated compliment. Some inquiries about one’s day, life or interests? Perfect.

Am I going to write you back? Probably not. I’m not looking to meet anyone. However, even if I was, which I am not, most of these guys would never get a reply because on a scale of 1 to 10, they are scoring an ELEVENTY on the creepy-meter.

What do they say, you ask? Well read on, kind sir or madam. Below please find my top five creepiest messages I’ve been sent recently. What would compel a person to respond kindly to these messages? Why do these guys, ages ranging from 22 through 36 years, lack the grammar, spelling and punctuation skills of a 10-year-old child? Is one of these an actual threat? Am I going to hell for posting these? You bet. Was I going before I posted these? You bet. Behold! (My comments and edits are in bold)

Subject: hello
Body: you are awesome! not 2 many girls are like you at all!! nice, pretty and sweet...well unless you have an evil side that is vicous!!! Niiiiice (what?)

Subject: hello
Body: Hello , I dont know how to beggin my message, but i will try, and i think i have to do it, to say all what i think...
So first, my name is *deleted*, i'm from morocco, i'm 30 yrs old, and i'm running a business of real estate, in marrakech, the city were i was born and where i'm living.
So let me say then, that i have seen ur profile, and i found it so interesting, that's why i'm sending this message, but let me say too, that i find u so beautiful, so sweet, and u sound a very interesting person.
So, that would be a great pleasure for me to talk to u and get know u if there is no prblm? So i will not be longer, i just shall say I wait ur message ... impatiently and i hope that I will get an answer from u, that would be really a great thing for me. take care sweet lady, and have a good time (what?)

Subject: hey
Body: add me as a friend im the funniest mother f**ker you will ever talk to i promise im a stand up comic by trade i will have you laughing your beautiful little a** off everyday no sh*t give me a chance if you dont think im funny you can block me this is my job ill have you rolling on the floor i need the practice and you are adorable (ummmmmmm)

Subject: No Subject
Body: U are very very sexy :) I would love to b on my hands and knee's tonight obeying ur every and any order ! Sorry If I pissed u off. I had to b honest (actual cell phone number) give me a text or call ; - )
(This guy is single. Can you believe it, ladies?!?)

Subject: No Subject
Body: What's up You're kinda cute and seem like a semi-normal person with a fun sense of humor , perhaps you'll consider getting in touch with me. No, not touching me...GEEZ we don't even know each other. Talking..
Check out my profile, I think we'd get along well and make friends not to mention enjoy some stimulating conversation and if you're lucky perhaps we could meet up someday for a cup of tea "wink".

(That last one got included, not for the touching comment, but rather for the wink after the cup of tea. I don’t really know what that means. I don’t really want to know what that means. Boys are scary.)

*sigh*

You can go your own way...

I get that pedestrians have the right of way. Fine. That crosswalk is made for walking, and that's just what you'll do.

You'll walk in front of my car, we'll make eye contact, you'll wave and say "thank you." I will put four fingers up while still holding the top of my steering wheel with my thumb to say "no problem!"

I deal with this daily. The town that I live in has a pretty crowded Main Street with crosswalks about every 25 feet. It's a pretty expected interaction.

My one plea to citizens of ColorMeBlah-ville...maybe stop before walking in a crosswalk? Give the old, "Oh, does this person see me? Are we making eye contact? Is he/she going to slow down? Yes? Ok. Great! I will proceed."

Please, for the love of all that is good and right and just and great, do NOT put on an Invisibility Cloak, crouch down and hide behind a parked car adjacent to the crosswalk and then BOLT out into the crosswalk like Jesse Owens.

You know who you are. I hate you.

Re! Spect! Walk!

Are you talking to me?

Do you ever have those days when you just feel like taking it slow? Looking around, admiring the world. Maybe you'll notice the little things you usually overlook. Wow, those forsythia bushes are in full bloom. I never realized that doorway had an arch to it, what a neat and interesting architectural element. The light reflecting through that prism hanging from the rearview mirror of that Pontiac Grand Am creates a rainbow on the dashboard, what a happy sight to see as you walk to your car...

Well, if you are going to be that person, please DO NOT walk in front of me.

I do not want to walk slow, I want to get where I'm going. I walk at a brisk pace of about 25-30 miles per hour and if you are going to be the jerk in front of me that walks slowly down the frozen food aisle of Market Basket, I'm going to get pretty upset. I can only assume the sub-zero temperature of that aisle is slowing your movement down as your body prepares to protect itself against hypothermia but I want my Lean Cuisine and still have to turn the corner to get milk, yogurt and shredded cheese so get the HELL out of my way.

Sure, being a fast walker has its disadvantages. I think I've almost killed about 11 employees at work because I take corners at Mach 3 and narrowly avoid full-on collisions. Turnover is high at PR agencies anyway, so running someone over and causing a career-ending injury (re: death) while on my way to get a Diet Coke is a risk I'm willing to take.

The way I figure it, there is plenty of time to walk slowly...and that time is when you are old. When you're old, you just can't move that quickly. Your body won't let you. It's like your body is telling you, "Hey, slow down big guy, take a look around...take it all in..appreciate it....because you're dying." (Too much?)

Well not this girl. My little stumps for legs still have a pretty quick turnover so it's life in the fast lane for me. GOOOOOO!

(And while we’re talking about movement, no, I will not share the road with you, Cyclists….get a car. )

Shhh...I'm sleeping...wait, no I'm not.

So I was shooting the crap with a good friend the other day and he was discussing how some of his best comedy/story/blog ideas come to him in his sleep, but that he always forgets them after he wakes up. The conversation went like this, "I had a dream I wrote the FUNNIEST blog post for you the other day...but I forget what it was about...I think it had to do with Styrofoam."

I encouraged him to keep a notebook by his bed, a la Jerry Seinfeld, but that is way too much work. I mean, turning on the light, sitting up AND writing?

And then we thought of it. Eureka’s castle! A dream recorder! More specifically, a Sony Dream Recorder (much like Mike Birbiglia's Sony Teleporter).

Somewhat "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" but with dreams instead of memories. You wake up and view your dreams on a screen. Rewinding..fast forwarding..erasing..saving until I delete...a DVR for dreams. The awesomeness of this is astounding. The blackmail potential if it ended up in the wrong hands? Endless.

Someone make this happen.

But a fun Lisa fact is that I don't actually sleep, so this wonderful invention wouldn’t even be of use to me. I have horrible insomnia and a remarkable tolerance for terrible late night/early morning television....BUT I used to sleep..and I used to have dreams...and they were always the same.

1) The power of flight. I could fly. It was great. A much preferred mode of travel. It was flying..but more like swimming through the air. I would start walking to school...only I would run a few steps, jump...and swim/fly, occasionally resting on a tree branch when I needed a break. Even in my dreams, I am out of shape and lazy.

2) Spitting out my teeth. I'm pretty sure this portends some sort of illness (grrrrreat) but I would be sitting reading a book or knitting or doing some other mindless task…and then would start spitting out my teeth like marbles. It was so weird. I used to have that dream all the time..then I got really sick. No, just kidding..that last part didn't happen....*cough*

3) My knees give out. The complete opposite of my awesome flying skill dream is when I try to run, walk or climb stairs, and I can’t stand up, so I kind of crawl..ish. It’s not like a sudden injury..it’s just how I walked. This also doesn’t seem like it could have possibly come from a positive place…I’m sure lacking the ability to stand up is not indicative of “a sudden cash windfall” or “overcoming an obstacle at work.”

So tell me your dreams. No, not like aspirations and crap. I just don’t have the desire to play along, sitting here being all “if you put your mind to it..” or “everything happens for a reason…” or “shoot for the moon and if you miss you land among the stars blah blah blah.” I mean like actual dreams. Like that nightmare where you give a class presentation but you aren’t wearing pants…or you’re running through the woods because you’re being chased by a chainsaw wielding madman (scary!)…or you move in with your boyfriend and then move out two months later (Yikes! I’ll take the madman!) So..dream a little dream for me…..

I drove all night....

Have you ever thought something and then became embarrassed for yourself and relieved that no one can actually hear your thoughts? I do that pretty regularly. There are two situations in particular, both having to do with driving, where I just can't stop myself from having the most ridiculous reactions...then I give myself the embarrassed chills and proceed to repeat the reaction again whenever the situation presents itself. I just don't learn.

1. Whenever I'm driving (particularly at night), and the person in front of me throws a cigarette out the window...I watch the tiny red glow bounce off the ground as I drive towards it....AND BRACE MYSELF because I'm convinced my car is going to blow up as soon as I pass over it...it never does...but it could one day...and I don't know enough about cars to convince myself otherwise. A cigarette is a flame and a car is a moving tank of gasoline with a sunroof. BRACE!

2. While driving next to a big truck, if I can see an overpass in the distance, I start to think "Oh man, there's no way that truck is gonna make it under that overpass, it's way too tall and I think the overpass might be tooOHMYGOSH IT MADE IT!!" Phew. I end up feeling like that guy in The Neverending Story (Engywook) who yells "He made it! He made it!" and tumbles out of the basket after Atreyu runs through the Sphinx gate. That guy always gave me the creeps.

I'm not sure what it is about those two situations that illicit such a strong reaction from me, but I'm sure glad no one can hear my thought process when it happens....so don't tell anyone about this, K? Shhh...

What's Joey's favorite food? Sandwiches.

If you know me, you know that my favorite food in the whole world...is hot dogs. I know. I'm a classy broad. I'm confident enough to stand by my food choices. "Eww, do you know what goes in those?" Yes, yes I do, and I love love love it! You could tell me the secret ingredients are puppies or dead fairies and I would still order two at Fenway. Actually, I love dead fairies, make that three.

(Of note: The people that usually laugh and snark-ily respond "that's wicked classy, Lisa" are also the very same people I watch stumble around drunk on weekends, wearing less-than-enough clothing and launching themselves at guys in bars like Scud missiles, with equally destructive results...so who's classy now? Go home to your wine and cats....but I digress...)

Pizza is a close second. If pizza was nominated by the whole world as "best food ever" I would fully understand. I would stand up and clap my hands in support and praise as Pizza went on stage and accepted the award at the Food Ceremony, crying pepperoni tears and talking about how all the time spent rising and being beaten down was totally worth it.

I think potato chips might be number three. We've already discussed my love of chips and dip, perhaps too much. Perhaps that's why I'm single?

There is a noticeable absence of chocolate or any kind of sweets on this list and I don't really have a reason. It's always kind of been that way. When I die, I want to be buried in a casket filled with potato chips that I can eat on my way to Hot Dog Heaven where I will meet up with Pizza and he'll introduce me to his friend, Meatball Sub...and we'll all sit down and have steak.

What are the five foods you'll meet in heaven?

Wait a second! Is that Lisa's music?

I want a soundtrack. How awesome would that be? Music that just followed you everywhere, either as your calling card before entering a ring, or just to reflect your current mood. It's been in the Family Guy, I want it in my life.

Imagine how much more likely you would be to actually go grocery shopping if you knew you could moonwalk down the cereal aisle to "Billy Jean" as you happily grabbed boxes of Lucky Charms?

How much easier it would be to understand a girl's mood, if as you approached her, you heard "Symphony of Destruction," by Megadeath playing in the background.

Different songs, different scenarios.

A song for when I cartwheel out of bed in the morning, ready to take on the day! (“Fat Bottomed Girls” – Queen) A song for arriving at my desk and seeing I have 160 new emails since last night, and 19 of them are marked "urgent." (“Cool It Now” – New Edition) A song for a Friday afternoon drive home for a long weekend (“Break My Stride” – Matthew Wilder)…and then a completely different song when you hit Cape and/or Maine/NH traffic (“Why Aren’t We Moving?” – Lisa, as yelled in her Accord)

Some people have this choice, and those people are called professional baseball players.

Whether it's the walk to the plate or the jog to the mound, they get to pick a song.

Assuming I would be a "closer" (per my work review that says I'm great at coming through in the clutch, but need to work on consistency...) I've given a lot of thought to my song.

I've chosen "Da Rockwilder" by Method Man (feat. Redman) because I think it is the greatest beginning of a song, ever. I get pumped every single time I hear it. Seriously. I jog towards a mound and throw things when I hear that song, even if that mound is a pile of laundry on the floor and I’m hurling eyeliner across the room…you get my point.

So what’s your song/scenario? I’ve let you in, people…it’s only fair you do the same….

Hot vs. Cute - Tell me what you want, what you really, REALLY want....

It is currently a topic of much debate and it needs to be addressed. Hot vs. Cute. What does it mean? Why does it matter?

No girl wants to just be cute. It's a fact. Girls want to be pretty or hot. Can you be both? Sure...kinda...ish.

Speaking from personal experience, being told I'm "sooooo cute" makes me want to die inside. Luckily, I am already dead inside. Moving on...

Hypothetically, if a boy told a girl that she "reminded him of a pomeranian, bouncing around smiling and laughing all the time," how is she supposed to take that? Said boy does not take said girl seriously if in his head, she resembles a lap dog.

Do boys like being told they are "cute?" Wouldn't a guy rather be hot? Is that really hard to grasp?

I'm getting heated...weigh in on comments and take the survey...ready...GO!

Red, gold and green

I have this horrible habit of trusting people. Even strangers. Why? Because I'm a sucker, that's why.

I'm the perfect person to approach at North Station with the "I had a huge fight with my boyfriend this morning and we broke up and I need some money to get a train home," line. Why? Sucker. Sure, I'll see the same girl in North Station the very next day telling the exact same story to an unsuspecting stranger and for one brief fleeting moment I'll think, "You broke up with him AGAIN?! Did you not learn your lesson yesterday?"

Walking home from a bar one night my friends and I were approached by a couple in need of help. The story they told us was an intricate web of lies that my trusting soul got trapped in, not unlike the ants I used to throw into spider webs when I was younger. Granted sobriety was not exactly a shield I could protect myself with that night, but had I not been a few drinks deep at that point I most likely would have reacted the exact same way.

They were out for dinner. Their car got towed. They needed $20 to get a train home so they could go get the car. (What train costs $20? I don't know. Stay with me here.) The woman had four teeth and had clearly spent too much time in the sun as a youth (which, from what I could tell, was a very long time ago). The gentleman was a little more put together but was wearing a Starter jacket. He also claimed he was a chef at the Legal Seafood in the airport. Chefs don't lie! He actually validated it by saying, "you probably think this is a con, but it's not." What a ridiculous line. Who would possibly fall for that? This girl.

I tried to resist it. In my head, I even start to think "this is such a con," but out comes my wallet. I justify it afterwards by thinking, "Hey, maybe these people needed this money more than I do right now....maybe they are in a dire situation and aren't just con artists...maybe they have a baby who needs formula?" Probably not. The more likely story is that I just enabled a drug habit. Still gives me the warm fuzzies though, I helped someone!

So the moral of the story is...ask me for money. No. That's not it. The moral is that I hope if one day I ever have to rely on strangers in an emergency, someone will help me. Lots of crappy things could happen. What if I lost my phone and wallet simultaneously while I happened to be all alone and far away from home? Exactly. Karma is a chameleon. It come and go, come and go....and it better come my way if I need it.

Celery is nature's spoon.

When you think of Einstein, you may think of the theory of relativity. It's a defining part of the legacy that he left behind and will forever be associated with his name.

I have my own theory, and while it's not as complicated as "the curvature of spacetime with the mass, energy, and momentum within it," I feel just as strongly about it.

The Theory of the Dip Vehicle.

I love potato chips. I enjoy potato chips, plain, right out of the bag. However, if you place a bowl of french onion dip on the table in front of me (or anywhere in the room for that matter, I'll find it), the chip takes on a whole new role. It's no longer a simple salty snack. The chip undergoes a metamorphosis, becoming nothing more than a vehicle for me to get as much dip into my mouth as possible. Sorry chip, I'm just using you.

This theory is reinforced across countless snack and dip combinations.

Tostitos? Great. You know what's better? Tostitos Scoops. Why? The Theory of the Dip Vehicle. The Scoop is bascially a white corn bowl of whatever you decided to eat. It is especially key for things like buffalo chicken dip, which are a little heartier and require that additional reinforcement if you're really going to get a big bite. (Note: If your preferred method of consuming buffalo chicken is freebasing, I support that as well.)

Shrimp cocktail is delicious. I will scoop, twist my arm and contort myself like Gumby to ensure the maximum amount of cocktail sauce remains on that crustacean at all times.

The vegetable platter (or crudite, if you're a snob) is a shining example of the Theory in action.

As I approach a vegetable platter (slowly and deliberately, like a cheetah stalking its prey), you might think I would reach for the carrots first, which are usually the best tasting of all the options. Carrots are, in fact, the best vegetable choice if we are living in Hell-on-Earth where we're in some sort of dip recession and are on dip rations.

However, if all is good and well in the world, the first item I'm reaching for is celery. Celery is nature's spoon. It has a groove! That groove is there for a reason. It has a purpose. The purpose is to hold some variety of dip. Sour cream based? Cream cheese? Peanut butter? Celery lovingly embraces this deliciousness with its loving cellulose arm-grooves.

Maybe some day it will be acceptable to just eat french onion dip with a spoon. That day will be my own personal V-Day. Until that day have to just approach each snacking situation carefully, holding steadfast to the Theory of the Dip Vehicle and reaching out to select the best snack for the job. I encourage you to do the same. Think before you dip. Choose wisely.

A Magical Animal

There you are!

I've been trying to start this blog for about two weeks now and the main thing holding me back was the title.

I ended up with Color Me Blah because that's how I feel about a lot of things, and it also emphasizes my love for terrible music.

As it turns out, asking your friends to help you name a blog is an interesting exercise in "discovering what your friends really think about you." I experienced a similar phenomenon at my father's retirement party, when "Baby Got Back" came on and multiple members of my family yelled, "This is Lisa's song!"

Thankfully, none of the names suggested by my friends had an impact on my already distorted self-image but most hinted on me being extremely sarcastic and I started to wonder if that really defines me....

I dug deep into my soul, as well as deep into a bag of Cape Cod potato chips, to try to find the answer.

The answer is yes.

I'm not sure I will really have anything interesting to say on this thing but I hope to, at the very least, make you laugh..or maybe just snicker...or maybe want to go get a Snickers? I'm never one to underestimate the power of words.....