You're spending all your time collecting and discovering, it's not enough.

I think I find myself drawn to songs that contain counting because it makes me feel like I already know some of the lyrics.

Moving is the best anti-shopping. I’m now going to ask myself, before making any purchases, “Will you want to pack this in a box in a few years? Does the thought of that make you want to kill yourself? Yes? Put it back.”

During the apartment search, the fact that there is a wings place at the end of my street factored into the final decision. Does that make me fat…or just a believer in thorough SWOT analysis?

I realized I was no longer friends with someone on Facebook the other day when I said to myself, “Hey, wonder what he/she is up to, haven’t made fun of his/her updates in a while.” Whoops.

In unrelated news, if you’re a single girl going out on a bunch of dates and you always think it’s “going really well” but the guy always drops off the face of the Earth, there is nothing wrong with him. There is something wrong with you. Your friends won’t tell you that because they are equally as delusional and equally as single with equally as many cats. You may have read about this in “He’s Just Not That Into You” but then you messed it all up by believing that Carrie from Sex in the City and Bridget Jones are real people. There is no need to lead a charge to try to change this type of behavior in men. You are not Joan of Arc and you make him even more scared of other single girls. Don’t email him/text him/call him demanding an answer. Move on, Crazyface.

"It's women like you that keep the rest of us from landing a husband." - Edna Krabappel

(Oh, and it probably WAS something you said.)

(Also, don’t talk about it on Facebook or on a blog.)

The six o'clock alarm would never ring, but it rings and I rise

Kelloggs introduced Sunny and the "two scoops" slogan in 1966 (thanks, Wikipedia!). It's pretty clear this indicates the amount of raisins in the cereal exceeds that of a lesser one-scoop cereal. Why wouldn't someone in 1967 just introduce "three scoops?" Isn't that like when someone is on The Price is Right, and after "coming on down" they guess $1 on the price of the prize (assuming all of the other contestants went over) but they don't realized they are actually the second to last person, so the actual last person says $2 and wins?

It seems pretty obvious to me.

Also, raisins are gross.

She'll tell you she's an orphan...after you meet her family

Isn’t it amazing how much people think they know about angels, even though we don’t actually see them?

Like what gives them wings … the sound of a bell ringing

Like what makes them cry…the sound of balloons popping

Like what they feel like…toilet paper

Just let me state for the record, we're giving love in a family dose

Imagine if you had a job where you only had to show up once in a while, never had to do any actual work and still got paid?

It’s called being a consultant....but in this case, an aunt.

You only really have a small set of requirements (besides fertile siblings) to be an aunt.

-Bottomless pit of love and support? Check.
-Ability to serve as refuge when niece/nephew realizes they have the meanest Mum in the world and need to escape to awesome Auntie Lisa’s house? Check anticipated in the future.
-Prevent all injury and bodily harm. So far, so good!

Now when I brought up the idea of my BF and me bringing my 3-year-old nephew to the Aquarium this past Saturday, people (my entire family) had their doubts.

Can you handle it? Are you ready for this? What if he throws a tantrum? What if he doesn’t listen? What if he starts yelling? What if he starts crying?

In these situations, I’m sure his Mum would give him a warning. A stern talk. A time-out.

Do you know what Auntie gives him?

M&Ms.

(That is an actual photo of the inside of my purse)

I’m not here to enforce discipline. I’m here to look at penguins and have a good time. To the Aquarium!

It actually ended up being a really great day. Sure, it costs about $785 to go to the Aquarium, but I think that was worth it just to see my nephew’s face light up every time one of those gangly toothed sharks swam by the window in which we were standing….for about two solid hours.

“Here he comes! There he goes….here he comes again! Oh, there he goes….but he’s swimming back around! Look at the turtle! No, you’re right. He’s not a shark. The shark is….there he is!”

You know where else they have sharks? The gift shop! My nephew put three stuffed sharks into a shopping basket, by himself, and then walked right over to the checkout line. It was hilarious. Sure, the BF and I had to channel ninjas to get two of the sharks out of the basket without him noticing but we did it. It involved a lollipop distraction and a stealthily executed hand-off.

Kids are SO easy to take care of in four hour increments. Piece of cake.

Speaking of cake, I love beer.

I was on the Orange Line on Friday and a man sitting near me smelled kind of like beer. A normal person might say to him or herself, “Who drinks at 8 in the morning? That’s disgusting. That guy has a problem.”All I could think was “I cannot WAIT to go out after work.” (Can you believe people worry about me taking their kids into the city?)

Also, how is it that on random days I’m the tallest person on the train? I’m hardly a tall, lanky hipster. I’m an average 5’5 but I think a family of tourists was going to ask to take pictures with me when I stood up on the Red Line the other day. And that is nothing compared to the time I was on the Blue Line and almost recruited to play center on a men’s basketball team.

Just another day in the life of a commuter.

Remember, in the subway and in life, when you feel like there is nowhere to go…watch the doors, there is another train directly behind this one.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life...

Oh. There you are!

I know. It’s been a long time. Cut a sister some slack. I’ve had A LOT going on over the past few months.

First of all, I have a new nephew. How awesome is that? I now have not one, but two nephews that I can babysit and let stay up all night and eat pizza and make fun of their parents. Being an auntie is the best. Especially since I realized I can just take them to Home Depot and tell them that any of the men inside is the real Handy Manny and they will actually believe me. I’m a really bueno babysitter.

And I have a new job! It’s fantastic. I love it. Same field, just different company.

I think it might be the best thing to ever happen to this blog. Why? Because if you ever run out of things to talk about on your blog (see: the past 5 months)….start taking the MBTA to work. Guess who has a fantastic rack and will never run out of stories again? This girl.

For the record, I love the T. I think it’s extremely convenient. I give myself enough time to get where I’m going and it gets me there. I read. I don’t have to drive. I don’t sit in traffic. It’s fantastic.

First and foremost, when I get on the subway in the morning (at the first stop), I basically have my choice of seats. I always choose to sit in the last seat, right up against the wall. Why? Because that means I only have to sit next to one stranger. I’ve cut my “stuck next to a weirdo” odds in half. I should fight crime or solve the healthcare crisis.

Somehow, SOMEHOW, on many mornings a woman will get on the train and elect to sit in the seat(s) next to me and frankly, it just doesn’t work. It doesn’t work because, as you may have noticed, I said seat(s). I think I’ve almost had my ribcage crushed a few times by some woman with reverse Shallow Hal disorder who thinks her 36 inch ass is fitting into an 18 inch seat.

I truly believe there should be a ‘do you fit in this seat’ example chair set up in each station, the same way that people can measure if their carry-in will fit in the overhead compartments on an airplane. No one is judging, let’s just be a little realistic here.

And I am not a small girl. I am…how do you say…posteriorly gifted? Bottom heavy? Have back?

Oh, I’m not making this up. I have many examples to back up those statements. The first, and most therapy-inducing, being a soccer memory gone wrong. I was 16 years old, playing varsity soccer and dating a guy from a neighboring town. I adored this young man and was so excited that he was coming to see me play versus his home town. It was a night game, under the lights. His parents were there, cheering on the nice young girl their son was dating. The game was exactly as you would expect it, the intensity of town rivalries played out passionately on the pitch, fighting for each ball as if it was…wait…what? What is that? Do you hear that? The chanting? Are they…are they chanting “Thirteen’s got a big butt?” Oh yeah, yeah they are. Guess who needs a sub and she isn’t talking about a steak and cheese?

As a matter of fact, just tonight (no joke, this blog is practically happening in REAL TIME) I knocked over several drinks with my backside….ONTO a client…while trying to get up to go to the ladies room. My calm and professional reaction? “I have a HUGE ass.”

Who WOULDN’T hire me? Really?

Now that that’s out of the way (and I’ve adequately horrified myself enough to warrant skipping lunch this week), you understand that my comments about realistic ass-to-seat assessments are coming from a good place. An honest place.

A place that does not play a beeping sound as you back up towards me.

A place that does not warrant use of a shoe horn for me to try to get out of my seat and get off of the train.

A place where a round peg does not fit in a square hole, and your giant butt does not fit into this little seat.

Anyway, I’m back. I’ll be writing. Topics to include, but are not limited to:

- The guy that calls me “mama” at Downtown Crossing
- People that don’t take off their giant camping backpacks on the T (and why do you have that? I know you work at State Street not Mt. Washington)
- Pregnant or fat? Pregnant or fat? Do I give you my seat? I can’t decide! Avoid eye contact go!
- Cheez-its. Underrated and delicious.

Keep checking. Keep reading. Namaste.

It's a sacrifice working day to day...for little money...just tips to pay

This is the greatest escort story ever told….by me.

Listen, if you went to Arizona State, chances are you might have a few good hooker stories. I get that. I went to school in Boston. We did not have pools in our backyards and we have no hooker stories…until now.

It’s a drizzly March night. I’m meeting up with a friend for drinks. I have not seen said friend in about 12 years but through the powers of Greyskull and Facebook, drinks can be had. Totally normal. Let’s catch up. Absolutely.

We’ll call him: Bold (it’s his middle name, or so he tells me)

I hop on the Orange Line and head in town.

(On the Orange Line, I run into another old friend, who confesses that she reads my blog even though we are not friends on Facebook, but she found my blog through someone else’s profile. I think this is pretty awesome. It made me happy. I like her. We’re FB friends now.)

Anyway.

The location? The Green Dragon. Standard Irish decor. Dark wood. Unfriendly faces.

I take a seat at the bar and order a drink.

Not five minutes after sitting, she walks up. She’s easily 5’11, with very long brown hair. A friendly face, slight sun damage around the eyes. Aged but attractive. Like a fine scotch…only if the scotch was a woman who tries too hard to hold onto her youth.

“What are you drinking?” she asks.

I look at my Guinness. It looks very Guinness-y. It’s in a glass that says “Guinness.” I can see where she would be unsure.

“Guinness,” I answer. She smiles and responds, “You’re much too pretty to be sitting at a bar by yourself.” I laugh politely. “I’m meeting a friend.” “A guy I hope?” “Yes.”

A standard conversation ensues. She’s from San Francisco, here on vacation. She and her friends are fascinated by all the Irish bars in Faneuil Hall and she just thinks everything is so cute.

She hates walking on cobblestones, especially in her Ferragamo boots. I nod, like I would have any idea what the hell she is talking about. I hate walking on cobblestones too, but it’s usually because the little black tip at the bottom of my heel has come off and one of my shoes becomes the slippery exposed nail of death…or because I’m drunk. I play along.

She’s staying in Copley. I inform her that if she likes Ferragamo, she’s staying in a good part of town to go shopping. She says, “I know! I passed a La Perla store on my way in, I’m going to go tomorrow.” $250 bras? We have so much in common!

Then I confess, “I can’t afford stuff like that.” She asks what I do, I say I’m in public relations. She responds, “I used to be in marketing.” I ask what she does now and she says, “I’m an escort. I’m my own CEO.”

Holy. Crap. I can’t speak. Is this real? Do I laugh? And then….

My phone vibrates. Bold is calling. I answer, he’s on his way. I have never hoped, prayed or Care Bear Stared for someone to get to a bar as quickly as possible as much as I did that night. Why? Because no one was going to believe this was happening unless I had a witness. Can I get a witness? Yes. Yes, I can.

“I make 30k a month.”

(Lisa quickly does the math, remembers how much she loves her parents, erases career change from her head.)

Was she lying? Of course not! She’s admitted to being an escort, why lie about the salary? Benefits, maybe. But salary? No. I believe her.

So we continue to chat. She asks my dream job. I tell her I want to be a writer. She asks if I have read Shakespeare. I say yes and we start discussing how much of what Shakespeare wrote is adapted into movies and books of today. Sure.

Then one of her friends walks up. He’s tall. Wavy brown hair that is very styled. Lots of product. His shirt looks like it’s made of gauze. This is comforting, should we need first aid supplies.

He drops a bottle on the ground and picks it up, turning to my new friend, “Is this yours?” The bottle reads: Colon Prep. She (and I don’t know if this is part of Escort 101) doesn’t even bat an eye and says, no, someone else must have dropped it.

Dejected, Gauze Shirt Guy walks back over to his table and sends Plastic-y Blonde. She repeats the same joke. I laugh, “Your friend just tried that.” She says “Oh my gosh, we all know each other, I don’t want you to be offended.” I’m not. Just confused.

Gauze Shirt Guy comes back. We all exchange pleasantries.

Bold walks in. Thank. Gosh.

He sees me, gives the obligatory head nod acknowledgment and walks towards the circus that is now surrounding me.

He looks to put down his bag when Gauze Shirt Guy asks him, this nice boy I have not seen in 12 years, if he dropped this bottle of Colon Prep.

Bold, without hesitation, says “No, I take the extra strength ones, the really big pills.”

Everyone laughs, including me, just happy he did not turn around and walk right back out the door.

At this point, we still have not greeted each other. We’re just engaged in this ridiculous conversation.

I guess I shouldn’t call it that. It wasn’t ridiculous. It actually turned quite serious.

“Follow your dreams,” she says to me, “do it before it’s too late.”

“Too many young people don’t follow their dreams and they end up regretting it later, once they find what makes them truly happy.” Thanks, Gauze Shirt Guy.

I whisper to Bold, “This story is even better than it seems, I’ll tell you later.” Man, I can’t wait to drop the “AND this woman gets paid for sex” bomb.

What is the worst thing that could happen at this point? Why of course my new (and only) escort friend tells Bold that we look great together. I’m pretty sure there was also some mention of me being beautiful on the inside. I’m not really sure. I think I started to block it out at this point.

“Surround yourself with people that will support you, no matter what you do. Surround yourself with good people. Caring people. It’s the only way to live.”

This is knowledge. This is the real deal. This is the stuff you can only learn once a man pays you for your company, I guess.

So after dropping this wisdom, they turn to leave. It was nice meeting us. It was nice meeting them.

“Follow your dreams.”

Got it.

Bold asks, “How does this get better, exactly?” I respond, “She’s an escort.”

“You’re right, it does get better,” he says. “Do you normally attract people like that?”

The crazies? You bet. Like a magnet. I think I’m just friendly looking. This is strange, because I’m so dead on the inside.

Curse you, friendly smile and giggle.

At least it made a good story though.

And yes, we did run into them again at Paddy O’s later that evening.

“Follow your dreams!” Got it, Gauze Shirt Guy. Got it.

Greetings, salutations, peace to the nations

I live by myself. It’s cool. I get to come home and you know… sit.

I don’t have to worry about doing all that stuff that people do when they have roommates like…have conversations or fulfill that need/love I have to make dinner for others. Nope. Just me. Hi!

So I thought today that I should get one of those welcome slates to hang on my front door. Seems like the friendly, neighborly thing to do. Do you know what it would say?

Welcome! The Mokaba

Artist’s rendition:


**Kudos to my Dad for laughing at my sign idea and then brilliantly suggesting I just tape over the sign they already have at the house to change it from plural to singular.

Life is funny. So is that sign. And if you don't think I'm going to actually order one, you don't know me at all. And if you don't know me by now, you will never, never, never know me...oooooooooooooh.

And in case you were interested, below is the original, loving family version:

I see a storm bubbling up from the sea...and it's coming closer

A few random thoughts on a Sunday night/Monday morning. It's all the same when you don't sleep.

We’ve discussed this before. My general dislike of being known as “cute.” (Go here, if you’re a rookie)

Well, we reached turning point when a boy accosted me in a bar (he physically stopped me dead in my tracks) “You are the cutest person I have ever seen in my life. You are as cute as a button.”

My reaction? I laughed. I think I’m okay with this. I mean, if he had said “pretty” or if he was nearsighted “hot”, I may have thrown my drink on him. But cute was harmless. Especially the comparison to a common clothing fastener. It made him cute. Being told you’re cute is a way better feeling than never being told anything at all. I may have changed my mind on this entire situation. What a year for changes, huh?

Speaking of cute, is there a cuter commercial in the history of television advertising than Kylie? She’s four and half. She’s a PC. She’s emailing a picture of her fish Dorothy to her family. She makes the picture better. “It’s better!” I love it. I hope that commercial never gets taken off the air.

I do not feel the same way about the “Viva, Viagra” commercials. The one where they throw every “distraction” from golf clubs to the television remote out on the patio. Um, if you need to throw general household items out on the patio to make time for and focus on marital relations, maybe your only problem isn’t ED? Resorting to trickery is not healthy. I should be a doctor.

That’s a lie. I would be a horrible doctor. I’ve recently began doubting my own intelligence. Don’t even get me started on trying to drive somewhere without getting lost. It’s nearly impossible. I’m not talking about a road trip to an exciting new place to which I’ve never been. Nope. It can be a place I’ve been to one hundred times before, I just can’t get there. If any of my close friends or family knows that I’m in a car by myself, they DREAD the phone call with my number popping up on the caller ID. It’s the same conversation every time. “Hi Lisa.” “I’m lost…”

One of my friends, knowing I was on my way to meet her, just answered, “Alright, where are you?”

I think I might be the dumbest person in the world that is allowed to travel without an aid.

I once messed up the direction “go straight.”

And finally…

Does anyone have the lead singer of Kings of Leon’s phone number? I would like to call him and tell him I love him before it is too late. Too late for what? I don’t know. I’m afraid to find out.

Strike first, strike hard, no mercy.

I'm the innocent bystander...somehow I got stuck.

Acting is difficult. It truly is a craft. I really believe that some people pour themselves into roles, get into character and become who they are selected to portray. It is very difficult. I totally can’t do it.

Take my friend Andy, for example. He has the most ridiculously awesome sideburn/chops going on right now, just for a role. They are outrageous. Seriously. The kid looks like Wolverine. And he has a day job…he works in finance! Can you imagine handing over your finances to a kid that looks like Wolverine?

(In fact, I think I might prefer to hand my finances over to Wolverine, as opposed to any middle-aged white guy in a suit. Why? Because those are the assholes that seem to be robbing people. Have you turned on the news lately? You don’t see any of the X-Men conducting pyramid schemes. You only see them fighting crime. “Never trust a salt and pepper haired white guy in a suit and trench coat with your money” has become my new “never trust a big butt and a smile.”)

You know who is totally not a master of her craft? Julia Roberts. Holy crap.

That woman plays the same character every single time. I can’t believe she keeps getting cast in movies.

She has a new movie coming out with Clive Owen and it’s called “Duplicity.” Fitting, considering she just basically duplicates all of her previous characters.

If, IF, I ever decided to see that movie (which would totally not be in the theater, but for hypothetical purposes we’ll say I got it on NetFlix…wayyyy down in the queue) I would not be the LEAST bit surprised if her corporate spy character actually used to be a high priced (but with a heart of gold) prostitute who got to retire from the corner after she took down a big corporation for giving low-income people cancer through the water. This of course would be where she got all of her savvy to take on a casino not once but twice…clearly overcompensating for her heart being broken by her best friend at his wedding.

I bet at some point in this new movie, she opens her mouth really wide and does a one syllable “HA!” laugh because she’s really surprised at something that was said.

I’m just guessing.

Additional random thoughts:

- Four minutes = total duration of phone call with my Mum yesterday. 93 = total number of times she said “be careful!” before she hung up. Be careful of what? The world?

- Sometimes I wonder if the people that work at the convenience store near my apartment think I’m a phenomenal athlete because I am constantly in there in the morning buying Gatorade. The real reason is that I drank too much the night before but I like to think they assume I’m Misty May Treanor…or Nancy Kerrigan.

If you don't, you’ll be alone…and like a ghost…I’ll be gone

Not that I ever needed reinforcement that the people around me think I’m a hazard to myself, this latest gem comes from one of my (now adorably overprotective) sisters. After realizing that some new…ah…lifestyle changes mean that there is a good chance I’ll be in the company of people she does not know, she suggested that we establish a series of ground rules for me leaving my apartment, and most importantly, that I begin wearing a GPS anklet.

I mean, I guess I see her point. I’m sure my interactions with new people will inevitably lead to the day all reason eludes me and I decide to get into a windowless van because some guy needs help finding his dog (you’re right, I am MUCH more likely to fall for the candy in the car line…but definitely not if it was one of those vans that does have windows and those creepy curtains), it will be exponentially easier to find my body.

See, people, I’m not joking about that whole “black sheep” thing. The bar has been set for me at “don’t die.” So far so good!

Steppin down to a six when you're workin with 10?

Question.

If you were going to make a cookie, an oatmeal cookie, why would you EVER reach for raisins instead of chocolate chips?

Do you really want an oatmeal raisin cookie more than an oatmeal chocolate chip one?

This makes no sense to me.

That’s like answering all the questions on a test correctly…but then erasing the last few answers because you’d rather get a C instead of an A. Essentially the same amount of effort, but you’re actively choosing inferiority.

Sure, oatmeal raisin cookies are good, but a little piece of me always questions the judgement of the baker.

This is actually something I thought about today. The sandwich place I went to had lots of oatmeal raisin cookies and frankly, I found it disappointing.

I also thought about my entire life and decisions I've made and what I am doing with myself and where I am going and what I can change and things I can fix and things I have to accept and things that are out of my control...but that was so boooooring.

Choose chocolate chips. Time for a change.

Once the pen hits the pad it's danger…to this I be no stranger

I had a lot of random thoughts go through my head today and I would like to share some with you.

Sharing is caring.

(Unless you are sharing needles...that is so dangerous! Didn’t you see RENT?! I did. It was TERRIBLE. I was really expecting something life changing but I couldn’t get past them singing “how are we gonna pay last year’s rent.” Last year’s rent? What? You haven’t paid your rent in a year?)

I think there is practically nothing more valuable in life than a sincere apology. You know what is not an apology? “That was months ago, get over it!” No. No I won’t because you’re still a jerk, today. You were a jerk months ago, you’re a jerk right now. In real-time.

Another favorite of mine is “I’m sorry you’re mad.” You’re apologizing….for my reaction? I don’t think you can do that. That is not effective at all. I’m sorry...you’re a jerk?

The one thing that might be more valuable than that is the ability to say thank you.

I think that if I went to find a roommate on Craigslist, I could convince that person to pay $200 towards my rent each month if I made dinner for him/her 3x a week. Unfortunately, the thought of living with someone random right now makes me sweat in my armholes, but I still think it’s a solid plan. I make a really good steak. I’ve also mastered homemade mac and cheese.

That kind of sounded like I was writing an online dating profile.

I had such an overwhelming craving for carrot cake today that if some 2009 extreme version of the Super Girl Scouts came selling carrot cake door-to-door, I would have paid $50 for one cake. I would have totally regretted it afterwards, but that’s what I do, make horrendous spending decisions and regret later. With cream cheese frosting breath. And red leather pants.

Sometimes I can hear the guys that live next to me…have… “conversations”…with girls. It’s a quiet building. Lucky for me (and unlucky for them) it never lasts that long. ZING!

Did it just get awkward in here?

I’m fairly confident that it was unnecessary for my landlord to snowplow behind my building (re: Right up against my apartment..first floor...windows unlocked! Come say hi!) at 6:30 this morning. There are no doors behind my building, access is completely unnecessary. I think this could have waited until mid-morning. How about you take that snow blower and go take care of my parking spot? I’m one of the six grey Honda Accords in my lot, I’m sure you’ll find it.

I recently experienced a merging of best home friends with best non-home friend and the result was a night where I have never laughed so hard in my whole life (also during a time when laughter, combined with alcohol, was a much needed medicine). I think my friends might be the funniest people in the world. Brilliant theories on life and relationships. Some may be posted here eventually. (Teaser! Be sure to tune in!)

Did you know most of my blog titles are song lyrics?

I’m obsessed with adoption. I once tried to convince my Dad to adopt “Wednesday’s Child” because the featured child on the interview was a teenage boy that wants to go to BC. My Dad said no and also reassured me that they would not let a 27-year old adopt a teenager. I will when I’m older though, I can’t help it. I can’t imagine being a teenager without a family.

And finally, for the record, I despise the use of any abbreviation for laughter. LOL, ROFL, LMAO, ugh. The one time I allllmost thought it was okay was when my Mum told me she thought LOL meant “lots of love.” That’s adorable! That is totally an acceptable use. Now, as it turns out, my Mum doesn’t actually think I’m funny as her text messages had led me to believe…but that’s okay because it just means she loves me. A lot. Perfect. That’s all I need. Serious face.

Investigating the joint for traps, checking my telephone for taps

Tangents.

I feel like that is exactly how my brain works. There are times when I have no idea why I am talking about a certain subject, but when I backtrack into how a certain conversation came about, it is pretty clear that I’m a lunatic (and very easily distracted).

The other day I was laughing about the early seasons of the Cosby Show. So good. Easily some of the funniest material to ever hit the small screen. Rudy’s slumber party? The scene where Dr. Huxtable is bouncing kids on his knee playing “bucking horse” and then Peter (the child that looked like the baby from the show “Dinosaurs”) climbs up there and falls halfway off. Oh man.

Sidenote: Did you know that Keisha Knight-Pulliam is the youngest actress ever to be nominated for an Emmy? She was nominated at age six for best supporting actress. This information is brought to you by the awesome trivia DJ guy from Wednesday...who would have been even more awesome had he not tried to talk me out of believing that Sam Oktoberfest is one of the greatest beers on the market...but I digress…obviously. See?!

Anyway. So the reason I was thinking about the Cosby Show was because I had quoted the episode in which Stevie Wonder had appeared. The recording studio. Jammin on the one. R-R-R-Robert. Television gold.

I got asked, “where did that come from?” and was embarrassed by my answer.

I was scanning headlines and saw a mention of the Jonas Brothers.

When I thought of the Jonas Brothers I thought back to how angry I was that they got to perform with Stevie Wonder at the Grammys. How did that even happen? It’s Stevie Wonder! Every time one of those little Jonas girls yelled, “Come on Stevie!” I wanted to choke them by their kerchiefs. They should not be on the same stage with him, never mind address him casually.

When I thought of Stevie Wonder and how ridiculously awesome he is, I started to think of favorite songs…silly shirts….extremely tight and well kept braids….and that time he appeared on the Cosby Show. Man, I love the Cosby Show.

So that’s how my brain works. Jonas Brothers to Cosby Show. It’s like a Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon-type deal. A game that I am horrible at because I’m just not good at remembering who is in what movie…but man, I love the Cosby Show.

Sometimes in life you feel the fight is over, it seems as though the writing's on the wall

I'm really trying to...how do you say...not be a lazy piece of crap and actually keep up on this blogging thing. In an effort to become a better writer, I'm open to hearing what everyone who reads my blog thinks about it. Any feedback is very much appreciated. I'm always open to criticism, helpful hints or topic suggestions.

Here are some blog reviews I've received recently:

"i have color me blah saved on my favorites at work. i laughed the entire time i read your posts in an office by myself." - Ocifer Kel

"it embiggens my cromulent life" - anonymous

"Dad and I were laughing our asses off" - My Mom

"btw-- I am thoroughly enjoying your recent blog posts.love the part about how you would do a study, since college students do studies on stupid shit all the time." - Person with my career in his hands

"I didn't read it" - My boyfriend

"diggin the blog. keep it up.And start doing some serious writing, dammit. You're good at it." - Future award-winning screenplay writer Pat

"FYI: Things not to do when you're on a conference call for work:

1. Read "Color Me BLAH."

2. Laugh so hard that you audibly fart.

3. Pretend like it was static on the phone, get so embarrassed that you hang up and call right back, saying that your phone is going in and out of service."

- Mikey Tonka Truck

You're so pretty the way you are...and you have no reason to be so slick to me

I get it.

All little girls want to be pretty. Girls love to play dress up. You dream of being a princess. The most beautiful girl in the world. My favorite dress was this sassy yellow number that, as far as I was concerned, was woven in the looms of heaven by God himself. It was my Easter dress but I swear to Christmas I would have worn that dress every day if my Mum would have let me.

But she didn’t let me. Why? Because my mom loves me. I wanted to be a beauty queen; she wanted me to grow into a fully functioning adult.

You know who does not have the same respect for her daughter? Any mom on my new favorite TLC disaster “Toddlers and Tiaras.” How is this nonsense even legal?

You essential “trick out” your child. It should be called “Pimp my Child” only I’m sure the connotation of the word pimp would cause national outrage. But let’s be honest, I watched a mom put fake teeth into her very young daughter’s smile to make her stand out on stage. You just put “22s” on your little girl.

If I was allowed to judge these pageants, I would most certainly have the following conversation with many, many moms. Let’s pretend for a moment I’m judging “Lil’ Miss Boston Baked Bean.” (I just made that up, but that is an AWESOME name, someone make this happen.)

“Excuse me, Ma’am. Hi. Yes. Okay. Ma’am I’m a little concerned about your daughter, Brandie Wine. Yes, she’s adorable. Hey, but we, over here at the judges table are a little…concerned…about her makeup. Yes. We think you may have applied her makeup using the $300 As Seen On TV Alexis Vogel Makeup kit. You did? Okay. Yes, we know, the smoky eyes do “pop” on stage but you have to understand that makeup kit was developed by the woman who created Pam Anderson’s signature cat eye. Ma’am, yes it’s beautiful, but Pam Anderson is an adult film star. Your daughter is six.”

These are not stage moms. These are monsters.

One rule of “Lil’ Miss Boston Baked Bean” would be that you absolutely cannot wear makeup. The second rule would involve a mandatory dance sequence based on the movie “Little Miss Sunshine.” Olive was a beauty queen with a loving family. Brandie Wine is gonna end up in movies that you need the security code on your remote to pay-to-view.

To each their own I guess, and parents show their love in different ways. I’m just not sure these moms have their daughters’ best interests in mind. Also, don’t let any of those little hussies and their psycho Moms near my nephews….

'Cause when my leader sings that's all she wrote..I want the antidote.

Antidote. Anecdote. Seamless.

My dad is a retired teacher. Being the daughter of a teacher you get access to some cool stuff, like free tutoring. Haha, kidding. That never went well. Did I mention my dad taught calculus?

Lisa: Dad, I need help on this problem.
Dad: Okay…well, first, you start by looking at xyz. You know how to do xyz, right?
Lisa: No.
Dad: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO XYZ?!?

*AND SCENE!*

One of my favorite Dad-is-a-teacher memories was attending his school’s graduation. It was interesting. Different from Wakefield. Why? Because the student body didn’t look like…well…milk.

One year, when I was about 14 years old, I went with Dad to graduation. I remember it clearly. I was wearing a blue dress. Graduation was inside of a church, I think the temperature hovered somewhere around “magma.” After the ceremony, I was outside waiting for my dad to finish up talking to absolutely every single student to pass through the halls ever when I noticed a family staring at me. I didn’t know why, so I stared at my feet. Seemed like the right thing to do.

Finally, the Mom just came out and asked. “Are you Nancy Kerrigan?”

At this point, calculus made more sense than this question.

I said no. The family looked dejected. I ruined graduation.

I look NOTHING like Nancy Kerrigan. First of all, I was 14. That means I was extremely awkward.

Second of all, I had at least 45 lbs on Nancy Kerrigan. If Nancy Kerrigan was an Olympic ice cream eater, not figure skater, maybe, but this really wasn’t even close.

Third, I had some serious eyebrows. I looked more like Rudy Galindo than Nancy Kerrigan.

To make matters worse (or better?) I was also approached by a student and asked for my phone number. Still 14 and still awkward, I said no and noticed my dad watching from a distance, amused by the entire exchange.

(This is rivaled as my most awkward “approach by a creepy person” only by the time my Mom and sister were LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY in the middle of Stop & Shop when I was approached by a man named Victor and asked for my phone number. I was about 16. He was at least 40. He was wearing denim overalls.)

Memories are fun.

Do you ever dream of candy-coated raindrops?

Oh, Facebook. How I love you so. You’ve created this phenomenon known as “25 things” and I’m happy to take part. Jon did. I will too.

Of course none of these are mind-blowing revelations. (Unless we're strangers, in which case I ask, what are you doing here?)

And so we begin….

1. If Yankee Candle made a “Sautéed Peppers and Onions” candle I would buy it.

2. The girls in Wilson Phillips have the same coloring as my sisters and me. That makes me the fat one. The same goes for the three fairies in Sleeping Beauty. Why are the brunettes the fat ones? This gave me a complex as a youth. If I were a PhD student, I would investigate this and write a paper on it. Why? Because PhD students investigate and write papers on stupid shit all the time.

3. I pass out when I have blood drawn or watch people have blood drawn or listen to people discuss having blood drawn. It’s called a vasovagal episode. I know when it’s coming because I start yawning. I’m yawning right now.

4. I have one tattoo. “Blood drawing” needles and “happy tattoo drawing” needles do not register the same way in my brain.

5. I would rather buy new clothes than do laundry.

6. I love greeting cards.

7. I am the black sheep of my family. It’s not as bad as it sounds because when you’re the black sheep in a family of wonderfulness, nothing bad can ever happen to you no matter how bad you mess up.

8. I’m an excellent cook.

9. I once lived with a boy for less time than some people go on vacation. It was like a sabbatical. A sabbatical from normal, decent people.

10. I am infuriated (almost irrationally) by small, inconsiderate actions. There is nothing that busts my buttons more than not being treated with basic, common courtesy. More so than when people that are real jerks. Why? Because it’s basic and common for a reason: it’s easy.

11. I think people that wear Bluetooth headsets outside of their cars are DBs. (Mom, text me if you don’t know what that means)

12. During any disagreement or debate, I’m really good at explaining exactly how I feel about something and why I feel that way. I also can provide examples that have lead me to feel the way I do. I can articulate this to you clearly. This does not make me a bitch. If you cannot do the same, this also does not make me a bitch. I will never apologize for this ability ever again. (collective shudder by men across the Northeast.) The above referenced ability does not make me right or wrong in any given debate or argument. It just means you’ll know my side, whether you agree with it or not.

13. I cannot eat string pasta or chicken wings in a restaurant. Ribs, forget about it.

14. I get serious anxiety watching people embarrass themselves on TV, regardless of whether it is “reality” TV or a scripted sitcom. I usually won’t even try to watch, unless forced to by whoever is holding the remote.

15. I have never been able to do a cartwheel.

16. I’m a freakishly energetic insomniac. This is most likely doing irreparable damage to my body and I hope it lands me on the show “House.” I’m sure it will involve me coughing up blood.

17. I wanted to be a marine biologist until someone told me I would never have a job or make any money. I went to business school instead. I question this decision.

18. I hate Billy Joel.

19. I have a big butt. I’m cool with it.

20. I love fishing.

21. I have a giant hematoma on my leg. I hit a hurdle during a track meet my junior year of high school. Its name is “Quadzilla.”

22. I bruise ridiculously easy, to the point that it worries my Mum.

23. I still believe that the reason I’m so in the dark about the paternal side of my family is because I’m actually a member of some royal family and they are just waiting for the right time to come tell me. Still waiting.

24. I put hot sauce on macaroni and cheese.

25. The sound of the door creaking open, as well as the laugh that Vincent Price does at the end of the song, during “Thriller” used to make me cry when I was little.

We're just ordinary people...we don't know which way to go...

My life can be pretty boring. My days are pretty routine. Wakeup, shower, work, lunch, work, home, dinner, television, sleep, repeat.

Occasionally the gym will be thrown in there. Or beer. Or Trivia. Friends. Family. Still pretty routine.

Perfectly ordinary. And that…is….great!

The alternative? Beyond ordinary. Or rather “Beyond Ordinary.” Still not understanding?

How about:

OnDemand => TV Entertainment => Discovery Networks=>TLC => Beyond Ordinary

You know who you’ll find there? The Man Whose Arms Exploded.

Gregg Valentino. 28 inch biceps. It looked like he had tennis balls in his arms. I bet if his arms had a commercial, they could bring back Ellio's kid and have him go "blub blub blub" because that's what I am reminded of by his arms. Blub, blub, blub.

You may also meet his friend, Octopus Man. Or Ukrainian tall drink of water, Leonid Stadnyk. He’s checking out the scene at a towering 8 feet 4 inches. Or “Incredibly Small” Kenadie Jourdin, a two year old who weighs 8 lbs and is 24 inches long.

I don’t even know what they would title my “Beyond Ordinary” documentary.

“The Girl Who Likes Hot Dogs Too Much”
“The Girl That Overquotes the Simpsons”
“The Girl That Can’t Stop Giggling”

Sounds pretty lame. Awesomely lame. Awesomely ordinary. And that's just fine with me.

Now it's out into the open...I call her, ring ring, she's not there...

So apparently there has been a little controversy surrounding my last post. Thinly veiled references are just that, and you may have thought that I was talking about…well…..you.

I think we should use this as an opportunity to learn about ourselves and grow. Walk with me for a moment….

(And we’ll change names to hide actual identities)

I have a friend named Gym.

Gym thought I was talking about him when I mentioned a “grumpy curmudgeon.” For the record, I was not. The person I was talking about doesn’t even know I have a blog. I’m not even sure he knows my last name. Let’s be honest, he may not care that I’m alive but he is connected to my life and a big fat grumpy curmudgeon. Moving on.

Gym. I was not talking about you but you thought I was…does….does that mean that you think that you are, in fact, a grumpy curmudgeon? Have you been called that before? Even though I wasn’t talking about you, maybe you should still try to be happier in 2009? Less curmudgeon-ish?

Another example. If you read my post and said “did she just say I wasn’t funny?” do you know what that means? That means that I think your girlfriend looks like a praying mantis…and so do YOU!

It registered. I mean, the reference was pretty broad. You thought I was talking about you. That means somewhere, in the deep recesses of your soul, you think your girlfriend looks like a praying mantis.

Maybe you should rethink that? Maybe you shouldn’t date that girl? What would she say if she knew I made a reference to an insect and you thought I was talking about her? That’s just cruel. (And since we’re being honest, I would not only say praying mantis, but also Flik from “A Bug’s Life”)

I probably was not talking about you in my blog. But if, even for a moment, you thought I was….maybe you need to do some soul searching.

Live. Love. Grow. That’s what sarcastic blogs are all about.

Welcome to the fray….

Control yourself. Take only what you need from it.

Lots of people take a few months off during the winter. Like bloggers…and baseball players. Now that that is out of the way….

I have a proposition. 2009. “The Year That Everyone Tries to be Nice to One Another.” How about it? Yes? No?

Now I’m not talking overly nice. I’m talking run-of the mill nice.

If someone says hi to you in the hallway at work…say hi back. Smile.

Smile..even if you don’t feel like it.

Say thank you. Say please.

Why?

No one wants to deal with your negativenessocity. Do not make your bad day part of my good day.

Am I a nice person? Majority of the time, yes. Do I talk about people? Yes. Do I have bad days? Oh yeah.

For example, here is a list of Facebook status messages I have wanted to post but did not:

Lisa thinks...your girlfriend looks like a praying mantis and you are not funny

Lisa thinks…you are a grumpy curmudgeon and I’m tired of reaching out to you

Lisa thinks…your Halloween costume was unoriginal

Lisa says…just because you’re skinny, doesn’t mean you’re pretty

Lisa thinks...you peaked in high school

And so on, and so forth.

There are some issues one can run into by being a nice person. My least favorite is a phenomenon I like to call “too cool.” When you notice a common friend, or a shared interest with someone, and attempt quick small talk. The person responds as if you are trying to establish a deep connection and eventually get matching wrist tattoos with both of your names on it and half of a design so when you put your two wrists together, it makes the infinity symbol. Get over yourself. I was just bringing up a “small world” situation because I happened to like this mutual friend or see if I could get additional information about this shared interest. Not you.

Okay, that seemed angry, but it’s not. It’s more eye-roll-inducing than anything. I will still continue to be nice to everyone, even if it is not reciprocated.

I just think that if the three people that read this blog make an extra effort to be nice in 2009, the world will be a better place.

And those that aren’t nice…will continue to be called out in thinly veiled passive aggressive blog posts.

NICE IN ’09! CATCH THE FEVER!