Your Girlfriend is Ugly

My iPod shuffles up some amazingness.

Two summers ago I purchased a little $17.00 iPod docking station from the Christmas Tree Shop in Hyannis. It's some silly no name brand thing and it's lasted longer than the lip treatment I purchased at Clinique last Friday. (For the record I have no recollection of losing the lip product and I am very disappointed with myself for having lost it. SAD FACE.)

Anyway, for obvious reasons the iPod and docking station are fabulous to have at work. You get to listen to your own music and you can drown out strange, shitty music that your coworkers are playing.

The shuffle option on the iPod is my personal favorite. For the purpose of making this blog even more fabulous than it already is I will now list the last 10 songs that have come blasting out of the speakers:  

1. Heart - "All I wanna Do is Make Love To You." How do you not heart Heart?!Seen them live and they're amazing.
2. I don't know why my numbers are messed up but...meh.
3. P. Diddy - "Bad Boys For life." Wasn't Ben Stiller in this video?
4. Chicago - "If You Leave Me Now." Gotta love the "ooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" part of the song.
5. Red Hot Chili Peppers - "Wet Sand." Summer 2007. Nantucket. That is all.
6. Ashlee Simpson - "Boyfriend." Whatever. I still like to dance around in my underwear to this song.
7. Citizen Cope - "Pablo Picasso." All of his songs have such a good vibe. .
8. Buffalo Tom - "Late at Night." I downloaded this when I was watching episodes of My So Called Life. This song plays when Jordan Catalano grabs hold of Angela's hand at school after saying, "Can we, uh, go somewhere?" He finally acknowledges they are couple! Why did that show go off the air???
9. Buck Cherry - "I Love the Cocaine." Good party mix song!
10. Janis Joplin - "Piece of my Heart." TAKE IT!
11. Notorious BIG - "Mo Money Mo Problems." RIP Biggie, RIP.

Happenings at Home: Keep your comps close and your mother closer.

This past weekend my sister was home in Mass visiting. We work for the same company but in different capacities; her office is in New York and I'm in Boston. On Friday she had to attend a photo shoot and some of the products had to be mocked up or "comped" as we creative people say in the industry. The plan was to get the products shot and then my sister would take them with her to the left coast for a really big meeting she has this week with a company that rhymes with Plethora.

Friday evening my sister had plans so I took the comps with me and met my mother for dinner.

"What ah those?" The Donna asked.

"They are comps mom."

She sized the bag up like it was a Stella D'Oro cookie then replied, "Oh."

That was the end of our conversation. We proceeded to do some light shopping that evening and then went home, ate salads and watched Tropic Thunder.

That Saturday morning I woke up at 11:45 (in the six weeks since I have moved back home I have not slept passed 10. Even I was horrified that I slept so late) and heard my sister say to my mother, "Oh, Lisa gave you a pink makeup bag?"  The pink makeup bag was in the bag of comps I brought home.

"Umm...No.." replied my mother hastily.

"Lisa?"

"What?"

My sister came bombing downstairs into my room.

"Where are the comps?"

"They were on the sewing table."

We both looked at the sewing table. No bag of comps.

"Mom. Where are the comps??"

"Oh. Well I threw them away."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Uh. Why would you do that?"

"Well I thought they were freebies so I took the bag and threw the rest of the stuff away." (One thing you have to picture is that the two makeup bags had paper sleeves around them that were part of the presentation. My sister and I later compared notes of what was going through our heads at the time and we were both sure that The Donna had ripped the sleeves to shreds before tossing them into the garbage.)

"Mom! They were comps! Shana needs those for her meeting."

"Yeah. I thought comp meant I could have them."

"No. Comp does not equal free."

"But you said they were mock-ups."

"That doesn't equal free either!"

"Oh," she replied busting into giggles.

The Donna then proceeded to rifle through the downstairs trash until she resurrected every comp/mock-up that had been unceremoniously tossed away. Both of the paper sleeves were still in tact and nothing was damaged. Although one of the tubes did have some Swiffer Wet Jet juice on it but no comps were seriously injured.

Don't be a pinhead.

I know that Your Girlfriend is Ugly is usually a forum for sarcasm, clowny stories and open discussions on how tragic my dating life is, but today I need to get serious for a minute.

Last night I updated my Facebook status as "Lisa is glued to The O'Reilly Factor." A pretty innocuous update I thought. As harmless as if I'd updated with, "Lisa is plowing through her DVR" or "Lisa is getting a manicure." However the O'Reilly update was met with comments on my status from friends replying with "Yuck!" or "BARF!"

The commenter's in question are Obama supports, which I'm sure you could've figured out. Now would be a good time to alert you to the fact that I did not vote for Obama and I am a registered Republican.

During the election and the campaigning I expected shit for being a McCain supporter. If I even so much as mentioned the right wing in the months leading up to November 4th I was crucified and given side ways stares and asked "Why? Why? Why?" And I'd give my reasons why and people would still want to know why.

It became so taxing that I didn't even want to deal with it. If conversations surrounding politics came up I kept my mouth shut or walked out of the room. People automatically assumed that I didn't know enough information to back up my Republican status. But in reality it's not like I was a poli-sci major and stumping for McCain. I wasn't handing out buttons or cold calling people trying to persuade them to cast their vote for him so I really didn't care to get into a four hour debate about it. You want to vote for Obama. Go ahead. In reality it didn't matter who was running against McCain. As long as the democrats were moving into the White House that's all people cared about.

The Obama supports had their wish granted. He's in the White House and implementing that famous "strategy" of change, so why are you still harassing me? I don't leave comments on Obama supporters Facebook pages saying, "How's that Obama Kool-Aid taste??" when they write "Gobama!"

I hope Obama does great things for America and I hope his change is successful. But if, at the end of four or eight years, it's not, you won't see me cursing out Michelle Obama or disgracing his administration. He is, after all, the president for the American people.

My history of rent-a-dogs.

When I was a kid growing up I always wanted a dog. Every year for Christmas and for my birthday I'd beg my parents to let my sister and I get a dog. And every year my mother would reply, "HELL TO THE NO. THREE KIDS AND A HUSBAND ARE ENOUGH." My dad always wanted a dog but my mother was CONVINCED that she'd be the one to have to walk it and clean up after it and there was no way to persuade her otherwise.

But I still wouldn't take no for an answer. Every day the paper came I'd scour the classified sections and look for breeders selling puppies. Then I'd clip out the ads and leave them on the counter for my mother to see when she got home from work. She either didn't see them or did and just threw the clippings in the trash because she never said anything.

Sick of hearing me whine about a dog my mother finally came through. Kinda.

It was Christmas morning 1990. I tip-toed downstairs to view my assortment of presents and there in the front was a big box with holes poked in the top.

"NO. WAY."

After my parents and sister joined me downstairs I tore through the wrapping paper hoping to meet my new puppy. Instead I was met with the L.L. Bean logo. I opened up the box and there inside was a stuffed black lab.

I looked up quizzically at my mom. Perhaps they couldn't get the dog in time for Christmas so this was serving as a place holder?

Instead my mother spoke, "There's your dog. Merry Christmas."

After that I stopped asking for one every single day. I'd just put a request in off the cuff around my birthday or Christmas but I knew I'd never get the pooch I pined for.

Instead my family became something of a hotel for dogs. Our neighbors down the street, the Callahans grew up with every animal on the planet; dogs, cats, parakeets, cockatails, fish, salamanders, gerbils, iguanas. You name it they had it.

No matter how many animals the Callahans went through they always had a dog. First was Rocky, the black Schnauzer. Then Daisy the black Cocker Spaniel and now they have a Boxer, Sasha. Their youngest daughter, Katie and I were BFF's growing up. She'd come over to my house and we'd have sleepovers and recite The Little Mermaid songs and she'd always bring the dog with her. My mother was totally fine with this as long as it wasn't a permanent situation and it knew to shit outside.

When the Callahans went on vacation I'd take care of getting their mail and making sure that all of the animals were fed and not rolling around in their own poop. I was able to convince my family to let the dog stay at our house and for two weeks it was like we actually owned a dog!

Now, all these years later I'm recently back home, living in a dog-less house.

Two weeks ago I was talking to my boss and I asked her when I could watch Latte again. Latte is her dog and he is literally the most amazing canine on the planet. When I was living in the city I'd watch him and use him as a dude magnet. You know, walk around Castle Island and try to get him to bump into guys walk their dogs. It only worked once and I think the dude was annoyed because the encounter had messed up his run.  

Anyway I practically begged my boss to let me have him while she was in Asia. I had already cleared it with my mother so this past Friday I took him to the burbs. Let me tell you something, I need a dog just for the sheer workout advantage.

Today is my last day with him and as I was packing up his stuff this morning to bring him back to his rightful owner I actually got choked up.

I could still make a run for the boarder. Just me and Latte exploring the world. Every so often a postcard would surface with a message detailing the beauty of the last place we'd just visited. And it would be signed Love Lisa and a little paw print.

A Trip to the Ivy....By HLP!!!!

Hey Everyone this is the story about how Slut, Lisa and I spent a night at the Ivy.

I was watching the Phantom Gourmet one morning and they were talking about cheap eats in the city.  They came across this restaurant called the Ivy in downtown crossing.  It was a high class atmosphere with great barging prices.  Naturally I called the girls and we set up a date to go.

I had been waiting for a occasion to wear my new peep toed maroon pumps from Nordsrom and I figured a night at the Ivy was a perfect place to debut them.  So we met up at Lisa's apt and slut drove us to the Common parking lot where we could park for 10 all night.  We got out and made our way across the common toward downtown crossing, as we approached the half way mark I started to feel pain in my feet.  I would like to make a disclaimer that I know I shouldn't have worn these out in the city for the first time, but they were so darn cute and went perfect with my outfit. I mean I knew I would get some form of a blister I just didn't know what was in store.  I decided I would wait to assess the damage until we were seated at the restaurant.  By the time we got there I was in full out extreme pain.  All I could think about was sitting down and taking these shoes off.

Once we seated I immediately took off my shoes to assess the damage.  It wasn't looking good,  I had blisters in just about every possible spot on both feet and then some.  I figured I would deal with it later, it wasn't going to ruin dinner.  After all no one could see under the table.  We order the cheese plate first and I decided I would get the chicken, even though the pasta primavera sounded good pasta didn't always like my stomach.  The waiter came back and asked us what we wanted for dinner.

"could I have the chicken please"

"I'm sorry but we are out of that"

"great ummmmm  (I quickly scan the menu) I guess I'll have the pasta primavera"

"ok"

Several minutes later our food arrives, I quickly survey my plate and see that instead of some sort of saucee being on my plate all I could make out was oil.  A lot of oil.  I said to myself this will probably make me sick, but oh well it looks good....and it was.

Several minutes after I finished eating, it hit me.  My stomach was upset and I had to go to the bathroom except I couldn't bear to put my heel's on so I asked Lisa to borrow her flip flops.  Of course she let me.

I sat back down and we were discussing getting the check and leaving. Once we got the bill squared away we all decided to go to the bathroom before we left.  I still didn't feel good and putting my shoes back on was pure HELL.  I couldn't walk.  I stumled into the bathroom and at that moment everyone and their mother decided to use the bathroom.  Great.  What am going to do.  I was taking to long so Lisa and Slut said they would meet me outside.  I said fine and sat and wondered how the hell I was going to get back to the car.  I came to the conclusion that I had only one real option at this point.  I was alone, in a toilet stall, with blisters covering my feet.  I was desperate. I had no other choice than to wrap my feet in toilet paper.  I mean really wrap them......

The pain was so bad that I couldn't get my entire foot in the shoe, so I tiptoed out of the bathroom, through the restaurant, and past the hostess with toilet paper dragging on the floor.  Once outside Lisa and Slut took one look at me and burst out laughing.  I can only imagine what I looked like, but I was in agony.  oh Rose what have you done. 

"I can't make it to the car guys.  I don't know what to do.  I am going to have to walk barefoot with the tp"  (i know sooooo nasty)

"no Rose you can't do that, I would give you my flip flops but your heels are to small for me"

"can you guys do me a huge favor and run to Macy's and buy me a pair of flip flops....please"

"ok we will try it doesn't look like they are still open"

They weren't....as Lisa's says they went in and asked if they could buy a pair of flip flops for their friend in pain and of course the lady was like no we are closed.  So there I am in the middle of downtown crossing and the only thing separating my feet from the pavement was toilet paper.  Finally Krystal (Slut) came to the rescue and told me I could wear her NEW shoes, but I better not scratch them.  They were a godsend, low and stretched out...heaven for my poor feet.  I made it back to the car in one piece and didn't touch any dirty pavement.  So I learned my lesson never wear new shoes out when you have to walk any distance.

Needless to say I won't be going back to the IVY!

Haircut, by John Barleycorn

(I swear to God I wrote about getting my hair cut at some point, but I've been known to swig Schnapps in backalleys, so my memory isn't what it used to be.)

Anyway, for me, getting a haircut is one of the worst things imaginable.  I'm cheap, so I never go to those fancy salons where the guy with the plucked eyebrows and grating lisp chit-chats about US Weekly coverage whilst administering sharp blades to your head. 

I go to SuperCuts.

For those of you outside the know, SuperCuts is for cheap idiots.  They butcher and maim.  They're generally staffed with street people — or so it appears.

My behavior leading up to going to the haircuttery is what characterizes me as a whiny bitch-boy.  Yes, I whine and complain.  I drag my feet and concoct excuses about why it's in my best interests not to get my hair cut that day.  And when I'm finally plopped in that rotating pleather chair, I'm an anxious, blubbering mess.

The last time I went to SuperCuts some disheveled lady took me.  She took me Biblically.  No, just kidding.

The whole time she was finding the perfect coif, she was mumbling to herself about money, people, and other random stream-of-consciousness things I couldn't decipher over the sound of buzz and snip and from underneath her cigarette-smoked voice.

Put plainly, it was a wildly uncomfortable experience.  I tried to keep up with her nonsense by nodding (bad idea when in a barber's chair) and saying "Uh-huh" at what I thought to be opportune times.

When she was finally done, she managed to sell me a bottle of gel.  I've never used gel before and I figured now that I'm on the meat market, I might as well make myself look presentable as hell.

The way she put it in (actually, she kind of slammed it in; really gave it to me) was perfect.  Later I tried to repeat the experience, to no avail.  I dumped a shitload of the goo on my head, rubbed and strung it in, and then promptly put on a winter hat.

Not a good idea.  The hat absorbed all the gel.  The only thing I got out of the experience was an itchy scalp and raging paranoid thoughts that I was, in fact, allergic to the gel, and had just managed to give myself a blistering rash.

A few weeks have passed and my hair has gained in length.  I'm scared to return to the barber.  Deathly afraid.  What if they screw up this time?  What if I am guilted into buying more gel?  What about all the time wasted sitting in that chair and listening to some stranger ooze gibberish like a hemorrhaging word wound?

I wish technology would hurry the fuck up and give me barber robots.

Quick check in!

Bonjour my friends! I'm just checking in super quick from my Blackberry. I have some time so I figged I'd write a quickie.

Paris is lovely and I'm learning a lot! (I am here for work.) I'm staying at the Sofitel Champs Elysees. I've been to the Champs but never stayed near here. It's nice and I found an amazing restaurant that serves the most delicious raspberry macaroon the size of your head. It's called L'Avenue and it's on the Avenue Montaigne. Deeelish!

A few points worth mentioning:

• This is a big week for sales in Paris and I found THE MOST amazing Sequoia bag for 30% off. Granted the 30% off was still 273 Euros which is like 350USD but it was amazing. Amazingness like I've never seen in the United States. So amazing that I didn't know this type of amazing existed. Damn exchange rate!
• I stopped into a Pharmacie to buy some soaps. They are the Roger & Gallet soaps and I can only find them in France. I always stock up when I'm here because the Blue Lotus scent is to die for. Anyway as I was paying the gentleman ringing me up asked where I was from. I never tell people I'm from the US when I travel abroad, well, because most people don't like Americans. So I said I was from Canada...as I handed him my Bank of America Visa card. Meh.
• The pharmasict then came back from ringing up my purchase and says all boisterously, "So can I ask you something?" And I'm sure he's going to call me out and ask why I am Canadian and having a Bank of America card. "Sure." Then he asks, "The way you stand suggests that you have back problems. Tell me, am I wrong?" I immediately stood ram rod straight and said, "Yes you are wrong. I don't have any back problems." Then I knocked on wood and he eyed me suspiciously. "You are sure you don't have any back problems?" WTF?! "Yes I am sure. Merci!"  The rest of the day I was so conscious of my posture that I didn't realize how much I was squeezing my butt cheecks together until I got a Charlie Horse in the left cheek.

I now have to take my back problems to dinner with a vendor. I hope you are all well and that you're enjoying my guest bloggers!

Xx

Single, by John Barleycorn

After my Huge Break-Up, I went on a half-mad bout of serial dating.

At it's worst, I had OKcupid, Match.com and Chemistry.com profiles.  They all read the same.  Snarky, fast-paced, fun.  Some people responded to it, others saw my glasses and puffy babyface and chose not to reply to my messages.

My messages, by the way, are incredible.  They're like fingernails embedded in the walls of a well.  They're like rollercoaster rides for the scrotum.  They make potential suitors vomit from the sheer torque of my wit.

Alas, I am single.

I still keep close tabs on my OKcupid profile.  For those interested in online dating, I believe OKcupid is the way to go.  It's free.  People like free things.  Ergo, many people use OKcupid.

From OKcupid I've had many dates, none of which, obviously, worked out.  One kid cried about his dead father at the bar.  Another kept my engine running for four months before informing me I was in the car with the garage door closed.

This probably doesn't sound like a positive endorsement but believe me, it is.  Nothing says livin' life like repeatedly slamming your fingers in a car door and calling it love.

Anyway, I'm about ready to give it a rest.  I realize by doing this I am effectively shutting off any possibility of finding a man in Boston.  The gay community in Boston—for those outside the know—is a brutal, passive-aggressive, shallow, meaningless and closed-off experience.  It's like showing up at the cemetery and being told there are no more plots; you're just gonna hafta go n' die someplace else, buddy.

I'm okay with this.  I've grown okay with this.  It's a learning process.  It's a steep hill.  It's a rocky terrain.  It's life, and that's all there is to it.

But if any of Lisa's readers know of single gay men out there—be they attractive or butt—let them know I exist.  I'll take them out for a drink and unleash the full power of my misanthropy.  They will then return to you with open palms and question marks bouncing above their heads, wondering why you put them through such witty, wonderful Hell.

Yessir, I am single, and it's gonna stay this way for a while, he says with absolute contentment.

News-y

I'm watching the news for the first time in a while. This is the earliest I've been home in a long time so I figured, instead of catching up on my One Tree Hill DVR I'd see what's happening in the world. So far here are the highlights:

• Man stabs mother and girlfriend to death. Writes I <3 YOU on the wall above his dead girlfriend's body. In her own blood.
• Weather in New England is shitty.

• It's going to snow on Saturday. Just in time for my flight to France.

• "The brain was never born to read." Makes sense. I mean, tabula rasa and all, but hearing it just made me feel awkward.

• The Yankees spend way too much money on three players. Maybe they'll get into the post-season? GO SOX! PITCHERS AND CATCHERS REPORT IN 5 WEEKS!

• What's going on with the Celtics?!?!?!!?

• "New York Times puts advertising on the front page. Mmmm...these are tough times indeed...(pause for effect) Coming up after the break: do YOU know how many text messages your teenager is sending? The number will shock you."

Commercial break. Flip to Discovery Channel. How It's Made is profiling pocket knives. Meh.

• Back to the news: Financial quagmire still happening, weather in New England still shitty, and if you really were curious your teen sends about 1200 text messages a month. 

 I think I'll stick to Perez Hilton for my news.

Headlights.

The weather in New England is shitty. There are rivers of slush, sheets of ice and dense fog from the rain fall melting the snow. I feel like I'm in a Harry Potter book when the Dementors come into town.

When the weather is like this do you think people would be smart and put on their headlights? Answer: No.

So when I'm pulling out of the parking lot this morning from getting my Dunkin's and almost collide with a Ford Taurus because I can't see the WHITE CAR through the curtain of FOG due to no headlights being turned on I kind of freak out. Thank God Suzi is reliable in all weather conditions. The Ford screeched to a halt and missed my driver's side door by inches.

After my heart race slowed to normal, I continued down RT 140 and prepared to make my way to I-495. As I passed Great Woods (some of you may know it as Tweeter Center or Comcast Center but it will always be Great Woods to me) the driver of the Taurus sidled alongside me honking their horn and flashing their high-beams.

Crazy.

I glanced to my left and saw the passenger, an old man probably in his 70's giving me the double finger. That's right, not one but two wrinkly, arthritis riddled fingers stared back at me. I looked at the man who was shaking his head and said "Seriously??" to myself.

I don't mind when someone gives me the finger if I do something stupidslashaggressive while driving, like flash someone the brights because they are driving too slow in the left lane, but come on! At least put your headlights on! THEN if I still almost collide into you, give me the finger.