Saturday, July 31, 2010

Comment comment

Okay, just briefly: You know how I love the comments people make on my blogs, don't you, my darling invisible friend? I cannot tell you how it lifts my spirits to read:

Anonymous said... [in reference to my less than brilliant cement work]
"If you are going to be dumb you better be tough" -cadre member. Still rings true today.. :-)
July 25, 2010 6:28 AM


Anonymous said... [in reference to my stump battle]
C4 shapedcharge+detcord+detonator = 15 second solution to your problem.But it´s more fun this way, isn´t it? ;-)I predict this will be a tale of epic proportions that will involve princesses in distress, horses and a couple of white knights and a few dark spells before you lot are done.
July 19, 2010 1:02 PM

These comments were made by a dear friend who likes to tell me to shut up and question my higher brain function. Yes, he gets away with it. No, you really shouldn't try it. Because I said so. Because he is who he is. Okay, look. At this point, you need to get California-zen with it: Accept...and let go. Accept...and let go.

Moving on.

One of my favorite comments so far also comes from the post about my misadventure with concrete and was posted as follows:

Maureen said...
You are officially the worst lesbian I know.
July 26, 2010 8:36 PM

Not only did this provoke shrieks of laughter--which I probably shouldn't have done in the coffee shop with free WiFi, live and learn--but it was very similar to the comment a neighbor made. She saw the cement creations, heard the story and studied me a moment before saying, "You know, a real lesbian would have done a better job."

I could hardly argue with her. Hell, not many people could have done a worse job. This does, however, beg the question. What is it about being straight, or more precisely, a straight woman that makes one less capable in home repair? Is it my appreciation of Mr. Happy as a playmate? Am I so distracted by the cheerful nature of this organ that I cannot, even away from its presence, work on the house or start new projects without injury?

If this is the case, does it also apply across gender lines?

Or maybe, just maybe, I am a complete klutz who should be monitored at all times.

Nahhhh, that can't be it.

Friday, July 30, 2010

Whoo hoo!!!!!

Okay, I know my dear NYC friend will make scoffing noises and accuse me of wishing I were Canadian, but darling invisible friend, this is not about nationality. This is about seeing a freaking AWESOME band in concert.

They just happen to be Canadian.

To be more precise, they are Newfoundlanders. Nooooo, not the big hairy dogs. That'd be a whole different kind of band. They are, by their own admission from "the tropical isle of Newfoundland." I am, of course, talking about Great Big Sea.

One of the security guards at work asked if they sing about ocean life. No, he really did. I did not laugh at him! All right, I did a little, but not until later, behind his back. I'm not a complete savage, you know.

This is the same band that the roommate went to see in Chicago, the band whose concert would have made the entire trip worthwhile even if Chicago had sucked. Which it didn't. But still!

Yes, we went to Chicago to see Great Big Sea.

This is the band that made driving to Portland two days ago worth Seattle traffic and summer highway construction. Yes, we did drive, mid-week, to Portland for a concert. We even drove back after the concert so we could sleep all of four hours and go to work the next morning. We worked until midday and then...

We went to see the band who made driving into Seattle rush hour traffic no problem, no problem at all! Two concerts in two days in two separate cities. Heehee!!! Go ahead, call me a groupie. I don't care.

Now, wasn't this much better than reading about my injury du jour?

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Random piece of advice

Never mix 160 pounds of quick drying concrete with your bare hands. Yeah. Live and learn.

Because I can never just leave it at that---and really, did you think I would, darling invisible friend?---this is what happened.

As I have said, roommate is doing the three-day walk for breast cancer and to raise money, she is holding one of her mammoth yard sales. This works out really nicely for a lot of people.

1) People who have crap--ahem, items they're ready to cull, but have an insufficient number for an individual sale have donated their...stuff, thus freeing themselves from the burden of having it in their homes.
2) People who have had yard sales have donated the detritus of unsold items, thus saving themselves the horror of the post-sale clean up process.
3) Other people [please, Jesus, many other people] will find treasures and usefulness at gosh darn rock bottom prices, thus enriching their lives without straining their wallets.

And this one actually means something:

4) The Susan G Komen Foundation will get a minimum of $2300 from the roommate to use in saving the lives of women [and men] the world over.

So. Good cause, right? Many people benefiting, right? Uh huh. I agree. I'd like to have my basement back, but...there we are. Hopefully, by Sunday, the mountain of [deep breath] stuff will be sold and living happily in new positions of use.

Or just clogging someone else's basement. Anyone else's basement.

Anyway, with the volume of clothing donated, the roommate devised the clever plan of displaying the clothes on hanger, danging from rope strung between boards held upright in buckets of...


She bought the buckets. She bought the boards. She bought the rope. And she bought the two 80-pound bags of quick drying concrete. I carried those bags from the car to the front porch of the house where they have languished these many months. Every now and then, roommate would say:

"We still need to do those buckets."

Yeah. So we did.

Not to say roommate wasn't enormously helpful. She was. But when the concrete clumped like cheap cake mix, what else could I do? I got into the bucket and mixed. By hand. Bare hands.

Well, I know that now. Stop yelling. And where were you yesterday, if you knew this????

So between the lime in mixture and the texture of the stuff, I have bloody stumps for fingertips. Yes. Yes. I feel so darn pretty!


The fingertips join the legions of casualties in my little war: two shovels, the loppers, an ax, and of course, my boob all have their company now. The capper on this whole thing? After all was done, roommate said to me, "You didn't have to do all of that."


Monday, July 19, 2010

The battle rages onward.

It's not been pretty.
When the roommate and I moved into this house, there was a huge cedar stump in the middle of the yard. The problem was, roommate hated it on sight. did make mowing a little odd. It had a huge root mound and it need to be removed.
Do you know how much it costs to remove a stump? Yeah. Anyway.
The roommate was determined to remove it. Or, since we are cleverly disguised as lesbian life partners, WE would remove the stump. How hard could it be, right?
I think the biggest error was neglecting to inform the stump that it was to be removed because wow, has it been resistant to the whole process. The roommate actually bought a teeny weeny chainsaw to aid us in our efforts. Sure, it took 9 months and her mother's boyfriend to get the sucker running, but we have used it on the stump. The stump did not appreciate it.
We've broken two shovels, one ax, countless fingernails and any number of pleasant dreams about weekend activities on this stump. This past weekend...the stump really fought back. You can see in the above images before and after pictures of the stump; you can also see my stump bite.
That's right. It bit me. Vicious thing.
What I did not photograph and post was the other injury caused by the stump. It would not be appropriate to put a picture of this particular owie as it is in a...private area. In the midst of the stump battle, I tripped---and I do believe the stump arrange for this tripping of mine---and pitched forward onto one of the spiky bits of the stump. If you look up at the before picture of the stump that shows the back of our house, you can see the spiky bits in their original form. Since the battle started, those pointy things have gotten...pointier. When I fell forward, I landed on my [how to put this...] chest. Yes. That part of my chest. Exactly on that part of my chest.
I regret to say, there was bad language used. And I think I heard the stump laugh. Vicious, vicious thing.
Now, with every chunk of stump we pull out of the ground and laugh and say to it, "Oh, you'll burn this winter. You'll burn."
Believe me, it has it coming.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Small additions

No, I'm not talking about construction projects. On my last post, some comments were made [yay!!!] and I realized I wanted to add on a few things. Read the previous post first; this won't make sense without it.

Yes, I do too make sense sometimes!!! Sheesh!

Anonymous said...
Your desire is not unreasonable. Also reasonably, I invite you now to consider the other side of the coin:What kind of woman would that kind of man want?I look forward to your thoughts.
July 14, 2010 9:43 AM

All right. I know who made this comment [a dear, dear friend] and I have responded to him directly, but this, I believe, warranted additional commentary.

First, I did tell my dear friend that one of the biggest selling points of this imaginary man was his deep and abiding interest in me. Me. He would delight in me, I believe I wrote. Someone who thinks I'm freaking hilarious. Someone who wants to be faithful to me. Not because he has no other options. Hell, we all have other options. But because of who I am, he wants me.

That's the kind of woman he'd want. A me-kind.

The second point to this is the question that is inherent in this type of statement. It goes as follows:

Lisa Marie, how do you need to change and improve to be worthy of such a man's attention? Obviously, because of your fallibility and bone-deep imperfections, you haven't found this man. Ah, if only you'd lighten up/get serious/be nicer/lose the sarcasm/lose the weight/dress better/cut your hair/grow your hair/put out more/stop being such a slut/go to the right gym/go to the right bars/join the right singles group/be younger/be someone else, you would find this man IMMEDIATELY.

See, this is what I find....well, let's go with troubling. Why would I want to waste my time with anyone who didn't want me, and why am I automatically the factor to be altered in this equation? Yes, yes, I know the only person I can control or change is myself. But seriously, isn't it wiser to pursue the type of person who wants who and what I really am?

And am I really so bad? Let me answer that.

I don't think so.

I'm not a terrible person. I'm kind of funny. I'm a decent cook and baker. I give great massages. I've gone long enough without to appreciate sex when it's available. I can carry on a reasonable conversation. I take responsibility for myself and my feelings....mostly. I'm nice to animals and better than half the people I meet. I can behave appropriately in public. I have no gag reflex.

Really, I'm a freaking catch.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

All right, then.

What do I really, really want in a man?

I think we all have a vague idea of what we want, as we grow up. I think there's a picture in our heads of some mythical Prince Charming and sometimes, I think some of us find our prince. Sometimes he is the prince. Sometimes he just looks like the prince, but turns out to be the dragon. But for the rest of us, we go on, some searching, some not, for a reasonable prince-like facsimile.

If I'm not going to settle for Mr. GoodEnough, or Mr. HasAPulse, or Mr. OhHellIWantToBeMarriedSoYouWillHaveToDo, maybe I should have a concrete list of what I want. The things in a person for which I long. And yes, concrete is certainly the wrong word to use. I like to think I have some flexibility. But maybe, just maybe, if I'm specific enough, the Omnipotent Comedian...well, will find someone else to toy with.

Yeah...maybe not. But hey, we're here anyway. Right?

Now, dear imaginary friend. Do I need to list the obvious ones? Hmm. Maybe I do. Maybe I haven't been a clear on things I think are obvious.

Nice. A nice guy. I don't care what anyone says, the Bad Boy is not for me. The surly, tough-guy, hard-living, Harley-riding tattooed nightmare of most fathers? No, thank you. Someone who says please and thank you and how are you today. Someone who can be well-behaved in public and sincerely mean the kind things he says. Even if he doesn't say them all the time. The kind of guy who'll help out a stranger he sees struggling with something heavy. A nice guy.

Respectful. Not just to me, but to people. Not just to people in general, but specifically to me. Someone who respects himself, too. I think respect is the root of courtesy and sadly, this is a huge reason we don't see the flower of courtesy much.

Wacky, but in a good way. Someone who can be around me at my absolute weirdest and just laugh. At me, with me. Someone to whom I don't always have to explain the joke. Someone who blindsides me with something hilarious now and then.

Strong. Not invincible, not bullet-proof. Just strong. Strong enough to weather my storms and not be too fragile to every day of grumps I get. Someone who can look at me when I'm through my vent and says, "Done? Better? Okay, where do you want to go for dinner? I'm thinking Thai food." And this isn't to say I don't want a man who is--

Attentive. Maybe this is part and parcel of the whole "He's just not that into you" thing, but I'd like to be around someone who's actually interested in what I have to say and wants to hear me. I shouldn't dominate every conversation [and yes, I hear you giggling right now] but when I'm speaking, I'd really like him to listen. And pays a little bit of attention to what I say as well as what I don't say.

Yes, there are a few things I don't say. Shut up.

Passionate. I don't want to have to peel a guy off of me in public, fer chrissakes, but it'd be nice to have someone interested in being with me. I'd love to have a man who delighted in me. Who celebrated my person. Who would monkey---okay, I'll stop there. But you know where I was headed with that.

Honest and faithful. I don't want to share. Oh, I'll share a recipe. I'll share my lunch. I'll share my opinion with anyone or anything that sits still in my presence long enough. But I don't want to share a man. And as a bonus, I don't want to have to wonder if I've been exposed to STDs from here to Tuesday. I want the man in my life to choose me. Every day.

And since I'm dreaming....

I want a man who likes my cooking. Who's willing to share that job, but is thrilled when I've made chicken paprika and nokedli and begs me to make those killer chocolate chip cookies. Who's willing to try something new and thinks he might enjoy it. And doesn't get snotty if it's not exactly what he might have wished.

I want a man who will try to solve practical problems. Like why the lawn mower isn't running. And how to caulk the shower properly. Someone who wants to pitch in around the house, even if it's with only the "manly" stuff. Even if it's the un-"manly" stuff. Someone who will fix something and show it off to me and be as pleased as a five year old with a new frog when I ooo and ahh. [Btw, I'm completely willing to ooo and ahh. It only seems right, if I expect the same reaction to my cooking and...other things.]

I want a man who will understand my love for my dog even if he's not in love with her himself. Yes, it would be great to have a man who's as much of a dog freak as I am, but one who gets my attachment and doesn't get jealous.... Yes. Jealous. Don't make me tell you that story.

And mostly, I want a man who's capable of being happy. Whom I can please and delight and amaze and entertain. Someone who can find happiness in his own interests and friends that he shares with me and sometimes, enjoys on his own. Or with his buddies. Someone who finds joy in his life.

Is this really asking so much? Tell me if I'm being unreasonable in this.

Monday, July 5, 2010


Okay, I just got off the phone with another guy from the other dating website, and wow. Sometimes, people just...


In the twelve minutes and twelve seconds I spent on the phone with this joker, I estimate the time spent feeling less-that-cordial towards him was ten minutes and forty-five seconds. I'm guessing. It may have been a longer time. He started off by asking if I'd met anyone from the site. I told him I had met someone just that weekend, but sadly, I felt the person wasn't a good choice for me. When asked why, I told him that I feared the individual in question had a degree of autism. He asked if I'd picked up on this during the phone conversations we'd had, to which I replied we hadn't had a phone conversation.

That, I was informed, was my first mistake.

Let us pause, gentle invisible friend, to contemplate how much I adore being told that I've made a mistake. That meeting someone in a public place in daylight for coffee was, in fact, a gross error in my judgement. Oh, how I love to be told that my willingness to meet a new person is flat-out foolishness on my part.


The person on the phone went on to grill me about my sexual history and STD testing. Terrific. I can have this conversation. I do believe I passed that section of the deal-breaker questions; indeed, there were words of faint praise that I answered the questions as accurately as I did. Then Mr. Wonderful went on to ask what my response would be to an accidental pregnancy, given that I'm so foolish as to use only condoms as my method of birth control. Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome not being a usual birth control method, I didn't bring it up, nor did I have the opportunity to speak to the effect chemical methods of birth control have on my system. The odds of my becoming pregnant at this age with PCOS are astronomically low, but we all know this is accurate only so long as God is amused with other things and doesn't need an extra chuckle in the day.

Evidently, even the 1% chance [his number, not mine] that I would be unwilling to have an abortion if such a thing occurred was the end of the romantic road for me.

Good bye. Best of luck to you.

Would this be as flabbergasting to me if I hadn't just finished an uncomfortable but necessary phone call with my ex? For those of you who don't know of him, this is the dreamboat who pursued me like a power forward does a puck during the playoffs, swore to love me forever, joked with my friends in my favorite pub about the engagement ring he would select for me, told me two weeks later, right before my birthday, that we needed to take a "break" until I made a decision on whether or not I would marry him and move to Alberta, and then dumped me because he'd met someone else during that break. The break in which I was to decide whether or not I was going to marry him. Yeah. I was supposed to decide whether or not I would marry him...while he was out taking a swim through the dating pool.

The fact that he told me that he was done with me, since he'd met Next, a mere five days before I had a needle biopsy on a mass in my breast surely has no significance.

Yes, he knew I had a mass and he knew that I was going in for the needle biopsy.

Here's the thing. The only reason I've dipped my toe back into the dating pool myself is because I will not allow the ex to be the last person I date. I won't. I won't do it. And I know there are good men out there. Sure, sure. Most of them are married to my friends and relatives, but they exist. What I do not know is why I keep finding the clowns and jokers I do, instead of one of these decent men.

Ohhhh...I forgot. The Omnipotent Comedian. Thank you. I'll just write that down.