Friday, February 4, 2011

An Interactive Post!! Let's all play!!

My spicy Cuban friend Mo made a fabulous suggestion. She suggested that the people who read this blog should, via the comments section of the post, tell the story of how you [the darlingest of all readers] met me. And just to make it more entertaining for all of us, make it completely fictionalized.

Go on. Do it. We'll all get to play and it's not like my parents actually read anything I write,'s a safe bet they won't read what you write either. So go crazy!!

Ooo, won't this be fun?


  1. There she was...a hat, a glint of evil in her eyes and a voice that directed the slightly insane to where they needed to be. I, the one out of her depth, clueless, lost and looking like I needed a job, got roped into her orbit of friendship.

    Okay, I remember a hat. The rest might be fiction or a fuzzy memory that doesn't include alcohol but many a boob-like dessert through the years.

    Thankfully we didn't meet over the Stinky Bishop.


  2. You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar when I met you. I picked you out, I shook you up and turned you around. Turned you into someone new...

  3. I'd TOLD my friend Harry that driving cross country was a bad idea. I'd told him. But he was all, "Oh, no, it'll be a FABULOUS trip—" Yes, he's gay. "—and just think of all the opportunities!"

    By opportunities, I was hoping he'd mean the quadrillions of single hot men, gay and straight, we were sure to run into at the many roadside diners and quaint side hotels we'd be forced to stop in. (Sure, I'd seen Roadhouse...)

    What he apparently meant was the opportunity to get kidnapped by a felon, held at gunpoint in the back of a male strip club (I swear, I didn't go there on my own! ...mostly), swept into a conspiracy so vast and convoluted that I still don't really know who the lady with the beagle actually WAS, and deposited on a stranger's front porch.

    That stranger was kind enough to untie me, feed me vast quantities of amazing Hungarian gourmet, and drive me home. Sure, I had to fit in the car between her beagle and terrier (hey, coincidence that she has a beagle too!), but it was a cozy ride home.

    ...Curiously, she knew where I lived without my having to tell her.

    Lisa, I still don't really get why you continue to check up on me—and what is UP with the constant use of that "eagle has landed" phrase you mutter all the time?—but I'm grateful you turned out to be TOTALLY unrelated to the whole event. And a good friend, too.

    p.s. I think you left something at my place. It looks like a chip with a small antenna. Is it important?

  4. My parents had wanted me to become a Shaolin master of the Iron Fist technique, so they dumped me off at the monastery at age eight. (A late start, but since I had autodidacted Drunken Monkey by age seven, the abbot thought I had the potential to catch up.) By age thirteen, I was doing a lot of funky solo quests as part of my training.
    So, there I was, fourteen years old and half-naked in a Himalayan snowbank, worried about a failing grade on my latest assignment ("Sorry, only students who survive can pass..."), when upon the wind came the haunting sound of vicious cursing, some kind of lament about the lack of an escalator in this mountain range. I pried open my frostbitten eyes, and through the driving blizzard saw a vision of almost pure ire lumbering towards me.
    "Jezusmaryandjoseph," she cried upon seeing me, and the ground beneath me warmed. "Holycraponnacrutch," she muttered while removing a four-course meal from her yak's saddlebags, and my Yeti-inflicted wounds closed. "Ainchagotnodamnsense?" she intoned, while feeding me, then tossed me onto her yak.
    Turns out the abbot already knew her, of course. When we got back to the monastery, he begged the greatest-ever master of Viper's Tongue to stay and teach, but she quietly demurred (creating only the smallest of breaches in the outer wall), mentioning how she'd already been inconvenienced (three acolytes hospitalized). The abbot saw the wisdom of her choice.
    I never fully mastered Iron Fist; the abbot had me too busy replacing the stones in the wall.

  5. Well, where to begin? The meeting was long ago in a much different time and place. As time goes, many things change while much stays the same. So it is in this story. Seeing her for the first time I cannot say what color her hair was or if she was wearing glasses,like the lovely ones she wears this day that compliment her beautiful blue eyes and henna toned hair. It is a red that definately suits her firey personality. I do however remember she wore the same style clothing, working in that cold, damp, dark dungeon. Surrounded by evil, some of which continues to plague this place to this day. I noticed she was not the type to let these circumstances get the best of her. To be completely honest, upon first meeting her I was at a query as to what side of the raging battle that is this place, she was on. She did not succome to the dark side but battled through those dank dreary days in the warrior style that is all her own. She burst forth freed from that dungeon into another world, a new Lisa Maire on life. I know. Anyway, Those days in her new found world were short lived for reasons unbeknownst to me she returned to this place. Not to the old dungeon, but a to another place within the kingdom, a place still controlled by the same rulers with ever changing yet never satisfied expectations. Many years have passed she still postures about the ring speaking poorly of her apponents passing the time and giving her a psycological edge. She also has another weapon in her arsenal that has magical properties in the kingdom, it is futile to try to resist it for it strikes at your very core. Soup and baked goods. Again I say futile. She is the master and I a young jedi in training have much to learn.

  6. You were the head cheerleader in High School. I, the rocker chick with a chip on my shoulder bigger than my 80's wall-bangs. New in school, I was mad at the world, but your soft hearted soul wouldn't let me suffer alone. With a perky toss of your permed hair, you broke through my cynical facade with your trademark phrase...."Well shiiiit!" From then on I was putty in your hands.