Team Blonde or Team Brunette? By Lisa

I have a girl crush on Fergie. The post-blonde Fergie, that is.

The *brunette* Fergie.

Fergie wasn't even a blip on my girl crush radar when she was blonde (except when I'd see a picture of her in US Weekly, on the arm of her tall drink of man water, Josh Duhamel).

Before I continue, let us take a Josh Duhamel moment. Ahhhhhhhh.

So I suppose I haven't payed much attention to the blonde Fergie because if I'm going to kiss a girl, I'd prefer she be a brunette one.

The "new" and if I may, "improved" Fergie caught my eye on the A.I. finale. As she was dancing and singing with The Black Eyed Peas to "Boom Boom Pow", I began to see her in a new way. What was it? Why was I so drawn to her performance? I mean, the song was catchy, but I was NOT looking at will.i.am!

Then it hit me.

It was the hair. She was brunette-a-licious! (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

I immediately texted Matt who texted back, "Who?" (Guess he's into blondes :) )

Then I had a radical thought.

Maybe I'd switch teams and dye my hair brown too!

And it wouldn't be the first time...

Ok, so I'm going to lose a little bit of my blonde cred with all my blondie homies out there, but it's time to admit that I did cross over--once.

I dyed my hair brown. And I liked it.

I felt sexier. Edgier. Good different.

Back then, I was pretty daring with my 'dos. I had stripes, (yes, stripes--AT Liz's wedding) I had The Rachel, (which unfortunately looked a lot more like The Carol Brady) and The Gwyneth.  But my personal favorite was The Rocky. I bleached my hair white, cut it as short as Brigitte Nielsen in Rocky IV and spent all my time with a friend with even shorter hair.  Needless to say, most people thought we were a really cute lesbian couple! (Note to self: probably not a good way to meet men! Or women who look like Fergie!)

So, after I "went brown", I felt like "the evil twin", "the bad girl" and "the mysterious stranger" all wrapped up into one!  There was something about the new color that made me feel daring- and gave me 'tude. I went out to clubs! I wore red lipstick! I even bought black leather pants! (Even when I had stripes in my hair, my wildest outfit was  mom jeans and a half-top. So this was big for me!)

And now, more years than I want to admit later...after playing it safe with my long, blonde hair, (with the exception of a few daring moments when I "cut layers"-ooooh!)... I thought I was ready to take another walk on the dark side.

And it was time to tell someone my plan!

In hindsight, I guess it shouldn't have been one of my blonde friends. And this particular blondie *who shall remain nameless * (but you know who you are!!! ), gasped in horror at my idea! (Talk about a buzz kill...)

BLONDE NAMELESS FRIEND: No way! You're a blonde and you will remain true to your *cough* roots!

ME: But...lots of blondes do it. Jessica Simpson. Cameron Diaz. Nicole Richie...

BLONDE NAMELESS FRIEND: And are any of them still brunette?

ME: Point taken. Ugh.

My dreams of channeling my inner Fergie deflated, I went home and looked in the mirror.  Going brown would be fun for a couple of weeks, but the process of getting back to blonde would f***ing suck.  I wasn't going to look as good in black (the only color I own!) and would I really have as much fun? (I'm over 35 now, I can't afford to take chances!)

So in the end, I decided NOT to dye (Special shout out to nameless blonde friend-- I hope you're f***ing happy!)

Because at the end of the day, you can take the blonde out of the girl, but you can't take the girl out of the blonde.

xoxo

Flying The (Un) Friendly Skies By Lisa

There are certain things that baffle me.

Decaf coffee drinkers.

Jorts.

And those who lack the travel etiquette gene.

You’d think that most people on their way to Maui would be happy (give or take a crying baby or a cranky flight attendant that you make the unfortunate mistake of calling stewardess); perma-grins plastered across their faces; visions of Mai Tais dancing in their heads; their biggest anxiety over how early to wake up to claim the much coveted umbrella-covered pool chairs or figuring out which drink would cause less bloating– a beer or a Bloody Mary.

Or maybe that’s just me?

On the morning of our flight to Maui, I had a pep in my step even as I bounded *gag* barefoot through security and then spent the next five minutes frantically searching for my ID that I thought I’d lost for the SEVENTEENTH time that morning!  Sorry, Matt! (See anal traveler disclaimer, below.)

As I maneuvered my way through LAX, I looked around through my Maui colored glasses and all of the usual airport drama was lost on me.

So what if it took the cashier at Hudson News six and a half minutes to ring me up for TIC TACS!

Oh well if the Starbucks line was wrapped around the corner, they were out of sugar free vanilla AND they forgot to give me my apple bran muffin!

Too bad that a whitehead somehow popped up on my face between the walk from the airport shuttle to the gate!

Because in five and a half short hours, I’d be belly up at the Hula Grill bar inhaling coconut calamari. I was going to Maui, baby! And nothing, I repeat, nothing, was going to get me down!

Well, until I boarded the plane.

Those aforementioned glasses started to fog up just a wee bit as I was bombarded with airplane colleagues who seemed quite a bit less happy to be on team “bound for Maui.”

WTF?

Exit Row Nazi  a.k.a. The Angry Guy OMG- Last time I checked, you didn’t own the bulk head/exit row, dude. And maybe it wasn’t your problem that I read the airplane map wrong and poor 6’2” Matt and I ended up crammed in the row directly behind the exit row instead of in it.  But when, by the grace of the travel gods, the seat next to you remained empty after we were told to turn off “anything with an on/off switch”, I took it as a sign. Matt could sit there! And I didn’t have to spend the next five hours obsessing about my mistake and instead could focus on far more important matters like immersing myself in my Bride Wars iTunes rental.

Not if the Exit Row Nazi had anything to say about it.

I kindly asked you if Matt could move into the empty seat next to you (more as a formality, than as an actual request-BTW) and you snidely replied that you “liked your space” and your answer was “no!”  WTH crawled up your ass? You were already in the Holy Grail of economy class seating. You already had four freakin’ feet in front of you–more leg room than someone in first class.  You really wanted more?

Ever the negotiator, I didn’t give up. I decided to appeal to your height. Surely you’d feel bad that another tall guy had his knees shoved up under his chin?  Not. The tall plea was absolutely lost on you. You were just bound and determined to be angry guy.

Well angry guy, you f***ed with the wrong girl.

Because somehow you managed to IRRITATE me while I was trying so hard to bask in my Hawaiian, euphoric glow. And nobody f***ks with my glow!

And I was more than done with you because saying NO to giving us that seat was not the first time your angriness had reared its ugly head.

Remember when you crammed your tattered, brown leather bag into the overhead bin and shoved my new, sassy Tory Burch beach bag to the back– annoyed because somehow I didn’t get the memo that the space was reserved for you? And need I remind you of when I tapped your shoulder and said, “sir, sir, excuse me sir” simply to let you know that your pillow was jammed in my tray table–and you acted as if I was asking you to hold my tampon box?

So, when you told me that my man could not move into a seat that–incidentally–you did not own, that was it. I decided to go over your head and I told on you! I asked the flight attendant if Matt could take that seat and she said, “yes!”

So, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah!!

The Barefoot Guy

The fact that you could walk into that airplane bathroom without even so much as socks on your feet, made me want to pull out my barf bag and puke my six dollar, pre-packaged turkey and pesto sandwich into it. For the love of God, my friend, couldn’t you have at least put on a freakin’ flip flop, if not for your own sake, then for mine?! No one should have to even THINK ABOUT what you were stepping on in there. No one. I wish I had your address because I’d send you a vat of antibacterial gel. Although I’m not even sure a case of Purell would help anyone after that.  I feel like I need to be hosed down like a prison inmate after just walking in there.

The Chatty Cathy

Remember when I mentioned my Hawaiian euphoric glow? Well, that didn’t mean I was so happy that I was going to be your in-flight entertainment. Watch a movie. Play Solitaire. Count Sheep. Anything. Because there was no way, especially after angry guy, that I could even fake interest in the story of how you were supposed to go to Mexico and stay in a five star resort, but changed your trip because you were petrified of contracting the swine flu. You made me want to put on surgical mask and start coughing just to get you off my jock.  Didn't you understand that Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson were waiting?

The Frustrated Flight Attendant

Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed the envelope and asked you for a pen to fill out my agricultural clearance form after I’d already  asked you to take sides in my battle with angry guy. (Although, for the record, you chose very, very wisely!) I kind of get why you’d have a short fuse because you probably have to deal with so much shit on every flight that this blog post represents every day fodder for you. I can’t imagine how, flight after flight,  you put up with the call button whores; the “I’m going to get drunk on little bottles of booze” boozers; the people who put TWO bags in the overhead bin; the people who refer to you as stewardess.

Or maybe those things just bother me?

But I mostly can’t understand how you can physically deal with that much air travel because (TMI alert) just ONE flight can completely jack me up–for days. So, I wouldn’t want to share my pen either… if I had to use that bathroom and then couldn’t use that bathroom, if you know what I’m sayin’…

ANAL TRAVELER DISCLAIMER: Because I got up on my 30,000 foot high soap box, it’s time for full-disclosure.  I have a major case of traveler’s OCD. I definitely bring new meaning to the word anal when I travel.

Imagine a Type A, overly caffeinated, Aries on crack.

I have many "day of" travel rules. I must print my boarding pass at home. On the way to the airport, I can’t have a conversation about anything un-airport related because I have “I must make my flight” tunnel vision until I get to the gate. Until I’m on the plane (and sometimes, even after), I check, re-check and check again that my ID is in my wallet. (Again, Matt, sorry about when I almost turned the car around because I thought I’d left it in my wallet–on top of my car!) I must stop at Starbucks on the way to the airport AND after I go through security because I love my coffee and I read somewhere that you should never order it on an airplane. (Although I’m not sure if that’s even true & if it is, I can’t remember why you shouldn’t.) I have to be at the gate one hour before departure. (I have access to the Admiral’s Club, but can’t really relax when I’m in there because I’m worried about losing track of time!) And those are just the MAIN rules.

But at the end of the day, if something isn’t going right on the morning of my flight,  I’m not going to make you pay if I’m cranky.

That’s what my travel partner is there for!

Just kidding! (Sort of!)

xoxo

Road Rules By Liz and Lisa

Our first book signing tour was this past weekend in the Midwest. First, we'd like to give a big thank you to all of the WONDERFUL ladies who hosted us. Laurie and  Jacki; Kristin and the women of Serendipity; And Jamie and Cathy. And we'd also like to give a shout out to all of the AWESOME Chick Lit loving women we met--and instantly friended--on our mobile Facebooks. (Hey, we're whores, we don't waste any time!) Well now that we're home, we decided that after you embark on a journey that mixes poorly caffeinated airport travel, the uncanny ability to sit next to multiple non-hint taking Chatty Cathys in every terminal, drunken public speaking and the inability to remember the name of a person who has your own name, that we should establish some rules of the road for next time.

NEVER, EVER, EVER UNDERESTIMATE THE POWER OF A VENTI AMERICANO

There are certain times you should probably never talk to me.

Before coffee. Before coffee. And, um, Before coffee.

This is one of the many "lovely" things Liz and I have in common. So you’d think that knowing this…that understanding if ONE of us can be a bee-yotch face before Starbucks that the TWO of us together could, well, be f***ing bee-yotch faces…that we’d NEVER, EVER, under any circumstances skip our Venti Americanos….especially before a four-hour flight.

Not so much last week.

The morning of our trip to Chicago, Liz was frantically trying to get everyone what they needed before she left for the weekend (A husband, two kids, two dogs and some prima donna guinea pigs!). And I was at Ride-Aid buying her every shape and size of the 3-ounce size travel containers and a box of the FAA approved quart-sized Ziplocs for her moose, perfume, shampoo, conditioner, hairspray, toothpaste, two moisturizers and four different lip glosses. (I had to bribe her to carry-on because there was no way in HELL I was stepping foot in that O'Hare baggage claim! ) So I didn’t see her desperate Facebook message on my wall.

Rough morning! Please stop at Starbucks and tell me I look like I've lost weight the minute you see me.   Thank you!

Because the thing is, if you properly caffeinate us, we can handle anything… A ridonckulously long security line, a pervy TSA agent with a foot fetish and even a loud talking Boston accented seat-mate with body odor.

IF you properly caffeinate us.

So there we were at the Long Beach airport that we usually heart so much because it's so small that they board the passengers old-school by leading them out to the tarmac and rolling out a makeshift staircase. Usually so easy. But it's amazing how an airport experience can change when you realize your only option to turn your day around is a pot of coffee that was probably brewed eight hours earlier by a woman in a hair net. Let's just say even after I dumped six bags of sugar in mine and Liz filled hers to the rim with cream, it still tasted like ass in a cup.

DON’T BE A FLAT STANLEY You know how celebrities talk about their "good side" and their "bad side" when they pose for photo shoots? Well, I always thought that was a complete load of bulls**t. I mean, how different could someone really look if they faced the camera from the left v. the right?

Turns out, pretty damn different.

My photographic light bulb moment happened before our first book signing while Liz and I were posing for pictures. We were ready to roll, wearing our sassy dresses and Liz sporting her curly hair. I stood on the left and Liz on the right. Behind the camera, Matt was snapping away with a concerned expression as he checked the LED screen after each shot.

WTF? I asked.  Then I grabbed the camera and gasped.

"OMG. I’m a f***ing Flat Stanley!"

Liz and Matt pulled the camera away from me and evaluated the pictures. And through maniacal laughter, they agreed. "You look like you, but one off. You are a cardboard cut out of yourself!"

So, after much practice, we discovered that my left side is really pretty damn bad. If I angle it toward the camera, I look like a Flat Stanley. And if I open my eyes a little too wide, I look like Flat Stanley, The Runaway Bride. Apparently if I want any chance at a good photo, I have to be on the right side, tilt my head to the left and my chin downward. And then, as if that's not enough, I still have to angle the right side of my face toward the camera. (WTF?)

The anti-Stanley solution seemed simple—I’d just switch sides with Liz.

Not so fast, she said.

Because just like our major in college, our choice of sorority and even our affinity for Midwestern men, we also have the same f***ing good side!

And so began what we like to call The Fight for the Right! Stay tuned for more pictures to see who won...

KNOW YOUR LIQUID COURAGE COCKTAIL OF CHOICE I was pretty nervous about talking in front of the groups at our book signings. To put it mildly, my past public speaking attempts had been disastrous-all involving a red face, huge sweat rings and the inability to form a sentence. I was pretty sure if I attempted to utter a word about our book, It would go something like this:

Buy our book. It's real good. Thanks for coming. Bye!

When I confessed my fears to Liz, she gave me her crooked smile. "You don't think we're going to do this sober, do you?"

"Er, I'm on the wagon, remember?" (A story I'll save for another post--but I had been alcohol free for 29 days.)

She knowingly pointed her finger at me. "Blondie, I’m going to let you in on my secret recipe for public speaking success. Cocktails plus no food equals great entertainment!"

I was off the wagon faster than you can say dirty martini.

And let's just say that after two, er, three and a half of them, I was very comfortable in front of a group. Maybe even a little too comfortable...Turns out, as a buzzed public speaker, I'll tell you which characters in our book are incredibly thinly veiled and how much of the book is autobiographical!

Liz's secret recipe also had another side effect...You run the risk of being unable to remember a name--even if it's the same as your own. So Liz and I would like to take this opportunity to give an extra special shout out to the other LIZ...whose name our own Liz could not remember...

Even after talking to her for twenty minutes.

But at least when Liz puts her foot in her mouth, she's wearing a really sassy shoe!

PRACTICE HIDING YOUR WTF FACE

We've been friends for so long that we pretty much have the same brain and we think a lot of the same thoughts. We actually have mental telepathy...and it really comes in handy in social situations. Like when you can't exactly say what's on your mind because you might, well, offend-EVERYONE.

We can talk serious shit with a simple eyebrow raise, the ever so slight narrowing of an eye or a partial smirk. So, as I'm sure you can imagine, this superpower can be incredibly helpful when we want to scream to each other that the chatty Carl sitting next to us in the terminal is a DOUCHE BAG who needs to shut the f**k up! Or when we want to scream that the guy in the skinny jeans with a male version of a camel toe SUCKS for blocking the aisle as he tries to stuff his over-sized suitcase in the overhead bin.  And when you meet two stuffy women at one of your book signings.

Usually when people ask us what  I’ll Have Who She’s Having is about and we tell them it’s the story of two sisters who fall for the same man—and one of those sisters just happens to be married, the response is usually along the lines of  That sounds juicy! or What a fun read!  Or if it's not their cup o' tea (which we totally understand!) they politely move on from our table.

Well here's how it went down when two ladies (let's call them "Mrs. Stick Up My Ass" and "Mrs. Even Bigger Stick Up My Ass") approached us at one of the signings.

Mrs. Stick up my ass: "What's your book about?"

Liz: "It's about two sisters who fall for the same man. And one of those sisters is married!"

*cue crickets*

Mrs. Even Bigger Stick up my ass with scowled expression finally speaks: "Married. Really. Hmm."

Liz: "Yes, but she just had her first baby and she's lost and she doesn't feel connected to her husband..."

Mrs. Stick up my ass: "Hmm..."

Lisa: "We also have a blog. Why don't you take one of our cards and you can read more about us and our book..."

Mrs. Even bigger Stick up my ass picks up the card and holds it between her pointer finger and thumb as if it's covered in swine flu germs.

*cue more crickets*

Liz and I look at each other and smile our, we'll definitely blog about this smile.

*cue mental telepathy moment*

Liz: WTF?

Lisa: They both need to get f***ing laid by Tim Fortune.

xoxo, Liz & Lisa

Wo-Man By Lisa

First, we are so happy about Brian's improvement! Caring Bridge

Disclaimer: I love my GIRLfriends. Many of us have been friends for 10 plus years. We shit talk, we bitch and we like to ditch our MEN and get our flirt on during GNO's. They are my friends until the end and I'd kick anyone's ass to protect them. So, the following post is not a reflection of how I feel about hangin' with my LADIES.

Man, I feel like a woman....

I think Shania has it backwards.

My song would be Wo, I feel like a man...

I like to believe I'm a sheep in wolves clothing. On the outside, I'm sure I could be described as somewhat of a girly girl. I get a regular mani -pedi, I love to wear a fun party dress & heels and I've even started a new love affair with my curling iron. (BTW--so much easier than a self blow out & you don't have to wash your hair for THREE to, er, FOUR days!)

But on the inside, I think I fall more on the man side of woman. No offense to females, but it seems like it can be a hell of a lot easier over there! (Minus ball scratching, junk adjusting and communal urinals!)

I'm always bragging to Matt about how cool I believe I am to date... because I think like a MAN :)

I love to watch sports with or WITHOUT him!

I encourage him to go to Vegas for March Madness or JUST BECAUSE!

I tell him to go on more man outings with his boyfriends AND encourage him to flirt!

The list goes on and on...

Until...

The WOMAN inside of me forces her way out!

I f***ing hate it when that happens!

Recently, Matt and I were talking on the phone (Rare because we BOTH hate it--another point in my man column) and out of nowhere I went all chick on him. I started crying about everything-- how I felt lonely, was exhausted and wondered if so and so was mad at me. And instead of supportive words on the other end of the line, I heard a semi-muffled chuckle. I immediately snapped to attention.

"Are you laughing at me?" I questioned as I wiped a tear away.

"Hell yeah! Because you want to be a dude so bad but you can't deny your inner chick!"

F**k. He was right. Crying about nothing. About to start my period. Bloated. Female things I simply could not deny.

But...

I hate shopping.

I burp loudly.

I watch 60 Minutes.

"Sorry GIRLfriend", he said. You are really, really cool and super beautiful and amazing and I'm head over heels in love with you... (OK, he didn't really say all that!)  "But as long as you use a tampon, get bitchy and listen to Barry Manilow, you're a WOMAN."

He had a point-- not about the tampons or the bitchiness... but, I did heart Barry-- a lot. Could I give up "Mandy" or "Copacabana" or more importantly, did I even want to? No and No.

But...

I think Heidi Klum is smokin' hot!

I watch old Bulls games on ESPN!

I'm visual!

But despite my man-like behavior, my damn ovaries and boobs sell me out every single time!

Like this past weekend when Matt was in town for my birthday. (YEAH!) After my emotional breakdown just days before,  I was determined NOT to cry again-- overanything. So I didn't...

Not when I watched the video his kids made me.

Not when I opened my Elton John- Billy Joel tickets.

Not even when Elton & Billy sang Candle in the Wind.

But then when I was driving him to the airport my eyes started welling. I tried to distract myself by talking to him about the weather, a work meeting, ANYTHING! When we pulled up to the curb, I gritted my teeth, gave him a closed mouth kiss and practically threw him out of the car. (Sorry, babe!)   I was, victorious! Ha!

But then I couldn't help it. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw him walking through the double doors and suddenly I could feel the tears burning in my throat...and then my eyes filled up.... and then before I knew it, I started gushing like a freakin' geyser!

Suddenly, even in my own watery eyes, I was losing my self-proclaimed man cred. I could no longer deny it.

Maybe I was a f***ing chick after all.

But they have it so freakin easy over there in Manland.

If only I had a penis...

* I'd never have to remember anyone's birthday! Yet, my name would always end up on the gift & card!

*I'd never have to wear a bra! (Although those of you with MOOBS need to seriously figure something out)

*I'd never have conflict with female family members because my wife or girlfriend would handle it for me!

*I'd never have to multi-task simply because I COULDN'T.

*I'd get to say, "This is the way I was when you met me" all day long!

*I'd get to constantly fondle my junk!

But despite my ta-tas, other female parts and my OCCASIONAL meltdown, I still say I'm more of a MAN at heart.

Well, at least until Matt reads this and completely blows my cover!

xoxo