Throughout the years, Liz and I have had our share of crises.

First there was our identity crisis.  (Ask Liz about her meltdown in college when everyone called BOTH OF US Lisa.)

Then there was our quarterlife crisis. (Don’t EVUH buy one of those close-up lighted vanity mirrors after age 35. Trust me on this one ladies.)

And now, I’m in the middle of  a geography crisis. A major one.

I can’t decide where I live. Chicago, IL or Long Beach, CA?

Seems like a no-brainer, right? Well….

As many of you know, about six months ago I “shmoved” to Chicago be with my soon-to-be fiance.  I chose to use the word “shmove” over “move” because it was, well, less “I no longer live in California” sounding. After all, I still had a car and my furnished condo in Long Beach , my driver’s license still said Cali and, c’mon, could I ever really be a Midwestern girl?

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Midwestern people. In fact, they’re nicer than most. But, when you technically have two residences, you can pick and choose where you want to live based on who’s asking.  And most of the time, you’re going to say California mostly in order to avoid the weird, squinty look people give you when they try to process why on God’s green Earth you’d ever choose to go from the West to the Midwest. So, I’m not really lying when I say Long Beach… even though all my Hanky Pankys are in Illinois and my Long Beach condo has now been rented.

Right?

But since it’s a New Year and I’m about to marry the man I’ve been shmiving with for the past six months, it’s probably time to make a few confessions:

1. I confess: I’m still using a California driver’s license. Okay, so here’s the deal. I went into the DMV and I was ready to bite the bullet, I swear. Well, that is until I started sweating through my “I love California” t-shirt. As I looked around at the long line of wool coat and scarf wearing people, I knew that if I went through with my application for a driver’s license that I’d officially be an Illinois resident. Which meant…

I could no longer hand my California ID to the lady at Target and have her “ooh and ahh” over the great, warm life I must have back there.

I could no longer get comments from the cute boys behind the counter at Cubs games when they saw my ID. I’d officially be a Midwesterner.

So, I turned on my North Face snow boot heel and walked out of there faster than you could say Go Cubs!

2.  I confess: I still watch TV on West Coast time! I still watch the Bachelor at the time my West Coast friends do. Half the fun of watching shows like these is the sideline banter I have with Liz during the show.  And now, even though I have to wait TWO FULL HOURS  so we can write on each other’s walls about the 24 year old with fake ta-tas who’s only known Jake for 11 seconds but is ready to marry him and have his babies, it’s worth it.

3. I confess: I’m f***ing freezing my ever-expanding ass off! In order to keep my Midwestern cred with my new Midwestern friends, I LIE about how the cold is affecting me. I tell them that this Cali girl is A-okay and that the cold isn’t anything a North Face coat and a good pair of gloves can’t handle! But the truth is, I’m freezing my ass off! It’s not like I haven’t been around cold before…I love to ski and snowboard. But…this is ridiculous.  It was NINE degrees here on Sunday. And when I checked the weather in Long Beach on my Iphone (something I do at least once a day I guess to torture myself) it was SEVENTY TWO!  So, to warm myself up, I’ve turned the thermostat up to 75 and gone through an entire forest of firewood trying to turn “brutal cold” nights into “warm hearth” evenings.  But I’m still cold…And the only thing I’ve actually succeeded in is making my fiance’s head spin off each time the heating bill arrives in the mail.

4.  I confess: When I fly back to Cali, I  tell the person in the seat next to me that I’m “on my way home.” The minute I buckle myself into my seat and head to Cali, I’m often asked “do you live in California?” And I usually say, “Why, yes I do!” Then the person will say “what part?” and I’ll happily respond “Long Beach” and they’ll nod with approval. What can I say? I get homesick for the sun as soon as I make sure my Louis is stowed away properly and my tray table is in its upright position. I know that when I land I’m going to remember what I’ve been missing. How glorious it will be when I’ll be able to walk outside to the taxi line WITHOUT needing thermal underwear and a face mask.  How people will be wearing flip flops in the seventy five degree January weather.

Don’t believe me?  Want to see my ID?!

xoxo, Lisa

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Lisa's FAT PANTS (not actual size)

This past Turkey Day, I forgot all the rules.  I snacked with reckless abandon. And I did it all. day. long. I ate nacho flavored Dorito’s, cashews, deviled eggs and even that damn caramel corn from Chicago that I bought for my family in an effort to be cute.

I ate it all.

So when the turkey was wheeled out and all the sides were set up (we do it buffet style, of course!) I was faced with the harsh realization that I was already full. But did that stop me?  Hell to the no!  I ate again with reckless abandon. I inhaled the turkey and gravy, the sweet potato souffle, the stuffing, the delicious casserole “surprise” that I couldn’t identify but thought was delicious anyway. I ate all of it.

But even as my belly began to spill over the waist band of my jeans, I knew it was all going to be okay. Even though my eyes were glazed over. Even though drool trickled out of the side of my mouth.  Even though I was quite confident I’d gained at least 5 pounds that day.

It was all going to work out because…

I’d traveled with my FAT PANTS.

My olive green, Juicy Couture, velour, with a very forgiving waist band, FAT PANTS.

When I stopped by to see Liz after my feast, her skinny jean wearing twenty-somethings relatives could not comprehend what FAT PANTS were, let alone understand why someone would wear them. They stared at me blankly, clearly not grasping the concept of food having such an immediate impact on ones physical body. I knew that one day, when their metabolism was more like a tortoise than a hare, they’d understand…or at the very least, have a friend who did.

And over the years, my FAT PANTS haven’t just been there for me.   They’ve also hidden my cheese-induced bloat, clad the pants-less and comforted my friends in times of need.

FAT PANTS to The Rescue! When Liz’s brother, Brian, was in a terrible car accident earlier this year, my FAT PANTS stepped right in. Our other BFF, La Sundra had left straight from work to be at the hospital in her suit and pumps (yes, pumps) and didn’t have any other clothes with her. And as we sat across from each other in the waiting room, I could tell she was uncomfortable. And I knew just what to do! I reached in my bag and retrieved the juicy pants. She simply nodded and went in the bathroom to change.  And when I got cold and put on the matching jacket, we also were able to provide vast amounts of comedy relief as we sat side-by-side.  Hey, I was just happy I could help.

Who needs maternity pants? When Liz was pregnant with her second child, she became enraged at the concept of maternity jeans. (Something about ill fitting waist bands and fake denim made her want to puke up her prenatals.)  I quickly arrived on the scene with the answer: The juicy pants!  (In this case, I’m sure you can appreciate why I did NOT refer to them as Fat Pants…) They even made an appearance at the hospital the day Liz’s son was born.  In fact, she told me she had been wearing them for five days straight because they were the only pants that still fit.  I felt honored that my FAT PANTS were the last pants standing.

So, I’d like to give a shout out to my FAT PANTS (that I’m wearing now for inspiration and also because I couldn’t resist the second croissant at my hotel’s complimentary buffet) and say THANK YOU for protecting and serving my friends and me for so many years. I look forward to many, many more to come!

xoxo, Lisa

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Sunday night, Liz texted Lisa the same message she’s sent her every Sunday for the past three years.

Dude, we should try out for the Amazing Race! It would be soooo fun!

And Lisa’s thumbs couldn’t type fast enough as she responded the same way she has every Sunday for the past three years.

F**kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk Nooooooooooooooo!!!

But …thank you for giving me an idea for a blog post!

I'm sorry to tell you, Liz & Lisa, that you are the last team to arrive~Phil Keoghan

Liz says:  Come on, Let’s race!

Oh, Amazing Race, How I love thee! And even though my current idea of adventure is staying at a three-star hotel, I think I would love schlepping around the world with nothing but a passport and the three nasty outfits that I shoved into my backpack.  I mean, what better way to lose weight than to run through the streets of Dubai in 130 degree heat?  Nevermind the fact that I usually start sweating the second the barometer breaks 85 and that I consider a trip to the Bahamas an international vacation.

And even though Lisa and I sometimes spend thirty minutes arguing over sentence structure, I’m sure we’ll get along famously!  If we survived the bad fashion of the 80′s and 90′s together, we can surely herd some Japanese tourists and ducks like nobody’s business or eat a wasabi bomb in thirty seconds!

While I’m sure Lisa will make a strong case against our Amazing Race union, I’m here to plead my case for an appearance next season.

1. We get to hang out with Phil, who is smokin’ hot AND has an accent! I’m sure that we’ll look awesome after jogging through the streets of China in our underwear or taking a dip in the crisp, clean waters of Vietnam.  And although I can’t leave the house without burning my hair into submission for thirty minutes with a flat iron, I think our new au natural look will be a big hit! Isn’t it time for frizzy hair and thick eyebrows to make their well-deserved comeback?

2. Free Publicity for Chick Lit is not Dead Admit it, we could really use the exposure. No publicity is bad publicity, right?  Plus, it’s either this or tying a chair to some mylar balloons and sending my five-year up for a ride. And this way I don’t have to break any laws or be ridiculed on CNN. Because, admit it, we all know I’ll be edited as “the nice one”! Sorry, Lisa.

3. Endless Blog fodder and Facebook status updates My only concern is that many of Lisa’s updates would start with Lisa is ready to kill Liz because…

4. What a great workout! There’s nothing like springing through foreign countries in extreme weather conditions to get your ass in shape!  Nevermind the fact that we both will become crazy beyotches if we skip lunch or don’t drink water every five minutes.  I’m sure it will all work out fine! (And make for great TV if it doesn’t…)

Lisa says:  Are you F’ing kidding me?

For the record, I’d like to state that I’m in love with The Amazing Race. One of my favorite pastimes is sitting back and WATCHING the teams of two nearly kill each other as they try to find a one inch snowman in a twenty five foot pile of snow. From the Newly Datings (oh the poor, innocent things) to the We’ve been engaged for nine years but aren’t sure if we should get marrieds (what an iron clad way to strengthen your relationship!) to the requisite We’re freakishly hot and SWEAR we don’t have sex couples. (Well, if you weren’t having it before, running through the streets of New Dehli aint gonna help the mojo!) I love them all! (The angry/violent hearing impaired guy and his freakishly strong mom were my favorite!)

And even though I also heart Liz and think she’s incredibly talented and creative, trying out for The Amazing Race is, hands down, one of the worst ideas she’s ever had! (Well, if you don’t count her recent decision to mix Tequila and Smirnoff this past weekend.) So, here’s my case for why our only “Amazing Race” should be meeting our December book deadline.

1. Um, Phil, is it against the rules for me to strap a GPS to my camel? My idea of following a map is inputting an address into my car’s navigational system.  I’m quite confident I would have an easier time finding a Starbucks in Bakersfield than I would trying to track the lady in the purple scarf in a busy square in Bangkok. I still have to confirm directions to O’Hare and Liz expects me to try to find a yodeler at the base of the Swiss Alps? WTF?!

2. There’s no bottled water in Zimbabwe? Considering my constant dehydration even if the best conditions, I could easily be the first AMAZING RACE contestant to murder her teammate over lack of H2O. So if Liz wants to live to see her 37th birthday, she should probably just continue to lust after her boy Phil from afar.  Maybe stalking him off-season would be easier?

3. Do you think I can pop my enzymes before I eat a cricket in Cairo? Um, Liz knows I can barely consume a perfectly made American hamburger without digestive aids. So the fact that she wants me to consider downing a wasabi bomb with a side of scorpion tail is more than upsetting. Constipation +bloating = distended belly, bad TV and, did I mention bad TV?

4. I don’t do alliances! I know my people-pleasing friend, Liz will want to team up with the cute guys or help the requisite hillbillies that can barely read the signs in English. (Let alone Japanese!) And all I can say is Hells to the No’s. I’m not sharing my ladle, my internet cafe location or my Gas-X with anyone!

xoxo, Liz & Lisa

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

It was painting time.

What do you get when you combine 3 gallons of paint, six walls and two Type-A fiances?

A near disaster.

In the Stannenfeldt household anyway.

It all started when Matt innocently asked if I wanted to join him on a trip to the man’s Tarjay (Lowes). Since I pride myself on my woMANly ways, I happily obliged.  And I’m not sure how it happened exactly (my cart had a mind of its own!) but on the way to the faucets, we somehow found ourselves in the paint aisle, comparing swatches and finishes (satin or eggshell?) and discussing painting our living room and dining room. (Because for those of the Type-A persuasion, one room just wasn’t enough.)

And the next thing I knew, our cart was piled high with rollers, brushes, tray liners and drop cloths.

And as we paid for the supplies and paint–one gallon of Dusted Bronze and two gallons of Bees Wax– I wondered, were we really going to do this?

Weren’t we breaking one of the cardinal couple rules?

Never move something together!

Never assemble something together!

And never, under any circumstances, paint together!

As we prepped the rooms, I thought to myself, we can do this. And as I taped the crown molding and looked over at Matt as he covered the furniture, I repeated the same mantra in my head.

I won’t be Bossy Betty.

I won’t be Bossy Betty.

I won’t be Bossy Betty.

Well, let’s just say that sometimes, even though you can repeat something over and over in your head, it doesn’t always come true.

The good news is, the rooms look amazing—warm and inviting.

But in hindsight, there are a few things I’d do a wee bit differently should there ever be a next time. (You never know, Hell could freeze over!)

1.  Not agree to accompany the hubs to be to Lowes. (Especially with an ulterior motive in mind!)

2.  I’d let someone else use a roller brush–like maybe the 6’2″ painter by my side. (Even if I didn’t exactly approve of his brush stroke!)

3.  I’d get down off the step ladder long enough to fill my own paint tray. (Even though asking him to do it every time was so much easier!)

4.  I’d remember to get my painter “partner” a cold beverage, like, um, 7 hours sooner!

5.  I wouldn’t ask or expect my fiancee to shop for pillows or rugs after 5 hours of painting! (Even though the couches and floors were begging to look as good as the walls!)

6.  I’d learn to love white walls!

xoxo, Lisa (A.K.A. “Bossy Betty”)

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Although many may disagree, I’ve  kind of always thought of myself as a low-maintenance kind of gal.  Well…except for that whole “have to be punctual or I’ll kill you” thing.  Or the fact that if I don’t eat every three hours I may rip off your arm and beat you over the head with it.  Oh, and did I mention that I also tend to be a bit High Maintenance on my birthday too?

I’ll be the first to admit that it’s virtually impossible for the Hubs to find the perfect gift.  And the fact that he has limited shopping skills isn’t helping his case at all. (I’ve always felt that I shop enough for both of us!) But the biggest problem is that if I  want something, well, I usually just go buy it! (Did I mention I have impulse-control issues?)

So after many years of awkward gift opening, I have asked the Hubs, no make that begged him, to STOP buying me gifts.  I mean, how many times can you fake enthusiam for household appliances?

This year, I thought we had the system down.  He buys me nothing, I buy myself something fabulous, we go to dinner without the kids, I get buzzed, eat some free Lava Pie and and we all go home happy.  Right?

Wrong!

Instead, I came home on my birthday to find a red velvet box on the counter with a card.  And I knew from past experience that this could mean only one thing.  He had snuck over to see Kim Po.  Kim Po was our jeweler, and the hubs always went to him in a time of need.  Kim Po could always be counted on for beautiful jewelry and astrological readings.  A great combination!  Where else could you get your diamond ring fixed while finding out if this is the year of the Ox? (Btw, it isn’t.)

I went over and grabbed the box off the counter and slowly opened it to reveal a beautiful sapphire pendant and chain. Wow, I thought, how beautiful! I’m sure that most women who weren’t SEVERLY ALLERGIC TO METAL would really enjoy wearing this.  I’m sure it would look lovely on my neck for that one hour before I developed a NASTY WELT  where the chain touched my skin.  And I’m sure he wouldn’t mind when we went to dinner that night that I was blinded by my SWOLLEN EYES.

*Big sigh*

Oh, Hubs.  I know he meant well. I guess the fact that I haven’t worn so much as a watch in the past year has escaped his memory. Or that the entire year before when I went to five doctors trying to figure out why I had crackwhore eyes for three days every time I wore my sassy sparkly MAC eyeshadow. I could just imagine him, panicking a few days before my birthday and running to Kim Po’s, his gift-giving safe place.  So yes, part of me understood. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t pissed!

And maybe, just maybe, I acted a little bratty about it. (Don’t judge!  I already told you I was HM about this shit!) But let’s just say I found a way to forgive him when he surprised me with a waterfront suite later that night.  And after a few drinks at dinner, we made a pact that he will nevuh, evuh, buy me anything ever again.  And he also agreed to let me share with you his top three birthday blunders…

1. A LANDLINE

It was a phone that plugged into the wall. For our bedroom.   For our first Christmas together after we got married. Need I say more? I made note to never again complain about any household appliance within two months of my birthday or Christmas.

2. A THREE HOUR TOUR

Welcome to your wonderful getaway to…CATALINA!  Now for those of you unfamiliar with this tiny island off the California coast, let me just tell you that it could quite possibly be the most boring place on earth. None of the “motels”(yep, MOTELS!) even have pools. Or spas. Or room service. Has this man not been paying attention for the past ten years?  I am the. Biggest. Travel. Snob. EVUH!

3. GIFT CARDS

Public service announcement: Dudes, Don’t ever get your wife gift cards.  Just don’t.  And if you do, don’t buy the same one for every birthday and Christmas gift for three years.   Your wife may begin to think you lack imagination…

After reading that, it’s probably clear why my poor Hubs threw in the towel on a high maintenance birthday beyotch like myself.  And that’s okay.  Because he gives me the best gift every single day that doesn’t cost a thing…his love, support and respect!  Love you Hubs! xoxo

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Before I “shmoved” to Chicago, I lived alone for a really, really, really long time.

Did I mention it was a long time?

Well, when you’re the only one under your own roof, you take certain things for granted. Like…

• When you get home at the end of the day, the last half of your cheesecake is exactly where you left it.
  

• Your clean clothes can sit in piles on your bedroom floor for as. long. as. you. want.
  

• The DVR records all of YOUR favorite programs WITHOUT FAIL.

Well, let’s just say #1 & #2 I can live with but #3, well, that’s not negotiable. Because to put it mildly…

Momma needs her f***ing TV!

Back home in Cali, my DVR was a well-oiled machine, like a fine wine–aged to perfection. I’d spent a painstaking amount of time and energy getting it just right. From prioritizing my programs to making sure there was padding at the beginning and end of my favorite shows “just in case” there was a supersized episode-I’d done it all. I never missed a show. Not even a Jersey Housewives reunion. Until…

I cohabitated.

And since I shmoved in with my beloved future hubby, my DVR situation has become

one. hot. mess.

So far, I’ve missed..

• The season premiere of Brothers & Sisters (Sally Field is like a mother to me!)

• The premiere of Grey’s Anatomy (Yeah, I’m one of the six people who still watch!)

• Several episodes of Project Runway! (Life just isn’t whole without a weekly trip to Mood!)

The reasons for this DVR dilemma?

• The definition of “important” television is a debate in our house. (I say anything that ends with a cliffhanger. He says anything that ends with ball.)

• Before my time, the most action Matt’s DVR had seen was the time it accidentally recorded Wizards of Waverly Place.

• We have a pretty majuh problem that I like to call Saturday, Sunday and Monday Night Football.

So cut to this past Sunday night.

All was right in the world. The kids were in bed, the refrigerator was cleaned out (don’t ask!) and I was sitting comfortably on the couch ready to immerse myself in my own, little television world. A world where…

• I see Matt’s lips moving, but there is no sound.

• My biggest stress is whether or not it will be an elimination round on the The Amazing Race.

• I have complete control of the remote.

Not so much.

Matt wanted to watch the Chargers game.

And my beloved future hubby’s eyes glazed over when I tried to explain why he couldn’t just switch over to channel 187. I had two programs recording at the same time! But wanting to be a good wifey-to-be, I dumped Melrose (I only wanted to find out if Ashley was a better actress than lip syncher anyway) so he could watch his ballgame. After, the TV karma gods would be looking out for me and all would be right in the world as I watched my shows, right?

Not so much.

When I turned on The Amazing Race, Instead of Phil Keoghan, I saw Andy Rooney!

WTF?

According to Matt, who very patiently tried to explain this injustice as I cradled my head in my hands, the end of 60 Minutes had recorded so that meant I wouldn’t get the entire episode of The Amazing Race!

But how would I know if those professional poker beeyotches made it through?

Matt slowly explained that this could be an ongoing problem because The Amazing Race may never fully record.

What???

Because of the Central Time Zone. Because of football. And because of 60 Minutes. Long story short, football almost always runs late. 60 Minutes must run in its entirety.

No. Matter. What.

Or, as Matt put it, a bunch of blue hairs (and him) would revolt. So, even if I add padding to the end of The Amazing Race, if a football game goes into OT, I could be screwed. And forced to watch the show, the next day or online. Or worse…

in. real. time.

Gag. And screw you Andy Rooney for ruining my life!

But this is all part of saying, I do, right? Learning to be flexible and to deal with new situations. And learning to, er, compromise.

Um, not so much.

Well, at least not for now.

Not when it comes to my precious TV.

So in the meantime, while I come to grips with reality, I’m going to propose my form of a compromise.

A second DVR.

xoxo

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Well, it’s Bachelorette finale time again. That special day when two people who hardly know each other become engaged after a whirlwind romance consisting of dream dates,  fantasy suites and plenty of drama!

And think about it. How can a relationship not work out after you’ve zip-lined together?  Or biked down a cobblestone street in Spain?  Or jumped off a chartered yacht while holding hands in Hawaii? These are the activities that build a strong foundation for the future! And nothing says trust like feverishly competing with thirty other men for your woman’s affections.

I mean, clearly, ABC wants to make sure these relationships are built to last, right?

Riiiigggghhhht.

But Bachelorette lovers, don’t worry.  I’m not hatin’.  Just like you, I’ve had a date  with my girl Jillian every Monday night at 8pm all summer.  I cringed when Tanner inappropriately talked about her feet and when Dave became an Angry Santa and threatened to “beat Juan’s ass”. I gasped when Sasha was sent home on a city bus (worst walk of shame-EVUH!) and laughed at the irony of a man named ED having E-D issues on national television.

I screamed at the TV as Jillian continued to be blinded by Wes’s douchebagness and cheered when Jake tattle-tailed that he had a girlfriend.  And because of that act of chivalry, I gave Jake’s high-waisted pants and crying-over-the-railing incident a pass.  I even participated in some angry tweeting when I discovered Wes was on Twitter! (You can too by clicking here! And you can follow Liz and Lisa by clicking here.)

Wes. As much as I hated to admit it, I found myself relating to Jillian’s reluctance to let him go.  Admit it. ladies, we’ve all dated our fair share of guys like Wes.  Classic bad boy. The kind of guy makes you crazy, in a throwing rocks at his window, blocked caller ID sort of way.

And while I was excited when she finally kicked him to the curb (I think his rose ceremony outfit may have sealed the deal, wtf?), Liz circa 1989-1998 understood exactly why she had so much trouble letting him go.  But the good news for me was that all my douchebag-loving-gone-wrong experiences had not been televised.

Although I must say that would have been Must-See TV!

Like Jillian, I finally kicked my bad boy habit to the curb many years ago and switched to Team Nice Guy.(Thank you, Mike Fenton!)   And in honor of her seeing the light, I’ve composed a list of other men like Wes that my friends and I have encountered over the years.  I like to call it…

Douche-o-rama, 90′s edition.

THE LEAD SINGER

Ladies, let’s face it.  A man’s ability to sing or play an instrument makes him hot. (How else would Steven Tyler EVER get laid?) In fact, it’s probably what sends thousands of average-looking boys to guitar lessons each year.  And even though I already knew that Wes was trouble, my heart STILL melted a little when he serenaded Jillian. But the only problem is that he was probably singing “It Don’t Take That Long” to a different girl each night. My advice is to put on your earplugs and kick this one to the curb, ASAP!

THE STAR CROSSED LOVER

Yes, I know it seems romantic that your friends and family have told you he’s no good for you so you have to sneak around to see him.  But you know what’s not so romantic? Text stalking. (AKA “pager stalking” in the 1990′s.  It’s amazing how many words you can spell with upside-down numbers!) Maybe it’s time to put the “talk” back in “stalking”.

THE CRAZY GUY

Ugh. The crazy guy.  Why do we always want to “fix” him?  It’s like picking out some angry dog at the pound that bites you and pees all over your furniture.  But the challenge of reforming a crazy guy is always too tempting for some of us.  Just think, you could be the ONE he changes his ways for!  Not.

THE FRIEND YOU WANT TO BE MORE FRIENDLY WITH

This was my M.O. back in the day. Become friends, start to crush, hook up one drunken night and then proceed to have the most dysfunctional friendship EVUH. Note to self:  When your “friend” is asking for your advice on how to get the attention of your friend, HE IS NOT INTERESTED! And going all “fifth grade” on him and writing a seven page love letter confessing your true feelings is not going to help things.  Trust me on this one-never leave any evidence of your desperado behavior!

MR. PERFECTO

Dating a guy that owns a beach house, a plane and got a perfect score on his SATs  does sound pretty killer. Hmm…except for his video game obssesion, which kinda creeps you out.  Oh, and also the fact that he makes you so crazy you threw rocks at his window at 2am when he didn’t call you back.  And when he finally let you in, you slept on the edge of his bed like a naughty dog. Time to say GAME OVER.

Tell us about your Douch-o-rama!

xoxo, Liz

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

Mommy is doing the best she can, honey.

I can’t tell you how many times I repeated that phrase to my four-year old while visiting my Mom this past weekend.  Swimming nonstop for 6 hours straight combined with the fact that I overcooked her mac and cheese and forgot to pack her favorite Hello Kitty underwear really sent her over the edge!

And I didn’t miss the small smile forming on my mother’s lips as she watched Miss R demand the crust be taken off her bread or when she told me that my singing  “hurt her ears”. (In her defense, I am a TERRIBLE singer.  But still.)

Come on people. It didn’t take a mind reader to know what my mom was thinking while she had that smirk on her face.

Finally!  It’s payback time, beyotch!

Yes, it’s true.  Growing up, I had a tendency to be somewhat of a little bitchface at times to my mother, who in all fairness, was a wonderful parent.  Hell, even now, I sometimes speak to her like a spoiled teenage brat, rolling my eyes and saying, “Whatevuh, Mom!” whenever she harps on me for not taking a daily multi-vitamin or reminds me that osteoporosis runs in our family.

And normally, occasional meltdowns from my kids when they are overly exhausted don’t really phase me.  But I just finished Tori Spelling’s MOMMYWOOD last week and now every perceived injustice from my daughter has me paranoid.  You see, My girl Tori has got some serious mama drama and she’s obsessed with righting the perceived wrongs from her childhood.  Specifically, things that her mother Candy did.  And that obsession seems to control most of the parenting decisions that she makes.

Candy made Tori wear her hair in a bob for most of her childhood? Well, her daughter Stella is going to grow her hair down to her ass like some crazy hippie!

Candy had incredible costumes made every Halloween? Well, Tori is ordering hers from *gasp* Pottery Barn Kids!  Take that, Candy!

By the end of the book, I felt bad for Tori.  And not because she had some terrible childhood, (I’m sorry, but while giving your child Madame Alexander dolls may be lame, it’s not child abuse!) but because she has let her mother’s flaws as a parent have such power over her, even as an adult.

And if Tori and I were BFFs, (Does it count that I know someone who knows someone who is in her Mommy and me class?) I’d give her this small pearl of wisdom:

No matter what you do or how hard you try, you’re going to F*CK up your kids somehow.  That while you may be successful in not screwing them up the same way your parents did, I assure you that they will find all new ways to be screwed up.  It’s just the way it is.  All you can do is love them and do the best you can!

So there you go, Tori.  The answer to all your problems.  No need to thank me, girl.

And in tribute to my own mother, I’ve complied a list of all the ways I’m probably scarring my own children for life.  I’m thinking it will come in handy when my daughter pens her first tell-all!

MOMMY IS VERY SORRY THAT…

1.  Mommy is very sorry about Goofy the guinea pig’s death.  And despite what you told everyone at preschool, I did not feed her poison spinach.

2.  Mommy is sorry that she dared to speak while you were watching Spongebob.  I know that it was a very pivotal moment where you were about to discover the secret “Krabby Patty” ingredient.

3.  Mommy is very sorry that her tater tots don’t taste the same as the ones they serve at preschool.  You would think that all over-processed frozen potato products would taste the same.  But as you mentioned, theirs are “yummy” and mine are “disgusting”.  Actually, you told me that they were IS-UG-STING.  But I knew what you meant.

4. Mommy is very sorry that she doesn’t want to get her hair wet at the pool.  But, seriously, have you seen what Mommy’s hair looks like when it air dries? And on a side note, I’m sorry to break the news you may have the same problem on your hands in the future. And don’t go blaming that one on me, girlfriend.  Even Mommy can’t control genetics!

5. Mommy is very sorry she didn’t eat the thousand-calorie banana bread your class worked very hard on at the Mother’s day breakfast.  All I can say is that I hope you inherit your Grandmother’s metabolism!

xoxo Liz

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

LISA SAYS: HIT IGNORE! I come from the dating school of thought that once you’re done, you’re done. If I eat bad sushi at a restaurant, I aint goin’ back for more. If I get smashed on Whiskey Sours, dance on the bar at Coyote Ugly and make out with some one-eyed Jack-HYPOTHETICALLY OF COURSE –It’s pretty damn safe to assume I’m not going to drink Whiskey Sours–EVER AGAIN!

So, why on Earth, after ending my relationship with you, would I even be remotely interested in being your Mafia Wars partner? Or give me a good reason why I need to see that you became a fan of  In N Out?

I’m sorry, but there’s a reason we broke up. And last time I checked, our relationship didn’t exactly end with a high five.  So forgive me if I’m not super amped to join you in the cyberworld version of shooting the shit over a no-foam latte.

But to every rule, there are always exceptions…

And I think IF we’re going to be Facebook friends, there should be a statute of limitations that expires first.

Like how ’bout a decade?

Did we share a sloppy smooch behind the monkey bars? Sure, I’ll accept you!

Were you my junior high prom date who said I looked pretty in my blue taffeta? Okay!  I’m anxious to see what you look like without acne anyway!

Did I date you in high school and drink Strawberry Boons in the back of your pick up truck?  Alright! Because I’m curious to see what you look like without that mullet!

For the record, I am Facebook friends with an ex…or two…

Because our only conflict was arguing over whether or not we should show PDA in the cafeteria. So, I’ll support your cause to get the thumbs down sign added to Facebook; And I’ll give you a thumbs up when your status report says you’re remodeling your kitchen; I’ll even comment on the photo of your adorable kids in the school play! Because the worst thing you ever did to me was ignore me when your buddies walked up to your locker.

But if we broke up in the last few years, I think it’s better to just forgive and forget. Because although our relationship may have seemed like high school at times– it did end over something more complicated than you writing a different girl’s name on your Trapper Keeper. Or me wearing another football player’s letterman jacket.

So, look me up in ten years and if there’s still a thing called Facebook by then, I definitely won’t hit ignore!

LIZ SAYS: HIT ACCEPT! Come on, you know you’re curious what’s he’s been up to and if he’s traded up or down.  And the fact of the matter is that if I ignored every guy that I’ve swapped spit with, I’d have a lot less friends.  You see, I was quite the kissing bandit back in the day, especially after a few shots of Brass Monkey up at the Water Tower.   And I think it’s just plain mean to ignore someone just because they cut my lip with their braces and used their tongue as a WMD.

Like Lisa, I’m dying to see if you had a late growth spurt and finally ditched that Nissan Sentra and your love for Steve B.  And it’s so much less awkward than waiting for our um, *cough* twenty year reunion, where you’re sure to get hammered and grab my ass during the group photo.

But I won’t turn away the more recent exes either. Like childbirth, I’ve conveniently forgotten how painful our relationship was. And by the time I see your friend request, I’ve even convinced myself that you have enough redeeming qualities to enter my Facebook sanctuary.  And maybe, just maybe, I’m dying to know if you married that chick you dumped me for or if you ever got your snaggle tooth fixed.

So, I play nice on Facebook.

Dating for four months and you decided not to show up to my college graduation party?  No problem!  I was planning on drinking so much I blacked out that night anyway.  Oh look, we’re both Susan Boyle fans!  Hurray!

Had anger management issues and tried to strangle my cat?  Merlin and I are so over it!  Oh, and thanks for letting me know you just became a fan of the middle finger and beer, just in case I was questioning my decision to kick you to the curb!

Asked out my best friend the week after we broke up?  It’s cool!  I feel better after I saw the picture of you frenching your bulldog and the fact that you listed “hooking up with hot chicks” under interests.

So unless you’ve heard through the grapevine that your ex is a major shareholder in Starbucks and/or is dating a supermodel, I say just do it!  Trust me, It will only make you feel better about the one you’re with.

xoxo Liz and Lisa

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.

I’m currently on an exhaustive, fattening, frustrating, yet joyful adventure, otherwise known as the family vacation.

I’ve actually started to relax a bit, although it was hard at first. Upon arriving, I realized that although I had managed to fit the entire contents of my house into my minivan, I had forgotten tone crucial thing.

The kid’s bathing suits!

It’s hard to break the news to toddlers that although Mommy packed fourteen pairs of flip flops and 30 DVDs for a seven day trip, she couldn’t be b0thered to pack a bathing suit for the pool. *cue angry crying*

But don’t fret.  Although Lisa talks a lot of shit about my close relationship with Raj, my Mailboxes Etc guy, he really came through. One frantic call to him at 6pm and those suits were sitting on my doorstep early the next morning.  I’m not quite sure who he had to blow to get them here but I’m not complaining!

So now that the swimwear had arrived, we were ready for eight-hour days at the pool.  And I must say, my fellow vacationers are quite entertaining.  Especially after a few Pina Coladas.

So I’ve made a list of a few favorites that have caught my attention.

1. The Inappropriate Uncle I wanted to give you a pass because  you told me you liked my bathing suit when I walked up.  But I couldn’t ignore the fact that you made out with your trashy girlfriend on the next chaise over and were taking kamikaze shots while you were supposed to be watching your 6 year-old nephew.

2. The Creepy Grandpa Um, if you think I’m going to let you take my four-year old over the bar to get a smoothie after we chatted for five minutes, you’re smoking crack!  She is way too young for her first roofie.

3. The Hot Bitch Okay, Hot bitch.  I just want to go on record to say that I don’t think you actually gave birth to that baby you’re holding.  Your body is smokin’ and there’s not a stretch mark in site.  And you’re even drinking DARK beer!  Why do you have to be so cruel?

4. The Looker Upper Downer Please stop. You keep making me look down to make sure I’m waxed in all the right places and that my boob hasn’t popped out. I’ve tried to convince myself that you are looking me up and down because I’m so fabulous but I think we both know better.

5. The Splash-me-nots I’m sorry that you thought you were making a smart decision by moving over to that “small pool in the corner” to get away from the drunk coeds.  Because if you hate loud noise and don’t want to get splashed, you’ve just entered Hell, otherwise known as the toddler pool.

6. Social Butterfly, Pool Edition Yep, that’s me!  Just can’t help myself.  Move away quickly if you don’t want to talk.  Especially after my second Pina Colada.

7. The “It takes a Village” couple The fact that I’m actually sitting in the water watching my kids does not mean I’ve become your pool nanny.  How many times to I have to save your 18 month-old from drowning in a foot of water before you get your ass in the pool?

8. The Chatty Grandma Please stop talking about the sensual 90 minute massage you got from a man named Hans this morning.  It’s too much, even for a social butterfly like myself.

9.  The Judgey McJudgersons Yes, I’m aware my daughter looks red.  Yes, I’ve applied sunscreen in the last 90 minutes.  And no, I don’t want to borrow that lame-ass UV protective hat your kid is wearing!

10. The Bully Your daughter just bitchslapped my son and took his floatie and you’re not going to say a thing?  It’s on whorebag!

xoxo

©2010 Chick Lit Is Not Dead. All Rights Reserved.