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Wrestling, Packers and Doggy Diarrhea

17 Nov

It’s been a while since my last post so I thought it was time for a Mike-n-Lisa-n-Bud update. First, I do have to report that despite my best efforts I am still not a First Mate (not on the boat, anyway).  I did earn bonus points for my effort, though, so at the end of the day I’m happy. Mike is now Bud’s BFF and whenever we walk in the door Bud is on him like a cheap suit. I’ve given him seven years of his favorite dog food and loads of love; Mike gives him 5 days of NFL, lingerie football and Saving Private Ryan. Guess who came out the winner.


Over the course of the last few months Mike and I have learned a lot about each other. For instance, I’ve learned that Mike is extremely selective (translation: picky) about the foods he will eat. I tease him without mercy because, let’s face it; I’m pretty much a human garbage can when it comes to food while he is a card-carrying member of GPEC – the Grown-up Picky Eaters Club. He, in turn, gives me grief because I still haven’t mastered the art of backing into a parking space and parallel parking is not a skill I possess. More so, I refuse to learn how because as Bobby Brown once said… it’s my prerogative.

Mike has learned that I can, in fact, be bribed with cookies while I’ve discovered that he has a weakness for mashed potatoes and gravy. Unfortunately, both of us have realized that Bud and pepperoni make for a bad situation. Or to be more accurate, a shitty situation.

Last Saturday night Mike and I had gone out for the evening after leaving Bud in the back room with his bed, water and toys. Mike had put down a few pads in case Bud had an accident and boy, did he ever. We had just gotten back and I was standing in the kitchen when Mike opened the door to Bud’s “room.”

M: What the fuck?!? Bud shit all over my room!

L: What??

M: He shit all over my room then he walked in it! Christ! Did you put gravy on his dog food?

L: No. I was going to, but then I was worried it would upset his stomach.

M: Well, something sure as fuck upset his stomach. (grabs roll of paper towels)

L: Oh, I know what it was… I was walking him earlier today and he found several slices of pepperoni on the ground. He ate them before I could stop him. That had to have been it because he’s not eaten anything else other than his dog food.

M: I can’t believe he shit all over my room. (wipes up puddles of crap from floor)

L: Oh, honey, you know it was an accident. (trying not to giggle while watching him clean floor as that would be a HUGE mistake)

M: Yeah, yeah. (turns to Bud) You’re a shitty dog. (Bud wags tail)

L: See, he loves you. (walks into kitchen and claps hands over mouth to hold in laughter)

Needless to say, Bud won’t be eating pepperoni again anytime soon.

Once the shit storm blew over, Mike texted me Monday night asking if I wanted to watch the Vikings/Packers game with him. Actually, he asked if Bud could come over. I was just the driver.

M: Can Bud come over and watch football with me?

L: Bud doesn’t have a driver’s license and he can’t reach the pedals.

M: I thought maybe you could drive him.

L: Are you bringing him home tomorrow?

M: No, I thought you could.

L: I’m not making two trips so the dog can watch TV with you.

M: Oh. Well, I guess you can stay, too.

L: Gee, thanks. I’ll make sure you guys have some alone time.

So we’re settled on the sofa after dinner watching the game and good god, it was just brutal. The Packers weren’t satisfied with spanking the Vikings (end score 45-7); it was a smackdown from one of the field to the other. Mike is yelling at the refs (wisely I didn’t point out it wouldn’t help much because they couldn’t hear him), clutching his head and dying a slow death as the Vikings get reamed out.

Here comes the part where you learn a dirty secret about the person you’re dating. And this time, it’s my dirty little secret.

L: You know, I root for the Vikings when they play the Packers, but I gotta say I like watching the Packers. It’s just good football.

M: What did you say? (turns head very slowly to look at me)

L: Well… uh… they’re a good team. (verbally fumbling around now) And I like Aaron Rodgers. I mean, I’m a Vikings fan, but still… you can’t deny how awesome they look on the field. (wishing I had kept my Packers love to myself)

M: (quiet, serious voice) I don’t even know you.

We suffer through several more minutes before Mike announces he can’t stand it anymore and needs to watch something better. He’s flipping through the guide and I’m making suggestions.

L: Oh, House Hunters! How about the cooking channel? Maybe Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives is on!

Mike makes his selection and with the press of a button, I learn his dirty little secret.

L: Wrestling? You’re kidding me, right? THIS is better than the game?! Oh, hell no. I am NOT watching wrestling!

M: (grinning) This is good stuff, babe. Look, the Rock is on tonight. He’s been away for like, seven years.

L: I don’t care how long he’s been gone or where he went. (I do like the Rock, but I still hate wrestling.) You’re just doing this because of what I said about the Packers and you know it.

M: Nope, I’m not. I like wrestling. (still grinning)

Now it’s my turn to stare at him in horror. He’s not kidding. He really does enjoy watching WWE. I feel myself getting ill at the thought of watching steroided up men in bikini underwear fake pummel each other all night. Ugh. It’s a woman’s nightmare come to life.

L: I can’t watch this. I’m getting up.

M: No, stay here and watch it with me. (openly laughing now)

L: Ask Bud to watch it with you. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.

So the two men in my life watched their manly show together while I soothed myself by surfing celebrity-bashing sites on the computer. I felt better almost immediately.

I have since decided that if Mike is willing to overlook my Packer-love then I can overlook his penchant for WWE. It’s all about compromise (patting self on back for being so adult-like).

Oh, but Mike, honey… one more dirty little secret before I wrap this up. Remember when we were driving back from Wisconsin and you bought me all those cheese curds? Well, I spent Monday night watching the Packers play while eating my cheese curds. Guess I’m a cheesehead, after all.

Til next time,

Lisa D 😀


Bud’s Bachelor Weekend

19 Oct

Ma, we need to talk. You know I love you and all, but I’ve had some time to think while you were back in Mississippi visiting the family. I gotta admit, I was a little pissed at first when you just up and left me with Mike. I mean, come on… you know how I am about my food and my routine. I like a little bacon or cheese mixed in to give it some flavor. Was I supposed to believe Mike was gonna take that extra step? What if he gives it to me dry? I don’t do dry food. I also prefer to start my night on top of the blankets then nudge you awake so I can get underneath. What if he doesn’t let me under the covers? What then!? Panic was starting to set in just about the time I realized he probably wouldn’t call me his little pumpkin and kiss me on the head when he came home from work. How am I supposed to get through the next five days?

Well, as it turns out I had an amazing time while you were gone and learned a few things about myself. Number one: you have turned me into a girly dog.


The only comment I have about this photo is that I look ridiculous and all the dogs laughed at me. You thought I looked cute. I thought I looked like a short-bus dog. Thanks a fuckin’ heap, Ma. Mike doesn’t make me wear stupid clothes. He lets me be a guy. Yeah, that’s right. A guy. And you know what? I LIKE it! Check out the pix below from my manly weekend adventures.


Chillin' in the yard with Mike

Mike's pretty good at the whole scratch my stomach thing.

Yard work is tiring so I had to take a break.

FYI, riding in a truck is way cooler than riding in a car named Veronica.

Every guy has to have his own chair. Mike gave me a blanket, too!

No more Cupcake Wars, Ma. It's Saving Private Ryan or nothing.

Seriously, Ma. Sunday Night Football vs Jerseylicious. You do the math.

I know you were all upset I didn’t sleep with you Monday night when you got home. I had to teach you a lesson for your own good.  Things are going to be different from now on, Ma. I refuse to wear a Halloween costume even though you said I had to be a hot dog or a wizard. Put that shit on me and I swear I’ll tear it to shreds before we get out the door. I know you love me which is why I’ve put up with the clothes, the vanilla shampoo/conditioner treatments and I even let you spray Giorgio perfume on me. No more, Ma. Mike showed me how to be a guy and I am not a girly dog anymore.

Love, Bud

p.s. I’ll sleep with you tonight.

p.p.s. When we’re alone, I’m still your little pumpkin.

Men are from Mars, women are from… hell if I know.

10 Oct

Remember the book titled “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” that was hugely popular a few years back? Basically it explored the differences between men and women primarily in the areas of relationships and communication. I never read it because I tend to turn my nose up at self-help books. I’ve always thought that when it comes to communication between the two sexes, it shouldn’t be that difficult and that two mature adults should be able to speak clearly, openly and effectively. Right?


Mike decided to take his boat out on the water yesterday and asked me to go with him. (Bud, too, of course!) Apparently he decided that while I don’t merit First Mate status due to my lack of knowledge/skills, I do qualify as a First Mate in Training. I thought to myself, “This can’t be too hard. I’m relatively smart and I can probably catch on pretty quick.”

Feel free to snort laughter right about now because by the end of the day I discovered one truth to be self-evident. Mike is from Planet Lake Minnetonka and I am from Planet-I-Have-No-Clue-What-You-Are-Saying-To-Me.

Our day began with the “official” launching of the boat. Bud’s job is to stare at me while my job is to… uh… hold two ropes while keeping the boat from hitting the dock. Or is it a pier? Why are there two words for the same object anyway?

(Note to self: ask Mike to explain the difference in language I can understand).

Back to preventative boat bumping. This is harder than it looks. The wind is not cooperating with me at all. Just when I get the back part of the boat away from the dock, the front part moves far enough away that I’m almost pulled into the water. Bud is no help whatsoever. He just sits there like, well… like a dog on a boat.

The Official Launching of the Boat

I finally see Mike coming towards me after parking the truck and my relief is almost palpable. I remark that it’s harder than I thought it would be trying to keep the boat from bumping into the dock.

(Cue Mike vs Lisa Communication Salvo #1)

M: This is hard? Baby, I know you lift weights and work out. It can’t be that hard!

L:  I lift hand weights! This is a boat. I can’t lift a boat.

We get out into the open water with no more tutelage. Yet. Mike lets me drive and I’m torn between excitement and a bad case of nerves.

M: Rule #1: Don’t hit anything.

L: What’s Rule #2?

M: Rule #2: Don’t fall overboard.

Keep repeating quietly to self: Don’t hit anything. Don’t fall overboard. Congratulate self on doing neither. I got this.

Do I look like I'm having fun? Huzzah!

We spend a couple of hours on the water before Mike decides we need to gas up.

(Salvo #2)

L: Where are you going to get gas?

M: At the marina.

L: They have gas pumps on the water?!

M: Of course. Where else would you get gas? (Looks at me in amazement).

Where indeed. Frankly, I’d never pondered the age-old question of “Where do boats go to gas up?”

(Second note to self: think before asking a question so as not to appear a dumb ass).

(Salvo #3)

Pulling up next to the dock, Mike asked me to grab the stern line and bumpers.

I don’t even have to speak because the look of Whuuut?? on my face says it all. (Dumb ass expression totally not my fault because this man is speaking Greek).

Mike lifts a small hatch at his feet and pulls out a rope and this white, rubbery, bouncy kinda thing.  Ah. Stern line and a bumper. God, I’m amazed at my ability to put two and two together.

M: Tie the bumpers to the side of the boat and attach the stern line to the cleat.

L: Blank look.

M: Here, let me show you. (Suppresses a sigh).

I do feel kinda bad at this point because I feel completely clueless and it’s evident I am zero help.

M: The bumpers should be at this level and you tie the stern line with a figure eight knot.

Oh, great. I’ve read about slip knots and what-have-you.  I never thought I might actually have to knot anything other than my shoelaces.

(Third note to self: Please do not let there be a test at the end of the day. If there is, I’m going down in flames).

Mike pays for the gas and asks me to grab the line from the bow.

L: Blank look.

M: The bow is the front of the boat and the back is the stern.

(Fourth note to self: vow to write letter to National Boating Association and demand to know why words ‘front’ and ‘back’ can’t be used).

We head back out onto the water and amazingly enough, Mike lets me drive some more. It has not escaped my attention that a senior citizen on a walker could easily outpace me, but I’m cool with the speed for the moment. Oh, wait… maybe it’s not speed. I think it has something to do with knots. Didn’t he mention knots at some time or another? I wasn’t paying attention.

(Fifth note to self: look up ‘knots’ on Wikipedia in order to avoid yet another blank look).

I am feeling just a little self-congratulatory.

After staying on the water ‘til well after the sun set, we head back and Mike loads the boat up on the trailer. Silly me. I’m thinking you just go home at that point. Little did I know there is a checklist that must be completed before you can hit the open road and head home.

(Salvo #4)

M: You didn’t think we were done, did you?

L: I have no idea what you want me to do. Tell me.

M: It’s really not that difficult.

L: Well, I need you to explain it to me in detail.

M: I shouldn’t have to… most people that I take out on the water have an intuitive feel for what to do.

Trying hard not to be needled by comment and not succeeding. Crossing arms in front of myself, I respond.

L: Well, I’m sorry I don’t have an intuitive feel for your boat.

M: Baby, don’t get defensive! I’m not criticizing.

L: Well, it certainly feels like criticism.

M: I’m just trying to teach you and I’ve never had to do this before.

L: That’s evident cuz you’re not a good teacher.

Yes, I’m pouting at this point and I do not care that I’ve taken on the mentality of a three-year-old.

Mike walks me through what needs to be done and I learned about lake grime as well as aquatic hitchhikers. After we finish, he hugs me and tells me I’ve done a good job.

Feel free to snort laughter again.

Not that it really matters because I have a sneaky suspicion that all my efforts were in vain and that I have been replaced by another First Mate in Training.


Sneaky bastard.

Lots of love,

Lisa D 😀

A night of vomit and crazy

13 Sep

My daughter, Ana, had lunch with me today and came over to my place after work. She was going on a blind date (yikes!) and wanted to visit with me for a bit as she was a bit nervous. This would be her first blind date and she needed a little mom support. After getting ready, she asked my thoughts on her attire.

“Your skirt is too short and you’re showing too much cleavage.”


Funny how she can take a single syllable word and make it a mile long. Actually, she looked great, but I was morally obligated as her mother to provide constructive criticism. She is meeting her date at 6:00 pm and it’s time for her to leave. I ask her to text me at some point so I’ll know she’s okay and she agrees before hugging me bye.

6:20 pm

I am on the phone with my friend, Dave, when a text message pops up from Ana:

OMG. Please call me in two minutes with an emergency!

Oh, this is just too classic. For once, I’m not the one enduring the date from hell. After two minutes of pondering my “emergency,” I dial her number.


In a teary voice (keeping it real here, folks) I say, “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry to call you on your date! Bud is vomiting blood and I’m taking him to the pet hospital! Please come with me! I can’t go by myself!”

“Oh my god, are you serious?”

“Yes! I’m so scared and I need you to be with me! Please?”

“I’m on my way, Mom!”

We disconnect and I am laughing hysterically at this point. I wait ten minutes before calling her back.

“So what was so bad about your date that I had to bail you out?”

“Oh, god, Mom… his teeth… they were… oh, god. He seriously needs to see a dentist STAT! Oh, god… I feel sick. I gotta go.”

So, technically speaking, there was vomiting last night, it just wasn’t Bud.

* * * *

I often volunteer at a shelter in the Twin Cities and a guy named Tom volunteers there, as well. We had spoken before and he seemed nice enough. Well, actually, he did most of the talking about his job (attorney), social status (divorced with an evil ex-wife who took him to the cleaners and kept his Mercedes Benz) and other inconsequential topics. He hinted at asking me out, but I never took the bait.

So about two weeks ago, I’m waiting at the bus stop when Tom pulls up next to me on his bike. Apparently he lives in the area of my office and was out for an afternoon ride when he spotted me. We chatted for a bit before my bus arrived and I headed home. You can imagine my surprise when I got a voice mail a few days later from Tom. I assumed he got my number from the sign-in sheets at the shelter as I had not given it to him.

“Hi, Lisa, it’s Tom. Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed seeing you the other day. You looked great and I would like to take you out sometime. Call me back and let’s get together.”

Oh, that’s so sweet, I thought to myself. I saved the message as I really did plan to call him back and say “Thanks, but no thanks, I’m seeing Mike; hope things go well; blah, blah, blah.”

I forgot to call him back.

During last night’s vomitous series of events, my phone rings and I let it go to voice mail.

“Hi, Lisa, it’s Tom. I called you a couple of weeks ago and you could have had the DECENCY to call back. I don’t know if you got your hair dyed or what… that’s the rest of the story. You know what to do.”

Tom is very loud and I strongly suspect it’s a drunk dial. Either that, or dude is seriously whacked. I listened to his message twice only because I was trying to figure out what he meant by me getting my hair dyed. I don’t dye my hair. Even if I did, what the hell would that have to do with anything?

Tom just got moved from the ‘Oh, that’s so sweet’ column to the ‘Crazy Mo Fo’ column.

You’re right, Tom. I do know what to do and that would be to NOT call you back because, quite frankly, that bitch be crazy.

Hugs and kisses,

Lisa D 😀

This is how I roll….

28 Jun

This past year has been full of new experiences for me. Starting over at any age is difficult; starting over in your mid-40s alternates between terrifying and exciting, depending on the circumstances.

Once I knew I would be living alone, I began the search for a place to live. I had lived in the ‘burbs of Becker for five years where the biggest thing to happen was the completion of a McDonalds restaurant. Think I’m kidding? We didn’t even warrant a traffic light and had to be content with a blinking yellow light. For realz. To say I was a bit sheltered is putting it mildly.

The parameters for a place where I could park it were simple: affordable, close to work and would allow pets. I ended up choosing an apartment in Fridley (The Friendly City!). I would live to regret my choice.

I moved to my new digs last July and initially thought it wasn’t too bad. Sure, the apartment buildings were old and in serious need of some renovation. The carpet looked like a graduate from The Helen Keller School of Design chose it. The hallways made me think of The Shining and I still expect the two dead girls to pop up saying, “Come play with me, Danny.” Freaking creepy.

Still, I got settled in and was determined to make the best of it. After all, I wasn’t going to live here forever. How bad could it be?

I was soon to find out.

My A/C is a joke and only cools the first five feet in front of the vent. The heating system makes up for what the A/C lacks and will bake you to death in the winter. I was forced to leave a window cracked in order to breathe. Bud was buried under the covers at night to avoid hypothermia while I alternated between feeling half-cooked or half-frozen.

During the warmer months, I suffered through the mystery gnats that apparently lived in the bathroom sink. Taking a shower during this time was great fun as I came to realize my bathroom doubled as a sauna due to the poor ventilation.

The cooler months brought out the mice. Yep, mice. Thank God they weren’t in my apartment itself, just the ceiling above me. Oddly enough, I grew accustomed to hearing their little claws skitter above my hallway while getting ready for work in the mornings.

Some of my neighbors were decent enough people while others scared the crap out of me. I learned to avoid those that looked like America’s Most Wanted escapees and kept telling myself my lease would soon end and I could get the hell out of Dodge. The plus side (believe me, I was desperate to find one), was that I knew this experience would give me something I was sorely lacking.

Street cred.

That’s right, bitches. And I got your proof right here. I came into Fridley scared, unsure and quite possibly the most vanilla person you will ever meet. I knew I had turned the corner a few weeks ago when I had a discussion, of sorts, with a neighbor.

I had taken Bud for his afternoon walk to the allotted bathroom area at the back of our complex. Upon arrival, I discovered that for the third day the caretaker had not replaced the doggie bags for cleaning up after your pet. I was irritated, but Bud still had to do his thing, bags or no bags. He finishes up and we are leaving the area when I hear a window open above me.

“Hey! You need to pick up your dog’s shit!”

Are you kidding me? Some woman I don’t even know is screaming at me!?

“I would if there were some bags here, you stupid bitch! What do you expect me to do? Pick it up with my hand?!”

Oh. My. God. I had gone ghetto.

“There aren’t any down there?”

“No!! There aren’t any damned bags and there haven’t been any for three days!”

“I’m coming down!”

“Come on down then! I’ll stand here and wait for you!”

And I did. I was so pissed at this point it didn’t occur to me that I had no idea I was getting myself into. I’m probably 121 pounds soaking wet, but at that moment I was feeling 10 feet tall and bullet proof. So there I stand, impatiently tapping my foot and muttering to myself, waiting for her to round the corner.

She sent her skinny, greasy boyfriend instead.

Apparently he’s the caretaker and was supposed to have refilled the doggie bag container. I launched into him demanding to know if it was his girlfriend that yelled at me. He apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again while refilling the container.

Damned straight it wouldn’t happen again, I thought to myself as I stomped off.

And do you know why?

Cuz I’m a Bad Ass Motherfucker.

Hugs and kisses!

Lisa D 😀

Editor’s note: I’m moving out tomorrow which means tonight is my last night in the ‘hood! Woot woot!

The Silent Victim

28 Dec

My name is Buddy and I need your help.

I have to make this quick while Ma’s in the shower. I completely get it that I’m the recipient (target?) of her love and adoration. I mean, who can resist me? She’s always telling me I have the sweetest little face and that I’m her little pumpkin. (I kinda like being her little pumpkin.)  I was minding my own business during the holidays… relaxing, napping, eating and napping some more.

Yeah, I'm in my happy place.

Then things took a dark turn. Apparently, Ma thought it would be cute to dress me in my parka.

I look stupid, Ma! All the guys will laugh at me!

I hate this jacket. It makes me look fat, especially from the side.

Does my body language convey my true feelings?

Wait. It gets worse. Ma took me to Petco and bought… ANTLERS! What, Rudolph got fired? God.

The inhumanity of it all! Where's PETA? Huh? ASPCA? Anybody?

Please. I’m begging you to stage an intervention. Ma needs a hobby, a date, something! I can’t take much more of this! I heard her talking to Ana about how you can get Uggs for dogs. She calls them Duggs and keeps telling me how cute I’ll look in them. Worse, Easter is just around the corner and I know there’s a pair of bunny ears with my name on them!

Oh, man, I gotta go! She turned off the shower and I don’t want to get caught. Please, please, help my Ma and you’ll be helping me.

And if you don't help me, there will be pain. LOTS of pain comin' your way!