Tag Archives: high heels

Mostly Wordless Wednesday…

31 Oct

Today is Halloween. My office is having a Halloween Costume Contest but I’m not a big fan of a) dressing up in a costume and b) joining in these reindeer games at work – so I opted out of the festivities.

So instead of dressing up, I decided to dress down. Wear something casual and fun. Here’s today’s shoes.

They have a six inch heel. They put me over 6 feet tall. #intimidation *ducking my head in doorways*

I’m seriously addicted…

20 Aug

So I love shoes. I’m a girl. I also love eyeliner and shiny lip gloss. Call me crazy, but I like being a girl.

The disadvantage of course, with my love affair with shoes, is that I tend to buy too many of them.

After purchasing a new pair of Cole Haan wedges last night, the door to my bedroom slammed shut. Not from a ghost or my best friend in anger, but because I had a cross-breeze a blowing through the condo.

So I did what any sane, normal, well-adjusted girl would do.

I took my best friend’s make up bag and propped it against the door. Then I sneered at it every time I saw it. Which is a lot because my place is teeny tiny.

I sneered because I’m an “everything in its place in my place” kind of girl. I even have a basket next to the front door where all my flip flops live. I don’t like shit just lying around. Purses on the coat rack, pens/paper in the basket, coasters in their holder.

You might call it anal-retentive, but I choose to call it “personal tidiness”. T-Bomb calls it OCD. I will admit that I do count to 10 when I see something out of place before put it back.

So anyhoohaw, the door slams and scares the bejeesus out of me. Made me jump and almost made me spill my cocktail. And that’s no bueno.

I decided to go online to the Amazon gods to see what they have in the form of a door stopper.

This is what I found.

I seriously love shoes…

Like most of my shoes, I fell in love and bought it immediately.

My name is Lisa and I have an addiction.

Dancing with the devil

30 May

I lead a perty darned good life. One filled with interesting and funny people who tell me the most outrageous things. I suspect they do this because the more scandalous the story, the more I laugh, clap, and sparkle. Gawd I love my friends!

Villa Tranquilla

So this post is about the weekend we had recently in Sonoma. It was HER birthday and she invited a group of friends and family for some drunken debauchery.

And of course, good wine, good food, good times, and general insanity.

In advance, HER told me that I would really like her dad, but to watch out. She said “Oh, yeah, he’s gonna just love you.” She said this part part looking me straight in the eye and laughing. I cocked my head, cuz after all, she knows me. I mean KNOWS ME. Knows what a huge flirt I am and how I tend to instigate crazy antics.

Anyhoohaw, we meet up at Flowers along the Sonoma Coast and while it was like only 10:30 in the morning, drinking wine just felt natural for HER and I. Since we tend to spend a lot of weekends together, we tell ourselves it’s totally okay to start drinking whenever we want because it’s always 5:00p somewhere.

Wine tasting? NO, they gave us four WHOLE BOTTLES to drink. Yay!

So after the first day of tasting drinking a barrel full of wine on an empty stomach, HER dad arrives at Villa Tranquilla. He’s 69 years old (he says with a wink and a leer), fit, flirty, and quick to laugh. Oh hell to the yeah! He and I bonded faster than two fingers and some super glue.

He’s drinking whiskey in a wine glass (oh the humor!) – and I’m drunkety drunk apparently feeling very comfortable with him. It was mutual. V.E.R.Y. And while us womenfolk were off in the living room dancing, the menfolk were in the kitchen (making us food *thanks*) – well, all except for HER dad. He’s hanging out with us ladies in the living room.

I was in charge of the playlist so I decided some Rihanna was needed. At one point, HER dad and I were dirty-ish dancing. For the rest of the weekend he continually reminded me that I am responsible for pulling his “inner thigh muscle too hard“. I of course reminded him that he should’ve stretched more before dancing with the devil. He loved this!

So the next day, after drinking my dirty mary’s for a little hair of the dog recovery, and then hitting our first winery, we all headed to lunch. I sat near HER dad. Who regaled me with so many stories that I laughed so loud it was somewhat reminiscent of Sally showing Harry in the diner how a fake orgasm is properly done. Fist slamming the table and screaming Yes! Yes!

Pronounced: DOM-IN-NOT-TRICKS

You see, he announced to me that they have a dominatrix (pronounced DOM-IN-NOT-TRICKS) in the family.

Me: Get out!  *open handed slapping the table*

HER Dad: Oh, it’s true. And she’s quite hot.

Me: Wha?  *slamming the table screaming YES!*

HER: People, this is lunch.  *rolling her eyes*

Me: I love you!!

HER dad: She’s a professional.

Me: As in “I get paid to help you work out your submissive issues?”

HER dad: Yes, and she’s married to my nephew.

Me: So let me get this shit straight *clapping with glee*, she ties her “clients” up and helps them work through their bid-ness and then goes home. Where possibly her husband casually inquires “How was your day, dear?”

HER dad: Yes, exactly. It’s quite fascinating.

Me: Does she use whips and chains and other props, like a riding crop or dog collar? *completely fascinated*

HER dad: Yeah, I think she does.

HER: GUYS!!!

Me: *sorta shamefaced, and now grinning slyly at HER dad with a gesture indicating ‘we’ll continue this convo later’*

By the way, Harissa French Fries are the bomb. Seriously good. And if you don’t already know this about me, I am a huge foodie.

Overall, the weekend antics and whatnot was epic and just the right amount of naughty! HER dad flirted like a pro with me, to which he openly admitted and frankly, I so totally dug! And there was lots of drinking, dancing, laughing, and storytelling. HER family is crazazy insane in a very good way – and I’m certain we will do this again. And by this, I mean everything you think I mean.

For now, in vino veritas. There is truth in wine. Where it’s from, how it grows, it’s environmental influences, how it’s made, smells, tastes, and makes you feel. Like the bouquet of life, wine reminds us how precious each bottle is, and how special it is to open it to good friends.

To HER for including all of us on her special day – I love you girlfriend!

I really am a bad girl

24 Apr

For those of you who know me in real life, you will SOOOOOO not be surprised by this story. And for those new friends, you will probably not be shocked by AAANNNYYY of this story.

See, when I was younger, I was a hellcat. Woopsies.

This is the story about when I got my brother arrested (yes, J A I L) when we were in high school.

It goes down like this:  Friday was a teacher “work day”. So Thursday night was par-tay time. Except, I was  on restriction at home for causing trouble and whatnot.

Anyhoohaw, our gang decides “let’s go to the movies tonight!!” and I’m pondering how the hell do I do that when I can’t… When it dawns on me that I am not on restriction from babysitting…

*thinking thinking…*

Here’s reason #3,243 that I never wanted a child. She’d have my smarts. And my stupids.

So… I formulate my master plan:

  1. Scan the phone book for the name Smith
  2. Write down said name “Mrs. Smith” and her phone number on a piece of paper for the folks.
  3. Steal 3″ high heels from mom’s closet (she was a shoewhore)
  4. Put on Bonne Bell Bubble Gum lip smackers lip gloss

As I grabbed my handbag and started to leave, I hear my older brother behind me.

BRO: “Oh hey, I can drive you.”

Wha? He was being nice to me. A teenager.

Me: “OK. Bitchin.”

I had him drive me about 10 houses down from my friend Juli’s house.

Me: “Oh hey, yeah, here it is. OK. Thanks. Bye.”

BRO: “Later.”

He waits at the curb of some random house I picked. Holy fartin what the heck?  P.U.L.L.   A.W.A.Y.  I scream inside. I knock on the door, and a nice man in a wheelchair opens it.

Me: “Hi (I might have flicked my hair), can I like borrow your phone?”

WCM: “Sure.” (No weirdness, either btw. A genuine non-freak.)

I wave over my shoulder at my brother and enter wheelchair man’s house. Dial Juli and giggle “I’ll be there in five minutes!”

Our gang proceeds to have a great time at the movies and we’re all giggling and smoking cigarettes and whatnot. But… I don’t go home on time. Woopsies.

Dad gets concerned when I’m not home at the noted time and decides to call Mrs. Smith.

RUT ROH.

Becoming suspicious (I got mad smarts from Dad, mad antics from Mom) he has my bro go get me. You know, to make sure I’m ok.

Bro arrives at the wheelchair man’s house. Knocks on the door.

WCM: “Can I help you?”

BRO: “I dropped my sister off here earlier to babysit. Ummm is she still in there?”

WCM: “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

OK abbreviated version – Bro thinks there is something nefarious going on and poor wheelchair man has no idea the trouble I have caused by letting me use his phone. Poor thing.

Bro is tall and muscular (and blonde – big Swedish guy) and after several ping pong tosses of “No, She’s Not” and “Yes, She Is”, he pushes past the door and WCM is ‘accidentally’ pushed out of his wheelchair.

WCM starts panicking and threatens to call the police if BRO doesn’t leave immediately. BRO responds something like “Oh yeah, how about I call them for you.”

Sirens a-blazing, here come the po po.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I come waltzing in the door. When bro isn’t behind me, Dad asks where he is. “I dunno”, I reply *confused*. He squints at me. Cuz he knows me.

Dad jumps out of his barcalounger and says “Take me to where you were babysitting.”

Rut roh.

I take him to WCM’s house and we arrive just as bro is being cuffed and stuffed into the back of the po po car.

OK, so I really am a bad girl.

All charges were dropped of course. He still talks to me. We even STILL laugh over all of this. Cuz after all, he is my bro and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. He’s a trouble maker too. Probably why we STILL laugh over this.

Vodka gets me in trouble…

19 Mar

Here’s the deal. I like my martini dirty (light on the dirty – maybe we call it a naughty martini). Either way, the root cause of all evil is wheat. I can prove it.

It all started when the Maynards invited us to join them for the Northern California Special Olympics celebrity ski event at Incline Village the other weekend. As soon as we arrive at the ski resort, we perch our asses pointing at the north shore and begin our ritual – you know, starting off the ski day by getting warm – ala some dirty mary’s.

Nice ass.

Properly revved up on napalm mary’s we ski’d for a bit then on to other fun activities – we head to the banquet. One word: Mayhem.

You see, Brad Kinney was manning the turntable and of course I had to go say hi. After all, we went to HS and are facebook friends and all. Such a small, small world. I clickity clacked my way over and said “Hi Brad!” and we chit chatted and maybe there was some flirt on my part. I mean, he’s BRAD!

Meanwhile, over at our table, dubbed Team Vodka (coincidence? I think not) we had one of K‘s colleagues, a very nice Russian man named Dmitriy. He’s been at these celebrity events before and knew everyone. I mean e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e.

He and I quickly hit it off, drinking shots of Russian Standard and talking in a thick Russian accent. My accent is a hot mess but Dmitiriy’s is real – which totally worked!! So after a few of these fire shots, me and my big girl shoes are dancing and whooping it up. I don’t need much of an excuse you know.

However, I have NO idea who I’m dancing with at this point. And it totally doesn’t matter. I think at one point I was bootie popping with Juliet Goodrich from CBS News. She saw one of my tattoos and became my new dance BFF.

Then, Dmitriy gets me in a gang-dance. I don’t know what else to call it. There were three of them and one of me. And outta nowhere, I find myself hoisted up on top of a dinner table to dance with Ryan Merriman (Pretty Little Liars) and Thyme Davis (Days of our Lives). No shit. Earlier that day, after skiing, we met up with them in the bar. Ryan showed me a picture on his iPhone. It was him – shredding at the terrain park.

But up on the table – dancing with Ryan and Thyme – this was well, both surreal and to be expected I guess. I mean, for those that know me. THIS. IS. NOT. UNCOMMON. FOR. ME.

Thanks Brad! The hat is smashing!

As the party goes on, out come the cute pink cowboy hats with tiaras (thanks Brad for giving me one first!). We continue drinking vodka, and I realize I’m a gonna pay dearly for this later.

And I do. Can barely walk the next day and I have to check my texts and tweets for too much sass. And then apologize. A lot.

Like a half-off shoe sale at Nordstrom’s, I love my vodka but it gets me in all sorts of trouble.

Ménage à trois?

12 Mar

Abso-freaking-lutely.

I always say, “two’s company and three’s a party”. But that’s me. I’m crazy that way.

So when I was chatting with my very good gal pal, the ever so divine @theMartiniDiva, we were bantering about booze and my mood. I was feeling dry and bitter. Like eggplant. So I wanted her to suggest a Martini to suit my mood. But not with eggplant.

She came back with a gimlet of course. A vodka gimlet. I’m a sucker for vodka. Ketel One specifically. And last weekend, true Russian Standard shots with Dmitriy got me table top dancing with some actors at an event for Special Olympics. True story. For another post of course ;).

Anyhoohaw – she suggests a gimlet – I tell her I have a madcap recipe for a Ruby Red and Mandarin Orange gimlet that is outta this world. I call it of course…

Ménage à trois.

Did you think I'd add a kinky picture? Ha!

So we decide to post my recipe on her fabulous website – where there are drink recipes for pretty much anything your little hearts desire.

And because she likes me, I mean really likes me, she made it into a printable card. With my LEGS on it. Yep, my legs. In stilettos.

Cuz I’m crazy that way.

And yes, these are my legs. No lie. I’m such a shameless chit.

You can view (and print) my legs and recipe here.

Either way, enjoy yourself and your new friends. Cuz if you order this drink at a bar, you will find yourself surrounded by new people. And by new, I mean new “friends”.

OKAY, thanks bye.

Say cheese!

15 Jan

There comes a time in everyone’s life when you just happen to get photographed (or videotaped) naked. Or nekked as I like to call it.

First, Mommy thinks it’s precious to snap some film while her little Schmoopy’s in a bubble bath. Then as you grow up, your big sister or brother thinks it’s hilarious to take pictures while you’re undressing. In fury you lurch to grab the camera only to *whoops* accidentally drop your drawers to the floor. Blackmail would ensue and you’d be stuck with all the chores for a whole month.

Ah, harmless pranks of youth.

As adults, it aint so funny. Unless of course you are posing for said skin pics. And by posing, I mean, getting paid. And a consent form has been signed. And the moolah deposited in the bank.

Until then, it’s simply not de rigueur to snap one’s camera whilst another is in flagrante in de shower.

Flash back to the hubby’s birthday. We were in the Big Easy for some big food, and big crazy ass fun. Three other couples were with us, and well, we were all-a-drinking-eating-drinking-laughing-drinking-earningbeads and drinking.

Did I mention we were drunk like the WHOLE freaking time?

After gorging on oysters and wine at Acme, we headed back to our condo to nap a bit, clean up a bit, and head back out for more food and debauchery.

That’s when it happened.

While the hubby was taking a shower, our friend Mr. Inch decided it was time to photo-document hubby’s fine form. Inch slowly opened the bathroom door, stealthily grabbed the shower curtain and BANG! Whipped open the curtain, and snap snap snap – took  nekked photos and laughed uproariously.

The rest of us were rekindling our buzz in the family room when it all went down so we didn’t at first hear the hubby’s expletives. The WHAT THE FUCKs? The GODDAMITs. The GET THE FUCK OUTTA HEREs.

Hell, we’ve known Inch and his wife Betty for a long time. They’ve even seen my nekked boobies. But that’s another story involving drunken boating and Mai Tai’s.

So it wasn’t a big deal that Inch took a pic on our Big Easy trip of the hubby’s big dick. {I really felt compelled to rhyme in this post. Sue me.}

We all got a good laugh over the whole peeping paparazzi incident. I saw the dick pic and I must say, I was proud.  {Insert applause and high fives}

Fast forward like 4 months.

We’re at Inch and Betty’s for a party. Several couples are scrolling through Inch’s digital dial when my radar went off. It dawned on me – Inch never deleted those photos. The hubby’s tallywacker was still on his camera.

Somebitch. I walked as fast as I could in super high strappy sandals and grabbed the camera. I then clickity clacked myself away as fast as I could, which was hard given the aforementioned strappy sandals.

Yep. Nekked dick pics were still there. Inch just laughed and shrugged. Using gross exaggeration, I deleted the photos.

Hubby just kinda winked at a couple of the ladies but me? I was not all that amused. Inch sauntered back over and whispered two words “Memory card.” And then “Flickr.”

One day – Inch.Will.Pay.

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