Leftover Lisa

Leftover Lisa

Lisa had no luck when it came to men. Her fingers hadn’t been burnt, they’d been blow-torched by a welder with sado-masochistic tendencies. ‘Men seem to find my little foibles difficult to live with,’ she complained, to her best friend, Molly.
Molly attempted to be diplomatic. ‘Lisa, put yourself in their place, a grown man doesn’t want to be sleeping in a Pillsbury Dough Boy duvet and pillowcase set. And the dough boy’s face even lights up in the dark. I mean, you even pretend you’re pinching his cheeks before you give him a kiss goodnight. Can you imagine what that does to a man’s ego? Second best to a character representing a selection of baking products that aren’t even for sale anymore in the UK.’
Lisa didn’t see the problem. Pillsbury Dough Boy was her ideal man. She loved baking, she loved the dough boy. Any man that comes into my life has got to deal with it, she thought. Lisa possessed an amazing talent at turning any conversation towards baking or cakes or anything loosely connected with either. When she complained to ex-lovers about soggy bottoms their minds would wander to a similarly titled porn DVD they owned.
Deciding to go down the path that always seems to be the first port of call for someone determined to find love, she joined a club. Broaden your social horizons. Lisa joined a book club. She was politely asked never to return. On her first appearance when the group discussed Balzac and The Parisian Ladies of The Night she turned the conversation to the complexities of Tarte Tatin. Gloria, the organiser of the book club put it down to first night nerves. At the second meeting when the group discussed Herman Melville’s masterpiece Lisa navigated the conversation towards the variations of Spotted Dick. The final straw came when it was her turn to introduce the group to ‘one of the classics.’ Standing in front of the group she proudly brandished ‘Pastry by Michel Roux.’ Unable to understand their lack of enthusiasm for a book she believed to be the crème de la crème of cookery books but unable to abide confrontation, she left without making a scene.
A different approach was required so she abandoned her luddite like attitude. A quick google search brought up something that caught her eye. For lovers of baking & eating A Facebook/Tinder hydrid. Premier Dating Site for singletons with a passion to cook for love and to look for love. Face-cook. Lisa swiped like a malfunctioning window wiper. For her, this was akin to being let loose in the Pillsbury Dough Boy Factory. Men after men after men who shared her passion. She found Colin, nice friendly face, loves food, desserts are my weakness his profile stated. Lisa rubbed her hands in anticipation. ‘You’ve come to the right place big boy.’
A date was organised. Work commitments meant that a nice afternoon tea somewhere was out of the question. Colin organised for them to meet at a pub halfway between them. Lisa had doubts as to Colin’s suitability when she arrived. The pub was in the middle of a housing estate. A monstrous eyesore of a building. The windows looked like they’d be fitted in the wrong place as though designed to allow the local drug-dealers to make a swift escape when necessary. Arriving early, Lisa sat with a tomato juice, trying to concentrate on reading Baking Heaven magazine. Her nerves started to get the better of her, so she reverted to type, picking up her handbag, opening it to look at her small-sized bag of Pillsbury Dough Boy flour that went everywhere with her. Just looking at his wee face calmed her. As she placed her bag back on the floor, her mouth dropped. Colin walked towards her, she vaguely recognised him. To say that his profile picture was up to date and accurate would be to say that the World gasped in shock at Barry Manilow’s recent press release. Colin, the real-life person in front of her looked as though he’d undergone a gastric band REMOVAL. It was painfully obvious that desserts were his weakness. As was misleading prospective partners or doing any form of exercise.
As Colin introduced himself she was thinking of an escape plan. Then, she spent five minutes babbling on about Pillsbury Dough Boy which seemed to go down like a poorly executed soufflé on Masterchef. Colin didn’t look happy. Lisa excused herself. She stood in the toilet cubicle with her hand on her temple. ‘What will I do. The cheek of him. Sitting there with a right face on him when I’m speaking. You can’t go back out there and confront him. Bloody Leftover Lisa that’s what you are. Boring. Vanilla. You’re the vanilla slice that’s sat on a plate all alone, nobody wants it. Even a big greedy shite like Colin doesn’t want you. He’s got his fingerprints all over you but he’s changed his mind. He’d rather do without.
Think Lisa, think. A smile appeared .This will teach him a lesson,’ she giggled, as she placed the toilet pan lid down, then climbed on top of it. She picked up the vase that sat on the wooden ledge ABOVE THE CISTERN and placed it on the floor. Opening the window a few inches she peered downwards and saw that it was barely a few feet from terra firma. She opened the window fully, sat on the ledge, her legs dangling out the window. She dropped her bag to the concrete, then like a caterpillar, she nudged herself slowly forward bit by bit. As her feet landed she giggled at the thought of BIG Colin sat in the pub waiting on her. Placing her handbag over her left shoulder, she looked to her right. ‘Oh, this just gets better and better. YOU doing a bunk on ME!,’ she screamed. Colin’s head and chest were lodged between a window ten yards away. His space-hopper of a head was red raw, drenched in perspiration. Lisa strode angrily towards him, fiddling about in her hand bag. She pulled out the small bag of dough boy flour, ripped it open and emptied the contents of over Colin’s immense sweaty face. ‘Ironic Colin don’t you think, I was hoping for a bunch of flowers tonight but instead it’s you that got the bunch of flour. All over your face. Haha. D’you get it. I can add GSOH to my profile after that one eh.’ As she turned to leave, his strained voice called out
‘How did you know about my nickname?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Lisa snapped.
‘Pillsbury Dough Boy. How did you know it was my nickname at school?’
As the words left his mouth Lisa stopped then turned to face him. ‘I didn’t know you….’ She never finished her sentence. Looking at his humungous flour covered face, she put her hand on her chest, feeling a little flushed, she strode towards him, grabbed his cheeks then planted a big kiss on his doughy lips.
‘Let’s get you out of there big boy and start this date again. This could be the start of a beautiful recipe…..I mean relationship.’