someone's been talking about you

So, Mr. Risky Business reads my blog.

(Hi, RB!)

It's not like this is some revelation, because he's been reading it ever since I met him and in fact has on more than one occasion read a post while I sat with him and read it over his shoulder. Every time I open up a new post and start to write, I know that he will see it. It's something I'm completely comfortable with and in fact, I think it'd be a little weird if he knew I was out talking to the internet every other day about our relationship and he didn't know what I was saying. But it does present an interesting dilemma.

Well, dilemma is a strong word. But really, how do you write candidly about a relationship for your readers when the other half of that relationship is one of those readers? There are certainly areas that will always be sacred and lines that I choose not to cross, but I also want to write honestly about the things I think and feel and of course, broader issues of dating culture that stem from those thoughts and feelings.

And the thing is, at this stage, it's really a moot point. Since the DTR conversation has come and gone and all that potential for taking swings at the awkward pinata with it, my writings about Mr. RB pretty much fall into one of three categories: 1. Gush, Gush, Gush; 2. Couch Spooning and Other Assorted Minutia; and 3. Funny, Interesting, Sketchy and/or Creepy Things That Happen While With Mr. RB. I mostly try to save you from the first two, but as you already know I really can't make that kind of guarantee across the board.

And at some juncture I'm sure there will be bigger fish to fry, so to speak, that I'll want to write about here. And I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. But for now? The biggest hurdle is that everything I post here feels like a suggestion. Or a hint. Or a completely un-subliminal message. I no longer feel free to write something here about a movie I want to see or a place I like to shop or an (Insert Fancy Thing Here) that I have been lusting after, because it all feels like a passive aggressive request to be showered with gifts. And in the same vein, I even feel hesitant to blabber on and on about the sweet things he does for me -- first and foremost, of course, because I know it makes you want to chuck your cookies -- because it seems like I'm patting him on the head, saying, yes dear. Do that one again. Good job. See? I even told the internet about it.

And really, I know that RB does not think that. But I still feel a little funny sometimes. I guess as long as I don't start writing posts that look like this: "MAN, I really want to go see that concert this weekend. SURE WISH SOMEONE WOULD TAKE ME YEP WOULDN'T THAT BE NICE?"

Then I'll probably be okay.


cheers,
elizabeth

introducing project: patio

Let me tell you how you know you've found a keeper. It goes something like this.

I was telling Mr. Risky Business today about a little adventure I'm going to get myself into this summer (or more accurately, this April through September) wherein I plan to consume one alcoholic beverage on every restaurant or bar patio in the city of Memphis.

And do you know what he did?

He promptly created a Google doc, organized the preliminary list that my best friend Stef had thrown together by areas of town (with subheadings), added several to the list and included the following note next to one of the pubs: "May not count as local but a Mr. RB fav."

Keeping. Him. KEEPINGHIM.

So here's the sitch. This adventure is going to be called Project: Patio, and will commence April 1 and end September 30. The goal is to drink a beverage on every outdoor eating/drinking space in Memphis. There are only three rules, and they are as follows:

1.) Only bars and restaurants in Memphis proper. No 'burbs included.
2.) Only local bars and restaurants. No chains. (Locally franchised establishments still count.)
3.) Only places where alcoholic beverages are served.

In the coming weeks I'm going to be working on getting the list completed, and I'll need your help for that. I'll show you what we've got so far (courtesy of the Google doc, thankyouverymuch) at the close of this post, and feel free to leave comments or give me a shout on Twitter with suggestions. And of course, if you're in the Memphis area and would like to join me for a jaunt through a patio or two, please let me know.

Project: Patio will be blogged about extensively here, as its parallel purpose will be to meet interesting or funny or cool or also creepy and unsavory characters who will fit in REAL NICE around this here blog. There will also be a related Facebook album under the same name, where I will post at least one photo of every patio excursion. I say at least one, because there must be photographic evidence at each location of me consuming said alcoholic beverage. Any additional photos will be of the aforementioned interesting/funny/cool/creepy/unsavory characters.

Here's the list so far. Help me out, Memphis.

Downtown:

Alfred's
BB Kings
King's Palace
Silky's
The Silly Goose

The Majestic Grille

The Madison Hotel

The Peabody Hotel

Rum Boogie
Redbirds stadium

TJ Mullingan's (Pinch)
Westy's

Spindini

Midtown:

Beauty Shop
Blue Monkey
Boscos Squared
Buccaneer

Cafe 1912
Cafe Eclectic

Cafe Ole'

Central BBQ

Do

Otherland's

Celtic Crossing

Fresh Slices - Overton Park

Grace

Memphis Pizza Cafe
Neil's Bar & Grille

Harry's Detour

Young Ave. Deli

Zinnie's

East Memphis:

Brookhaven Pub and Grill
Dan McGuinness

El Porton
Old Venice Pizza Company
Patrick’s steak and spirits

Raffe's Beer Garden

R.P. Tracks


cheers,
elizabeth

on being recognized

Saturday night I made Mr. RB the happiest man alive by donning an apron and making lasagna and my now infamous dirty blonde brownies, both from scratch. Bow down, mere mortals, for I am a goddess of domesticity! I chop, I sautee, I bake! And I only got grease stains on two shirts in the process!

I guess I figure the victory is that it wasn't more than that, really. It's the little things.

My Tigers were playing Saturday night, and we'd been watching the game while the lasagna was in the oven. When dinner was ready, though, I made a move for the dining room table to try and pretend like I am a couth person who is capable of not watching a basketball game and enjoying some adult conversation about world issues or grey poupon or something, and is not just nodding and smiling while secretly wondering which asshat is missing free throws at that exact moment.

But as I made that move for the table, Mr. Risky Business said, "Don't you want to finish watching the game?" I stopped short. "We can sit at the table to eat," I said. And then, something incredible happened. "Let's finish watching the game, I'm into it now," he said.

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to throw my plate of lasagna in the air and just rip his clothes off RIGHT THERE. Watch the game while stuffing my face? That's what you want me to do? Twist my arm.

And I don't remember if it was before or after lasagna, but at some point I found myself explaining how NCAA conference tournament berths work, which I thought was the most hysterically cute thing that has ever happened, ever. EVER.

After the game and dinner, we went to see one of our favorite bands, a local trio called Star and Micey. Mr. RB happens to be enough of a celebrity that the guys in the band know him by name, so I got to meet the lead singer. After the show RB asked if I wanted to chat with them, tell them what I thought, and I just shook my head. I have yet to giggle nervously in front of a musician, and I was not about to start Saturday night. Hopefully next time I see them play I will have my shit together a little more and will be able to string together a simple declarative sentence like, "I'm glad you played (insert song title here)," or even "I really love your album," instead of forming words in my head and knowing that they would come out of my mouth as girl babble and hot giggly mess.

So we made our get-away after the set, I got a piggy back ride across Marshall Avenue and we decided to stop by Mollie Fontaine's for a drink. It's this really kitsch bar that's an old Victorian home that I'd been wanting to check out, and sure enough it pretty much feels like you walked into someone's house party when you step into the front foyer. Moments after we walked in, before we'd even gotten a drink, we ran into a few acquaintances of mine. As I was hugging one of them hello, he quickly whispered a question that made me think maybe my dreams of being a cult blogging hero are not necessarily that far off.

"Is that," he asked, "Mr. Risky Business?"


cheers,
elizabeth

yet another in an endless string of acronyms

If you're going to communicate with me on any kind of regular basis, you're going to have to learn an astonishing number of acronyms. There are Elizabeth originals, like CPT, for example, which stands for Cutie Patootie. And of course there are the more standard phrases like TMI, OMG, etc. But there is one that's been the topic of much conversation over G-chat and while half-drunk sitting in bathroom stalls recently.

DTR.

DTR stands for "defining the relationship," and commonly refers to the conversation or moment or unspoken thing that happens that transitions someone from being "this guy I'm seeing" to "my boyfriend."

You want to talk about a personalized invitation to Awkward Town? DTR-ing. No RSVP required, because it is like a party bus for two, complete with awkward-tinis.

So yes. I had been contemplating the DTR with Mr. Risky Business. I may have referred to him a few times in casual conversation to random people as my boyfriend. My boyfriend this. My boyfriend that. But only here and there, for risk of seeming like I was becoming THAT person. You know that person, the one who forgets that the guy they're dating actually does have a name, referring to him only as "my boyfriend" like a six-year-old girl who just got a puppy and yes, the puppy has a name, but she's so excited about finally having the puppy all she can say is, "this is my puppy, have you met my puppy, do you like my puppy, PUPPY PUPPY PUPPY?"

I will not be that girl.

Anyway. I'd been trying the word on for size. Letting it roll of my tongue and seeing how it felt. And I'd been trying to decide when the DTR-ing would take place. Truthfully, it wasn't a huge scary DTR. It wasn't like, hey I need you to stop sleeping with other people, because we're exclusive now. He wasn't dating anyone else and neither was I, and I wasn't concerned that was about to change. It felt very unspoken, the DTR-ing. But still. It needed to be said out loud.

So Mr. RB and I had plans to go out Friday night, and he calls me Thursday and shares a very exciting turn of events with me, a turn of events that means our Friday night plans will most assuredly include the meeting of people. And meeting people means introductions. And introductions mean titles. And defining titles. And when he shared this with me Thursday he wasn't entirely certain how many introductions that would really include, but it could've been anywhere from a small handful to a full gospel choir's worth of his friends and acquaintances in a single night. And this very fact, that there would be several occasions during the course of the evening that would require him to introduce me to people, forced the DTR-ing. No time for the epidural, doctor, because the water broke, we're fully dilated and we are having this baby RIGHT HERE so you better watch out.

Mostly the DTR conversation was about the fact that because of Mr. Risky Business's, um, situation (you know, the one that originally earned him this nickname), these introductions become much more than just introductions. Some of the people we might be seeing might not even know that anything had happened, and then there I'd be, looking like a heartbreak-hungry homewrecker or at the very least a dirty, dirty tramp.

I told him it's all about how he pitches it, and that at the very least, we ARE in the South and because of that, people would not be capable of saying anything tacky in front of me. We don't do that. They'd wait. And above all else, nothing he could say -- short of, "this is my friend Elizabeth," which we quickly and unanimously vetoed -- would ruffle my feathers in the least. Do I want to tell everyone, this is my boyfriend, Mr. Risky Business? Of course. I would like to enact a phone tree, if that's not too much trouble. Perhaps a billboard campaign? But the situation is a unique one. And the truth is that no amount of awkward introductions will change the way he feels about me. And I know very well how he feels. This is what I told him.

And then, it happened. He said the G word. Agreeing with me, he said, if things were different, it would be, "this is my girlfriend Elizabeth. My HOT girlfriend."

And pretty much at that point I didn't care that things weren't ideal. Because there was a seriously cute boy on my sofa calling me his hot girlfriend.

And SHIT, y'all. He still. Smells. AMAZING.


cheers,
elizabeth

good news, bad news

I've got some good news and I've got some bad news. I heard somewhere once that you should always end with something positive so that people feel fuzzy inside even after receiving awful news. Fuzzy is perhaps a strong word, but less Debbie Downer, certainly. So in that grand tradition, I'll give you the bad news first.

You might have noticed that recently some content was removed from this blog. Because I write this blog for my readers, I felt that you were owed an explanation as to why this happened. The simplest, most straight-forward version of the story -- a story that has turned into a very stressful, unfortunately dramatic and taxing saga in my life in the past week -- is that the content (originally posted February 20) became an issue for a non-profit with which I volunteer closely. In order to appease a negative reaction they'd received, I removed the post.

Unfortunately for me, removal of the post didn't entirely appease anything, and I'm now facing a very difficult situation with an organization about which I am zealously passionate, an organization which I consider to be highly self-defining in my own personal life. It's been a rough few days, to say the very least. But as the debris begins to settle and I start to take stock of how I can press forward, I'm constantly reminded of two things: 1.) the astonishing amount of love and support I have from friends within this organization, and 2.) the absolute immediacy of need I feel to appeal the decision that's been handed me, not only for my own sake but for the sake of every other volunteer whose personal lives may at some point be deemed just cause to remove them from their volunteer roles, no matter how many years they've given or children they've impacted.


Okay, enough of that. Now for the good news.

The awesome people at BlogHer sent me a letter this week to let me know that I'd been chosen for what's called a BlogHerShip. It's essentially a scholarship to attend the BlogHer 2010 conference -- the mecca of women bloggers, where the potential for me to make an ass of myself in front of internet celebrities grows exponentially by the second -- in exchange for some volunteer time.

Naturally I am completely over the moon to be able to attend the conference, which is happening in New York City the first weekend in August. But even better than just that news alone is the capacity in which they've invited me to volunteer -- I will be live blogging sessions from BlogHer 2010.

You might be able to hear me grinning through your browser, it is THAT intense over here.


cheers,
elizabeth

i can't complain -- no, really

I've given up complaining for Lent. So far it has been completely awesome.

I didn't say I gave up sarcasm.

I know this probably sounds borderline crazy, but hear me out. I really like the idea of choosing to make a personal sacrifice during Lent, and I especially like thinking outside the box about those sacrifices. I want to go without something that will challenge me, but also something that will better me. And the truth is, I don't have a whole lot of bad habits. I don't drink sodas. I run daily. I eat healthfully. I hardly touch sweets. I don't smoke. I drink in moderation.

So with my lifestyle as it is, I decided to start thinking in less tangible terms. I tossed around a few other ideas, like giving up swear words, but frankly I decided that a challenge was one thing and being completely miserable for 46 days was entirely different. Of course, when I told Mr. Risky Business that I'd decided to give up complaining, his response was, "I still think it would've been easier just to not say cunt."

He underestimates me.

So today, it begins. I've already had one flub this morning, but I know after a few days my mind set will slowly begin to change. And that's the whole point, really -- that after these 46 days I might be a person much less likely to point on the negatives in a situation than I was before it began.

Now, there are some ground rules. Because "complaining" is a vast and far-reaching idea, and some thoughts that might fall under its umbrella are necessary for me to do my job and otherwise function normally in relationships both professional and personal. So here's where I landed:

1. No bitching.

2. No whining.

3. Negative comments are allowed, but they must be constructive. I can mention that something has not happened the way I would've liked, but I have to come up with possible ways to improve the situation instead of just moaning about it.

4. Strictly, absolutely NO road rage.



That about covers it. I was telling Mr. RB the other day, in an unrelated conversation, that I worry one day my tombstone will say: "No one can say she didn't try." When I moved back from New York, everyone said, well at least you tried it. Now you know. And for a while I believed in that, and I echoed it inside my own head.

And I'm not trying to tell you I want to go back to New York. That's the last thing I want. But what I do want is to be living a more fulfilling life. To be making more music. To be writing more. To feel rich and passionate. And every day that I just sigh to myself and think, well, this sucks or that sucks or I haven't done this or that in so long I don't even feel like I'm an artist anymore, well those thoughts aren't getting me anywhere. It's time to stop complaining about things in my life that aren't the way I'd like and change them.

So I'm giving up complaining for Lent. Here's to 46 days of positivity.


cheers,
elizabeth

a v. good v-day

It's Saturday night, and I'm at the theater. People have been pouring in the doors since 6:30, and mostly I've been hiding in the dressing room for much longer than usual completing the 758th re-application of my lipstick and at LEAST the thousandth negotiation between the curling iron and an errant curl.

Finally I turned the lights out in the dressing room and committed to the front of the house. I mingle, I take some pictures. I check on the box office. I talk with a few friends who've arrived. And suddenly it's 7:25, and there's been no sign of Mr. Risky Business.

And suddenly I am a bundle of ridiculous girl nerves. They're not is-he-going-to-show nerves or did-he-get-lost or even did-he-mix-up-the-time nerves. They're just straight up cute boy, big crush, how's my hair, IS THERE LIPSTICK ON MY TEETH nerves. Crazy heart-pounding butterfly nerves. So I make a bee-line for our sweet little bartender and tell him that I need to take a shot of something, anything, right this second.

One shot of spiced rum and a chaser of red wine later, I have an awful taste in my mouth, my throat is on fire and my stomach is not even on speaking terms with me anymore. But I do feel just ever so slightly more calm. I'll take it.

Not five minutes later he comes down the stairs into the theater, looking all handsome and undoing all the very hard work the Sailor Jerry's spiced rum had done with my nervous system. But we were in a crazy airline over-sold situation and trying to figure out how to stack people one on top of the other to cram them in the space, so I was running around counting empty seats and sending silent prayers up to the gods of fire codes. With all the madness I barely saw him for a second before the show.

And I'd like to tell you that the performance went by in a blur, and mostly it did, but that would not be entirely accurate since I did spend at least part of the time concerned about the horrendously loud music blaring from the next room over and also worried that audience participation could in fact sprout arms and legs and a mouth and gobble the entire play whole. Let's just say the crowd was very, um, responsive.

After the show we all head out into the lobby to thank people and talk with the audience members as they're heading out, and in those few minutes something happened, the anticipation of which I think had been a great contributor to my necessitating-alcohol nerve level: Mr. RB met my parents. Now, it truly was just that -- a meeting, and a brief one. And I'm glad. It's a little too early in the game for all that pressure. But with my mom in the show and the cast party happening that night, they were both there. And to not introduce them would've been extremely weird. So, so much weird, amounts of weird that would completely dwarf any smidgeon of awkward that could have accompanied the introduction.

With that bandaid ripped off, I was free to get all stoned on his scent and be openly handsy at the cast party. Which is a major sigh of relief, since after a pint of Ghost River golden and a few glasses of wine I wouldn't have really been in control of those impulses anyway.

Of course I could've probably groped him quite inappropriately and quite openly and no one would've noticed, since one of the cast members decided it would be a good idea to take off our poor sweet bartender's pants. In the middle of the living room. WITH HER TEETH.

We've been over this before. I can't make this shit up.

But then, everyone was gone. And then, it was Valentine's Day. And I was eating waffles in my pajamas with Mr. Risky Business. And there was couch napping. And also apartment cleaning, complete with a super romantic stench of onions and beer. AWESOME.

But that was followed by riding the trolley downtown and dinner and wine and a movie and maybe also a little slow dancing. In his living room.

Have you barfed yet? No? Not yet?

What if I told you I can put my feet on his and let him dance me around, since I'm legally a little person? Would that do it?

Thought so.

cheers, elizabeth