making breakfast in the dark, the lesser known springsteen hit

On Monday morning, I woke up, walked in the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot and my overhead lightbulb flipped me the metaphorical bird.

With the hall lights on it wasn't too dark, and I managed to pour my cereal and fix my lunch without major incident. Last night when I got home, I rifled around under the sink, found my last remaining light bulb and dragged a chair in from the dining room to get up there and take care of business.

All this, only to find that even on the chair, even on my tippy TIP toes on the chair, I still lack about four inches of being able to even touch the globe, much less unscrew it, reach the lightbulb and put it back on. Other than the fact that I may now legally classify as a little person, this situation causes me to think one other thing. One other very anti-feminist thing. I mean, it's not anti-feminist like, "I'd rather bake you a pie than have an independent thought" anti-feminist. It's more like, "not worthy of mentioning in a Beyonce song" anti-feminist.

It just seems like lately there's this running list in my head of reasons I need a man around. I know, I know. But really, there are a few very pertinent ones: to kill cockroaches, to investigate weird sounds and, of course, to replace lightbulbs. And naturally, the No. 1 reason? So I can get rid of the overwhelming urge to buy a new outfit every time I go on a date. Because dear sweet GOD, I would kill every creepy crawly anything and climb 10 ladders to change a single lightbulb if it just meant I could wear sweatpants and granny panties and fuzzy socks and not feel concerned about the way my ass looks in any of it.


cheers,
elizabeth

festive drunk

Let's get one thing straight. I know that 24 is not old. I'm 24. I'm not old. But y'all, the old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be.

There was a time when I could drink on Friday night, get up on Saturday and be in tip-top shape and then get right back at it again on Saturday night and still resemble a human being on Sunday morning. That time is not now. Last night I hit up one of my favorite neighborhood bars with a friend from New York (well, a friend I met in New York, who's actually from Memphis), his boyfriend and some friends from high school. And managed to drink several pints of Ghost River Golden and text just about every last person whose name appears in my phone with some type of genius observation. Example? I texted one of my HOBY friends, "Listening to Hanson and naturally I thought of you." Let's keep in mind that there is no reason I would've connected this person with blond-haired pre-pubescent teeny bopper boys. None at all. The booze made me do it.

I'd love to tell you that I'm a responsible adult who's capable of making willpower-related decisions, like "I'm not going to drink so much this weekend." I wish that were true, but in fact? My highly anticipated tacky sweater Christmas party is on Saturday. But that's festive, holiday-related drinking. And therefore totally different from up until 4 a.m. because I'm under the impression I'm 21 type of drinking.

Festive drinking makes you festive drunk, which is probably a lot like business drunk. Very grown up. Totally acceptable. Right?


cheers,
elizabeth

like a carly simon song

Last night, I'm making dinner, microwaving a sweet potato, minding my own business, when it happened. Mr. November called.

He'd read my post, about my box-of-wine level anxiety, and I guess felt like enough time had passed. And so he called. And I was totally, completely unprepared. I think I spent the first five minutes of the conversation stuttering, although I was also handling a piping-hot potato at the time, so my focus was a bit scattered.

Anywho. I don't know what I expected him to say, honestly. I don't think you ever do in those kinds of situations, but I just knew I needed to talk to him. And so when he called not only did I have no idea what needed to come out of MY mouth, I hadn't the slightest clue what was about to come out of his. Of course that lack of expectation did not keep me from being pretty surprised by just about all of it.

A lot of our conversation felt like a lecture, one oddly devoid of emotion. A lot of it made me feel pretty insignificant -- and maybe I deserved to feel that way, I accept that. At some point in the call I arrived at the realization that my biggest concern, my principal reason for wanting to talk to him, had been my worry that I had lost him from my life completely, even outside of the romantic. And I do still feel that way, but by the time we got off the phone last night I knew that there would need to be some time between now and friendship.

What actually scared me about the conversation was that after it was done, the way I felt and some of the things he'd said resonated with me in a way that was eerily reminiscent of He Who Shall Not Be Named (Boyfriend No. 4 from the exit interviews). And I realized that there had been flashes of that before now, before Saturday. When I felt small and unimportant. And I'm not placing that blame on Mr. November, nor could I identify anything he did or said to make me feel that way. It's an intangible. And I'm sure a lot of it has to do with my own self concept and the insides of my own brain. But it worries me to think that that is what I'm attracted to. That the very thing that has hurt me so much in the past is magnetic to me.

Well, that's just about enough of that, y'all. Maybe if I tell you that I'm going to stop thinking about this, I actually will! Wishful thinking, but a girl can dream. I do have plans Friday night and a friend coming in from New York on Saturday, so there will be lots of opportunities to get in more trouble and I promise to bring you all the gory details.

As soon as I come to.


cheers!
elizabeth

in need of a valium

Last night, I got into the box of wine.

I'd actually had a really good, productive day at work and had kicked ass on my run and I was feeling the best I've felt since Saturday, for sure, before it happened. Before I got so completely and totally turned around and lost driving through Germantown looking for the alumnae association Christmas party that I thought I was going to cry. I can't count how many times I had to turn around. I was just about ready to give up when I finally got my bearings and found the place, but the damage was done. My chest was tight, I was super tense, it was ridiculous. I ate some cheese dip, played Dirty Santa and made a beeline for the door. Got myself home, got into the wine.

I spent the better part of those three glasses of blush on the phone with my friend Harry, who I hadn't talked to, we finally figured out, since OCTOBER. Ridiculous. I told him the most unacceptable part of this, other than missing him terribly of course, is that it actually makes me miss living in New Jersey. Those words don't even make sense, I know. But it happened.

The wine definitely helped, and I slept like a baby. Although I did have really insane dreams and also passed out before I could turn the setting on my heating blanket down, so I woke up in the middle of the night all disoriented and sweating like I was menopausal.

What bothers me is that I can only remember one other time when I felt anxiety the way I felt last night. It was when we spent Christmas away from home back in 2006, and we took Biscuit to stay with a co-worker of my mom's. We went over to her house with Biscuit first to sniff around and get familiar with the place, and when we went into her backyard Biscuit fell into her swimming pool. Her middle-of-the-winter, greened-out, half-full swimming pool. Biscuit, who's never been in water in her life. I freaked. Mom and I both were ready to dive in after her, but luckily instinct kicked in and she paddled for the side. I had so much anxiety after that, I couldn't feel my legs. When we got home I cracked open a beer at 2:30 in the afternoon. (We'll save my tendency to solve anxiety with alcohol for another day. Or never.)

And it occurs to me that I shouldn't have that level of anxiety over getting lost. Yeah, it was rainy and dark, so there were some external factors at work. But three-glasses-of-wine anxiety needs to be saved for near-miss car accidents or other assorted life-and-death situations. Not for driving too far down Farmington.

And really, I know where it's coming from. I still haven't talked to Mr. November, and I predict that this anxiety, though it may wane, is going to continue until I do. Regardless of what happens when we talk -- and I feel like what I did falls pretty securely into the unforgiveable category -- I know I won't be able to shake this feeling until we do.

Blerg.


cheers,
elizabeth

picking up the pieces, not in an average white band sort of way

Oh, y'all.

I have never been so excited for Monday to arrive and the work week to begin as I was this morning. Because I knew that in the office, at my desk, it would be near about impossible for me to get into any trouble.

And frankly, after the weekend I had, that is JUST the kind of security I was looking for.

I spent most of Sunday feeling like, well, how can I put this? Look at the bottom of your shoe. Anything stuck there? Good. Now imagine a life form about 75 levels LOWER than the scum you squished in your sneakers and you'll almost have it.

I'm going to spare you the details, and PLEASE trust me on this one y'all, you would thank me for that if you only knew. But the moral of the story probably won't shock you at all: I royally, completely and monumentally fucked things up with Mr. November. Fucked, fucked, fuuuuuucked right on up. Probably irreparably. I wouldn't be surprised if the only reason he speaks to me again is to retrieve the rest of his growler of Ghost River beer that we got when we went on the brewery tour Saturday. Which, incidentally, was awesome and prior to my personal Chernobyl and its subsequent fallout.

All exaggerations aside, I screwed up pretty bad and I suspect this weekend might be the last I'll hear from Mr. November. Despite all our differences, I really enjoyed spending time with him. And whether as a date or a friend, I'll be surprised if he's willing to spend any time with me any time soon. Or ever.

We'd spent almost the whole day together on Saturday and gone out with some of his friends and it had been such a good night. And then the awkward train rolled into the station, and I was wearing stripey overalls and a conductor's hat. Choo effing choo. And you know the worst part, really? I've been on the receiving end of this particular brand of human error more than a few times. And it SUCKS. And I liked to think that I wasn't a person who did things like this to other people. But apparently I'm human. And I make mistakes, and have the capacity to hurt. And that realization has been perhaps the hardest pill to swallow.


cheers,
elizabeth

not holding my breath

Allegedly, I will arrive home today to a new refrigerator.

Allegedly.

My landlord came by yesterday while I was at work and left me a note that said the new fridge would be delivered today, and I mostly believe it, but mostly? I'll believe it when I see it. Let's just put it this way -- I'm not going grocery shopping on my way home from work, because me and the universe are just having that kind of relationship lately. I'd come home with bags full of perishable foods and be greeted by the same dead Frigidaire, which, although inanimate, would somehow be mocking me.

I'll keep you posted.


cheers,
elizabeth

things that can't be fixed by being awesome

My fridge threw craps yesterday.

Unfortunately these types of things come with living on your own, and even more unfortunately are absolutely not fixable by sheer awesomeness. The kind of awesomeness that will, say, give you the power to pull a humongous couch through an otherwise impassable door or alternately, realize that turning up your water heater could yield a hotter showering experience.

These were triumphs of singledom. The death of my fridge doesn't really lend itself to one of those experiences, mostly because there's very little that can be done about it -- other than call my landlord, take frozen food stuffs to my aunt's house nearby and listen to its last chugs of life off and on all night, wishing, hoping, PRAYING that one of those little chugs would get the thing going again. Not soon enough to save my Klondike bars, R.I.P., but it'd be nice.

The landlord was supposed to have someone come by today to check it out, and if it has to be replaced who knows how long I'll be without one.

It's harrowing tales like this that make me think back to childhood, when you'd tell crazy stories about things that had happened to you -- you fell off a bike, down some stairs, face planted into pavement, etc. -- and the first question (well, after the very obvious "Did it hurt?") was "Did you cry?"

I think the grown-up equivalent of scraping your knee or falling off the playground equipment is definitely moments like this. I expect to tell someone, "My fridge died last night." And have their very natural first question be, "Did you cry?"

And yes, internet. I wailed. God damn you, Frigidaire.


cheers,
elizabeth