This weekend I'm doing what I do best. Traveling. And more specifically, something I've become quite good at lately: driving long distances to see people I love.
I'll be heading out Saturday morning before the sun for Columbia, Missouri, to see my best friend Holly who is studying for her PhD at Mizzou. She is super smart and witty (obviously, she's my friend) and I've talked about her many times here before, but I mention these specific traits now because she has recently re-entered the blogosphere and you should drop whatever you're doing right now -- yes, even the very reading of this post -- to check out her blog.
Before I head out for a few days of kickin' it Real CoMo Style Ya Heard with my best friend, I wanted to give you an update on Operation: Prom Date. We currently have six nominees for the (probably less than coveted) prize of accompanying me to Prom 2.0, and since I'd like to have more like 10 I'm allowing a little more time than I'd originally planned to accept those nominations. You can leave them in the comments here, send them to me on Facebook or Twitter, or of course, e-mail me.
Whether or not I reach that magic number, I'll be posting the nominees next week for your voting pleasure. I've decided to stick to the usual style of the blog and code name each nominee, including a brief description for you to use to inform your decision. Check back and get ready to choose my fate!
In the meantime, enjoy your (hopefully) Labor-Free Weekend.
cheers,
elizabeth
9.02.2010
8.30.2010
project: patio crawl no. 1
Naturally, when the temperatures finally dipped back down into the double digits and it was un-oppressive enough to sit on patios again, the humidity decided to throw us a whopping one-two punch just in time for the inaugural patio crawl through Cooper Young.
And since my hair + humidity = Tina Turner circa Private Dancer, we sat inside. And took strategic sips while standing on patios. SUE ME. So the patio part kind of epically failed, but the crawl part stayed very much intact.
We hit up Beauty Shop first, where I indulged in two of the best mojitos I've ever had. They really do a divine job on cocktails there, and I tend to the think the mojito is one of their best. Rather than relocating next door to Do, Lindsey and I sauntered over onto the Do patio for a minute to take the following picture in which I am totally, obviously cheating, but very clearly completely okay with it.
After that we skipped off to Cafe Ole to gorge ourselves on cheese dip and Dos Eqis. And we actually sat on the patio! Success!At Cafe Ole we ran into a friend from high school and ended up sitting in his section on the patio. Of course, 'friend from high school' is a tad misleading since Lindsey, Elizabeth and I have all known him since elementary school or earlier. (I had crossed paths with him during my Race to 3 A.M. earlier in the week, actually.) Seeing him jogged my memory on one of my better Tales of Awkward, which I naturally shared with the group. It all went down in the seventh grade, when I broke up with my boyfriend simply so I could ask this guy out. I do believe I had some type of misguided hunch that he was into me, too. To the best of my knowledge, scientists are calling the phenomenon that led me to this belief "being friendly." Naturally, he said no, too, and what did I do? Turned right around and asked the Ex to be my boyfriend again. Shockingly, he said no, and pointed out the very obvious reason I'd dumped him. My stellar defense? "No I didn't!" Not surprisingly, that did not work out in my favor.
And here is your (disturbing) proof that I drank on the patio at Cafe Ole.
After our cheese dip and Dos Eqis, we headed next door to Young Avenue Deli, where we once again did not manage to sit on the patio. Whoops. (I'm going to be begging for an extension on my deadline here pretty soon. I hope you're feeling generous.) We were, however, joined there by Mr. November. There was some kind of boxing match or fight or episode of Two Dudes in Shorts Hug Each Other in a Roped-Off Ring on television, so the place was pretty packed, but we were able to snipe a table.
Much like the Night of the Drunken Santa, though, this really wasn't our crowd. So Lindsey, Mr. November and I decided to head downtown to meet up with Nathan, a friend of mine from college, and a bunch of his colleagues who were in town for the weekend on business. They were on Beale Street, which we were able to talk them into leaving, and we met them at Flying Saucer. It was great to see Nathan and his co-workers were decently cool. For some reason I was demanding to see everyone's government issued ID. Let's keep in mind that I was not at all drunk. I'm just that crazy in real life.
Of course, they all handed it over without a solitary second of hesitation. So I might be crazy, but they totally went along with it.
After we shut the Saucer down, we decided to drag Nathan and his friend to Alex's Tavern. Which seemed like a super good idea at the time, and then I think we lasted maybe half an hour there. Everyone was fading. So I hauled them back to their hotel in east Memphis and headed back to midtown. Lindsey's passed out cold in the front seat as I pull up to Mr. November's house to drop him off. He asks me to get out of the car to say goodnight properly, so I put the green bean in park and get out to give him a hug. Only, he didn't really just want a hug. I should've known better -- nothing innocent happens after about 1 a.m., and that includes the disturbing food sins that I was about to commit.
For some reason I see this as a good moment to tell him that we should just be friends. He says something like, "We should, but I'm ridiculously attracted to you." And I think, it's possible, that in the most accidentally bitchy moment of my life, I responded, "I know." Yikes.
Needless to say, I shut that whole situation down, and next thing I know it's 4:15 and I'm sitting in the drive-through at Krystal's with Lindsey.
And then next thing I know after that? It's 1:30 in the afternoon on Sunday, I've finally come to and every part of my body is in the throes of mutiny with my brain.
My brain, of course, quickly accepted full responsibility for all of it, did not put up a fight, and swore up and down it would never happen again. But we've heard that before. We've definitely heard that before.
cheers,
elizabeth
8.27.2010
spicy doritos and little debbie fudge rounds
As you may know, when left to my own devices I can give in quite handily to my geriatric tendencies. I'll stay in, curl up with a book, put the coffee pot on for the next morning and be in bed by 10. I plan my dinners for the week every Sunday and I get up before 8 on Saturdays. I'm two seconds from an AARP membership and a reserved seat at the Picadilly Cafeteria.
But there is something you might not know about me. It's a little something I like to call the Old Lady Equilibrium. The equilibrium is pretty rock solid, typically. I'm an Old Lady. But if, by some magical alignment of the stars and moons in the universe you are able to tilt the equilibrium even the teeniest, tiniest bit, you've got me. Get one drink in my hand on a weeknight, and I may still be able to fight it. But by the second? I'm such a cheap date that at this point I'm a little tipsy, and as I tip, so tips the equilibrium.
And then? It's over. Once the OLE has been tilted, anything goes. I'll have seven more drinks, dance on a table, karaoke to five songs and introduce myself to at least three total strangers before I even realize it's a weeknight and I should be in bed by now.
The tipping of the OLE is how I account for just exactly what happened on Tuesday night. I had a happy hour function for work, where I had one drink. Not quite in the danger zone yet. But then I went to see the Magic Kids at the Levitt Shell, for which I mixed myself up a little vodka tonic to sip on the lawn. And by the time I finished sipping it, the OLE was in the rear view mirror. I headed to a friend's house for continued beverage consumption and then on to Newby's, a bar near the University of Memphis where I clearly did not belong, but since the OLE usually would've been the thing telling me that and it wasn't quite functional at this point I just pretended I was the same age as all the other kids at the bar.
I'm sure they ALL believed it, too.
Next thing I know, I'm hitting on a kid I went to high school with like some sort of not-nearly-old-enough Mrs. Robinson, playing Otis Redding and Tina Turner on the juke box and lecturing people about knowing their roots, and telling a guy outside that he should pee on the side of the building because, and I quote, "If I had one of those I'd be peeing on EVERYTHING."
And then next thing I know after THAT, I'm at some random house party that hasn't quite developed yet, watching people play beer pong and staring at a case (yes, a CASE) of Easy Mac and I realize that it is three o'clock in the morning. THREE. In. The. Morning.
And suddenly, the Old Lady is back. And she is up past her bedtime and can't find her Metamucil and she is PISSED.
Next to the case of Easy Mac was a case of Cup-O-Soups, and as I contemplated exactly when the last time was that I indulged in either of those lovely, sodium-laced treats, I decided it was maybe time for the only person in the house with a full-time job to get her ass home and get to bed.
Of course, not before I stopped at the MapCo for a late night snack of spicy buffalo Doritos and Little Debbie Fudge Rounds. I suppose in hindsight I will choose to be thankful that I did not go in quest of a cheesburger somewhere, because that is really the only silver lining to the situation. Never have I waked up in the morning to such a putridly disgusting taste in my mouth. And as I cringed at that, I rolled over in bed to see the Doritos bag. Staring me in the face. And also, in the NOSE. Holy Allah.
I may have ordered a venti coffee with extra espresso the next morning, but I made it to work. And I made it all day. And I didn't kill even one single person. And then I had pizza for dinner. And then I went to sleep.
At 8:30.
cheers,
elizabeth
But there is something you might not know about me. It's a little something I like to call the Old Lady Equilibrium. The equilibrium is pretty rock solid, typically. I'm an Old Lady. But if, by some magical alignment of the stars and moons in the universe you are able to tilt the equilibrium even the teeniest, tiniest bit, you've got me. Get one drink in my hand on a weeknight, and I may still be able to fight it. But by the second? I'm such a cheap date that at this point I'm a little tipsy, and as I tip, so tips the equilibrium.
And then? It's over. Once the OLE has been tilted, anything goes. I'll have seven more drinks, dance on a table, karaoke to five songs and introduce myself to at least three total strangers before I even realize it's a weeknight and I should be in bed by now.
The tipping of the OLE is how I account for just exactly what happened on Tuesday night. I had a happy hour function for work, where I had one drink. Not quite in the danger zone yet. But then I went to see the Magic Kids at the Levitt Shell, for which I mixed myself up a little vodka tonic to sip on the lawn. And by the time I finished sipping it, the OLE was in the rear view mirror. I headed to a friend's house for continued beverage consumption and then on to Newby's, a bar near the University of Memphis where I clearly did not belong, but since the OLE usually would've been the thing telling me that and it wasn't quite functional at this point I just pretended I was the same age as all the other kids at the bar.
I'm sure they ALL believed it, too.
Next thing I know, I'm hitting on a kid I went to high school with like some sort of not-nearly-old-enough Mrs. Robinson, playing Otis Redding and Tina Turner on the juke box and lecturing people about knowing their roots, and telling a guy outside that he should pee on the side of the building because, and I quote, "If I had one of those I'd be peeing on EVERYTHING."
And then next thing I know after THAT, I'm at some random house party that hasn't quite developed yet, watching people play beer pong and staring at a case (yes, a CASE) of Easy Mac and I realize that it is three o'clock in the morning. THREE. In. The. Morning.
And suddenly, the Old Lady is back. And she is up past her bedtime and can't find her Metamucil and she is PISSED.
Next to the case of Easy Mac was a case of Cup-O-Soups, and as I contemplated exactly when the last time was that I indulged in either of those lovely, sodium-laced treats, I decided it was maybe time for the only person in the house with a full-time job to get her ass home and get to bed.
Of course, not before I stopped at the MapCo for a late night snack of spicy buffalo Doritos and Little Debbie Fudge Rounds. I suppose in hindsight I will choose to be thankful that I did not go in quest of a cheesburger somewhere, because that is really the only silver lining to the situation. Never have I waked up in the morning to such a putridly disgusting taste in my mouth. And as I cringed at that, I rolled over in bed to see the Doritos bag. Staring me in the face. And also, in the NOSE. Holy Allah.
I may have ordered a venti coffee with extra espresso the next morning, but I made it to work. And I made it all day. And I didn't kill even one single person. And then I had pizza for dinner. And then I went to sleep.
At 8:30.
cheers,
elizabeth
8.21.2010
the prom smile: a do-over
When I was a sophomore in high school, I went to the prom. I don't know if you know this, but that's kind of a BIG DEAL since only juniors and seniors were allowed to buy tickets which meant if you were a sophomore going to the prom you had upperclassman friends (BIG DEAL) and even better, an uperclassman friend who'd asked YOU to be his prom date. Holy BIG DEAL, Batman. THIS IS A BIG DEAL.
Being fully aware of the BIG DEAL-ness of all of this, I put a lot of thought into the things I felt were most important about my ultimate prom experience. Namely? My Prom Smile. The Prom Smile was rehearsed in my bedroom mirror (and really any suitably reflective surface) for at least a month prior to the big day, if not more. I practiced setting up the prom smile and then getting visual confirmation in the mirror just to make sure I knew what every teeny muscle felt like while achieving the look.
The big day comes and goes (that's really another story for another blog post) and a few weeks later I'm sitting in my first period class when, ta da!, the photo packets arrive. Excitedly, I grab my pictures and pull out the humongous and glossy eight by ten only to find that somehow, through some terrible glitch in the universe, the photo had been snapped when I was in the middle of the set-up of The Prom Smile and the face that was captured instead could only be described as "A Recent Stroke Victim Chews Gum."
It was horrible.
We've all got that story. The one where the dress tore or the tux was too small or the date flaked at the last minute or we got lost on the way to the country club and missed the buffet of various and sundry miniature foods entirely. And that is why, in their infinite wisdom, my friends Lindsey and Elizabeth have decided to throw a prom. Prom 2.0, they're calling it, and it's going down in a little less than a month. And I'm DJing. I know. I KNOW.
But. (There's always a but.) Now I need a date. And I want your help. I'd like to open this up to the mercy of the internet, because I'm a nice lady like that and I know it would entertain the hell out of y'all. Especially if it ends up being awkward. Which, frankly, we have a 50% chance of by virtue of my involvement alone. So dream big.
I'm now accepting nominations for my prom date. I only have two rules. The first is that the bachelor must be a willing participant in the process. This means no super-secret surprise nominations, and it also means that the guy needs to be at least vaguely intrigued by the idea of going to a prom-themed party, dressing in a ridiculous suit and drinking spiked punch. The second rule is fairly obvious, but it must be said: the nominees MUST be comfortable with being featured on the blog. For the seriously masochistic, self-nominations are totally kosher.
I'll accept nominations until the pool looks good, so no specific deadline just yet. Then I'll post some basic information about each nominee, and a photo if they're willing. Then the polls will be open. You'll be able to vote via Twitter and Facebook, through the comments section here on the blog and also privately via e-mail. I'll close voting one week prior to the party to give the winning bachelor time to prepare for our date.
This is like a Choose Your Own Adventure story, where "Adventure" is interchangeable with "Awkward Interaction With A Man." Get thinking, and make your nominations in the comments or send them via e-mail.
cheers,
elizabeth
Being fully aware of the BIG DEAL-ness of all of this, I put a lot of thought into the things I felt were most important about my ultimate prom experience. Namely? My Prom Smile. The Prom Smile was rehearsed in my bedroom mirror (and really any suitably reflective surface) for at least a month prior to the big day, if not more. I practiced setting up the prom smile and then getting visual confirmation in the mirror just to make sure I knew what every teeny muscle felt like while achieving the look.
The big day comes and goes (that's really another story for another blog post) and a few weeks later I'm sitting in my first period class when, ta da!, the photo packets arrive. Excitedly, I grab my pictures and pull out the humongous and glossy eight by ten only to find that somehow, through some terrible glitch in the universe, the photo had been snapped when I was in the middle of the set-up of The Prom Smile and the face that was captured instead could only be described as "A Recent Stroke Victim Chews Gum."
It was horrible.
We've all got that story. The one where the dress tore or the tux was too small or the date flaked at the last minute or we got lost on the way to the country club and missed the buffet of various and sundry miniature foods entirely. And that is why, in their infinite wisdom, my friends Lindsey and Elizabeth have decided to throw a prom. Prom 2.0, they're calling it, and it's going down in a little less than a month. And I'm DJing. I know. I KNOW.
But. (There's always a but.) Now I need a date. And I want your help. I'd like to open this up to the mercy of the internet, because I'm a nice lady like that and I know it would entertain the hell out of y'all. Especially if it ends up being awkward. Which, frankly, we have a 50% chance of by virtue of my involvement alone. So dream big.
I'm now accepting nominations for my prom date. I only have two rules. The first is that the bachelor must be a willing participant in the process. This means no super-secret surprise nominations, and it also means that the guy needs to be at least vaguely intrigued by the idea of going to a prom-themed party, dressing in a ridiculous suit and drinking spiked punch. The second rule is fairly obvious, but it must be said: the nominees MUST be comfortable with being featured on the blog. For the seriously masochistic, self-nominations are totally kosher.
I'll accept nominations until the pool looks good, so no specific deadline just yet. Then I'll post some basic information about each nominee, and a photo if they're willing. Then the polls will be open. You'll be able to vote via Twitter and Facebook, through the comments section here on the blog and also privately via e-mail. I'll close voting one week prior to the party to give the winning bachelor time to prepare for our date.
This is like a Choose Your Own Adventure story, where "Adventure" is interchangeable with "Awkward Interaction With A Man." Get thinking, and make your nominations in the comments or send them via e-mail.
cheers,
elizabeth
8.18.2010
benjamin button: the epilogue
When last we left, our heroine was headed to Kentucky for Benjamin Button Weekend with Mr. Second Chance.
Other than being too brief, the weekend was great -- we laughed, we talked, we had Dairy Queen, we toured the Maker's Mark distillery and swished whisky around in our mouths for the required three full seconds before swallowing.
But then, there we are Saturday night, having a late dinner after catching a movie. And somewhere in the middle of my enchiladas supreme I find myself in one of my signature out-of-body experiences, watching myself dive head-first into the middle of a conversation about things that happened between the two of us six years ago. I'm tip-toeing around an all-out interrogation, and the urge is almost insatiable. These questions are rising up in me, and I want to demand answers. "Why did you say this one particular thing five years ago?" or "What were you thinking when you did XYZ to me?" WHEN YOU WERE NINETEEN?
Yes. Seriously.
On the drive back to our hotel from the restaurant that night my mind was reeling. I started thinking of specific moments, teeny, tiny little slivers of nothing that no one would remember, no one but me, because I've spent the last six years of my life dissecting them over and over and over (and OVER). What about that one Hughes Street party? I asked. I described exactly what I'd been wearing, and exactly what he'd said to me. Wasn't he flirting with me then? I'd wanted to know. So wasn't that something? What had it meant? I don't think he even remembered it, and I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. And then came another party. And another two-minute conversation that I remembered verbatim, and really the only reason I'm recounting any of it is to point out that he was talking to some girl who didn't matter then and doesn't matter now who I was wildly jealous of and on some level, when I allow myself to be 19-year-old me for just a second, I still am.
It was a distressing glimpse into my psyche. And it was the beginning of a realization that took me the length of the drive home Sunday to wrap my brain around fully: for whatever embarrassing and inexplicable reason, I have not let go of those things, not one bit. If my heart opens up, even a smidge, that tiny window is all it takes for those feelings and anger to come bursting out.
The absolute worst was the moment when I found myself wanting to bring up some other random moment from my memory and it hit me that the reason wasn't to ask a question or demand explanation (which is bad enough). It was simply to point out that he'd done it. It was to say, remember the time you said this horrible thing to me? Yeah, I remember it, too. Feel bad about it. Hurt, like I hurt.
I laid this all out on the table for Mr. Second Chance last night, and I told him that I hadn't imagined that any of it would be an issue, because it just genuinely hadn't occurred to me. I had been stuck in good, happy memory land and for most of the weekend I was still there. But those few moments of sheer, unadulterated crazy were terrifying.
They scared me because obviously I'm not over those past hurts now, and who's to say I ever will be? Even if I did question him demand answers and get to a point of fully understanding every motivation and every whim behind those decisions he made at 19 or 20, will that make it any better? Knowing why your house burned down doesn't make it any less gone. At best it means you wouldn't let the same fire start again.
I wonder, is that what I'm trying to do? Start the same fire, because I don't understand why the first one started, or burned so fast and so ferociously? I had a wonderful weekend. I laughed and acted silly and talked about any and everything and felt genuinely reconnected with someone whose friendship I have missed. But realistically, I don't know that I can truly start fresh in this relationship. I don't know that I'm capable of simply putting the past behind us and creating something new.
I told him all of this, went through every concern and every doubt. And what I got back was, "I'm not ready to give up on this." Which frankly, was impressive, if not a little inspiring, considering that one of the things that irked me when we were together was his lack of passion or drive for, well, anything. I told him that I worry that we will keep talking, keep growing our relationship in the ways that you can from several hundred miles away, and come October -- when our next possible rendezvous would occur -- I'll feel no differently than I do now. Or, even worse, he'll drive all this way to come see me based on the hope that maybe I could, and it won't work. As much as the little voice in me wants to throw things back, wants to point out awful things he did in the past just to be hurtful, in reality I don't want to hurt him.
So that's where we are. I left Kentucky with more questions than answers, but it looks like the story isn't over just yet. I cannot tell a lie -- I'm very worried that I already know the ending. But I'm willing to keep reading.
cheers,
elizabeth
Other than being too brief, the weekend was great -- we laughed, we talked, we had Dairy Queen, we toured the Maker's Mark distillery and swished whisky around in our mouths for the required three full seconds before swallowing.
But then, there we are Saturday night, having a late dinner after catching a movie. And somewhere in the middle of my enchiladas supreme I find myself in one of my signature out-of-body experiences, watching myself dive head-first into the middle of a conversation about things that happened between the two of us six years ago. I'm tip-toeing around an all-out interrogation, and the urge is almost insatiable. These questions are rising up in me, and I want to demand answers. "Why did you say this one particular thing five years ago?" or "What were you thinking when you did XYZ to me?" WHEN YOU WERE NINETEEN?
Yes. Seriously.
On the drive back to our hotel from the restaurant that night my mind was reeling. I started thinking of specific moments, teeny, tiny little slivers of nothing that no one would remember, no one but me, because I've spent the last six years of my life dissecting them over and over and over (and OVER). What about that one Hughes Street party? I asked. I described exactly what I'd been wearing, and exactly what he'd said to me. Wasn't he flirting with me then? I'd wanted to know. So wasn't that something? What had it meant? I don't think he even remembered it, and I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. And then came another party. And another two-minute conversation that I remembered verbatim, and really the only reason I'm recounting any of it is to point out that he was talking to some girl who didn't matter then and doesn't matter now who I was wildly jealous of and on some level, when I allow myself to be 19-year-old me for just a second, I still am.
It was a distressing glimpse into my psyche. And it was the beginning of a realization that took me the length of the drive home Sunday to wrap my brain around fully: for whatever embarrassing and inexplicable reason, I have not let go of those things, not one bit. If my heart opens up, even a smidge, that tiny window is all it takes for those feelings and anger to come bursting out.
The absolute worst was the moment when I found myself wanting to bring up some other random moment from my memory and it hit me that the reason wasn't to ask a question or demand explanation (which is bad enough). It was simply to point out that he'd done it. It was to say, remember the time you said this horrible thing to me? Yeah, I remember it, too. Feel bad about it. Hurt, like I hurt.
I laid this all out on the table for Mr. Second Chance last night, and I told him that I hadn't imagined that any of it would be an issue, because it just genuinely hadn't occurred to me. I had been stuck in good, happy memory land and for most of the weekend I was still there. But those few moments of sheer, unadulterated crazy were terrifying.
They scared me because obviously I'm not over those past hurts now, and who's to say I ever will be? Even if I did question him demand answers and get to a point of fully understanding every motivation and every whim behind those decisions he made at 19 or 20, will that make it any better? Knowing why your house burned down doesn't make it any less gone. At best it means you wouldn't let the same fire start again.
I wonder, is that what I'm trying to do? Start the same fire, because I don't understand why the first one started, or burned so fast and so ferociously? I had a wonderful weekend. I laughed and acted silly and talked about any and everything and felt genuinely reconnected with someone whose friendship I have missed. But realistically, I don't know that I can truly start fresh in this relationship. I don't know that I'm capable of simply putting the past behind us and creating something new.
I told him all of this, went through every concern and every doubt. And what I got back was, "I'm not ready to give up on this." Which frankly, was impressive, if not a little inspiring, considering that one of the things that irked me when we were together was his lack of passion or drive for, well, anything. I told him that I worry that we will keep talking, keep growing our relationship in the ways that you can from several hundred miles away, and come October -- when our next possible rendezvous would occur -- I'll feel no differently than I do now. Or, even worse, he'll drive all this way to come see me based on the hope that maybe I could, and it won't work. As much as the little voice in me wants to throw things back, wants to point out awful things he did in the past just to be hurtful, in reality I don't want to hurt him.
So that's where we are. I left Kentucky with more questions than answers, but it looks like the story isn't over just yet. I cannot tell a lie -- I'm very worried that I already know the ending. But I'm willing to keep reading.
cheers,
elizabeth
8.13.2010
off to benjamin button
For the uninitiated, I know that this whole "Benjamin Button" concept probably seems a little weird. What does this mean? You're thinking. Is she going to start aging in reverse? IS SHE DATING BRAD PITT!?
Thankfully, no. In the movie -- and I'm not ruining anything here, I don't think -- Benjamin and his lady love meet in the middle of their respective opposite aging cycles. So a few weeks ago, in the very first instance of what has now become a daily effort on my part to use the phrase "Let's Benjamin Button" in place of absolutely any situation where "meeting in the middle" is appropriately used, I asked Mr. Second Chance if he'd be willing to Benjamin Button it this very weekend.
Obviously, he said yes.
Actually, first, I'm pretty sure he said: "Benjamin Button?" Unimportant.
What is important is that we're meeting in the middle to spend the weekend together -- the middle being in the great state of Kentucky, since he's up in the wintry north at law school. And I know pretty much all I've told you about Mr. SC up until this point is that we dated in college, he was Boyfriend No. 2 in the infamous exit interviews, and that we ran into each other at a wedding a month ago and have been talking non-stop ever since.
I met (and instantly developed a crush on) Mr. SC in high school, and I'd say by the time we ended things completely in the fall of 2006 we'd become pretty well practiced at breaking each others' hearts. Or at the very least, accidentally stepping on them in steel-toed boots. But we kept coming back to each other, and when I look at that on-and-off again pattern I wonder what it says about us. Part of me thinks, well, there had to be a good reason I just couldn't shake him. And the other part of me points to the "off-again" piece of the puzzle and wonders the same thing: why did I keep trying?
Seeing him at the wedding was blissful. I already wrote about and I'm not gunning to make you barf today. At that time I didn't know how much of that feeling was the high of nostalgia and how much of it was real. But in the past month, as we've been catching up, I find that feeling hasn't really waned. We'd initially discussed the possibility of getting together over his fall break, which is in October. And while that could well still happen, I knew I needed some answers sooner.
So naturally, I feel like a lot is riding on this weekend. But I've been doing a decent job of putting that out of my mind, in hopes of just being in the moment of our time together with the firm belief that if I can manage that, I'll get the answers I need soon enough.
And clearly, you will be the first to know.
cheers,
elizabeth
Thankfully, no. In the movie -- and I'm not ruining anything here, I don't think -- Benjamin and his lady love meet in the middle of their respective opposite aging cycles. So a few weeks ago, in the very first instance of what has now become a daily effort on my part to use the phrase "Let's Benjamin Button" in place of absolutely any situation where "meeting in the middle" is appropriately used, I asked Mr. Second Chance if he'd be willing to Benjamin Button it this very weekend.
Obviously, he said yes.
Actually, first, I'm pretty sure he said: "Benjamin Button?" Unimportant.
What is important is that we're meeting in the middle to spend the weekend together -- the middle being in the great state of Kentucky, since he's up in the wintry north at law school. And I know pretty much all I've told you about Mr. SC up until this point is that we dated in college, he was Boyfriend No. 2 in the infamous exit interviews, and that we ran into each other at a wedding a month ago and have been talking non-stop ever since.
I met (and instantly developed a crush on) Mr. SC in high school, and I'd say by the time we ended things completely in the fall of 2006 we'd become pretty well practiced at breaking each others' hearts. Or at the very least, accidentally stepping on them in steel-toed boots. But we kept coming back to each other, and when I look at that on-and-off again pattern I wonder what it says about us. Part of me thinks, well, there had to be a good reason I just couldn't shake him. And the other part of me points to the "off-again" piece of the puzzle and wonders the same thing: why did I keep trying?
Seeing him at the wedding was blissful. I already wrote about and I'm not gunning to make you barf today. At that time I didn't know how much of that feeling was the high of nostalgia and how much of it was real. But in the past month, as we've been catching up, I find that feeling hasn't really waned. We'd initially discussed the possibility of getting together over his fall break, which is in October. And while that could well still happen, I knew I needed some answers sooner.
So naturally, I feel like a lot is riding on this weekend. But I've been doing a decent job of putting that out of my mind, in hopes of just being in the moment of our time together with the firm belief that if I can manage that, I'll get the answers I need soon enough.
And clearly, you will be the first to know.
cheers,
elizabeth
8.12.2010
i'm rockin' one heel. jealous?
Harry and I's only concrete plan for Saturday night was to sit ourselves in the front row at the Gotham Comedy Club for a 10 o'clock stand-up show by Loni Love. Well, I suppose that "get tipped" and "be fabulous" are also "concrete" plans, but we were pretty flexible on the wheres, whys and hows of those two.
Early in the evening, we headed for Chelsea to find some eats and ended up at a super cute Thai restaurant called Room Service for some incredible (and wicked spicy) curry. It was happy hour, so we both had two Thai beers for the price of one, and then headed out in search of dessert. We found a cute little bistro right around the corner from the club where we ordered a dish called -- I cannot make this shit up -- The Caramel Experiment.
I'm kicking myself now for not taking a picture of it, because the very sight of it defied description. But since I am not one to be defied, here I go anyway. The dish arrived with a little pot of caramel and tons of accouterments. Popcorn, pecans, brownies, fruit, mini-cupcakes and various other tiny bites of incredimouth. The pot of caramel was sitting on this pink slab-looking thing that resembled the pink ooze from Ghostbusters. But in a less gross way than it sounds.
The waiter poured the caramel out all over the pink slab thing, and we went to town. It took us almost to the end of our dipping to realize exactly what that thing WAS.
A Himalayan Salt Lick. I have no further explanation on this matter.
Now, by the time we wrapped up our beers and our caramel Himalayan salt experiment, we were pretty lit. We bopped around the corner to the club and started in on our two drink minimum. Loni was absolutely amazing, and I may have told her just the teensiest fib when she asked if it was anyone's birthday in the audience. I resisted the selfish urge to scream, "ME! ME!" and decided to go with Harry. I mean, his actual birthday is closer than mine, so, half-truth? Quasi-truth? Eh, I was drunk and excited.
After the show, I headed downstairs to take my two-drink-minimum tinkle, and y'all, my heel popped RIGHT. OFF. MY. SHOE. I'm talking three-inch heels. One on and one off. In the ladies room, I tried to shove it back on to the screws that were now protruding from the bottom of my foot. No dice. I put the heel in my purse and tippy toe limped out of that place like a champ. Right back upstairs, where I was apparently THIS excited to meet Loni. I wonder if I told her about my shoe? I'm betting yes. And at length.
After we gushed at Loni for a while about our undying love for her, we headed to a place called Dusk -- funny enough, the same bar we'd been to on Harry's birthday almost exactly two years ago when I was first moving to the city. We made fast friends with the bartenders (obviously) and then I made friends with a sweet little gay boy named Ben, who was just cuter than a bug in a rug and let me help him pick songs on the juke box on his dime. Then, of course, we danced. And as I swayed and listed and almost knocked things over, he said to me in this sassy patronizing motherly voice, "Elizabeth, are you too drunk to dance?" And I said, "No, Ben! Really, it's not me! It's my heel! I swear!" And I showed him the situation. But y'all, I rocked those one-heeled shoes til five in the morning. THAT IS HOW I ROLL. Mostly because I refuse to go barefoot. Foot diseases are real, people.
At one point in the evening, after having become such good friends with Mike and Paul, the bartenders, that I felt this was okay (don't you love how I act like I still had the ability to assess risk at this point? Playing pretend is fun!), I asked Mike to make me "magic." I'm pretty sure "magic" ended up being straight vodka -- or at least it tasted like it. I do not recommend asking a bartender, or anyone for that matter, for magic. Requests that open-ended are just too dangerous for words. Also, apparently at some point they produced a sequined yarmulke. Which I made Harry put on. Are we going to hell?
A bit later on, we were joined by a friend of mine from high school who I used to kick it with a bit when I lived in the city. Naturally, I engaged in some strategic overshares. I know, I know. Tell you something you couldn't have called from SEVENTEEN MILES AWAY.
We shut the place down and headed back toward Bryant Park in search of an all-night diner and found that actually, we were in the one area of Manhattan completely devoid of all-night diners. Then we managed to walk seven blocks in a circle looking for a McDonald's that turned out to be one block from our hotel. In the opposite direction.
And of course, THEN next thing I know it's 7:30 a.m. and I come to, CNN blaring, my face lying on the pillow next to a massive battlefield of dead ketchup packet soldiers on the nightstand and am thankful that I am still drunk, the smell is SO. HORRIFIC. And this from the woman who would sooner cut off her running water than go without ketchup.
When Harry and I finally got ourselves together around noon, we mapped out our afternoon and headed straight for Kleinfeld's so that I could live out every lonely white girl's dream and gawk at bridal consultants I've seen on TV. And in fact, not only did I get my random tourist shot out front, I also managed to be TWO INCHES from Nicole on two separate occasions. I also saw Debbie and Sarah and the blond lady with the super short bangs.
We followed this with a sadly unsuccessful trip to Chinatown. I was only propositioned -- "You want Gucci, you want Fendi, you want Prada?" -- two whole times, and neither time did they have Coach bags. Adding to the weirdness was that the hustlers this time around were young black guys. What happened to the little spindly looking old Asian dudes? The industry has changed since I've been gone.
Leaving Chinatown empty-handed (mostly because it was too GD hot to turn around and try to double back for another go), we headed for the West Village and the glory that is Magnolia Bakery. We got lunch at a little pub first and then got in line at Magnolia. This banana pudding goes beyond smack-your-mama. This is like, sacrifice your first born kind of good. Harry and I split the 16-oz., but I think we could've easily put away one tub each. If I lived in that neighborhood, I'd get the stuff every day and call it breakfast. Bananas, right? HEALTHY.
Before we headed back uptown to get our bags from the hotel and put me in a cab for LaGuardia, I needed to visit the little room. Across the way from where we'd been sitting, enjoying our Magnolia Bakery goods, was a little public restroom inside a children's playground. We venture in.
I open the door, and yeah, it smells. But bathrooms tend to smell, especially public bathrooms, and as long as it smells like tinkle and not the obvious second choice, I'll probably live. Plus, it looked pretty clean. So I walk into the lone stall, I close the door, turn around and assume the position over the toilet and what is staring me in the face from the opposite wall but a huge, dried-up mess of smeared doodie.
And directly underneath it, on the floor, its crusty counterpart. At that point, all I could do was laugh. And I did. At the poo. Out loud.
A few hours later as I sat in the terminal waiting to board my flight home, feeling rode hard and put away wet, I thought, so this is how we end things, New York. Poo smeared on a wall and an 11-hour hangover. THE END.
cheers,
elizabeth
Early in the evening, we headed for Chelsea to find some eats and ended up at a super cute Thai restaurant called Room Service for some incredible (and wicked spicy) curry. It was happy hour, so we both had two Thai beers for the price of one, and then headed out in search of dessert. We found a cute little bistro right around the corner from the club where we ordered a dish called -- I cannot make this shit up -- The Caramel Experiment.
I'm kicking myself now for not taking a picture of it, because the very sight of it defied description. But since I am not one to be defied, here I go anyway. The dish arrived with a little pot of caramel and tons of accouterments. Popcorn, pecans, brownies, fruit, mini-cupcakes and various other tiny bites of incredimouth. The pot of caramel was sitting on this pink slab-looking thing that resembled the pink ooze from Ghostbusters. But in a less gross way than it sounds.
The waiter poured the caramel out all over the pink slab thing, and we went to town. It took us almost to the end of our dipping to realize exactly what that thing WAS.
A Himalayan Salt Lick. I have no further explanation on this matter.
Now, by the time we wrapped up our beers and our caramel Himalayan salt experiment, we were pretty lit. We bopped around the corner to the club and started in on our two drink minimum. Loni was absolutely amazing, and I may have told her just the teensiest fib when she asked if it was anyone's birthday in the audience. I resisted the selfish urge to scream, "ME! ME!" and decided to go with Harry. I mean, his actual birthday is closer than mine, so, half-truth? Quasi-truth? Eh, I was drunk and excited.
After the show, I headed downstairs to take my two-drink-minimum tinkle, and y'all, my heel popped RIGHT. OFF. MY. SHOE. I'm talking three-inch heels. One on and one off. In the ladies room, I tried to shove it back on to the screws that were now protruding from the bottom of my foot. No dice. I put the heel in my purse and tippy toe limped out of that place like a champ. Right back upstairs, where I was apparently THIS excited to meet Loni. I wonder if I told her about my shoe? I'm betting yes. And at length.
After we gushed at Loni for a while about our undying love for her, we headed to a place called Dusk -- funny enough, the same bar we'd been to on Harry's birthday almost exactly two years ago when I was first moving to the city. We made fast friends with the bartenders (obviously) and then I made friends with a sweet little gay boy named Ben, who was just cuter than a bug in a rug and let me help him pick songs on the juke box on his dime. Then, of course, we danced. And as I swayed and listed and almost knocked things over, he said to me in this sassy patronizing motherly voice, "Elizabeth, are you too drunk to dance?" And I said, "No, Ben! Really, it's not me! It's my heel! I swear!" And I showed him the situation. But y'all, I rocked those one-heeled shoes til five in the morning. THAT IS HOW I ROLL. Mostly because I refuse to go barefoot. Foot diseases are real, people.
At one point in the evening, after having become such good friends with Mike and Paul, the bartenders, that I felt this was okay (don't you love how I act like I still had the ability to assess risk at this point? Playing pretend is fun!), I asked Mike to make me "magic." I'm pretty sure "magic" ended up being straight vodka -- or at least it tasted like it. I do not recommend asking a bartender, or anyone for that matter, for magic. Requests that open-ended are just too dangerous for words. Also, apparently at some point they produced a sequined yarmulke. Which I made Harry put on. Are we going to hell?
A bit later on, we were joined by a friend of mine from high school who I used to kick it with a bit when I lived in the city. Naturally, I engaged in some strategic overshares. I know, I know. Tell you something you couldn't have called from SEVENTEEN MILES AWAY.
We shut the place down and headed back toward Bryant Park in search of an all-night diner and found that actually, we were in the one area of Manhattan completely devoid of all-night diners. Then we managed to walk seven blocks in a circle looking for a McDonald's that turned out to be one block from our hotel. In the opposite direction.
And of course, THEN next thing I know it's 7:30 a.m. and I come to, CNN blaring, my face lying on the pillow next to a massive battlefield of dead ketchup packet soldiers on the nightstand and am thankful that I am still drunk, the smell is SO. HORRIFIC. And this from the woman who would sooner cut off her running water than go without ketchup.
When Harry and I finally got ourselves together around noon, we mapped out our afternoon and headed straight for Kleinfeld's so that I could live out every lonely white girl's dream and gawk at bridal consultants I've seen on TV. And in fact, not only did I get my random tourist shot out front, I also managed to be TWO INCHES from Nicole on two separate occasions. I also saw Debbie and Sarah and the blond lady with the super short bangs.
We followed this with a sadly unsuccessful trip to Chinatown. I was only propositioned -- "You want Gucci, you want Fendi, you want Prada?" -- two whole times, and neither time did they have Coach bags. Adding to the weirdness was that the hustlers this time around were young black guys. What happened to the little spindly looking old Asian dudes? The industry has changed since I've been gone.
Leaving Chinatown empty-handed (mostly because it was too GD hot to turn around and try to double back for another go), we headed for the West Village and the glory that is Magnolia Bakery. We got lunch at a little pub first and then got in line at Magnolia. This banana pudding goes beyond smack-your-mama. This is like, sacrifice your first born kind of good. Harry and I split the 16-oz., but I think we could've easily put away one tub each. If I lived in that neighborhood, I'd get the stuff every day and call it breakfast. Bananas, right? HEALTHY.
Before we headed back uptown to get our bags from the hotel and put me in a cab for LaGuardia, I needed to visit the little room. Across the way from where we'd been sitting, enjoying our Magnolia Bakery goods, was a little public restroom inside a children's playground. We venture in.
I open the door, and yeah, it smells. But bathrooms tend to smell, especially public bathrooms, and as long as it smells like tinkle and not the obvious second choice, I'll probably live. Plus, it looked pretty clean. So I walk into the lone stall, I close the door, turn around and assume the position over the toilet and what is staring me in the face from the opposite wall but a huge, dried-up mess of smeared doodie.
And directly underneath it, on the floor, its crusty counterpart. At that point, all I could do was laugh. And I did. At the poo. Out loud.
A few hours later as I sat in the terminal waiting to board my flight home, feeling rode hard and put away wet, I thought, so this is how we end things, New York. Poo smeared on a wall and an 11-hour hangover. THE END.
cheers,
elizabeth
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