thank god i finally figured out why they call it the garden state

A few weeks ago, I made the trek to Alpha, New Jersey, the home of my dear friend Harry -- who happens to be the former mayor of Alpha and current town councilman. I got the exclusive grand tour of Alpha that only a former mayor can give, complete with access to town hall and the council chambers to soak in the democratic process. And also, take really ridiculous pictures.

After spending about 24 hours in Alpha, Harry and I headed to Princeton, New Jersey, for a New Jersey HOBY Alumni party. (If you're not up on the HOBY thing, it's Hugh O'Brian Youth Leadership; I've blogged about it before here but you can also learn more here.) The party was held at one of Princeton's social club houses in the heart of campus, the perfect place for about 50 sweaty teenagers to dance to Britney Spears and play "HOBY Pony" on a Saturday night. After we took the PBR cans out of the trashcan in the entryway, that is.

As I shared with you just after returning from Alpha and Princeton, I did manage to forget just about everything I owned there, including my camera, and thus have been unable to blog about the adventure. As of Friday my camera is back in my possession, and I present to you a short film titled "Thank God I Finally Figured Out Why They Call it The Garden State." We start things off at Alpha's town hall, move through scenic Alpha, New Jersey, into Princeton and finally wrap things up at the HOBY Alumni dance party. Enjoy.

cheers,
elizabeth

potential hair crisis on the horizon

Recently I took it upon myself to update that self-defining, critically important piece of personal reflection known to most as the "About Me" section of one's Facebook profile.


Though much of what's written there has been discussed at length here -- beer, barbeque, the tendency to both hate and judge -- there is one very important item that hasn't, and due to some recent developments, must now be addressed.

"I care an inordinate amount about my hair."

I don't want you to think I'm superficial, though I have been known to refer to shoes, bags and coats as The Holy Trinity. Details. And it's not that I have a Samson-like relationship with my locks, either -- I've worn them short (for many years), long and every which way in between. It's actually more that ever since the day I first got the bob haircut I wore for almost all of high school, the same person has been cutting my hair. And that day, my friends, was almost 11 years ago.

For 11 years, with less than a handful of exceptions -- in fact only three that I can recall right off hand -- my hair has been under the care of one person. Her name is LeighAnn, and for a smidge more than a decade she has remembered every detail about me that I shared, who I was dating, what I was planning to do after high school, then after college, then after grad school, etc., etc., etc. And most importantly, she has never steered me wrong in the hair department. She always knows exactly what I want, she gets the work done quick and she gives a mean compliment.

And all that for less than $15.

Now, I'm facing uncertain times. The hair apocalypse is nigh and I am battening down the hatches. My hair is long. It's unruly. The ends are dead and fragile, the shape is lifeless. It is in desperate need of a shearing. A mild intervention, at the very least. And the very idea of it just scares the living bejesus out of me. (Yes, Juan Bejesus.)

First of all, I refuse to go to any salon or shop that hasn't come recommended by someone. I used to read horror stories about hair stylists in New York who would "listen" to what you wanted, and then sort of just go with their own inner muse and create whatever the hell they felt like on the top of your head. I can think of few things in this world that make me more uncomfortable than that very idea, and one of them is brussel sprouts. You see? This is serious.

I need a hair stylist I can trust. Someone who will listen to my concerns and understand my hair anxiety. Someone who will look at the pictures I brought with me and actually process as I describe the hair cut I want. Someone who will not take off more than I ask and call it "artistic freedom."

Furthermore, after doing a little poking around on the good old internet, I need to find someone who won't charge me $50 for said hair cut and call that a "bargain basement deal." That is the biggest crock of shit I ever took a whiff of in my life. I know we're in the city and things are more expensive, but $50? We may have a bigger issue at hand here, and that is my current state of poverty and how hair cuts don't land too high on my necessary-for-survival list. The last time I paid someone anywhere near $50 to do anything with my hair was when I had it done for the Miss Murray State University pageant back in college, and I think that only cost me $35 if I recall correctly. And that lady used at LEAST two cans of hairspray, worth probably two and a quarter a piece all on their own, not to mention the labor. So you can imagine my natural dismay when someone wants to charge me $50 for some water from a spritz bottle and a few snippety snips.

Personal economic crises aside, I do need a haircut. Desperately. So if any of you readers are New York/New Jersey-ites, please be liberal with your recommendations in the comments section. Ladies and gentlemen, this is not a drill.


cheers,
elizabeth

reasons to love new york, no. 5

Today I took the 1 train from 66th and Lincoln Center (home of the New York Philharmonic) to 116th and Broadway, the heart of Columbia University. I walked up the steps from the subway practically into the middle of campus, and was struck by Manhattan's infinite layers. You can get onto the train on the Lower East Side, surrounded by kitschy shops, fresh food markets and artsy apartments, and get off in the middle of Times Square, elbowing your way along with hundreds of people going in hundreds of directions.

You can leave the wealth of Lincoln Center and land in the academia of Columbia University. You can walk underground at the edge of Central Park and emerge again in the heart of the Financial District.

Somehow this tiny island manages to have as many identities as it does inhabitants. It's a fascinating thing to explore.


cheers,
elizabeth

untitled (because everything i thought of had the words 'deep' and 'vagina' in it, thus sounding dirty)

Last year around this time, I wrote a lot of really deep, philosophical things about The Vagina Monologues, and what acting and helping to produce the show for so many years has meant (and continues to mean) to me. And now, as I embark on my fifth year as a part of this incredible production, I'm taking on for the first time the roles of director and producer.

Luckily, I'm not doing it alone -- I've got a fabulously talented co-director/co-producer at my side, and as of last night at our first official team meeting, a brilliantly talented cast of women, as well. I'll save you another run through all the touchy-feely-deep stuff, mostly because I've realized recently that as much as I like to be in touch with myself and all that, not everyone wants to hear it. I realized this mostly because of the disproportionate amount of times I heard the phrase "The universe is really telling me to be here right now" in the space of about a week and felt a little bit of my lunch coming up.

What I will say is this: this blog has always been about experiences. It's been about travels and adventures and lessons learned and explorations made. A good many of them are humorous, and I like it that way. But once in a great while I do enjoy sharing something like The Vagina Monologues with you, because it has been one of my greatest experiences, one of my biggest adventures and has come with dozens, hundreds of lessons learned.

But the most important thing I've gained from all these productions is the friendships of women who I admire, respect and cherish. My best friend Holly and I were discussing just the other day the absolute necessity of female friendships. Indeed, they are the relationships that most sustain me. Like any good Southern girl, of course, I look forward to the day when I manage to find a man who will put up with my shit for more than five minutes, put a ring on it (as Beyonce so eloquently sang) and promise to continue putting up with my shit forever. But no husband could replace my girlfriends -- and I think that's a very Southern thing, too. So, we've got potato salad, barbeque, rock'n'roll, grits, the word "y'all," kudzu, Al Green and strong female friendships. And so far the north has, what exactly? Snow? Pizza? As we say in the south, BFD.

I thought I'd leave you with a bit of a retrospective of my TVM performances; sadly, 2005 is missing. February 2005 was just a teensy bit pre-Facebook and therefore no recorded history of that time actually exists, that historians know of.

The women of V-Day Brunel University 2008, London

Producer Brittany Goodenough (now Ellis) giving me dramatic eyes for V-Day Murray State 2007

My performance of 'The Woman Who Loved to Make Vaginas Happy', V-Day Murray State 2007

Cast members of V-Day Murray State 2007 at our Vagina Warrior Reception

Awaiting opening night with Randa and Rachel, V-Day Murray State 2006

Cast meeting before curtain time, opening night, V-Day Murray State 2006

The beautiful cast of V-Day Murray State 2006

One month from tomorrow, I'll have some new pictures of V-Day Lower East Side 2009.

cheers,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites, no. 3

When I was still a slave to Bra and Panty Land, one of the double-edged swords about standing around in that place for eight hours was the musical selection piping through the speakers. A double-edged sword, I say, because some of the stuff -- in fact, quite a lot of it -- was really good music, music I either already knew and liked or music by artists I was interested in and came to like.

So that's the good edge of the sword. The bad edge? They played that GD music on a loop, and there weren't that many songs in the repertoire. So after a while, no matter how much I like "Pumpkin Soup" by Kate Nash, it started to get on my nerves. Particularly because, you may recall, this was the song in which they felt the need to bleep out the word 'bum.'

There was only one song that never seemed to cross over from "fun to sing along to because I know all the words" land into "want to commit sepukku because my ears are bleeding from the repetition" territory.

That song was called "Hanging On Too Long," and it's by that little bird in the picture, Duffy. (To be fair, Duffy is actually my second-favorite British soul singer of the moment, coming in a close runner-up to Adele.)

She's a recent Grammy and BRIT Award winner for her debut album Rockferry, but I do have to issue one disclaimer before you run out and buy it. I don't exactly love everything on Rockferry. In fact, had I jumped off a building while working at Victoria's Secret, the song "Serious" would likely have been noted near the top of my suicide letter. That is mostly because I find the lyrics and melody noxious, though, and little to do with Duffy herself. I mean I can't deny she sings the hell out of the song, even if it makes me wish I were in a live reeanctment of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

All tangents aside, Duffy has a growing spot in my heart. And it's all because of this song, which I now hope I have not talked up too much so as to leave you disappointed that it didn't live up to my worship service. Ah well. Enjoy.

Duffy - "Hanging On Too Long"



cheers,
elizabeth

death watch '09: threat alert has been downgraded from mauve to fuschia

Though medical scholars would probably have you believe that it is impossible, I do in fact feel less close to death today than I felt yesterday. Not in the overall, long-term sense, I suppose, but in the more immediate, cough-up-a-lung and keel over right here right now kind of sense.

The point is, I'm still alive, and tomorrow marks day three of being on the antibiotics that should probably give me super-sub-human-health on par with the Bionic woman for what they cost me. I'm not convinced that one of my lungs still couldn't come flying out of my throat at any minute, but we're on the mend.

For some reason this particular brush with death has gotten me thinking about my memories of the landmark childhood illnesses. Pink eye. Chicken Pox. Strep throat. Ate too much Rotel on Super Bowl Sunday and ralphed it up on the bathroom rug. Wait. Wait, that one might just be me.

I'll never forget being in kindergarten and waking up one morning with a raging case of Pink Eye. My mom took me to the doctor first thing, and the doctor did some doctor-type things and finally concluded, "Well, she's got Pink Eye."

I know what my mother said next was more intelligent than this. It was probably much more eloquent, too. But to this day when I think back on that doctor's office, all I can see is my mom giving that doctor a look (and a few choice words) that said "No shit, dummy."

Maybe I don't necessarily need her around to take care of me when I'm sick anymore, but when I think about moments like that, I have to admit -- it sure would be nice.


cheers,
elizabeth

death watch '09 continues

If "You look tired" is the sweet-but-bitchy way of saying someone looks like shit, what does it mean when someone just flat out tells you look like shit? I think it means that despite the presence of antibiotics in my life (as of 8 a.m. today) we're still in the throes of Death Watch 2009. They sent me home from work tonight, lest I infect everyone else, though I must admit that were that to happen it would feel just a teensy weensy tad bit like poetic justice.

I'm now in the sick bunker, under the electric blanket, getting ready to chug more Robitussin and go to sleep. Good bye sweet world.

(I'll see you in the morning.)


cheers,
elizabeth

laughter is only the best medicine when you can't get the hard stuff

Last night I had the distinct pleasure of seeing my all-time favorite comedienne, Kathy Griffin, from amazing floor seats at the soon to be nameless, but currently named WaMu Theater at Madison Square Garden. It was a brilliant show, and if you know anything about Kathy you will appreciate that the highlights of the night included massive amounts of swearing, a whole lot of shit talking and vastly, extremely, unbelievably inappropriate comments that most people would find offensive to their sensibilities, and would probably make a more gentile woman get the vapors.

In a word: hysterical. After the show, my friend Harry and I had planned to stake out the place and wait for Kathy and her famous entourage (Tom, Jessica and Tiffany) to emerge from the Garden and greet us like the no. 1 biggest fans that we are. We cased the joint a little at first, trying to find potential exit points, before polling some nearby police officers about where stars usually enter and exit. They pointed us around to an awning-covered employee entrance, which looked promising. There we met up with about four or five other people who were also waiting for Kathy et. al. We stood around for a while in the absolutely frigid cold, wind whipping around the arena, with no Kathy in sight. A few minutes later one of the fans was tipped off by an official at MSG that Kathy had a meet and greet, but that when she left she would most likely do it by car from a ramp about halfway up the block. We all immediately dutifully scurried to the vehicle entrance, only to be told by the Guido security guard that she'd gone at least 15 minutes ago.

At which point I turned to Harry and said, let's get the eff out of here. There might have been a night when I would've broken out into the streets of New York, determined. But the thing that I failed to mention earlier in the story is that I have the black lung.

Okay, so I probably don't actually have black lung. I've never actually worked in a coal mine, but I have had an inexplicable fascination with the Appalachians lately. Power of suggestion? I don't know. The point is I have this crazy chest cough that popped up out of nowhere on Thursday morning and has gotten more and more intense by the day. So much so that last night, after Harry and I left Manhattan and headed for Jersey City, we also headed for Jersey City Medical Center. Harry was probably just trying to shut me up, because in between loud, obnoxious coughs and comments about my flem I wouldn't stop talking about how I thought I needed "to seek medical attention." In those exact words.

Unfortunately for us the ER is the place. to. BE on a Saturday night and let me tell you, the JCMC was hoppin'. We had everybody there. Sick baby with everyone in immediate and extended family, including at least two cousins. Two dudes who looked totally fine with another dude who "got in a fight" and thinks he has a broken nose, and won't stop asking the nurse if he needs stitches. Stitches? For a broken nose? I mean I know you didn't go to med school, but you've watched TV before, right? Christ. We also had loud Latina woman who may or may not have been pregnant who had allegedly been there since 7 p.m. It was now after midnight. She also had an audience of people of assorted nationalities who were listening to her soliloquy on the state of healthcare (which mostly included things like, "You remember the old hospital? Now that was a hospital, oh they were just so nice, you would walk in and get seen like THAT! (snapping her fingers) Just. Like. That! Oh they don't have hospitals like that around here no more, uh uhhhh"). These people did not seem injured in any way, but I'm sure they were also waiting to be seen.

We only lasted about thirty minutes at the ER, after it became very clear that I might not be seen by a doctor until sometime next Wednesday. And that the Latina woman would be seen on Tuesday, and Idiot McBrokenNose would still be asking for stitches.

So now here I am, feeling about like I've been rode hard and put away wet, getting ready to go to the Duane Reade in Times Square to see their clinic doctor to make sure I'm not about to become the first non-coal miner ever to be diagnosed with black lung. Some people are tough when they're sick. I am a big damn baby. I want my mommy, followed by a personal car service, an endless supply of orange juice and a line of people to make that frowny sad sympathy face at me and say, "Awww, poor baby."

I'm just thankful that -- at least for the time being -- I have insurance. Because once I turn 24 in 21 short days (and until this black lung story breaks and I get a cool million from NBC Nightly News for the exclusive Katie Couric interview), I will no longer be one of the few, the lucky, the insured. And it scares the living bejesus out of me.

(Of the many pieces of mail we receive on a daily basis for a variety of Hispanic people, only two of whom ever actually lived here, as far as I know, once upon a time we received a piece of mail for a man whose last name was Bejesus. And I'm sure it's actually pronounced Bay-hay-seuss or something ridiculous like that, but as far as I'm concerned, that man's last name is Be-jeez-us. Mr. Juan Bejesus, to you.)

So I suppose I should be thankful I have the black lung on Feb. 22, and not on March 16. Thank Juan Bejesus for that.


cheers,
elizabeth

les miserables, adapted for ebonics and performed on lamar ave.

Anyone who's ever spent more than about five minutes in a conversation with me has learned at the very least one critically important fact about me: my hometown is Memphis, Tennessee.

In the very same ways that I am the spitting image of my zodiac sign (a Pisces, with Sagittarius rising, since I know you were dying to know so you can research all the ways to my heart), and also the spitting image of my mother (please see here for proof), I am the spitting image of a Memphis girl. Both my parents graduated from Memphis State, and I root for the Tigers with a passion so fiery that I was able to pull hard enough to get us to the NCAA Championship game last year from 4,000 miles away. I love barbecue and potato salad, and the best of both you'll ever have are made by my dad and my mom, respectively. This is not up for debate. I am a musician and a music writer and a lover of the blues and rock'n'roll and have even worked at a downtown hotel during Elvis Death Week and dealt with so many crazies that any necessary dues have most definitely been paid. In full. And even though I will not always readily admit this, I am just as bad a 'Memphis driver' as half of the rest of 'em.

But, as I am wont to do here lately, I have a confession to make. Ever since the moving van arrived at 1824 Lyndale back in 1992, my family has actually lived in (gasp!) the 'burbs. Now it's not like we're 30 miles out living with Laura Ingalls Wilder or anything, but Bartlett is definitely not Memphis. In many ways that I am very thankful for.

For example: once upon a time I was home by myself, waiting on some friends to pick me up to go roller skating at Skateland Cordova. When they finally arrived, I don't know what came over me, but I marched right out of that place without a care in the world and left our front door standing wide open. When I got home that night my parents were obviously less than pleased with me, but in the end the worst that came of it was we air conditioned the neighborhood for a little while. And while we all know how parents tend to feel about that little infraction, I think we were pretty relieved that our stuff was still right where we left it. Because I'm here to tell you that on more than one occasion while living in Memphis, while the house was locked up, down and inside out, we were robbed.

Memphis is a city with its share of problems -- most of us would probably say more than its share. But we've definitely earned a lot of them. We have, for example, continued to elect the same idiotic mayor over and over and over again, despite the fact that he was once quoted in the newspaper as saying he believed God spoke to him and wanted him to lead our city. I cannot make this stuff up, and if God has chosen to talk to Willie Herenton, of all the people in the world, I think God has been in the whiskey and we are all in serious trouble.

But at the end of the day, I love my hometown. And even though I've lived in the city limits of Bartlett for longer than I lived in Memphis, I tend to claim it more and hold it closer to my heart. But a little news story about Bartlett popped up on my Twitter today that I had to share with you, particularly as it relates to another recent story written about Memphis.

Bartlett was named by Business Week as the fourth best suburb in the United States. The rankings were largely based on affordability, but also took into account many other factors, like local amenities. Now naturally, I felt a sense of pride about this. I did, after all, graduate from Bartlett High School and worked for the local newspaper, The Bartlett Express. But it reminded me of another story. A story from Forbes Magazine about the mag's annual listing of the most miserable places to live.

This year, Memphis took No. 2 on the countdown, second in misery only to Stockton, California. Here's what the kids at Forbes had to say about my beloved hometown:

The home of FedEx has an incredibly high rate of violent crimes, with only Detroit faring worse. The 1,218 violent crimes per 100,000 residents is more than twice the rate in the New York City metro area. The city's sales tax and rate of government employees committing crimes also fall within the 10 highest in the U.S. Pro sports has been a mess in Memphis in recent years as well. The city's lone major franchise, the Memphis Grizzlies, has lost 74% of its games during the past three years, the worst in the NBA.

Okay, y'all. Let's get it all out on the table. It's not like this stuff isn't true. I believe half of it, and the rest I'm pretty sure they fact-checked. But the most miserable places to live? I just don't know about that. First of all, I always get defensive when outsiders act like they know Memphis and want to throw around a few choice words. As I've always said, this city is like our ugly little step sister. We can talk shit about her, but you sure as hell better not.

But I guess my greatest sentiment is that any place is what you make it. Yes, the sales tax in Shelby County is abysmal. I remember the first time I ate at a restaurant when I went to school in Kentucky and realized I couldn't just double the sales tax to figure my tip. Because the tax was four percent. Christ. But sales tax doesn't determine happiness. Some people would say I am living and working right now in the greatest, most opportunity-filled city in America -- perhaps also the world. But for the past few months, I have been fighting an unusually persistent black cloud of misery, right here in the Big Apple, where I have to tell you the streets are not paved with gold. Sometimes they have much less pleasant things on them, like used condoms, empty 40s in paper bags and poop that you're just not entirely sure came from a dog.

New York isn't the land of dreams any more than Memphis is the land where souls are crushed. Plenty of souls get crushed here, and plenty of dreams get made in Memphis. Mostly I think they are dreams of scratch off lotto tickets and malt liquor, but hey. To each his own.


cheers,
elizabeth

the secret lives of telemarketers

I want to share some industry secrets with you. Why do I want to do this? Because I like you, that's why. But you don't even know me! You may be thinking. Okay, I'll admit it: my motivations might be a teensy bit selfish, too.

You see, I've been working in the glorious and highly sought-after career field of telemarketing for a good year-and-a-half now, first as a charity fundraiser for Pell and Bales in London, and now as an arts fundraiser for the New York Philharmonic. Neither one of these jobs was (or is) very glamorous or entertaining. In fact, I regularly think that running out in front of traffic on 66th Street might be the better option than actually showing up for another shift at work.

But I have learned a thing or two about mistakes people make when talking to telemarketers through these experiences, and I think it's vital information that every person should know. I think this in spite of the fact that I work on commission, and the information I am about to let slip to you could allow someone to get off the phone with me, bank account unscathed. But the truth is, you hate telemarketers. You know you do. And you also may be under the impression that yelling "Stop calling here at dinner time YOU INHUMAN TWIT!" and slamming the phone onto the receiver (or vigorously thrusting your thumb down onto the "reject" button on your cell phone) is doing the trick.

I got news for y'all. It ain't.

Let me give it to you straight: Unless you sit on the phone with me for a minute, listen to what I'm saying and let me ask you for money, and then tell me no, there is no way you could give money, even if the winning lottery numbers crawled out of your ass tonight while you were sleeping and waited in your bedsheets for you til morning so you could win the $120 million Powerball, even then you could not give me money, you will receive another phone call. People, I cannot be clear enough on this one. I simply cannot say it enough. You must make it clear that a.) you know they are calling to ask you for money or to sell you something, b.) you are not interested in donating/making a purchase, b2.) why you are not interested and c.) that your answer is a firm and unwavering no, thank you.

Yelling at me (or any telemarketer) might feel good. I know it does, in fact, because I've been rude and snotty to telemarketers before. I've messed with their minds, played the victim, I've told them someone in my family had just died and HOW DARE THEY. But none of that does any good. Mrs. Smith whose husband just died? Two days ago? Give her about two weeks, we'll call her back and ask her for money and chances are, we'll try to sell her on the idea by making a gift in his name. I'd like to believe I still have a soul, y'all, I really would. But I know one thing for sure, and that's the people who run these operations do not.

So the next time you get one of these pesky calls, resist the urge to start quoting Revelations and damning the person on the other end of the phone to hell and think that's going to make them stop calling you. Or keep right on doing it, it really is no bother to me. I'd be more than happy to take your money.


cheers,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites, no. 2

I saw these guys last night at The Mercury Lounge with Holly Miranda (who I've loved since CMJ) and a band called Ravens and Chimes, who, other than looking like they were 17, were not half bad. There was a chick playing the flute, and I love a little flute rock. (If you just thought, "Jethro Tull? I know that guy!", please just don't ever admit it out loud. And we'll pretend it never happened.)

Anywho, these are The White Rabbits, a pretty straightforward rock group based here in New York. Although I found their overwhelming fan-girl population to be a bit off-putting, their music was pretty alright. It was their percussion philosophy particularly that grabbed me, which is unusual considering they heavily feature a piano -- typically that's my musical Achilles heel. This time it was the aggressive, doubled-up, almost marching band-like percussion design that I couldn't get enough of. The beat is the backbone, but this beat was a lot more than that, really informing the feeling of every song in a way I haven't heard in a while.





cheers,
elizabeth

a southern rite of passage

Tonight, for the very first time, I made home fries. It was a beautiful, beautiful thing, made only more beautiful by the inordinate amount of ketchup that was then smothered all over them.

The ability to fry potatoes is a very dangerous skill to possess, mostly because it means that at any given time I could, instead of what I might be eating at that moment, be eating FRIED POTATOES. This may not end well.

Addendum: It also occurs to me how ridiculous it is that I will chop up potatoes and onions, throw 'em in vegetable oil and figure I'll "see what happens" when not one week ago I sent my mother an e-mail to ask her how to make a baked potato. In the microwave.

I know.

reasons to love new york, no. 4

I'd say this view is reason enough. These were taken from the Top of the Rock, the very tippy top of 30 Rockefeller Plaza, where my boys and I celebrated a singles' Valentine's Day before having dinner and drinks on the lower east side Saturday. Having been to the top of the Empire State building twice, I can tell you with confidence that the view is far superior, even though my knees felt like a Jell-O mold the entire time. Worth it.





cheers,
elizabeth

holy shit, y'all

I found something on Friday that I was all excited to tell y'all about, and this morning as I got ready to express these feelings of excitement in words for your enjoyment, I found that the thing that I was excited about was not quite the thing I thought it was when I first saw it. (Spit it out already. I know. I'm fixing to.)

So on Friday night, coincidentally while watching Diane Sawyer's riveting hour-long special on the Children of Applachia, I googled "southern people." I can honestly tell you now that I do not recall specifically what I thought I would find when I entered those terms into the search bar, but I can tell you that when I did, this is the first image that the search returned.

There are a lot of disturbing things about this photo, and it's probably best we not get into all of them, but I'll address the most disturbing thing to me, because many of you were probably thinking it already: were it not for her Jabba-the-Hutt figure and classy as all get out Burger King crown, this picture could've easily been of yours truly. And let's be frank, I've been known to wear a Burger King crown from time to time. Okay, it's been said now. Let's move on.

But it was an item a little further down the list of web results that inspired my aforementioned excitement: Y'all Magazine. A magazine for, about and by Southerners. My first thought was holy shit, y'all. There is a magazine that speaks my language. So I started doing a little reading and digging through the web site, thinking I'd pick my favorite feature of the magazine, blog about it and link it up. In the midst of this search, I came across a column called "What Southern Women Know."

Now most of the reading I've ever done on this topic was written by a woman named Jill Connor Browne, and if you aren't familiar with Browne and her Sweet Potato Queens, you should be, and I can tell you with certainty without ever having met you that your life is sad and lacking. But those of you who are fellow SPQ veterans will understand my glee at having come across a column whose very title inspired visions of Brown's signature southern sass and hilarity. I was expecting to be bowled over, to giggle, to perhaps even chortle, should I be so bold. Plus, I'm pretty familiar with things that southern women know, a lot of which just are not appropriate for sharing in a family friendly venue such as this. Those things, and also how to make really good tea, sweet or otherwise.

I digress.

With such expectations, you can imagine my dismay when I got two paragraphs in to this schmaltzy bull shit and realized it was about death and dying.

First there was that boy. The one I first loved at 15, who had tortured me through childhood until the day I realized I loved him. At too young of an age, pancreatic cancer snuck up, grabbed him by the neck and dragged him away to eternity. Next went my brother with a sudden stroke. A beloved uncle died 10 days later then Mama, oh dear, sweet Mama, went home to see her precious Jesus when an aneurysm erupted. Two other uncles have departed for their home in glory.

Now this is all really uplifting, of course, but it wasn't really the subject matter that bummed me out so excessively. It was catching sight of the phrase "Mama went home to see her precious Jesus."

Here is the thing about obituaries in the south. Every time I go home, I read the obituaries in our local newspaper, The Commercial Appeal, and every single time some lovely old grandmother of 17 named Fannie or Betty or Sallie Rae has passed on into the light to hold hands with Christ and sing "A Closer Walk With Thee" while St. Peter plays the ukulele and a chorus of angels does choreographed interpretive sign language. It seems that there is some sort of posthumous competition going on to see just how ridiculous and flowery and over the top these obituaries can be, and they never even give me the information I wanted to know in the first place, which was how the old broad even kicked the bucket to begin with.

Now before I go prep my inbox for the influx of hatemail I may be about to receive, let me clarify -- faith, spirituality, it's all beautiful, it's just not for me. I'm glad Sallie Rae was a 76-year member of the local M.B. church and that she always brought homemade chicken fried steak to the church potlucks. I just don't want to read about it in her obituary.

I'm a journalist, I can't help it. We don't use words like "passed on" or "passed away" or say things like "The Smith family lost Johnny on Sunday." He's dead. He died. And that's that. Straight, factual, succinct and to the point.

And so, I realized two things while reading "What Southern Women Know." 1.) I didn't know any of that stuff. And 2.) Maybe the reason for that has something to do with there being two kinds of southern women. There's the gentile, innocent ones, and then there's the ones like me. But the typical southern woman has the duality to be both, I thought, which reminded of a joke one of my co-workers told me yesterday that I felt summed up the juxtaposition perfectly.

What's a Southern Baptist?

Someone who doesn't drink around other Southern Baptists.


cheers,
elizabeth

now this is my kind of valentine

Happy Valentine's Day. Head here for more journalism-inspired V-Day greetings. And if you're really feeling festive, head over to The Tripwire to check out our writers' favorite love songs.


cheers,
elizabeth

reasons to love new york, no. 3

Every day when I come out of the subway station at 33th street to walk to the PATH train, the sugary-roasty-sweet-baby Jesus smell of the hot nuts stand on the corner of 33rd and 7th greets me sooner than the daylight as I walk up the stairs.

Also, you have to love that in New York, the number of situations in which you can totally appropriately use the phrase "hot nuts" is increased exponentially.


cheers,
elizabeth

Elizabeth's Most Infamous First (And Often, Last) Moves: Part II

Tonight we pick up where we left off last with my Valentine's Day gift to you: my personal shame and embarrassment.


1. During my freshman year of high school, I became deeply enamored with a boy named Chris, who I met through Model UN and would later be on newspaper staff with. At one point in the tumultuous two years during which I lived only for him, I confessed my feelings on loose leaf wide-rule notebook paper, folded it up and passed it off to one of my girlfriends who passed it off to him between classes. It was all very dramatic, but not anywhere near as dramatic as what occurred on Valentine's Day my freshman year. I had bought Valentine cards (actual greeting cards, not the little piddly ones that come in a box -- I was an ADULT, thankyouverymuch) for several of my friends. Chris was among the chosen few to receive one of my Valentines, but his was not like the others. Not only did I fill it with heart-shaped candy (Runts, I do believe), I also decided to express my feelings the best way I knew how: in song. I wrote out the entire chorus to Macy Gray's "I Try" on the back of the envelope, and would for at least several months after that time refer to it as "our song."

2. My sophomore year, I started sitting at the lunch table with my friend David and a group of people he knew. One of our lunchtable regulars was named Adam, who knew David from having been on the newspaper staff with him the year prior. I guess I always thought Adam was cute, but it was not until it was revealed that Adam did not have a date for the prom (and unanimously suggested by the table that we go as friends) that I truly tapped into my raging crush on him. So now, not only was I going to THE PROM as a sophomore, I was going to THE PROM with my crush. Again, the drama of it all was positively incontainable. For weeks before the prom, I practiced my "prom smile" in the mirror, so that our pictures would come out completely perfect and we could show our children and their children and talk about the magical night we fell in love underneath the artificial lighting of the Woodland Hills Country Club while dancing to "I'll Make Love to You" by Boyz II Men. Magical.

Of course, what actually happened is that I was setting up the prom smile as the shutter was going off, and thus the moment that was captured on film for all those generations of posterity has me looking something like a slack-jawed yokel, or a semi-conscious stroke victim. Additionally, my hair was in the awkward growing-out stage from a very short cut and was (it can't be avoided) just your basic mullet. So I put it in rollers, trying to cut down on the mullet-ness of it all, resulting in something that made me look like the white Diana Ross circa "Upside Down." The whole thing was disastrous enough on its own, were it not for the fact that I then decided before the end of the school year (because Adam was a senior, and going off to college) that I needed to confess my love for him, lest he leave never knowing what could have been! In case you're unfamiliar (read: male), it is necessary for me to explain that these types of events take an inordinate amount of planning. The perfect outfit must be planned in advance, along with the location, date, time and most importantly, the exact wording to be used. And if you have the mouth of the south like me, by the time this planned-in-advance extravaganza of confessions takes place, more than half the school will be fully apprised of the situation. So one afternoon at the end of the school day (after researching his schedule and patterns like a seasoned criminal), I was waiting outside the band room around the time I knew he would be walking by. I don't recall what those very important exact words were now, but I do know this -- as soon as I told him I liked him, I turned around, yanked open the band room door and yelled to the ten or so people hiding out inside, "I did it! Are you happy now!?" While he was still. standing. right. there.

3. My junior year was decidedly barren in the love department. This was likely because my self-imposed school wardrobe just about every day was in fact a pair of flannel pajama pants, brown leather sandals and some sort of snarky tee-shirt from Hot Topic. Yes, I was that kid. I hope we can still be friends.

4. During my senior year, I had a class with another boy named Adam who made me feel all wonky in my kneecaps. After flirting with him all semester (or at least, I thought I was flirting at the time, but based on other things I have since realized I may have just been looking at him cock-eyed) I decided it was time to make the first move. So what did I do? I was working at the local newspaper at the time, and got the brilliant idea to ask him to come with me to the office Christmas party. Because 17-year-olds do that. Actually, 35-year-old divorcees do that, but who's counting? It just so happened he knew some of the people I worked with already and was also a natural with stuff like that, so he humored me and we had a good time. Of course now when I look back at the pictures all I see is my yellow teeth (pre-teeth-bleaching) and a mess of yellow hair to match. I had apparently not yet figured out that what I thought was "blonde" hair dye was actually making me look like the Chiquita Banana lady. Tragic.


One time when I was in high school and came home crying over some thing or other I'd auditioned or applied for and didn't get, my mom told me that she admired me for never being afraid to just try. I had my heart broken a few times, but I always lived through it; the fact that I'm still standing after being knocked down just motivates me to keep making those first moves, in love and everything else in life. Even if the first moves are, like many of these, also last moves, they all taught me something -- so I'd be hard pressed to say they were bad moves.


happy valentine's day,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites, no. 1

Welcome to a new feature of Just A Girl In The World - Thursday Soundbites! Every Thursday I'm going to give you a little blurb about a band I've recently discovered, a song I'm into or a good gig I saw of an artist I think you should check out. Enjoy!

These guys are called Animal Collective. If you get around the indie rock blog-o-sphere, I apologize for inundating you again with praises for their latest album, Merriweather Post Pavillion. All the major indie pubs have been fighting each other for place in line at the altar to worship this album, and even New York Magazine has chimed in on the discussion.

So ultimately, my opinion is just another in a long line of ass kissing, but I'm going to dispense it anyway. This album is incredible. If you like electronic music, if you like thick textures of sound, and to make the recommendation a little more concrete for some, if you like MGMT -- you need to listen to this record. It is dense yet light, ephemeral and quixotic and yet extremely real, very grounded and lyrically tight.

This is "My Girls," one of my favorite tracks from the album.




cheers,
e. cawein

heartache, served southern style with sweet tea

I have a confession to make.

I used to believe that my only noticeably un-Southern trait was that -- and I hope I don't lose my True Southerner merit badge for this -- I don't particularly like sweet tea. I feel like I'd be better off just drinking sugar water, because that's what it tastes like, and I happen to enjoy the way tea tastes, all by its own self.

But it has recently come to my attention, thanks to the impending doom that is February 14, that my distaste for sweet tea is not, in fact, my only un-Southern trait. You see, we tend to err on the side of chivalry in the south. Gentlemen should open doors for ladies, gentlemen should pull out chairs for ladies, gentlemen should pay for a lady's meal, gentlemen should, well, behave like gentlemen. And this typically includes the notion that a lady should never be the one to make the first move or ask a gentleman out on a date.

I have never been a super big fan of that last little stipulation. (Though it should be noted that the other ones have never done me wrong. I can open my own door if necessary, but you can't blame a girl for enjoying a free meal.) And with Valentine's Day steadily approaching, I decided that instead of celebrating by eating an entire box of Thin Mints (God bless those damn Girl Scouts), I would share with you a compilation of my greatest and most embarrassing hits -- Elizabeth's Most Infamous First (And Often Last) Moves, Part I. Part II will follow tomorrow.

1. In the third grade, I fell deeply in love with a boy in my class named Grant Watson. For Valentine's Day, everyone in the class made a mailbox out of an old cereal box, and we all sent each other Valentine's. I took the opportunity to confess my undying love for Grant on what was probably a Little Mermaid Valentine card.

2. In fourth grade, the object of my affections was a boy named Jim, who at the time -- according to the gossip mill in Mrs. Spencer's class -- had a thing for this girl named Kacie. He even had his parents buy her roses and bring them to school for Valentine's Day. In case you're keeping track at home, we were 10 years old. But all these open displays of affection did not stop me from penning a very charming note on light blue stationery detailing my specific feelings for Jim, surely involving marriage and lots of babies. I passed this note in a manner I thought to be quite surreptitious, only to be caught in the act by Mrs. Spencer, who then uttered the words no note-passer wants to hear. "Do you want to share that with the class?" My heart was racing. I made up a rambling lie about something or other and all praises be to Allah, she did not make me read it aloud. Otherwise, I might be writing this blog from therapy.

3. In fifth grade, my boyfriend's name was Nathan Davis. This was a landmark relationship for me, considering that not only did I sneak away from my house on my bike to buy him baseball cards for Christmas (and got nothing in return, the deadbeat), I also ambush kissed him behind the storage shed on the playground one day at school. That evening he called me and told me that his mom said she thought maybe he should break things off with me because I wasn't a good influence on him. She might've been the first to say it, but she certainly wouldn't be the last.

4. In the sixth grade, I made a boyfriend out of a boy who'd been in my class for several years, Anthony Alexander. One day I was absent from school and when I returned, my girlfriends dutifully informed me that Anthony had (gasp!) asked Dominique to be his girlfriend while I was absent! Naturally, I broke things off with him immediately. He later told me that the only reason he asked her out was because he'd had a dream about her the night before convincing him he should, and had immediately regretted the decision when she said no. He knew we were meant to be. It would have all been very tragic were it not for the fact that three hours after said break up, I asked a boy named Danny to be my boyfriend. I don't recall his last name. Let's be real, I may not have even known it at the time. Danny later moved to California and gave me a necklace with a heart on it that I subsequently lost in the washing machine. Ah, true love.

5. In seventh grade, my boyfriend Tyler refused to go the Friday night dance with me because he was going on a fishing trip with his dad. So I went with my girlfriends. That night, on a dare, I asked the weirdest kid in our class to dance with me and he said yes. So like any good 13-year-old girl, I ran squealing to the other side of the gymnasium, where I ran into Ricky, a new kid in our class who I knew from band. I recounted for him the absolutely HORRIFIC tale of how OH. MY. GOD. Michael Welch almost touched me! And he was obviously concerned. The next song was a slow song, so we danced together and by the end of the dance were -- brace yourself! -- holding hands. It was all very scandalous, because I must remind you that I was still technically a taken woman. The whole thing was quite dramatic. By Monday Ricky and I were an item, and a few weeks later he would write me the most unintelligble love letter I have ever received, that I do believe included something about angels and having fallen from heaven, and I saved that letter in my scrapbook. It's under my bed, covered in dust.

6. About four weeks after that, I decided that my friend Stuart had a crush on me. Because I have always been so talented at discerning these types of things. And so, very prudently, I broke things off with Ricky to ask Stuart to be my boyfriend. When Stuart said no, I promptly tried to patch things up with Ricky. Unfortunately for me, he was not a complete idiot, and said, "You broke up with me for Stuart." My intelligent response? "Um, no I diiiiiidn't?"



Stay tuned for Part II: High School.

cheers,
e. cawein

when stuff runs out, and other nightmares of living alone

When you first start living on your own, away from your parents, you learn things. When I was a kid, I don't think I was aware that toilet paper physically could run out. Because it just. Never. Did. We definitely were never out of milk or cereal, and let's not even get started on ketchup. I think we all know how I feel about ketchup.

In the middle of the night last night when I got up to pee and used the last few squares on the roll of TP and went back to sleep, blissfully unaware, I did not anticipate that I would be cursing my own name just a few hours later while in the midst of something that, shall we say, requires toilet paper and found that said roll had been the very last one.

And you can imagine my further dismay when I remembered after arriving home tonight that I had forgotten to pick some up. We're in a state of emergency here until tomorrow morning.

Beyond that, I also managed to slice my index finger open tonight (while chopping onions, no less, and later very wisely chose to eat a juicy orange) only to find that we are out of both a.) paper towels and b.) band-aids.

Frighteningly (as it speaks to my priorities), the only item that never goes out of stock in my home, even now that I'm living on my own, is ketchup. I'm only a little embarrassed to admit that, mostly because I think I've opined about my love for ketchup previously on this blog. (See exhibit A.) But the most frightening bit about all this is what I learned when I was living truly by myself in my little bedsit in London. I was, in fact, the only person consuming said ketchup (here I have a roommate who, though seldom, might dabble in the catsup from time to time) and came to discover that when left to my own devices, I went through one bottle of ketchup each week.

14 ounces of ketchup. Two ounces every day. Some people would find this disconcerting. I am thankful the number wasn't twice that, and also happen to have it on good authority that ketchup is made directly from tomatoes.

Last I checked, fruits and vegetables were good for you. So. There.


cheers,
e. cawein

reasons to love new york, no. 2

Walking back to the train station from my Vagina Monologues meeting tonight, the weather was unseasonably warm, the sky was clear, and through the still-naked trees surrounding central park I could see across to the east side. Beautiful.


cheers,
e. cawein

day sleeper

Before I set off for England in the summer of 2005, I remember reading in a guide book of some sort that you could tell locals from tourists on the tube based on who was reading and who wasn't. This, of course, is a ridiculously grand generalization that assumes that every English person who uses public transportation does so while reading a book or newspaper. Or that all of those people are even literate in the first place.

At the time, though, I took the advice to heart and always carried reading material with me on the train for my morning and evening commutes. What I quickly learned was that a.) the guide book was a dirty, dirty liar and b.) I am near enough to completely incapable of staying awake in a moving vehicle.

I tried to be a 'local' and read my book on the train for a few days. But inevitably, about five minutes into the train journey, my eyelids would get heavy and my head would start to bob down, my chin hitting my chest and waking me up. So I just gave in. As I recall, I was able to break the pattern only for a short time, while I was enthralled with Pride and Prejudice, which is nothing but a testament to Jane Austen's incredible skills. Because I need to make one thing clear right now. I am not exaggerating about the vehicular narcolepsy.

During my freshman year of college, before I had a car with me at school, I regularly hitched rides with people who lived in Memphis to go home on weekends. I always tried to be a good passenger, to stay awake and chat during the drive, and I usually lasted about half an hour, maybe 45 minutes. Then, bam. Zzzzzz. I have to admit, I always felt like such an idiot for not being able to stay awake and carry on a conversation during a two-and-a-half hour car ride. I have met other people who cannot do this, either, but they are all under the age of four.

Now, I don't fight it. I shove my way into the subway car first in the mornings to make sure I can grab a seat (preferably an end seat, so I can lean), press play on the iPod (a pre-selected list of songs chosen specifically for train napping), close my eyes and let the motion rock me to sleep. Some mornings, I sort of half-way doze, but some mornings (and often in the evenings) I fall into a sleep so deep it disorients me. And on those occasions, I always dream. Sometimes in one 22-minute trip from Journal Square to midtown Manhattan I can have three or four different dreams.

Today, though, I had a very particular kind of dream. It was, um, a dirty dream. And then I woke up. In a train car during morning rush hour, slammed full of people, people who I couldn't help but suspect all somehow telepathically knew what had just been running through my mind. And since I was seated, about four random crotches were staring me straight in the face.

It was kind of awkward.


cheers,
e. cawein

forget-me-nots

I am an obsessive list-maker. I make lists about everything, including planning out every day in a given week down to the half-hour based on what I will be doing and listing the tasks I have to accomplish in each block of time. I've been doing this at least since college, making lists and notes all over any spare piece of paper (or a constantly open word document on my laptop), and I can tell you exactly why.

If I don't write it down, I will forget it. I forget everything. I really wish I didn't. I really wish I could tell you that I have this killer memory (and I do, for some things, like faces and names and album release dates and early 90s TV trivia), but when it comes to the basics of "don't forget your car keys" or "pick up some milk" or "must do X, Y and Z before I leave the house in the morning," I'm just no good.

All of this explains why my digital camera, instead of being with me at 221 Summit Ave., Jersey City, is instead in the Colonial Club House at Princeton University in Princeton, NJ. I was there on Saturday night after spending the night in glorious Alpha, NJ, with my friend (and former mayor of Alpha) Harry, a trip I had documented ever so dutifully on said camera so that I could report all of its happenings back to you. Here.

But since that camera was left sitting on a table (along with my gray cardigan sweater) at the Colonial Club on Saturday, I cannot do that. So instead I thought I would share with you a few other times my forgetfulness has caused me a bit of trouble, like the time I left my clarinet at home on the day of concert festival in middle school. On the day of my ill-fated try out for the Elmore Park Middle School cheerleading squad, I left my backpack in my homeroom class over night. With all my homework in it.

In elementary school, I went to the bowling alley with some friends and then to a slumber party, and never saw my purse again after that night. God only knows where I left that thing. One summer moving out of the dorms in college, I left my really beautiful digital scale in the bathroom, never to be seen again.

But probably the cake-topper on all those is the time I went to Louisville to speak at a high school media convention, just before the end of my junior year of college. Joe (my adviser) and I were there less than 24 hours -- drove to Louisville, got into our rooms, had dinner, went to bed, got up, did the conference, drove home. And in that time, I managed to leave literally every toiletry item I brought with me in that hotel bathroom. Brand new shaving cream, Mach 3 razor (don't judge me), brand new Herbal Essences shampoo and conditioner, body wash, etc. Every. Last. Bit of it. Left as a very over the top gift to the cleaning staff, of whom I apparently was extremely appreciative.

Blerg. Here's to forgetting, and to the stories from Alpha you'll get when my camera returns to me in two weeks.

cheers,
e. cawein