4.30.2009
thursday soundbites, no. 12
This video was playing on a loop in the office last week -- it's Matt and Kim's "Lessons Learned," and not only is it an oddly transfixing video experience, it's also pretty decent music.
We posted the video on The Tripwire the day it premiered on MTV, and when I went to Matt and Kim's MySpace I stayed for a while and listened to some of their other stuff. "Lessons Learned" is a good tune -- solid hook, really catchy, infectious -- but my favorite by far is a song called "Daylight," which pairs synth with kick drum with bass and puts them underneath an elementary-sounding, tinny upright piano melody that's echoed in the voice to create three minutes that make me want to dance right out of my skin.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.28.2009
sweating like a hooker in a southern baptist church
I feel like once a long time ago back in some science class I was taught that species adapted to their environments. Survival of the fittest. If you can't take the heat, you get out of the kitchen. In this case, mostly because you're dead.
So if you're raised somewhere really hot, you should be able to take the heat, right? Wrong.
I spent 18 solid years of my life, and a good chunk of time since then, in Memphis, Tennessee, home of the 110 degree summers with 105 percent humidity that'll knock you dead just for daring to walk out of your front door at 7 in the morning. When you live somewhere that has summer heat advisories that simply say "Don't go outside," you'd think you'd be used to the high temperatures. 85 degrees and 40 percent humidity would feel like a walk in the park, a pic nic, a cool breeze up your skirt!
Well, let me tell you. It does not. And I don't care what I might've been through in the past, every time I'm hot and sweaty it feels like that very instant is the absolute hottest I have EVER BEEN in my life and I cannot imagine how I could possibly be hotter without dropping dead RIGHT THERE.
It is entirely possible that I'm being a big baby. It certainly would not be the first time and it definitely won't be the last. But in my defense, I have to offer this very important piece of information: there is no air conditioning in my apartment. Which means no relief at night. No sweet release after a long walk home from the train station. No cold air hitting your face as you walk in the door, no little voice in your head reminding you that WE ARE NOT AIR CONDITIONING THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
It reminds me of the way my freshman roommate and I used to lie around our dorm room in our bras and underwear in October when they decided it was cool enough to turn the A/C off, or in April when they decided it just wasn't quite hot enough to turn it on yet. Or, even worse, the two weeks of actual summer in England that I passed on the third floor of the Gordos home back in 2005, when I took cold baths every night and draped cold, wet rags over myself to try to sleep at night.
So no, I cannot stand the heat. And I would really like to get out of the kitchen. But can I just stand in front of the freezer for a few minutes first?
cheers,
elizabeth
So if you're raised somewhere really hot, you should be able to take the heat, right? Wrong.
I spent 18 solid years of my life, and a good chunk of time since then, in Memphis, Tennessee, home of the 110 degree summers with 105 percent humidity that'll knock you dead just for daring to walk out of your front door at 7 in the morning. When you live somewhere that has summer heat advisories that simply say "Don't go outside," you'd think you'd be used to the high temperatures. 85 degrees and 40 percent humidity would feel like a walk in the park, a pic nic, a cool breeze up your skirt!
Well, let me tell you. It does not. And I don't care what I might've been through in the past, every time I'm hot and sweaty it feels like that very instant is the absolute hottest I have EVER BEEN in my life and I cannot imagine how I could possibly be hotter without dropping dead RIGHT THERE.
It is entirely possible that I'm being a big baby. It certainly would not be the first time and it definitely won't be the last. But in my defense, I have to offer this very important piece of information: there is no air conditioning in my apartment. Which means no relief at night. No sweet release after a long walk home from the train station. No cold air hitting your face as you walk in the door, no little voice in your head reminding you that WE ARE NOT AIR CONDITIONING THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
It reminds me of the way my freshman roommate and I used to lie around our dorm room in our bras and underwear in October when they decided it was cool enough to turn the A/C off, or in April when they decided it just wasn't quite hot enough to turn it on yet. Or, even worse, the two weeks of actual summer in England that I passed on the third floor of the Gordos home back in 2005, when I took cold baths every night and draped cold, wet rags over myself to try to sleep at night.
So no, I cannot stand the heat. And I would really like to get out of the kitchen. But can I just stand in front of the freezer for a few minutes first?
cheers,
elizabeth
4.26.2009
when cleanliness is definitely next to impossible
Allow me to paint you a picture.
It's Saturday afternoon. I've just gotten home from my work out, I'm covered in sweat and ready to peel off my clothes and get in the shower to get ready for my second date with Bachelor Numero Uno. I turn the faucet in the kitchen to refill our water pitcher, only to find that we have no water.
This is clearly problematic.
I call my roommate, who calls the landlord. No response. I wait. I wait some more. Finally, after about an hour I hear water running in the bathroom. Relieved, I assume that the water's back on and we're go for launch. I get in the shower, get my hair lathered up with shampoo, turn around to grab the soap and the unthinkable happens. The sound of the water running through the pipes gets quieter, and all I can do is watch in horror as the pressure weakens and the last little drops of water drip out. Because it seemed like the constructive thing to do, I yell for a good few minutes directly at the shower head, begging it to pretty pretty PLEASE WITH CHERRIES ON TOP start working again. No dice.
Finally, I give up and get out of the shower, my hair still soapy. I send a text to BNU to apprise him of the situation. And that's when things really got ridiculous.
I hear the water again. I make a mad dash for the bathroom, whacking my elbow into the door frame as I swerved around the corner in my haste to leap back into the tub. This time I know I can't take the water for granted, so I'm moving quickly. I rinse and re-shampoo, I throw on conditioner and I start frantically shaving a leg. And right there, Mach 3 in mid-glide over my calf, half my leg covered in shaving cream and my hair saturated with conditioner, the water once again trickles to a stop. I think this time my reaction involved less begging and sounded more like this: Really? REALLY? Are you (MANY MANY EXPLETIVES DELETED).
At this point I'm desperate. What does conditioner do when left in your hair to dry? Would my scalp crust over? Would my hair become one giant soapy brick? Would I spend the next week trying to rinse out all that slime? I took the last bit of water left in the pitcher (ice cold from the fridge) and tried to use it to rinse my hair. Mostly that just resulted in me awkwardly flinging water against the side of the sink and missing my locks by a disturbing long shot.
About 20 minutes later the water finally returned, just long enough for me to finish my shower and shave my legs with such frantic fear that I sliced myself open in at least three different places. Two hours behind schedule, I met up with BNU for our second date. Things you should know about the evening:
1. We went bowling. I love to bowl. My first date ever with my first boyfriend ever also involved a trip to a bowling alley; however, this boy made the cardinal mistake of not telling me that we would be hitting up the lanes, and I was not appropriately dressed for such an occasion. I blocked out most of that game, probably since I spent a large part of it pulling down my sweater and yanking up my pants.
2. My theory about improving as a bowler after ingesting a certain amount of beer is only actually true for about four frames during the middle of the second game. Before that point, I haven't had enough beer, and after that point I've apparently had just enough to wail one into the gutter and then put up a sporting argument for my claim that bowling is actually one of those sports where the low score wins. You didn't know that, either?
3. I need you to take what I'm about to tell you extremely literally. Because after having told this story three times, and even prefacing it with that very warning two of those three times, I find people still have a hard time understanding what I'm trying to say, probably because they are filthy, filthy sinners whose minds are in the gutter, right down there with Satan. Ahem: After we went bowling, BNU and I went to Queens, where I had for the first time a Colombian hot dog. (Take as long as you need with that one.) It's topped with a green sauce and a pink sauce -- the green one tasting sort of like pickles and the pink one vaguely resembling special sauce -- and then sprinkled on top with crushed potato chips. I know, that doesn't sound right, but trust me. It was yummy. Or however you say that in Spanish.
cheers,
elizabeth
It's Saturday afternoon. I've just gotten home from my work out, I'm covered in sweat and ready to peel off my clothes and get in the shower to get ready for my second date with Bachelor Numero Uno. I turn the faucet in the kitchen to refill our water pitcher, only to find that we have no water.
This is clearly problematic.
I call my roommate, who calls the landlord. No response. I wait. I wait some more. Finally, after about an hour I hear water running in the bathroom. Relieved, I assume that the water's back on and we're go for launch. I get in the shower, get my hair lathered up with shampoo, turn around to grab the soap and the unthinkable happens. The sound of the water running through the pipes gets quieter, and all I can do is watch in horror as the pressure weakens and the last little drops of water drip out. Because it seemed like the constructive thing to do, I yell for a good few minutes directly at the shower head, begging it to pretty pretty PLEASE WITH CHERRIES ON TOP start working again. No dice.
Finally, I give up and get out of the shower, my hair still soapy. I send a text to BNU to apprise him of the situation. And that's when things really got ridiculous.
I hear the water again. I make a mad dash for the bathroom, whacking my elbow into the door frame as I swerved around the corner in my haste to leap back into the tub. This time I know I can't take the water for granted, so I'm moving quickly. I rinse and re-shampoo, I throw on conditioner and I start frantically shaving a leg. And right there, Mach 3 in mid-glide over my calf, half my leg covered in shaving cream and my hair saturated with conditioner, the water once again trickles to a stop. I think this time my reaction involved less begging and sounded more like this: Really? REALLY? Are you (MANY MANY EXPLETIVES DELETED).
At this point I'm desperate. What does conditioner do when left in your hair to dry? Would my scalp crust over? Would my hair become one giant soapy brick? Would I spend the next week trying to rinse out all that slime? I took the last bit of water left in the pitcher (ice cold from the fridge) and tried to use it to rinse my hair. Mostly that just resulted in me awkwardly flinging water against the side of the sink and missing my locks by a disturbing long shot.
About 20 minutes later the water finally returned, just long enough for me to finish my shower and shave my legs with such frantic fear that I sliced myself open in at least three different places. Two hours behind schedule, I met up with BNU for our second date. Things you should know about the evening:
1. We went bowling. I love to bowl. My first date ever with my first boyfriend ever also involved a trip to a bowling alley; however, this boy made the cardinal mistake of not telling me that we would be hitting up the lanes, and I was not appropriately dressed for such an occasion. I blocked out most of that game, probably since I spent a large part of it pulling down my sweater and yanking up my pants.
2. My theory about improving as a bowler after ingesting a certain amount of beer is only actually true for about four frames during the middle of the second game. Before that point, I haven't had enough beer, and after that point I've apparently had just enough to wail one into the gutter and then put up a sporting argument for my claim that bowling is actually one of those sports where the low score wins. You didn't know that, either?
3. I need you to take what I'm about to tell you extremely literally. Because after having told this story three times, and even prefacing it with that very warning two of those three times, I find people still have a hard time understanding what I'm trying to say, probably because they are filthy, filthy sinners whose minds are in the gutter, right down there with Satan. Ahem: After we went bowling, BNU and I went to Queens, where I had for the first time a Colombian hot dog. (Take as long as you need with that one.) It's topped with a green sauce and a pink sauce -- the green one tasting sort of like pickles and the pink one vaguely resembling special sauce -- and then sprinkled on top with crushed potato chips. I know, that doesn't sound right, but trust me. It was yummy. Or however you say that in Spanish.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.24.2009
screw five minutes, i want at least a half hour
The other night I'm lying in bed, watching Late Night with Jimmy Fallon, thinking about my school girl crush on Saturday Night Live's Seth Meyers, who was chatting with Jimmy on that particular episode, when I started thinking about how much I'd like to sit and chat with Jimmy -- or Conan, or Jay -- and say funny anecdotal things and be sparkling and charming and loved and adored by many.
Naturally, this reminded me of the lifelong dream that I do believe I share with almost every single solitary woman in the United States, and perhaps large portions of the global community: to be a guest on the Oprah Winfrey show.
I think we have this dream for two primary reasons. The first one being our inexplicable but unquestionable love for all things Oprah, and the second one being that it's not that far-fetched to think you might, one day in your life, be asked to appear on the show. She's forever having some pretty real women on that couch with her, and by that I of course mean tramps who are not half as good looking and talented as we are who somehow wound up on national TV anyway. You don't necessarily have to be famous to be on Oprah, but you gotta do something worth talking about. Then Oprah makes you famous, and then you get to chat up late night talk show hosts.
And you know what y'all, let's be honest. I want to be famous. I'm tired of being one of those people who tries to act like all that stuff doesn't matter to them. Why lie? It's like the new ballad I'm working on, called "Buy Me Things (A Love Song)." You gotta say what you want if you want to get it, so here it is: I want to be famous. Don't even know what for, don't even care.
And y'all, I don't even need to be "rich and famous." Sure, it'd be nice to be rich, but consider this. Want to go to that expensive bar downtown with the $800 bottles of champagne and all the pretty people with fake hair? If you're rich, you can go because you're able to afford it. If you're famous? You don't ever see the bill! This sounds like a much better plan to me.
Now I just have to figure out what the hell I'm going to do to get myself famous. This is something I have dedicated a lot of thought to over the past several years, mostly due to that insatiable need to be on Oprah. One time back in high school I even sent a letter to Oprah's producers about one thing or another that I thought was pretty noteworthy, but they did not seem to agree with my perspective on this particular issue.
I've been known to do lots of things that have been known to make people famous -- writing, playing instruments, singing, acting -- but none of these have worked for me thus far. I was hoping this little blog might help me achieve this extremely important goal, but so far that is not working out as planned. I know the kind of stuff that would be sure-fires to get me there, but the thing is, I just do not have time to be adopting kids from Russia or starting a charity or miraculously surviving a near-death incident and finding Jesus. I just don't. All I really have time to do is make an ass of myself (repeatedly) and write about it on the internet. Frankly, I am not above that. But we already knew this.
But then the other morning I was watching a clip of one of my favorite writers, Jill Connor Browne, on the Today Show just-a-chattin' with Hoda and Kathie Lee. And it occurred to me that -- other than being a successful author, a role to which I've always had aspirations -- Jill is also an Ambassador Of The South. There were several times during the segment that Kathie Lee and Hoda, those yankee tramps, just looked at Jill like she had lost her marbles. It was so very clear that they just DID NOT GET HER, the way I often feel that people up here JUST DON'T GET ME.
What better way to be famous than as an Ambassdor of all that is good in the world? I am hearby proclaiming myself an unofficial Ambassador Of The South, mostly just unofficial for now because you never know when something you think you just made up might turn out to be a real thing, and I don't have time to be sued.
Unless, of course, it got me on TV.
cheers,
elizabeth
Naturally, this reminded me of the lifelong dream that I do believe I share with almost every single solitary woman in the United States, and perhaps large portions of the global community: to be a guest on the Oprah Winfrey show.
I think we have this dream for two primary reasons. The first one being our inexplicable but unquestionable love for all things Oprah, and the second one being that it's not that far-fetched to think you might, one day in your life, be asked to appear on the show. She's forever having some pretty real women on that couch with her, and by that I of course mean tramps who are not half as good looking and talented as we are who somehow wound up on national TV anyway. You don't necessarily have to be famous to be on Oprah, but you gotta do something worth talking about. Then Oprah makes you famous, and then you get to chat up late night talk show hosts.
And you know what y'all, let's be honest. I want to be famous. I'm tired of being one of those people who tries to act like all that stuff doesn't matter to them. Why lie? It's like the new ballad I'm working on, called "Buy Me Things (A Love Song)." You gotta say what you want if you want to get it, so here it is: I want to be famous. Don't even know what for, don't even care.
And y'all, I don't even need to be "rich and famous." Sure, it'd be nice to be rich, but consider this. Want to go to that expensive bar downtown with the $800 bottles of champagne and all the pretty people with fake hair? If you're rich, you can go because you're able to afford it. If you're famous? You don't ever see the bill! This sounds like a much better plan to me.
Now I just have to figure out what the hell I'm going to do to get myself famous. This is something I have dedicated a lot of thought to over the past several years, mostly due to that insatiable need to be on Oprah. One time back in high school I even sent a letter to Oprah's producers about one thing or another that I thought was pretty noteworthy, but they did not seem to agree with my perspective on this particular issue.
I've been known to do lots of things that have been known to make people famous -- writing, playing instruments, singing, acting -- but none of these have worked for me thus far. I was hoping this little blog might help me achieve this extremely important goal, but so far that is not working out as planned. I know the kind of stuff that would be sure-fires to get me there, but the thing is, I just do not have time to be adopting kids from Russia or starting a charity or miraculously surviving a near-death incident and finding Jesus. I just don't. All I really have time to do is make an ass of myself (repeatedly) and write about it on the internet. Frankly, I am not above that. But we already knew this.
But then the other morning I was watching a clip of one of my favorite writers, Jill Connor Browne, on the Today Show just-a-chattin' with Hoda and Kathie Lee. And it occurred to me that -- other than being a successful author, a role to which I've always had aspirations -- Jill is also an Ambassador Of The South. There were several times during the segment that Kathie Lee and Hoda, those yankee tramps, just looked at Jill like she had lost her marbles. It was so very clear that they just DID NOT GET HER, the way I often feel that people up here JUST DON'T GET ME.
What better way to be famous than as an Ambassdor of all that is good in the world? I am hearby proclaiming myself an unofficial Ambassador Of The South, mostly just unofficial for now because you never know when something you think you just made up might turn out to be a real thing, and I don't have time to be sued.
Unless, of course, it got me on TV.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.23.2009
thursday soundbites, no. 11
This week's Soundbite comes from one of my all-time favorite musicians, the incomparable singer, songwriter and pianist Ben Folds. But the music I want to tell you about isn't really Ben. Well, it's his music -- he's just not the one singing it.Back around October of last year, Ben issued a call on his web site for university a capella groups to send in footage or mp3 files of their original arrangements of Ben Folds (or Ben Folds Five) songs. In a post on his site, he talked about how he'd been surfing around YouTube and stumbled on a plethora of videos of a capella groups doing his music -- he was impressed, and he wanted to hear more.
He collected submissions for a few months, selected a small group of finalists and set out to create an album of his songs performed by these a capella groups. The finished product hits the shelves next Tuesday, April 28, and it is incredible. You can listen to the full album here -- my favorites are songs like "Magic," "Jesusland," and "You Don't Know Me," that require the recreation of a complex instrumental melody through vocals alone. Unquestionably, that's the most impressive thing about any a capella performance; the students who arranged these songs forever have my admiration and awe. This project, in general, is very representative of what I love so much about Ben as an artist: he is innovative, creative and always ready and willing to try something so off the wall, so odd, that it might be a flop. Or, it might be magic.
Check out this behind-the-scenes video of the recording of "You Don't Know Me" for the album.
Ben Folds on iLike - Get updates inside iTunes
cheers,
elizabeth
4.22.2009
how to avoid getting offed on your first date
Remember how I said I might try internet dating again? CREEPERTOWN, population Philip Markoff. Maybe not.
Now, before I say what I'm about to say, I need to make one thing clear. I would never blame a crime on its victim. We've been over this. HOWEVER. It would be inadvisable to go to a hotel room, that has doors and locks, Do Not Disturb signs and walls thick enough to muffle loud noises, smack in the middle of a building full of people who hear crazy shit all the time and probably just think you're into that kind of stuff, to have anonymous sex with a guy you don't know from a ham sandwich.
Back during the Internet Dating Fiasco of 2004, I had some pretty strict guidelines for circumstances under which I would meet or go out with guys I met on the web -- and this was Match.com, not the veritable melting pot of snake dancers, cannibals and other assorted grab-bag type crazies that is Craigslist.
Rule No. 1: Only agree to meet a guy in person after getting acquainted extensively online. I'm talking pictures (at least one good one of the face and one of the body), vital information (marital background, education, political views, musical tastes) and plenty of solid instant messenger conversations so I can determine that they have a decently quick wit, are able to type without spelling "your" as "UR" and are not prone to opening conversations with "hey girl."
Rule No. 2: When you do decide to meet, make sure it's in a well-lit, very public location where there are plenty of people around to hear you blow your rape whistle, and preferably a lot of moms, small children and 30-something women who look like they might carry mace or have passed a self-defense course. This place is also known as Starbucks.
Rule No. 3: Have a well-tweaked crazy-dar. You need that thing to start going off when the situation heads south, and you need early detection. Essentially you will need to be suspicious of everything he says or does for the entirety of the first date/meeting.
After my extremely well-lit meeting with my first Match.com suitor, we went on a second date to one of my favorite Memphis eateries, Bosco's. My crazy-dar should have gone off when he very openly shared with me that the sunglasses he was wearing were, in fact, stolen, but I think I was distracted by the dreaminess of his dreamy McDream-A-Little-Dreamy.
My second Match.com suitor and I decided to meet at one of my all-time favorite Midtown Memphis coffee shops, the Java Cabana. He told me he'd been there a million times, yet was shocked to learn that they do not accept credit or debit cards. As they never have. EVER. After I paid for our coffee, he proceeded to stare at my chest and talk awkwardly about his dysfunctional family in a very please-dear-GOD-not-on-a-first-date way. He did not draw attention to the staring by bringing it up in conversation, which is good because he was drawing enough attention to it by simply continuing to stare. So much. With the STARING.
I never went out on a second date with Scotty McStares-At-Your-Chest-Alots, and I later found out that old suitor number one had a bit of an unseemly habit, thus leading me to refer to him as Donny Drug User. These were some real winners.
Thankfully, though, I did live to blog about it all, and I have dabbled lightly in internet dating since then. I joined Match.com UK when I moved to London, and since I'm too lazy to unsubscribe to anything, I still receive e-mails every once in a while letting me know that Vijay from Kent or Raj from Surrey have "winked" at me. Vijay. Raj. If you're out there. I'm so sorry to break it to you this way -- it's not you. It's me.
Okay, it IS you.
cheers,
elizabeth
Now, before I say what I'm about to say, I need to make one thing clear. I would never blame a crime on its victim. We've been over this. HOWEVER. It would be inadvisable to go to a hotel room, that has doors and locks, Do Not Disturb signs and walls thick enough to muffle loud noises, smack in the middle of a building full of people who hear crazy shit all the time and probably just think you're into that kind of stuff, to have anonymous sex with a guy you don't know from a ham sandwich.
Back during the Internet Dating Fiasco of 2004, I had some pretty strict guidelines for circumstances under which I would meet or go out with guys I met on the web -- and this was Match.com, not the veritable melting pot of snake dancers, cannibals and other assorted grab-bag type crazies that is Craigslist.
Rule No. 1: Only agree to meet a guy in person after getting acquainted extensively online. I'm talking pictures (at least one good one of the face and one of the body), vital information (marital background, education, political views, musical tastes) and plenty of solid instant messenger conversations so I can determine that they have a decently quick wit, are able to type without spelling "your" as "UR" and are not prone to opening conversations with "hey girl."
Rule No. 2: When you do decide to meet, make sure it's in a well-lit, very public location where there are plenty of people around to hear you blow your rape whistle, and preferably a lot of moms, small children and 30-something women who look like they might carry mace or have passed a self-defense course. This place is also known as Starbucks.
Rule No. 3: Have a well-tweaked crazy-dar. You need that thing to start going off when the situation heads south, and you need early detection. Essentially you will need to be suspicious of everything he says or does for the entirety of the first date/meeting.
After my extremely well-lit meeting with my first Match.com suitor, we went on a second date to one of my favorite Memphis eateries, Bosco's. My crazy-dar should have gone off when he very openly shared with me that the sunglasses he was wearing were, in fact, stolen, but I think I was distracted by the dreaminess of his dreamy McDream-A-Little-Dreamy.
My second Match.com suitor and I decided to meet at one of my all-time favorite Midtown Memphis coffee shops, the Java Cabana. He told me he'd been there a million times, yet was shocked to learn that they do not accept credit or debit cards. As they never have. EVER. After I paid for our coffee, he proceeded to stare at my chest and talk awkwardly about his dysfunctional family in a very please-dear-GOD-not-on-a-first-date way. He did not draw attention to the staring by bringing it up in conversation, which is good because he was drawing enough attention to it by simply continuing to stare. So much. With the STARING.
I never went out on a second date with Scotty McStares-At-Your-Chest-Alots, and I later found out that old suitor number one had a bit of an unseemly habit, thus leading me to refer to him as Donny Drug User. These were some real winners.
Thankfully, though, I did live to blog about it all, and I have dabbled lightly in internet dating since then. I joined Match.com UK when I moved to London, and since I'm too lazy to unsubscribe to anything, I still receive e-mails every once in a while letting me know that Vijay from Kent or Raj from Surrey have "winked" at me. Vijay. Raj. If you're out there. I'm so sorry to break it to you this way -- it's not you. It's me.
Okay, it IS you.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.20.2009
the situation
I know that I'm not easy to live with.
My freshman year of college, the first time I ever had a roommate -- who, by the way, was my closest friend on campus at the time and an absolute BREEZE to live with -- I got so angry with her over the fact that she never pulled the curtains closed in front of her closet when she left in the morning that I actually confronted her about it. About curtains. Not being closed. It is a damn wonder I have gone this long without being institutionalized.
My sophomore year, when I was rooming with one of my sorority sisters, I accused her of eating my generic brand honey nut cheerios without asking me. Looking back on this incident I completely understand the expression of utter bewilderment on her face, because I feel similarly as I stare at 20-year-old me and say, honestly? Cheerios are that important? What. The. Fuck.
Luckily, since then I've gained a little perspective. And though I haven't been able to completely shed some of my obsessive tendencies, I at least know now to call a cheerio a cheerio and loosen up my sphincter just a tad when it comes to really stupid shit that's not worth bickering over.
However.
I presently live with a smoker. This does not bother me, I've spent much of my life around smokers. When we moved in together, she told me she smoked, but she would take it outside. I said that sounded good to me, we signed on the dotted line, and here we are about six rent checks later. In the past two months or so, I have started to bank on the fact that once a week, I will open the front door of my apartment only to swan dive directly into an ash tray vaguely masked with incense and air freshener. I never say anything, because she has friends over, and they're likable folks -- the last thing I want to do is be That Bitchy Roommate. I always tell myself I'm going to say something later, but I never do, mostly because save this weekly rendezvous, our paths rarely (if ever) cross.
Last night, however, the ash tray became the smokers' lounge at an airport, so full of gray cloud you wonder if there is any oxygen left in the room, or if it's all carbon dioxide and tar residue. Because my door is always closed, my room stays (relatively) unscathed, as long as I get in and out quickly and stuff a towel at the base of the door to block the draft. The worst part is that inevitably, this smokers' party occurs on Sundays, the day I work a nine hour shift and am desperate for something to eat and to crawl into bed. And preparing food in a smoke-filled kitchen is not my idea of a good time.
I've been that person who complained about every little (ridiculous) thing, and I am not that girl anymore -- but this definitely needs mentioning. The problem is that I've avoided these types of confrontations for so long that I'm not even sure how to broach it. The writer in me wishes I could just put a note under her door, but I'm not interested in winding up on Passive Aggressive Notes. So where do I go from here? Leave your best roommate advice in your comment.
cheers,
elizabeth
My freshman year of college, the first time I ever had a roommate -- who, by the way, was my closest friend on campus at the time and an absolute BREEZE to live with -- I got so angry with her over the fact that she never pulled the curtains closed in front of her closet when she left in the morning that I actually confronted her about it. About curtains. Not being closed. It is a damn wonder I have gone this long without being institutionalized.
My sophomore year, when I was rooming with one of my sorority sisters, I accused her of eating my generic brand honey nut cheerios without asking me. Looking back on this incident I completely understand the expression of utter bewilderment on her face, because I feel similarly as I stare at 20-year-old me and say, honestly? Cheerios are that important? What. The. Fuck.
Luckily, since then I've gained a little perspective. And though I haven't been able to completely shed some of my obsessive tendencies, I at least know now to call a cheerio a cheerio and loosen up my sphincter just a tad when it comes to really stupid shit that's not worth bickering over.
However.
I presently live with a smoker. This does not bother me, I've spent much of my life around smokers. When we moved in together, she told me she smoked, but she would take it outside. I said that sounded good to me, we signed on the dotted line, and here we are about six rent checks later. In the past two months or so, I have started to bank on the fact that once a week, I will open the front door of my apartment only to swan dive directly into an ash tray vaguely masked with incense and air freshener. I never say anything, because she has friends over, and they're likable folks -- the last thing I want to do is be That Bitchy Roommate. I always tell myself I'm going to say something later, but I never do, mostly because save this weekly rendezvous, our paths rarely (if ever) cross.
Last night, however, the ash tray became the smokers' lounge at an airport, so full of gray cloud you wonder if there is any oxygen left in the room, or if it's all carbon dioxide and tar residue. Because my door is always closed, my room stays (relatively) unscathed, as long as I get in and out quickly and stuff a towel at the base of the door to block the draft. The worst part is that inevitably, this smokers' party occurs on Sundays, the day I work a nine hour shift and am desperate for something to eat and to crawl into bed. And preparing food in a smoke-filled kitchen is not my idea of a good time.
I've been that person who complained about every little (ridiculous) thing, and I am not that girl anymore -- but this definitely needs mentioning. The problem is that I've avoided these types of confrontations for so long that I'm not even sure how to broach it. The writer in me wishes I could just put a note under her door, but I'm not interested in winding up on Passive Aggressive Notes. So where do I go from here? Leave your best roommate advice in your comment.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.19.2009
the dating game, minus chuck woolery
Things you should know about my date last night with Bachelor Number One (Numero Uno?) from Adventures in Speed Dating:
1. I had mushroom ravioli and a glass of pinot grigio. That's important, right? Or maybe I've just been hanging out with too many Jewish women, whose first question about any life event will inevitably be related to what type of food was consumed, and how much of it. Nonetheless, it was scrumptious.
2. After dinner, we walked to a nearby bar that had a rooftop terrace, sat outside and enjoyed the unseasonably warm night. We were seated next to three extremely drunk guys, one of whom raised his hand to me for a high five as soon as we sat down. Not one to turn down a good high five, I reciprocated. Then when he went for a second one a few minutes later, I told him that was his cut-off on the high fives. But the high-fives were the least of my worries, as he then proceeded to sit down next to me and ask me a series of vastly inappropriate and mildly embarrassing questions (like, "Who's this guy? Is this your boyfriend?"), which were followed by two instances of inappropriate touching. One of the incidents involved him caressing my back, me turning to face him and asking if he had a problem, and him looking off into the distance innocently like he was five and had just gotten caught with his thumb in the peanut butter. He might as well have been whistling and twiddling his thumbs.
3. While I didn't have any of my signature Out of Body Experiences during the course of the evening, thank Allah, the list of things I said or did that would probably land me on VH1's Tough Love is extensive, and includes, but is by no means limited to, talking at length about past relationships and describing in detail the way I behave when intoxicated, and even differentiating what kinds of behavior are caused by what types of alcohol.
4. Of all the myriad topics of discussion we touched on during our vast five minutes together at the speed dating event, you'll be shocked and appalled to learn that the exchange that stood out most in his mind was, drum roll please: my delightful stories of high school nerdery with my Model United Nations team. Christ. On. A. Bike.
5. Most importantly, I looked fabulous (hello), the food was great, the drinks were potent and the company was excellent. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night, indeed.
Stay tuned for more reports from the field.
cheers,
elizabeth
1. I had mushroom ravioli and a glass of pinot grigio. That's important, right? Or maybe I've just been hanging out with too many Jewish women, whose first question about any life event will inevitably be related to what type of food was consumed, and how much of it. Nonetheless, it was scrumptious.
2. After dinner, we walked to a nearby bar that had a rooftop terrace, sat outside and enjoyed the unseasonably warm night. We were seated next to three extremely drunk guys, one of whom raised his hand to me for a high five as soon as we sat down. Not one to turn down a good high five, I reciprocated. Then when he went for a second one a few minutes later, I told him that was his cut-off on the high fives. But the high-fives were the least of my worries, as he then proceeded to sit down next to me and ask me a series of vastly inappropriate and mildly embarrassing questions (like, "Who's this guy? Is this your boyfriend?"), which were followed by two instances of inappropriate touching. One of the incidents involved him caressing my back, me turning to face him and asking if he had a problem, and him looking off into the distance innocently like he was five and had just gotten caught with his thumb in the peanut butter. He might as well have been whistling and twiddling his thumbs.
3. While I didn't have any of my signature Out of Body Experiences during the course of the evening, thank Allah, the list of things I said or did that would probably land me on VH1's Tough Love is extensive, and includes, but is by no means limited to, talking at length about past relationships and describing in detail the way I behave when intoxicated, and even differentiating what kinds of behavior are caused by what types of alcohol.
4. Of all the myriad topics of discussion we touched on during our vast five minutes together at the speed dating event, you'll be shocked and appalled to learn that the exchange that stood out most in his mind was, drum roll please: my delightful stories of high school nerdery with my Model United Nations team. Christ. On. A. Bike.
5. Most importantly, I looked fabulous (hello), the food was great, the drinks were potent and the company was excellent. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night, indeed.
Stay tuned for more reports from the field.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.17.2009
ice cream and minor crimes
It got up to about 70 degrees today, and as I was strolling home from the train station this evening, on the way home from a band interview around dusk, I saw a line of cars stuck behind a very familiar white van -- the ice cream man.
The van was creeping down the street at an ungodly speed that made me pity the six or seven cars trapped behind it, all the while blasting that creepy music box-esque melody that sounds like something you'd hear in a psychological thriller movie just before someone scoops somebody's brains out and eats them out of a waffle cone.
And other than that charming image, it made me recall getting Flinstones push-pops and Mickey Mouse ice cream from the ice cream man back when I was a kid, way back when my family still lived in our house on Lyndale, in Midtown Memphis. I would be at my friend Matthew's house, and we would hear that music drifting into his backyard and we'd run in and beg his mom for quarters. And I remember a few times specifically that I knew I shouldn't be having ice cream, because I'd be leaving Matthew's house any minute to go home for dinner. But of course, being the goddess of self control that I have always been, I divulged my sweet tooth anyway and slurped down a red, white and blue bomb pop.
In order to cover my tracks, on the way home I stopped my bike next to a parked car at the end of my street, checking out my reflection in the window to make sure there was no tell-tale pink ring around my mouth, confessing my crime for me. I may have even stuck out my tongue to examine its color as well. I was a thorough detective. This pit-stop, however, would've been a very momentary pit-stop, considering that this was also the corner where I was routinely chased by a pack of wild, blood-thirsty, barking dogs (read: three highly domesticated, yapping dachshunds) as I rode past on my bike, rendering me terrified to come to a halt anywhere within 50 yards of the house where they lived.
In fact, those damn dogs scared the living bejesus out of me so very much that I, on at least one occasion, became hysterical with tears as I pedaled past their yard because I just knew. I just knew they were going to catch me and eat me alive or, even worse, chew the pom-poms from my handle bars, DEAR GOD THE HUMANITY. In my defense, I would like to note that I was making these assumptions about the motivations of three dogs whose combined weight probably didn't tip 50 lbs. with my five whole years of life experience. So cut me a little slack.
I will always remember the day I realized, all on my own accord, that if I just kept pedaling they would get bored and run (waddle quickly, really) back to their yard to prepare to yap at the next person who walked by. It's a lesson for life, really, except now you can replace weiner dogs with men of all ages and instead of barking, sub in "Sup boo. How you fillin?"
cheers,
elizabeth
The van was creeping down the street at an ungodly speed that made me pity the six or seven cars trapped behind it, all the while blasting that creepy music box-esque melody that sounds like something you'd hear in a psychological thriller movie just before someone scoops somebody's brains out and eats them out of a waffle cone.
And other than that charming image, it made me recall getting Flinstones push-pops and Mickey Mouse ice cream from the ice cream man back when I was a kid, way back when my family still lived in our house on Lyndale, in Midtown Memphis. I would be at my friend Matthew's house, and we would hear that music drifting into his backyard and we'd run in and beg his mom for quarters. And I remember a few times specifically that I knew I shouldn't be having ice cream, because I'd be leaving Matthew's house any minute to go home for dinner. But of course, being the goddess of self control that I have always been, I divulged my sweet tooth anyway and slurped down a red, white and blue bomb pop.
In order to cover my tracks, on the way home I stopped my bike next to a parked car at the end of my street, checking out my reflection in the window to make sure there was no tell-tale pink ring around my mouth, confessing my crime for me. I may have even stuck out my tongue to examine its color as well. I was a thorough detective. This pit-stop, however, would've been a very momentary pit-stop, considering that this was also the corner where I was routinely chased by a pack of wild, blood-thirsty, barking dogs (read: three highly domesticated, yapping dachshunds) as I rode past on my bike, rendering me terrified to come to a halt anywhere within 50 yards of the house where they lived.
In fact, those damn dogs scared the living bejesus out of me so very much that I, on at least one occasion, became hysterical with tears as I pedaled past their yard because I just knew. I just knew they were going to catch me and eat me alive or, even worse, chew the pom-poms from my handle bars, DEAR GOD THE HUMANITY. In my defense, I would like to note that I was making these assumptions about the motivations of three dogs whose combined weight probably didn't tip 50 lbs. with my five whole years of life experience. So cut me a little slack.
I will always remember the day I realized, all on my own accord, that if I just kept pedaling they would get bored and run (waddle quickly, really) back to their yard to prepare to yap at the next person who walked by. It's a lesson for life, really, except now you can replace weiner dogs with men of all ages and instead of barking, sub in "Sup boo. How you fillin?"
cheers,
elizabeth
4.16.2009
thursday soundbites, no. 10
I first discovered these guys -- Great Lake Swimmers -- back when I was working on my dissertation and spending an inordinate amount of time in the Brunel grad lab listening to LastFM. They kept popping up on several of my different LastFM radio stations of choice, from Ben Folds to Death Cab for Cutie or whatever other low-key acoustic thought rock I was digging on that particular day.Turns out, unlike the "People You May Know" tool on Facebook, the "Music You Might Like" tool actually works.
Great Lake Swimmers just released Lost Channels, and I'll actually be interviewing them for a feature on The Tripwire this Friday night. The video below is for the first single from the new album, called "Pulling On A Line." Enjoy.
Great Lake Swimmers - "Pulling On A Line"
cheers,
elizabeth
4.14.2009
reasons to love new york, no. 9
On a random, rainy Tuesday in April that was otherwise of no consequence or significance to anyone, I walked into the Barnes and Noble across the street from where I work, took a seat in the front of dozens of rows of chairs and listened to the distinctive New England accent of Joyce Carol Oates as she read aloud one of the stories from her new collection of fiction, Dear Husband.
No author has influenced or affected me as a writer and a person the way Oates has done; for every book of hers on my shelf there is a story of a time and a place (in the world and in my life) that I can recall vividly. Even certain songs that I listened to while reading her books will still remind me, years later, of very specific characters and I can recall in great detail how I'd pictured them in my mind, no strand of hair misplaced from that original imagined face.
Whether or not I stay in New York for too much longer might remain to be seen -- I haven't really made a habit in these past few years of staying in one place for very long, so why start now -- but the one thing I will never take for granted about this city and will always miss once I take my leave is moments like the one I experienced tonight. The best authors, musicians, artists of all sorts and types from across the country and across the globe never miss an opportunity to stop in the big apple. And as long as I can benefit from that, I will be very, very grateful.
Author's note: You will be happy and relieved to learn that I was surprisingly calm, well-spoken and fairly well normal in the presence of greatness this time around, and even got the chance to tell her that I'm a writer, and that her work has been hugely influential for me. I had kind of wanted to tell her that her book, Them, was one of the first books I ever reviewed for my high school newspaper, but we all know how those high school stories have been turning out for me lately. So I decided to hold off on that one. For now.
cheers,
elizabeth
No author has influenced or affected me as a writer and a person the way Oates has done; for every book of hers on my shelf there is a story of a time and a place (in the world and in my life) that I can recall vividly. Even certain songs that I listened to while reading her books will still remind me, years later, of very specific characters and I can recall in great detail how I'd pictured them in my mind, no strand of hair misplaced from that original imagined face.
Whether or not I stay in New York for too much longer might remain to be seen -- I haven't really made a habit in these past few years of staying in one place for very long, so why start now -- but the one thing I will never take for granted about this city and will always miss once I take my leave is moments like the one I experienced tonight. The best authors, musicians, artists of all sorts and types from across the country and across the globe never miss an opportunity to stop in the big apple. And as long as I can benefit from that, I will be very, very grateful.
Author's note: You will be happy and relieved to learn that I was surprisingly calm, well-spoken and fairly well normal in the presence of greatness this time around, and even got the chance to tell her that I'm a writer, and that her work has been hugely influential for me. I had kind of wanted to tell her that her book, Them, was one of the first books I ever reviewed for my high school newspaper, but we all know how those high school stories have been turning out for me lately. So I decided to hold off on that one. For now.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.13.2009
the next contestants on "date a crazy southern lady"
The results are in. And guys, I have to tell you. They're a little embarrassing. Of the five guys whose names I wrote down, only two returned my affections. And let's all put on our surprised faces for this demographic breakdown of the respondents: three white men vote "Nay" on dating me, while two non-white men vote "Yay."
I might be surprised, were this new information. Your Raj's, your Sandeep's, Jamaal's, Julio's and Abdullah's -- they love me. I am not entirely convinced that the four white guys I have been in relationships with up to this point are not the only white men in existence who would date me. I'm not trying to Sally Lo Self-Esteem you, I'm just being real. When I get "Ay mami'd" on the streets of Jersey City, it is not by an average-looking white boy trying to impress me with his foreign language skills.
The unfortunate thing is that, at this stage in the game, I pretty much know my type: geeky white guy. But here's the thing. The two guys who matched me are both attractive, intelligent guys -- one, of course, was Alejandro, and the other was the internal medicine doctor who works with old people -- and I would love nothing more than to let them buy me dinner, take me dancing and tell me I'm pretty. I didn't really go into this thing imagining I'd meet my future husband, so the hardcore diss I received from those three guys isn't really any skin off my nose. Besides, I like to imagine that there were a handful of other men who were heartbroken not to see my name in their inbox this evening.
So here we are: Alejandro (who, by the by, enlightened me on the meaning of the lyrics of Santana's "Oye Como Va," which you will be intrigued to learn has something to do with Carlos enjoying the taste of a mullatto girl) and Dr. Handsome. I wish now that I hadn't ever named Alejandro, so I could give him a fun nickname, too. Can we pretend I didn't? You'll have to help me come up with a name for him.
And while you're commenting, help me out with this little connundrum -- where do I go from here? I have e-mail addresses and phone numbers for both guys, but I wonder if I should make the first move, or wait for them. Clearly we both said that we were interested in each other, so it doesn't feel like the ball is technically more in one person's court than the other; I guess that's why I just reverted to my Southern roots and decided the boy should make the first move. Let me know what you think.
And finally, I must share this one last gem of Adventures in Speed Dating that I neglected to tell you about in the post-game show. During a conversation with one of several of my ESL dates last night, I was asked about my accent. This led to a conversation about ways in which I am southern, and I said something about southern women being different, that we have a very commanding presence. Mr. ESL wanted me to expound on this, and this, ladies and gentlemen, is (I swear to Christ) what came out of my mouth next: "You know that saying, 'If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy'? That's kind of it."
cheers,
elizabeth
I might be surprised, were this new information. Your Raj's, your Sandeep's, Jamaal's, Julio's and Abdullah's -- they love me. I am not entirely convinced that the four white guys I have been in relationships with up to this point are not the only white men in existence who would date me. I'm not trying to Sally Lo Self-Esteem you, I'm just being real. When I get "Ay mami'd" on the streets of Jersey City, it is not by an average-looking white boy trying to impress me with his foreign language skills.
The unfortunate thing is that, at this stage in the game, I pretty much know my type: geeky white guy. But here's the thing. The two guys who matched me are both attractive, intelligent guys -- one, of course, was Alejandro, and the other was the internal medicine doctor who works with old people -- and I would love nothing more than to let them buy me dinner, take me dancing and tell me I'm pretty. I didn't really go into this thing imagining I'd meet my future husband, so the hardcore diss I received from those three guys isn't really any skin off my nose. Besides, I like to imagine that there were a handful of other men who were heartbroken not to see my name in their inbox this evening.
So here we are: Alejandro (who, by the by, enlightened me on the meaning of the lyrics of Santana's "Oye Como Va," which you will be intrigued to learn has something to do with Carlos enjoying the taste of a mullatto girl) and Dr. Handsome. I wish now that I hadn't ever named Alejandro, so I could give him a fun nickname, too. Can we pretend I didn't? You'll have to help me come up with a name for him.
And while you're commenting, help me out with this little connundrum -- where do I go from here? I have e-mail addresses and phone numbers for both guys, but I wonder if I should make the first move, or wait for them. Clearly we both said that we were interested in each other, so it doesn't feel like the ball is technically more in one person's court than the other; I guess that's why I just reverted to my Southern roots and decided the boy should make the first move. Let me know what you think.
And finally, I must share this one last gem of Adventures in Speed Dating that I neglected to tell you about in the post-game show. During a conversation with one of several of my ESL dates last night, I was asked about my accent. This led to a conversation about ways in which I am southern, and I said something about southern women being different, that we have a very commanding presence. Mr. ESL wanted me to expound on this, and this, ladies and gentlemen, is (I swear to Christ) what came out of my mouth next: "You know that saying, 'If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy'? That's kind of it."
cheers,
elizabeth
the post-game show, part II
And we're back.
In this edition of the post-game show, I thought I'd give you a little more insight into the actual speed dating process. As I told you before, there were 15 gals and 14 guys. The night was broken up into three sets of five five-minute dates, with one girl unattended in each rotation. When I got to the venue at the start of the night, I signed in, picked up my name tag and went to the bar to claim my complimentary drink. I made quick friends with the gals at the bar sitting next to me, and about 20 minutes later the ladies were all escorted upstairs to take our seats on an array of couches. After we were settled, the guys came up and rotated around the room in a clockwise direction until every guy had spent five minutes with every girl.
My first date of the night was one of the many eastern European types in the crowd, so the natural awkwardness of the first date was exacerbated inordinately by the fact that he didn't speak super great English, was clearly nervous and not terribly inquisitive. But I still thought he was a nice guy who was polite, interesting and good looking. He didn't say anything that offended my sensibilities, like the guy who asked me what part of Tennessee he should visit if he ever goes. Naturally, I said Memphis, and began listing off its many charming qualities. When I said we had the world's best barbecue, he perked up a little. "Really?" he said. "Yeah," I said. "Known the world over, absolutely incomparable." And then he said, "Like, hamburgers and stuff?" They frown on verbal assault at speed dating events, so I calmly explained to him that barbecue comes from a pig, only a pig and nothing but a pig. Ever. End of story.
A few dates later I asked a guy why he'd come to speed dating. He told me, "to find the one." I may have snorted out loud.
Then there was the guy who owned a yacht company who talked flagrantly about money and also looked flagrantly at my chest. I'll forgive him the first few glances, because I realized that he was trying to read my name tag, which I was covering up with my crossed arms. But then, the following exchange took place:
And finally, the night would not have been complete without one of my world-famous out-of-body-experiences. In this episode of My Dumb Mouth, we watch as Elizabeth tells the cute guy from Colombia that she knows all about the country of Colombia because she once represented the nation in Model United Nations. People, I even went so far as to tell him how annoyed I was that the conference had misspelled the name of the country on our voting placards. As I floated outside myself, watching all of this dumb shit come flying out of my mouth, I thought, really? Really? You've got five whole minutes and THIS is what you've chosen to talk about. Your high school Model UN team. Really? Really?
Needless to say, if I ever decide to speed date again I will definitely put some of the things I learned last night into practice. I learned quickly that you have to get your vitals out of the way as fast as you can if you want to be able to have any sort of meaningful conversation and walk away actually knowing something about the guy. I would also have some better, more direct questions prepared and might even consider making a list to follow pretty strictly with each date. I only know the political affiliations of two guys I met last night; Alejandro was relieved to discover I was a democrat (after he'd already bought me a drink, brave boy) and Snotty Snotty Doctor Boy revealed his evil ways to me on one of our breaks, when he asked me how "Tennessee" felt about Obama and then went on some incoherent conservative rant. At that point I think I was so transfixed by the gleam of his snot bubble that I couldn't really concentrate on what he was saying, sort of like when someone has one of those big heinous relief-map type moles jutting out of their face that you look at for so long you start to hallucinate that the mole has a mouth and might actually try to eat you.
So there you have it, folks. And sadly, as of 4:36 p.m. there is still no e-mail in my inbox from our good friends at New York Minute Dates with the names of all my potential suitors. Rest assured that as soon as I receive them, you will be the first to know.
cheers,
elizabeth
In this edition of the post-game show, I thought I'd give you a little more insight into the actual speed dating process. As I told you before, there were 15 gals and 14 guys. The night was broken up into three sets of five five-minute dates, with one girl unattended in each rotation. When I got to the venue at the start of the night, I signed in, picked up my name tag and went to the bar to claim my complimentary drink. I made quick friends with the gals at the bar sitting next to me, and about 20 minutes later the ladies were all escorted upstairs to take our seats on an array of couches. After we were settled, the guys came up and rotated around the room in a clockwise direction until every guy had spent five minutes with every girl.
My first date of the night was one of the many eastern European types in the crowd, so the natural awkwardness of the first date was exacerbated inordinately by the fact that he didn't speak super great English, was clearly nervous and not terribly inquisitive. But I still thought he was a nice guy who was polite, interesting and good looking. He didn't say anything that offended my sensibilities, like the guy who asked me what part of Tennessee he should visit if he ever goes. Naturally, I said Memphis, and began listing off its many charming qualities. When I said we had the world's best barbecue, he perked up a little. "Really?" he said. "Yeah," I said. "Known the world over, absolutely incomparable." And then he said, "Like, hamburgers and stuff?" They frown on verbal assault at speed dating events, so I calmly explained to him that barbecue comes from a pig, only a pig and nothing but a pig. Ever. End of story.
A few dates later I asked a guy why he'd come to speed dating. He told me, "to find the one." I may have snorted out loud.
Then there was the guy who owned a yacht company who talked flagrantly about money and also looked flagrantly at my chest. I'll forgive him the first few glances, because I realized that he was trying to read my name tag, which I was covering up with my crossed arms. But then, the following exchange took place:
Him: I'm not trying to be rude, but I definitely like what I see.
Me: Nervous laughter.
Him: When a guy looks down like that, I mean I'm not going to be that guy who's rude and stares at your chest while I'm talking to you (he did) but when a guy looks, it's a compliment. We definitely are attracted to that.
Me: I know. I've had these for a while now.
And finally, the night would not have been complete without one of my world-famous out-of-body-experiences. In this episode of My Dumb Mouth, we watch as Elizabeth tells the cute guy from Colombia that she knows all about the country of Colombia because she once represented the nation in Model United Nations. People, I even went so far as to tell him how annoyed I was that the conference had misspelled the name of the country on our voting placards. As I floated outside myself, watching all of this dumb shit come flying out of my mouth, I thought, really? Really? You've got five whole minutes and THIS is what you've chosen to talk about. Your high school Model UN team. Really? Really?
Needless to say, if I ever decide to speed date again I will definitely put some of the things I learned last night into practice. I learned quickly that you have to get your vitals out of the way as fast as you can if you want to be able to have any sort of meaningful conversation and walk away actually knowing something about the guy. I would also have some better, more direct questions prepared and might even consider making a list to follow pretty strictly with each date. I only know the political affiliations of two guys I met last night; Alejandro was relieved to discover I was a democrat (after he'd already bought me a drink, brave boy) and Snotty Snotty Doctor Boy revealed his evil ways to me on one of our breaks, when he asked me how "Tennessee" felt about Obama and then went on some incoherent conservative rant. At that point I think I was so transfixed by the gleam of his snot bubble that I couldn't really concentrate on what he was saying, sort of like when someone has one of those big heinous relief-map type moles jutting out of their face that you look at for so long you start to hallucinate that the mole has a mouth and might actually try to eat you.
So there you have it, folks. And sadly, as of 4:36 p.m. there is still no e-mail in my inbox from our good friends at New York Minute Dates with the names of all my potential suitors. Rest assured that as soon as I receive them, you will be the first to know.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.12.2009
the post-game show
Around 3 p.m. this afternoon, I confessed to you that I was a little nervous about the whole speed dating thing. Two train rides, fourteen guys and three gin and tonics later, the nerves are gone, alcohol and honesty have set in and I'm ready to give you the full and unadulterated scoop on Adventures In Speed Dating.
The guys in attendance tonight were definitely a mixed bag -- there were Indians, Russians, Americans and even a Scot. There was a Lithuanian guy who seemed very nice but stared at me the way I imagine Charles Manson stared at Sharon Tate and her friends before they were all brutally massacred. And then there was the Sri Lankan doctor who talked with his eyes closed and continuously wiped at a large, gleaming bubble of snot hanging from his right nostril.
But then there were the winners of the bunch, like the guy who I talked to on my second "date" who I know virtually nothing about, mostly because we got into such a good conversation about the pros and cons of Pitchfork that I forgot to ask him how old he was or even what he does for a living. (Luckily for me, early in the night I'd made friends with the gals sitting next to me at the bar, and my friend Abha filled me in on his vitals during our next break.)
The one thing I realized quickly into the game was that each one of these dates would either be the longest or the shortest five minutes of my life. With Charles Manson, I was grasping for straws. He answered every question in three syllables and never asked me anything. And with Cutie McMusical, I couldn't even get his vitals. And then there was the five minute stretch in which I was left alone, because there were only 14 guys to match up with 15 girls -- let's not even go into how that exacerbates my aforementioned musical chairs fear -- during which I was chatted up by the guy running the event, who would've been super cute had it not been for the shadowy hair lining his upper lip like a dirty milk mustache.
At the end of the night, I wrote five guys down on my preferred matches list. The first was Cutie McMusical, the next was an internal medicine doctor who wants to work with old folks, then the Scottish boy, then a cute-but-awkward blond-headed boy who thought he went to college in the south, but actually went to college in Virginia (I quickly corrected him), then an Indian guy whose vital information is literally lost on me now, he made such an impact, and finally a Colombian guy named Alejandro. I mention Alejandro by name mostly because he deserves it, for all of his very serious effort. He hung around, chatted me up, bought me a drink and even displayed feelings of anguish when I said I had to leave because I had to work the next morning.
So we shall see what names land in my inbox tomorrow. Only the mutual matches will be e-mailed to me, so I'll never know who might've loved me and lost, but I will definitely know who hardcore dissed me. What you need to know now is that Vlad from Uzbekistan -- who told me the reason he came to America was to meet blonds named Elizabeth -- was very intrigued with the blogging, and wanted to be sure that I said only good things about him. As he left me to go on to his next date, he said particularly that I should mention his ten-inch you know. For the record, he did not say "you know."
You can recap with the full play-by-play on Twitter, and look for the full dish on all my matches tomorrow!
cheers,
elizabeth
The guys in attendance tonight were definitely a mixed bag -- there were Indians, Russians, Americans and even a Scot. There was a Lithuanian guy who seemed very nice but stared at me the way I imagine Charles Manson stared at Sharon Tate and her friends before they were all brutally massacred. And then there was the Sri Lankan doctor who talked with his eyes closed and continuously wiped at a large, gleaming bubble of snot hanging from his right nostril.
But then there were the winners of the bunch, like the guy who I talked to on my second "date" who I know virtually nothing about, mostly because we got into such a good conversation about the pros and cons of Pitchfork that I forgot to ask him how old he was or even what he does for a living. (Luckily for me, early in the night I'd made friends with the gals sitting next to me at the bar, and my friend Abha filled me in on his vitals during our next break.)
The one thing I realized quickly into the game was that each one of these dates would either be the longest or the shortest five minutes of my life. With Charles Manson, I was grasping for straws. He answered every question in three syllables and never asked me anything. And with Cutie McMusical, I couldn't even get his vitals. And then there was the five minute stretch in which I was left alone, because there were only 14 guys to match up with 15 girls -- let's not even go into how that exacerbates my aforementioned musical chairs fear -- during which I was chatted up by the guy running the event, who would've been super cute had it not been for the shadowy hair lining his upper lip like a dirty milk mustache.
At the end of the night, I wrote five guys down on my preferred matches list. The first was Cutie McMusical, the next was an internal medicine doctor who wants to work with old folks, then the Scottish boy, then a cute-but-awkward blond-headed boy who thought he went to college in the south, but actually went to college in Virginia (I quickly corrected him), then an Indian guy whose vital information is literally lost on me now, he made such an impact, and finally a Colombian guy named Alejandro. I mention Alejandro by name mostly because he deserves it, for all of his very serious effort. He hung around, chatted me up, bought me a drink and even displayed feelings of anguish when I said I had to leave because I had to work the next morning.
So we shall see what names land in my inbox tomorrow. Only the mutual matches will be e-mailed to me, so I'll never know who might've loved me and lost, but I will definitely know who hardcore dissed me. What you need to know now is that Vlad from Uzbekistan -- who told me the reason he came to America was to meet blonds named Elizabeth -- was very intrigued with the blogging, and wanted to be sure that I said only good things about him. As he left me to go on to his next date, he said particularly that I should mention his ten-inch you know. For the record, he did not say "you know."
You can recap with the full play-by-play on Twitter, and look for the full dish on all my matches tomorrow!
cheers,
elizabeth
what the eff did i get myself into
The countdown to Adventures In Speed Dating has now reached the single-digit-hours level. We are closing in. And I am starting to get just a teensy bit nervous.
I recognize that the entire point of speed dating is that there is zero reason to be nervous. There is absolutely no pressure. The whole scenario was designed to remove it, and to make things so black and white that nerves should not even be in the picture.
But I'm still a little bit nervous.
Let's talk about Nervousness No. 1. The age range for tonight's event is women ages 21 to 35 and men ages 23 to 38. Both of those are pretty wide, and there is no way to guarantee what age range the men who attend tonight's particular event will actually fall into. Thus, I have this vision of sitting through five-minute date after five-minute date with 35-year-old guy after 35-year-old guy. Now don't get me wrong, I definitely go for older guys. But I think at this point in the game my cut-off is 30. I would prefer that there was never a time in either of our lives when one of us could have feasibly baby-sat the other, if that's not too much to ask.
Nervousness No. 2 is that I will be the one and only person in the history of speed dating to wake up tomorrow morning to an e-mail in my inbox saying, "We're sorry. You have not matched up with anyone!" It would be all too reminiscent of the time that I took the personality evaluation on E-harmony and was told that I was part of the three percent of the population that could not be matched. Ex-squeeze me?
Nervousness No. 3 is that the very fact that I have Nervousness No. 2 is a sure indicator that I am taking this all way too seriously. I keep reminding myself that this night is going to be entertaining, no matter what happens -- if I meet someone I like, great, but if not, surely I will meet enough weirdos to blog for weeks.
I'll be getting in the shower soon to begin the rituals of lady-hood necessary to prepare myself for the evening. Please feel free to comment with any last-minute words of wisdom, and don't forget to leave suggestions for the one question I should ask every guy I meet. I'll be live-Twittering in just a matter of hours, so hold on to your pants!
cheers,
elizabeth
I recognize that the entire point of speed dating is that there is zero reason to be nervous. There is absolutely no pressure. The whole scenario was designed to remove it, and to make things so black and white that nerves should not even be in the picture.
But I'm still a little bit nervous.
Let's talk about Nervousness No. 1. The age range for tonight's event is women ages 21 to 35 and men ages 23 to 38. Both of those are pretty wide, and there is no way to guarantee what age range the men who attend tonight's particular event will actually fall into. Thus, I have this vision of sitting through five-minute date after five-minute date with 35-year-old guy after 35-year-old guy. Now don't get me wrong, I definitely go for older guys. But I think at this point in the game my cut-off is 30. I would prefer that there was never a time in either of our lives when one of us could have feasibly baby-sat the other, if that's not too much to ask.
Nervousness No. 2 is that I will be the one and only person in the history of speed dating to wake up tomorrow morning to an e-mail in my inbox saying, "We're sorry. You have not matched up with anyone!" It would be all too reminiscent of the time that I took the personality evaluation on E-harmony and was told that I was part of the three percent of the population that could not be matched. Ex-squeeze me?
Nervousness No. 3 is that the very fact that I have Nervousness No. 2 is a sure indicator that I am taking this all way too seriously. I keep reminding myself that this night is going to be entertaining, no matter what happens -- if I meet someone I like, great, but if not, surely I will meet enough weirdos to blog for weeks.
I'll be getting in the shower soon to begin the rituals of lady-hood necessary to prepare myself for the evening. Please feel free to comment with any last-minute words of wisdom, and don't forget to leave suggestions for the one question I should ask every guy I meet. I'll be live-Twittering in just a matter of hours, so hold on to your pants!
cheers,
elizabeth
4.10.2009
the unmentionables
With just two days left until Adventures In Speed Dating, I have a little confession to make. (I haven't made one in a while, so I'm due, okay?) I haven't ever really done a lot of dating. At least not in this way, in the meet someone at a bar, chat them up, go on a traditional first, second, third, etc., date, learning more about the person as the relationship develops.
Instead, because I've spent most of my adult life in college (and most of that with access to Facebook) I was fairly well acquainted with the vitals of every boyfriend I've ever had well before our official "first date." I've known all the very important things I need to know before I'll even consider letting someone share my air space -- religious preferences, favorite sports teams, bands they love and bands that make them want to gouge their eyes out -- well before I had to decide whether or not I was actually interested in pursuing anything further.
And as we've discussed before, just because you meet a guy in a bar doesn't mean he's not a religious zealot or guarantee he could tell you which sport requires an orange ball and two round goals.
Since I am heinously prone to overthinking just about everything, you can imagine that I have already analyzed every speed-dating strategy for illuminating these types of facts early in the game without seeming like, well, that person. That dreaded person who talks about those two dreaded things you're not supposed to talk about on a first date: religion and politics.
But I wonder if the rules are different in speed dating? After all, I'm sure most people would agree that those two issues can be deal breakers in a relationship -- if I can't eliminate them straight away, I could end up going on four first dates where I find out his dad's a reverend and his mom is the president of the Ladies' Republican Choir.
So here's where you come in. How do I bring up divisive topics like religion and politics in a five-minute date? Or should I broach them at all? I'll also ask you what I asked my Twitter followers today: what one question would you like me to ask every guy I meet Sunday night? It can be funny, serious, embarrassing or a blatant overshare -- do your worst. I'll choose a winner from the entries, and I will live-Twitter the entire experience. You can follow my adventures as they happen Sunday night on Twitter or by staying tuned to the feed on the right-hand side of the page.
cheers,
elizabeth
Instead, because I've spent most of my adult life in college (and most of that with access to Facebook) I was fairly well acquainted with the vitals of every boyfriend I've ever had well before our official "first date." I've known all the very important things I need to know before I'll even consider letting someone share my air space -- religious preferences, favorite sports teams, bands they love and bands that make them want to gouge their eyes out -- well before I had to decide whether or not I was actually interested in pursuing anything further.
And as we've discussed before, just because you meet a guy in a bar doesn't mean he's not a religious zealot or guarantee he could tell you which sport requires an orange ball and two round goals.
Since I am heinously prone to overthinking just about everything, you can imagine that I have already analyzed every speed-dating strategy for illuminating these types of facts early in the game without seeming like, well, that person. That dreaded person who talks about those two dreaded things you're not supposed to talk about on a first date: religion and politics.
But I wonder if the rules are different in speed dating? After all, I'm sure most people would agree that those two issues can be deal breakers in a relationship -- if I can't eliminate them straight away, I could end up going on four first dates where I find out his dad's a reverend and his mom is the president of the Ladies' Republican Choir.
So here's where you come in. How do I bring up divisive topics like religion and politics in a five-minute date? Or should I broach them at all? I'll also ask you what I asked my Twitter followers today: what one question would you like me to ask every guy I meet Sunday night? It can be funny, serious, embarrassing or a blatant overshare -- do your worst. I'll choose a winner from the entries, and I will live-Twitter the entire experience. You can follow my adventures as they happen Sunday night on Twitter or by staying tuned to the feed on the right-hand side of the page.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.09.2009
thursday soundbites, no. 9
I first saw Turkuaz back at CMJ, the music festival I started covering for The Tripwire the first week after I arrived in New York. Since then I've seen them about three or four times, and next Friday I'll be seeing them play again, partly because I just can't get enough of dancing to really kick-ass, live funk music and partly because they do just about the bitchinest Talking Heads covers in the whole wide world.I've seen them do this, and "Slippery People," which was unreal. I'm hoping for "Take Me To The River" next, but only if I can sing lead.
Turkuaz - "Life During Wartime"
Turkuaz - "Life During Wartime" (cover) from Zack Morris on Vimeo
cheers,
elizabeth
4.08.2009
decisions, decisions
People, brace yourselves. We are T-Minus 3 days and counting from Adventures in Speed Dating.
In any area of life, the first impression is of crucial importance. But in speed dating, it's pretty much all you've got. I'll have 15 "dates" lasting five minutes each -- just long enough to tell if someone has bad breath, bad teeth or a bad sense of humor -- and in order for that first impression I leave to be stellar, I'll need to bring my A-game. I will of course have my dazzling personality and wit, and the hair will (clearly) be bangin', which leaves only one thing: The Outfit.
This is where you come in. I've chosen four different looks that could work for Adventures in Speed Dating, and I've compiled a list of their respective pros and cons. Examine the options and leave a comment with your vote.
The Wrap Dress
Pros: This dress says I'm put together and sophisticated, but also not too high maintenance. It's a good color and a good shape but doesn't detract too much from the face.
Cons: Because of the inside closure it sometimes requires mid-game fiddling, and no one likes to watch someone fiddle with their clothing on a date.
The Pants Ensemble
Pros: This look is definitely the most casual of the three, but also the most comfortable. Nothing would need moving or adjusting, and it's primed for accessorizing with cute jewelry.
Cons: It's not a super feminine look, even without considering the pants, and that could be a poor game plan for this type of event.
The Wild Card
Pros: This dress is fun and playful, and the color is an excellent one for blonds. It's a jersey knit dress that wears very easily. It's girly and feminine, while maintaining a certain amount of simplicity.
Cons: This ensemble bears a little more cleavage than the other two, and the jury's out on whether or not that's a good thing.
The Warm Weather Option
Pros: Cute, playful, fairly casual -- in case you can't tell, it's a flowy tube top with a black skirt, which I'd wear with flops, and as we know, flip flops are very me. Solid choice if I'm not living in Nova Scotia this weekend, but instead spring in New York City.
Cons: Pretty much not an option otherwise.
Leave your opinions in the comments, and be on the lookout for more preparation leading up to Adventures in Speed Dating, including more items I'll need your help on, like what to say or ask, and more importantly, what not to say.
cheers,
elizabeth
In any area of life, the first impression is of crucial importance. But in speed dating, it's pretty much all you've got. I'll have 15 "dates" lasting five minutes each -- just long enough to tell if someone has bad breath, bad teeth or a bad sense of humor -- and in order for that first impression I leave to be stellar, I'll need to bring my A-game. I will of course have my dazzling personality and wit, and the hair will (clearly) be bangin', which leaves only one thing: The Outfit.
This is where you come in. I've chosen four different looks that could work for Adventures in Speed Dating, and I've compiled a list of their respective pros and cons. Examine the options and leave a comment with your vote.
The Wrap Dress
Pros: This dress says I'm put together and sophisticated, but also not too high maintenance. It's a good color and a good shape but doesn't detract too much from the face.
Cons: Because of the inside closure it sometimes requires mid-game fiddling, and no one likes to watch someone fiddle with their clothing on a date.
The Pants EnsemblePros: This look is definitely the most casual of the three, but also the most comfortable. Nothing would need moving or adjusting, and it's primed for accessorizing with cute jewelry.
Cons: It's not a super feminine look, even without considering the pants, and that could be a poor game plan for this type of event.
The Wild Card
Pros: This dress is fun and playful, and the color is an excellent one for blonds. It's a jersey knit dress that wears very easily. It's girly and feminine, while maintaining a certain amount of simplicity.
Cons: This ensemble bears a little more cleavage than the other two, and the jury's out on whether or not that's a good thing.
The Warm Weather Option
Pros: Cute, playful, fairly casual -- in case you can't tell, it's a flowy tube top with a black skirt, which I'd wear with flops, and as we know, flip flops are very me. Solid choice if I'm not living in Nova Scotia this weekend, but instead spring in New York City.
Cons: Pretty much not an option otherwise.
Leave your opinions in the comments, and be on the lookout for more preparation leading up to Adventures in Speed Dating, including more items I'll need your help on, like what to say or ask, and more importantly, what not to say.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.06.2009
the white siren
Yesterday, it was spring time in New York City. Today we're back to everyday living in Nova Scotia, of course, but Sunday, for one fleeting 24-hour period, we got a glimpse of what's in store in the near future. Endless 65-degree days, blue skies and enough bright sunshine to make me swear profusely the entire walk to the train station that my sunglasses chose this very opportune time to break in two pieces.
I took full advantage of the beautiful day, breaking out my flip flops and even rolling up my jeans to let a little breeze in. The ability to wear flip flops at or above a certain percentage of each year is a necessity for me in any location I might consider living. New York just makes the cut with April through October -- especially since true, full-time wearability doesn't begin until probably May -- and in the future I will seek a higher split of the year, like February through November. Frankly, when I was in high school I didn't really see that there was any time of the year when it was not permissable to sport flip flops, and thus wore them proudly even in December and January. Of course, this constant wearing of cheap, $5 rubber flops from Old Navy also caused me to develop a latex allergy on my feet. Thank god for leather flip flops, or I honestly don't know what I would've done.
Once, during my freshman year of undergrad in Murray, I was walking back to the dorms from the newsroom sometime in November, clad in a knit sweater, jeans and flip flops (naturally), and it began to snow. So there I was, crossing the foot bridge over to the residential circle, in flip flops, little snowflakes hitting my bare toes.
The god's honest truth is that I would just about always prefer to be completely barefoot. But walking anywhere outside of the house without shoes here is absolutely completely unquestionably not an option, and a certain level of germaphobia about my feet sometimes keeps me from doing it even in my own apartment. So the only place that leaves me is my parents' backyard in Memphis, and even that is covered in camoflauged landmines known as dog turds that can (and have, mind you) cause quite a situation for someone with uncovered feets.
So the bottom line is, flip flops are all I got. Every spring they are like liberation for my feet, freedom for my toes from the confines of dark, stuffy shoes. And yesterday as I walked down Summit Avenue on the way to the train station, listening to the flip, flop as they hit my heels, I looked forward to many spring (and summer) days in the future perfect for the flipping and the flopping. And then I was propositioned in three different languages and at least once by a tooting car horn, because walking down the street in Jersey City with my legs exposed, my blond hair just a-wavin' in the wind, I am a veritable white siren, wailing down the street like an ambulance, causing traffic to stop and people to shamelessly rubberneck.
Last night, a guy beeped his horn at me and then about 25 yards up the road I realized he had pulled his car over to wait for me to walk by, so that he could say "Hi there" through his open window. When I didn't respond, he drove away, but honestly, sir. Honestly? What did you think I was going to do? Get in the car with you? REALLY?
As I walked away, I looked down at my exposed shins and my red toenails and thought, well, that does answer one question. The white siren apparently does, in fact, glow in the dark.
cheers,
elizabeth
I took full advantage of the beautiful day, breaking out my flip flops and even rolling up my jeans to let a little breeze in. The ability to wear flip flops at or above a certain percentage of each year is a necessity for me in any location I might consider living. New York just makes the cut with April through October -- especially since true, full-time wearability doesn't begin until probably May -- and in the future I will seek a higher split of the year, like February through November. Frankly, when I was in high school I didn't really see that there was any time of the year when it was not permissable to sport flip flops, and thus wore them proudly even in December and January. Of course, this constant wearing of cheap, $5 rubber flops from Old Navy also caused me to develop a latex allergy on my feet. Thank god for leather flip flops, or I honestly don't know what I would've done.
Once, during my freshman year of undergrad in Murray, I was walking back to the dorms from the newsroom sometime in November, clad in a knit sweater, jeans and flip flops (naturally), and it began to snow. So there I was, crossing the foot bridge over to the residential circle, in flip flops, little snowflakes hitting my bare toes.
The god's honest truth is that I would just about always prefer to be completely barefoot. But walking anywhere outside of the house without shoes here is absolutely completely unquestionably not an option, and a certain level of germaphobia about my feet sometimes keeps me from doing it even in my own apartment. So the only place that leaves me is my parents' backyard in Memphis, and even that is covered in camoflauged landmines known as dog turds that can (and have, mind you) cause quite a situation for someone with uncovered feets.
So the bottom line is, flip flops are all I got. Every spring they are like liberation for my feet, freedom for my toes from the confines of dark, stuffy shoes. And yesterday as I walked down Summit Avenue on the way to the train station, listening to the flip, flop as they hit my heels, I looked forward to many spring (and summer) days in the future perfect for the flipping and the flopping. And then I was propositioned in three different languages and at least once by a tooting car horn, because walking down the street in Jersey City with my legs exposed, my blond hair just a-wavin' in the wind, I am a veritable white siren, wailing down the street like an ambulance, causing traffic to stop and people to shamelessly rubberneck.
Last night, a guy beeped his horn at me and then about 25 yards up the road I realized he had pulled his car over to wait for me to walk by, so that he could say "Hi there" through his open window. When I didn't respond, he drove away, but honestly, sir. Honestly? What did you think I was going to do? Get in the car with you? REALLY?
As I walked away, I looked down at my exposed shins and my red toenails and thought, well, that does answer one question. The white siren apparently does, in fact, glow in the dark.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.03.2009
like one of those dogs that's so ugly it's cute
For the briefest of moments, I considered creating a series of posts (a la Reasons to Love New York) called Reasons to Love Jersey City. Then I promptly realized that, much like a hypothetical season of MTV's The Real World set in Memphis, there would only be one or two installments before they ran out of shit to do and the whole shebang was canceled. The Real World: Memphis cast would go to Beale Street and at least two of them would get stuffed in the back of someone's car, never to be seen again. You can't very well see what happens when seven strangers stop getting polite and start getting real when there are only five of them, and one of them is a "person of interest."
Much like the ill-fated Real World: Memphis, the Reasons to Love Jersey City series would likely peeter out, mostly because you can only blog so much about how your rent is dirt cheap, and frankly, that is one of the only reasons I can most ever think of to love Jersey City.
But today, as I was coming home, I decided that one of the bright spots about this decaying community of urban-suburbia is you never quite know what to expect. For example, just when you think you have tabs on the five different people who no longer reside in your apartment, but all still receive mail there, a new name pops into the mix. And today, I discovered that longtime non-resident postal target Jean Solano is apparently a subscriber to Motor Trend Magazine. Based on her previous mailings from insurance companies, medical supply catalogs and coupon quick-savers, I never would've guessed it.
I also never know just what the front entryway to my apartment building is going to smell like when I come inside on a given day. Will it be cat urine? Or perhaps, spoiled milk? Today it was quite a unique blend, one that I think (where it ever bottled, and sold as an eau de toilette) can only be appropriately called "Scent From an Overflowing Bathroom Trashcan." I see that doing well in your eastern European markets, mostly.
cheers,
elizabeth
Much like the ill-fated Real World: Memphis, the Reasons to Love Jersey City series would likely peeter out, mostly because you can only blog so much about how your rent is dirt cheap, and frankly, that is one of the only reasons I can most ever think of to love Jersey City.
But today, as I was coming home, I decided that one of the bright spots about this decaying community of urban-suburbia is you never quite know what to expect. For example, just when you think you have tabs on the five different people who no longer reside in your apartment, but all still receive mail there, a new name pops into the mix. And today, I discovered that longtime non-resident postal target Jean Solano is apparently a subscriber to Motor Trend Magazine. Based on her previous mailings from insurance companies, medical supply catalogs and coupon quick-savers, I never would've guessed it.
I also never know just what the front entryway to my apartment building is going to smell like when I come inside on a given day. Will it be cat urine? Or perhaps, spoiled milk? Today it was quite a unique blend, one that I think (where it ever bottled, and sold as an eau de toilette) can only be appropriately called "Scent From an Overflowing Bathroom Trashcan." I see that doing well in your eastern European markets, mostly.
cheers,
elizabeth
4.01.2009
thursday soundbites, no. 8
Amadou & Mariam -- they're blind, they're from Mali, and they are a tour-de-force of Afro-pop-funk-soul fusion. And even with all those words, I don't know if I've quite captured the essence of the music these two (and their rotating cast of players) create.Really, I think it's what jam band music would sound like if jam band music originated in Africa. The first video below is a segment from ABC News on the duo, which should shed a little bit more light on their story. The second is the song that's been in my head all week, "Ce N'est Pas Bon," the first single from their forthcoming album, Welcome to Mali.
Amadou & Mariam on US TV
Amadou & Mariam - "Ce N'est Pas Bon"
cheers,
elizabeth
on why things matter
It's Wednesday, nearing 5 p.m., and for some odd reason I'm not rushing from my apartment for the train to head to Soho for a Vagina Monologues meeting. Probably because the performance was last weekend and it would be a little weird if we were still rehearsing. Nonetheless, after each year's show, I get this phantom-limb-esque feeling -- part of me still wants to look forward to something that has sadly come and gone.
But this year, added to that feeling is one of satisfaction -- a sense of accomplishment unlike one I've ever felt post-production. If you'd told my partner-in-vag, Dylan, and I two months ago that we were going to be producing and directing a production of The Vagina Monologues, organizing venues and ticket prices, coordinating schedules and rehearsals, pulling together an entire cast in less than three weeks -- I don't think either of us would have believed you.
But we did. Not only did we orchestrate a production in the time it takes most people to decide what they're having for lunch, it was a damn good one. Our actresses were incredibly talented, our sponsors were generous and Lady Luck was on our side when it came to finding venues and setting the dates.
As a textbook overachiever, I crave projects like this to prove to myself that I can still accomplish these types of feats. When I was a student, those projects presented themselves all the time. In the (highly overrated) real, adult world, there's typically not as much time for overachieving, amidst making ends meet and locating every item in a grocery store priced at less than one dollar. As I keep free-falling from my aforementioned leap, waiting for that net to appear, I find things that fulfill me are few and far between. For the past two months, this show has filled that void.
But the benefits to my psyche and quality of life are, of course, peripheral. Today at work I was reminded quite bluntly of why this show is such an integral part of my life, as I overheard a woman I work with say that a particular woman had "asked for it." She started to list off the reasons why this woman was at fault for her abuse, but when the first item on that list was that "she married him," I had to stop her.
I know there are plenty of folks, both men and women, who will never understand why this idea is so upsetting to me. But as a woman, as a human being, I believe that no person ever asks to be abused. Each year the proceeds from every TVM campaign are directed towards various charities and not-for-profits dedicated to the promotion of that very ideal. All of the money we raised (more than $1,000) will go to GEMS, the Girls Education and Mentoring Service, which helps to get girls out of sexual trafficking and reintegrated into normal life to reach their full potential. Follow the links for more information on GEMS and V-Day.
cheers,
elizabeth
But this year, added to that feeling is one of satisfaction -- a sense of accomplishment unlike one I've ever felt post-production. If you'd told my partner-in-vag, Dylan, and I two months ago that we were going to be producing and directing a production of The Vagina Monologues, organizing venues and ticket prices, coordinating schedules and rehearsals, pulling together an entire cast in less than three weeks -- I don't think either of us would have believed you.But we did. Not only did we orchestrate a production in the time it takes most people to decide what they're having for lunch, it was a damn good one. Our actresses were incredibly talented, our sponsors were generous and Lady Luck was on our side when it came to finding venues and setting the dates.
As a textbook overachiever, I crave projects like this to prove to myself that I can still accomplish these types of feats. When I was a student, those projects presented themselves all the time. In the (highly overrated) real, adult world, there's typically not as much time for overachieving, amidst making ends meet and locating every item in a grocery store priced at less than one dollar. As I keep free-falling from my aforementioned leap, waiting for that net to appear, I find things that fulfill me are few and far between. For the past two months, this show has filled that void.
But the benefits to my psyche and quality of life are, of course, peripheral. Today at work I was reminded quite bluntly of why this show is such an integral part of my life, as I overheard a woman I work with say that a particular woman had "asked for it." She started to list off the reasons why this woman was at fault for her abuse, but when the first item on that list was that "she married him," I had to stop her.I know there are plenty of folks, both men and women, who will never understand why this idea is so upsetting to me. But as a woman, as a human being, I believe that no person ever asks to be abused. Each year the proceeds from every TVM campaign are directed towards various charities and not-for-profits dedicated to the promotion of that very ideal. All of the money we raised (more than $1,000) will go to GEMS, the Girls Education and Mentoring Service, which helps to get girls out of sexual trafficking and reintegrated into normal life to reach their full potential. Follow the links for more information on GEMS and V-Day.
cheers,
elizabeth
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