When I first moved in to my apartment, when it was just me and my $40 IKEA bed, I put up pictures with sticky tack around my bedroom to liven the place up. I have an overhang above my bed (that I suspect once held a runner for a sliding door) that was the piece-de-resistance of the whole thing, with four-by-six pictures running all the way across.
For about three months now, the pictures have been coming loose and, slowly, one at a time, falling down. At first I tried to fight it, climbing up on my bed and re-rolling the sticky tack between my thumb and index finger hoping to create some new-found sticking power and smacking the picture back up in its place.
I soon realized that resistance was futile, and so I just started letting the pictures fall. And somewhere in my mind I had this feeling that when all the pictures finally fell off the wall, it would be time for me to leave New York.
So I've let them fall, and as they've shown up on the floor or lying on my bed in the morning when I wake up, I've grabbed them and stashed them in different drawers and amid papers, as if to create little surprises for myself when I do start packing this place up. Lately, the pictures have been falling faster and more frequently, and though there are still quite a few hanging on to their spots on the wall, the fallen photos serve to remind me of two things -- on bad days, they remind me that it won't be that much longer before I'm out of here, and on good days they remind me to cherish the time I have left in this city.
So yesterday, when I saw that my boss hadn't scheduled me to work on Saturday for the first time in months, I decided to use the unexpected free morning to do some much needed cherishing of this city. I may not have tons of money to spend here to enjoy all the fabulous things New York has to offer, but what I do have are my eyes and my feet. So next Saturday, I'm going to walk the length of the island of Manhattan. It's about 13 miles, and from what I can tell in the little research I've done (and some basic math) takes about five hours to complete. I'm going to start from 215th Street at the northernmost tip of the island and walk down Broadway for most of the journey, save the stretch I'll do down the edge of Central Park.
I'll be taking pictures, but mostly taking it all in -- hopefully I'll have something profound to say when it's all done to show for it.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.29.2009
nothing stops the u.s. mail
Pop Quiz.
There are 12 pieces of mail in the cubby for Apartment 2. If six of those pieces of mail are addressed to me, how many are addressed to my roommate?
If you said ZERO, you are correct! You haven't won anything, other than my respect for a stellar memory and enviable knowledge of this blog. Because you, YOU WILL KNOW that just because six of those pieces of mail were for me doesn't ever mean any of the rest of them are predictably for my roommate. This time around, in fact, three were for Jean Solano, one for Mr. Bejesus, one for Belen Garcia and last, but certainly not least, one for some broad called Melody who is making her first appearance in the Apartment 2 mail cubby. Let's all make her feel welcome, okay?
cheers,
elizabeth
There are 12 pieces of mail in the cubby for Apartment 2. If six of those pieces of mail are addressed to me, how many are addressed to my roommate?
If you said ZERO, you are correct! You haven't won anything, other than my respect for a stellar memory and enviable knowledge of this blog. Because you, YOU WILL KNOW that just because six of those pieces of mail were for me doesn't ever mean any of the rest of them are predictably for my roommate. This time around, in fact, three were for Jean Solano, one for Mr. Bejesus, one for Belen Garcia and last, but certainly not least, one for some broad called Melody who is making her first appearance in the Apartment 2 mail cubby. Let's all make her feel welcome, okay?
cheers,
elizabeth
5.28.2009
at least i can read
Tuesday night I met up with my friend Mike after I got off work and we headed down to the Village to this cozy little hole-in-the-wall lesbian bar for $2 margaritas. (Go ahead and read that sentence again, because once I move back to the south you won't be seeing much of anything like that on here anymore.) It was a cute little dive, with aquatic-themed mobiles and other various ornamentation hanging from the ceiling, nestled in the middle of an even cuter neighborhood.
We both had to work the next morning, so we made a decently early night of it and left the bar a few minutes before midnight. Knowing that we were relatively close to one of the downtown PATH stations (the train that hauls me back to Jersey) I decided to make my way there instead of taking the subway uptown to catch the train at 33rd, which I've been known to do.
That decision was really dumb.
I think when you get to be grown, it's okay to just admit there is some shit you're not so good at. When you're a kid, your teachers and parents don't want you to say, "I can't do this" or "I can't do that," because it's so limiting. Maybe you can, and you just haven't tried. Or maybe you can and you just haven't learned.
But I've tried. And I've learned. (Or at least been taught repeatedly.) And I am here to tell you, I CANNOT READ MAPS. The display of ineptitude that took place in the Christopher Street subway station in the wee hours of Wednesday morning was nothing less than disturbing. I looked at that map, ooooh boy, did I look at that map. Studied is really the more appropriate word. But when I walked up to the street level I felt like I'd shown up for a quiz having accidentally reviewed the wrong chapter. Nothing looked familiar, not even vaguely, not remotely, not on some distant far-off planet where I can read maps and do algebra equations in my head.
So I went back down into the subway and started studying again. I looked for the names of the streets I'd seen at the top of the stairs, tried to locate myself and determined the best course of action. If I walked down this one street, I determined, I would run right into Christopher Street and therefore, the PATH station. Too easy! Right?
Wroooooong. About 20 minutes later I arrived at another subway station, and I will say this -- that time when I studied the map I was able to discern that I'd gone long about three-fourths of a mile in the absolute opposite direction of where I'd needed to go. At this point it was nearing one in the morning, and I was exhausted. I got on that train and rode it all the way uptown, getting off at 23rd Street to walk over to the 23rd PATH station about a block away.
I finally got home around 2:15 a.m., just barely making it to the bathroom since I'd had to pee pretty much the entire time I'd been traipsing around lower Manhattan. And as I sat there, audibly sighing with relief, I thought about my parents, who for years during my childhood would map out routes for our family vacations using a U.S. atlas. How I was born so shockingly devoid of this skill, I'll never know. All I can say is, thank Allah for Google Maps.
cheers,
elizabeth
We both had to work the next morning, so we made a decently early night of it and left the bar a few minutes before midnight. Knowing that we were relatively close to one of the downtown PATH stations (the train that hauls me back to Jersey) I decided to make my way there instead of taking the subway uptown to catch the train at 33rd, which I've been known to do.
That decision was really dumb.
I think when you get to be grown, it's okay to just admit there is some shit you're not so good at. When you're a kid, your teachers and parents don't want you to say, "I can't do this" or "I can't do that," because it's so limiting. Maybe you can, and you just haven't tried. Or maybe you can and you just haven't learned.
But I've tried. And I've learned. (Or at least been taught repeatedly.) And I am here to tell you, I CANNOT READ MAPS. The display of ineptitude that took place in the Christopher Street subway station in the wee hours of Wednesday morning was nothing less than disturbing. I looked at that map, ooooh boy, did I look at that map. Studied is really the more appropriate word. But when I walked up to the street level I felt like I'd shown up for a quiz having accidentally reviewed the wrong chapter. Nothing looked familiar, not even vaguely, not remotely, not on some distant far-off planet where I can read maps and do algebra equations in my head.
So I went back down into the subway and started studying again. I looked for the names of the streets I'd seen at the top of the stairs, tried to locate myself and determined the best course of action. If I walked down this one street, I determined, I would run right into Christopher Street and therefore, the PATH station. Too easy! Right?
Wroooooong. About 20 minutes later I arrived at another subway station, and I will say this -- that time when I studied the map I was able to discern that I'd gone long about three-fourths of a mile in the absolute opposite direction of where I'd needed to go. At this point it was nearing one in the morning, and I was exhausted. I got on that train and rode it all the way uptown, getting off at 23rd Street to walk over to the 23rd PATH station about a block away.
I finally got home around 2:15 a.m., just barely making it to the bathroom since I'd had to pee pretty much the entire time I'd been traipsing around lower Manhattan. And as I sat there, audibly sighing with relief, I thought about my parents, who for years during my childhood would map out routes for our family vacations using a U.S. atlas. How I was born so shockingly devoid of this skill, I'll never know. All I can say is, thank Allah for Google Maps.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.26.2009
capturing the essence
I've been contemplating recently on the idea of a motto for Jersey City. Initially I'd gone with "Jersey City: What The Fuck." But I decided that didn't really capture life in this fine municipality. Not completely, at least. I certainly spend a fair amount of time walking down streets in Jersey City with that exact phrase running through my head, but I wasn't satisfied with it as a descriptor of every facet of Jersey City life.
Sure, when I saw a 50-something-year-old man sitting on the corner of a busy street at 8 a.m. in a folding beach chair smoking a cigar and reading the New York Post, while topless, I definitely thought, "what the fuck."
But just two blocks later, after rounding the corner off of Montgomery and onto Bergen Avenue, I spotted a man dressed in business attire pushing a grocery cart in the middle of the street. And before I reached that particular morning's destination -- the Bally Total Fitness -- I saw a gentleman in a wheel chair sitting in the middle lane of the street facing oncoming traffic, with no apparent plans of moving any time in the near future. And my thought at that very moment crystallized this city's new motto for me.
"Jersey City: You just never know."
It really does encompass so very much, y'all. From the way I feel when I open my mailbox each day, wondering, how many new residents of Apartment 2 will there be today? You just never know. What will the foyer of my building smell like -- spoiled baby formula or burned rubber and cat urine? You just never know. Will the homeless lady who sits by the National Guard Armory ask me again today for money, even though I've said no every day since November 1? Will I see a fat Asian man in a ladies' house dress? Will there be two or three or perhaps even four piles of poop that can't be classified upon first sight as having come from a canine on the sidewalk on my way to work?
You just. Never. Know.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get on the phone with a tourism board somewhere to get this bad boy copyrighted.
cheers,
elizabeth
Sure, when I saw a 50-something-year-old man sitting on the corner of a busy street at 8 a.m. in a folding beach chair smoking a cigar and reading the New York Post, while topless, I definitely thought, "what the fuck."
But just two blocks later, after rounding the corner off of Montgomery and onto Bergen Avenue, I spotted a man dressed in business attire pushing a grocery cart in the middle of the street. And before I reached that particular morning's destination -- the Bally Total Fitness -- I saw a gentleman in a wheel chair sitting in the middle lane of the street facing oncoming traffic, with no apparent plans of moving any time in the near future. And my thought at that very moment crystallized this city's new motto for me.
"Jersey City: You just never know."
It really does encompass so very much, y'all. From the way I feel when I open my mailbox each day, wondering, how many new residents of Apartment 2 will there be today? You just never know. What will the foyer of my building smell like -- spoiled baby formula or burned rubber and cat urine? You just never know. Will the homeless lady who sits by the National Guard Armory ask me again today for money, even though I've said no every day since November 1? Will I see a fat Asian man in a ladies' house dress? Will there be two or three or perhaps even four piles of poop that can't be classified upon first sight as having come from a canine on the sidewalk on my way to work?
You just. Never. Know.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get on the phone with a tourism board somewhere to get this bad boy copyrighted.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.24.2009
the tenacity of hope
Every time I apply for a job, I like to play this game with myself called Don't Get Your Hopes Up. Don't Get Your Hopes Up goes something like this: I apply for the job, and immediately get my hopes up just a teensy bit. Then I say to myself, "Self. No. Don't do this. Don't get your hopes up." Then what happens next is I try not to think about it for as long as I can -- I usually last about 15 minutes, 20 on a good day -- and then I get my hopes up so massively that to an outside observer I may appear to demonstrate behaviors of someone on high doses of meth amphetamines.
So I've applied for this job in Nashville. For the sake of Google, I won't go into much more detail than that. It's a reporting gig with a few other neat perks, in a great location with a great salary. As soon as I found the listing for the position, I activated my own insane phone tree and called everyone I could think of who would remotely give a crap about this quasi-not-really-even-classifiable-as-news news. Then I told myself, "Self. No. Don't do this. Don't get your hopes up."
And I really tried not to get them up. Y'all, I really really did. Especially because this is one of the first jobs I've found that a.) I'm qualified for, b.) I'd enjoy and c.) is in Nashville in months. (And months and months and months.) It would be incredible if I got the gig, but the reality is that I might not, and I have to mentally prepare for that. I have to be optimistic, but realistic. I can't let my world come crashing down if they don't offer me the position.
So naturally I took that entire mental pep talk COMPLETELY to heart and spent at least half an hour on Nashville apartment listing sites, clicking through pictures of adorable homeless puppies on the Nashville Humane Society web site, contemplating moving plans, stalking the local Alpha Delta Pi chapters, finding the local Alumnae Association through the ADPi web site and reading up on their upcoming events, and of course, trying to figure out how I'd get out my lease early when that magical day arrived.
Once again, I have failed at Don't Get Your Hopes Up. It really wasn't ever a game I could win, I don't think.
The Hopes are officially up. I'd love it if you'd keep yours up for me, too.
cheers,
elizabeth
So I've applied for this job in Nashville. For the sake of Google, I won't go into much more detail than that. It's a reporting gig with a few other neat perks, in a great location with a great salary. As soon as I found the listing for the position, I activated my own insane phone tree and called everyone I could think of who would remotely give a crap about this quasi-not-really-even-classifiable-as-news news. Then I told myself, "Self. No. Don't do this. Don't get your hopes up."
And I really tried not to get them up. Y'all, I really really did. Especially because this is one of the first jobs I've found that a.) I'm qualified for, b.) I'd enjoy and c.) is in Nashville in months. (And months and months and months.) It would be incredible if I got the gig, but the reality is that I might not, and I have to mentally prepare for that. I have to be optimistic, but realistic. I can't let my world come crashing down if they don't offer me the position.
So naturally I took that entire mental pep talk COMPLETELY to heart and spent at least half an hour on Nashville apartment listing sites, clicking through pictures of adorable homeless puppies on the Nashville Humane Society web site, contemplating moving plans, stalking the local Alpha Delta Pi chapters, finding the local Alumnae Association through the ADPi web site and reading up on their upcoming events, and of course, trying to figure out how I'd get out my lease early when that magical day arrived.
Once again, I have failed at Don't Get Your Hopes Up. It really wasn't ever a game I could win, I don't think.
The Hopes are officially up. I'd love it if you'd keep yours up for me, too.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.22.2009
jersey city: a fine place to raise a family
Today on my way home from the gym I stopped off at my favorite fruit and veg store in McGinley Square. On my way back to my apartment, a few people passing by in their cars apparently decided that I might also want to enjoy their musical selections. It's not unusual, of course. The weather gets nice and a few things happen: I can see the bras of most of the women I walk by on the street, the "ay mami"s increase exponentially and car windows stay down, music stays up.
But today among the usual garbage that gets blared out was something very loud and very clearly spoken (which is unusual) about somebody doing something to somebody's pussy.
Ex-squeeze me?
I don't really give a flying crap what you do with your own or someone else's pussy in your free time, people. I really do not. But can I not hear about it? From the over-priced stereo in your gold Toyota Corolla? While you lick your lips at me and I fight off the urge to vomit violently on a public street corner? Can I not? Please?
There were children on the street during said swear-word drive-by, but in this neighborhood it probably doesn't matter. Chances are they were singing along. And they know the dance from the music video. And it's their ring tone. And it's the song that played at their kindergarten graduation.
cheers,
elizabeth
But today among the usual garbage that gets blared out was something very loud and very clearly spoken (which is unusual) about somebody doing something to somebody's pussy.
Ex-squeeze me?
I don't really give a flying crap what you do with your own or someone else's pussy in your free time, people. I really do not. But can I not hear about it? From the over-priced stereo in your gold Toyota Corolla? While you lick your lips at me and I fight off the urge to vomit violently on a public street corner? Can I not? Please?
There were children on the street during said swear-word drive-by, but in this neighborhood it probably doesn't matter. Chances are they were singing along. And they know the dance from the music video. And it's their ring tone. And it's the song that played at their kindergarten graduation.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.21.2009
thursday soundbites, no. 14
Madi Diaz has been in my iPod for ages now -- she was one of the first new bands or artists I discovered after moving to New York and starting at The Tripwire. She's been on my mind lately, though, as I've recently been in Nashville (and pining away to move there with some permanence), and Madi moved to Nashville a few months ago with her bandmate Kyle Ryan.It seems a more fitting place for her bluesy, country-esque folk sound. And though that style is appealing to me, it's really Madi's voice and Madi's voice alone that keeps her music fresh and relevant to me. There is something rich and real about the timbre of her vocals. Pair that with intelligent songwriting and adventurous instrumentation and I'm pretty much hooked. Check out her performance from Acoustic Long Island below, and as always hit up her MySpace for more -- "Let's Go" and "It's Only A Kiss" are some of my favorites, and (GLEE!) I just noticed she's put up some new tracks.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.20.2009
fish out of water
Tonight at work someone made a comment about no one answering the phone, saying, "Is there any body out there?"
Naturally, I followed up with "Just smile if you can hear me, is there anyone at home?"
Crickets.
I said to the person sitting next to me that maybe in this particular crowd that song reference was a bit lost. He responded, "That was a song?"
"Pink Floyd?" I said. "Ringing any bells?"
No, no bells. None at all. Where am I?
cheers,
elizabeth
Naturally, I followed up with "Just smile if you can hear me, is there anyone at home?"
Crickets.
I said to the person sitting next to me that maybe in this particular crowd that song reference was a bit lost. He responded, "That was a song?"
"Pink Floyd?" I said. "Ringing any bells?"
No, no bells. None at all. Where am I?
cheers,
elizabeth
the new york city mystique
It doesn't matter where in America -- or where in the world, for that matter -- you're from. Everyone has some preconceived idea about New York City. Either it's magical and incredible or it's big and too crowded. It's fast paced and exciting, the city that never sleeps, or it's too much, too fast.
It never fails that when I go home, everyone is so impressed with the idea that I live in New York City. Excuse me -- New York City. And I wonder if that awe, that fascination with the New York mystique, if that's not part of the reason I spent my whole life wanting to move here and never really stopped to think about how that would actually work out. It's not that I don't like this city. I do, quite a lot. I know that whenever I leave here there will be innumerable things I will miss about New York.
But when I got ready to leave Nashville on Sunday from my weekend volunteering with Tennessee HOBY, something happened in my lack-of-sleep, over-emotional state and I started sobbing with a force I have not seen unleashed on my body in years. I felt sick. I could barely catch my breath. I was on the verge of having hiccups. It had hit me all at once that not only did I have to leave all these wonderful people who I love so much, yet only see once a year, I also had to go back to my life. To New Jersey. To barely squeaking by paycheck to paycheck. And the reaction was so visceral it was like a transplanted organ my body was firmly and unquestionably rejecting.
This city can seem so glamorous from far away, and almost everyone I talk to about my life here hangs on to some sort of image of New York that is shiny and exciting and sexy and alluring. And I'm sure for some people it is all of those things. But if I have learned one thing as a traveller, it's that you don't have to like everywhere you go. It's okay to be nonplussed. It's okay to be less than impressed. It's okay to not want to live just every old place you go. If I had my druthers, I'd live in London and have a private jet that could fly me home at a moment's notice. But I don't even know what druthers are and I definitely don't have any of them. So if abroad is out of the question, then to me the question only has one answer: the South.
I know what you're thinking. Blah, blah, blah. You've heard this all before. I like the South. WE GET IT. Now shut up. But I want to note the beginning of something important: I am doing everything I can to get my ass back to the right lattitude, and I'll be documenting more about that search here from now on. In the meantime, if you've got any tips on surviving life in the north, please don't be shy.
cheers,
elizabeth
It never fails that when I go home, everyone is so impressed with the idea that I live in New York City. Excuse me -- New York City. And I wonder if that awe, that fascination with the New York mystique, if that's not part of the reason I spent my whole life wanting to move here and never really stopped to think about how that would actually work out. It's not that I don't like this city. I do, quite a lot. I know that whenever I leave here there will be innumerable things I will miss about New York.
But when I got ready to leave Nashville on Sunday from my weekend volunteering with Tennessee HOBY, something happened in my lack-of-sleep, over-emotional state and I started sobbing with a force I have not seen unleashed on my body in years. I felt sick. I could barely catch my breath. I was on the verge of having hiccups. It had hit me all at once that not only did I have to leave all these wonderful people who I love so much, yet only see once a year, I also had to go back to my life. To New Jersey. To barely squeaking by paycheck to paycheck. And the reaction was so visceral it was like a transplanted organ my body was firmly and unquestionably rejecting.
This city can seem so glamorous from far away, and almost everyone I talk to about my life here hangs on to some sort of image of New York that is shiny and exciting and sexy and alluring. And I'm sure for some people it is all of those things. But if I have learned one thing as a traveller, it's that you don't have to like everywhere you go. It's okay to be nonplussed. It's okay to be less than impressed. It's okay to not want to live just every old place you go. If I had my druthers, I'd live in London and have a private jet that could fly me home at a moment's notice. But I don't even know what druthers are and I definitely don't have any of them. So if abroad is out of the question, then to me the question only has one answer: the South.
I know what you're thinking. Blah, blah, blah. You've heard this all before. I like the South. WE GET IT. Now shut up. But I want to note the beginning of something important: I am doing everything I can to get my ass back to the right lattitude, and I'll be documenting more about that search here from now on. In the meantime, if you've got any tips on surviving life in the north, please don't be shy.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.19.2009
mr. kot-ter
As a nice little welcome back gift from the Universe, the MTA gave me massive delays on the 1 train and my body gave me the most killer migraine I've had in as long as I can recall. It's been a delightful day.
As a result of said headache, I fell asleep with my arms over my head sitting straight up on my bed, and when I woke up I was legitimately concerned first about the actual location of my arm since, upon first glance, I couldn't actually find the damn thing, and then secondly concerned by the fact that I could neither feel nor move it from its location, resting atop my head and propped up against a wall. You will note that the situation was later resolved, and I am typing this with two hands, praise be to Allah.
I got to do a lot of very southern things while I was home, like say y'all, drink excessive amounts of tea, wear three different kinds of flip flops and stretch one-syllable words out into Shakespearan soliloquies. It. Was. AWESOME. I have plenty of stories to relay and tales to spin, but at the moment the only thing on my mind is unpacking my suitcase, plucking hairs from my face and brushing my teeth because the inside of my mouth tastes like government cheese. Don't ask.
Though I might not be jumping out of my pants to be back in the great ugly north, I am looking forward to talking shop with you people again. I promise I won't be gone from you for so long again, at least not for a good long while. You may not miss me, but I miss you.
cheers,
elizabeth
As a result of said headache, I fell asleep with my arms over my head sitting straight up on my bed, and when I woke up I was legitimately concerned first about the actual location of my arm since, upon first glance, I couldn't actually find the damn thing, and then secondly concerned by the fact that I could neither feel nor move it from its location, resting atop my head and propped up against a wall. You will note that the situation was later resolved, and I am typing this with two hands, praise be to Allah.
I got to do a lot of very southern things while I was home, like say y'all, drink excessive amounts of tea, wear three different kinds of flip flops and stretch one-syllable words out into Shakespearan soliloquies. It. Was. AWESOME. I have plenty of stories to relay and tales to spin, but at the moment the only thing on my mind is unpacking my suitcase, plucking hairs from my face and brushing my teeth because the inside of my mouth tastes like government cheese. Don't ask.
Though I might not be jumping out of my pants to be back in the great ugly north, I am looking forward to talking shop with you people again. I promise I won't be gone from you for so long again, at least not for a good long while. You may not miss me, but I miss you.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.11.2009
white trash bash, 11 o'clock
My mom, dad and I headed downtown to the Peabody yesterday for a gorgeous Mother's Day brunch: an unbelievable spread in the Peabody ballrooms with so much food you feel like you need a laxative and some sort of open-intestine surgery afterward. If you're not so familiar with the Peabody, it's definitely the nicest hotel in downtown Memphis -- famous for its parading ducks -- and their brunch on any old weekend is pretty swank. So on Mother's Day, they really throw out all the stops.
But the one thing you can always count on in Memphis, Tennessee, is the white trash contingent. The most recent time we brunched at the Peabody prior to this, there was a couple in jeans and tee shirts that had huge white paint stains splotched all over them, as if they'd just finished touching up the crown molding in the rooms downstairs and had come up for some lobster ravioli before their afternoon shift at the 7-11.
So on Sunday, I was definitely on the lookout for the White Trash Bash. And sure enough, on about plate two, I spotted them -- sitting at about my 11 o'clock -- and pointed them out to my mom. Later, my dad made a comment about spotting the white trash after seeing a woman walking by in jeans, flip flops and an old Joan Jett tee shirt. I said, yeah. She's part of the White Trash Bash at Table 31.
God knows I love Joan Jett. But if your Joan Jett tee shirt cost you one-fourth of the price of your brunch, doesn't a little red flag pop up? Maybe the white trash contingent were born without red flags. Maybe that's the real problem.
Welcome to Memphis, y'all. It's good to be home.
cheers,
elizabeth
But the one thing you can always count on in Memphis, Tennessee, is the white trash contingent. The most recent time we brunched at the Peabody prior to this, there was a couple in jeans and tee shirts that had huge white paint stains splotched all over them, as if they'd just finished touching up the crown molding in the rooms downstairs and had come up for some lobster ravioli before their afternoon shift at the 7-11.
So on Sunday, I was definitely on the lookout for the White Trash Bash. And sure enough, on about plate two, I spotted them -- sitting at about my 11 o'clock -- and pointed them out to my mom. Later, my dad made a comment about spotting the white trash after seeing a woman walking by in jeans, flip flops and an old Joan Jett tee shirt. I said, yeah. She's part of the White Trash Bash at Table 31.
God knows I love Joan Jett. But if your Joan Jett tee shirt cost you one-fourth of the price of your brunch, doesn't a little red flag pop up? Maybe the white trash contingent were born without red flags. Maybe that's the real problem.
Welcome to Memphis, y'all. It's good to be home.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.09.2009
oxymoron of the day: airline customer service
This past Christmas, I arrived at Newark International Airport on December 23 to fly home to Memphis to be with my family for the holiday. My flight was scheduled to leave around 10 a.m., and everything looked good for an on-time departure -- the skies were clear, I had my ticket in one hand, coffee in the other and I was ready to plug in the iPod and take a glorious two-hour plane nap.
Little did I know that the lovely folks at Continental had another plan in store for me. A few minutes before boarding was supposed to begin, a voice came over the loud speaker and uttered those dreaded words: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are in an oversold situation." I love the way they say oversold situation, like they're just not quite sure how they got into this situation in the first place! It seems there are more asses here than seats to put them in, folks, and we'll be darned we just don't know how that happened!
Sure enough, when I walked up to the podium to have my boarding pass scanned, a little beep sounded and I was asked to step to the side. One by one, I watched people breeze by and walk down the jetway to board the plane. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, and I knew I wouldn't be joining them.
But by god, I was not giving up yet.
I pulled out the waterworks. It was easy, really, considering the fragile emotional state I'd been in during the weeks leading up to said holiday. I even made up a long dramatic story about my grandmother going in for life-or-death surgery that very morning when in fact both of my grandmothers have been dead for years. Whoopsie. None of this, of course, worked, and the one remaining seat on the flight ended up going to another girl who was waiting (who I, to this day, believe had connections with someone or had AT LEAST slept with somebody important), and she had THE NERVE to say to me as she walked by me and onto the plane, "I can sympathize with your situation, really, but there's nothing they can do."
NOTHING THEY CAN DO!? Have you lost your marbles, lady, or did you give those AND your scruples to the Continental desk agent so he'd give you that last seat on the plane BECAUSE I THINK YOU DID. There is absolutely something they can do about it. For starters, they can not sell seats that don't exist! A few minutes later another girl who was also in travel limbo started to cry -- probably with actual reason, since she was 17 and traveling alone and not 24, perfectly capable and just right pissed off -- and I turned to her and said, "Doesn't work, honey. Already tried it."
Continental did end up giving me a $500 voucher for "my troubles," which I used to extend my trip home over Christmas and was happy for the extra time -- although I did spend eight hours sitting in the most amenity-free airport terminal I have ever seen. It was so devoid of restaurants or shops I was surprised they even thought to put in a toilet. And now, because I am a glutton for punishment, I'm going back for more. Since I had $40 left on that Continental voucher, it did only make sense to fly them again for this trip home. (They also happen to have the cheapest fares from Newark to Memphis and the most direct flights, so that persuaded me, too.)
I'm hoping that time will be on my side, since it's the middle of May and nothing of any consequence is going on any time soon down in good old Memphis, Tennessee, that the fine residents of New Jersey would be snapping up plane tickets to get to. My next dispatch will come to you from the birthplace of the blues and the home of the world's best barbeque -- brace yourselves, I could be even more Southern than usual.
cheers y'all,
elizabeth
Little did I know that the lovely folks at Continental had another plan in store for me. A few minutes before boarding was supposed to begin, a voice came over the loud speaker and uttered those dreaded words: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are in an oversold situation." I love the way they say oversold situation, like they're just not quite sure how they got into this situation in the first place! It seems there are more asses here than seats to put them in, folks, and we'll be darned we just don't know how that happened!
Sure enough, when I walked up to the podium to have my boarding pass scanned, a little beep sounded and I was asked to step to the side. One by one, I watched people breeze by and walk down the jetway to board the plane. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, and I knew I wouldn't be joining them.
But by god, I was not giving up yet.
I pulled out the waterworks. It was easy, really, considering the fragile emotional state I'd been in during the weeks leading up to said holiday. I even made up a long dramatic story about my grandmother going in for life-or-death surgery that very morning when in fact both of my grandmothers have been dead for years. Whoopsie. None of this, of course, worked, and the one remaining seat on the flight ended up going to another girl who was waiting (who I, to this day, believe had connections with someone or had AT LEAST slept with somebody important), and she had THE NERVE to say to me as she walked by me and onto the plane, "I can sympathize with your situation, really, but there's nothing they can do."
NOTHING THEY CAN DO!? Have you lost your marbles, lady, or did you give those AND your scruples to the Continental desk agent so he'd give you that last seat on the plane BECAUSE I THINK YOU DID. There is absolutely something they can do about it. For starters, they can not sell seats that don't exist! A few minutes later another girl who was also in travel limbo started to cry -- probably with actual reason, since she was 17 and traveling alone and not 24, perfectly capable and just right pissed off -- and I turned to her and said, "Doesn't work, honey. Already tried it."
Continental did end up giving me a $500 voucher for "my troubles," which I used to extend my trip home over Christmas and was happy for the extra time -- although I did spend eight hours sitting in the most amenity-free airport terminal I have ever seen. It was so devoid of restaurants or shops I was surprised they even thought to put in a toilet. And now, because I am a glutton for punishment, I'm going back for more. Since I had $40 left on that Continental voucher, it did only make sense to fly them again for this trip home. (They also happen to have the cheapest fares from Newark to Memphis and the most direct flights, so that persuaded me, too.)
I'm hoping that time will be on my side, since it's the middle of May and nothing of any consequence is going on any time soon down in good old Memphis, Tennessee, that the fine residents of New Jersey would be snapping up plane tickets to get to. My next dispatch will come to you from the birthplace of the blues and the home of the world's best barbeque -- brace yourselves, I could be even more Southern than usual.
cheers y'all,
elizabeth
5.08.2009
in need of some tough love
So there's this show on VH1. (I've mentioned it once here before.) It's called Tough Love.
It's hosted by renowned matchmaker Steve Ward. Basically, Steve takes a group of women who make classic (and not so classic) mistakes in dating and relationships and shows them the err of their ways through Tough Love boot camp. He sets them up on dates with different matches and coaches them through the things they're doing that are keeping them from finding and keeping the relationship they want.
In watching Tough Love, it has come to my attention that I am an egregious violator of almost ALL of Steve's rules for dating. I overshare. I move too quickly. (Like the time I told a boyfriend that I loved him, and then about two weeks later said, actually, can we stop saying that now?) I'm husband hungry. I'm baby hungry. I'm a different version of myself in every relationship I'm in. And I regularly and routinely do things that put me in direct conflict with Steve's dating rule No. 1: Don't be weird.
So my best friend Holly, who is even more addicted to VH1 reality shows than I am -- though she has the luxury of watching them in order on an actual TV like normal people, while I watch them in snippets on the treadmill at the gym or in a four by four screen on my laptop -- suggested a few weeks ago that I apply to be on Tough Love.
I resisted at first. Mostly because, as I told her, I pretty much believe that while reality television takes trashy people's lives and makes them exponentially better, it takes normal people's lives and ruins them. But since then, I've become a more devoted fan of Tough Love, and I came to understand a fundamental difference between this show and the other standard reality fare. This show doesn't exist to embarrass these women. The things that they do in relationships are sometimes embarrassing, but that's no different than the crazy shit I admit to here all the time for all the internet to read. The show exists to help the women. And get good ratings and bring in ad revenue, of course, but also to help.
So this week, when Holly brought up the idea of me going on Tough Love for the second time, I was a bit more receptive. It didn't take much, and she talked me into it. The application is kind of involved, so I made her promise to help me fill it out when I see her next week on my trip home. After all, one of the questions is "Why would your friends say you're single?"
So I'm doing it. I'm applying to be on a reality TV show. The first step might be admitting you have a problem, but this feels like it could be my first step toward a potential future trip to the funny farm. But as Holly very wisely reminded me, there are two things to be gained from this experience: a good man and my forty-five minutes a week of fame. I do so love killing two birds with one stone. Don't y'all?
cheers,
elizabeth
It's hosted by renowned matchmaker Steve Ward. Basically, Steve takes a group of women who make classic (and not so classic) mistakes in dating and relationships and shows them the err of their ways through Tough Love boot camp. He sets them up on dates with different matches and coaches them through the things they're doing that are keeping them from finding and keeping the relationship they want.
In watching Tough Love, it has come to my attention that I am an egregious violator of almost ALL of Steve's rules for dating. I overshare. I move too quickly. (Like the time I told a boyfriend that I loved him, and then about two weeks later said, actually, can we stop saying that now?) I'm husband hungry. I'm baby hungry. I'm a different version of myself in every relationship I'm in. And I regularly and routinely do things that put me in direct conflict with Steve's dating rule No. 1: Don't be weird.
So my best friend Holly, who is even more addicted to VH1 reality shows than I am -- though she has the luxury of watching them in order on an actual TV like normal people, while I watch them in snippets on the treadmill at the gym or in a four by four screen on my laptop -- suggested a few weeks ago that I apply to be on Tough Love.
I resisted at first. Mostly because, as I told her, I pretty much believe that while reality television takes trashy people's lives and makes them exponentially better, it takes normal people's lives and ruins them. But since then, I've become a more devoted fan of Tough Love, and I came to understand a fundamental difference between this show and the other standard reality fare. This show doesn't exist to embarrass these women. The things that they do in relationships are sometimes embarrassing, but that's no different than the crazy shit I admit to here all the time for all the internet to read. The show exists to help the women. And get good ratings and bring in ad revenue, of course, but also to help.
So this week, when Holly brought up the idea of me going on Tough Love for the second time, I was a bit more receptive. It didn't take much, and she talked me into it. The application is kind of involved, so I made her promise to help me fill it out when I see her next week on my trip home. After all, one of the questions is "Why would your friends say you're single?"
So I'm doing it. I'm applying to be on a reality TV show. The first step might be admitting you have a problem, but this feels like it could be my first step toward a potential future trip to the funny farm. But as Holly very wisely reminded me, there are two things to be gained from this experience: a good man and my forty-five minutes a week of fame. I do so love killing two birds with one stone. Don't y'all?
cheers,
elizabeth
5.07.2009
the hazards of looking this good
Oh my god, y'all.
So Wednesday when I went to the gym I decided I wanted to spice up my thigh work-out a little bit. Do something different. I've always been a fan of lunges, because they work so many different muscles at once and you can really feel it. So I did a couple laps around the little free-weights area at the gym, nothing crazy, with some 12-pound weights at my side. By the third lap I felt a little burn, but nothing major, so I evened it off at four and proceeded to my cardio.
Why, y'all? WHY DIDN'T I STOP WHEN I FELT THE BURN?
This morning my alarm went off at 7 a.m. so that I could hit the gym before work. I rolled out of bed and put on my gym clothes, and I felt some soreness. A tad stiff. But it was not until I got to the bathroom for my morning pee and had to brace myself on the bath tub to even sit down on the toilet that I realized just how bad things really were. It hurt to sit. It hurt to stand back up. Don't even get me started on walking. In fact, let's just throw that word out and replace it with waddling.
And since I rarely miss an opportunity to be wildly over dramatic, OH MY GOD, Y'ALL, THE PAIN. I need to clean the apartment and start packing for my trip home this weekend tonight, but frankly at this moment I would equate leaning over to pull that suitcase out from under my bed to being assaulted violently about the rear with an iron set to cotton and linens. And speaking with the experience of a person who once, some 20 years ago, put her index finger directly onto an iron set to cotton and linens, I can tell you that it is REALLY DAMN HOT.
Luckily, my evening plans -- other than the packing and the cleaning that desperately need to get done -- pretty much involve sitting on my ass and watching the NBC Thursday line-up. It doesn't require a tremendous amount of use of one's thigh (or ass, for that matter) muscles, except for those few glorious times when I waddle to the bathroom and try not to fall into my own toilet because I'm too disabled to pee.
I swanee.
cheers,
elizabeth
So Wednesday when I went to the gym I decided I wanted to spice up my thigh work-out a little bit. Do something different. I've always been a fan of lunges, because they work so many different muscles at once and you can really feel it. So I did a couple laps around the little free-weights area at the gym, nothing crazy, with some 12-pound weights at my side. By the third lap I felt a little burn, but nothing major, so I evened it off at four and proceeded to my cardio.
Why, y'all? WHY DIDN'T I STOP WHEN I FELT THE BURN?
This morning my alarm went off at 7 a.m. so that I could hit the gym before work. I rolled out of bed and put on my gym clothes, and I felt some soreness. A tad stiff. But it was not until I got to the bathroom for my morning pee and had to brace myself on the bath tub to even sit down on the toilet that I realized just how bad things really were. It hurt to sit. It hurt to stand back up. Don't even get me started on walking. In fact, let's just throw that word out and replace it with waddling.
And since I rarely miss an opportunity to be wildly over dramatic, OH MY GOD, Y'ALL, THE PAIN. I need to clean the apartment and start packing for my trip home this weekend tonight, but frankly at this moment I would equate leaning over to pull that suitcase out from under my bed to being assaulted violently about the rear with an iron set to cotton and linens. And speaking with the experience of a person who once, some 20 years ago, put her index finger directly onto an iron set to cotton and linens, I can tell you that it is REALLY DAMN HOT.
Luckily, my evening plans -- other than the packing and the cleaning that desperately need to get done -- pretty much involve sitting on my ass and watching the NBC Thursday line-up. It doesn't require a tremendous amount of use of one's thigh (or ass, for that matter) muscles, except for those few glorious times when I waddle to the bathroom and try not to fall into my own toilet because I'm too disabled to pee.
I swanee.
cheers,
elizabeth
thursday soundbites, no. 13
I got a copy of Here Anonymous, the latest album from these guys, who call themselves Eulogies, a good while back. I think initially I'd planned on reviewing it at some point, but it got lost in the shuffle a little bit and in the end I only gave it a cursory listen.So when, last week, I was editing an interview feature by one of our writers with Peter Walker, who happens to be the lead singer of Eulogies, I remembered that my initial impression of their album had been really positive, so I decided to head over to their MySpace and give their stuff a whirl again, with a little bit more of my undivided attention.
Sure enough, I like these guys. It's alternative rock, for lack of a better term, but there's a lot of pop sensibility thrown in, too. It's nothing crazy or groundbreaking or experimental or unheard of, but it's fun to listen to and I'm digging it right now. Sadly their relatively unknown status means not much in the way of full-length video is to be found on YouTube. You can always listen to more here, but check out a snippet of "Bad Connection" below.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.06.2009
looking to the future
Me: "I would like to note, thank GOD for the state of New York finally giving me my $30 refund this week. Or I would have been struggling to make it to Saturday."
Holly: "Yay!"
Me: "Yeah, the $30 was honestly the reason I will be able to eat through Friday. It was that bad."
Holly: "What are you going to do when you start making $50,000 a year?"
Me: "Cry? Buy name-brand ketchup? I think that's about it."
Holly: "Yay!"
Me: "Yeah, the $30 was honestly the reason I will be able to eat through Friday. It was that bad."
Holly: "What are you going to do when you start making $50,000 a year?"
Me: "Cry? Buy name-brand ketchup? I think that's about it."
5.04.2009
work it out
I try not to judge people at the gym. I really do.
Because let's be honest here. I bust up in the Bally Total Fitness Jersey City on a daily basis looking varying levels of completely disgusting, typically not having showered any time in the last 24 hours and possibly wearing the shirt I slept in the night before. It's not a beauty pageant. And really I tend to think that no matter what someone looks like when they come to the gym, at least they came to the gym. They're working out. They're trying.
However. There are two specific cases I encountered today (that I encounter every day) that defy my understanding. The first is the inevitable case of the woman working out in dress clothes. There was a lady on a bike in the gym this afternoon in a black button-down cardigan and a white collared dress shirt. Really m'am? First, I shudder to even contemplate how ungodly uncomfortable that must be, and second, are you planning on sweating in those clothes? And if the answer is no, that you weren't planning on sweating, then might you entertain my curiosity as to WHY you are at the gym in the FIRST PLACE?
The second case, though, is far more disturbing. I was contemplating said case while standing on the treadmill before my run dislodging my underwear from my rear end after an unfortunately timed wedgie. These things happen. I thought to myself, wow. This is probably not a pleasant sight for the people behind me. But my concerns about their sensibilities being offended were almost immediately assuaged when I stepped off the treadmill a short while later, only to spot about five wayward camel toes throughout the cardio floor.
I get that work-out pants are tight. I get that gym shorts are short. I do. But I also feel that the camel toe is a sign of something fundamentally wrong with your clothes, and maybe I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm going to suggest that the fundamental problem is that THEY DON'T FIT YOU. I appreciate that people of all shapes and sizes exercise on machines around me every day in the gym, and I applaud every one of them for taking steps to better themselves. But if they could better themselves without revealing to me the precise latitude and longitude of every crevice of their crotch, I would be less likely to vomit on a stair-stepper because someone decided to do lunges in my general direction.
It is incidents like these that give me the drive to start that charity I've always talked about founding, to make sure that no camel toe is brought unknowingly out to scar an innocent world. I have often felt that perhaps the problem was just that these poor people did not know the heinous crimes against humanity they were committing, and thus I propose an organization to help build awareness. I'm calling it A Mirror For Every Home.
cheers,
elizabeth
Because let's be honest here. I bust up in the Bally Total Fitness Jersey City on a daily basis looking varying levels of completely disgusting, typically not having showered any time in the last 24 hours and possibly wearing the shirt I slept in the night before. It's not a beauty pageant. And really I tend to think that no matter what someone looks like when they come to the gym, at least they came to the gym. They're working out. They're trying.
However. There are two specific cases I encountered today (that I encounter every day) that defy my understanding. The first is the inevitable case of the woman working out in dress clothes. There was a lady on a bike in the gym this afternoon in a black button-down cardigan and a white collared dress shirt. Really m'am? First, I shudder to even contemplate how ungodly uncomfortable that must be, and second, are you planning on sweating in those clothes? And if the answer is no, that you weren't planning on sweating, then might you entertain my curiosity as to WHY you are at the gym in the FIRST PLACE?
The second case, though, is far more disturbing. I was contemplating said case while standing on the treadmill before my run dislodging my underwear from my rear end after an unfortunately timed wedgie. These things happen. I thought to myself, wow. This is probably not a pleasant sight for the people behind me. But my concerns about their sensibilities being offended were almost immediately assuaged when I stepped off the treadmill a short while later, only to spot about five wayward camel toes throughout the cardio floor.
I get that work-out pants are tight. I get that gym shorts are short. I do. But I also feel that the camel toe is a sign of something fundamentally wrong with your clothes, and maybe I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm going to suggest that the fundamental problem is that THEY DON'T FIT YOU. I appreciate that people of all shapes and sizes exercise on machines around me every day in the gym, and I applaud every one of them for taking steps to better themselves. But if they could better themselves without revealing to me the precise latitude and longitude of every crevice of their crotch, I would be less likely to vomit on a stair-stepper because someone decided to do lunges in my general direction.
It is incidents like these that give me the drive to start that charity I've always talked about founding, to make sure that no camel toe is brought unknowingly out to scar an innocent world. I have often felt that perhaps the problem was just that these poor people did not know the heinous crimes against humanity they were committing, and thus I propose an organization to help build awareness. I'm calling it A Mirror For Every Home.
cheers,
elizabeth
5.02.2009
keeping things in perspective
Folks, I am T-Minus one week and counting from a little jaunt to the Volunteer State. I realize that I may have neglected to mention this to you, that I'm heading home for a little bit, but you'll forgive me this drastic oversight in light of the recent health conditions which have caused me to experience symptoms of both Turrets ("What the #^@#*! is wrong with these people?") and mild dementia ("Is this really #^@#*! happening?").
I'd like to tell y'all that I'm going to miss New Jersey while I'm gone, but that would be a big fat lie, since I'll probably be flipping it the bird from my window seat the moment we're airborne at Newark International Airport. The only thing making Jersey City a desirable place to live right now is the fact that no one here has swine flu. Yet.
But I'm not just excited about going home because it means I won't be here for a little while -- hell, you should know by now that there are at least a million things about the south that I miss like crazy. Near the top of the list has to be that for a solid week, nobody will expect me to pronounce the final consonant on any word that comes out of my mouth. It will be considered perfectly normal to be "fixin to" do something, and all parties will be appropriately referred to as "y'all," even if said parties only contain one person.
But lest I get caught up in all this excitement and thus experience some sort of nervous breakdown when I realize I do, in fact, have to come back to New Jersey, I like to remind myself of some of the things about the south (Memphis in particular) that I do not miss when I am gone.
When I was leaving England for the final time last fall, I came in to New York and connected there for my flight to Memphis. When I boarded the plane at JFK I realized that I was sitting smack in the middle of a huge group of people who were obviously traveling together. After overhearing a little of their conversation I discerned that they were all family members -- brothers, sisters, in-laws, cousins, etc. -- from Memphis who took an annual family trip. This year, they'd gone to Paris and London. I heard them chattering a little bit about their travels, and one woman said she was ready to get home and sleep in her own bed. I smiled to myself sympathetically. But then, this little exchange took place:
Woman 1: Oh girl, you know why I'm ready to get home? I'm ready to have some real food.
Woman 2: Oh, me too. I want some home cookin'.
Woman 1: Oh, you know what I want? I want some Red Lobster!
Did I mention they'd been in London, and say what you will about British food, but that they'd also been in PARIS? One of the gastronomic capitals of the world? And this woman can't wait to get home so she can eat CHEDDAR BISCUITS FROM RED LOBSTER? The conversation continued to decline into shame and embarrassment as the second woman wanted to know if the first ever went to Rafferty's, and if so, which Rafferty's did she go to? And do you know what she wants more than anything in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD? She wants them to put one of them Rafferty's down on Union next to that Red Lobster. And did you ever have a Caesar Salad from TGI Fridays? Because nobody make a Caesar like that Caesar at TGI Fridays, you know.
At that moment, I wished I had a tape recorder. Not because I was afraid I wouldn't remember the conversation exactly -- things that disturbing tend to get burned indelibly into your mind -- but because I sometimes wonder when I tell these stories if anybody believes a word of this shit. Well, believe it. Those people are classic Memphis. And I hate to admit it, but when I board the plane to Tennessee next week, I'll probably even be happy to see them.
cheers,
elizabeth
I'd like to tell y'all that I'm going to miss New Jersey while I'm gone, but that would be a big fat lie, since I'll probably be flipping it the bird from my window seat the moment we're airborne at Newark International Airport. The only thing making Jersey City a desirable place to live right now is the fact that no one here has swine flu. Yet.
But I'm not just excited about going home because it means I won't be here for a little while -- hell, you should know by now that there are at least a million things about the south that I miss like crazy. Near the top of the list has to be that for a solid week, nobody will expect me to pronounce the final consonant on any word that comes out of my mouth. It will be considered perfectly normal to be "fixin to" do something, and all parties will be appropriately referred to as "y'all," even if said parties only contain one person.
But lest I get caught up in all this excitement and thus experience some sort of nervous breakdown when I realize I do, in fact, have to come back to New Jersey, I like to remind myself of some of the things about the south (Memphis in particular) that I do not miss when I am gone.
When I was leaving England for the final time last fall, I came in to New York and connected there for my flight to Memphis. When I boarded the plane at JFK I realized that I was sitting smack in the middle of a huge group of people who were obviously traveling together. After overhearing a little of their conversation I discerned that they were all family members -- brothers, sisters, in-laws, cousins, etc. -- from Memphis who took an annual family trip. This year, they'd gone to Paris and London. I heard them chattering a little bit about their travels, and one woman said she was ready to get home and sleep in her own bed. I smiled to myself sympathetically. But then, this little exchange took place:
Woman 1: Oh girl, you know why I'm ready to get home? I'm ready to have some real food.
Woman 2: Oh, me too. I want some home cookin'.
Woman 1: Oh, you know what I want? I want some Red Lobster!
Did I mention they'd been in London, and say what you will about British food, but that they'd also been in PARIS? One of the gastronomic capitals of the world? And this woman can't wait to get home so she can eat CHEDDAR BISCUITS FROM RED LOBSTER? The conversation continued to decline into shame and embarrassment as the second woman wanted to know if the first ever went to Rafferty's, and if so, which Rafferty's did she go to? And do you know what she wants more than anything in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD? She wants them to put one of them Rafferty's down on Union next to that Red Lobster. And did you ever have a Caesar Salad from TGI Fridays? Because nobody make a Caesar like that Caesar at TGI Fridays, you know.
At that moment, I wished I had a tape recorder. Not because I was afraid I wouldn't remember the conversation exactly -- things that disturbing tend to get burned indelibly into your mind -- but because I sometimes wonder when I tell these stories if anybody believes a word of this shit. Well, believe it. Those people are classic Memphis. And I hate to admit it, but when I board the plane to Tennessee next week, I'll probably even be happy to see them.
cheers,
elizabeth
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