When I first opened up a new post window and put the cursor in the title field, the only thing I could think to write was "oi vey." Eventually I settled on the title you see above, but the runners-up were "oi, oi vey," "oi" and "dammit." A little less eloquent than what I finally came up with, but they all convey the same basic emotion.
Oi.
Last night Mr. Risky Business came over, we went to dinner at SoulFish and then came back to my place for homemade Not-Blonde-Brownies, Bailey's and a few episodes of Weeds. And at some point we're kissing and instead of my mind being all overwhelmed with his good smells and the adrenaline and endorphins and hormones and ACK!, all I can think about is this very obvious, very glaring piece of evidence of his past that he wears around his finger. That he still wears around his finger.
And so, figuring that no time will really be the best time and remembering some hackneyed expression about there being no time like the present, I blurt it out. I ask him why he still wears it.
There's a long silence. And instantly I regret asking it, but am simultaneously relieved it's been said out loud.
"To remind me," he says finally, "that it's technically not over. And not to go too far."
I don't know quite what I'd expected him to say. I don't know that I had any expectation, actually. I hadn't imagined he was going to say something that was going to devastate me, or something I didn't already know or hadn't already intuitively perceived. And actually, his answer almost made me laugh -- not like "ha ha" funny, more like ironically funny -- since that voice in my head that wouldn't shut up while we were kissing just moments before had mostly been yapping on about how having sex with someone who still wears that around his finger would not be the best investment in the future of my self respect.
So in a way I guess it was serving the same purpose for me.
And after another episode of Weeds and a little cooling off, and a few spins through some Bob Dylan records, we got to talking. About life, about stuff, plans, interests. Things. Things you talk about. And he said some things that he's said before, or at least sentiments he's expressed before, but for whatever reason they struck me and stuck with me in a much different way.
After he left I just felt conflicted. Part of me -- this very small, very logical part of my brain that almost always gets ruled out by the much bossier, louder parts of my brain dedicated to sex and romance and being held and feeling comfort -- wanted to write him an e-mail right that second and say, I have to stop this before I get too emotionally involved. I have to protect my heart.
But then I realized that my heart is already vulnerable. I'm already emotionally involved. The car is in drive, it's on the road and turning around now won't change the miles that have been driven. And the fact is, regardless of those feelings I do want to see where this is going. I want to see where the road might lead. But I worry that what I'm hoping for is the cardinal sin of womanhood: thinking you can change a man. It's not that he can't change. It's that I can't change him. And I can't invest in something based on the idea that he might.
But, whoops. I already have invested in him. And I knew what I was doing when I made the initial deposit. Shit, I named him Mr. Risky Business for a reason. And the thing is, we could keep going like we are, seeing each other, enjoying each other's company, talking about music and books and life and god, I love all of those things. I love spending time with him. But what is this leading to? Not knowing what something is right this second is not really too hard for me. I can take the slow forward motion. But what if there is no forward motion? What if I don't have a flying clue where it could ever be going? Ever? That gets a little stickier.
So, I like him. But I don't know if he can give me what I want. And I'm not even talking big picture here. I mean, yes, I do want to be married and have babies and all that, eventually, and I'm going to need to be with someone, eventually, who wants those things, too. But even in the very present tense, the very small picture, I wonder if there are things that I want that he can't or won't or isn't prepared to give me -- even down to calling me his girlfriend or introducing me to his friends.
I think in the past my tendency has been to ignore red flags and let that logical part of my brain be drowned out by the others -- they're flashier and prettier and say things I like to hear far more often. And though I'm certainly still listening to them more than I do the logical stuff, I'm not ignoring the red flags. I haven't put the brakes on this thing, and I don't want to. I want to see him, I want to see what could be. I'm cautiously optimistic. And maybe I'll use those little red flags to build a makeshift fort around my heart.
Just in case.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.31.2010
1.28.2010
a hot (sweaty) mess
You might've seen some of my tweets in the past week about trying Bikram Yoga for the first time. For a while I've been looking for something to spice up my fitness routine, since for the past six months or more it's pretty much been running. Every day. On a treadmill, while watching 'Say Yes to the Dress' on TLC.
If you're not familiar with Bikram Yoga, it basically refers to 26 specific poses that were put together by this dude whose name is (wait for it!) Bikram. It's always the same, and always in the same order, and always last 90 minutes. The catch is, you're doing all of it in a 105 degree room.
Being from Memphis, I thought I knew what 105 degrees felt like. But y'all, I did not. I walked in that room the first night and laid down on my mat before class began and all I could think was, OH FUCK. I had already been pretty nervous about it before I even got to the studio, and then the instructor gave me a quick orientation in which she literally said that my goal for my first class should simply be to stay in the room the whole time. Again. OH, FUCK.
And I blame her uttering those words to me in the first place for the fact that about two-thirds of the way through the class I tried to make a break for it. And was subsequently totally that person who opened the door during class, IDIOT. I mean, doesn't someone saying that my goal is just to stay in the room the whole time imply that one can elect NOT to stay in the room the whole time? Doesn't it? I thought so. And at the one point during the class when I knew death was imminent, and I could see black spots in front of my eyes, I felt that giving up on my first-class-goal was a very wise decision.
So I made a move toward the door, and no sooner was my hand on the door knob and one foot out the door than the instructor came trotting toward me (who MOVES that quickly when it's ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE!?) and told me not to leave the room. Just to lie down on my mat. And so I did, and yes, eventually I did feel better. And eventually I fell completely head over heels for Bikram, but I'll get to that in a minute. First I just need to note two things: 1.) the extreme, unmeasurable level of sheer mortification I felt at being that person, after already having massive amounts of attention called to me simply for being a newbie in the first place and 2.) my curiosity at what exactly one would have to be experiencing in order to be allowed to leave the room. Because what if I were dying? Of course, I'm probably a bad example since I tend to think I'm dying after, say, slamming my finger in a car door.
After I rested for a minute, my head cleared, I had some water and rejoined the class. And despite my little run for the border, I left the studio that night feeling something I lack words to describe. I haven't felt that way after a workout, maybe ever, and that's saying something. I've shed some serious sweat at the gym many, many times in my life. But never have I felt so good, so energized, so rejuvenated. It was incredible.
I was doing the studio's one-week new student trial, which gave me unlimited classes for seven days for $20. So I went a few more times, watching myself improve even from one session to the next. And now I'm hooked. The problem? They are real damn proud of this shit, because it costs almost five times as much as my gym membership.
Initially I'd planned to just do it for a week, to kickstart my fitness routine a little bit, change things up for my muscles, and then go back to just running. But what I realized after my last class was that $17 - the cost of one drop-in class - is an amount of money I have each week. I may not have enough for the monthly membership, but I can go to one class a week. I spend more than $17 on an average night at the bar. And when I put it to myself that way, it makes it hard to keep telling myself I don't have the money. If I have money for beer, I think I can reallocate some of those funds for something just a little bit better for me.
So Bikram is going to be part of my Sunday routine from this point forward. And maybe one day I'll be abe able to afford to do it daily. Or at least to crank my heat up to 105 and do it in my own living room.
Kidding.
cheers,
elizabeth
If you're not familiar with Bikram Yoga, it basically refers to 26 specific poses that were put together by this dude whose name is (wait for it!) Bikram. It's always the same, and always in the same order, and always last 90 minutes. The catch is, you're doing all of it in a 105 degree room.
Being from Memphis, I thought I knew what 105 degrees felt like. But y'all, I did not. I walked in that room the first night and laid down on my mat before class began and all I could think was, OH FUCK. I had already been pretty nervous about it before I even got to the studio, and then the instructor gave me a quick orientation in which she literally said that my goal for my first class should simply be to stay in the room the whole time. Again. OH, FUCK.
And I blame her uttering those words to me in the first place for the fact that about two-thirds of the way through the class I tried to make a break for it. And was subsequently totally that person who opened the door during class, IDIOT. I mean, doesn't someone saying that my goal is just to stay in the room the whole time imply that one can elect NOT to stay in the room the whole time? Doesn't it? I thought so. And at the one point during the class when I knew death was imminent, and I could see black spots in front of my eyes, I felt that giving up on my first-class-goal was a very wise decision.
So I made a move toward the door, and no sooner was my hand on the door knob and one foot out the door than the instructor came trotting toward me (who MOVES that quickly when it's ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE!?) and told me not to leave the room. Just to lie down on my mat. And so I did, and yes, eventually I did feel better. And eventually I fell completely head over heels for Bikram, but I'll get to that in a minute. First I just need to note two things: 1.) the extreme, unmeasurable level of sheer mortification I felt at being that person, after already having massive amounts of attention called to me simply for being a newbie in the first place and 2.) my curiosity at what exactly one would have to be experiencing in order to be allowed to leave the room. Because what if I were dying? Of course, I'm probably a bad example since I tend to think I'm dying after, say, slamming my finger in a car door.
After I rested for a minute, my head cleared, I had some water and rejoined the class. And despite my little run for the border, I left the studio that night feeling something I lack words to describe. I haven't felt that way after a workout, maybe ever, and that's saying something. I've shed some serious sweat at the gym many, many times in my life. But never have I felt so good, so energized, so rejuvenated. It was incredible.
I was doing the studio's one-week new student trial, which gave me unlimited classes for seven days for $20. So I went a few more times, watching myself improve even from one session to the next. And now I'm hooked. The problem? They are real damn proud of this shit, because it costs almost five times as much as my gym membership.
Initially I'd planned to just do it for a week, to kickstart my fitness routine a little bit, change things up for my muscles, and then go back to just running. But what I realized after my last class was that $17 - the cost of one drop-in class - is an amount of money I have each week. I may not have enough for the monthly membership, but I can go to one class a week. I spend more than $17 on an average night at the bar. And when I put it to myself that way, it makes it hard to keep telling myself I don't have the money. If I have money for beer, I think I can reallocate some of those funds for something just a little bit better for me.
So Bikram is going to be part of my Sunday routine from this point forward. And maybe one day I'll be abe able to afford to do it daily. Or at least to crank my heat up to 105 and do it in my own living room.
Kidding.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.27.2010
a risky business marathon
Hold on to your hats, kids, because this thing is about to go into overdrive. Last weekend was Mr.-Risky-Business-Palooza.
Since he doesn't work too far from me, we met up for lunch on Thursday and we had plans to see a band on Friday night. But that didn't exactly happen. After about two hours at the bar when nothing seemed to be materializing -- though I had learned some very interesting facts about Kim and Taryn while hovering over the toilet so as not to catch the crabs -- we decided it was time for a spontaneous change of plans. I would describe this bar as sort of like your grandmother's living room, but Mr. Risky Business described it as like your grandmother's living room, if your grandmother's deadbeat son put her in a home and never pays the bills. But it's a loveable sort of crackhouse, seriously.
So we headed down to South Main to meet up with some of my friends from high school. Lindsey was there, with some of the usual suspects that may have been name dropped here before -- Elizabeth and Kelly -- and a few faces I hadn't seen in years. Possibly since graduation almost seven years ago. It was a lot of fun, only I think with every beer I drank, my conversational skills with Mr. Risky Business were reduced to "You smell really good" and "Sorry, I get a little handsy when I drink." What? He did, and I do.
Fast forward to Saturday night. Stef and I had the first meeting of our two-person book club. Don't make fun, we're extremely deep and intellectual. After our dinner we met up with Mr. RB at Tracks for a few beers, because Stef actually knows Mr. RB from way back. It was a good time -- I played a bunch of choice tracks on the juke box, Stef and I sang Al Green (SO necessary) and we played many rousing rounds of "I didn't know your boyfriend was going to be here!" I was going to explain the game, but after writing and re-writing the description of how it works about three times and being unable to make myself NOT sound like an inhuman she-beast, I decided not to. Use your imagination.
So Sunday night, I get home from yoga, all hot and sweaty and jacked up on endorphins, and he mentions he's thinking of grabbing a cup of coffee at Republic. I join him, and two and a half hours later I finally look at my phone and realize it's past my old lady bedtime. We walk out to the parking lot, and he walks me to my car. And it's cold, and he has his arm around me. And I'm wondering if he's going to kiss me, because we hadn't kissed goodbye the night before and naturally this wondering is making me Nervous Nancy, the local crackhead in Awkwardtown, and next thing you know I'm trying to casually open my car door and throw my purse in, only that doesn't really work out and my index finger gets crushed in the door as it slams.
The real victory here is that I did not swear at all as I was screeching and schfitzing and generally freaking out, even though it had pretty much already turned purple and black before I could even take a look at it, and typically I would cuss a blue streak at much, much smaller offenses. Luckily, after that, he did kiss me.
What smashed finger?
cheers,
elizabeth
Since he doesn't work too far from me, we met up for lunch on Thursday and we had plans to see a band on Friday night. But that didn't exactly happen. After about two hours at the bar when nothing seemed to be materializing -- though I had learned some very interesting facts about Kim and Taryn while hovering over the toilet so as not to catch the crabs -- we decided it was time for a spontaneous change of plans. I would describe this bar as sort of like your grandmother's living room, but Mr. Risky Business described it as like your grandmother's living room, if your grandmother's deadbeat son put her in a home and never pays the bills. But it's a loveable sort of crackhouse, seriously.
So we headed down to South Main to meet up with some of my friends from high school. Lindsey was there, with some of the usual suspects that may have been name dropped here before -- Elizabeth and Kelly -- and a few faces I hadn't seen in years. Possibly since graduation almost seven years ago. It was a lot of fun, only I think with every beer I drank, my conversational skills with Mr. Risky Business were reduced to "You smell really good" and "Sorry, I get a little handsy when I drink." What? He did, and I do.
Fast forward to Saturday night. Stef and I had the first meeting of our two-person book club. Don't make fun, we're extremely deep and intellectual. After our dinner we met up with Mr. RB at Tracks for a few beers, because Stef actually knows Mr. RB from way back. It was a good time -- I played a bunch of choice tracks on the juke box, Stef and I sang Al Green (SO necessary) and we played many rousing rounds of "I didn't know your boyfriend was going to be here!" I was going to explain the game, but after writing and re-writing the description of how it works about three times and being unable to make myself NOT sound like an inhuman she-beast, I decided not to. Use your imagination.
So Sunday night, I get home from yoga, all hot and sweaty and jacked up on endorphins, and he mentions he's thinking of grabbing a cup of coffee at Republic. I join him, and two and a half hours later I finally look at my phone and realize it's past my old lady bedtime. We walk out to the parking lot, and he walks me to my car. And it's cold, and he has his arm around me. And I'm wondering if he's going to kiss me, because we hadn't kissed goodbye the night before and naturally this wondering is making me Nervous Nancy, the local crackhead in Awkwardtown, and next thing you know I'm trying to casually open my car door and throw my purse in, only that doesn't really work out and my index finger gets crushed in the door as it slams.
The real victory here is that I did not swear at all as I was screeching and schfitzing and generally freaking out, even though it had pretty much already turned purple and black before I could even take a look at it, and typically I would cuss a blue streak at much, much smaller offenses. Luckily, after that, he did kiss me.
What smashed finger?
cheers,
elizabeth
1.24.2010
chalk it up to saturday 2
On the storied and highly anticipated Saturday 2, Megan and I headed to the local for what was meant to be brunch but turned into a late lunch and then really, for all intents and purposes, was dinner followed by several beers. We ended up hanging out with The Broz and a bunch of other random regulars, plus (of course) a bunch of Irish dudes with names like Johnnie and Dickie and Seamus. (Yes, Seamus.)
Now what you need to know about Seamus was that he loved me, deeply, and that he's 42 and has a lot of opinions. Two of those qualities obviously immediately endeared him to me, since I'm typically always a big fan of people who love me AND I love a good argument. Turned out, though, that one of Seamus's many opinions was that texting is, and I quote, "savagely rude," and he told me that if I texted one more time he was going to stop talking to me. Now, this was after he recited to me the exact number of times I'd opened my phone since we started conversing. Creepertown? Population Seamus.
What Seamus did not know is that I was texting Mr. Risky Business. So clearly I kept on. And Seamus kept good on his promise. Whoops.
So after all this texting, Mr. Risky Business ends up joining us. We finish up our drinks there and decide to head to a different bar down the street that we think might be a little more conducive to conversation. Somewhere between the local and the next bar we realize that Megan is completely, hysterically, sloppy ass drunk. And for the life of me I don't know how she got that way, because we've been drinking at the same pace and typically if anyone's going to go all lightweight on the other, it's going to be me on her. She was just a-giggling and stumbling and I'd say she hit her peak when we walked out of the women's bathroom and the door to the men's room was wide open, as it notoriously always is, and Megan stood in the doorway staring at a guy taking a whiz at the urinal. I had to grab her and pull her back into the hallway and she just looked at me like, "What? The door was open!"
So Megan heads out shortly thereafter, leaving me and Mr. Risky Business by ourselves. And not long after that, we head back to my place. I wanted to introduce him to my record collection, and I also decided that the tour I'd given him the day before was incomplete and completely unsatisfactory, mostly because I'd been all nervous and mouth vomit-y. And apparently I felt that the tipsy tour may be better than the nervous and awkward tour.
Somewhere around the end of this very official tour, I was yammering on about my sorority and I decided to pull off my shoe (and my St. Paddy's themed socks) and show him my tattoo. Super hot. And then we start talking about tattoos, and he shows me his tattoo, and then I mentioned that I want a tattoo on the hairline on the back of my neck, and then there's neck showing which leads to neck touching which leads to face touching which leads to kissing and THANK GOD because I think the mutual exhale that took place directly afterward could be heard across the tristate area.
He didn't stay long after that, and though the friend zone has been chucked out the window and isn't even visible in the rear-view anymore, things are moving slowly. And I'm very thankful for it, to be honest. After all the Misters who came and went through my life at the end of 2009, I'm ready to take my time. It feels healthier. It feels better for the soul. Moving slowly.
Of course, that doesn't make it easy.
cheers,
elizabeth
Now what you need to know about Seamus was that he loved me, deeply, and that he's 42 and has a lot of opinions. Two of those qualities obviously immediately endeared him to me, since I'm typically always a big fan of people who love me AND I love a good argument. Turned out, though, that one of Seamus's many opinions was that texting is, and I quote, "savagely rude," and he told me that if I texted one more time he was going to stop talking to me. Now, this was after he recited to me the exact number of times I'd opened my phone since we started conversing. Creepertown? Population Seamus.
What Seamus did not know is that I was texting Mr. Risky Business. So clearly I kept on. And Seamus kept good on his promise. Whoops.
So after all this texting, Mr. Risky Business ends up joining us. We finish up our drinks there and decide to head to a different bar down the street that we think might be a little more conducive to conversation. Somewhere between the local and the next bar we realize that Megan is completely, hysterically, sloppy ass drunk. And for the life of me I don't know how she got that way, because we've been drinking at the same pace and typically if anyone's going to go all lightweight on the other, it's going to be me on her. She was just a-giggling and stumbling and I'd say she hit her peak when we walked out of the women's bathroom and the door to the men's room was wide open, as it notoriously always is, and Megan stood in the doorway staring at a guy taking a whiz at the urinal. I had to grab her and pull her back into the hallway and she just looked at me like, "What? The door was open!"
So Megan heads out shortly thereafter, leaving me and Mr. Risky Business by ourselves. And not long after that, we head back to my place. I wanted to introduce him to my record collection, and I also decided that the tour I'd given him the day before was incomplete and completely unsatisfactory, mostly because I'd been all nervous and mouth vomit-y. And apparently I felt that the tipsy tour may be better than the nervous and awkward tour.
Somewhere around the end of this very official tour, I was yammering on about my sorority and I decided to pull off my shoe (and my St. Paddy's themed socks) and show him my tattoo. Super hot. And then we start talking about tattoos, and he shows me his tattoo, and then I mentioned that I want a tattoo on the hairline on the back of my neck, and then there's neck showing which leads to neck touching which leads to face touching which leads to kissing and THANK GOD because I think the mutual exhale that took place directly afterward could be heard across the tristate area.
He didn't stay long after that, and though the friend zone has been chucked out the window and isn't even visible in the rear-view anymore, things are moving slowly. And I'm very thankful for it, to be honest. After all the Misters who came and went through my life at the end of 2009, I'm ready to take my time. It feels healthier. It feels better for the soul. Moving slowly.
Of course, that doesn't make it easy.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.23.2010
the difficulties of the friend zone
So it's Friday night of a three-day weekend. The excitement level that I'm feeling about said three-day weekend is somewhere between winning a Grammy and being a seven-year-old on Christmas Eve. I have taken to referring to Sunday as "Saturday 2." We're at a fever pitch.
Megan and I are doing the usual thing -- heading to the local, where we will hang out with our friend, The Broz. He's actually the owner of the bar who we made friends with a few weeks ago (read: free shots and extra champagne in my mimosas), and we call him The Broz because I once may have mentioned to Megan that I thought he resembled Pierce Brosnan. Thus, The Broz was born.
So we're hanging out with The Broz and his coterie of old Irish dudes (who are all super inapprops all the time and named things like Dickie and Johnnie), the bar is packed and I drink a lot of Ghost River Golden on a fairly empty stomach, mostly because in all my primping and prepping there wasn't really time to eat dinner so I scarfed some stale old Tostitos and called it a balanced meal. It happens.
This did, of course, result in multiple ill-advised text messages and a chance meeting with a skeezer guy from Southaven who saved his number in my phone -- the next morning while I was sitting in the drive-through line at the bank scanning through the debris of the previous night I spent a lot of time swearing at myself over my sent texts before discovering this saved phone number, under the name "Greg," with its grand total of 11 digits.
But what's more important than all of this is that when I stumbled home with Megan somewhere way past the witching hour, I found an e-mail from Mr. Risky Business inviting me to have lunch or coffee or brunch or something the next day, before I headed to my parents for family stuff since my brother was in town. I spent a good five minutes very earnestly trying to tap out a response before deciding that clearly what would be easier would be to chat with him instead of typing out some long e-mail. Right? Logical, I know. And so I g-chatted him. And he was there. And thankfully, the next morning when I reviewed the contents of that conversation I didn't have any reason to cringe or swear at myself. But I did make plans, while drunk, to get brunch around noon.
He comes to my place and picks me up, and we head to this beignet place on South Main, where we notably did not eat beignets. I was post-drunk hungry and they had a breakfast that came with grits. Hello? There's no other option.
So we brunch, and we chat and next thing I know it's been almost two hours. And then we're back in the car and in those close quarters I'm thinking the same thing I was thinking when I first got into the car, which was good sweet everything almighty, he smells SO GOOD. Like, hot and bothered good-smelling. I need to get out of this car lest I explode, good-smelling. That kind of good-smelling.
And where things have been anything but awkward during brunch, now the awkwardness is creeping back in. Because that sexual tension quicksand? Yeah, it's back. And I invite him in to listen to a few bands I'd mentioned that he hadn't heard before, only he still smells really good and it makes it very hard to concentrate on most anything except for the high level of focus required to behave oneself.
He heads out shortly after that, and we hug before he goes and that's when I noticed something I may not have mentioned before. OH MY GOD THE SMELL. Oh my god, y'all. In my brain, I'm thinking, just get out. Get out right now before I start aggressively breathing in your scent and once I'm all stoned on cologne I cannot make any promises about what I will or will not do. GET OUT. For your own safety, please.
Because at this point -- despite the good smells and the sexual tension quicksand and the awkward -- we're still in the friend zone. And as far as I know, that's where we're staying, at least for the time being.
And next time, I'll let you in on exactly how long "the time being" actually is.
cheers,
elizabeth
Megan and I are doing the usual thing -- heading to the local, where we will hang out with our friend, The Broz. He's actually the owner of the bar who we made friends with a few weeks ago (read: free shots and extra champagne in my mimosas), and we call him The Broz because I once may have mentioned to Megan that I thought he resembled Pierce Brosnan. Thus, The Broz was born.
So we're hanging out with The Broz and his coterie of old Irish dudes (who are all super inapprops all the time and named things like Dickie and Johnnie), the bar is packed and I drink a lot of Ghost River Golden on a fairly empty stomach, mostly because in all my primping and prepping there wasn't really time to eat dinner so I scarfed some stale old Tostitos and called it a balanced meal. It happens.
This did, of course, result in multiple ill-advised text messages and a chance meeting with a skeezer guy from Southaven who saved his number in my phone -- the next morning while I was sitting in the drive-through line at the bank scanning through the debris of the previous night I spent a lot of time swearing at myself over my sent texts before discovering this saved phone number, under the name "Greg," with its grand total of 11 digits.
But what's more important than all of this is that when I stumbled home with Megan somewhere way past the witching hour, I found an e-mail from Mr. Risky Business inviting me to have lunch or coffee or brunch or something the next day, before I headed to my parents for family stuff since my brother was in town. I spent a good five minutes very earnestly trying to tap out a response before deciding that clearly what would be easier would be to chat with him instead of typing out some long e-mail. Right? Logical, I know. And so I g-chatted him. And he was there. And thankfully, the next morning when I reviewed the contents of that conversation I didn't have any reason to cringe or swear at myself. But I did make plans, while drunk, to get brunch around noon.
He comes to my place and picks me up, and we head to this beignet place on South Main, where we notably did not eat beignets. I was post-drunk hungry and they had a breakfast that came with grits. Hello? There's no other option.
So we brunch, and we chat and next thing I know it's been almost two hours. And then we're back in the car and in those close quarters I'm thinking the same thing I was thinking when I first got into the car, which was good sweet everything almighty, he smells SO GOOD. Like, hot and bothered good-smelling. I need to get out of this car lest I explode, good-smelling. That kind of good-smelling.
And where things have been anything but awkward during brunch, now the awkwardness is creeping back in. Because that sexual tension quicksand? Yeah, it's back. And I invite him in to listen to a few bands I'd mentioned that he hadn't heard before, only he still smells really good and it makes it very hard to concentrate on most anything except for the high level of focus required to behave oneself.
He heads out shortly after that, and we hug before he goes and that's when I noticed something I may not have mentioned before. OH MY GOD THE SMELL. Oh my god, y'all. In my brain, I'm thinking, just get out. Get out right now before I start aggressively breathing in your scent and once I'm all stoned on cologne I cannot make any promises about what I will or will not do. GET OUT. For your own safety, please.
Because at this point -- despite the good smells and the sexual tension quicksand and the awkward -- we're still in the friend zone. And as far as I know, that's where we're staying, at least for the time being.
And next time, I'll let you in on exactly how long "the time being" actually is.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.20.2010
proceeding with caution
Around 11 on Sunday morning (after the cuz's house party) I managed to pull myself together and get of bed, what with having a brunch date with Megan at the local -- or rather, at Celtic Crossing, which we've dubbed "the local," being the Irish and English wannabes that we are -- at noon and needing to get showered and presentable before then. A girl's gotta earn those free mimosas, people.
On the way home from the party the night before, Lindsey and I had an intense, very drunk, exceedingly Bridget Jones-esque conversation about how long one should wait before friending someone on Facebook. (Bitch, all these RULES!) Of course, I suppose it isn't really how long one should wait, but how long girls should wait, since the act of the friend request seems to resemble a virtual first move. We tentatively decided that if I was going to make the first Facebook move, it needed to wait at least 36 hours.
Luckily, I didn't have to wait or make the move, since I had a friend request waiting for me from Mr. Risky Business when I woke up Sunday morning.
Whew. One hurdle down.
Sunday night, the first Facebook message arrives in my inbox, and by the time I leave work on Tuesday we've got a thread of messages so long it could stretch from here to Mexico. There's flirtation, there's lots of music talk, it's good. And then.
And then.
I'm out Tuesday evening at a Vagina Monologues rehearsal, and when I come home there's an e-mail from Mr. Risky Business. It's a 180 from the tone of our previous messages, but its sentiments weren't entirely surprising to me. Basically, he said that things are still fresh and that the he was going to be giving me a little more space. Maybe in a few months, when things are more settled, we could see what happens. In the meantime, just friends.
And it was disappointing, but I understood. I mean, I don't understand, and I sincerely hope I never will. But I can extrapolate, based on my own past hurts and heartaches, that the recovery time on something like that is going to be fairly extensive. And healing is important, and I respect that, which is pretty much what I told him in my response to his e-mail. Disappointing, but copasetic. And with a hint of hopeful optimism for that "maybe in a few months" idea.
Only, it doesn't end there. Because by Wednesday afternoon, we were chatting online again off and on. And by Thursday, it was almost constant. And Thursday night -- when the idea of space was squashed once and for all when we coincidentally had meetings in the same place at the same time and the sexual tension was so thick you could've drowned in it like quicksand, consequently causing a level of awkwardness that frankly has been unprecedented, even in my storied career of awkward -- I had an inkling that we weren't going to be just friends.
cheers,
elizabeth
On the way home from the party the night before, Lindsey and I had an intense, very drunk, exceedingly Bridget Jones-esque conversation about how long one should wait before friending someone on Facebook. (Bitch, all these RULES!) Of course, I suppose it isn't really how long one should wait, but how long girls should wait, since the act of the friend request seems to resemble a virtual first move. We tentatively decided that if I was going to make the first Facebook move, it needed to wait at least 36 hours.
Luckily, I didn't have to wait or make the move, since I had a friend request waiting for me from Mr. Risky Business when I woke up Sunday morning.
Whew. One hurdle down.
Sunday night, the first Facebook message arrives in my inbox, and by the time I leave work on Tuesday we've got a thread of messages so long it could stretch from here to Mexico. There's flirtation, there's lots of music talk, it's good. And then.
And then.
I'm out Tuesday evening at a Vagina Monologues rehearsal, and when I come home there's an e-mail from Mr. Risky Business. It's a 180 from the tone of our previous messages, but its sentiments weren't entirely surprising to me. Basically, he said that things are still fresh and that the he was going to be giving me a little more space. Maybe in a few months, when things are more settled, we could see what happens. In the meantime, just friends.
And it was disappointing, but I understood. I mean, I don't understand, and I sincerely hope I never will. But I can extrapolate, based on my own past hurts and heartaches, that the recovery time on something like that is going to be fairly extensive. And healing is important, and I respect that, which is pretty much what I told him in my response to his e-mail. Disappointing, but copasetic. And with a hint of hopeful optimism for that "maybe in a few months" idea.
Only, it doesn't end there. Because by Wednesday afternoon, we were chatting online again off and on. And by Thursday, it was almost constant. And Thursday night -- when the idea of space was squashed once and for all when we coincidentally had meetings in the same place at the same time and the sexual tension was so thick you could've drowned in it like quicksand, consequently causing a level of awkwardness that frankly has been unprecedented, even in my storied career of awkward -- I had an inkling that we weren't going to be just friends.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.18.2010
minus the white socks and ray bans
Now that we've closed the chapter on Mr. Barely Legal, you're all up to date on my London adventures and we're finally in the present tense again, I need to tell you about Mr. Risky Business.
No, he doesn't look like Tom Cruise and he's not prone to dancing around his house in a white button-up shirt and tube socks. But he is, in fact, very risky business.
Let me back up.
Last weekend I had plans to go catch a concert at the HiTone with Lindsey, and before I went to meet her I needed to make an appearance at a little house party. The house (and associated party) belonged to my cousin, who is, like me, enjoying the novelty of hanging out with his little cousin for the first time as actual grown adults who do things like drink and swear. I was planning on stopping by, saying hey to the Cuz, meeting some of his friends and kicking it for maybe an hour or so before I headed out to grab Lindsey and go to the show.
Only none of that ended up happening. Well, that's not true -- I did run out to pick up Lindsey, but we drove right past the HiTone and came back to the party. There was a mountain of free booze, tons of good munchies and the place was wall-to-wall people. It would've been silly to waste our time somewhere else! Imagine the interesting conversations and titillating new personalities to which we never would've been exposed had we not stayed! IMAGINE!
Okay, and. And, there was also a boy.
This boy was one of the first people I met when I walked into the party, but "met" is a bit of a misnomer -- like most people whose paths cross mine these days I did know of him for some assorted growing-up-in-the-same-town sort of reasons and a few degrees of Kevin Bacon. The usual.
Fairly early on in the evening, though, this boy reveals a piece of information about himself. And it's that information that makes him risky business, Mister Risky Business to you. Let's just say he's just gotten out of a very serious relationship. Legally serious.
But y'all, he is cute. And not only is he cute, he seems to like good music (and he's willing to talk to me about music even though I live to bust chops) and he's smart and he's a creative and hey, do you know what else? He is NOT, in fact, 21 and does in fact have a job and also a car and also, lives in a house that he pays for with his money. That he makes. FROM HIS JOB. Did I mention the job/car/house thing yet? It's just all kind of new for me lately.
Next thing I know it's almost 5 in the morning and we've pretty much outlasted the lot, with even my cuz leaving us to fend for ourselves around 4 a.m. and going to bed. And Lindsey and I went back to my place, like good girls (well, as good as you can consider yourself that close to sunrise) and I crossed my fingers that the spark I'd felt wasn't just in my head.
Spoiler alert? It wasn't.
cheers,
elizabeth
No, he doesn't look like Tom Cruise and he's not prone to dancing around his house in a white button-up shirt and tube socks. But he is, in fact, very risky business.
Let me back up.
Last weekend I had plans to go catch a concert at the HiTone with Lindsey, and before I went to meet her I needed to make an appearance at a little house party. The house (and associated party) belonged to my cousin, who is, like me, enjoying the novelty of hanging out with his little cousin for the first time as actual grown adults who do things like drink and swear. I was planning on stopping by, saying hey to the Cuz, meeting some of his friends and kicking it for maybe an hour or so before I headed out to grab Lindsey and go to the show.
Only none of that ended up happening. Well, that's not true -- I did run out to pick up Lindsey, but we drove right past the HiTone and came back to the party. There was a mountain of free booze, tons of good munchies and the place was wall-to-wall people. It would've been silly to waste our time somewhere else! Imagine the interesting conversations and titillating new personalities to which we never would've been exposed had we not stayed! IMAGINE!
Okay, and. And, there was also a boy.
This boy was one of the first people I met when I walked into the party, but "met" is a bit of a misnomer -- like most people whose paths cross mine these days I did know of him for some assorted growing-up-in-the-same-town sort of reasons and a few degrees of Kevin Bacon. The usual.
Fairly early on in the evening, though, this boy reveals a piece of information about himself. And it's that information that makes him risky business, Mister Risky Business to you. Let's just say he's just gotten out of a very serious relationship. Legally serious.
But y'all, he is cute. And not only is he cute, he seems to like good music (and he's willing to talk to me about music even though I live to bust chops) and he's smart and he's a creative and hey, do you know what else? He is NOT, in fact, 21 and does in fact have a job and also a car and also, lives in a house that he pays for with his money. That he makes. FROM HIS JOB. Did I mention the job/car/house thing yet? It's just all kind of new for me lately.
Next thing I know it's almost 5 in the morning and we've pretty much outlasted the lot, with even my cuz leaving us to fend for ourselves around 4 a.m. and going to bed. And Lindsey and I went back to my place, like good girls (well, as good as you can consider yourself that close to sunrise) and I crossed my fingers that the spark I'd felt wasn't just in my head.
Spoiler alert? It wasn't.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.15.2010
in which i reflect on my new year's resolution to stop dating stoners
I realized the other day that I have a post started and saved here in the old dashboard titled, "resolutions for 2010." I never got very far on it, since there's only one sentence in the post: "1. Stop dating stoners."
But frankly, if I accomplish but one thing in my life this year and it was that very thing, I'd be decently satisfied with that.
And here comes the segue train into the station -- look who's driving! It's Mr. Barely Legal!
I was talking to someone the other day about Mr. Barely Legal and I believe the exact terminology I used was that we'd seen each other for a hot, hot second. And since it was long about Tuesday through Monday, I think that's the only way to really capture it. Less than one week. SIX DAYS. And yet, y'all, I think I scarred him for life. That may also be because I am some sort of succubus, but we'll get to that later. Let's poke fun at him first, and then I'll disclose more of my crazy.
Mr. Barely Legal had this habit of trying to drop some knowledge on me. He wanted to share interesting stuff he knew, and don't we all? Only problem was most of the stuff he "knew" was either a.) not true, b.) ridiculous or c.) just plain made up. Allow me to share my favorite.
We're in the car, Mr. BL, me and the mutual friend who introduced us, on the very night we met. I'm driving, and we're heading back to my place after making a Starbucks run. We were probably talking about swear words, as I am wont to do, and the word cunt naturally flew from my mouth, as it is wont to do. And he says to me, "Do you know where the word cunt comes from?"
And y'all, I'd just met the kid. I had no judgment of his intelligence at this stage in the game. And I'm thinking to myself, why, no! I don't know where that word, oh favoritest of swear words, comes from. How wrong of me! Why not let him enlighten me with a story that I may share in the future at dinner parties and bat mitzvahs?
So I say, "No, I don't. Where?"
And he says, "It's short for a word for the vagina."
And I'm thinking, what!? A word for the vagina that I don't know? Me, of all people, to not know of a word for the vagina? (Although last night at a Vagina Monologues meeting I did learn of the term "pocketbook," which I will now be using excessively. Prepare yourselves.)
"Yeah," he says. "It's short for cuntilingus."
I snorted a little bit. I know I did y'all, I know I did. I said, "Cuntilingus, huh?"
"Yeah," he said. "Cuntilingus."
I said, "Actually? The word is cunnilingus. And actually? It's not so much a word for the vagina as something you do to the vagina. You know? Like fellatio, that fancy word for a blow job?"
"Oh."
And that was just the beginning. Just a few minutes later he wanted to tell me that Steely Dan should really get more credit because it's just the one guy. Really? You're going to try to drop knowledge about vaginas AND music on ME? This is unwise, son. I said, try again. Two guys. But thanks for playing. Cuntilingus.
So on Monday night of our six-day affair, when I talk to our mutual friend on the phone and he tells me that Mr. Barely Legal has told him, and I quote, "I worship at the temple of Elizabeth," I probably shouldn't have been shocked. I shouldn't have been shocked that he also told him we were pretty much headed toward a relationship. Because this was not a highly perceptive person I was dealing with. I shouldn't have been shocked, but I was.
I wish I could tell you that this was it, that after I found out he worshiped at my temple, I cut things off. I wish I could sell myself to you as someone with that level of sanity. But I just don't have it. So instead, the next time I got drunk and was looking for ways to entertain myself, I texted him. And did I just do that the one night? Noooooope. In fact, I decided it would be prudent to text him while drunk IN LONDON. And he certainly wasn't the only person who apparently needed to know my every thought during that trip, but I have my own idiocy to thank for my AT&T bill. He can't be held responsible for wanting to be at my temple.
So all this texting, of course, eventually resulted in several back to back phone calls, all of which I ignored, this past weekend. These were accompanied by one very, very sad voice mail that actually made me think maybe we were entering serious problem territory. It was long, and full of pauses, and drawn out and emotional and all I could think, like the time my Colombian lover told me he still wanted to be friends, was WHEN did we establish this deep emotional bond and by GOD, where was I when it happened!?
Luckily, it's Friday and the last I heard from him was Sunday night -- two back-to-back ignored calls and a few texts. Maybe, just maybe, that will be the last I'll have heard from Mr. Barely Legal. And hopefully I can make good on my single solitary New Year's resolution: God dammit. Stop. Dating. Stoners.
You can help hold me accountable, right? Aww, thanks y'all.
cheers,
elizabeth
But frankly, if I accomplish but one thing in my life this year and it was that very thing, I'd be decently satisfied with that.
And here comes the segue train into the station -- look who's driving! It's Mr. Barely Legal!
I was talking to someone the other day about Mr. Barely Legal and I believe the exact terminology I used was that we'd seen each other for a hot, hot second. And since it was long about Tuesday through Monday, I think that's the only way to really capture it. Less than one week. SIX DAYS. And yet, y'all, I think I scarred him for life. That may also be because I am some sort of succubus, but we'll get to that later. Let's poke fun at him first, and then I'll disclose more of my crazy.
Mr. Barely Legal had this habit of trying to drop some knowledge on me. He wanted to share interesting stuff he knew, and don't we all? Only problem was most of the stuff he "knew" was either a.) not true, b.) ridiculous or c.) just plain made up. Allow me to share my favorite.
We're in the car, Mr. BL, me and the mutual friend who introduced us, on the very night we met. I'm driving, and we're heading back to my place after making a Starbucks run. We were probably talking about swear words, as I am wont to do, and the word cunt naturally flew from my mouth, as it is wont to do. And he says to me, "Do you know where the word cunt comes from?"
And y'all, I'd just met the kid. I had no judgment of his intelligence at this stage in the game. And I'm thinking to myself, why, no! I don't know where that word, oh favoritest of swear words, comes from. How wrong of me! Why not let him enlighten me with a story that I may share in the future at dinner parties and bat mitzvahs?
So I say, "No, I don't. Where?"
And he says, "It's short for a word for the vagina."
And I'm thinking, what!? A word for the vagina that I don't know? Me, of all people, to not know of a word for the vagina? (Although last night at a Vagina Monologues meeting I did learn of the term "pocketbook," which I will now be using excessively. Prepare yourselves.)
"Yeah," he says. "It's short for cuntilingus."
I snorted a little bit. I know I did y'all, I know I did. I said, "Cuntilingus, huh?"
"Yeah," he said. "Cuntilingus."
I said, "Actually? The word is cunnilingus. And actually? It's not so much a word for the vagina as something you do to the vagina. You know? Like fellatio, that fancy word for a blow job?"
"Oh."
And that was just the beginning. Just a few minutes later he wanted to tell me that Steely Dan should really get more credit because it's just the one guy. Really? You're going to try to drop knowledge about vaginas AND music on ME? This is unwise, son. I said, try again. Two guys. But thanks for playing. Cuntilingus.
So on Monday night of our six-day affair, when I talk to our mutual friend on the phone and he tells me that Mr. Barely Legal has told him, and I quote, "I worship at the temple of Elizabeth," I probably shouldn't have been shocked. I shouldn't have been shocked that he also told him we were pretty much headed toward a relationship. Because this was not a highly perceptive person I was dealing with. I shouldn't have been shocked, but I was.
I wish I could tell you that this was it, that after I found out he worshiped at my temple, I cut things off. I wish I could sell myself to you as someone with that level of sanity. But I just don't have it. So instead, the next time I got drunk and was looking for ways to entertain myself, I texted him. And did I just do that the one night? Noooooope. In fact, I decided it would be prudent to text him while drunk IN LONDON. And he certainly wasn't the only person who apparently needed to know my every thought during that trip, but I have my own idiocy to thank for my AT&T bill. He can't be held responsible for wanting to be at my temple.
So all this texting, of course, eventually resulted in several back to back phone calls, all of which I ignored, this past weekend. These were accompanied by one very, very sad voice mail that actually made me think maybe we were entering serious problem territory. It was long, and full of pauses, and drawn out and emotional and all I could think, like the time my Colombian lover told me he still wanted to be friends, was WHEN did we establish this deep emotional bond and by GOD, where was I when it happened!?
Luckily, it's Friday and the last I heard from him was Sunday night -- two back-to-back ignored calls and a few texts. Maybe, just maybe, that will be the last I'll have heard from Mr. Barely Legal. And hopefully I can make good on my single solitary New Year's resolution: God dammit. Stop. Dating. Stoners.
You can help hold me accountable, right? Aww, thanks y'all.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.13.2010
the motherland: the last episode
It's Sunday morning, the beginning of my last full day in England. I wake up with a stomach ache worse than that time I got so drunk I thought it would be prudent to eat condensed vegetable soup straight from the can. I shudder at the very memory.
I hydrated, took a hot shower and was feeling a little better by the time I needed to head out, and I got a pretty decent train nap on the way in so I was just about human by the time I met up with Ed. I went straight in to campus once I got to Uxbridge and Ed was waiting for me with our mutual friend Pete. (Funny enough, it was Pete's dead celebrities themed birthday party where Ed and I first met, at least officially.) The three of us set off for a nearby pub for a roast lunch.
At this point I need to pause the narrative and let you in on some back story. In case you're not familiar with the tale, Ed and I were together for about a year (both while I was living in London and while I was living in New York) before breaking up in January of 2009. Though our relationship certainly had its share of pain and hurt, we did manage to emerge from it with a commitment to remaining friends, and we'd pretty much been succeeding at it. When I made my plans to come to London I got in touch with him right away to see what kind of time I could get with him.
Of course, it's not quite so simple, because he's got himself a girlfriend.
So, the plan had been that I would come to Uxbridge midday on Sunday, spend the night there and head to the airport on Monday afternoon (Uxbridge is a hop and a skip from Heathrow). In our e-mailing about our plans I asked him more than once if everything would be okay for me to stay, what with him having a girlfriend and her maybe not being 100 percent keen on the ex coming over for dinner and all. But he never rustled a feather at it. Not once. In fact, on one occasion he mentioned some issues he was having with his roommates that might make it awkward for me to stay at his place -- his roommates -- and went so far as to make reference to a previous night we'd spent in a hotel right before I left London and how another night like that would be fun.
Did I mention the girlfriend? Thought so.
Anywho. As far as I knew when I headed to Uxbridge on Sunday, things were copasetic. Turns out? Not so much, children. Not so much.
We get through our entire lunch. We've been at the pub about two and a half hours, eating, chatting, when suddenly Ed says, "Oh, what time is it?" He looks at the time on his phone and simply says, "I'm booked."
I said, "You're booked? Excuse me?"
And frankly I'll spare you the play by play of the rest of the conversation. What you need to know is that he let me drag all my shit out to the edge of town without telling me he had plans (with his girlfriend, shocking) and even had the nerve to say that he didn't find out until he knew I was already on the train and, hey, he didn't want to text me then and have me mad at him the whole way here! Well doesn't that just make so much sense I want to write a book of the new fucking testament about it. Wrong.
So he left. And there I was, stranded, texting Sarah on my almost dead phone, hoping she'd have room for me that night since her flatmates were coming back and hoping she'd even be able to answer me before the phone called it quits and I was TRULY screwed. Luckily, things on my end worked out. I got to spend another two hours or so on public transport, dragging my bags every which way around London -- part of which involved a lovely 30 minutes or so standing out in the frigid, frigid cold waiting for a bus in Uxbridge, thank GOD for Pete who waited with me -- and I hung out for a few hours at Monkey Chews with Sarah until she finished her shift and we shuffled home in the cold.
So instead of reliving some old times, wandering around campus and Uxbridge, giving in to a little nostalgia on my last night in London, I spent the evening curled up in bed watching The Inbetweeners. And then I accidentally slept later than I'd intended so I pretty much headed straight back toward Heathrow after some tea in the morning.
Silver lining? If I gained anything from it, it was final closure. I thought I was going to see an old friend, but obviously I was going to see someone who has a very different perception of our friendship than me. Or perhaps I was the only one who perceived a friendship at all. Not enough backbone to tell the girlfriend he had plans or to tell me he couldn't make good on ours? I'm not sure. A big part of me wonders if he didn't do the entire thing on purpose. And since I've yet to receive any sort of apology from him to this day, I think that's a pretty safe bet. (If you find yourself muttering, "Douchebag!" at this moment, please don't fight it -- from what I can tell through past tellings of this story it is a totally natural reaction.)
It sucked. But I forced myself to pick up and move past it quick so it wouldn't ruin my trip, and trust me, it didn't. Those six days were some of the best of my year. On my flight home, I was planning my trip back.
cheers,
elizabeth
I hydrated, took a hot shower and was feeling a little better by the time I needed to head out, and I got a pretty decent train nap on the way in so I was just about human by the time I met up with Ed. I went straight in to campus once I got to Uxbridge and Ed was waiting for me with our mutual friend Pete. (Funny enough, it was Pete's dead celebrities themed birthday party where Ed and I first met, at least officially.) The three of us set off for a nearby pub for a roast lunch.
At this point I need to pause the narrative and let you in on some back story. In case you're not familiar with the tale, Ed and I were together for about a year (both while I was living in London and while I was living in New York) before breaking up in January of 2009. Though our relationship certainly had its share of pain and hurt, we did manage to emerge from it with a commitment to remaining friends, and we'd pretty much been succeeding at it. When I made my plans to come to London I got in touch with him right away to see what kind of time I could get with him.
Of course, it's not quite so simple, because he's got himself a girlfriend.
So, the plan had been that I would come to Uxbridge midday on Sunday, spend the night there and head to the airport on Monday afternoon (Uxbridge is a hop and a skip from Heathrow). In our e-mailing about our plans I asked him more than once if everything would be okay for me to stay, what with him having a girlfriend and her maybe not being 100 percent keen on the ex coming over for dinner and all. But he never rustled a feather at it. Not once. In fact, on one occasion he mentioned some issues he was having with his roommates that might make it awkward for me to stay at his place -- his roommates -- and went so far as to make reference to a previous night we'd spent in a hotel right before I left London and how another night like that would be fun.
Did I mention the girlfriend? Thought so.
Anywho. As far as I knew when I headed to Uxbridge on Sunday, things were copasetic. Turns out? Not so much, children. Not so much.
We get through our entire lunch. We've been at the pub about two and a half hours, eating, chatting, when suddenly Ed says, "Oh, what time is it?" He looks at the time on his phone and simply says, "I'm booked."
I said, "You're booked? Excuse me?"
And frankly I'll spare you the play by play of the rest of the conversation. What you need to know is that he let me drag all my shit out to the edge of town without telling me he had plans (with his girlfriend, shocking) and even had the nerve to say that he didn't find out until he knew I was already on the train and, hey, he didn't want to text me then and have me mad at him the whole way here! Well doesn't that just make so much sense I want to write a book of the new fucking testament about it. Wrong.
So he left. And there I was, stranded, texting Sarah on my almost dead phone, hoping she'd have room for me that night since her flatmates were coming back and hoping she'd even be able to answer me before the phone called it quits and I was TRULY screwed. Luckily, things on my end worked out. I got to spend another two hours or so on public transport, dragging my bags every which way around London -- part of which involved a lovely 30 minutes or so standing out in the frigid, frigid cold waiting for a bus in Uxbridge, thank GOD for Pete who waited with me -- and I hung out for a few hours at Monkey Chews with Sarah until she finished her shift and we shuffled home in the cold.
So instead of reliving some old times, wandering around campus and Uxbridge, giving in to a little nostalgia on my last night in London, I spent the evening curled up in bed watching The Inbetweeners. And then I accidentally slept later than I'd intended so I pretty much headed straight back toward Heathrow after some tea in the morning.
Silver lining? If I gained anything from it, it was final closure. I thought I was going to see an old friend, but obviously I was going to see someone who has a very different perception of our friendship than me. Or perhaps I was the only one who perceived a friendship at all. Not enough backbone to tell the girlfriend he had plans or to tell me he couldn't make good on ours? I'm not sure. A big part of me wonders if he didn't do the entire thing on purpose. And since I've yet to receive any sort of apology from him to this day, I think that's a pretty safe bet. (If you find yourself muttering, "Douchebag!" at this moment, please don't fight it -- from what I can tell through past tellings of this story it is a totally natural reaction.)
It sucked. But I forced myself to pick up and move past it quick so it wouldn't ruin my trip, and trust me, it didn't. Those six days were some of the best of my year. On my flight home, I was planning my trip back.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.12.2010
the motherland, part V
Saturday evening I met up with a long lost friend from high school, Jen, who last I saw her had just met a charming English guy on a flight from Prague to London while she was studying abroad. Fast forward four years, they're married and she's living (ahem, my dream) in Bicester, just north of the city. So she took the train down to have dinner with me, and afterward we headed to Monkey Chews (where else?) for a pint.
We hung out until the bar closed down and they headed off to a house party in Shoreditch (all you need to know is that Shoreditch is not anywhere NEAR where we were at the time) and wanted me to go with them. At least one of the girls was rational enough to explain to the other three why I declined the invitation to get into a cab with strangers and go to a place I've never been with more strangers in a place where I don't live with a phone that has one bar of battery life. If EVER there were the beginnings of a Lifetime movie.
Sarah was working behind the bar, so after Jen had to leave to head back home I stayed and chatted with her and had another drink. Things were pretty quiet. That is, of course, until these two couples came in. Young-ish, mid to late 20s. They were sitting down the other side of the bar from me, ordering their drinks, when I started opining loudly to Sarah about Percy Sledge. ("When A Man Loves a Woman" had just come on -- this bar had the absolute best music mixes.)
I was going on and on, probably something about it being a love-making song (because HELLO it's Percy) and they just thought I was hysterical. One of the girls commented on it being slow and depressing, and I said, Ex-SQUEEZE me? This is a love-making song. If you want slow and depressing, listen to "If You Don't Know Me By Now" by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, and frankly? That is STILL a love-making song!
They loved this even more, and next thing you know we were BFFs. They insisted that I come down to their end of the bar and sit with them, and we just got to chatting about anything and everything. Next thing I knew, Sarah had produced from behind the bar a package of fake stick-on mustaches. And what ensued after that can only really be described photographically.
The other factor making the invitation all the more awkward was that shortly before it was extended I received an unsettling piece of information from one of the guys, who I'd been in rapt conversation with for the last hour and a half or so. He informed me that he had a list of five people he was allowed (by his girlfriend) to be obsessed with. Now for most of us this list is our 'Celebrity Five,' the five famous people we could sleep with, no strings attached, and not get in trouble with our significant other. And it's okay to have these lists because, honestly? It's NEVER going to happen. You being in the same ROOM as one of the people on your list is about as likely as you sleeping with them, because the odds on both are something like Nada and Not-gonna-happen.
But this guy? (Whose name was Jamie, I believe.) He tells me that I am on his list. I AM ON HIS LIST OF FIVE. Does anyone else see the HUGE problem with this statement? Sir, your girlfriend is right over there! In that booth! And I think she's lovely! WHAT IS GOING ON!?
While my initial reaction was to be quite creeped out -- and I did remain creeped out by it to some degree, even now -- I actually was quite flattered by it. I couldn't really figure out why he felt so sincerely and passionately about this situation that he needed to bump some other worthy obsession off his list just to add me on after only meeting me the one time, but apparently there was good reason and so I took it as a compliment. Somewhere, right now, I am on someone's Five. How many non-celebrities can say that, really? I may get it engraved on something. A bronzed baby shoe, maybe? Something just a little creepy. That'd do.
Anywho, I had a blast hanging out with them. One of the girls was a doctor for the NHS, and her boyfriend is a photographer who actually lives and works in New York and was just home for the holiday. So we talked NYC a bit, and then the other girl in the group (the lady friend of Jamie, Mr. Obsession) told me that her mom is American. From Oregon! Who knew there were actually people there, huh? And Jamie himself is a working actor, and actually went to drama school with Jimmy, the guy working behind the bar with Sarah. Jimmy, who apparently was a drama school god the way Jamie talked about him. Oh, and when he wasn't busy being obsessed with me Jamie was trying to get me laid. By Jimmy. Repeatedly.
Sarah and I trekked home in the freezing cold when she got off at close to 3 a.m. -- grabbing some chips along the way and getting hit on by a CREEPERTOWN in the chip shop -- and I set my alarm so I'd be up in the morning in time to head to Uxbridge to meet Ed (formerly the AEB, if you're a long-time reader) at noon.
Up next will be the final installment of adventures from the motherland, and trust me, you won't want to miss this one. After that, I'll return you to your regularly scheduled programming -- I know you're dying to hear the dramatic conclusion of the Mr. Barely Legal saga and I have so much more to catch you up on. Mostly? New boys. I aim to please!
cheers,
elizabeth
1.11.2010
the motherland, part IV
New Year's Day in London was fairly uneventful, in the best way. We slept late, went to Camden in the afternoon and did some shopping, spent a few hours chatting over coffee and then helped watched Sarah's boyfriend make the most delicious dinner before settling in to watch a British sitcom that I now count among the funniest things I've ever seen. Ever. (It's called The Inbetweeners, and you can watch it on YouTube. Go. Right now. I forgive you.)
And actually, I shouldn't say uneventful. Because I did meet THIS guy, who was dancing and singing to an Annie Lenox song just outside the market stalls in Camden.
Oh, and I almost forgot! I also spent much of the first day of 2010 as I spent much of its last two days: eating prawn cocktail crisps and drinking Ribena. JOY.
On Saturday I got up early and headed down to Borough Market by myself to have a wander 'round, take some pictures and of course, buy some black currant jam. While I was there I couldn't resist snapping a few shots of Southwark Cathedral (Shakespeare's home parish), which is just outside the market.
After I got my jam I headed down to the Southbank because, I have to confess, no matter how many times I see this view it does still make my heart skip a few beats the way it did the very first time I saw it.
Just two more installments left of my adventures in the motherland, and coming up next is the tale of my Saturday night at Monkey Chews, where I made fast friends with two couples, wore a fake moustache and resisted the urge to get in a cab with strangers and go to a party in Shoreditch. The usual.
cheers,
elizabeth
And actually, I shouldn't say uneventful. Because I did meet THIS guy, who was dancing and singing to an Annie Lenox song just outside the market stalls in Camden.
Oh, and I almost forgot! I also spent much of the first day of 2010 as I spent much of its last two days: eating prawn cocktail crisps and drinking Ribena. JOY.
On Saturday I got up early and headed down to Borough Market by myself to have a wander 'round, take some pictures and of course, buy some black currant jam. While I was there I couldn't resist snapping a few shots of Southwark Cathedral (Shakespeare's home parish), which is just outside the market.
After I got my jam I headed down to the Southbank because, I have to confess, no matter how many times I see this view it does still make my heart skip a few beats the way it did the very first time I saw it.
Just two more installments left of my adventures in the motherland, and coming up next is the tale of my Saturday night at Monkey Chews, where I made fast friends with two couples, wore a fake moustache and resisted the urge to get in a cab with strangers and go to a party in Shoreditch. The usual.cheers,
elizabeth
1.09.2010
the motherland, part III (or "you're welcome, from america")
It's New Year's Eve, about 9:45 p.m. We get half-price cover at Monkey Chews and our first round of drinks is delivered to us at the bar for free. It's a sign of things to come.
As the bar begins to fill up we notice a trend. The male population is leaning heavily toward my self-proclaimed type: white and nerdy. But even with all the candidates, I spot him immediately. My husband. My white and nerdy husband. He's got glasses and cute little curly hair and a snappy vest and he is just sodamncute.
Only, turns out? My husband was extremely drunk. Well, early on we thought he was really drunk and later learned that he'd only LOOKED drunk because he actually had an eye infection. (Sexy, I know.) So all the droopy-eyed crazy face round about 10 p.m. could be attributed to that, but then he did later make good on looking like a total drunk by becoming a total drunk.
Naturally you will not be surprised to learn that this did NOT stop me from grabbing his rear as he walked by and then acting like I was involved in a very deep yet also nonchalant conversation with Jenni, mostly about how it certainly was not I who grabbed his ass, no way, no how. He stood there staring for a second and actually pointed right at me, but eventually gave up and walked away. The handy thing about messing with drunks is that they have a limited attention span.
When we weren't eyeing men and discussing my husband (who, turns out, was friends with one of the bartenders and thus Sarah later learned that he had recently cleared the dance floor at a wedding to break dance, YES, break dance -- we were meant to be) we were in the queue for the ladies' room. Because there was a grand total of ONE toilet. For a packed NYE bar full of sequin-studded women with tiny bladders.
We made LOTS of friends in the queue, and at one stage even had drinks delivered to us while we were waiting. I'll never say the English lack customer service skills, never, never again. Once while I was in the queue by myself I started chatting to the girls in front of me, one of whom had a harrowing tale of being barfed on by a very tall man at a bar the night before and how the women in the ladies' room banded together to help her. They let her skip ahead and one of them even produced a trial size shampoo to wash her hair! It was fairly incredible. Only the whole time we were chatting, I was speaking with a British accent. I don't know! I was alone in the line and they were talking to me, it just happened SO SUE ME.
But next thing I know, we've been waiting together so effing long that they start asking questions. Like, where are you from? And where did you grow up? And oh, the lies. THE LIES. They came too easily, really. And in a twist of extreme irony, long about an hour after this I was up on a barstool singing loudly to "Don't Stop Believin'" and yelling in between verses, "You're welcome FROM AMERICA!" It is a wonder from God, Allah and all the saints themselves that I was not punched straight in my stupid American face. Repeatedly. By the girls from the queue.
Later, as we were heading home and I was shuffling slowly across the streets of London like a constipated former paraplegic, I had a conversation with our cab driver about cunnilingus (actually it was more like we were talking about it in the back seat and then he piped in that he had witnessed that very event in THIS VERY CAB which was simultaneously hysterical and a frightening point of contemplation about taxi cab sanitation) before trying and failing at purchasing prawn cocktail crisps from a sassy garage attendant.
The next morning I woke up with no memory of crashing, though I had crashed, and hard -- my clothes were in a Hansel and Gretel trail from the front door to the bedroom. Now that is a good New Year's.
cheers,
elizabeth
As the bar begins to fill up we notice a trend. The male population is leaning heavily toward my self-proclaimed type: white and nerdy. But even with all the candidates, I spot him immediately. My husband. My white and nerdy husband. He's got glasses and cute little curly hair and a snappy vest and he is just sodamncute.
Only, turns out? My husband was extremely drunk. Well, early on we thought he was really drunk and later learned that he'd only LOOKED drunk because he actually had an eye infection. (Sexy, I know.) So all the droopy-eyed crazy face round about 10 p.m. could be attributed to that, but then he did later make good on looking like a total drunk by becoming a total drunk.
Naturally you will not be surprised to learn that this did NOT stop me from grabbing his rear as he walked by and then acting like I was involved in a very deep yet also nonchalant conversation with Jenni, mostly about how it certainly was not I who grabbed his ass, no way, no how. He stood there staring for a second and actually pointed right at me, but eventually gave up and walked away. The handy thing about messing with drunks is that they have a limited attention span.
When we weren't eyeing men and discussing my husband (who, turns out, was friends with one of the bartenders and thus Sarah later learned that he had recently cleared the dance floor at a wedding to break dance, YES, break dance -- we were meant to be) we were in the queue for the ladies' room. Because there was a grand total of ONE toilet. For a packed NYE bar full of sequin-studded women with tiny bladders.
We made LOTS of friends in the queue, and at one stage even had drinks delivered to us while we were waiting. I'll never say the English lack customer service skills, never, never again. Once while I was in the queue by myself I started chatting to the girls in front of me, one of whom had a harrowing tale of being barfed on by a very tall man at a bar the night before and how the women in the ladies' room banded together to help her. They let her skip ahead and one of them even produced a trial size shampoo to wash her hair! It was fairly incredible. Only the whole time we were chatting, I was speaking with a British accent. I don't know! I was alone in the line and they were talking to me, it just happened SO SUE ME.
But next thing I know, we've been waiting together so effing long that they start asking questions. Like, where are you from? And where did you grow up? And oh, the lies. THE LIES. They came too easily, really. And in a twist of extreme irony, long about an hour after this I was up on a barstool singing loudly to "Don't Stop Believin'" and yelling in between verses, "You're welcome FROM AMERICA!" It is a wonder from God, Allah and all the saints themselves that I was not punched straight in my stupid American face. Repeatedly. By the girls from the queue.
Later, as we were heading home and I was shuffling slowly across the streets of London like a constipated former paraplegic, I had a conversation with our cab driver about cunnilingus (actually it was more like we were talking about it in the back seat and then he piped in that he had witnessed that very event in THIS VERY CAB which was simultaneously hysterical and a frightening point of contemplation about taxi cab sanitation) before trying and failing at purchasing prawn cocktail crisps from a sassy garage attendant.
The next morning I woke up with no memory of crashing, though I had crashed, and hard -- my clothes were in a Hansel and Gretel trail from the front door to the bedroom. Now that is a good New Year's.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.07.2010
the motherland, part II
After tea on Thursday morning we got ourselves together and headed out toward Covent Garden. I had the uncontrollable urge to buy knick knacks and touristy souvenirs and, happy coincidence, the market stalls were still decorated for Christmas -- one of my favorite things about the holiday in London.
It was an overcast, frigid day, and we didn't really last too long out in it. Long enough for me to change out some money at Marks and Sparks, pick up a few fun signs at Covent Garden market (for hanging in my London-themedbathroom loo) and get my promise money withdrawn from my HSBC bank account in what turned out to be a disturbing display of appallingly low security measures. I never produced identification, none of my address details were the same and for Christ's sake, my bank account and sort code were written on a torn-out piece of a crossword puzzle. But the lovely lady at HSBC handed over my 30 pounds, no questions asked. It made me feel all warm and safe and fuzzy, really.
(And of course at this point I have to tell you that while we were in Covent Garden I came across this AMAZING shirt at David and Goliath. I did not buy it because they wanted 12 million pesos for it. But rest assured, my child. One day. It will be mine. Oh yes. It will. Be mine.)
After a brief warm-up at the flat (and the arrival of Sarah's Tesco grocery delivery) we ventured back out, this time to Camden with some very specific items on our list. It was, after all, New Year's Eve. Jenni and I both needed to pick up clutches for the festivities, and Sarah was looking for a black top to go with a pair of fabulous leggings. What we did not anticipate was that everyone is LAME and stores were closing willy nilly left and right, something about it being New Year's Eve or something. RIDICULOUS. We had a good wander through the market stalls, managed to stay strong as we walked through a corridor surrounded by hot steaming buffets of Chinese and Indian food, and finally found ourselves saved by the good people at Aldo. Fifty percent off bin = sexy silver clutch for 10 pounds. LOVE. IT.
We headed back to have a drink and start getting ready to make our 2010 debut. The plan was to head to Monkey Chews, where Sarah works behind the bar. We figured at the very least we'd be able to get in for cheap or free, and we'd hang out there for a while and then maybe see what house parties were happening. What we did not realize is that we would get in for next to nothing and drink for free all night long. And once we did realize it, we didn't leave our spot at the bar (except, of course, to stand in the HEINOUSLY long ladies room queue) until almost 5 in the morning. But more about that next time.
I just love making you wait.
cheers,
elizabeth
It was an overcast, frigid day, and we didn't really last too long out in it. Long enough for me to change out some money at Marks and Sparks, pick up a few fun signs at Covent Garden market (for hanging in my London-themed
(And of course at this point I have to tell you that while we were in Covent Garden I came across this AMAZING shirt at David and Goliath. I did not buy it because they wanted 12 million pesos for it. But rest assured, my child. One day. It will be mine. Oh yes. It will. Be mine.)
After a brief warm-up at the flat (and the arrival of Sarah's Tesco grocery delivery) we ventured back out, this time to Camden with some very specific items on our list. It was, after all, New Year's Eve. Jenni and I both needed to pick up clutches for the festivities, and Sarah was looking for a black top to go with a pair of fabulous leggings. What we did not anticipate was that everyone is LAME and stores were closing willy nilly left and right, something about it being New Year's Eve or something. RIDICULOUS. We had a good wander through the market stalls, managed to stay strong as we walked through a corridor surrounded by hot steaming buffets of Chinese and Indian food, and finally found ourselves saved by the good people at Aldo. Fifty percent off bin = sexy silver clutch for 10 pounds. LOVE. IT.
We headed back to have a drink and start getting ready to make our 2010 debut. The plan was to head to Monkey Chews, where Sarah works behind the bar. We figured at the very least we'd be able to get in for cheap or free, and we'd hang out there for a while and then maybe see what house parties were happening. What we did not realize is that we would get in for next to nothing and drink for free all night long. And once we did realize it, we didn't leave our spot at the bar (except, of course, to stand in the HEINOUSLY long ladies room queue) until almost 5 in the morning. But more about that next time.
I just love making you wait.
cheers,
elizabeth
1.06.2010
the motherland, part I
Remember how the gods smiled on me on the way home, and I walked off the plane at 11 on the dot and my bag was the first one out and I had a travelgasm? Yeah, that did NOT happen on the way to London.
I didn't check any bags for that leg of the trip because I wanted to expedite the process in any way I could, and I knew waiting for a suitcase at baggage claim would not be the best way to achieve that. I wanted to be off the plane, through passport control and on a train as fast as my little legs would take me. And I would've been, had my plane landed at 10:45 p.m. as scheduled. Instead, it landed at 11:30 (fairly inexplicably, really, since we'd taken off on time -- I blame black holes) and I knew that by the time the train got into Paddington the tube would no longer be running for the night. So instead, I swallowed hard, got money from the cash point and just committed to the cab ride. I did have to birth my first-born child in the backseat of the car before I left and also saw off one arm and BOTH legs, but it was worth it to be delivered right to Sarah's door by just a little after midnight.
I didn't allow myself to be fussed by it, because I was so happy to see Sarah. And of course what I couldn't have known then was that we would go on to drink for free (as in, no money, not even a LITTLE) on New Year's Eve, so I think the expense was entirely balanced by the otherwise total cheapness of the trip.
Within 10 minutes of arriving at Sarah's, I had a beer in my hand and I'd had many, many hugs from Sarah and my friends Jenni and Pete, as well as Sarah's lovely boyfriend Simba who I'd just met. What can I say, I love hugs. And I was so happy! To be! In England! GLEE!
And as I sat there, sipping a beer, it just felt like nothing had ever changed. Like I'd never been gone. Or maybe I had, but just for a week, and not to somewhere very far away at all. Everything just clicked right back into place. It was an incredibly bittersweet feeling -- heavy on the sweet, of course, saving the bitter for the plane ride home.
We stayed up til about 4 in the morning when I eventually crashed out. And at around 11 the next morning when we all roused, Jenni, Sarah and I sat around the kitchen having tea and plotting out our plans for the night, for it was indeed New Year's Eve. At that point though I wasn't yet excited about NYE, because I was too busy being pants-peeingly excited over the fact that I was drinking Tetleys and eating HobNobs dipped in tea. It's always the little things.
Up next: A walk around Covent Garden, the most incredible tee shirt that ever was, a jaunt through Camden and the beginnings of a spectacular New Year's Eve. (So spectacular I felt it necessary to text everyone I knew about it. Christing Christing Christ.)
cheers,
elizabeth
I didn't check any bags for that leg of the trip because I wanted to expedite the process in any way I could, and I knew waiting for a suitcase at baggage claim would not be the best way to achieve that. I wanted to be off the plane, through passport control and on a train as fast as my little legs would take me. And I would've been, had my plane landed at 10:45 p.m. as scheduled. Instead, it landed at 11:30 (fairly inexplicably, really, since we'd taken off on time -- I blame black holes) and I knew that by the time the train got into Paddington the tube would no longer be running for the night. So instead, I swallowed hard, got money from the cash point and just committed to the cab ride. I did have to birth my first-born child in the backseat of the car before I left and also saw off one arm and BOTH legs, but it was worth it to be delivered right to Sarah's door by just a little after midnight.
I didn't allow myself to be fussed by it, because I was so happy to see Sarah. And of course what I couldn't have known then was that we would go on to drink for free (as in, no money, not even a LITTLE) on New Year's Eve, so I think the expense was entirely balanced by the otherwise total cheapness of the trip.
Within 10 minutes of arriving at Sarah's, I had a beer in my hand and I'd had many, many hugs from Sarah and my friends Jenni and Pete, as well as Sarah's lovely boyfriend Simba who I'd just met. What can I say, I love hugs. And I was so happy! To be! In England! GLEE!
And as I sat there, sipping a beer, it just felt like nothing had ever changed. Like I'd never been gone. Or maybe I had, but just for a week, and not to somewhere very far away at all. Everything just clicked right back into place. It was an incredibly bittersweet feeling -- heavy on the sweet, of course, saving the bitter for the plane ride home.
We stayed up til about 4 in the morning when I eventually crashed out. And at around 11 the next morning when we all roused, Jenni, Sarah and I sat around the kitchen having tea and plotting out our plans for the night, for it was indeed New Year's Eve. At that point though I wasn't yet excited about NYE, because I was too busy being pants-peeingly excited over the fact that I was drinking Tetleys and eating HobNobs dipped in tea. It's always the little things.
Up next: A walk around Covent Garden, the most incredible tee shirt that ever was, a jaunt through Camden and the beginnings of a spectacular New Year's Eve. (So spectacular I felt it necessary to text everyone I knew about it. Christing Christing Christ.)
cheers,
elizabeth
1.05.2010
the motherland
Oh, childrens.
I wish I could tell you that I was one of those people who didn't suffer from jet lag or who waltzed off an international flight looking fresh as a spring effing daisy, but I cannot tell a lie -- when I got home last night my legs looked like softballs stuffed in flesh-colored nylons, my hair was greasier than back bacon and I had a crease on the side of my face about the size and shape of one of my interior coat buttons.
Rode hard, put away wet.
But the travel gods did smile on me, in their own little way. I was off the plane at 11 on the dot, my bag was first out on the carousel and I was home and inside my apartment by 20 minutes past the hour. Incredible. And here we are, 8:47 p.m. the next day, and I am still (somehow) upright. I think this is mostly because things have been so busy that I haven't stopped moving long enough to realize how absolutely exhausted I am.
I've got the craziest tales to spin for you of my time in London, from my late night arrival on Wednesday in the pissing rain to the shenanigans of New Year's Eve (I went from pretending I was British in the queue for the ladies' room to shouting "you're welcome from America" while standing on a bar stool singing none other than "Don't Stop Believin'") to the friends with fake moustaches I made at Monkey Chews and the time I spent wandering Camden, the city and the south bank. I will also need to share with you the harrowing tale of one stomach that simply would not quit; a stomach so brave that it withstood bag after bag of prawn cocktail crisps, biscuit after biscuit, dairy milk after effing dairy milk, pie, and then chips and then oh, GOD, beer. Things were a little touch and go for a while there on Sunday morning, but you'll be relieeeeved to know that I powered through in time to eat a proper roast lunch.
Your first installment will arrive tomorrow. This girl's gotta get some sleep.
cheers,
elizabeth
I wish I could tell you that I was one of those people who didn't suffer from jet lag or who waltzed off an international flight looking fresh as a spring effing daisy, but I cannot tell a lie -- when I got home last night my legs looked like softballs stuffed in flesh-colored nylons, my hair was greasier than back bacon and I had a crease on the side of my face about the size and shape of one of my interior coat buttons.
Rode hard, put away wet.
But the travel gods did smile on me, in their own little way. I was off the plane at 11 on the dot, my bag was first out on the carousel and I was home and inside my apartment by 20 minutes past the hour. Incredible. And here we are, 8:47 p.m. the next day, and I am still (somehow) upright. I think this is mostly because things have been so busy that I haven't stopped moving long enough to realize how absolutely exhausted I am.
I've got the craziest tales to spin for you of my time in London, from my late night arrival on Wednesday in the pissing rain to the shenanigans of New Year's Eve (I went from pretending I was British in the queue for the ladies' room to shouting "you're welcome from America" while standing on a bar stool singing none other than "Don't Stop Believin'") to the friends with fake moustaches I made at Monkey Chews and the time I spent wandering Camden, the city and the south bank. I will also need to share with you the harrowing tale of one stomach that simply would not quit; a stomach so brave that it withstood bag after bag of prawn cocktail crisps, biscuit after biscuit, dairy milk after effing dairy milk, pie, and then chips and then oh, GOD, beer. Things were a little touch and go for a while there on Sunday morning, but you'll be relieeeeved to know that I powered through in time to eat a proper roast lunch.
Your first installment will arrive tomorrow. This girl's gotta get some sleep.
cheers,
elizabeth
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