yet another in an endless string of acronyms

If you're going to communicate with me on any kind of regular basis, you're going to have to learn an astonishing number of acronyms. There are Elizabeth originals, like CPT, for example, which stands for Cutie Patootie. And of course there are the more standard phrases like TMI, OMG, etc. But there is one that's been the topic of much conversation over G-chat and while half-drunk sitting in bathroom stalls recently.

DTR.

DTR stands for "defining the relationship," and commonly refers to the conversation or moment or unspoken thing that happens that transitions someone from being "this guy I'm seeing" to "my boyfriend."

You want to talk about a personalized invitation to Awkward Town? DTR-ing. No RSVP required, because it is like a party bus for two, complete with awkward-tinis.

So yes. I had been contemplating the DTR with Mr. Risky Business. I may have referred to him a few times in casual conversation to random people as my boyfriend. My boyfriend this. My boyfriend that. But only here and there, for risk of seeming like I was becoming THAT person. You know that person, the one who forgets that the guy they're dating actually does have a name, referring to him only as "my boyfriend" like a six-year-old girl who just got a puppy and yes, the puppy has a name, but she's so excited about finally having the puppy all she can say is, "this is my puppy, have you met my puppy, do you like my puppy, PUPPY PUPPY PUPPY?"

I will not be that girl.

Anyway. I'd been trying the word on for size. Letting it roll of my tongue and seeing how it felt. And I'd been trying to decide when the DTR-ing would take place. Truthfully, it wasn't a huge scary DTR. It wasn't like, hey I need you to stop sleeping with other people, because we're exclusive now. He wasn't dating anyone else and neither was I, and I wasn't concerned that was about to change. It felt very unspoken, the DTR-ing. But still. It needed to be said out loud.

So Mr. RB and I had plans to go out Friday night, and he calls me Thursday and shares a very exciting turn of events with me, a turn of events that means our Friday night plans will most assuredly include the meeting of people. And meeting people means introductions. And introductions mean titles. And defining titles. And when he shared this with me Thursday he wasn't entirely certain how many introductions that would really include, but it could've been anywhere from a small handful to a full gospel choir's worth of his friends and acquaintances in a single night. And this very fact, that there would be several occasions during the course of the evening that would require him to introduce me to people, forced the DTR-ing. No time for the epidural, doctor, because the water broke, we're fully dilated and we are having this baby RIGHT HERE so you better watch out.

Mostly the DTR conversation was about the fact that because of Mr. Risky Business's, um, situation (you know, the one that originally earned him this nickname), these introductions become much more than just introductions. Some of the people we might be seeing might not even know that anything had happened, and then there I'd be, looking like a heartbreak-hungry homewrecker or at the very least a dirty, dirty tramp.

I told him it's all about how he pitches it, and that at the very least, we ARE in the South and because of that, people would not be capable of saying anything tacky in front of me. We don't do that. They'd wait. And above all else, nothing he could say -- short of, "this is my friend Elizabeth," which we quickly and unanimously vetoed -- would ruffle my feathers in the least. Do I want to tell everyone, this is my boyfriend, Mr. Risky Business? Of course. I would like to enact a phone tree, if that's not too much trouble. Perhaps a billboard campaign? But the situation is a unique one. And the truth is that no amount of awkward introductions will change the way he feels about me. And I know very well how he feels. This is what I told him.

And then, it happened. He said the G word. Agreeing with me, he said, if things were different, it would be, "this is my girlfriend Elizabeth. My HOT girlfriend."

And pretty much at that point I didn't care that things weren't ideal. Because there was a seriously cute boy on my sofa calling me his hot girlfriend.

And SHIT, y'all. He still. Smells. AMAZING.


cheers,
elizabeth

good news, bad news

I've got some good news and I've got some bad news. I heard somewhere once that you should always end with something positive so that people feel fuzzy inside even after receiving awful news. Fuzzy is perhaps a strong word, but less Debbie Downer, certainly. So in that grand tradition, I'll give you the bad news first.

You might have noticed that recently some content was removed from this blog. Because I write this blog for my readers, I felt that you were owed an explanation as to why this happened. The simplest, most straight-forward version of the story -- a story that has turned into a very stressful, unfortunately dramatic and taxing saga in my life in the past week -- is that the content (originally posted February 20) became an issue for a non-profit with which I volunteer closely. In order to appease a negative reaction they'd received, I removed the post.

Unfortunately for me, removal of the post didn't entirely appease anything, and I'm now facing a very difficult situation with an organization about which I am zealously passionate, an organization which I consider to be highly self-defining in my own personal life. It's been a rough few days, to say the very least. But as the debris begins to settle and I start to take stock of how I can press forward, I'm constantly reminded of two things: 1.) the astonishing amount of love and support I have from friends within this organization, and 2.) the absolute immediacy of need I feel to appeal the decision that's been handed me, not only for my own sake but for the sake of every other volunteer whose personal lives may at some point be deemed just cause to remove them from their volunteer roles, no matter how many years they've given or children they've impacted.


Okay, enough of that. Now for the good news.

The awesome people at BlogHer sent me a letter this week to let me know that I'd been chosen for what's called a BlogHerShip. It's essentially a scholarship to attend the BlogHer 2010 conference -- the mecca of women bloggers, where the potential for me to make an ass of myself in front of internet celebrities grows exponentially by the second -- in exchange for some volunteer time.

Naturally I am completely over the moon to be able to attend the conference, which is happening in New York City the first weekend in August. But even better than just that news alone is the capacity in which they've invited me to volunteer -- I will be live blogging sessions from BlogHer 2010.

You might be able to hear me grinning through your browser, it is THAT intense over here.


cheers,
elizabeth

i can't complain -- no, really

I've given up complaining for Lent. So far it has been completely awesome.

I didn't say I gave up sarcasm.

I know this probably sounds borderline crazy, but hear me out. I really like the idea of choosing to make a personal sacrifice during Lent, and I especially like thinking outside the box about those sacrifices. I want to go without something that will challenge me, but also something that will better me. And the truth is, I don't have a whole lot of bad habits. I don't drink sodas. I run daily. I eat healthfully. I hardly touch sweets. I don't smoke. I drink in moderation.

So with my lifestyle as it is, I decided to start thinking in less tangible terms. I tossed around a few other ideas, like giving up swear words, but frankly I decided that a challenge was one thing and being completely miserable for 46 days was entirely different. Of course, when I told Mr. Risky Business that I'd decided to give up complaining, his response was, "I still think it would've been easier just to not say cunt."

He underestimates me.

So today, it begins. I've already had one flub this morning, but I know after a few days my mind set will slowly begin to change. And that's the whole point, really -- that after these 46 days I might be a person much less likely to point on the negatives in a situation than I was before it began.

Now, there are some ground rules. Because "complaining" is a vast and far-reaching idea, and some thoughts that might fall under its umbrella are necessary for me to do my job and otherwise function normally in relationships both professional and personal. So here's where I landed:

1. No bitching.

2. No whining.

3. Negative comments are allowed, but they must be constructive. I can mention that something has not happened the way I would've liked, but I have to come up with possible ways to improve the situation instead of just moaning about it.

4. Strictly, absolutely NO road rage.



That about covers it. I was telling Mr. RB the other day, in an unrelated conversation, that I worry one day my tombstone will say: "No one can say she didn't try." When I moved back from New York, everyone said, well at least you tried it. Now you know. And for a while I believed in that, and I echoed it inside my own head.

And I'm not trying to tell you I want to go back to New York. That's the last thing I want. But what I do want is to be living a more fulfilling life. To be making more music. To be writing more. To feel rich and passionate. And every day that I just sigh to myself and think, well, this sucks or that sucks or I haven't done this or that in so long I don't even feel like I'm an artist anymore, well those thoughts aren't getting me anywhere. It's time to stop complaining about things in my life that aren't the way I'd like and change them.

So I'm giving up complaining for Lent. Here's to 46 days of positivity.


cheers,
elizabeth

a v. good v-day

It's Saturday night, and I'm at the theater. People have been pouring in the doors since 6:30, and mostly I've been hiding in the dressing room for much longer than usual completing the 758th re-application of my lipstick and at LEAST the thousandth negotiation between the curling iron and an errant curl.

Finally I turned the lights out in the dressing room and committed to the front of the house. I mingle, I take some pictures. I check on the box office. I talk with a few friends who've arrived. And suddenly it's 7:25, and there's been no sign of Mr. Risky Business.

And suddenly I am a bundle of ridiculous girl nerves. They're not is-he-going-to-show nerves or did-he-get-lost or even did-he-mix-up-the-time nerves. They're just straight up cute boy, big crush, how's my hair, IS THERE LIPSTICK ON MY TEETH nerves. Crazy heart-pounding butterfly nerves. So I make a bee-line for our sweet little bartender and tell him that I need to take a shot of something, anything, right this second.

One shot of spiced rum and a chaser of red wine later, I have an awful taste in my mouth, my throat is on fire and my stomach is not even on speaking terms with me anymore. But I do feel just ever so slightly more calm. I'll take it.

Not five minutes later he comes down the stairs into the theater, looking all handsome and undoing all the very hard work the Sailor Jerry's spiced rum had done with my nervous system. But we were in a crazy airline over-sold situation and trying to figure out how to stack people one on top of the other to cram them in the space, so I was running around counting empty seats and sending silent prayers up to the gods of fire codes. With all the madness I barely saw him for a second before the show.

And I'd like to tell you that the performance went by in a blur, and mostly it did, but that would not be entirely accurate since I did spend at least part of the time concerned about the horrendously loud music blaring from the next room over and also worried that audience participation could in fact sprout arms and legs and a mouth and gobble the entire play whole. Let's just say the crowd was very, um, responsive.

After the show we all head out into the lobby to thank people and talk with the audience members as they're heading out, and in those few minutes something happened, the anticipation of which I think had been a great contributor to my necessitating-alcohol nerve level: Mr. RB met my parents. Now, it truly was just that -- a meeting, and a brief one. And I'm glad. It's a little too early in the game for all that pressure. But with my mom in the show and the cast party happening that night, they were both there. And to not introduce them would've been extremely weird. So, so much weird, amounts of weird that would completely dwarf any smidgeon of awkward that could have accompanied the introduction.

With that bandaid ripped off, I was free to get all stoned on his scent and be openly handsy at the cast party. Which is a major sigh of relief, since after a pint of Ghost River golden and a few glasses of wine I wouldn't have really been in control of those impulses anyway.

Of course I could've probably groped him quite inappropriately and quite openly and no one would've noticed, since one of the cast members decided it would be a good idea to take off our poor sweet bartender's pants. In the middle of the living room. WITH HER TEETH.

We've been over this before. I can't make this shit up.

But then, everyone was gone. And then, it was Valentine's Day. And I was eating waffles in my pajamas with Mr. Risky Business. And there was couch napping. And also apartment cleaning, complete with a super romantic stench of onions and beer. AWESOME.

But that was followed by riding the trolley downtown and dinner and wine and a movie and maybe also a little slow dancing. In his living room.

Have you barfed yet? No? Not yet?

What if I told you I can put my feet on his and let him dance me around, since I'm legally a little person? Would that do it?

Thought so.

cheers, elizabeth

my vagina, my hometown

We raised more than $2,500 for Planned Parenthood this weekend -- more than $1,000 of that coming from Saturday's performance alone, where we pushed chairs in the aisles and managed to sardine an over-capacity crowd into the space. Looking around, feeling the energy, seeing everything come to fruition, I felt a sense of accomplishment, a sense of ownership, a sense of true pride in something bigger than myself. And I can't deny there was a sigh of relief that came with that final bow, but those feelings? I wish desperately I could get them back.

Here begins my countdown to V-Day season 2011.


cheers,
elizabeth

clever puns: the true way to my heart

I've been sitting here for quite a while trying to come up with some clever line or segue-able anecdote to start off this post, but every time I click the cursor in the window, all that comes out is "GUSH GUSH GUSH GUSH GUSH GUSH." And it is just too close to lunchtime for all of that business. I don't need anyone ralphing up their PBJ on their keyboard.

So here's the cause of all that excessive gushing: Mr. Risky Business surprised me at work today. The mind reels at the number of extremely favorable boy behaviors this demonstrates. At the very least you've got 1.) Surprises (and also sub-category 2.1, Surprises on Non-Traditional Occasions); 2.) Public Displays of (Non-Traditional) Affection; 3.) Thoughtfulness; and 4.) Creativity. And also many others that fall under the all-purpose category of Being Really Effing Cute.

Now, you will more fully appreciate item number 4 on that list when I share with you what was in the box. There was a card on top, which on the front read: "I would tell you to 'break a leg!' but in four-inch red heels that seems all too possible, so..."

And on the inside: "I'll go with the safer 'knock their socks off, girl!'"

Inside the box? A pair of cozy thigh-high Tiger blue American Apparel socks.

Go ahead. Be J.

The timing of it all was absolutely perfect, since our dress rehearsal last night had left me pretty frazzled and my commute to work was a running-on-fumes thrill ride in which I finally made it to a gas station only to find that the unleaded pumps all had plastic bags over them and the station across the street wanted NINE CENTS A GALLON more, which I swore about profusely as I was stuck waiting for traffic to clear so I could cross the street, all the while terrified that the green bean would sputter to a stop right then and there.

And just when I was convinced my mood was terminal, surprise! Who walks through the door but Mr. Risky Business. And I turn 45 shades of bright red. And tell him about the horrible gas situation. And just about the only other thing I could manage was to tell him over and over again how cute he was. But I haven't even shared with you yet what might be the very cutest thing. In a fabulous ode to his code name, he'd come up with a contingency plan for the possibility that I'd be out of the office when he stopped in.

My package came with its own courier form, professionally designed and filled in with all the relevant information, from none other than Risky Business Courier Service.

cheers,
elizabeth

i'll take that trade

Today Holly told me that if her husband ever bought her carnations -- unless it were her funeral -- that she'd laugh in his face. Because carnations, she said, are a funeral flower. And if he got some for her funeral, she wouldn't laugh. Mostly because she'd be dead, but partly because it'd be occasion-appropriate.

So then we got to talking about flowers. Which ones we like, which ones we don't. Which ones make good bouquets. (This had all been sparked by a commercial she'd just heard on the radio for Valentine's carnations. Ridiculous.)

I mention that I like roses and tulips. Holly seconds, and adds lillies to the list. Then we discuss other flowers we like that are not suitable for bouquets, like irises and gladiolas. And then I bring up the very trendy Gerber daisy. And the conversation goes something like this:

Me: I do love a Gerber daisy. But I'ma need it to be part of a bigger bouquet, with other flowers, really. I mean, as a centerpiece, just Gerbers would be fine.

Holly: Right.

Me: But as a bouquet, I'd want somethin' else in there.
Holly: I agree.

Me: [Boyfriend No. 4] got me Gerbers once. They were beautiful, I'll give him that.

Holly: I remember. They were in your office?

Me: Those were roses, actually. The Gerbers he got me for my birthday, when I got a pedicure at Essential Day Spa and he paid for it and upgraded it. The flowers were waiting there for me.

Holly: That's sweet.

Me: It is. He was good at that stuff, for sure. Just not at most everything else. Or being a decent human being.

Holly: Sometimes I wish that [my husband] was showy, but then I realize I should be grateful that he's not a cheating douchebag. I'll take the trade, ya know?

cheers,
elizabeth

today, on as the world turns

Before I tell you what I'm about to tell you, I need you to know that I am not schizophrenic. I recognize that I just told you that things between Mr. Risky Business and I were done. Just a few short days ago. I recognize this. But -- and maybe it's just because I do so enjoy delivering to you, my readers, a surprise twist -- things are not over. As of Friday, actually, they are very much back on. Remember that metaphorical drive we were on? Pit stop over. We got our grape soda at the truck stop and we're back on the road.

And I have to tell you, there are plenty of reasons why I'm very happy about this development. Why a big sigh of contentment must've escaped from me at some point on Friday night. But one of the bigger ones, I must confess, is that there is a heinously unattractive and very large man at my gym who wears THE cologne. The oh my GAWD, I cannot be in a confined space with Mr. Risky Business because that smell has a stronger effect on me than five shots of tequila cologne. And he's SO unattractive. And so large. And on top of all that, an enormous douche bag who talks on his bluetooth the entire time he's on the treadmill next to me, using language that even makes ME recoil a little bit in disgust. ME. This man swears such that I am offended! DO YOU SEE THE GRAVITY OF THIS STATEMENT?

And every time he'd come a-clompin' down the gym floor toward my treadmill, I'd brace myself. Because he's all gross and crass and then inevitably I'd spend my entire run wishing that instead of being right there, with him, that I had my nose buried in Mr. Risky Business's sweater.

And maybe also my hands on his butt. But that's secondary.


cheers,
elizabeth

it's gettin' about that time, y'all

It's February, and it's been February for long about four days now so SURELY you've been expecting me to drop this bomb for a good while now:

VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA.

That's right, folks -- it's Vagina Monologues time. The countdown is at one week, less than that if you include our dress rehearsal on Wednesday, and even less than that if you consider that my stress level will be at DON'T TEST ME MOTHER FUCKER by Monday at the latest.

But it's a labor of true love, and y'all know that. I've opined here at length in the past about this show and why it means so very much to me and why February just wouldn't be February without it. And this year, as with every year, I'm most thankful for the women I've met and gotten to know in the process. They're brave and funny and stunning, and I am better for knowing them.

So yes, I will be stressed come Monday. I'll be nervous. I'll be going over every single detail of the production schedule with Rainman-like intensity. But come Thursday night, when I pull on my sassy back-seamed hose and my five-inch red heels and slip into a black dress that leaves so little to the imagination it's probably illegal in at least five states, I will feel on top of the world. The blood will rush into my face every time a theater full of people laugh until their sides ache. My heart will race when they are gripped with pain. I will feel every emotion in every monologue as if I am hearing them for the very first time.

And in those moments, if I ever questioned why I endure the stress and the nerves and the moments of hair-pulling frustration, I'll know. And I will think of every dollar we raise as the slow repayment of a debt I owe the women of the world, for being so lucky as to have been born so privileged and protected so well, when so many were not.


Wherever you are this month, you must see a performance of The Vagina Monologues or another of Eve Ensler's works. Visit V-Day to learn more and find an event near you.

cheers,
elizabeth

blergraham lincoln

I've always heard that tensing up -- bracing for impact, so to speak -- can be the worst thing for your body in terms of sustaining injury. When you tighten your muscles and stiffen your frame because you know something's coming, you can cause yourself more harm. Take, for example, my friend Sarah, who recently walked away just about unscathed from being hit by a truck. The nurses told her she owed just about all of it to the fact that she never saw it coming. Her whole body was loose, limber. More able to react and move. More able to bounce back.

And since I love an obvious segue just about as much as I love a great extended metaphor, let's skip straight to the punch line: things with Mr. Risky Business ended on Monday night.

He came over to make dinner, and not five minutes after he arrived we were talking about my most recent blog post. And how he'd felt similar things, had similar concerns. And how it just didn't make sense to keep on as we were -- he said it wasn't fair to me, or to him, but mostly to me. That he couldn't give me what I wanted.

And it sucked. And the potential for extreme suckage was pretty high at that point, since I'd had an awful day and almost blacked out on the treadmill at the gym and was generally at anxiety level: TOTALLY HIGH STRUNG before he even got to my place that night. So I was trying to be cool. Or at least, human. I said, let's eat dinner. Let's just enjoy this evening. Let's not let it go to waste.

So we cook. And we screw up everything that we're cooking, to an absolutely comical extent, with the exception of the asparagus which are perfect except for the fact that they got cold waiting for the potatoes to reheat for the 85th time. And we eat, eventually, and we talk, and it's good. And at some point after dinner, I asked him what happens now -- do we not see each other again? How does he see this working?

And he says that we'll see each other around, but he's not going to pursue anything. Go out of his way to see me. And I admit to him that I have a hard time believing it, because it sounds a bit like that initial e-mail -- and we all know how those intentions panned out. And he admits that it's true, but that this time will be different. Because it has to be.

As he was leaving, I told him I knew what I was getting into when this whole thing started. And I did. I'd been bracing for impact. And maybe that explains why it hurt quite so much more than I'd anticipated. Like a punch in the gut, and I couldn't get myself out of bed on Tuesday morning. Being curled up in a ball just seemed like the only thing I had the mental faculties to do.

And clearly, that's passed. I'm up. I'm moving. I'm busy. I have an appetite, and for something besides ice cream. It's all going to be fine, it always is and I always knew it would be. But for now? It sucks. And adding to the general suck is that, really, I'm not entirely convinced it's over just yet. All those parts of my brain dedicated to romance and sex and other various whimseys, well, they've painted me all these pretty pictures where he changes his mind.


cheers,
elizabeth