Friday night, Mr. Risky Business and I did the art galleries on South Main. Saturday we enjoyed the warm weather with lunch on the patio, beers and lounging in the sunshine in RB's back yard. That night we drank champagne for no reason other than life being so good you don't need a reason to drink champagne.
All very fun and romantic, yes, but it simply pales in comparison to what I am about to tell you. It's one of the most amazing, most incredible, most absolutely arousing things that RB has done for me thus far in the course of our relationship and I have to tell you that even now, just writing about it, I have gotten myself ALL hot and bothered and may need to drink a glass of iced tea and fan my face for about half an hour just to calm down.
Sunday, RB and I went on a mission. We needed to replace one of my tires, which through no fault of my own is what mechanics call, in technical terms: Bad Wrong. My Bad Wrong Tire has needed replacing for a little while now, and being the card-carrying Sam's member that RB is we decided to go Clubbin' and get me a new one.
Naturally, though, Murphy's law being 100 percent alive, well and kicking, the bastards did NOT have my tire. It's special, apparently, because of its size. Not only am I just about legally a midget, even the very tires on my car are fun-sized. WHAT THE WHAT.
We drowned our sorrows in Sam's Club samples (obviously), RB picked up a "luxurious" bath mat (which I can report to you is indeed luxurious, having had my own bare toes on it) and we headed out, giving up on the tire quest temporarily. Of course, when I give up on something "temporarily" I tend to have a difficult time imagining in my mind the moment when Free Time and Level of Concern are going to intersect again at just the right spot on the graph for me to really continue questing. Until, of course, something explodes or I'm ass up in a ditch.
So you can imagine my surprise when this morning -- sitting at work, minding my own business -- out of the blue, completely unprovoked and unprompted, RB tells me that not only has he found a tire place that HAS my fun-sized tire, he's finagled me a lower price AND he'll be happy to join me at lunch time tomorrow to drop the car off and take me back to pick it up.
SWOON.
Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to need a cold shower.
cheers,
elizabeth
3.24.2010
pajamas, PJs and pig candy
After the parade we got ourselves some grub -- sweet potato crisps and barbeque oysters oh my GAWD crazy delicious -- and headed to our room for a power nap to recharge for the evening's adventures.
The event on the agenda was the Pearls and PJs Party, featuring yet another band that would play yet more renditions of Tina Turner songs (can't complain about that, really) as well as a big ass buffet and karaoke.
And yes, I did get on the karaoke mic and yes, I did dominate. Naturally. More on that later.
Once again the real star of the show was the insanity of some of the outfits we saw, including of course the Queens themselves who were trying to convince us that this could pass for pajamas:
At some point during the evening Jill announced that she would be signing books and taking pictures outside the ballroom, so naturally mom and I made a beeline for the SPQ bookstore to purchase anything and everything she could fit her John Hancock on. And wouldn't you know it? The sum bitches were closed. I hope whoever thought that up is overcome with sadness that they couldn't take our money.
As we were lamenting the locked-down-book-store sitch, I remembered that I had, in fact, brought one of my SPQ books with me on the trip, in case we'd needed any entertainment in the car on the way down. It was God Save the Sweet Potato Queens, the second in the series, but it was just my old well-loved paper back. Nothing fancy or new. Nonetheless, we headed up to the room for it and stood in that line for what felt like the length of the St. Paddy's day parade, probably mostly due to the gals in front of us who had Jill sign every book they ever bought in their life, including probably a kindergarten handwriting primer and DEFINITELY an SPQ book that was part eaten by a dog. I shit you not.
So we finally get up there, and again in my body's efforts to keep anything embarrassing from coming out of my mouth I mostly clammed up and lost the ability to form coherent sentences. So mom talked. She told Jill that this weekend was what I'd wanted for my birthday, and HRH seemed tickled. She signed my book, we took a fabulous picture of the three of us (that I would show you, should my mama choose to unhandle it for me from her camera) and she asked us to please go take her husband's shirt off and stick some tattoos on him. For the chirren.
After that we headed back to the front of the hotel where our favorite band of the weekend was still playing, and got just a teeny bit more dancing out of our system.
And then, of course, we headed outside and hopped on the unattended SPQ float to take pictures of ourselves in HRH's throne.
And some time in there, I dominated karaoke with a rendition of my signature staple, Young MC's "Bust A Move." I reprised later with "Gangsta's Paradise," and just so you won't think I'm blowing this domination out of proportion I need to share with you that some 75 miles outside of Jackson at a random ass truck stop I heard voices hollering out at me, "Bust a move! Rap for us girl! Woo hoo!"
I turned around, and of course, saw a big ass van full o' Queens.
After "Gangsta's Paradise" (and the sweet ghetto girls who work at the Jackson Hilton giving me high fives and telling me that they took video, dear sweet LORD where that may end up) we hit the sack, and we were back up early and dressed appropriately for the Bathrobe Brunch.
The buffet at the brunch included shrimp and grits and sweet potato biscuits and other worldly delights that I can only hope are available calorie-free in the hereafter, but the one item that seduced my senses most was a little something labeled on the spread as "Pig Candy." Candied. Effing. Bacon. MOUTHGASM.
After we ate, Jill spoke, and I have to tell you that I could listen to this woman talk for hours and never grow tired of it. I don't know if it's her voice, her lilting accent, her charming humor or quick wit or maybe a combination of all of them, but that woman is captivating.
I think perhaps mostly that captivation is because I am generally in awe of everything Jill Connor Browne has accomplished. She had some shit circumstances thrown her way in life, and her positivity, her genuine and compassionate spirit, her ability to embrace change and commitment to having fun no matter what have brought her from that to this. To a community of women nationwide who have been inspired by her humor and her heart and whose lives are better because of her.
Mostly before this weekend I just thought this was one wickedly funny woman. I feel so lucky to know so intimately now the full picture.
And now that I've gone all sappy on you, in true Queen fashion, I will end this post with a photo of the Queens singing the official SPQ hymn, "Never Wear Panties to a Party."
cheers,
elizabeth
The event on the agenda was the Pearls and PJs Party, featuring yet another band that would play yet more renditions of Tina Turner songs (can't complain about that, really) as well as a big ass buffet and karaoke.
And yes, I did get on the karaoke mic and yes, I did dominate. Naturally. More on that later.
Once again the real star of the show was the insanity of some of the outfits we saw, including of course the Queens themselves who were trying to convince us that this could pass for pajamas:
At some point during the evening Jill announced that she would be signing books and taking pictures outside the ballroom, so naturally mom and I made a beeline for the SPQ bookstore to purchase anything and everything she could fit her John Hancock on. And wouldn't you know it? The sum bitches were closed. I hope whoever thought that up is overcome with sadness that they couldn't take our money.
As we were lamenting the locked-down-book-store sitch, I remembered that I had, in fact, brought one of my SPQ books with me on the trip, in case we'd needed any entertainment in the car on the way down. It was God Save the Sweet Potato Queens, the second in the series, but it was just my old well-loved paper back. Nothing fancy or new. Nonetheless, we headed up to the room for it and stood in that line for what felt like the length of the St. Paddy's day parade, probably mostly due to the gals in front of us who had Jill sign every book they ever bought in their life, including probably a kindergarten handwriting primer and DEFINITELY an SPQ book that was part eaten by a dog. I shit you not.
So we finally get up there, and again in my body's efforts to keep anything embarrassing from coming out of my mouth I mostly clammed up and lost the ability to form coherent sentences. So mom talked. She told Jill that this weekend was what I'd wanted for my birthday, and HRH seemed tickled. She signed my book, we took a fabulous picture of the three of us (that I would show you, should my mama choose to unhandle it for me from her camera) and she asked us to please go take her husband's shirt off and stick some tattoos on him. For the chirren.
After that we headed back to the front of the hotel where our favorite band of the weekend was still playing, and got just a teeny bit more dancing out of our system.
And then, of course, we headed outside and hopped on the unattended SPQ float to take pictures of ourselves in HRH's throne.
And some time in there, I dominated karaoke with a rendition of my signature staple, Young MC's "Bust A Move." I reprised later with "Gangsta's Paradise," and just so you won't think I'm blowing this domination out of proportion I need to share with you that some 75 miles outside of Jackson at a random ass truck stop I heard voices hollering out at me, "Bust a move! Rap for us girl! Woo hoo!"
I turned around, and of course, saw a big ass van full o' Queens.
After "Gangsta's Paradise" (and the sweet ghetto girls who work at the Jackson Hilton giving me high fives and telling me that they took video, dear sweet LORD where that may end up) we hit the sack, and we were back up early and dressed appropriately for the Bathrobe Brunch.
The buffet at the brunch included shrimp and grits and sweet potato biscuits and other worldly delights that I can only hope are available calorie-free in the hereafter, but the one item that seduced my senses most was a little something labeled on the spread as "Pig Candy." Candied. Effing. Bacon. MOUTHGASM.
After we ate, Jill spoke, and I have to tell you that I could listen to this woman talk for hours and never grow tired of it. I don't know if it's her voice, her lilting accent, her charming humor or quick wit or maybe a combination of all of them, but that woman is captivating.
I think perhaps mostly that captivation is because I am generally in awe of everything Jill Connor Browne has accomplished. She had some shit circumstances thrown her way in life, and her positivity, her genuine and compassionate spirit, her ability to embrace change and commitment to having fun no matter what have brought her from that to this. To a community of women nationwide who have been inspired by her humor and her heart and whose lives are better because of her.
Mostly before this weekend I just thought this was one wickedly funny woman. I feel so lucky to know so intimately now the full picture.
And now that I've gone all sappy on you, in true Queen fashion, I will end this post with a photo of the Queens singing the official SPQ hymn, "Never Wear Panties to a Party."
cheers,
elizabeth
3.22.2010
never wear panties to a party
I'd say they are safely two general categories of people who would never, ever dream of doing something like what my mom and I did this past weekend. Specifically, it was the Sweet Potato Queens' Million Queen March, but more generally it was three days of ridiculous outfits, big hair and even bigger fake boobs and butts, glitter, glitter, GLITTER, drinkin', dancin', assorted group revelry and the consumption of mass quantities of buffet style fried food items.
One of those groups is, of course, heterosexual men. Although there were a few straight men in attendance, they were typically the husbands or boyfriends of the Queens themselves and were lauded as "Spud Studs" throughout the entire weekend and probably groped inappropriately at every turn. So maybe there's a good reason a man would want to come to this shin dig, but on the more general concept of gathering together in large groups to act ridiculous and dress up crazy -- unless you count sporting events -- men tend to opt out.
The other group most assuredly not participating in any of this kind of ridiculousness? Yankees.
They don't do this shit in Connecticut, y'all. They don't put on big fuzzy boas and crazy sunglasses and get drunk in the middle of the day to parade around in a fake ass stuffed with polyfill, dance on a stripper pole before lunch or outbid hundreds of other women to put fake tattoos on a half-nekkid man, all for the chirren, and then get up on Sunday morning and note, quite dutifully, that we have the Lord to think for every bit of it. All of our drunk, fake-booty-shaking camaraderie, every last ounce of it.
No, they just would not stand for that in the north. And that is reason number 75 trillion why I got the eff right on out of that place.
Anywho. Back to our weekend. Not two hours after we arrived on Friday, I'd already gotten my picture taken with HRH Jill Connor Browne. She walked out of the SPQ store as we were walking by, and mom said, "Hey!" like they were old buds. But then? Jill said, "Hey!" just like they were old buds. For a minute, I halfway thought maybe they were old buds and my mama had been holding out on me all these years.
And then, without a word, JCB walked her six-foot-one-million amazon self over, put her arm around me and mom took a picture. So seamless, she practically glided. And it all happened so fast, I didn't have any opportunity to say anything awkward, ridiculous or otherwise completely and horrifically embarrassing! WIN.
With a meeting with HRH already behind us so soon into the trip, we had to make sure we didn't peak early -- so we set to gettin' drunk and hit the dance floor. I danced so much, in fact, that I was sweating like a hooker in the first row of a Baptist Church and required a freshening up before the SPQ ball that night.
Also, we met this guy, whose swings around the stripper pole were really only the beginning of his endless macking on the ladies throughout the weekend.
The SPQ Ball that night was an extravaganza of crazy. Some women were dressed like they were going to an actual ball, or as the case may be, a 1970s prom. We gawked, danced to the Bouffants and watched a few people get their heads shaved. (For the chirren.)
Afterward, we wandered the halls of the Hilton and admired door decorations, and then called it a night so we could get plenty of beauty rest for the parade.
Other than us Queens, the parade was pretty much every drunk fraternity or sorority girl in the greater Jackson area getting more drunk from inside a float/old school bus/trolley car/pick-up truck/Radio Flyer wagon. Because the Queens march last, we had quite a while to wait in the line-up. So naturally, we set to gettin' ourselves drunk.
It seems, not surprisingly, that everyone watching the parade had also had the same idea -- by the time we marched through, people had hopped over the barriers and were crowded in the street, literally reaching out for you like the little creepy dead souls in Ursula's cavern in the Little Mermaid. In the grand tradition of parades and throwing things at people, all these little urchins wanted was beads. Even the kids who had SO many beads around their necks already that they seemed destined for a long-term spinal cord injury were hollering out for MORE BEADS.
And then one little girl smack in the middle of the damn road says to me, "I just love your boa so much I want it so bad can I have it?" Ex-squeeze me? No, you cannot have my boa. Or my hat. Or my sunglasses. What's next? You want my pants, too? Now, I have been known to take those off when drunk but this is just not the time or the place for any of that, madam, so get your ass back on the other side of the barriers and lay off the booze. YOU'RE 12.
In the last leg of the parade route, mom had what will go down in history as one of the most inspired ideas of all time when she spotted a diner and suggested we stop in to pee and get a beer. We bought two beers -- thus qualifying as paying customers -- and took a quick pee, no line, no waiting! It was a St. Paddy's miracle. We hopped back in the parade with our beers, and no sooner had we done so than we heard, "Yeah! Bud Light! Atta girl, that's right!"
I'm sorry, sir.
Are you cheering me?
For drinking Bud Light? Really?
Oh, but it gets better. Because mom was drinking Miller Lite. And not to be left out, someone later in the route was equally as overcome by her beverage choice (a toothless old lady, no less) and hollered out something or other about Miller and how mom was a bad ass for drinking it.
The beer adventures did not end there. At the end of the route, we stepped out and popped a squat on the curb so we could watch the Queens themselves go by on their float. Next thing we know, we're being chatted up by these two guys who offer us a drink. Mom says, "You got any beer?"
Now, in our defense, we had been drinking. And we did live to tell about this, so all's well that ends well, right? Because we definitely took black cups from this guy that we had NOT watched him pour and proceeded to drink every last drop. Because apparently we live dangerously, and fear no roofie.
With all this drinking, by the time we got on the bus -- now, let me back up here. We overheard some chatter while we were waiting on the shuttles and thus managed to get on the bus with JCB and the Queens. Just three rows away from them, in fact. Major victory, for sure -- but by this time we were pretty drunk and mom had just come from the Shell station with another beer for us to split. Needless to say, we got right punchy. First, this happened.
Some time during the mustache photography, I realized mom was missing an earring, and before all was said and done and she realized she was sitting on it, she said something about her goddamn earring which got everybody more riled up than a cat in a hen house, which y'all is just goddamn REDIC considering that every last one of these women purports to have read a book that uses even worse language on a regular and religious basis and even mentions SEX ACTS. Heavens!
When we returned to the hotel, we remedied said drunkenness with food and a booze snooze. In the next installment, you'll get the conclusion of our weekend: the pearls and PJs party, my karaoke domination and inevitable world fame, the bathrobe brunch and more crying than you can shake a stick at. And also more bacon than you can shake a pig at.
cheers,
elizabeth
One of those groups is, of course, heterosexual men. Although there were a few straight men in attendance, they were typically the husbands or boyfriends of the Queens themselves and were lauded as "Spud Studs" throughout the entire weekend and probably groped inappropriately at every turn. So maybe there's a good reason a man would want to come to this shin dig, but on the more general concept of gathering together in large groups to act ridiculous and dress up crazy -- unless you count sporting events -- men tend to opt out.
The other group most assuredly not participating in any of this kind of ridiculousness? Yankees.
They don't do this shit in Connecticut, y'all. They don't put on big fuzzy boas and crazy sunglasses and get drunk in the middle of the day to parade around in a fake ass stuffed with polyfill, dance on a stripper pole before lunch or outbid hundreds of other women to put fake tattoos on a half-nekkid man, all for the chirren, and then get up on Sunday morning and note, quite dutifully, that we have the Lord to think for every bit of it. All of our drunk, fake-booty-shaking camaraderie, every last ounce of it.
No, they just would not stand for that in the north. And that is reason number 75 trillion why I got the eff right on out of that place.
Anywho. Back to our weekend. Not two hours after we arrived on Friday, I'd already gotten my picture taken with HRH Jill Connor Browne. She walked out of the SPQ store as we were walking by, and mom said, "Hey!" like they were old buds. But then? Jill said, "Hey!" just like they were old buds. For a minute, I halfway thought maybe they were old buds and my mama had been holding out on me all these years.
And then, without a word, JCB walked her six-foot-one-million amazon self over, put her arm around me and mom took a picture. So seamless, she practically glided. And it all happened so fast, I didn't have any opportunity to say anything awkward, ridiculous or otherwise completely and horrifically embarrassing! WIN.
With a meeting with HRH already behind us so soon into the trip, we had to make sure we didn't peak early -- so we set to gettin' drunk and hit the dance floor. I danced so much, in fact, that I was sweating like a hooker in the first row of a Baptist Church and required a freshening up before the SPQ ball that night.
Also, we met this guy, whose swings around the stripper pole were really only the beginning of his endless macking on the ladies throughout the weekend.
The SPQ Ball that night was an extravaganza of crazy. Some women were dressed like they were going to an actual ball, or as the case may be, a 1970s prom. We gawked, danced to the Bouffants and watched a few people get their heads shaved. (For the chirren.)
Afterward, we wandered the halls of the Hilton and admired door decorations, and then called it a night so we could get plenty of beauty rest for the parade.
Other than us Queens, the parade was pretty much every drunk fraternity or sorority girl in the greater Jackson area getting more drunk from inside a float/old school bus/trolley car/pick-up truck/Radio Flyer wagon. Because the Queens march last, we had quite a while to wait in the line-up. So naturally, we set to gettin' ourselves drunk.
It seems, not surprisingly, that everyone watching the parade had also had the same idea -- by the time we marched through, people had hopped over the barriers and were crowded in the street, literally reaching out for you like the little creepy dead souls in Ursula's cavern in the Little Mermaid. In the grand tradition of parades and throwing things at people, all these little urchins wanted was beads. Even the kids who had SO many beads around their necks already that they seemed destined for a long-term spinal cord injury were hollering out for MORE BEADS.
And then one little girl smack in the middle of the damn road says to me, "I just love your boa so much I want it so bad can I have it?" Ex-squeeze me? No, you cannot have my boa. Or my hat. Or my sunglasses. What's next? You want my pants, too? Now, I have been known to take those off when drunk but this is just not the time or the place for any of that, madam, so get your ass back on the other side of the barriers and lay off the booze. YOU'RE 12.
In the last leg of the parade route, mom had what will go down in history as one of the most inspired ideas of all time when she spotted a diner and suggested we stop in to pee and get a beer. We bought two beers -- thus qualifying as paying customers -- and took a quick pee, no line, no waiting! It was a St. Paddy's miracle. We hopped back in the parade with our beers, and no sooner had we done so than we heard, "Yeah! Bud Light! Atta girl, that's right!"
I'm sorry, sir.
Are you cheering me?
For drinking Bud Light? Really?
Oh, but it gets better. Because mom was drinking Miller Lite. And not to be left out, someone later in the route was equally as overcome by her beverage choice (a toothless old lady, no less) and hollered out something or other about Miller and how mom was a bad ass for drinking it.
The beer adventures did not end there. At the end of the route, we stepped out and popped a squat on the curb so we could watch the Queens themselves go by on their float. Next thing we know, we're being chatted up by these two guys who offer us a drink. Mom says, "You got any beer?"
Now, in our defense, we had been drinking. And we did live to tell about this, so all's well that ends well, right? Because we definitely took black cups from this guy that we had NOT watched him pour and proceeded to drink every last drop. Because apparently we live dangerously, and fear no roofie.
With all this drinking, by the time we got on the bus -- now, let me back up here. We overheard some chatter while we were waiting on the shuttles and thus managed to get on the bus with JCB and the Queens. Just three rows away from them, in fact. Major victory, for sure -- but by this time we were pretty drunk and mom had just come from the Shell station with another beer for us to split. Needless to say, we got right punchy. First, this happened.
Some time during the mustache photography, I realized mom was missing an earring, and before all was said and done and she realized she was sitting on it, she said something about her goddamn earring which got everybody more riled up than a cat in a hen house, which y'all is just goddamn REDIC considering that every last one of these women purports to have read a book that uses even worse language on a regular and religious basis and even mentions SEX ACTS. Heavens!
When we returned to the hotel, we remedied said drunkenness with food and a booze snooze. In the next installment, you'll get the conclusion of our weekend: the pearls and PJs party, my karaoke domination and inevitable world fame, the bathrobe brunch and more crying than you can shake a stick at. And also more bacon than you can shake a pig at.
cheers,
elizabeth
3.19.2010
your birthday today
I love to read my horoscope.
I don't know that I would say that I believe in astrology or that I'm overly concerned about whose moon is in what planet's house or whose moon is made of cheese or whatever, but I read my horoscope every single day, without fail, even if I am in such a mad rush it is the only thing I look at in the newspaper before I leave for work in the morning.
And there is one day on which your horoscope is more important than any other day. A day when it is of extreme and critical importance. And that would be the day of your birth, when you get to read your regular horoscope AND the "Your Birthday Today" section.
Y'all, my YBT horoscope on Monday was pretty damn exciting. It said that big plans or changes I've been considering for a while will come to fruition this year. Now I know the naysayers will want to talk smack about how vague that is and how it could apply to near abouts anything, but I don't give a wet fart (Deadwood reference, anybody? Bueller?) how vague it is. Those words bit me in just the right place. In the inspired, go-get-em, take life by the horns place.
Tuesday night I was so inspired, in fact, just driving home, that as soon as I walked in the door I sat down at my computer, opened up a new document and began typing furiously the first few paragraphs of a short story. And last night during yoga I couldn't get my mind to shut up about those big plans and changes alluded to in the YBT.
25 feels like a landmark age. And I intend to make it a landmark year, God (and the YBT horoscope) willing.
The banner year truly begins this weekend, as my mom and I trek to Jackson, Mississippi, for the Sweet Potato Queens Million Queen March and the Mal's St. Paddy's Day Parade. It's a trip almost a year in the making, but really and truly more than that -- I'd date our dreams of this weekend back to the very first SPQ book we both ever read. I promise to return with (hysterical) photography and (even more hysterical and possibly also drunken) tales to spin.
cheers,
elizabeth
I don't know that I would say that I believe in astrology or that I'm overly concerned about whose moon is in what planet's house or whose moon is made of cheese or whatever, but I read my horoscope every single day, without fail, even if I am in such a mad rush it is the only thing I look at in the newspaper before I leave for work in the morning.
And there is one day on which your horoscope is more important than any other day. A day when it is of extreme and critical importance. And that would be the day of your birth, when you get to read your regular horoscope AND the "Your Birthday Today" section.
Y'all, my YBT horoscope on Monday was pretty damn exciting. It said that big plans or changes I've been considering for a while will come to fruition this year. Now I know the naysayers will want to talk smack about how vague that is and how it could apply to near abouts anything, but I don't give a wet fart (Deadwood reference, anybody? Bueller?) how vague it is. Those words bit me in just the right place. In the inspired, go-get-em, take life by the horns place.
Tuesday night I was so inspired, in fact, just driving home, that as soon as I walked in the door I sat down at my computer, opened up a new document and began typing furiously the first few paragraphs of a short story. And last night during yoga I couldn't get my mind to shut up about those big plans and changes alluded to in the YBT.
25 feels like a landmark age. And I intend to make it a landmark year, God (and the YBT horoscope) willing.
The banner year truly begins this weekend, as my mom and I trek to Jackson, Mississippi, for the Sweet Potato Queens Million Queen March and the Mal's St. Paddy's Day Parade. It's a trip almost a year in the making, but really and truly more than that -- I'd date our dreams of this weekend back to the very first SPQ book we both ever read. I promise to return with (hysterical) photography and (even more hysterical and possibly also drunken) tales to spin.
cheers,
elizabeth
3.18.2010
how to get scolded before breakfast
My apartment has this really awesome way of incubating awful smells, particularly after parties and really late nights when the last thing I want to smell when I wake up is the aftermath of brownies, chili dip and PBR soaked into every floorboard and carpet fiber and kitchen tile and pore of the entire house.
When faced with such a scenario, you really only have one choice.Clean it up. Get the eff out and go get breakfast.
So Megan and Mr. Risky Business and I did just that, busting a move for the Pancake Shop, yet another in an endless string of apparent local institutions that I've never been to. Not surprisingly, less than five minutes in the door I had already gotten us in trouble. They seated us at this big ass round table, and with just the three of us there it felt like we were 20 miles from each other. So, being the resourceful young gal that I am, I decided to put down the leaves on the table. It took all of two minutes (and a few cursory swipes to get rid of the mountain of crumbs that cascaded out of the cracks, EW) but let me tell you. That was all it took to get me near enough placed on the Pancake House Shit List. This waitress comes over and says, I swear to Allah, exactly the following:
"You know what we DON'T do? We DON'T put down the leaves on our tables."
Snap, snap, snap, snap.
(If you're wondering if that was her fingers as she sassily snapped at me in a Z formation and then challenged me to a cheer-off, it was not. Instead, those snaps were the sound of her whipping all the leaves back into place -- while maintaining her stink eye, of course.)
"Okay? We have too quick of a turnaround time in here to be doing that."
This is what I love about the South. First, that their turnaround time is just too fast to allow for the five seconds it took her to snap back up all four leaves on that table. That just would NOT do. And second, this phrase we love so very much -- that "We" don't do this or that.
No ma'am, you might not put the leaves down on the table. But WE did.
But probably my favorite usage of the We talk, really, is when it's aimed at children or animals or other similarly non-competent or non-sentient beings. For example, one might say to one's dog: "Rover, no! We don't bite."
And if Rover was capable of advanced thought, we can rest assured his inner monologue would look something like this: "We? You might not bite, lady. But I'll plant my teeth in anything that moves. BELIEVE."
So just a heads up -- we do not put the leaves down at the Pancake Shop. And in case you were curious, the pancakes were like actual fluffy white cake and the grits were the bomb and the hash browns were worthy of every ounce of ketchup that I smothered them with.
And then RB and I went to his house and took a nap. Because that's what you do when your belly is full of breakfast grease.
And when my house requires HazMat gear for entry.
cheers,
elizabeth
When faced with such a scenario, you really only have one choice.
So Megan and Mr. Risky Business and I did just that, busting a move for the Pancake Shop, yet another in an endless string of apparent local institutions that I've never been to. Not surprisingly, less than five minutes in the door I had already gotten us in trouble. They seated us at this big ass round table, and with just the three of us there it felt like we were 20 miles from each other. So, being the resourceful young gal that I am, I decided to put down the leaves on the table. It took all of two minutes (and a few cursory swipes to get rid of the mountain of crumbs that cascaded out of the cracks, EW) but let me tell you. That was all it took to get me near enough placed on the Pancake House Shit List. This waitress comes over and says, I swear to Allah, exactly the following:
"You know what we DON'T do? We DON'T put down the leaves on our tables."
Snap, snap, snap, snap.
(If you're wondering if that was her fingers as she sassily snapped at me in a Z formation and then challenged me to a cheer-off, it was not. Instead, those snaps were the sound of her whipping all the leaves back into place -- while maintaining her stink eye, of course.)
"Okay? We have too quick of a turnaround time in here to be doing that."
This is what I love about the South. First, that their turnaround time is just too fast to allow for the five seconds it took her to snap back up all four leaves on that table. That just would NOT do. And second, this phrase we love so very much -- that "We" don't do this or that.
No ma'am, you might not put the leaves down on the table. But WE did.
But probably my favorite usage of the We talk, really, is when it's aimed at children or animals or other similarly non-competent or non-sentient beings. For example, one might say to one's dog: "Rover, no! We don't bite."
And if Rover was capable of advanced thought, we can rest assured his inner monologue would look something like this: "We? You might not bite, lady. But I'll plant my teeth in anything that moves. BELIEVE."
So just a heads up -- we do not put the leaves down at the Pancake Shop. And in case you were curious, the pancakes were like actual fluffy white cake and the grits were the bomb and the hash browns were worthy of every ounce of ketchup that I smothered them with.
And then RB and I went to his house and took a nap. Because that's what you do when your belly is full of breakfast grease.
And when my house requires HazMat gear for entry.
cheers,
elizabeth
3.16.2010
the importance of having goals
A few weeks ago I decided that one of my lifelong goals was to do a keg stand before I turned 25. I decided this shortly after Megan and I decided we were going to get a keg for our birthday party and shortly before I came to a complete understanding of what exactly, physically, gravitationally speaking would have to happen in and around my olfactory.
In the capable hands of Mr. RB and my friend Mike with David operating the tap (giving me full license to ask him repeatedly to "put it in my mouth"), I gave the ready signal and the beer started flowing.
And mostly, the beer gushed into my mouth, filled my cheeks up and spewed out almost instantly all over my back porch. The only beer that did NOT end up all over the back porch came directly out of my nose. See below, wherein I am demonstrating the miracle of modern anatomy that is occurring in my nostrils.
I think I may have swallowed one-sixtieth of an ounce of beer during this keg stand, and with that I declared it an overwhelming victory and proceeded to drink a lot more beer. While standing upright.
Following my lame attempt, Megan showed us how it was really done and at some point she and I celebrated our keg stands by dancing and singing to "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC on my coffee table while Mr. RB was passed out on my couch. I did not roofie him, I swear.
As you can see, I do not tolerate that sort of behavior. Especially not on my birthday.
cheers,
elizabeth
In the capable hands of Mr. RB and my friend Mike with David operating the tap (giving me full license to ask him repeatedly to "put it in my mouth"), I gave the ready signal and the beer started flowing.
And mostly, the beer gushed into my mouth, filled my cheeks up and spewed out almost instantly all over my back porch. The only beer that did NOT end up all over the back porch came directly out of my nose. See below, wherein I am demonstrating the miracle of modern anatomy that is occurring in my nostrils.
I think I may have swallowed one-sixtieth of an ounce of beer during this keg stand, and with that I declared it an overwhelming victory and proceeded to drink a lot more beer. While standing upright.Following my lame attempt, Megan showed us how it was really done and at some point she and I celebrated our keg stands by dancing and singing to "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC on my coffee table while Mr. RB was passed out on my couch. I did not roofie him, I swear.
As you can see, I do not tolerate that sort of behavior. Especially not on my birthday.
cheers,
elizabeth
jive turkeys and another year older
I turned a quarter-century old yesterday.
I wouldn't say that anything really feels different so far about being 25, except of course if you count that I now have a driver's license photo that actually looks like me and I also now know what it feels like to have Pabst Blue Ribbon come out of your nose. Thank the DMV for the first one, and the keg stand for the last one.
I have tales to spin for you from the party, including more details about the keg standing, some incidents involving dancing on a table and other sundry drunken party games. And those tales are coming. Soon.
First I have to tell you that Mr. Risky Business and I were second row, nose-hair distance at GPAC on Friday night to see Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra. It was fabulous. RB commented when we got there that he hadn't dressed appropriately for the event because he didn't have enough white hair. It was definitely an older crowd, but particularly in the section where we were seated. I'd say we were the youngest by at least 10 or 15 years.
The couple sitting next to us on my side was just such a white-haired duo, and the husband was a little hard of hearing. Every once in a while after a piece had begun I'd hear her yelling in his ear what had just been said about the work. "They said this one was inspired by Monet. MONET! MONET!"
And frankly that, all by itself, was fairly chortle-worthy and I did get the church giggles more than once. But the best part, the very best part, was when the wife started clapping along. Clapping along because the musicians were clapping. Only this was notated clapping. Written out, in the music. In mixed meter.
And there she was next to me, having the best damn time, just a-clappin' right along. Dig it, lady. Dig it.
cheers,
elizabeth
I wouldn't say that anything really feels different so far about being 25, except of course if you count that I now have a driver's license photo that actually looks like me and I also now know what it feels like to have Pabst Blue Ribbon come out of your nose. Thank the DMV for the first one, and the keg stand for the last one.
I have tales to spin for you from the party, including more details about the keg standing, some incidents involving dancing on a table and other sundry drunken party games. And those tales are coming. Soon.
First I have to tell you that Mr. Risky Business and I were second row, nose-hair distance at GPAC on Friday night to see Wynton Marsalis and the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra. It was fabulous. RB commented when we got there that he hadn't dressed appropriately for the event because he didn't have enough white hair. It was definitely an older crowd, but particularly in the section where we were seated. I'd say we were the youngest by at least 10 or 15 years.
The couple sitting next to us on my side was just such a white-haired duo, and the husband was a little hard of hearing. Every once in a while after a piece had begun I'd hear her yelling in his ear what had just been said about the work. "They said this one was inspired by Monet. MONET! MONET!"
And frankly that, all by itself, was fairly chortle-worthy and I did get the church giggles more than once. But the best part, the very best part, was when the wife started clapping along. Clapping along because the musicians were clapping. Only this was notated clapping. Written out, in the music. In mixed meter.
And there she was next to me, having the best damn time, just a-clappin' right along. Dig it, lady. Dig it.
cheers,
elizabeth
3.11.2010
my quarter-life complex
There are two days of the year that give me a complex.
One of them is New Year's Eve. I don't know quite when it started, or why, but for at least the last five years or better I've gone out of my way to ensure adventure on NYE. It doesn't need to be anything specific and in fact, it doesn't necessarily need to be a party at all -- just as long as I am getting into some type of adventure in the last hours of the year.
This past New Year's, obviously, I was in London. Check and check. Adventure = sorted. The complex, I imagine, has everything to do with NYE setting the tone for the year to come. I figure if I'm having an adventure that night, it'll set a tone of adventure for the next 365 days.
My second complex is a recent discovery. My birthday.
Now, I know a shitton of people have complexes about their birthdays, because they have complexes about growing older. But I don't think that's really my thing, so much. I mean, sure. I'm turning 25 on Monday. I'm not supremely used to the idea just yet. Part of me feels like I'm woefully behind at life, in general, and part of me still feels like the springiest of spring chickens. Ultimately, I won't feel different when I wake up on the morning of the 15th.
No, I think my birthday complex is almost identical to my NYE complex. That day sets the tone for the rest of the year I will spend reciting that age as my own. On the first day I was 24, I got a mani/pedi with my best friend, ate Crumbs cupcakes and danced and flirted with middle aged British dudes for Patron shots at Cafe Wha?. And 24, not surprisingly, suited me pretty damn well.
This year I have a million big crazy adventurous plans surrounding my birthday. It is the big quarter-century, after all. On Friday I'm seeing a concert with Mr. Risky Business. Saturday I'm having a two-story birthday party with Megan (my upstairs neighbor), where there will be a keg and I will fulfill a lifelong dream ofnot drowning in spurts of beer while upside down doing a keg stand. And then next Friday, my mom and I depart for Jackson, Mississippi, for Mal's St. Paddy's Day Parade and the epic Million Queen March of the Sweet Potato Queens. (Educate yourself.) I plan to be drunk and in a tiara all weekend long. What better way to kick off my next 25 years, right?
Only, y'all. The complex. It will NOT go away. It is all up in my ear, talking trash about how my birthday is going to be SOOO boring and I might as well just eat the rest of those thin mints and then write that strongly worded letter to the Girl Scouts of America about how they are contributing to our national obesity epidemic because THAT would be more exciting than what I have planned. Because what do I have planned, on my actual birthday? WORK.
And it occured to me the other day that this will be the very first time in my life, ever, when I've had to work on my birthday. And yes, I'm going to my folks' for dinner and yes, my dad is making me his incredible barbeque shrimp. But I'm a grown-ass woman, as the kids say, and my mom and I are taking a big expensive trip. So there are no presents to open, no fanfare. No cake, no candles. (Although please let me ASSURE you that my parents will sing, and we can only hope that my mother will regale me with her always killer rendition of 50 Cent's "In Da Club." What would be March 15 if I couldn't hear a white Southern lady sing, "Go shorty! It's your birthday!")
So I've been wrestling with the complex all day today. And trying to decide if I should take a vacation day so I can sleep in and do morning yoga and get a pedicure and think up things to do that require the presentation of ID so people will be forced to acknowledge that TODAY IS MY DAY GODDAMMIT.
And mostly the big thing keeping me from just goin' on and doing it, sending my boss an e-mail and sealing the three-day-weekend deal, is that even if I did have that day off, and the injustice of having to work on my birthday was corrected, I wouldn't have anyone to play with me. Because it would still, in the regular-ass world, be just another regular-ass Monday.
And I may not have decided on the vacation day just yet, but I can tell you one thing -- whatever it takes, I will be sure that in my world? It is NOT just another regular-ass Monday.
cheers,
elizabeth
One of them is New Year's Eve. I don't know quite when it started, or why, but for at least the last five years or better I've gone out of my way to ensure adventure on NYE. It doesn't need to be anything specific and in fact, it doesn't necessarily need to be a party at all -- just as long as I am getting into some type of adventure in the last hours of the year.
This past New Year's, obviously, I was in London. Check and check. Adventure = sorted. The complex, I imagine, has everything to do with NYE setting the tone for the year to come. I figure if I'm having an adventure that night, it'll set a tone of adventure for the next 365 days.
My second complex is a recent discovery. My birthday.
Now, I know a shitton of people have complexes about their birthdays, because they have complexes about growing older. But I don't think that's really my thing, so much. I mean, sure. I'm turning 25 on Monday. I'm not supremely used to the idea just yet. Part of me feels like I'm woefully behind at life, in general, and part of me still feels like the springiest of spring chickens. Ultimately, I won't feel different when I wake up on the morning of the 15th.
No, I think my birthday complex is almost identical to my NYE complex. That day sets the tone for the rest of the year I will spend reciting that age as my own. On the first day I was 24, I got a mani/pedi with my best friend, ate Crumbs cupcakes and danced and flirted with middle aged British dudes for Patron shots at Cafe Wha?. And 24, not surprisingly, suited me pretty damn well.
This year I have a million big crazy adventurous plans surrounding my birthday. It is the big quarter-century, after all. On Friday I'm seeing a concert with Mr. Risky Business. Saturday I'm having a two-story birthday party with Megan (my upstairs neighbor), where there will be a keg and I will fulfill a lifelong dream of
Only, y'all. The complex. It will NOT go away. It is all up in my ear, talking trash about how my birthday is going to be SOOO boring and I might as well just eat the rest of those thin mints and then write that strongly worded letter to the Girl Scouts of America about how they are contributing to our national obesity epidemic because THAT would be more exciting than what I have planned. Because what do I have planned, on my actual birthday? WORK.
And it occured to me the other day that this will be the very first time in my life, ever, when I've had to work on my birthday. And yes, I'm going to my folks' for dinner and yes, my dad is making me his incredible barbeque shrimp. But I'm a grown-ass woman, as the kids say, and my mom and I are taking a big expensive trip. So there are no presents to open, no fanfare. No cake, no candles. (Although please let me ASSURE you that my parents will sing, and we can only hope that my mother will regale me with her always killer rendition of 50 Cent's "In Da Club." What would be March 15 if I couldn't hear a white Southern lady sing, "Go shorty! It's your birthday!")
So I've been wrestling with the complex all day today. And trying to decide if I should take a vacation day so I can sleep in and do morning yoga and get a pedicure and think up things to do that require the presentation of ID so people will be forced to acknowledge that TODAY IS MY DAY GODDAMMIT.
And mostly the big thing keeping me from just goin' on and doing it, sending my boss an e-mail and sealing the three-day-weekend deal, is that even if I did have that day off, and the injustice of having to work on my birthday was corrected, I wouldn't have anyone to play with me. Because it would still, in the regular-ass world, be just another regular-ass Monday.
And I may not have decided on the vacation day just yet, but I can tell you one thing -- whatever it takes, I will be sure that in my world? It is NOT just another regular-ass Monday.
cheers,
elizabeth
3.08.2010
someone's been talking about you
So, Mr. Risky Business reads my blog.
(Hi, RB!)
It's not like this is some revelation, because he's been reading it ever since I met him and in fact has on more than one occasion read a post while I sat with him and read it over his shoulder. Every time I open up a new post and start to write, I know that he will see it. It's something I'm completely comfortable with and in fact, I think it'd be a little weird if he knew I was out talking to the internet every other day about our relationship and he didn't know what I was saying. But it does present an interesting dilemma.
Well, dilemma is a strong word. But really, how do you write candidly about a relationship for your readers when the other half of that relationship is one of those readers? There are certainly areas that will always be sacred and lines that I choose not to cross, but I also want to write honestly about the things I think and feel and of course, broader issues of dating culture that stem from those thoughts and feelings.
And the thing is, at this stage, it's really a moot point. Since the DTR conversation has come and gone and all that potential for taking swings at the awkward pinata with it, my writings about Mr. RB pretty much fall into one of three categories: 1. Gush, Gush, Gush; 2. Couch Spooning and Other Assorted Minutia; and 3. Funny, Interesting, Sketchy and/or Creepy Things That Happen While With Mr. RB. I mostly try to save you from the first two, but as you already know I really can't make that kind of guarantee across the board.
And at some juncture I'm sure there will be bigger fish to fry, so to speak, that I'll want to write about here. And I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. But for now? The biggest hurdle is that everything I post here feels like a suggestion. Or a hint. Or a completely un-subliminal message. I no longer feel free to write something here about a movie I want to see or a place I like to shop or an (Insert Fancy Thing Here) that I have been lusting after, because it all feels like a passive aggressive request to be showered with gifts. And in the same vein, I even feel hesitant to blabber on and on about the sweet things he does for me -- first and foremost, of course, because I know it makes you want to chuck your cookies -- because it seems like I'm patting him on the head, saying, yes dear. Do that one again. Good job. See? I even told the internet about it.
And really, I know that RB does not think that. But I still feel a little funny sometimes. I guess as long as I don't start writing posts that look like this: "MAN, I really want to go see that concert this weekend. SURE WISH SOMEONE WOULD TAKE ME YEP WOULDN'T THAT BE NICE?"
Then I'll probably be okay.
cheers,
elizabeth
(Hi, RB!)
It's not like this is some revelation, because he's been reading it ever since I met him and in fact has on more than one occasion read a post while I sat with him and read it over his shoulder. Every time I open up a new post and start to write, I know that he will see it. It's something I'm completely comfortable with and in fact, I think it'd be a little weird if he knew I was out talking to the internet every other day about our relationship and he didn't know what I was saying. But it does present an interesting dilemma.
Well, dilemma is a strong word. But really, how do you write candidly about a relationship for your readers when the other half of that relationship is one of those readers? There are certainly areas that will always be sacred and lines that I choose not to cross, but I also want to write honestly about the things I think and feel and of course, broader issues of dating culture that stem from those thoughts and feelings.
And the thing is, at this stage, it's really a moot point. Since the DTR conversation has come and gone and all that potential for taking swings at the awkward pinata with it, my writings about Mr. RB pretty much fall into one of three categories: 1. Gush, Gush, Gush; 2. Couch Spooning and Other Assorted Minutia; and 3. Funny, Interesting, Sketchy and/or Creepy Things That Happen While With Mr. RB. I mostly try to save you from the first two, but as you already know I really can't make that kind of guarantee across the board.
And at some juncture I'm sure there will be bigger fish to fry, so to speak, that I'll want to write about here. And I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. But for now? The biggest hurdle is that everything I post here feels like a suggestion. Or a hint. Or a completely un-subliminal message. I no longer feel free to write something here about a movie I want to see or a place I like to shop or an (Insert Fancy Thing Here) that I have been lusting after, because it all feels like a passive aggressive request to be showered with gifts. And in the same vein, I even feel hesitant to blabber on and on about the sweet things he does for me -- first and foremost, of course, because I know it makes you want to chuck your cookies -- because it seems like I'm patting him on the head, saying, yes dear. Do that one again. Good job. See? I even told the internet about it.
And really, I know that RB does not think that. But I still feel a little funny sometimes. I guess as long as I don't start writing posts that look like this: "MAN, I really want to go see that concert this weekend. SURE WISH SOMEONE WOULD TAKE ME YEP WOULDN'T THAT BE NICE?"
Then I'll probably be okay.
cheers,
elizabeth
3.03.2010
introducing project: patio
Let me tell you how you know you've found a keeper. It goes something like this.
I was telling Mr. Risky Business today about a little adventure I'm going to get myself into this summer (or more accurately, this April through September) wherein I plan to consume one alcoholic beverage on every restaurant or bar patio in the city of Memphis.
And do you know what he did?
He promptly created a Google doc, organized the preliminary list that my best friend Stef had thrown together by areas of town (with subheadings), added several to the list and included the following note next to one of the pubs: "May not count as local but a Mr. RB fav."
Keeping. Him. KEEPINGHIM.
So here's the sitch. This adventure is going to be called Project: Patio, and will commence April 1 and end September 30. The goal is to drink a beverage on every outdoor eating/drinking space in Memphis. There are only three rules, and they are as follows:
1.) Only bars and restaurants in Memphis proper. No 'burbs included.
2.) Only local bars and restaurants. No chains. (Locally franchised establishments still count.)
3.) Only places where alcoholic beverages are served.
In the coming weeks I'm going to be working on getting the list completed, and I'll need your help for that. I'll show you what we've got so far (courtesy of the Google doc, thankyouverymuch) at the close of this post, and feel free to leave comments or give me a shout on Twitter with suggestions. And of course, if you're in the Memphis area and would like to join me for a jaunt through a patio or two, please let me know.
Project: Patio will be blogged about extensively here, as its parallel purpose will be to meet interesting or funny or cool or also creepy and unsavory characters who will fit in REAL NICE around this here blog. There will also be a related Facebook album under the same name, where I will post at least one photo of every patio excursion. I say at least one, because there must be photographic evidence at each location of me consuming said alcoholic beverage. Any additional photos will be of the aforementioned interesting/funny/cool/creepy/unsavory characters.
Here's the list so far. Help me out, Memphis.
Blue Monkey
Boscos Squared
Buccaneer
Old Venice Pizza Company
Patrick’s steak and spirits
I was telling Mr. Risky Business today about a little adventure I'm going to get myself into this summer (or more accurately, this April through September) wherein I plan to consume one alcoholic beverage on every restaurant or bar patio in the city of Memphis.
And do you know what he did?
He promptly created a Google doc, organized the preliminary list that my best friend Stef had thrown together by areas of town (with subheadings), added several to the list and included the following note next to one of the pubs: "May not count as local but a Mr. RB fav."
Keeping. Him. KEEPINGHIM.
So here's the sitch. This adventure is going to be called Project: Patio, and will commence April 1 and end September 30. The goal is to drink a beverage on every outdoor eating/drinking space in Memphis. There are only three rules, and they are as follows:
1.) Only bars and restaurants in Memphis proper. No 'burbs included.
2.) Only local bars and restaurants. No chains. (Locally franchised establishments still count.)
3.) Only places where alcoholic beverages are served.
In the coming weeks I'm going to be working on getting the list completed, and I'll need your help for that. I'll show you what we've got so far (courtesy of the Google doc, thankyouverymuch) at the close of this post, and feel free to leave comments or give me a shout on Twitter with suggestions. And of course, if you're in the Memphis area and would like to join me for a jaunt through a patio or two, please let me know.
Project: Patio will be blogged about extensively here, as its parallel purpose will be to meet interesting or funny or cool or also creepy and unsavory characters who will fit in REAL NICE around this here blog. There will also be a related Facebook album under the same name, where I will post at least one photo of every patio excursion. I say at least one, because there must be photographic evidence at each location of me consuming said alcoholic beverage. Any additional photos will be of the aforementioned interesting/funny/cool/creepy/unsavory characters.
Here's the list so far. Help me out, Memphis.
Downtown:
Alfred's
BB Kings
King's Palace
Silky's
The Silly Goose
BB Kings
King's Palace
Silky's
The Silly Goose
The Majestic Grille
The Madison Hotel
The Peabody Hotel
Rum Boogie
Redbirds stadium
Redbirds stadium
TJ Mullingan's (Pinch)
Westy's
Westy's
Spindini
Midtown:
Beauty ShopBlue Monkey
Boscos Squared
Buccaneer
Cafe 1912
Cafe Eclectic
Cafe Eclectic
Cafe Ole'
Central BBQ
Do
Otherland's
Celtic CrossingFresh Slices - Overton Park
Grace
Memphis Pizza Cafe
Neil's Bar & Grille
Dan McGuinness
El PortonNeil's Bar & Grille
Harry's Detour
Young Ave. Deli
Zinnie's
East Memphis:
Brookhaven Pub and GrillDan McGuinness
Old Venice Pizza Company
Patrick’s steak and spirits
Raffe's Beer Garden
R.P. Tracks
cheers,
elizabeth
cheers,
elizabeth
3.01.2010
on being recognized
Saturday night I made Mr. RB the happiest man alive by donning an apron and making lasagna and my now infamous dirty blonde brownies, both from scratch. Bow down, mere mortals, for I am a goddess of domesticity! I chop, I sautee, I bake! And I only got grease stains on two shirts in the process!
I guess I figure the victory is that it wasn't more than that, really. It's the little things.
My Tigers were playing Saturday night, and we'd been watching the game while the lasagna was in the oven. When dinner was ready, though, I made a move for the dining room table to try and pretend like I am a couth person who is capable of not watching a basketball game and enjoying some adult conversation about world issues or grey poupon or something, and is not just nodding and smiling while secretly wondering which asshat is missing free throws at that exact moment.
But as I made that move for the table, Mr. Risky Business said, "Don't you want to finish watching the game?" I stopped short. "We can sit at the table to eat," I said. And then, something incredible happened. "Let's finish watching the game, I'm into it now," he said.
It took every ounce of willpower I had not to throw my plate of lasagna in the air and just rip his clothes off RIGHT THERE. Watch the game while stuffing my face? That's what you want me to do? Twist my arm.
And I don't remember if it was before or after lasagna, but at some point I found myself explaining how NCAA conference tournament berths work, which I thought was the most hysterically cute thing that has ever happened, ever. EVER.
After the game and dinner, we went to see one of our favorite bands, a local trio called Star and Micey. Mr. RB happens to be enough of a celebrity that the guys in the band know him by name, so I got to meet the lead singer. After the show RB asked if I wanted to chat with them, tell them what I thought, and I just shook my head. I have yet to giggle nervously in front of a musician, and I was not about to start Saturday night. Hopefully next time I see them play I will have my shit together a little more and will be able to string together a simple declarative sentence like, "I'm glad you played (insert song title here)," or even "I really love your album," instead of forming words in my head and knowing that they would come out of my mouth as girl babble and hot giggly mess.
So we made our get-away after the set, I got a piggy back ride across Marshall Avenue and we decided to stop by Mollie Fontaine's for a drink. It's this really kitsch bar that's an old Victorian home that I'd been wanting to check out, and sure enough it pretty much feels like you walked into someone's house party when you step into the front foyer. Moments after we walked in, before we'd even gotten a drink, we ran into a few acquaintances of mine. As I was hugging one of them hello, he quickly whispered a question that made me think maybe my dreams of being a cult blogging hero are not necessarily that far off.
"Is that," he asked, "Mr. Risky Business?"
cheers,
elizabeth
I guess I figure the victory is that it wasn't more than that, really. It's the little things.
My Tigers were playing Saturday night, and we'd been watching the game while the lasagna was in the oven. When dinner was ready, though, I made a move for the dining room table to try and pretend like I am a couth person who is capable of not watching a basketball game and enjoying some adult conversation about world issues or grey poupon or something, and is not just nodding and smiling while secretly wondering which asshat is missing free throws at that exact moment.
But as I made that move for the table, Mr. Risky Business said, "Don't you want to finish watching the game?" I stopped short. "We can sit at the table to eat," I said. And then, something incredible happened. "Let's finish watching the game, I'm into it now," he said.
It took every ounce of willpower I had not to throw my plate of lasagna in the air and just rip his clothes off RIGHT THERE. Watch the game while stuffing my face? That's what you want me to do? Twist my arm.
And I don't remember if it was before or after lasagna, but at some point I found myself explaining how NCAA conference tournament berths work, which I thought was the most hysterically cute thing that has ever happened, ever. EVER.
After the game and dinner, we went to see one of our favorite bands, a local trio called Star and Micey. Mr. RB happens to be enough of a celebrity that the guys in the band know him by name, so I got to meet the lead singer. After the show RB asked if I wanted to chat with them, tell them what I thought, and I just shook my head. I have yet to giggle nervously in front of a musician, and I was not about to start Saturday night. Hopefully next time I see them play I will have my shit together a little more and will be able to string together a simple declarative sentence like, "I'm glad you played (insert song title here)," or even "I really love your album," instead of forming words in my head and knowing that they would come out of my mouth as girl babble and hot giggly mess.
So we made our get-away after the set, I got a piggy back ride across Marshall Avenue and we decided to stop by Mollie Fontaine's for a drink. It's this really kitsch bar that's an old Victorian home that I'd been wanting to check out, and sure enough it pretty much feels like you walked into someone's house party when you step into the front foyer. Moments after we walked in, before we'd even gotten a drink, we ran into a few acquaintances of mine. As I was hugging one of them hello, he quickly whispered a question that made me think maybe my dreams of being a cult blogging hero are not necessarily that far off.
"Is that," he asked, "Mr. Risky Business?"
cheers,
elizabeth
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