use your words

It's a less-than-little-known fact that I'm kind of a ball buster. I live to give people a hard time. Especially boys. About nearly anything. I'm loud and brash and commanding and whether or not I'm in YOUR face, I'm in somebody's face and I'm probably lecturing them about grammar or music or how whatever word they've just used actually does not mean what they think it means.

I'm intimidating. I GET IT. It's part of my charm? Maybe?

This aspect of my sparkling personality absolutely has scared boys away in the past, but in recent years I've managed to get enough of a handle on it that I don't always function as my own cock-blocker. So now, a guy might actually approach me. Talk to me. Hit on me. Even flirt with me. But you know what he probably won't do?

Ask me out on a date.

And why should he, when he can wait until 3 in the morning and send me a well-composed Facebook message?

Y'all, it occurred to me today that every single time I've ever been propositioned asked out on a date, it's been, well, digital. Perhaps it's just further proof that I'm an analog girl in a digital world, but this irks me. (Of course, in this case, "digital" means a lovely, painstakingly composed e-mail, and "analog" means summoning up the massive stones it apparently takes to say "Want to get a drink some time?" live and in person.)

We talk about the impact of technology ad nauseum, and the dating world certainly has not been excused from the discussion. But mostly we focus on steps further down the line, like the DTR and the FBO and the public, dirty Facebook divorce complete with half-naked blackmail photos. But what about the first move? Even text messaging has changed the way we think about it, and I should know -- the reason I'm even waxing on all this shit is that last night around 2 in the a.m. hours, I received a text message asking me out on a date.

In this case, the circumstances are such that we weren't likely to run into each other any time soon, and though I suppose he could've called instead of texting, a.) I'd prefer he did not do that at said hour; and b.) There was a fair amount of alcohol augmenting the testicular fortitude. Now, as to your natural next question: why was I randomly on his mind while he was drunk on a Tuesday night? I do not have an answer for that. Other than, maybe, I'm magic? It has been suggested in the past.

And with all my talk of balls and the need to grow a pair of them (I've not been one to shy away from the first move in the past), I will also point out the opposing argument: technology has vastly increased general comfort with move-making, firsts and otherwise. I'm sure there are plenty of people who'd never be able to gather the courage to ask those questions in person, no matter how many beverages they imbibed. For them, the text or Facebook message (or Twitter DM, lest I forget) is a godsend.

But really, I'm firmly in the camp that everyone needs to be forced to do some stuff that makes them uncomfortable from time to time. And if that's asking a girl out for a drink? Open your mouth and do it. I won't say "the worst that can happen is she says no," because I think we all know that's just not true. But I can almost guarantee you won't die. Almost.

I'm interested to know what you think on this. Technology and the passive first move: good thing or bad thing?

And as for that late-night missive, I suppose I'll just use the incident as the beginnings of a board game I'm developing. It's like Clue, for twenty-somethings.

Mr. Bartender. At two in the morning. With the drunk text.


cheers,
elizabeth

things you can learn from sitting on a moose

It started with a moose.

I think it was a few weeks ago that Andrea and I first decided we needed to go to Mollie Fontaine's one Thursday night, and like the preppy little white girls we are, we selected a particular Thursday and made a notation of said Mollie's date in our respective planners, probably in blue or black ink. And then, of course, about three days out we began sending reminder e-mails, making wardrobe arrangements and writing things on sticky notes. Lots of them. COLOR CODED.

Somewhere in the midst of all this planning -- probably Monday night about halfway through the second bottle of red at the Vagina Monologues "meeting" -- this Mollie's date became an excursion, an extravaganza, a bonding outing for the VagMo production team. And really, the team? Just four women. But in much that same way that particular powers can combine to form Captain Planet (he's our hero), when these personalities come together, atomic things have been known to happen.

Now, back to the moose.

Through a serendipitous turn of events, the details of which are mostly hazy for me now, Heather had come equipped that evening with what became known as the Jank Ass Disposable Camera. As in, cardboard-coated, windable wheel, rechargeable flash, take it on your fifth grade trip to Shiloh disposable camera. So intrigued were we by the prospect of taking mediocre quality pictures and not being able to see them until they were developed that before we even made it to the bar we'd essentially challenged ourselves to capture 27 frames of absolute MAGIC.

I suppose that's really when the moose enters our story.

If you've ever been to Mollie's you know there's a somewhat inexplicable statue of a moose chilling in front of the apartment complex next door. And maybe you don't know this about me, but I really can't resist the urge to climb upon and/or sit on statues and public monuments. It's cosmic. Magnetic? Particularly when said statue basically requires mounting. And thus, the first photo of the evening was captured -- me, straddling a moose, making some type of face that I probably would've told you at the time was "sexy" and doing something with my neck that would make Tyra Banks weep openly at a juding panel on America's Next Top Model.

Next thing I know, the laughable two-drink limit we'd set for ourselves is somewhere in the rearview mirror as I'm cruising through drink four and onto shot number two, purchased for us by this lovely gal named Marla, though even now I don't really know why she loved us quite that much. But if I know one thing, it's don't look a gift sugar mama in the mouth. OR SOMETHING.

Everything starts to get a little muddy at this point. There were mustaches drawn on index fingers with a Sharpie marker. There was a creeper who may have humped Andrea's leg some time before paying for her cab ride home. (Word on the street is he also narrowly escaped Heather taking her heel off and "stabbing him in the forehead.")

And then, it was 3 in the morning. And then, it was Alex's Tavern. And PBR. And juke box selections. And then, it was 5:30. IN THE MORNING. Or maybe later. Earlier?

I learned some valuable lessons that night, y'all. The first is that in light of the well-intentioned two-drink limit that became the all-you-can-imbibe buffet, I must always, always, ALWAYS set an alarm before leaving the house for the night. Even if I'm going out for just one drink. Or coffee. Or CHURCH.

The second lesson? Moose sitting is NEVER optional.


cheers,
elizabeth

my girl wants to party all the time

Last night I headed to Playhouse on the Square for The Memphis Flyer's Best of Memphis party -- an opportunity to put on a sassy dress and some heels, drink free booze and attempt flirtation with something testosterone laced.

Only y'all, it was so hot up in that mother that no amount of free booze or barbeque could keep me from sweating and repeatedly cursing my decision to wear tights -- a decision I made because I felt like my dress was a little too short, which in hindsight is HYSTERICAL since the dozen or so women wrapped in just enough lycra to cover the respective cracks of their respective asses made me look like I was on my way to church services -- because it doesn't matter that it's fall. We're in Memphis and Memphis thinks fall is DUMB. After spending some time on the roof to hear a band, I excused myself to the ladies room, where I spent the next 15 minutes or so chilling on the toilet, listening to people's conversations, texting, fanning myself and sipping from my ice cold can of Miller Lite. Should've spent part of that time taking those stupid tights off, but alas. Hindsight.

After the party I went to a friend's house, where I discovered that said free Miller Lite, when combined with a certain level of comfort with my surroundings -- a level that might be achieved at, say, a friend's house -- really puts a wrench in my general efforts to carefully time the release of my Crazy into the world. Let's just say there was a little butter roll (we've been over my penchant for describing men as savory pastry items, right?), and my Crazy was itching to introduce itself.

Usually I like to stagger these things. Send out the Crazy in small increments. Like little vaccines. First you get a few doses of slightly deadened run-of-the-mill-crazy so that your immune system is strong enough to resist the next batch, a deadly strain of ABSOLUTELY BATSHIT CRAZY.

After last night, I'm gonna need to rework my vaccination schedule, because Ozzy Osborne and I were co-conductors of the Crazy Train. And he once bit the head off a bat.

I KNOW.

It should be noted that while clearly I tend to be quite hyperbolic about my Crazy, I do think that every single one of us IS crazy, in all manner of ways. Ultimately we just have to locate those people whose Crazy we can put up with. I think the fact that I recognize and embrace my Crazy totally gives me at least half of an extra point in the Generally Sane category. Right?

Tonight I'm heading back out on the town for more shenanigans, this time with some of the Vagina Monologues girls to Mollie Fontaine's for cocktails. Monday night we had our first production meeting for the 2011 season (WHEE!), which was a real meeting for about 45 minutes before it became a "meeting," devolving into a wine-fueled gossiping and shit-talking extravaganza. Immediately after which I tried to make about 75 awful decisions, and was blocked (saved?) by the universe at every pass. Praise Allah.

Apparently, though, I never learn my lesson -- I'm ready to put on my high heels and craft a few new tales for Questionable Decision Story Time.


cheers,
elizabeth

i can't even get a date to the FAKE prom

Saturday night around 8:30 I got behind the wheel of the Green Bean, pulled an unruly amount of satin and toole in with me, slammed the door and headed out on a beer run.

I was already decked out in my prom gear -- a black gown I'd worn to a sorority formal in college, jimmy-rigged by my mom and accessorized by pink and white Adidas shell-top sneakers -- and as I was paying for my beer the check-out girl at the gas station said something in a vaguely Asian-sounding language that the security guard translated for me as, "She looks pretty."

And hey, maybe I should've asked the sweet Asian gas station attendant lady if SHE wanted to be my date to the prom, since after all the hemming and hawing and voting and gnashing of teeth I did manage to get stood up to the FAKE PROM.

I asked another nominee to come with me, but alas, it was too late. Plans had been made. This was real. I was going to the fake prom alone. At least in high school I managed to find someone dumb enough to be talked into buying me a corsage and dancing a few songs with me. Although, I suppose it's fair to say in high school I wouldn't have had the kahones to go by myself. Plus, with my DJ-ing duties I really needed to concentrate on making sure the Spice Girls and Boyz II Men played nice in the queue, so any date I could've brought would've been neglected, anyway.

We did manage to take some fabulous pictures, and as much as I want to prove that by posting them here, my dear friend Lindsey has wickedly procrastinated on this front. In the meantime, I will call her out for said procrastination publicly and give you this photo of me singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart" into my beer bottle, courtesy of Andrea's iPhone.



As I left the party around 12:30, when things had all but dissipated, I said to the few prom-goers that were left: "Not unlike my actual prom experience, I will not, in fact, be getting any tonight."


cheers,
elizabeth

somebody buy me a drink, dammit

Labor Day weekend, I partook in a little trip over the Mississippi river, through the woods of Arkansas and into the great beyond of Missouri where every third billboard is a thirty-foot baby demanding that you reconsider thoughts that you are obviously having at that exact moment about murdering it in a women's clinic. Instead, it would like you to love it.

For real. Apparently, all babies want to get borned. Also? All your base are belong to Missouri.

ANYWAY.

After a fantastic weekend of singing and dancing like hooligans in a piano bar, eating $7 fro-yo, watching Lifetime movies and generally pretending (well, at least on my part) to be in college, I was on my way home, driving in a groggy daze with my day-two hair, my day-two jeans and my day-three Mizzou tee shirt, when the flashing lights pulled up behind me.

And really, Missouri, had I been pregnant at that moment I totally would have birthed the baby right onto the car seat. So I guess your propaganda is working.

The officer claimed I was going 83 in a 70, which seems fairly improbable to me since I don't take the Green Bean over 80. (A few days later I mentioned this to a friend, and he said I should've asked to see the radar. Naturally, I didn't even know this was an option. UGH.) When he gave me the ticket, it had a reference guide on it so that I could see right then and there how much it was -- $115 worth of how much.

Needless to say, I WAILED for about the next 50 miles. All while cruising one mile under the speed limit.

That unexpected expense crashed plans I had for the next weekend with Stefanie to hit up the Bill Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock like the colossal dorks that we are. And no sooner had I rain-checked her on our weekend trip than the little Green Bean started flipping its little green lid. The steering wheel was pulling, the check engine light came on, lights and buzzers and arrows were going off pointing directly at my head and $700 later I was pretty sure that there was, in fact, a sign taped to my back and it probably said "Kick me, and then do it again when I'm down PLEASE."

Since then, of course, I've been trying to save every penny and have basically retooled my finances. Mostly what this means for you is that I have managed to sit and sip beverages on an embarrassingly low number of patios. And unless you have a winning lottery ticket with my name on it, I just don't see it increasing any time soon. Initially I'd imagined myself begging you, the internet, for an extension on my deadline to November 1. But y'all, booze costs money no matter where you drink it. It was very easy to commit to such a lofty goal back when Mr. Risky Business had a vested interest in getting me drunk and would therefore bankroll many such operations. Alas.

Though I'll continue on the quest as I can, I think I'll have to resume the challenge next spring. The only upside to this entire ridiculous domino-like chain of money-sucking events is that since the state of Missouri requires weight on one's driver's license and the state of Tennessee does not, the little highway patrol officer guessed my weight on the ticket.

I lost 15 lbs. on the side of the highway that day.



cheers,
elizabeth

and the winner is...

Yesterday, around 2 in the afternoon, I was standing in the cramped aisle of the Mid-South Outlet with a pink ZumZum princess prom dress pulled on over my jeans and blouse when I noticed a wet spot on the tile floor next to me. I pointed at it, and said to Andrea, "What do you want to bet that's pee?"

Over her clothes, she had on a crazy black spider-web-embroidered looking concoction of a dress. We agreed that it was totally urine. And then moved on to our next dresses. And while Andrea eventually found a fetching blue number at Half Off of Half Off -- very quintessentially early 2000s prom, too -- I wasn't quite as successful and ended up trying on the coterie of dresses trapped in closets and under beds at my parents house and, with the help of my mom, jimmy-rigging one of them into fitting me. Sort of.

So the dress is ready, the hair is one bottle of AquaNet from leaping out of my wildest imagination into reality on top of my head, and all I need now is a date. You chose him by a landslide vote, and I texted him last night to tell him the news -- Nominee No. 4 will be the very (un?)lucky suitor joining me.

Here's to the official mulligan -- I think prom will be decidedly more entertaining with alcohol.


cheers,
elizabeth

it's an honor just to be nominated

Ladies and gentlemen, I present the nominees for Official Date to Prom 2.0.

Apparently a clerical error led me to believe I had six nominees, when in fact I only had five. And still have five. Ten, it seems, was a pipe dream. Alas.

In keeping with the traditions of the blog, I've decided to keep things fairly anonymous, though some of the nominees you will have read about before. Voting is open now through Saturday, and you can vote in the same ways that you nominated -- in the comments, via the trusty @ on Twitter or privately in an e-mail.

Nominee No. 1
This nominee and I have danced in most every public place you could imagine, making her an outstanding choice for dance partner at Prom 2.0. Her decided lack of testosterone might be her greatest flaw in this competition, since my readers no doubt would like to read about me behaving like an idiot in front of someone with a Y Chromosome. She is, however, a ton of fun, and would no doubt aid and abet me in any other variety of ridiculous and/or embarrassing behavior.

Nominee No. 2
This nominee and I have also done quite a bit of dancing together, and in formal suits and dresses, no less. If he won your votes, he'd also win the title of longest distance traveled at Prom 2.0. There could even be a sash involved for such an honor. And this is the kind of man who could rock a sash and make it FAB-U-LOUS. Would also likely aid and abet inappropriate and mortifying behavior on my part, including but not limited to pre- and post-prom adventures on the town. (With booze.)

Nominee No. 3
This nominee has made a multitude of appearances on this blog over the past year, because he is, in fact, Mr. November. I think that's probably all the information you need.

Nominee No. 4
Though I have mentioned this nominee in passing somewhat recently on the blog, should he attend Prom 2.0 with me, he'd be making his first true appearance on Just A Girl. We went to high school together, but up until we ran into each other recently hadn't hung out or really talked in about 7 years. Judging by the word vomit that escaped my lips the last time I was around him, I can basically guarantee this would be a good time for your reading enjoyment post-Prom.

Nominee No. 5
This gentleman came in as a self-nomination from a reader, and is the oldest nominee of the group by quite a few years. He tells me that he can get along well with just about anyone, and he also promised to practice his Prom Smile, too.



Let the voting begin!


cheers,
elizabeth

doing what i do best

This weekend I'm doing what I do best. Traveling. And more specifically, something I've become quite good at lately: driving long distances to see people I love.

I'll be heading out Saturday morning before the sun for Columbia, Missouri, to see my best friend Holly who is studying for her PhD at Mizzou. She is super smart and witty (obviously, she's my friend) and I've talked about her many times here before, but I mention these specific traits now because she has recently re-entered the blogosphere and you should drop whatever you're doing right now -- yes, even the very reading of this post -- to check out her blog.

Before I head out for a few days of kickin' it Real CoMo Style Ya Heard with my best friend, I wanted to give you an update on Operation: Prom Date. We currently have six nominees for the (probably less than coveted) prize of accompanying me to Prom 2.0, and since I'd like to have more like 10 I'm allowing a little more time than I'd originally planned to accept those nominations. You can leave them in the comments here, send them to me on Facebook or Twitter, or of course, e-mail me.

Whether or not I reach that magic number, I'll be posting the nominees next week for your voting pleasure. I've decided to stick to the usual style of the blog and code name each nominee, including a brief description for you to use to inform your decision. Check back and get ready to choose my fate!

In the meantime, enjoy your (hopefully) Labor-Free Weekend.


cheers,
elizabeth