just a girl in the world

L.A. the final frontier: in which things go south, and the south goes home

2012-01-21T22:08:00.004-05:00

After my quality time with the homeless folks on Wednesday, I decided to go to Santa Monica for my Thursday morning run. I set a personal best mile time, and looked at this for every second of it.

I had a meeting back in Santa Monica later that afternoon, and I'd planned on trying out a coffee shop Ben recommended not far from where I needed to be to get some work done in the meantime. By this point in the week I had spent quite a bit of time driving around in Santa Monica, so I was getting to know the lay of the land a little bit -- but not so well that I didn't manage to drive past the street I needed to turn onto to get to the coffee shop. When I suspected I might've gone too far, I looked down at my directions while stopped at a red light and planned to turn around at the next intersection.

And at that next intersection, everything changed.

Suddenly there was collision. Suddenly there was acrid dust burning inside my lungs from the airbag that had burst from the steering wheel inches in front of me. And suddenly there was a dream, and I was dreaming it, and I could not wake up no matter how hard I tried.

In that moment I couldn't remember how to stop the car, or turn it off, or even put it in park. I couldn't figure out how to open the windows that I'd rolled down so many times that week to breathe in salty air. All I knew was that the other person involved in this crash had been riding a motorcycle, and that he was hurt, and that he wouldn't be hurt if I had made that turn I was supposed to make, and was somewhere else, on another street, at that exact moment.

I was hysterical. I promise to you, I promise to anyone who will ever know me, that I will never use that word again to describe much of anything because at this minute, in that place, I was truly hysterical. And it is not anything I have ever been, or felt, or experienced before.

The epilogue to this story, that I want to give you right away -- like when you call your parents and say, "The first thing you need to know is that everything is fine, and I'm safe" -- is that two weeks after this accident, back at home in Memphis, my phone rang. And it was that guy, from that motorcycle. He'd found my number on the police report and wanted to call and let me know that he was okay. We talked for almost 20 minutes. I could not express to him on the phone that morning just how thankful I was to talk to him. That one hour I spent at the scene of the wreck that Thursday morning had been perhaps the longest hour I had ever lived. And every minute since then had been consumed with worry and sick with wondering and believing that I wouldn't know anything until months and months from now and trying to convince myself to live with that and keep moving. I replayed the collision over and over again in my head. I was a mess. And though I'm still very much processing the emotions of that morning, I would be every bit as messy if it weren't for that phone call.

As they hitched up my rental car to tow it that morning, I remembered the pair of shoes I'd left in the floorboard of the backseat and went to the police officer to see about getting them out. Everything else, I thought, had already been retrieved. Later that afternoon, I was on the phone with the Fair Haired Boy when I realized that the one item still left in that car was, in fact, the world's tackiest souvenir that had been hunted and purchased especially for him. I was instantly in tears, over a cheap plastic snow globe with a cartoon bikini bottom that said "Shake Your Booty in L.A.!" with a map of California on the opposite side. It was a ridiculous thing to cry over, but I guess none of those tears were really about that snow globe at all.

I don't know what I must've sounded like, that morning, when I called the Fair Haired Boy just after the accident. Hysterical. Probably only an ounce less hysterical than I'd been on the phone with my parents a few minutes before. He was so calm with me, and steady. Steady. That is the best word I can find to describe it, and I think it is a word that describes the state of things, in general, when I'm with him. It's why it was so good to see his face when I got off that plane on Saturday. He was so patient with me that weekend. I was nervous and still shaken and didn't want to drive, and he took me back and forth to Bartlett so that I wouldn't have to. He didn't ask me for details, but listened when I wanted to give them. He was steady.

I'm really pretty crazy about him.

--------

I could've easily gotten a replacement car from the rental company, but I had no desire to do any driving and thankfully Ben was able to give me a ride to the few appointments I had left. (I know I probably wasn't a barrel of monkeys to be around those last couple of days, but I was so thankful that he was there for me -- he even got up at 4 a.m. on a Saturday just to take me to LAX.) That night, I didn't know how mentally up for any amount of professional anything I really was. But I reasoned that if I quit or went home at that point, the trip would largely have been wasted. And I just couldn't let it become that much more financially expensive, as emotionally expensive as it had already turned out to be.

Thursday night, as we headed toward one of those meetings, we passed by the intersection where the Notorious B.I.G. was shot. I took this photo from the moving vehicle, so I was only able to pour one out for Biggie in my mind.

As mentally wrecked as I was, dinner that night was great and I got a lot out of it. On Friday morning I met with another music publicist acquaintance for coffee and a mentoring session, and then spent the afternoon working on client projects from a coffee shop.

I didn't really want to do anything at all that afternoon except get on a plane and get back to Memphis. But before the accident, I'd planned to spend Friday evening on the beach. And so, at his encouragement, Ben and I headed to Venice to walk the boardwalk, see the crazy folks and take lots of identical pictures of the sunset.

It was stunning, but it wasn't Memphis.

The next morning I flew stand-by to get out of L.A. at 6 a.m., instead of waiting on my scheduled 2 p.m. flight that would've gotten me home after 10 that night. It was a gross, overcast, cold wintry day in Memphis, worlds apart from the constant sunshine of southern California. But when I walked out of the terminal, the Fair Haired Boy was waiting on me and I can tell you with great certainty that I have almost never been so happy to be home.

cheers,

elizabeth

L.A. day four and five: the last supper and the world's largest pancakes

2012-01-15T22:06:00.002-05:00

Monday was Emily's last night in L.A., and the last true night of vacation for me before I was back on my head with client work Tuesday afternoon and commencing with the cocktails and the meetings and the lunches and the cocktail-lunch-meetings.

We had sushi with Cy (our kind and generous host) at a place called SugarFish. I didn't manage to take a picture of anything, not one single thing, because after that first bite it all got eaten too quickly for photography AND I'm pretty sure I was disoriented from deliciousness and would not have been able to operate a camera. After sushi we headed for a street/district in Venice called Abbot Kinney that was just teeming with adorable. Little shops, boutiques and cute restaurants everywhere. And this!

After dessert, we headed to a bar right on Venice Beach called The Venice Whaler. It was dark, so there wasn't much of an ocean view, but the breeze was killer and looking out at the black expanse of ocean across the sand from us was a pretty nice way to end the evening.

Tuesday morning, we had a hankering for pancakes. This was the size of our hankering.

Now with my hand, for scale purposes.

And now with what I managed to eat out of it in that first sitting.

I only note "in that first sitting" because I later ate those exact same pancakes for breakfast FOUR DAYS IN A ROW. We were at a place we found on Yelp called The Griddle Cafe, which I felt was Los Angeles' pastry/baked goods equivalent of San Diego's Hash House. And when I say equivalent, I clearly just mean: another place where you will be served more food than even THREE people could eat in one sitting, and it will be amazing, and you will push the boundaries of consumption.

And if you're us, drink three mimosas each. Also: WHY DID I ORDER A SIDE OF EGGS? That was ill advised. The fact that I did not nap that afternoon and instead powered through and actually managed to get work done is not only a source of personal pride but also, I feel, grounds for some type of national merit award for advances in will power.

I dropped Emily off for her flight around 2 o'clock and headed for the home of my second host of the week, my friend Ben. We caught up for a bit before I settled into work mode, and after a few hours of responding to e-mails and sorting out my to-do lists for the rest of the week we headed to Smith House, where Ben bartends, for some beers and grub.

Wednesday morning I got up and set out for Venice, back near The Whaler, to get in a morning run. After four days of eating Griddle Cafe Hash House All You Can Eat Vacation Buffet style, my body was ready for a change of pace. And while there were a lot of homeless people out enjoying the morning with me, this was what framed my run. I can't complain.

That day I worked from a cute little coffee shop called Bricks and Scones, outside under palm fronds most of the day. I went to Santa Monica Wednesday night to meet up with Kate, an old friend from middle school and high school who now works in entertainment PR. We had a couple drinks at a bar near her office that was (somehow, miraculously) showing the Memphis basketball game on its one television.

After the game and our catch-up, I picked up some dinner and headed back to Ben's to get some more work done and call it a night. Up next is our final installment from the L.A. trip, in which things go south, and then, so do I -- home.

cheers,

elizabeth

L.A. day four: life affirmations and the hollywood hills

2012-01-14T22:04:00.002-05:00

There were very few touristy things I was interested in doing in L.A., mostly due to my disdain for any group of people larger than about 10 and the aforementioned desire to spend this vacation engaged in as little actual activity as possible. But there was one thing that I wanted to do. Just one thing. And that was to visit the spot on which it all began: Dash Calabasas, the first Dash store owned by the Sisters Kardashian.

And y'all? It was basically in a regular ass, dingy strip mall. You can't see it very well in this picture, but to the left there is a nail salon with a white sign that just says NAILS in red lettering. Not even "Tina's Nails" or "Fancy Nails" or "YO NAILS LOOK GOOD, GRL." Just, NAILS. Also, I'm pretty sure there was one of those stock image looking cartoony stick-on ladies in the window. You know the ones.

And you know what? It was strangely life affirming. Here's to you, Dash, and your funky carpet and your handmade sale signage. You are just like everybody else.

After we took a quick stroll around Dash and found that even the items on sale were way out of our price range (they wanted to sell me a Dash tee shirt for sixty em effing American dollars, I'll have you know) we drove around Calabasas for a little while, gawking at houses. Okay, and there was one other thing. We may have been on a quest for this -- the old town Calabasas sign that E! always shows in b-roll on Keeping Up With the Kardashians. We spent most (if not all) of that time driving around discussing various plot lines of various episodes of various Kardashian spin-off shows, and also wondering whether the Armenian restaurant they go to all the time is actually in Calabasas, and then subsequently deciding that, in fact, nothing is actually in Calabasas. Except the Kardashians. Possibly I should take this moment to reiterate my very strict policy on there being no such thing as a guilty pleasure. I listen to all kinds of smart music, and watch smart shows and read smart things. And sometimes my brain bleeds out to Khloe Kardashian trying to figure out whether that is poo or chocolate on her Egyptian cotton sheets. (It was chocolate.)

Oh, and one last note on Calabasas: apparently some of the locals call it "CalaBLACKless." When I learned this, I wanted to come up with lots of reason to talk about Calabasas, so I would have lots of reasons to talk about its distinct lack of racial diversity.

That afternoon, we headed for Hollywood. I was on a quest for the tackiest souvenir I could possibly find (to be bestowed upon the Fair Haired Boy), and we'd wanted to cruise through the Hollywood Hills gawking at billion dollar houses, so we decided Hollywood Boulevard would be the perfect place to start.

We popped into a few tacky souvenir shops, wandered the Walk of Fame and hit the Kodak Theater to take in some views of the Hollywood sign. We tried to have a drink at the Roosevelt Hotel, but sadly we were a little too early and their bars weren't open yet. Haven't these people heard of day drinking?

As planned, we left tourist country and headed up through the Hollywood Hills. We took whichever turns felt right at the time and wound our way up and up and up and then -- happened upon this.

We'd driven our way up the mountain to a scenic overlook above the Hollywood Bowl. The views were incredible.

On the way home, we spent as much time in Beverly Hills as I could talk Emily into: we drove through it. I was able to snap this picture of the police station as we passed by it, whilst having two very important thoughts: 1.) Even the police station in Beverly Hills is fancy pants, and 2.) Axel Foley?

cheers,

elizabeth

L.A. day two and three: ringing in 2012

2012-01-12T22:02:00.000-05:00

Emily and I had barely arrived back in L.A. before it was time to hop to it on ringing in the new year. We met up with Mike, a friend we'd made back at CMJ in October, and grabbed some quick eats before heading to our final destination of 2011. Also, there was a beer that was bigger than my head. It required two hands. I give you Exhibit A:

Our plan for the night was to catch some bands at a club called The Satellite. We caught sets from LA Font and Henry Clay People, and then things devolved into an insane jam session that resulted in some amazing covers of "Born to Run" and "Don't Stop Believin." I say if you're looking for an omen on a good year, it can't hurt to have the first 20 minutes of January 1 include a dude standing on a piano ripping out a guitar solo to a Journey song while a mosh pit develops. Did Steve Perry ever perform in front of a mosh pit? Probably not. But maybe Asian Steve Perry has.

Also, you should know that this was the hand stamp we received at the door.

The other two notable things I can tell you about the evening are that I was stopped by a middle-aged biker-looking dude while handing champagne glasses to Mike and Emily so that he could tell me that I look like Reese Witherspoon. I wanted to respond with either a.) "Maybe in the dark" or b.) "Just because I have blonde hair does not make me look like Reese Witherspoon. See related: people with dreadlocks and how they don't all look like Whoopi Goldberg." But I did not do either of those things. I'm pretty sure I snorted, and said thank you.

The second notable thing is that The Satellite had a photo booth, and that we took pictures in it. I do not have those pictures, because the strip we did for me wouldn't fit in my clutch and I completely forgot to get them back from Emily. Frankly, we just look like crazy screaming girls in most of the shots. It's probably for the best that you can't see them, internet. It's probably for the best.

After eating our Hash House leftovers in the wee hours of January 1, we officially chose to spend the first day of the new year in Santa Monica. We had brunch on the promenade, did some people watching and couldn't stop taking pictures of pretty things, which was everything, which meant lots of pictures of everything. Lots of pictures of the same every-things. From slightly different angles.

After brunch we headed toward the beach, and stopped just by the statue of Santa Monica herself to take in the view and snap some photos. When we got there, this guy a few feet away offered to take a picture of us. We politely said no thanks, but he was pretty persistent. He offered his services no less than three times, and on the third offer insisted to us that he "has a knack for this." This, I assumed at the time, was standing around trying to pick up tourist girls by taking their picture in front of the ocean. This, I learned a few moments later, was actually just taking really horrible, horrible pictures, three or four or seven in a row.

This was photo one of three. I can't decide if my favorite part is the dude on the right (hey, dude!) or the purse and shopping bags at my feet that he decided needed to have their moment on film, as well.

After he left, I took other pictures that were less ridiculous. Maybe I have a knack for this, too.

At some point during our walking the beach/walking the promenade/walking the pier in Santa Monica, it occurred to us that something was going on all around us. And at some point it occurred to us that it was the Rose Bowl. And at some other point later when we started seeing all the signs in business windows that said WELCOME ROSE BOWL FANS and all the people decked out in Oregon and Wisconsin gear, we realized that were both perhaps only functionally retarded.

Shortly after all this information dawned on us, I saw these people while we were waiting for ice cream at the soda fountain on the pier. And I demanded a photo.

We wandered down the pier for a bit, people watching and searching out tacky souvenirs, and ran into Jade The Psychic. Now, Jade The Psychic (JTP?) was hanging out in a little inch of real estate on the pier with her folding chair and her fish bowl full of dollar bills and her business cards, and it just so happens that Emily and I had not 10 minutes before been discussing our mutual desire to engage in some type of psychic reading during our vacation. We'd passed a brick-and-mortar psychic on our way up to the pier that had been closed. (Shouldn't she have known we would be there that day, wanting to come for a reading? HELLO.)

The thing you should know about JTP is that she was not exactly the caliber of psychic we were looking for, but she also said she would give you a reading for whatever you could drop in the bucket, which instantly put her squarely inside my price range. I gave her four dollars and she set her 1990s flip phone alarm for four minutes.

JTP told me a lot of things that fateful day, though most of them were about JTP. For example, she used to work in public relations. Also, she has learned through experience that musicians are not the monogamous kind and she does not want to see me dating one of those hooligans. In the few seconds of my four dollar reading that we were able to touch on me, I did learn that my business is going to be successful and that I have a strong entrepreneurial reading. Or something. I also told Jade a little something that day that I haven't told you about yet, and JTP had some very nice things to say about that, too. Or rather, him. (I told you I wouldn't be introducing anyone here until they were a more permanent, recurring character. And this one definitely is.) JTP said the spirits were telling her that he's a "fair-haired boy." When I broke the news to her that he was not, in fact, fair-haired, she quickly explained that when the SPIRITS say this to her it ACTUALLY means that he is someone who is very intelligent, very fair in demeanor and very lucky. Ahh yes, JTP. Naturally. A fair-haired boy.

After our exhausting day of soaking in ocean air, we decided to stuff ourselves with incredible food at Bottega Louie in downtown Los Angeles. It looked like it was in an old bank or train station terminal, with sky high ceilings and crisp white walls. And of course, stellar people watching. We had a bottle of wine, appetizers, pizza and (obviously) not one but two incredible desserts (including the tiramisu pictured below). We had given some thought to hitting a whiskey bar after dinner, but once this plate was clean it was pretty clear the only thing we were hitting was the couch, in our pajamas.

cheers,

elizabeth

L.A. day one: in which we promptly leave L.A. for somewhere else

2012-01-09T22:01:00.009-05:00

A few hours after I landed in L.A., and about 20 minutes after Emily touched down, we were in our rental car and on the freeway headed south for San Diego.

We met up with my brother Noah (who no longer calls SD home but was visiting for the New Year) at his former place of employment, Karl Strauss. (You may remember the culinary and beer-related delights found there from my adventures in June.) Emily and I were famished and ready for a brew, so we started out with a cheese-beer fondue and two flights of Strauss beers. Here, Noah talks about beers, gesticulates wildly and compares the flavor of one specialty beer to the taste in the back of your mouth when you barf up stomach acid.
After we spent a few hours at Strauss pushing the boundaries of consumption, we intended to head to another bar and meet up with some of Noah's friends for more drinks. Intended. What actually happened was that there was a pit-stop as we waited for others to join us at the apartment where we would be crashing that night, which allowed Emily and I just enough time to get curled up on couches. With blankets. And realize exactly how tired we were, how full we were and obviously, that we were colossal weinies. We both promptly passed out, round about 10:30. It was delightful.

The next morning, as promised, we sent off 2011 like true Americans by once again pushing the boundaries of consumption at San Diego's famous Hash House.

We had about an hour to wait for a table, so we headed across the street to the Hash House's sister restaurant, Tractor Room, for fancy pants beverages. Mine is on the left, and the garnish is a slice of pear. Noah had the bloody mary on the far right and Emily opted for the one in the middle, which was sort of like a reimagined mojito featuring fresh cucumber.
And then, at Hash House, this happened. (That glob on top is goat cheese. SERIOUSLY. Let's talk about it. Call me. Any time. GOAT CHEESE.)
After breakfast, I felt the need to attempt to take a picture of myself. There is absolutely no reason for me not to have known that this photo bomb would occur.

Shortly after this, Noah parted ways with us and Emily and I headed in the direction of the beach. It was such a gorgeous day that we decided we might as well touch the ocean in San Diego and Los Angeles if we could help it. Not surprisingly, it wasn't so clear by the water -- still a little early in the day for it to have burned off, I guess -- but we both still managed to get attacked by errant waves, and we thoroughly enjoyed Ocean Beach's Christmas decor efforts.

After our jaunt in the sand (and after Emily accidentally got soaked to the knees while staring through her phone's camera lens and waiting to snap a photo of the wave hitting her toes at the exact right moment, good GRIEF I love irony), we set out for L.A., with a quick stop off at a shopping mall outside the city to find New Year's Eve ensembles. We arrived in Culver City, got settled at my friend Cy's place and started getting ready. Here's us, pre-festivities:

And the story of how we rang in 2012 shall come next. Stay tuned, y'all.

cheers,

elizabeth

a slight disagreement with randy newman

2012-01-09T18:24:00.005-05:00

It's not that I didn't love L.A. -- it's that it was really amazing for a few days and then not so good and then just very decidedly NOT home, which was the only place I wanted to be.

Confused? Me, too.

Over the next couple of days I'll fill you in on the entire week -- or eight days, rather -- that I spent in the city of angels. The first weekend was vacation, spent with my friend Emily, and we spent most of our time consuming ridiculous amounts of food, drinking before noon and staring at the ocean.

We spent our New Year's Eve catching a few bands at a club called The Satelite, and we spent our New Year's Day lounging in Santa Monica, walking the promenade and taking roughly 17,897 barely distinguishable photos of the beach. I'll tell you all about those adventures, in addition to our drive through the Hollywood Hills, my million dollar one-man-advertising-flash-mob idea, the Best Amateur Photographer of All Time, pancakes the size of a baby (or a house cat? take your pick) and more pictures of food than you ever imagined you would look at during this lifetime.

Then, after Emily left me to head back to the great wintry north on Tuesday, I went back to work -- taking care of clients remotely with the assistance of coffee shops and laptops amid lunch meetings and coffee meetings and dinner meetings and happy hour meetings. (In case you were wondering, those ones are the best ones. THE BEST ONES.)

So stay tuned, y'all. There's some peril and misadventure in this tale, too. Let's just say this: it's so, so good to be home.

cheers,

elizabeth

the last dispatch from 2011

2011-12-26T17:04:00.003-05:00

For Christmas, Santa brought me three long naps, a new digital camera and at least two six-hour-streaks of not thinking about work, even a little, not at all.

On Friday, I'm going to try to one-up him. Well, not on the napping part. Let's not kid ourselves, that much uninterrupted daytime sleeping may never happen again in my lifetime. But on the consecutive-hours-spent-not-thinking-about-work front, I think I might have a chance. I hope? I PRAY.

You see, on Friday morning at (once again) a time so ungodly early that I am prohibited to discuss it here by Federal Communications Commission regulations, I will get on a plane bound for southern California. And while this trip will be about 40 percent pleasure and 60 percent business, that precious 40 percent is happening on the front end, and I could not be happier for it.

I'll be meeting Emily at LAX on Friday afternoon -- you remember Emily, of the late-October-frenaissance -- and we'll head from there straight for San Diego, to meet up with my brother and (OF COURSE) hit The Hash House the next morning to send off 2011 like true Americans: painfully full and in a borderline diabetic coma.

We've got New Year's Eve plans to see some bands at a club recommended by a friend we made at CMJ, and then I think our tentative plans for the first few days of 2012 involve eating brunches, sitting on beaches, drinking in the middle of the day and reading (and discussing the contents of/falling asleep over) trashy magazines.

Emily leaves me mid-afternoon on January 3, and that's when the vacation will be over for me, as well. I've got a gaggle of meetings scheduled for the next four days -- people to meet, brains to pick. And of course, I'll be reconnecting with some old friends who live in the area, as well.

So I guess I'll see y'all on the flipside -- quite literally, in 2012 -- with plenty of stories and adventures and various and assorted shenanigans from my travels.

And at some point I'm probably going to have to write one of those year-end wrap-up posts I always threaten to write. Because something tells me that in so many, many ways, this year has been the first year of the rest of my life. I need to send it off in style.

cheers,

elizabeth

on the order of allegiances

2011-12-13T17:38:00.004-05:00

You may know that I love basketball.

You more likely know that, specifically, I love Memphis basketball, and that I'm incapable of joking about it with non-fans, not even a little bit, and that on more than one occasion people have been assaulted for lesser offenses.

You may also know that on Sunday, Memphis played my alma mater, Murray State, at home at the FedEx Forum. And I was there, along with Cristin (who also went to Murray), both of us decked out head-to-toe in Memphis gear (earrings included, CLEARLY).

Yes, I went to Murray State, and yes, I was pulling for Memphis. Many people have a hard time understanding this, especially given that I absolutely loved my college experience. I loved Murray, and the university and my sorority and any and all things Racers. I marched in the Racer Band, I edited The Murray State News, I WON AT COLLEGE. Every single year in October I will travel back to Murray and catch up with my sisters and go to a football game and cheer for the blue and gold and buy heaps of paraphernalia in the book store to announce to everyone who cares to know that I am a proud alumna of Murray State University.

But Sunday wasn't about that. The thing is, I was born a Tiger. Arguably, I was born because of the Tigers. I can't turn that off. I can't love something more than that. It's for life. In fact, the very idea of pulling for someone else against the Tigers makes me feel so uncomfortable that I'm not even going to entertain it any further here, for fear that even IMAGINING the possibility would inflict some type of Bambino-level curse on my boys and then they REALLY might never make a free throw again.

And all of that is why Sunday's game was just about the worst two-and-a-half hours I have ever passed inside the FedEx Forum. We played like rented rats. We showed up during the last 60 seconds of the game. The passing game was ugly, the ball handling was uglier and overall we were so sloppy that I was pretty certain my dad was finally right, and the Little Sisters of the Blind truly had shown up to play this game for us.

I spent almost the entirety of the second half (save the last 60 seconds, when they showed up large) slumped back in my seat. I didn't stand. I didn't yell. There wasn't any point. They deserved every terrible thing that happened because they played like idiots.

And unfortunately as the buzzer sounded and those last 60 seconds of unbelievable plays were (SHOCKING) just not enough to make up for 39 minutes of abysmal basketball, I knew that I would hate this loss far more than any other. Because I knew that for at least a good week I would get to field some variation of this question: "Don't you feel just a little bit proud since it was Murray State?"

Much like the Fresh Prince and Jazzy Jeff's parents, YOU JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND. I hate this conversation. I hated that game. I hated the loss. I do not hate Murray. I love Murray. But I hate that we embarrassed ourselves and I hate that this is probably an indication of what the rest of this season may be like.

And then, when whoever it is that asked this question is still very interested in learning why or how I can love Memphis more than Murray, my brain is already gone. To Saturday. And our next game. Against Louisville.

And my official, professional opinion on the matter is: FUCKBALLS.

cheers,

elizabeth

the lady bits

2011-12-05T16:17:00.004-05:00

On Thursday, I got to listen to the first read-through of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues, as performed by the talented 2012 cast of the V-Day Memphis production benefiting Planned Parenthood. It was vag-tastic.

But seriously, y'all. I can't wait to see these women on stage in February. They're going to tear the roof off the mother. And it's a good thing, because this year we've got some big things happening and some big new challenges that I'm excited about conquering. We'll be at Circuit Playhouse for the first time -- more than double the capacity of our previous space -- and we're trying to raise $10,000 in honor of (or perhaps in retribution for?) Planned Parenthood's loss this year of Title X funding.

And so, with Thursday night's first rehearsal, begins the three to four months of each year that I spend all wrapped up in lady bits. My own lady bits, the cast's lady bits, abused women's lady bits, international lady bits, YOUR lady bits and especially all the lady bits of the women who benefit from the services of PPGMR.

Which, incidentally, also includes my lady bits.

Trying to raise $10,000 sort of seems crazy, yet I totally believe that we can do it. Of course, I usually totally believe that I can do anything. And sometimes that bites me in the ass. But on Thursday, and today, I feel especially thankful for it.

So here's to lady bits! Stay tuned here for show details and ticketing information in January. But before we go, why not up my search engine results just a little bit? Pussies Unite!

That oughta do it.

cheers,

elizabeth

defining abject terror

2011-12-01T19:22:00.003-05:00

At such point in time as I actually manage to live through this whole starting-a-business thing, I think I'm going to write a book. And that book is going to be called: You Can't Tell Me What to Do (The Slightly Embellished but Mostly True Story of How I Got Laid Off, Got Angry & Started a Business that Probably Should've Never Worked, Ever).

That'll fit on The Times' best-seller list, right?

In one of the chapters in that book -- maybe the first chapter? -- I'm going to talk about abject terror. Many people might feel that describing just about anything as "abject terror" leans a tad on the side of hyperbole. I submit to you that these people have never started a business.

For those of us who have, abject terror is as common as a Tuesday afternoon. Or a Wednesday morning. Or maybe both! Today, as I was running some errands in the middle of a ridiculous day that was situated right in the middle of an even MORE ridiculous week, I decided I was going to write this book because of this very thing: ABJECT TERROR.

Because when you decide to do something like this, no one tells you that between once and 700,578 times each week you will experience (wait for it) abject terror that you have, in fact, made just about the stupidest decison in the history, even, of stupid decisions. Even compared to, say, sticking a paper clip in an electrical socket -- which a classmate of mine did in the eighth grade because he "wanted to see what would happen" -- this decision still seems completely, painfully obviously DUMB.

And then you wake up the next morning and (usually) find it in your heart to go a little easier on yourself. Until the next time.

This is what I will talk about, in my book. I will say, entrepreneurs! Abject terror is real. You will feel it. For some of you, it will feel like you are at the top of the Sears Tower on one of those tight-rope-walking thing-a-ma-jigs. For some of you it will sort of feel like overtime in a Tigers game. PERMANENTLY. And some of you will probably just be constipated for six months.

But however it manifests itself -- and this is the sentence I'm predicting/hoping/praying will be included in this chapter, though I can't know yet for sure -- it does eventually go away.

You will live through it.

Allegedly.

cheers,

elizabeth

talking about your private parts

2011-11-26T19:05:00.001-05:00

I want to tell you a story. But I'm not going to.

That's a first, right? Perhaps monumentally a first, not just for this blog but for pretty much the entirety of my blabber-mouthed, prone-to-oversharing life. At my senior send-off from ADPi, my little sister did an impression of me when I'm drunk. It went exactly like this: "SHHHHHH. I want to tell you a secret." The entire room went up in laughter, and I laughed too, because good LORD, was she right. When I was sober I'd pretty much tell anybody anything, and when I was drunk? The one small remaining shred of a filter I had would disappear completely.

I'd be lying if I said there weren't times, especially in college, when I wished I knew better how to keep a lid on it. But mostly I talked (and talked, and talked, and TALKED) to make people laugh. I didn't mind telling the story about how I'd wet my pants in a train station in Wales because it was hysterical. I was okay with calling myself out for accidentally showering in the men's bathroom in a hostel or making snow angels face down in the backyard of a frat house (in the middle of October) or thinking the words to "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" were "when I touch them they return to gold" because all those stories made people laugh.

And that is why I love writing this blog. Why I still love writing it, even four years later. I love sharing with you just exactly why they call me the Mayor of Awkwardtown and the Viceroy of Awkwardtonia and the Queen of the Sovereign Nation of Awkwardlandia. I mean what else can I do? Yes, I am the drunk lady that introduces herself to an ex-boyfriend's current girlfriend in the bathroom at a concert and falls in fountains -- but I'm also the lady that blogs about it, and that shit is comedy effing gold, y'all.

I've digressed, though. Here's where we started: I want to tell you a story. But I'm not going to.

Given my history -- and really just my general affections for a well-told story -- it's kind of hard to believe. But it represents a little change I'm making around here, and rather than just let these stories go silently into the night, I thought I'd tell you about it, first.

(Shocking.)

So here's the deal, y'all. I'm not going to be writing about dating here anymore. I know, I know -- that's actually a much more monumental change than I even gave it credit for in that first paragraph up there, because for a good long while now the Misters on this blog have been the stars of most of my stories. Dating has been the central focus of my writing since I came back to Memphis two years ago.

But it's time for a change.

The first thing I need you to know, and believe, and feel fully faithful about, is that there will be no shortage of awkward for me to document for you. And also no lack of me making an ass of myself in public places large and small. But being as open as I have been about my life on this blog has taught me volumes over the past four years, and all of those lessons are informing this decision. I'm hesitant to write when things are good because I don't want to jinx them, and once things go bad (as they're wont to do, until the one time they don't) I feel obligated to rehash them here.

So you're losing out on awkward first date stories. Or early instances of the awkward Mormon side hug. Or the description of my visceral reaction to someone being a Duke fan or not knowing Alex Chilton. But at such point as there is someone in my life who is more of a staple, a regularly appearing character, an official and regular plus one, then you'll get to meet him.

It feels a little bit like growing up, this decision. But I've figured out that sometimes keeping the really good stuff to yourself makes it even better.

cheers,

elizabeth

drinking champagne on a trailer park budget

2011-11-25T19:02:00.009-05:00

It is possible that I have been accused in the past of having champagne taste on Kool-Aid budget. And yes, you read that correctly. Not beer. Kool-Aid. From concentrated powder. Dream big, I say.

Luckily for me, stuff like Downtown Dining Week exists. DTDW is that magical time every year where downtown restaurants offer special prixe fixe three-course menus for just $20.11. (Well, I suppose technically next year it'll be that magical time when they offer a prixe-fixe three-course menu for $20.12, but let's not split hairs.)

Having DTDW'ed together last year, Stefanie and I made plans to do it again at a fairly new restaurant near the intersection of South Main and G.E. Patterson called Rizzo's Diner. You will be disappointed, as I was, to know that Stockard Channing had nothing to do with it. But we did eat our hearts out. Or something like that.

I had the chorizo meatloaf, which came with garlic mashed potatoes and green beans, and was covered in a sauce that was sort of like the distant cousin of a Hollandaise. I don't know, it was creamy. I never claimed to be a food blogger, y'all. It would all be about cheese. And barbecue. And cereal. EFFING EFF. I love cereal.

ANYWAY. After our leisurely dinner -- made much more leisurely by the magnum of chianti we picked up at The Corkscrew after we found out the fine folks at Rizzo's didn't quite have their liquor license yet -- we headed off for our second destination of the evening: an indoor trailer park.

The trailer park is actually an emporium, full of Airstream trailers and decked out with fake trees, Christmas lights and picnic tables as if a 1950s trailer park just fell out of the sky and landed right in this warehouse. The place is an institution, and I'm sort of ashamed that I'd never experienced it until now. The guy who owns it, Tad, is the proprietor of American Dream Safari (check it out here). He gives tours of Memphis in an old Cadillac that are apparently second to none. After seeing his crazy indoor trailer park I feel like scheduling one of those tours for myself is an absolute must.

Naturally, one of the Airstream trailers was a photo booth, and naturally we stood in the line to have our picture made -- all the while watching (and judging? NATURALLY) all the people who were getting photographed before us as their images were projected on the wall behind the trailer.

There were a gillion props in that trailer, and Stef and I both gravitated quickly toward our favorites. Mine was a little black baby doll. A little naked black baby doll. I give you Exhibit A.

While we were waiting for the camera to get set to take our first of two pictures, I began to sing a little song that I was working on about my new plastic friend. It was to the tune of the 1977 Ram Jam classic hit. And I call it, "Black Baby."

WHOOOAH black baby, bam ba lam.

cheers,

elizabeth

all mixed up

2011-11-20T11:34:00.005-05:00

I've got a confession to make.

When I came back to Memphis from New York after CMJ a few weeks ago, my brain felt more fucked up than a soup sandwich. (Hold on! That part was not the confession.) And it wasn't just the complete lack of sleep -- well, let's not discount the gaping open-mouthed hour-long nap I took from New York to Charlotte, which I awoke from so dazed that I left my phone on the plane and almost sent it on a trip to Barbados without me -- or the feeling of my body completely rejecting the way I'd treated it for the past four days, up to and most definitely including the two Pumpkin Spice Lattes (yes, two) that had happened to me that very morning.

No, there was definitely something going on besides clinical exhaustion (and terminal hangover). And so here comes the confession: I got off of that plane in Memphis drowning in a rising tide of thoughts about whether or not I'm where I need to be. Whether or not I can or should or will stay in Memphis. Whether or not psychics and crystal balls and tarot cards are real, and if they are where in fact I could order one of each POST HASTE, please and thank you.

To be fair, this isn't a new thought, this should-I-leave-Memphis thought. I've been actively shushing it since July when I found out I was losing my job at the Music Foundation. And that hasn't been easy to do. Don't get me wrong -- my business is growing, and for being just barely five months into this I've come a hell of a long way already. But I can't help but wonder, especially after a trip to New York, if there will always be a ceiling to that growth for me, in this industry, in Memphis.

And if I'm being completely honest with you -- which I tend to like to be -- in those first few weeks after CMJ I was feeling very certain that in another year I'd be calling somewhere else home. Maybe Los Angeles, maybe San Francisco, I'd even given thought to allowing myself to consider for the briefest moment (brace yourself) -- moving back to New York. It seemed like a foregone conclusion. I even planned a trip to L.A. for the first week in January to take some meetings, build connections for my current clients but also scope out the potential digs.

The real problem, of course, is that I don't want to live in Los Angeles. Or in New York. And I guess more accurately, the real problem is two-fold: I don't want to live in those cities, and I want to live in Memphis. I love Memphis. I know who I am here. And really, who are you in a city like L.A.? In New York? Maybe at best you're a blip, on a good day.

But my passion for this city, I suppose, hasn't ever really been in question. A vacation to just about anywhere couldn't shake that. But this wasn't a vacation I took. It was a professional trip to a music conference where I met and talked to all kinds of people in all kinds of facets of the music industry who work for big impressive companies or small indie labels or boutique media firms in (guess where?) L.A. and New York. And after a few days of being immersed in live music and professional development panels and meeting the 45th person who has a job you'd be ridiculously qualified for who lives in (everybody now!) New York or L.A., you can't help but wonder if you're doing it wrong.

Will I ever be able to get to the next step here? Whatever that is?

I was certain when I came back from New York, that I'd be leaving. Not now, not soon, but eventually. And now? I'm not certain at all. In fact, I actually find myself leaning far more in the stay-in-Memphis, fly-in-the-face-of-convention, invent-your-own-next-step direction. But that doesn't mean that direction is any less scary to me. "What if" is like one of those TV commercials that blasts at its FCC maximum volume allotment so that when my brain is taking a break from its regularly scheduled programming it SCREAMS at me, so loud that it continues to ring in my ears, even once the show is back. I wonder constantly. What opportunities am I missing out on because I'm not in one of THOSE cities?

I don't have the answer to that question, and I never will. Because maybe the answer is absolutely nothing. You're not missing a GD thing. But I can't ever know. What I do know for sure, though, amid all the what-ifs, is that if I did leave I would always wonder what kind of rich life I was missing out on here in Memphis.

If anyone's got a good lead on a crystal ball, you know where to find me.

cheers,

elizabeth

jury duty: i definitely couldn't handle the truth

2011-11-07T18:42:00.003-05:00

If your parents ever told you that back-talk and that bad attitude of yours were never going to get you anywhere, I need you to know right here and now that they were lying to you. They WILL get you somewhere, and somewhere is "excused from jury duty."

Allow me to explain.

Back in September, right around the time that I got approved to receive unemployment benefits -- methinks this may be no coincidence -- I got my first jury summons in the mail. Yay! Do they make greeting cards for that? Heard you might be sequestered. All our best for your time away.

When I went downtown for the cattle call to select the actual week I would serve, I chose the one farthest away because it was literally the only one during which I had not already planned 27 meetings, three lunches, two television bookings and an after-work cocktail. That week arrived on October 31, and when I headed downtown to meet my fate I was terrified.

What was I going to do if I had to sit in that room for five days? Or even worse, if I were sequestered? There are no vacation days when you are the company. If you don't work, you don't get paid. And if you're not available to work, you lose clients. It's just that simple.

But then I sat in the big ass jury room for a good three hours listening to the longest, most unnecessarily enthusiastic and pro-America speech of my life. And in that speech I was told that, probably? I had nothing to worry about. Probably I was going home by tomorrow. Probably I would sit in this very room and work on my laptop at a table they would provide for me and probably I would go home at the end of the day and probably never come back.

And maybe that was true for some of those people. For many of them. They are PROBABLY also the same people who get pulled over for speeding or weaving or running a red light and get let off with a warning. Yes. Those people are in Narnia. And they are not real.

No, I left all the PROBABLY people around 11 a.m. when my name was in the very first batch to be called for a jury. And at around 1 p.m. when we returned from our lunch recess to learn that we were walking into a sequestered second degree murder trial? Well I probably shouldn't repeat the string of choice expletives that came right out of my mouth. (Under my breath, of course. Court is scary.)

I honestly never had a clear plan for what I was going to do to attempt to get out of it, because really I figured I was screwed and that, like a hiker dying of hypothermia on Everest, I should just give in to the warmth and just let it happen. I knew that no excuse I had was good enough reason to be excused, so I didn't even try. I wasn't about to lie, or even exaggerate. I've seen enough of my murder stories to know how this whole thing works. I was stuck.

So when I was in the first batch of us to get called up for juror selection questioning, I gathered my things and went to my seat on the back row. There was no fighting it now. And since I'd woken up that morning feeling like I was coming down with a cold, I just didn't have the energy.

First, the prosecuting attorney talked to us for a while. She seemed sharp. She asked us all a few questions and then singled out some specific folks for more questions. When she finished the judge turned things over to the defense attorney. And he was, in a word, a dilbert.

He spent a good 25 minutes telling needlessly elementary allegorical stories about shopping trips to Target for dog food and baby diapers that ended with him asking every single person -- all 18 of us being questioned at the time -- the exact same effing question to arrive at the moral of his story. "Now tell me, Mrs. Smith: do YOU think that's right? And what about you, Mr. Jones? What do you think? Is that right?" Multiply that by nine and you tell me you wouldn't be looking for an exit strategy.

And the truth is, I never intended to do what happened next. It's just that this guy was just about incompetent. And he was talking to us as though we were his kindergarten class and he was trying to teach us the basic principles of the justice system. And hey, maybe that's a thing. Maybe that's what lawyers DO. But it was driving me nuts. And finally, my inability to suffer fools gladly crept up so high that it just jumped right out of my mouth.

He'd just wrapped up some ridiculous story about two kids in a room with a baseball bat and a broken television and how it illustrates our inability to see people as not guilty until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. And y'all, I just couldn't help myself. So I raised my hand.

"Wouldn't you say that two kids with a baseball bat in a closed room with a broken television set constitutes reasonable doubt?" I said. He blinked, and looked confused.

I repeated myself. HE REPEATED HIS ENTIRE STORY.

I explained to him that it did not, in fact, illustrate anything about the presumption of guilt.

He blinked. And then simply went right on with his next allegory.

Just a few minutes later, the attorneys gave the judge their list of jurors they'd like excused. And whose name do you think was on that list? Why, yours truly. And when I walked out of the court room with the three others who were excused alongside me, the bailiff opened the door for us and said, "See you in 10 years! Y'all are free to go home."

And I was thankful for my smart mouth all the way back to my office where I still had time to do three hours of work before that night's yoga class.

cheers,

elizabeth

cmj day four: if you don't go to sleep, it still counts as one day

2011-11-01T16:33:00.000-04:00

On Friday morning, I was finally able to eschew the shackles of Starbucks and corporate pastry items and enjoy what I think might have been literally the world's greatest bagel from a bagel cart right at the corner of 15th and 8th Avenue outside of Ashley's apartment. It took me back to my days at the New York Philharmonic, except that then $2.25 for a bagel and a cup of coffee was sometimes an abominable amount and now I was super jazzed not to be paying twice that for half the amount of previously mentioned corporate pastries. Oh how things have changed, Manhattan.

Friday was my last day of conference sessions, and I got to see Daniel Glass speak during the CLE lunch keynote address. And actually, let's be more specific: I got to see Matt Pinfield interview Daniel Glass. (Daniel Glass is the founder of Glassnote Records, who are responsible for these guys. And also just recently signed this dude. And also I'm pretty sure don't have a single artist on their entire roster that I don't love. And also? I sure hope Daniel Glass is real. Because if he is, I have hope. I'm not even sure what for, but hope. HOPE. Lots of it.)

That afternoon I hit a day party and then headed back to Ashley's place to freshen up and put on my goin' out clothes before hitting some shows that night. As I promised them I would, I met up with the guys in the band whose set we'd missed Tuesday night to catch their final show of the week. After their set I headed to Piano's (with several of them in tow) to catch Memphis rapper Cities Aviv. Earlier in the day I'd tried to rally the Memphis contingent to come out and support him, but they got there a little after the set started and that place was worse than sardines. What would sardines say, if they wanted to tell you a place was really packed? That's how I would describe it. Whatever that is.

From Piano's we headed uptown to a random dive bar where I think the guys might have known the bartender, and where I'm 99 percent sure I was served a shot that was a disgusting combination of Slice and tequila. Yes. THIS STUFF. (Incidentally I recently learned that this might be "a thing." But apparently the thing is orange Kool-Aid and Patron. And while Slice may be a slight step up from Kool-Aid, this was definitely not Patron.)

That night I took (ballpark) five different cabs, elected not to eat at the cafe from When Harry Met Sally because I remembered at 3:45 a.m. that I don't like rye bread, had pizza around 4:15 a.m. and went to sleep around 6 a.m. when I remember hearing a garbage truck but not whether there was daylight yet. Some time in the definitely-not-brunch afternoon hours the next day, one of the guys in the band and I spent what can only be described as FOR-EV-ER walking around lower Manhattan in search of a place that would serve us breakfast foods. Eventually the situation became so dire that we decided that maybe we were actually dead, and this was eternal damnation -- our own specific version where we would be stuck, walking around Manhattan, searching for a place to have brunch at 4 in the afternoon FOR ALL ETERNITY.

Spoiler alert: I'm still alive. Also, we found brunch.

On my last night in New York, fittingly, I hooked back up with Emily (who'd been out of town for a few days) and we saw bands and danced and drank until 4 a.m., when she helped me load into a cab that took me to the airport for my 6 a.m. flight back to the South.

I came home exhausted, with my brain a mess of ideas and questions and what-ifs. I do love being in that city, y'all. But it's different on vacation. It's always different on vacation.

cheers,

elizabeth

cmj day two: the starbucks across the street

2011-10-29T16:22:00.000-04:00

On Wednesday morning, I woke up to a rainy, dreary Manhattan. And as soon as I walked out into it -- after a fabulous night that would've made anyone wish they lived in that damn city -- my umbrella went from right-side-out to inside-out in about 2.5 seconds and I thought to myself: If this is supposed to be my reminder of why I hated living in New York, IT'S WORKING. Now cut it the eff out.

When I arrived for my first panel (on the future of music PR), I was soaked and in desperate need of an enormous coffee beverage. What's bigger than a venti? Swimming pool? Or is it just intravenous at that point?

After the panel I walked to Union Square, where I went to one Starbucks and then promptly left and went to the Starbucks across the street. Yes. It happened.

Apparently the decidedly nasty weather (it is entirely possible that I used a swipe from my MetroCard just to walk underground across Union Square) had created a distinct lack of places to park your ass in any indoor location on the island of Manhattan, but I was able to get some real estate at the second Starbucks to try to get some work done. Unfortunately this particular Starbucks was having wifi issues, so when I was finished with my latte I packed up yet again and headed back for Ashley's apartment where there was not only wifi, but also a couch and dogs to cuddle you while you work and ALSO no one with a questionable bathing history trying to occupy the same space as you.

Well, except for the dogs.

Anywho. After I was satisfied with the state of my to-do list, I headed out again for a day party and then to see Zola Jesus at Le Poisson Rouge. That turned out to be one of the best things I saw all week, and you can actually take a look and a listen to all of my favorites over at Loudersoft by clicking here.

I managed to get to bed at a decent hour that night in a feeble attempt to make up for the 4 a.m. tater tot extravaganza and related 24-hours-of-AWAKENESS that had happened to me the previous day. Thursday I had a solid schedule of sessions I wanted to get to, plus the Paste Magazine Day Party and dinner with old friends.

Thursday night I headed to Brooklyn for a DJ set and ended up catching a Datarock show at Brooklyn Bowl and getting awkwardly hit on by a balding 40-something guy whose name is lost on me now, but was probably Perry. Or Alvin. Or maybe Reginald.

Yes. Yes, Reginald. That was it.

cheers,

elizabeth

cmj day one: told in 24 hours like that one TV show

2011-10-28T14:58:00.006-04:00

What I can tell you about Tuesday morning is that I got out of bed at 4 a.m. and got on a plane. A little while later, I woke up. While deplaning in Charlotte, an elderly woman a few rows in front of me referred to the rather masculine (but definitely female) lesbian behind her as "that young man."

Then, I got on another plane and went to sleep again. When I came to I was standing on a platform waiting on the A train to take me into Manhattan, watching a middle-aged Hispanic man dance to music on his headphones while facing out into the open train track, gesticulating wildly and making sexy faces at absolutely no one. And then I realized that New York and Memphis aren't so different: people do really ridiculous shit in public and everyone just goes about their business as if absolutely nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Mostly because nothing out of the ordinary IS happening.

Crazy is universal.

After I got settled at my friend Ashley's apartment and picked up my CMJ badge, I spent most of my afternoon at Starbucks, working on a few client projects and attempting not to stare at the girl next to me who was smiling and talking to herself in the reflective surface over the bar where we were seated. Attempting not to stare. Operative word.

That evening I met up with my friend Emily, who I worked with briefly at the Music Foundation when I first started and she was finishing up a part-time college gig there. Since our paths only crossed for about two months, we never really had the chance to hang out socially. And in New York, we did. In a word? FRENAISSANCE.

We had wine and tapas at a Spanish restaurant on Houston before heading around the corner to Kenny's Castaways for my inaugural show of CMJ 2011. We ended up making fast friends with two guys who were in the first band that had played there that night -- whose set we managed to miss while we were busy guzzling wine -- and after the music was done there we ended up heading way uptown with them to a place I'd been to a time or two back in my college intern days called Brother Jimmy's.

I should probably back up here and calm the concerns you likely have right about now: I need to clarify that under no circumstances will there ever be a story about me meeting a guy in a bar on this blog that does not involve the busting of some balls. I think you know me better than that, y'all. First I had to inform one of the guys in the band that his home state was not, in fact, in the South. Then I had to school another guy in the band, who happens to be from Kansas, on both basketball AND barbecue. It is possible that later in the week I was persuaded to expand my once-rigid definition of the South to include this additional state, which I will refrain from identifying for the protection of the innocent. (And so that I don't have to tell you that I actually had to be shown a map to come to this acquiescence.)

Now, then. Where were we? Oh, that's right. Headed uptown.

So when we got to Brother Jimmy's, the skies opened up and God handed me a beautiful gift: KARAOKE. Clearly I held it down on "Nuthin But A G Thang," and clearly I said a lot of things on the microphone about Memphis, and being from Memphis, and representing Memphis, and maybe something involving Memphis being in "the house." Later I was saddened to learn that they did not have "I Wish" by Skee-Lo, which has become a recent fan favorite. I made do with my standard, "Bust A Move" by Young MC, which I actually messed up the words to for the first time perhaps in all of recorded history. Old age and beer, y'all. Deadly combo.

Luckily everyone else was suffering from the same ailment, and they did not seem to notice. Or care.

Round about 3 a.m. we headed next door to what I'm pretty sure was just another bar and ordered what I'm also pretty sure was every single appetizer-type item on the entire menu. There were french fries, tator tots, wings, there were fried macaroni and cheese bites. And all of it, every single bit of it, was like the best, most delicious thing I had ever eaten. Also? KETCHUP.

As far as I can estimate, I got home around 4:30 a.m., which means -- yes, you guessed it -- I had been awake for 24 solid hours.

And that was just the first day. Lawd.

cheers,

elizabeth

current theories

2011-10-24T17:12:00.002-04:00

I think I might have accidentally left a piece of my heart in New York City. (I know, I know. When will I learn?)

Not surprisingly, though, I might have left pieces of assorted other organs, as well. See also: liver (somewhere on the Lower East Side) and brain (scattered like ashes from the Williamsburg Bridge).

Upon further investigation, it seems that, curiously, another piece of my heart may have been stolen and taken to the west coast. I mean, it's one of those replaceable parts. The ones that grow back like starfish legs. But I can't help but be a little freaked out by it.

I mean, have you ever seen a starfish without a leg? It's a little unsettling. (I would tell you to Google it, but I just did. Y'all. I wouldn't recommend it.)

cheers,

elizabeth

the recurring saga of crazy southern girl in the big city

2011-10-17T17:27:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow morning at a really, REALLY obscene hour -- so obscene that Federal Communications Commission regulations prohibit me from discussing it openly with you here -- I will board a plane for New York City.

I'm going for the CMJ Music Marathon, a week of live music of insane proportions all over Manhattan and Brooklyn. (Incidentally, it's the first thing I ever covered for The Tripwire back when I first moved to NYC in 2008.) I'll be blogging while I'm there for Loudersoft, but also trying to meet and make friends with all the writers I possibly can to further my efforts at Signal Flow. And of course I'll be attempting to squeeze as many drinks and meals with old friends as humanly possible into the space between Tuesday and Sunday.

Also you should know that I have set myself a budget for the trip that is, as I tweeted earlier this week, either completely ridiculous OR the most thrilling challenge I have given myself in life, ever. I will abstain from actually going on record with that amount at this stage so as to save myself from having to explain to you how I paid for all those hookers and blow.

I KID.

Y'all, this past week has near about killed me. I worked 12 to 14 hour days all week long and then continued working both Saturday AND Sunday. Even though it's been exhausting -- and brain-draining -- it is an oddly invigorating feeling to be so busy, one I haven't really had since college. It won't always be this way, and that's probably what's helped me, mentally, to truck on through it. It just so happens that several of my clients all had big things happening at the very beginning of this week, which meant that last week was what we call in the industry (it's very technical): GO TIME.

And now I'm off to New York, where I will still need to work at least five hours or so a day on client projects just to stay afloat, in addition to seeing shows and writing about shows and seeing people and OH MY GOD IS THAT BRAIN MATTER because I think my head just exploded.

I am trying very, very hard not to be in the business of complaining about business. Sometimes it's impossible to avoid frustration, but the fact that I'm busy is an incredible blessing. And the fact that I feel exhausted but not burned out is an even bigger blessing. I had a meeting on Friday with a new client who I'll be writing a bio for, among other things. In this particular meeting, I was interviewing him so that I could write the first draft of his bio this weekend.

He had such a great story. So many stories, actually. Anecdotes about his time here or there, when he first fell in love with this particular artist, why he does what he does. I loved talking with him, and I got genuinely excited about telling his story. It's those moments that remind me just how lucky I am to be in these shoes. (Nine West black patent heels, size 9. But seriously, folks.)

I will do my very best to send you a love letter from New York. Although it might be less love letter and more S.O.S. telegram:

SEND REINFORCEMENTS.

cheers,

elizabeth

the ex-anything category

2011-10-14T15:07:00.005-04:00

Several weeks ago during a routine trip to Kroger, something dramatic happened. The following text message regarding the situation was sent to two of my friends:

"Sometimes, when you're me, you run into someone you've slept with in Kroger. And why? Why is that? BECAUSE HE WORKS THERE."

Now, "run into" is probably a strong phrase. Can you really say you "ran into" someone when what actually happened is that you saw them out of the corner of your eye restocking the cereal aisle and then made immediate moves for somewhere, ANYWHERE, that was not the cereal aisle, even though you needed cereal? Probably not.

Following that day I've been judicious with my trips to that particular Kroger, and on one occasion even overruled my usual preference for the U-Scan to stand in line for an actual checker since he was manning the U-Scan station, and I had a coupon. I did not need to hear "Attendant has been notified to assist you" and then realize that the attendant was, in fact, Mr. Barely Legal.

Yes. I said it. Mr. Barely Legal.

But then? Last weekend? He appeared. Somewhere else. Somewhere unexpected.

Shouldn't that be illegal? A given ex should stay in his given zone. This way, I know what locations I need to avoid, or at what hours I need to avoid them. The protocol is clear. You can't violate the protocol. You can't just be showing up any-old-where. That is not how this works. You stay in your zone, and I stay in my zone, and ne'er the two shall meet.

Luckily avoidance is an art, and I am Michelangelo. I don't even know that we made eye contact. But y'all, probably the most ridiculous thing about it is that nothing would explode if I spoke to him. No satellites would be sent off of their course and fly out into space, smack into a meteor storm and start the trajectory of the asteroid that would ultimately destroy earth. Vaguely uncomfortable? I think that's probably an accurate assessment. A little bit awkward? Sure. But for the almighty reigning queen of Awkwardtopia, that should be just another day at the office.

It's so funny the way we -- and I'm lumping y'all into this, because I don't think I'm alone here -- feel the need to avoid so many of those people who fall into the "ex" category. Ex-friends, ex-partners, ex-lovers. Ex-anythings. When there's unresolved anger or when things ended poorly, I do understand it. It makes sense not to want to rehash that, or even to feel that you wouldn't know what to say to someone. But with a situation like Mr. Barely Legal? When things ended it was unpleasant and kind of weird, but certainly not life-altering or traumatic. No one threw anyone's belongings on any lawn. We barely saw each other for two weeks for god's sake.

And yet, I will continue to avoid him. Mostly I think it's because avoidance is easier and simpler than an awkward conversation or an awkward exchange or even an awkward moment of making eye contact when I don't feel like I look the exact way I would want to look when seeing anyone who falls into that ex-anything category.

Even if it is just ex-two-weeks, two meals and a few beers.

cheers,

elizabeth

it's not wrong unless they catch you

2011-10-10T21:22:00.002-04:00

This weekend I made a whirlwind trip to Nashville to take some meetings with music industry folks, and I'd barely gotten 30 miles outside of Memphis when I found myself pulling to the side of the road, flashing blue lights behind me.

The state trooper leans in to my passenger window and tells me that I was going (obscene and embarrassing) miles an hour, and then asks me that critical question. "Why were you going so fast?"

If, the next time I get pulled over -- hopefully a hell of a long time from now -- the officer asks me that, I am going to ask him the following: Does it honestly matter what I say to you? Because y'all, we all know that it doesn't. (Well, save impending labor or disconnected limb or gaping head wound.) Those of you who claim you've been pulled over and let go with a warning, you are making up tall tales. That was magic. You have driven through a worm hole and gotten pulled over on a highway in Narnia. Because as far as I can tell, that is not a real thing that happens to real people.

Do you know what I told this officer? When he asked me why I was going so fast? I told him the absolute truth. I'd been at a funeral and a wake. It had lasted until later than I'd anticipated. I was just trying to get to Nashville so I could rest. (There were wadded up tissues on my passenger seat right in front of his face, for pete's sake.) And he walked back to his car, took an absolutely infuriating amount of time writing up this damn ticket (I mean, OBVIOUSLY I'm already running late) and came back to my window to tell me about how he had to write me a citation. Clearly I was not in Narnia.

After that it's safe to say I drove the speed limit, on cruise, the entire rest of the way to Nashville. When I finally arrived at my friend David's house, we went out for a few beers to a bar in East Nashville where we were treated to the jukebox selections of the gay rugby team (seriously) who played for us "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion, "I Will Survive" and no less than three repeats of Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You." In October.

After my meetings the next morning and lunch with friends, I headed back to Memphis in time to catch one of my artists performing that evening. I managed to go ticket-free on this particular drive, but when I arrived home I found that I had not been so lucky on another drive.

There was a letter on the table from the fine folks in Huntingdon, Tennessee, who were asking for 50 of my hard-earned dollars to pay for the speeding ticket I'd gotten while driving through on my way to Murray two weeks ago. The ticket I didn't know about, of course, because they clocked me, took a picture of my tags and mailed it to me.

Am I the only one who thinks this whole photo enforcement thing is a little Big Brother? A little 1984? You should have to catch me. You should have to be there, radar gun my speed and come driving up behind me. And furthermore, there is no signage in that little podunk town that tells you that your speed is being photo enforced. It just all feels a little invasive, like some dude is hiding in the bushes and taking a picture of my plates speeding by and giggling about his next $50 check. And usually when people hide in bushes we call them CREEPERS.

I mean, if you could prove to me that police officers in Huntingdon were just too busy solving crimes to come catch me and write me a ticket, I might change my mind. But probably what they're doing is getting cats out of trees and putting small-time pot dealers in jail.

Although this was small-town Tennessee. They could've been busting meth labs.

cheers,

elizabeth

once upon a 36-hour vacay

2011-10-04T21:21:00.003-04:00

Last weekend I boarded the Megabus for the first time since I lived in New York and hit the road for Saint Louis, Missouri, for a big fabulous wedding and a reunion with my best friend Holly. The whole thing, round-trip, tax included, cost me a whopping two dollars and fifty cents.

If you need to have a deal-gasm, please just excuse yourself now. This post will still be here when you get back. Because OHMYGOD. You can't get a decent frozen TV dinner for that amount of money. And someone drove me to a whole different state for that amount of money. While I SLEPT!

The wedding was my sorority sister Erica's, and it was an amazing affair. The ceremony was on the roof of the Regency Hyatt at the Arch with an incredible view, and the reception came fully equipped with open bar, delicious food, a make-your-own candy bag station and of course, all the dancing and acting a fool you could fit into a few hours' time. Oh, and one more thing: a photo booth.

Holly and I shared a hotel room with our sister Caitlyn (sassily pictured above on the right), and referred to ourselves throughout the evening as Latina Fire (Holly, inspired by her Jennifer Lopez Kohl's dress), Scandinavian Ice Storm (me, inspired by my silver dress, also Kohl's, and my general blonde-haired, blue-eyed-ness) and Black Lightening (Caitlyn).

Of course, it should be noted that initially when we were coming up with Caitlyn's name, Holly suggested Santa Ana Winds. This suggestion was vetoed by Caitlyn because, quoting her, "That sounds like a fart."

The gorgeous bride with her sorority sisters, some time after we sang songs for her and her groom and some time before "Party in the U.S.A." by Miley Cyrus.

And of course, best friends. Some time after we had beer for lunch (followed by ice cream), and some time before we Facebook stalked and gossiped before bed.

cheers,

elizabeth

pretending you're in college

2011-10-03T15:45:00.000-04:00

Weekend before last I had the great pleasure of spending round about 48 hours in the thriving collegiate metropolis of Murray, Kentucky.

What I love about being in Murray is that, like any place where you drank excessively and had no technical, actual responsibilities, everywhere you go and everything you see reminds you of a story. Most of them hysterical. Many of them involving kegs, and stands, and also keg stands.

I made this particular trip with my sorority sisters Jennie and Colleen, both of whom are now living in Memphis, which meant that I had two sets of willing ears (read: unwilling captives) to listen to all my yarns about the good old days. Like when we drove by a particular landmark on the way into town and I was reminded of the night that my two best friends and I snuck into the University president's backyard and jumped on his trampoline. And then promptly dispersed to a second location and called the police on ourselves so that we would be in Police Beat as "suspicious activity reported."

Or perhaps, also on the drive in, when we passed the home of Don and Martha. How do I know Don and Martha, you ask? Well, I don't know them personally. But somewhere around my freshman or sophomore year they decided to decorate their house for Christmas. And part of that festive decor was their names, spelled out in Christmas lights, on the side of their storage building. And ever since that Christmas, they have never taken it down. Once, when Holly and I were driving by, we yelled "Don!" out the window at the man out in the yard raking his leaves and sure enough he looked up from his raking and waved right at us.

I was in Murray this time around to do a marketing workshop for my sorority chapter, and so we kept the crazy to a minimum. But we did eat Dairy Queen two days in a row, and sit in the quad, and watch the Racer Band march, and eat at some of our favorite places.

It'll never be 2005 again, but I sure can pretend.

Incidentally, though, one of those favorite places we went to eat was Tom's Grille. After we were seated, I got up to use the ladies room and paused at the side of the table where Jennie and Colleen were sitting -- I'd remembered (and needed to share) that at homecoming last year, during a Tom's Grille dinner, I'd accidentally gone in the men's room. And I didn't just walk in, either. I had no clue what had happened until I was completely done with the transaction and washing my hands next to a urinal.

In my defense, the signage was clearly not up to code.

cheers,

elizabeth

the real-world example of a dearth

2011-09-27T15:39:00.007-04:00

Last week I stumbled upon two tickets to a benefit dinner, and I found myself with about 72 hours to locate a date.

The series of events that happened next brought me to the conclusion that I very well may not know a single, solitary functional male over the age of 25 who's unattached and knows how to act right.

It was a distressing realization that led me to take my mother to the dinner instead of a man (which I feel like is totally acceptable and totally different because Kanye took his mom to the GRAMMYs, so there) and then later led me to tweet about the situation. Naturally, it got me into a little trouble.

So if you're one of the three guys I know who fits those parameters, I sincerely apologize. But honestly. Even counting you, dear sirs, the statistics are pretty god damn dismal.

And while now I feel the urge to go into the "why me, I'm just a simple preppy white girl who loves hip hop and basketball and yoga and beer and robert plant and songs about chunky booties" speech and the subsequent "what about any of that is a man repellent" follow-up rant, it's really not even about that. I mean, I guess at some point in the far, far away future it could be about that, because statistically you're probably a lot more likely to date and marry some dude in your circle of friends, but right now? Right now it's just about how it'd be really amazing if I knew someone witty and charming and good with people who knew how to put on a suit and act right at a dinner and wouldn't get sauced and say something embarrassing. Because Allah knows, I have that shit COVERED.

Also, I bet where you find one sensible, eligible, over-25 male, you might find more. That's an unproven hypothesis, of course. I pledge to you, gentle reader, that I will find out.

As soon as I can find the first one.

cheers,

elizabeth

he's not into blondes

2011-09-21T19:45:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, folks just walk into my office.

I work in a studio, and musicians, engineers and other random people are in and out all the time, so mostly this is a really good thing. Someone pops their head in to see where the sound of weeping over Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" is coming from (I KID) and then they meet me! And they find out what I do and they take my card and yadda yadda yadda they pay me a million dollars to be their publicist.

That last part hasn't exactly happened yet, actually. All in good time, right?

Anywho. The other day one of these random people who popped his head in ended up hitting on me. But what we need to discuss is how this all started. His head pops into my doorway. The first words out of his mouth? "You have such beautiful hair. How do you get it to look like that?"

Me: "Um, I flat iron it?" (Please add in the appropriate amount of confusion, for effect.)

Conversation continues. We're talking about what I do, what he does, so on and so forth. Next up?

"I love that dress! The pattern is crazy on your eyes, but it's really pretty."

I'm serious. You know this.

Maybe 15 minutes later, he wants to see my toes. Why? He wants to know IF THEY ARE CUTE.

As I was leaving the building about 15 minutes after that (read: escaping), he asked me what I was doing this weekend and if my cell phone number was on my business card.

Honestly, guys, I need to know. Is this normal? Because most of the time when a guy compliments me on my hair, my outfit and potentially the appearance of my TOES? I'm going to assume he's a musical theater fan, if you know what I'm saying.

Or as one of my gays and I always love to say: he's not into blondes.

cheers,

elizabeth

a race, a festival and a lot of condoms

2011-09-20T19:03:00.003-04:00

Cooper Young Fest is a little bit like Christmas. It's only one day (but there's fun stuff to do the night before), it only comes once a year, and it involves getting pretty sauced at what most people would consider an inappropriately early hour of the day. (Okay, so maybe it's just like Christmas at my house.)

This year I signed up to run in the Cooper Young 4-Miler, which is held the night before the festival all through the streets of CY. People decorate their houses and have parties, play music, offer free high-fives and generally just cheer on the masochists who chose to run four miles on a Friday night rather than stand in their front yard and drink whiskey. It was not only my first year to run this race, but my first time to ever attempt this distance. I've done 5Ks before, but those were last fall AND I'm a treadmill runner. I tend to think that for every road mile you want to run, you need to be able to run 1.5 to 2 treadmill miles.

Needless to say I was a teensy bit scared.

Luckily I had my friend and sorority sister Jennie to run with me. Well, her and the other 1,398 people running. Ready for the punchline? We finished in 50 minutes, never stopped once and let me tell you -- it felt EFFING AMAZING. After we got done (and got over our extreme disappointment that they'd run out of barbecue before we got to the front of the line), I said to Jennie, "I feel awesome right now! I WANT TO FLIP OVER A TRUCK!"

Turns out we decided to go get Central BBQ and Yolo instead. I mean, we'd just run four miles! We deserved to eat six dollars worth of fro-yo.

The next day I was up early so I could get myself down to the festival to help staff the Planned Parenthood booth. Throughout the day (every hour on the hour, to be exact), we held various and sundry games involving condoms, inviting folks from the crowd to see how fast they could put a condom on a wooden penis or see how big they could blow up a condom balloon. It was good, wholesome fun for the whole family.

I played announcer for almost every round of games, shouting out things about people going "head to head" whenever possible. At one point a couple of acquaintances of mine walked up to the booth, and I think what they said captures the spirit of the day best: "Elizabeth, you just never stop surprising me."

After my condom duties were done for the day, I wandered down to the music stages and ~~began~~ continued the very rigorous task of day drinking. By the time 7 o'clock rolled around, I had somehow managed to hand out many more free condoms and had gotten myself good and comfortably sleepy. But it was time to rally, because my cousin Colin was throwing a post-CY-Fest party at his CY-house, and I was going to wear my cowboy boots.

(I think my cowboy boots might actually quadruple my trouble chromosome. Or something scientific like that.)

Jennie and I stopped to get a case of PBR, unaware that Colin had literally filled his entire refrigerator with shiny, gold cans of Miller High Life. (Incidentally, being with someone when they first discover both a.) Miller High Life and b.) the fact that it is called the Champagne of Beers has to be a little something like watching someone's first steps. I will cherish that moment as long as I live. It was beautiful.)

There was karaoke happening on the front porch, which was ironic since there'd been karaoke happening at the booth next to us all damn day at CY Fest but with nary a good song in the entire selection. I think the only hip hop song on the entire list might've been "Baby Got Back." And I think we all know that's not how I roll on the karaoke mic.

But the heavens opened up for me, right there in Colin's front yard -- the guy who'd brought the karaoke machine had droves of songs and a veritable cornucopia of hip hop. I was able to open with the traditional fan favorite, Young MC's "Bust a Move," then transition into "Nuthin' But A G Thang" followed by Skee-Lo's "I Wish," before closing out with the crowd pleasing "Big Poppa."

And all this in cowboy boots, no less.

It was a glorious night. Mostly it made me want to install a small PA system on my front porch so that I could sit and talk to people as they walk down the street. This idea may have been inspired by the dude who rode his bike down the street during one of my songs, who I told that I liked his shirt. FROM THE FRONT PORCH.

(This also reminds me of this stout little white-haired dude who was in his front lawn during the 4-miler, talking into a megaphone, who I'm like 97 percent sure was actually trying to sell us something. That or convert us to scientology, I don't know, we were running.)

And after all this happened, I don't actually remember too many details about the part where I got hit by a bus. But I am completely certain that it happened, because that is the message that was relayed to me by my muscle tissue and internal organs the next morning.

OUCH, y'all.

cheers,

elizabeth

in the ghetto

2011-09-16T12:08:00.003-04:00

Every day, to keep myself sane, I look at apartments on Craigslist. (You could argue that this is actually supporting insanity, but let's not split hairs.)

Today as I was clicking through the assortment of apartments in my price range that are located in an assortment of extremely sketchy looking neighborhoods, I was reminded of my lovely little shack in everyone's favorite armpit: Jersey City, New Jersey.

I thought about it because often on my journey through the latest rental properties Craigslist has to offer, I find myself skipping over certain zip codes, areas of town, neighborhoods, specific streets or intersections, with the following thought of dismissal: "My parents would NEVER let me live there."

I'm aware that I'm a grown person, and I can rent an apartment anywhere I want. Technically. And to be fair, I didn't know Jersey City from a ham sandwich when I found that place. And there was a Greek orthodox church on the corner! My Greek friend Harry says that the Greeks would never have a church in an unsafe area, because they're generally too nervous, as a people. That's reassuring, right?

Still. My parents would have NEVER let me live there.

All things considered, though, there were only police choppers circling that neighborhood ONCE in the entire year I lived there. That's pretty good, right?

cheers,

elizabeth

here's to the small victories

2011-09-15T10:24:00.004-04:00

For a few days there, it looked like I'd figured out how to contain the crying to my evening drives home. After last night, though, I suspect there just might be something about the 9 o'clock hour.

Shit's rough.

In semi-related news: Facebook is the mother effing DEVIL SPAWN OF ALL THAT IS EVIL AND WRONG.

In completely unrelated news: After I survive my first four-mile race Friday night, I'll be working the Planned Parenthood booth at Cooper Young Fest all day on Saturday. There will be lots of games involving condoms, trivia questions (who doesn't love trivia!?) and plenty of prizes to give away, almost all of which involve some type of free contraceptive device. Prophylactics can be fun! (Plus, you can get a free HIV test in just 20 minutes. Free! 20 minutes! Do it.)

cheers,
elizabeth

we'll see

2011-09-10T13:45:00.004-04:00

Maybe I should change the name of this blog to "Just a Schizophrenic in the World." Or perhaps just add a tagline, so that the full Christian name of this website would be: "Just A Girl in the World: the kiss of death for relationships since at least 2009."

Part of me wonders if it would be worthwhile to conduct a small scientific experiment to truly determine if what I hypothesize is correct: writing about a guy on this blog is the grim reaper of happiness. I mention how great things are going, and BAM. Things explode. Shit hits fans EVERYWHERE. And then explodes into smaller shits which hit smaller fans and then somewhere, someone is screaming "Nooo!" while a camera pans out to satellites in space where the sound is ricocheting off and back down to earth, where it will probably disrupt my television long enough to make me miss 20 minutes of The Kardashians and remember that this blog RUINED EVERYTHING.

Or something like that.

I'm not saying it's the blog's fault, specifically. At least not this time around. (Frankly it's probably Facebook's fault. I mean, if we're going to blame anything on the internet I figure starting there is usually a good idea.) But it is pretty ironic that the most recent post on here was about how great things were going with Mr. CYOA, and that said post has sat staring at me for the past few days while I tried to figure out how to tell you that in fact, things are now far from great. And more like completely over.

Basically, some things happened over the past week that showed me that he just isn't ready to commit to me the way I already feel committed to him. He doesn't want to claim me the way I want to claim him. He doesn't want to be claimed. And while the idea of dating and a boyfriend in general don't really blow my dress up right now -- frankly, the idea just stresses me out -- I very much wanted to be with him.

But I did it. I pulled the trigger, or bit the bullet, or some other firearm-related metaphor for doing something that involves catharsis and release, but backlash, too.

In a very real way, I feel like I've lost my best friend. There hasn't been much of anyone for the past several months of my life who's gotten more of my time or my investment or my care. But the way I figure, if I kept going on the way we were, knowing that he wasn't quite ready for this or that and just waiting and hoping that he would be eventually, we would've come to a point eventually where absolutely irreparable damage had been done. And while damage has most certainly been done at this very point right here, what I think (and earnestly hope) is that by stopping things, by giving myself some time to try to reinvent this relationship in my head, we will be able to be friends.

And I guess I can't really stop you from leaving a comment and lecturing me about how you tried that once and so did your friends Susie and Jimmy and Dickface and it never worked for any of them, and platonic relationships are like the abominable snowman, blah, blah, blah. But the way I see it, I had a few options: a.) I could keep going: periods of intense happiness with my best friend and someone I thought I was building something with, punctuated by deep frustration and anxiety that I was doing something wrong, that he might not ever want to commit to me the way I do him and risk eventually feeling so hurt and so upset that the concept of friendship would be laughable; b.) I could cut it off now, give myself some time to try to compartmentalize some feelings, redefine my relationship with him and try to come back to the surface of all of it as friends; or c.) I could just give up, right now, completely. And C was never really an option for me.

Unfortunately none of option B is particularly easy, either. On Thursday, at a particularly standard Mollie's night (read: absolutely, unbelievably RIDONKULOUS), I did a mystery shot and had way too much to drink and sent just a host of overly maudlin text messages that would've probably pushed anyone away, commitment-phobia or not.

I don't really know where we're going to come out on the other end of this, but my heart won't let me give up. What I worry is that, even when I think I've kind of figured out how to handle all of this, being with him will always make me wish things were different. Or wonder if he is now different somehow. Or imagine scenarios where he realizes that we're completely right for each other and then something involving sunsets and dolphins and maybe a big budget explosion of fireworks.

And then I wonder if I can really handle that. We'll see.

We have a trip to New York planned for October, to go to a music conference together. I remember thinking when we booked the tickets that maybe by then we'd actually be at that point. Actually be in an R word. It feels silly now, but I guess not as silly as the other idea that pops into my head where we lay low for the next month or so and then realize we can't live without each other in some tall building with a killer view of the Manhattan skyline.

My brain is the most ridiculous place, y'all. But I guess I need to be there for a little bit to sort this out. I asked him to give me a week, which feels like a completely unreasonable amount of time, but I guess we'll see where we are then. Something tells me I'm going to be telling myself that a lot for the next while.

We'll see.

cheers,

elizabeth

enter stage left: mr. CYOA

2011-09-05T13:17:00.004-04:00

The last time we met, I hinted that a certain old character would be making another appearance on the blog. And as usual, I do not disappoint: allow me to reintroduce Mr. Choose Your Own Adventure.

I won't go into the details of how we found ourselves dating yet again, mostly because the details involve things like personal growth, mutual understanding, maturity, respect, listening, and just a whole bunch of other stuff that isn't nearly entertaining enough to be discussed in this space. Pretty much none of it features me making an ass of myself, and I think we all know that is a basic prerequisite.

Anywho.

Things have been brewing again since July. (Seriously? I just realized that. And it's September. And though I have come pretty damn close to crazying my way right out of it a couple of times, it's been pretty damn good.)

It's just been nice to have him in my world. We're moving slow. And really, in the past month particularly, I've become far less concerned with moving, and measuring the movement and charting the movement and talking about the movement, than just plain being happy. Right now. Today. And then tomorrow, I'd like to be happy, too. Enjoy the company I've got, and some exciting things we've got planned for the next few months.

Or, rather: adventures.

cheers,

elizabeth

on being well practiced

2011-08-29T14:20:00.000-04:00

While at a social function recently, I fell into a fountain.

(Sentences like that, right? That's why you keep coming back week after week. I know it is.)

I made the mistake of trying to step onto the brick ledge surrounding the fountain to squeeze by a group of people to get to the other side. I was convinced I could take just one step. That was all I needed! I knew it was slick. (The algae was VISIBLE.) But I figured one teensy, tiny step couldn't hurt, and then I'd be off the fountain and safely on the ground on the other side.

WRONG.

I was off the ledge after that one teensy, tiny step, alright. Off the ledge and directly into the fountain.

But let's accentuate the positive here, people. I remained completely upright -- in HEELS, no less! -- and my plate of food and full can of beer stayed safely in hand. It's possible I lost a few stray pieces of cold slaw and there was a severe foamage situation occurring in the top of my Miller Lite when I returned to it, but the damage was minor. My shoe was soaked, of course, and I had splashes of water covering the bottom of my dress, but really? Barely noticeable!

Well, except for the applause that may have occurred directly following the initial fountain dismount.

A few minutes after it happened, someone said to me, "You handled that so well! You don't even seem embarrassed." And I said, "Oh, don't you worry. I'm MORTIFIED. But when you're basically semi-pro at making an ass of yourself, you get real good at hiding the evidence."

cheers,

elizabeth

a tale of two creepers

2011-08-26T14:17:00.001-04:00

One day a few weeks ago, I came home to some mail. Not so unusual, right? My mom said she'd opened it because she thought it was for her -- we're both Elizabeths -- and it was addressed to "Mrs. Elizabeth Cawein," which would without a doubt be her.

But it was not intended for her.

Oh, no. I'm the only one at that residence currently receiving mail from INMATES.

The guy's letter was two pages long, and it was clear from about the third sentence that he'd found my name in a story about the Memphis Music Foundation. How he found my parents' address, I'd prefer not to think about. He said he's a songwriter and a poet and he wants to get involved with the Memphis Music Foundation because he's getting out of prison in 60 days. After having been in for sixteen years. (I think now is the time we can safely assume this was not a minor shoplifting incident or a baseball-bat-meets-mailbox situation. Do you know how many times, in one of my murder stories, someone gets less time than that for chopping up their granny into tiny pieces and burying her behind the shed? TOO MANY TO THINK ABOUT.)

He went on and on about how he wants to get involved with music and how Memphis is the best place to do it and at the very end he signs his name and includes the following post script: "Please write back. My situation often scares people."

And y'all, my dumb ass liberal bleeding heart just broke into about twenty million pieces right there on my parents' kitchen floor. Someone please look after me when I get old, y'all. Please. I will need someone to stop me from sending checks to imprisoned African orphans or wire transferring money to my long-lost Swedish cousin Bjorn who needs my help to get out of extradition. That or adopting every abandoned puppy in the tri-state area and becoming a candidate for the show Animal Hoarders.

Needless to say, I did not write him back.

Fast forward about two weeks. I've just gotten back from BlogHer, I'm getting back into the groove of things. I'm at the gym for an early morning workout before I head to the office. It's worth noting that on this day I went to a different gym location than my usual, because I needed to hit up the grocery store to restock a few things I keep at work.

And that fact, the fact that I almost never go to this gym at this time of day, makes what I'm about to tell you EVEN creepier. I do my run, lift some weights, hit the showers and get myself together, and when I come back out to my car about an hour and a half later, I find a torn piece of paper tucked under my windshield. It reads:

"I think you are very sexy."

It is signed:

"The dark skinned muscular guy."

Y'all, I don't even know where to start on this one. I guess I'll just point out first off that this is, in fact, Memphis, Tennessee. Is this guy aware of how many "dark skinned muscular guys" are basically occupying the same space in that gym at any given time?

And after that little amusing tidbit I guess we can skip straight to the part where I am TOTALLY given the heebs (and also, the jeebs) by the idea that this guy knew which car was mine. I didn't remember anyone being in the parking lot when I pulled up or anyone walking in after me, but I could be wrong. It could be that simple. Right?

Capital heebs to the jeebs, y'all.

I have not gone back to that particular location for a morning workout again since then, but less because of my secret admirer and more because it's not my usual spot. In the event that I do return, I solemnly swear (to myself, and to you) not to invite further trouble by awkwardly staring down every "dark skinned muscular guy" in a futile attempt to decide if maybe I did remember seeing him that morning.

In other, much less creepy news? I started reading that Choose Your Own Adventure book again, if you know what I mean. So far? No snake pits. Or dead bodies! Want more?

Guess you'll just have to keep reading.

cheers,

elizabeth

blogher day three: famous people, funny people, dancing drunk people

2011-08-25T14:15:00.000-04:00

On Saturday morning at BlogHer, my mission was clear: meet famous people.

Luckily for me, the Quaker booth and the Tropicana booth were next-door neighbors, allowing me to handily meet and take photographic evidence with both Giuliana Rancic (from E! News, Fashion Police and, my favorite, Giuliana and Bill on the Style network) and Bob Harper (Biggest Loser trainer extraordinaire).

Naturally, Bob made me a little nervous and I decided to just not say much of anything at all to him to avoid raving like a lunatic. This mostly worked, except for the part where I always feel the need to blurt out, "BIG FAN!" And not even in a full sentence, either. Just like that. BIG FAN! I probably should've followed up with "long-time listener, first-time caller!"

With Giuliana, though, I was surprisingly composed. She had on blue suede heels (I told her that I loved them not only because I'm from Memphis, but also because my blue suede heels were in the car waiting to be put on for parties that night), and she asked ME how MY day was going. I'm serious. She wanted to know if I was enjoying the conference, and I told her how much I love her show and how great I think it is that she's been so public with her fertility struggles and what it surely means for so many women going through the same thing. And then I told her that I'd just met Bob (why was I name dropping to Giuliana?) and she said she was going to have to pop over and say hi. Which made me wonder something I've wondered many times in my life: are all celebrities friends? Or at least know each other? Are there meetings?

Anywho. I went to possibly the best BlogHer session of all time that day, on how to pitch a book. I give it such high praise really because it was the one session where I felt I walked away with knowledge and tools and a good slew of stuff I honestly didn't know before. Because if we're not talking about actually learning shit, you can scratch that and move up to the No. 1 slot the humor bloggers session I went to later that afternoon. Toward the beginning, one woman raised her hand and asked, "Is there going to be any format to this or are we all just going to talk? Because you've got a room full of humor bloggers, so we're pretty much just going to try to out-funny the person before us."

And we pretty much did. And it was pretty much hysterical.

That night came parties, parties and yet more parties -- but before those parties a girl's gotta get looking all snazzy. And when you're not staying in the convention hotel, there's only one place to do that: inside of your compact rental car. Inside of your compact rental car in a brightly lit parking garage. Inside of your compact rental car, in a brightly lit parking garage, at a perfectly reasonable daytime hour that is hypothetically no later than 7:30 p.m.

So yes. Yes, that was interesting to pull off, in case you were curious. (Pun TOTALLY intended.)

First up for the evening was the Social Fiesta, where there was so much Latin food that I couldn't eat one of everything, which was both personally and professionally disappointing to me. I did make some killer nachos from the nacho bar and ate probably the best flan I have ever had.

Next up was Aiming Low, where the food was not as delightful -- fried mac'n'cheese that I had high expectations for didn't hit the mark, and I accidentally ate the one truffle full of crazy tangy fruit stuffs and not pure, unadulterated CHOCOLATE -- but I did manage to get a lovely 15-minute chair massage and made some buddies who had heard me speaking in the humor blogger session earlier that day. We hit it off pretty much immediately -- and one of them was even a yeti, a single, childless blogger! -- and we left Aiming Low together, headed to CheeseburgHER.

Now, at this point I could not have stuffed another morsel into my mouth, particularly not a McDonald's cheeseburger or fries, but there was also a huge dance floor and a lot of drunk ladies and BEDS for sitting. Yes. BEDS. I danced to Bel Biv Devoe's "Poison" and my all-time Friday favorite, "It Takes Two" by Rob Base and DJ EZ-Rock. And I only slopped about half of a vodka soda onto the dance floor in the process. Success!

And this is sort of where our story ends. I say sort of, because we can't forget the next morning, when I woke up and spent no less than two solid hours fitting everything into my luggage. But I sat on that suitcase and I zipped it up and everything made it back to Memphis, safe and sound. And, incidentally, I didn't spend a dime on food the entire day of travelling. Whenever I got hungry, I just pulled another treat from the swag bag.

Sigh. Here's to another BlogHer in the books. Don't know if I'll be back next year, gals. But I'll be back eventually.

cheers,

elizabeth

blogher day two: old friends and lube, but not at the same time

2011-08-22T14:03:00.000-04:00

Considering that I probably never really entered a REM cycle after my 2 a.m. wake-up call, it's probably not that surprising that I was wide awake at 5:30 a.m. and ready to take on 3.1 miles of bay-view running. But I guess considering that it probably IS surprising that I actually survived all 3.1 miles and actually made decent time! With no panting or grunting or arm pit sweat!

At breakfast that morning I ran into Natalie, who had been one of my fellow live-blogging volunteers at BlogHer10, and I joined her table -- she's a San Diego local -- where within 20 minutes I found myself the holder of exactly one (1) cute, chunky baby who was using my lap like a trampoline. It. Was. AWESOME.

The disappointment of the day was that my attempt to sit with single life/dating bloggers during the "birds of a feather" lunch largely flopped. The signage didn't really get up in time and it ended up being just me and one other gal. But there's a silver lining! Turns out? This lady? This lady does marketing for a lube company. YES. Lube. The kind that has nothing to do with being jiffy. Well. Maybe, in a jiffy. IN in a jiffy? Oh, this is going down a dangerous road now.

Anywho.

The lube lady was a great connection to make for The Vagina Monologues, because she offered to send samples for us to give away AND she says she knows just about everyone that ever existed in the sex toy industry. (If you are asking yourself, self? Why doesn't Elizabeth have this job? You need to know that I have already asked myself that. Oh, so many times.)

I went to some sessions and got to hear the Voices of the Year winners speak during the community keynote, scarfed some delicious finger foods and a Karl Strauss beer and then I was completely, 100 percent TOAST. Truthfully I'd been toast since about 3:30 in the afternoon. The lack of sleep and early morning run had caught up with me, and then tackled me, sat on me, passed gas and ran away laughing.

Luckily that night Josh let me sleep in his room and he crashed on the couch, which meant eight glorious, delicious hours of sleep, me totally unawares of the techno dance party going on just on the other side of the door.

cheers,

elizabeth

blogher day one: what's a single girl to do?

2011-08-17T20:39:00.000-04:00

When I woke up in San Diego on Thursday morning, the weather was in its usual state of southern Californian obscenely perfect and I decided to get in the old rental car and drive to the beach. By myself.

Alone.

Now, there was a time in my life when this would've been a disastrous decision, and that time might've actually been exactly one day before this trip and probably resumed one day after I got back to Memphis because I have never, ever in my life, had a great sense of direction. (I'm going to blame my lack of official Boy Scout training, despite how I SO wanted to be one. Damn you genitalia!) This would usually be the spot in our story where I would give you some harrowing example of a time when I got completely lost in a foreign country or, alternately, some type of public housing project, as a direct result of my inability to navigate. But there are just so many of them to choose from, I wouldn't even know where to begin.

So let's focus on the positive: I woke up that Thursday morning, got in the rental car and drove to the beach. And what's even more miraculous and amazing? I actually caught myself remembering things. Like, streets and stuff! Landmarks! From when I'd been in San Diego in June! (Apparently this is is the part of our story where I congratulate myself excessively for figuring out how to do something that every other functional adult has been able to do since they could drive a car. WHOOPS.)

I spent some time working that morning and then went for a good stroll down the beach. I headed to the convention center that afternoon to get registered, get my swag bag and take my first lap around the expo hall. Or, as I think it should be more accurately called, Rows and Rows of Free Shit Plus an All You Can Gorge Buffet.

Later that evening was the first of my parties for the weekend: Kiss Our Sass. It was held at the rooftop bar at the Hard Rock Hotel across from the convention center, with a pool and a hot tub! And beds! Only one of which we were allowed to actually get in.

The thing that is frustrating to me about BlogHer is that single ladies are hard to find. And single, childless ladies? We are like the mythical yeti, often discussed but rarely spotted in the wild. Kiss Our Sass was a great way to kick off the weekend because it was for single gal bloggers only, and I did run across a few of my fellow yeti. Yetis? That word seems like it's already plural. Like the plural of Elvis: Elvii.

Anywho. Despite the yeti sightings, the party was still by and large single mom bloggers. And I love them. I do! The first blog I ever loved in general, in my life, was Dooce.com. The mother of all mommy bloggers. The person who made me see "Shit Ass Ho Motherfucker" instead of "Stay at Home Mom" every time someone tells me they're an SAHM. But it does tend to make you feel a little irrelevant after a while. Like maybe you need to pop a kid out to be worth reading.

The party was great though, despite the fact that I didn't win a door prize and couldn't get in the hot tub. All these rules! There was talk of going to see a drag show afterward, but I had to head back to the house and get some rest since I'd signed up to run the 5K kicking off at 6:30 the next morning.

No one was home when I got back, so I scrounged up a blanket (and when I say scrounged I mean tried to sleep for an hour or so without one because I could not find one anywhere, woke up freezing and in the fetal position and went on a 10-minute scavenege and FINALLY found one hidden between a couch and an arm chair) and went to sleep. And then, round about 2 o'clock in the morning, I was awakened. By what can only be described as screaming. Drunken screaming.

Oh, boys.

The drunken screaming was followed by me squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I could in hopes that, much like imaginary monsters, if I couldn't see them they couldn't see me. They turned on every light in the house, yelled a little more and finally realized I was sleeping in plain view. I hear some whispering. And then, the following:

"Hey, blondie! Hey blondie, what are you wearing?" (Play dead. Go to your zen place. LAY LIKE BROCCOLI.)

Finally I guess I pretended to have superhuman sleeping skills for long enough that they gave up, but not before one of them (the roomie of ball-busting fame from my last San Diego trip, if you'll recall) came and shook me "awake." I rustled a little bit and muttered something and then there was more drunken yelling about how it was his couch and he didn't even know me. Something like that, mostly it faded into the distance as he walked toward his room and passed out, immediately.

Leaving all the lights on.

I was very thankful for my free accommodations, but I guess you do get what you pay for. And on that note, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you about the time I was minding my own business, blow drying my hair in the bathroom, probably on this first morning in S.D. And like I had done so many times before in my life, I flipped my hair over. And while my head was hanging upside down, just about at eye level with the commode, I made the mistake of looking to my left. And I came face to face with the inside back rim of that toilet.

Burned. Inside. My retinas. WHY GOD?

cheers,

elizabeth

the art of avoidance

2011-08-16T22:23:00.004-04:00

So I know I promised you BlogHer recap posts. I know this, I do. But then this thing happened where I started a business, and do you know what? That shit is real time consuming. I forgot what day it was Monday because I just get up in the morning and work. What are you doing this week? Working. Tomorrow? Working. Tonight? Working. Next week? Hopefully making money from all that WORKING.

Anywho.

The thing that I'm getting at here is that I have only gotten as far as a random conglomeration of notes in my efforts at writing just the very first BlogHer post. And in those notes, I swear to you on something holy and sacred, I actually wrote "Went to Starbies."

No. No, I can promise you that despite this note, I will not write a blog post about going to Starbucks. The standards may have slipped around here, but it hasn't come to that. Yet.

In the meantime I want to let you in on some excitement, though, like when your deadbeat dad brings you a stuffed animal to make up for the fact that he totally missed your spelling bee and showed up drunk to the class Christmas party. This weekend I had a photo shoot with my friend Michael (the very, extremely talented Michael) to try and capture the images that will not too long from now help define my direction as I redesign Just A Girl in the World. And y'all, I am absolutely over the moon with the shots he sent me today. I was dreading working on this redesign and now, I can't wait. Check out a few of the goodies:

And there is just so much more where that came from. I can't wait to share it with you.

cheers,

elizabeth

the things that come after vodka

2011-08-10T22:39:00.004-04:00

Surely I am not the only person who goes to a three-day blogging conference and then awakes out of her post-trip coma to realize she hasn't posted anything in a week, right? Surely that's normal? To go from Oh Em Gee Blogz and Learning! to What? There are WORDS on the internet? It's not just cats!? SHUT YOUR MOUTH.

I think what I'm trying to tell you right now is that my brain was mush and it has finally reconstituted (somewhat) and I am prepared to tell you what happened to me in San Diego.

Wait, wait. That sounds like the beginning of a victim's statement. Or a Lifetime movie. Let's scratch that and go with: I went to BlogHer and I'mma tell y'all ALL 'bout it.

I also need to tell you about the letter I received from a convict and the note that was tucked under my windshield wiper at the gym from an anonymous admirer. And then maybe we can all speculate about the possible specifics of the third creepertown thing that will absolutely happen to me, probably tomorrow. These things come in threes, y'all. Like celebrity deaths.

And by the time I tell you about all of that I'm sure I'll have done something else idiotic worth rehashing for public consumption. Why, tomorrow night I'm going to Mollie Fontaine's to celebrate the imminent departure of two of my dear friends -- I think we all know this is a recipe for, well, vodka. And then the things that come after vodka.

Which, technically speaking, could be an alternate name for this blog.

cheers,

elizabeth

where my blog-hers at?

2011-08-04T19:56:00.004-04:00

After 12 solid hours of non-stop traveling excitement, I arrived (basically) in one piece in San Diego around 10 p.m. local time last night. By the time I got through the heinously long wait at the Budget Rent-A-Car counter (during which time I watched not one, but two episodes of Animal Planet's "Fatal Attractions" and y'all that is another post for another day) the clock was ticking toward 10:30 and my total food consumption for the day looked a little like this: one bowl of Kashi cereal, iced coffee, half an apple and some cheese cubes.

Translation: HONGRY

I met up with my host for the trip, my brother's friend Josh, who you might remember from his cameo appearance in my San Diego posts back in June. (He's the one who recommended the awesome mixtape that I later found scribbled on a note in my phone but couldn't remember where the information had come from. I assumed "Magic," but later realized it was Josh.) He was having a drink with a co-worker at a place called the Regal Beagle, which notably taught me two things: 1.) a bar can, in fact, be located in a strip next to a dentist's office and still be cool, and 2.) there is a distinct possibility that I was completely wrong all this time that I thought I didn't like IPAs.

Sadly the Regal Beagle did not want to serve me any food, but our next destination -- you may recall tales from The Waterfront -- did, and I started off my second San Diego adventure right with some delicious fish tacos. And a PBR. Which, incidentally, was also delicious.

I got up this morning and headed for the beach and a coffee shop to get some work done, and now I'm at the convention center, badge acquired, locked, loaded and ready to completely and totally nerd out. Tonight the festivities get started with the opening of the expo hall in about half an hour, followed by The People's Party and an unofficial BlogHer party called Kiss Our Sass that is specifically for single gal bloggers.

And then tomorrow I signed up to run a 5K at 6:30 in the morning. But I think you probably already knew I was crazy before just now, so let's not act too shocked.

BlogHer 2011 is officially here, y'all. Let's get into some trouble.

cheers,

elizabeth

party dresses = locked and loaded

2011-08-02T13:16:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow around this time I'll be heading for the airport, bound for San Diego and BlogHer 2011. I've spent the last few days completely transitioning into my new world: moving out of my apartment, moving in with my parents, moving into my office and figuring out what it really means to work for yourself. (I'm still sort of figuring that one out, but so far it means a lot of self discipline and no such thing as a "not safe for work" music video.)

In the last week or so I actually let myself get just a little bit stressed out about this trip, simply because I've got so much client work coming in right now (not complaining! Universe, do you hear me?) and it's become a rather inopportune time to be taking a vacation. But I suppose if I have to sit on a beach on Thursday and work on bios and press releases, I'll take one for the team.

You can follow my San Diego and BlogHer related adventures on Twitter, and look for some good recap blog posts when I return. I've got cute dresses picked out, fun shoes packed and party plans made (particularly looking forward to mingling with other single-gal bloggers at the Kiss Our Sass party Thursday night). Translation: despite all the work hanging over my head, I will force myself (reluctantly) to enjoy this vacation (dammit).

All for your benefit, of course, in the crazy stories department. So stay tuned chirrens.

cheers,

elizabeth

is this real life?

2011-07-28T17:35:00.005-04:00

This afternoon I moved into my new office space, upstairs at Young Avenue Sound, and when I got home my business cards had arrived in the mail.

I think some wise person once said it best: Shit just got real.

Meanwhile tomorrow is my last day at the first grown-up job I've ever seriously, ridiculously, work weekends because I want to loved. And I've moved back in with my parents, which means that every day when I come home I sort of feel like I'm on some kind of vacation because my body associates sleeping in my childhood bed with pauses and life transitions. Summers in college. Christmas holidays. Weekend visits.

And you could make the argument that this is a transition. But to me it feels less like transition and more like waking up in a completely different place with a completely different life and having to figure out how to put on your clothes again. (Although a fraction less totally scary than that sounded. Scary, yes. But not Freaky Friday you're in someone else's body kind of scary.)

I hope you're ready for this ride, y'all. It occurs to me that this started out as a travel blog, but that maybe it never stopped being one, really. And now it's about to document the navigation of some very new territory. I hope I can learn the ropes as fast I have in the real-life far-flung places I've often found myself.

Is it coincidence that my horoscope has been pretty much out of this world every day for the last three weeks? I think not. Some stars are aligning. And I feel excited. And nervous. Scared in the best way. And it might not just be the new job, but I can't seem to stop smiling.

So here we go.

cheers,

elizabeth

saying goodbye

2011-07-21T12:37:00.001-04:00

As everything comes together with Signal Flow, as I meet with potential clients and make contacts about freelance jobs, I can't help but feel pretty excited about the changes happening in my life, despite the circumstances through which they found me. But every once in a while there is still a little twinge that gets me, pokes me right in the side and doesn't let me forget that I'm losing my apartment.

The thing is, I have no illusions about how incredibly lucky I am to live in the same city as my parents and to have the option to go and live with them for a little while as I get back on my feet financially. If I were halfway across the country (or the world, knowing me) I don't know what I would've done. Moved back to Memphis, probably.

And every time I start throwing myself a small pity party (just something tasteful, maybe tea and doilies, light snacks), my mom reminds me that it's only temporary. That it's not going to be long before I'm ready to start paying rent again and get back to midtown and, hopefully, Cooper Young.

Still, it ain't easy to leave this place. It's been my home for almost two years and for all its faults, I do love it. It's old and cranky and does weird shit from time to time, but it's also spacious and full of interesting nooks and crannies and has character in spades. It's a place you love in spite of itself, maybe just a little bit like its tenant. Sometimes.

My mom came over last weekend and we made a huge stack of boxes and crates in the kitchen, and though there's still quite a bit of furniture that needs to be moved and things to be packed, the whole place feels pretty empty and naked. And every time I walk through the kitchen, or even catch those stacks of boxes out of the corner of my eye, I have this almost Pavlovian response.

I get excited.

Because in that split second, before my brain can register again exactly what those boxes mean, my nomadic spirit is full to bursting, giddy with the thought of new adventures and new places and moving those boxes to some other neat, quirky apartment with its own nooks and crannies. It's like there's a small child just bouncing wildly in my head, asking, "Where we goin? Huh? Huh? HUH!?"

And then, inevitably, I remember.

This Sunday I'll move all the big stuff into mini storage (with the help of some big burly man friends) and then it'll just be a matter of days before I'm completely out. I know that as I close that door for the last time at the end of the month I'll be closing the door on a house that has seen a lot of very important pieces of my life. It's seen two productions of The Vagina Monologues, countless rehearsals and production meetings and a couple of cast parties. It's seen tacky sweater Christmas parties. It's soaked up the sounds of a lot of vinyl records. It's seen guitar lessons and appendicitis and a couple of break-ups and for a few weekends here and there, one unruly ball of puppy fur.

Onward and upward, right? But I'm gonna miss you, 1054 Cooper.

cheers,

elizabeth

because the best stories always start in line for the ladies room

2011-07-17T23:40:00.006-04:00

Last Saturday I found myself in that very 21st century of situations, where you see someone in public that you totally know from the internet, but not at all in real life, not even a little bit, not even an infinitesimal bit, no just NOT AT ALL.

Only this time, I'd been in the wine. And apparently when you've been in the wine, that little voice of reason that doesn't let you stop in the line for the ladies' bathroom to talk to someone you've never met is drowned out by some other drunken inner voice that is actively butchering the words to "The Yellow Rose of Texas," loudly and out of key between hiccups and giggles and with all that noise it just really is impossible to remember not to act like a crazy person.

So I did.

There I am, walking out of a stall toward the end of the Amy LaVere show at the Levitt Shell Saturday night, when I see a face that looks somewhat familiar. Why, you ask? Because it's Mr. Risky Business's current girlfriend.

Now let's be clear here: I do not know this girl from a ham sandwich. I don't know her name. I don't know a lick of anything about her, but what I do know is that I've seen her face floating there next to his in my Facebook news feed. And I know that right now is probably the wrong time to tell you that I'm just good with names and faces, really REALLY good, I always have been, long before Mark Zuckerburg came into the picture, but it's true. I see your face once and I'll know it pretty much forever and ever.

And let's be clear again: I have no reason to believe she has a flying clue who I am, either. (And in fact, she didn't. Not even by name. Is that the Awkward Train coming into the station? Always right on time, we should start setting our watches by that damn thing!) So there I am, in one of my signature out of body experiences, saying "This is going to sound crazy, but..." Why, oh dear sweet allah WHY, do I EVER think it is a good idea to even CONTINUE a sentence that starts that way!?

So I ask her if she is by chance Mr. RB's girlfriend, knowing full well that she is. And she looks at me (deserved?) like I am bat-shit, over the coop NUTS. And I just keep on a-going. I just recognize you from his Facebook picture, we've never met! He and I used to date!

Well not seriously, right? She says. At this point the entire midtown area may have felt some of my internal organs crawling up inside themselves. I mean dear sweet GAWD, y'all. What had I gotten myself into? I laughed nervously. "Oh, no! Just a few months. I think very highly of him!"

"Well I do, too." She said. (Legit, legit. But at this point I am concerned that I may be about to get cut. And with the amount of wine that I know I have consumed I would've just bled out right there on the nasty concrete public bathroom floor before anyone could even bring me a square of econo-roll TP.)

I really don't know what I said to wrap this whole horrific exchange up, but somehow I made my escape and by the very good humors of the universe I ran into Mr. RB himself on my way back up to our seats. I quickly informed him that his girlfriend was probably about to come back from the bathroom and tell him that she met a totally fucking crazy lady in line for the john.

And y'all, she would not be wrong.

cheers,

elizabeth

when too good to be true comes true

2011-07-16T14:13:00.005-04:00

I found out last week that I'm losing my job.

I hope you'll forgive me if I don't feel like writing a long, anecdotal introduction like I usually do for this bit of news. I figure you should get it delivered the exact same way I did: with little decoration and no anticipation. Just there, primed like a fist to reach out and punch you right in the gut.

Basically, the extremely short version of the story goes like this: each July we get a check from the economic development program that funds the Music Foundation, and each year that check has gotten just a teensy bit smaller. But this year, year five of the program, it got a lot smaller. Like, 30 to 40 percent smaller. And so, last Wednesday, I found out that my final day at the Foundation will be July 29.

In the 10 days since then, I've gone through what I think must be a new 17-stage grieving process, feeling everything from angry and indignant to heartbroken to confused to absolutely effing terrified. And then there are the times -- about once a day -- when I decide that the universe must be playing some colossal joke on me because not one month ago when I came back from San Diego I'd started contemplating my next steps.

I'd started thinking about exploring somewhere new or changing directions, but that was still a good ways into the future. I needed to save money, pay down my student loan and my credit card. I needed to make more connections. I needed to learn more. And regardless of the massive curve ball that's hurtling toward home plate right now, I'm still pretty certain I need to do those things. Whatever that next step I had in mind was, I'm not ready to make it just yet.

I can't help but get lost inside the worry sometimes that I'll never find this job again. A job that combines just about everything I've ever loved to do and every talent I ever had. A job that makes me want to work weekends and evenings and a job full of people I respect and like and want to call not just my colleagues but my friends. I know that I'm notorious for relegating things into extreme categories. Seeing things in black and white. I can't imagine that I'll ever find something this fulfilling again, probably mostly because I didn't know it existed before I found it. Now I'm convinced I never will again.

Losing your job is one of those handful of situations in life where no one ever knows what to say to you. And so mostly they just say, "You'll be okay." And I always just smile and say thank you, because I know that at the heart of "you'll be okay" is a compliment, a vote of confidence, an unspoken belief that this person has that I am talented and smart enough to make it through this. But honestly? Of course I'll be okay. I once directed and acted in a three-night production of The Vagina Monologues less than 24 hours off an appendectomy in five-inch heels in the middle of a BLIZZARD. I scraped by in New York on a wage that equaled less than $6,000 a year. I once moved to another country because I felt like it.

Make no mistake about it -- there are plenty of things I don't know and just innumerable lessons I've yet to learn. But while I can't predict the future, I can predict me. And me is one stubborn, determined, tenacious girl who lives for a challenge and doesn't give up easily.

The day that I learned about the cuts, a day I feel like I can remember every single minute of, I remember laughing at myself, wondering how I got to be such an eternal optimist. I mean, don't get me wrong -- this has been a fairly gut-wrenching experience. After our huge showcase Friday night, the culmination of a project we'd all been working on for months and months, I left the venue first, walked to my car alone and cried the whole way home. But when those moments pass, I feel something bubbling inside me that the time is right. That everything happens for a reason. That a seriously fucking delicious pitcher of lemonade is about to be hand-squeezed out of this whole situation.

Because serendipitously enough, when I came back from San Diego and started contemplating those next steps, one of the things I did was reach out to some artists about PR and publicity. It's something I've been interested in for a while and something I thought might be a great foundation for whatever that elusive next step might be.

So y'all? Meet my next step: Signal Flow PR.

What I knew from the moment I learned the news was that there wasn't really time for wallowing. Only time for getting up off your ass and DOING. And do, I did. You can follow Signal Flow on Twitter, fan Signal Flow on Facebook and of course check out the website. And come next Friday you might be able to quadruple my current client roster since I've got more meetings scheduled this week than I think I've ever taken in the space of a month. If I've learned anything from my fascination with hip-hop, it's one word: HUSTLE.

Whatever happens, this job has defined my passions and indelibly altered the course of my career and my life. And maybe it's because I don't think a music community like this one exists anywhere else, or maybe it's also (just a little bit) because this wasn't on my terms, but either way -- I have no doubt that I'm not done with Memphis just yet.

cheers,

elizabeth

the importance of international relations

2011-07-12T09:26:00.004-04:00

I have a friend, and his name is Kirby. He loves the mess out of this blog. (Hi, Kirby!)

I got a little Facebook message from Kirby this morning that was just too good to keep to myself. So here you go.

So, I'm studying Arabic in Jordan this summer, and today in class, we learned something that I thought you'd enjoy.

The word for "I was" in the Jordanian dialect is kunt. When the teacher said it, I had to control myself from laughing hysterically.

Anyway, for the rest of the summer, I'll be saying kunt all the time. Feel free to start speaking Arabic.

Maybe I will do that free Rosetta Stone trial after all.

cheers,

elizabeth

in which women throw proverbial bricks and light proverbial cars on fire

2011-07-10T19:00:00.000-04:00

It has recently come to my attention that women may be hazardous to each other's health.

I've written here before at length about the importance of female friendships in my life, and I definitely still feel that way, wholeheartedly. I think that women sustain and fulfill each other in a way that is completely different from the relationships we have with men, in an irreplacable way. But when you get a lot of us together? That's when shit gets tricky.

That's when you have to watch out for female mob mentality.

It happens a lot in the bathroom, FMM, mostly because we can't seem to go to the bathroom by ourselves when we're out in public and also because we're fairly often drunk when we're in those bathrooms in our little packs, one of us peeing while one of us picks at her face in the mirror while the other one is regaling the other two with some dramatic story that is probably actually about as dramatic as an episode of Two and a Half Men.

Cue: FMM.

Not only do we have to tell the tale of whatever has happened at length and in detail, we have to receive the analysis and affirmation of the other females in the mob. And what this often means is that "my boyfriend was 20 minutes late picking me up" turns into "he is cheating on me with that chick who works the counter at the BP and they did it in the gas station bathroom while I was slaving away on my outfit to look good for him THAT BASTARD I DESERVE BETTER."

And that's the worst of it all -- we're so good at uplifting each other in times like these that we invent anger, create this rage that never should've existed, never would've existed if we hadn't spent 20 minutes in the ladies' room pep talking each other with phrases like, "You know you are so much better than that" and "you deserve someone who really cares about you" and "you are so smart and talented and wonderful and he needs to treat you like the SPECIAL GIFT THAT YOU ARE." Just to name a few.

We probably will not stop to consider that he might have been 20 minutes late because he was ironing his suit because he wanted to look good for that big date or maybe he had a little nervous B.M. he needed to get out of his system or maybe (just maybe) he actually just lost track of time. Because in fact, all rational thought is pretty much off-limits when FMM strikes. We're just huddled there, feeding each other's flames of ridiculous, over-the-top selfish reactions and anxiety and yes, CRAZYMOUTH.

And when eventually all of this gets translated to whateve poor, unsuspecting male is involved this time, he will likely think (or say aloud, if he has balls-o-steel), "Where did this come from?"

And let's make no mistake about it: that will be a completely valid question. And I hope that someday he will learn that it did not have a single, solitary thing to do with him. Because it came right directly from female mob mentality, the black hole where reality and face value have been vacuumed out and all that exists is pitchforks and hay bales and lots of angry villagers who totally heard what you did and they are ready to RAGE.

Since they say the first step is admitting you have a problem, I'm going to be actively working to remove FMM from my life, by trying to think through things by myself before heading to the mob. It's hard to fight that primal female urge to blurble everything to someone else so that they can process it and regurgitate it back to you like an emotional fax machine, but I will do it. Because god knows there is enough CRAZY in my brain right now, all by its ownself.

cheers,

elizabeth

call it the fountain of youth and i'll probably drink it

2011-07-09T15:59:00.001-04:00

Something has happened to me in the last year that is quite unsettling, and I come to you to confess it openly and honestly: I have started flossing.

I know. After 20 some odd years of resistance, my teeth only ever forcibly flossed by the dental hygenist on my biannual cleanings and somehow managing to maintain a no-cavity streak during that entire time (thus completely justifying my righteous indignation toward the idea of forcing string between my teeth and raping my poor, innocent gums), I have succumbed to the floss.

And do you know why?

Because I read some article in some magazine somewhere that said flossing makes your gums stronger, which makes your mouth (and all of the skin around it, my GOD!) look years younger. And that was all it took. I may have put the magazine down and walked directly to the bathroom.

Y'all, I think I have a problem. All someone has to do lately is tell me that something is going to make me look younger or continue to look young for longer or is some sort of distant, potential key to the elixir of youth and I will do it. Regularly. Starting right now. Or five minutes ago.

Example? I heard that every time you rub your eyes, or engage in the mindless but often entertaining activity of pulling the mascara off of your individual lashes, that you are loosening the skin underneath your eyes and ultimately causing it to sag. DONE. And also? Done. Never again. I'm scared to put my hands anywhere near my face anymore, honestly. And I've started applying sunblock to every exposed part of my person every second of every day, overcast, sunny, in the shade, sitting in an office building in a parka -- I don't care. I can't be looking like a leather handbag in 15 years.

At the not-at-all-old age of 26 I can't honestly explain to you what has brought on this fairly recent obsession with the secrets of the fountain of youth. (Although the other day I did find a spider vein on my right leg and god dammit I DEMAND AN EXPLANATION.) I guess it just occurred to me all of a sudden that I'm young and I have young skin and while I've never been one to fret over actually growing older -- god knows I'll take a birthday any day of the week because, hello, PRESENTS -- at some point I managed to have a quasi-existential meltdown about the fact that this face that still gets me carded for liquor in countries where the legal age to purchase is 18 is not going to be there forever. Who knows? One day I might actually call the 800 number and order this stuff. Allah help us all.

I've changed the things I eat and the face products I use and while it'll be years before I know what good my investments have done for me, I can tell you this: As I toil endlessly to do everything exactly right, there are certain things I cannot change, and won't ever be able to. The scars on my legs have faded, but they'll never go away. I'm pretty sure no matter how much I run, I'll always have that womanly pooch that sometimes makes me feel feminine and other times makes me feel like Jabba the Hutt.

But the other day, as I was walking into the grocery store, I fell in stride behind two young girls wearing very short shorts. I would've guessed they were 20 or 21 and probably weighed that much, too. And y'all? The backs of their legs, all praises be to science, were COVERED in cellulite. I have never loved the site of that dimply fat so much as I did that day.

It's like when the really hot chick has raging halitosis. Or also what I would define very clearly as a gift directly from the universe to me, shipped overnight express with a fancy card and a bow.

And now if you'll excuse me, I don't think I've flossed yet today.

cheers,

elizabeth

meet mr. chuckles the waiter

2011-07-04T10:00:00.002-04:00

Did you feel a little different when you woke up this morning? Like today was going to be a special day, filled with surprises and gifts from the universe? Like it might be something akin to Christmas, but with less singing and no barn-birthed saviors? Did you? Because I have something to tell you.

Y'all, bestill your beating hearts: Meet Mr. Chuckles the Waiter.

Mr. Chuckles the Waiter is (can you guess?) a waiter who I met at a bar one night a few weeks ago. (You may recall first mention of him here.) After flirting with me all night, he came over to the table where my phone was sitting out in front of me, slid it over, punched in his number and pressed send.

"Who's that calling me?" he said, reaching into his pocket for his ringing phone. "Oh look, it's Elizabeth!"

As he walked away, I was (for one of maybe four times in my entire life) rendered speechless. Part of me wanted to say, HEY! And part of me was like, Heeeeey. I see what you did there! You got some kahonas on you, don't you there, Chuckles? But at the time I was seeing Mr. Choose Your Own Adventure, so I just happily accepted Mr. Chuckles' offer to pay for all my drinks and went about my merry way.

Fast forward a few weeks. Mr. CYOA and I have called it quits (see here if you need the recap on that) and I find myself at the Blue Monkey one night with Cristin when Mr. Chuckles and his roommate join us for a few drinks. The night we met he'd asked me what I do for a living, and I knew that he was into making electronic music but I'd say this was the moment when Chuckles realized he just might have a little crush on my brain, too. I found out that he wants to go into recording technology, which is frankly just more proof from the universe that all these years I've been denying I had a "type" can really be blamed on the fact that I just hadn't met an engineer yet.

Not long after these drinks came a lunch date.

It was one of those rare days when I crave something more for lunch than leafy greens and fruit, mostly because I was borderline incapacitated by a hangover and so ravenous that John and I had already spent 20 minutes of our morning standing in front of the refrigerator at work eating anything that wasn't nailed down. So Chuckles and I went to for burgers, I became a member of the clean plate club and later STILL decided I needed to go for fro-yo.

I digress.

The lunch date itself was fairly uneventful until the most awkward part of any date: the end of it. He walked me to my car, and as we're parting ways he leans in for a hug. Or at least, I think he's leaning in for a hug. The next part of our story I shall relay to you with an excerpt from a G-Chat conversation with my best friend, one Holly Holladay.

me: i need to reenact this for you!
SHIT BALLS
okay, here's what happened, to my best ability, the play-by-play:
he starts moving toward me. i think, hug, so i move my face to my left, his right
but then?
KISSTOWN
so he sort of grazes the side of my face, maybe a little toward the ear
and then i'm already going in
we've got momentum here people
inertia
objects in motion, they will stay in motion
and i was a-moving
and so as a result i feel that his face basically fell onto my hair
there was openness of the mouth
and then hair mouth
and then hair kiss
Holly: LOL LOL LOL
me: only the hair kisses were like, this is intentional! i totes meant to do this!
i'm just gonna kiss your hair!
Holly: like, once he landed in the hair, did he acutally pucker and SMACK!?
me: LOL
it was definitely a pucker situation
but no smacking
and then i let him come back for one, close-mouthed, on the lips
Holly: even if he were not a baby, i would not let you date this man for the simple fact that on future vacations i would get drunk and re-enact this shit till he slit my throat and pushed me over the cruise ship boat into the gulf of mexico.

Awww, Chuckles. Bless his heart.

Incidentally it turns out that Mr. Chuckles has a music-related business venture he wants to get into and naturally he asked me for my assistance, what with how that is kind of what I do all day. So I agree to meet with him and a friend last week to discuss their plan and give them some advice, connect them with some folks, so forth and so on. And as this business meeting wraps up, we end up at The Lamplighter (the one on Madison, not the one in San Diego) in a heated conversation about the future of popular music. And "The Letter" comes on the juke box.

I will spare you the exact reenactment of what happened next and get straight to the punchline. Did he know it was The Boxtops? Did he know it was the voice of Alex Chilton? Did he know they were from Memphis? Had he ever even heard the song before?

Well, yes, he had heard it before. But you can answer no, nope, uh-uh, NO SIRREE to every other question. And y'all? I think all my ladybits just closed up at that exact moment.

It is probably a testament to my tolerance and maturity that I am still answering his texts and calls after that, really. But I am. He's just a young thing, which I've found makes me forgiving of a few more sins, and after all of the male-related angst in my life in the last six months I'm back to ticking the NO THANK YOU box on the relationship status questionnaire. But when he's not saying things like "Who's Alex Chilton?" and providing me an exercise in rage management, he's fun. And we all know how I feel about fun.

And also trouble.

cheers,
elizabeth

mr. november, behind the van, with the awkward sweaty hug

2011-06-30T17:38:00.000-04:00

A Thursday night or two ago I found myself at the HiTone for Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears, along with just about everyone else I'd ever met. It was basically a huge dance party (because, well, DAMN) and I was right up front, just a sweatin' it out and shaking my ass.

About three-fourths of the way through the set, I look to my right and I see a face leaning forward to peek out of the crowd at me. And it's Mr. November.

He waves, and I wave and smile, and get back to the very important task at hand: DANCIN. But I knew then that wouldn't be the last I'd see of him that evening, and sure enough we passed each other outside after the set ended and he told me that seeing me at this show was just "another testament to my unfailing good taste." I smiled, and laughed.

I assumed he was leaving then, and I actually went back inside to talk to some friends and then rejoined another group outside a few minutes later. Where I found Mr. November. He hung out for a minute, perhaps waiting on a break in the conversation so he could interject, but one never arrived. At this point Meredith and I were discussing all things transcontinental because apparently she, too, is an Anglophile and I never knew it until just that exact moment. We obviously had a lot of catching up to do. Asking me to talk about England is, I imagine, something like asking Stephen Hawking to recite pi to the millionth digit. Although at least when I'm rambling endlessly about the tube and scones and other shit you're just as uninterested in as a never-ending decimal, it's not through a vocoder.

Eventually he gave up and walked off in the direction of the cars and I assumed he'd actually left this time. Meredith and I wrapped up our conversation and I said goodnight to everyone and about 10 minutes later I started making my way in the same direction.

And y'all? There he was. Standing on the other side of a church van that was parked next to the building, doing something on his phone. And when I say "doing something on his phone," I really, really want to give him the benefit of the doubt and say that he was actually texting someone or calling someone to come and meet him or even just calling the movie listing hotline, just to see what sounded good. But truthfully when someone pops out from behind a church van at you with a phone in hand, I have a hard time convincing myself he was actually doing anything on the phone other than scrolling through his phonebook aimlessly to seem busy until I happened to walk by.

I saw him, and of course pretended I didn't and kept walking toward my car. And then he called out my name. I turned back.

"I just wanted to say goodbye to you," he said. He reached his arms out to hug me.

"Oh, we're both really sweaty!" I said, hoping that the implied "so maybe we shouldn't touch each other" part was understood.

"Yeah, we're both gross!" He said, as if to say, no big deal! HUGS! "So it's okay."

"Is it?" I said. Too late. I was being descended upon.

Cue: sweaty squeezing in a gas station parking lot.

But none of this. NONE. Of. It. Could beat the text that I received an hour later, just as I was drifting off to sleep:

"I'm sure you don't wanna hear from me. But I had to let you know that I miss you and wish we could hang out sometime."

Apparently I'm even magic when I'm sweaty.

cheers,
elizabeth

think i'll just go back then

2011-06-28T18:31:00.004-04:00

It's no understatement to say (and if you've been reading the past few days, I'm sure you'll find this just completely shocking) that I fell just a teensy bit in love with San Diego and with California in the five days I was there. And as I got ready to leave, something just clicked.

Actually, a few things clicked. I remembered how much I really love big cities, and felt my nomadic spirit bubbling back up to the surface. I remembered my need for new adventures and new places and how much I love the stories that happen and figuring out how to tell them. And of course, I thought about this blog. A lot. And so?

I'm going back to San Diego -- for BlogHer 2011!

Though Noah will be a month into his new adventure in San Francisco by then, I've got a place to stay and I'm already brainstorming (and putting the gears in motion) on a music blogger meet-up, something I found lacking in the conference last year. And though I must admit that when I first booked my conference pass I was more excited about getting back to the beach, as I read more about the sessions and speakers and RSVP for meet-ups and parties, I am becoming ridiculously excited about this opportunity. About the networking, and the learning, and the investment I'm making in this blog and myself. About being back amongst some seriously awesome women.

I remember how envigorated I felt last year after BlogHer, and I am so looking forward to latching on to that fire again. I'm planning some exciting things here on Just A Girl that I've been meaning to do for a while; having BlogHer as a deadline is kicking my ass into gear. I don't want to give away too much right now, but you'll be seeing some shiny new stuff in the coming weeks, and hopefully some changes that will make the blog more interactive and easier to navigate.

And naturally, I promise to get into some really ridiculous situations while I'm there, and bring them all back to you here.

(I know that's all you wanted to know anyway. It's okay.)

cheers,
elizabeth

san diego part six: when ball busting goes wrong

2011-06-27T17:12:00.001-04:00

It turns out that being given a crisp five-dollar bill for the juke box, coupled with arriving at the bar at midnight and a last call of 1:30 a.m., means that you have just become the DJ for the rest of the evening. So can you blame me for spending almost 20 minutes flipping through the selections at The Turf Club even with a full table of folks in tow who I'd mostly guilted into coming with us? With great juke box money comes great responsibility.

After much tedious thought and consideration, I make my choices and get back to the table where my beer and the coterie of friends from different sections of Noah's life (roommates, co-workers, randoms) is waiting. Probably half an hour (and five or so AMAZING songs) later, Josh and his roommate arrive to join us. His roommate, you will recall: oh he of the "we do hugs in this house" Wednesday night ball-busting smackdown. And he sat down right across from me.

I'll give you three guesses as to what happened next. First two don't count.

He'd already had plenty to drink that night, so he was in rare form. And I had an audience, so god knows I was on FI-YA. He may or may not have said something about his late grandmother to which I may or may not responded that if I had feelings, I'm sure I'd be real torn up about it. (Too much? You've read this blog before, right? Also: HE STARTED IT.)

Turns out that all this back-and-forth didn't jive too well with one of Noah's friends, the bartender at Karl Strauss. According to Noah he has "a low tolerance for bullshit." And, also according to Noah, despite the fact that I was "handling my shit," it was becoming difficult for him to resist the urge to squish someone's head between his fingers. But probably in a more literal way, and not at all like this.

What I learned from later reports -- since I was too busy entertaining the hell out of myself -- is that at some point there was uninvited eye contact. (Mommy! HE'S LOOKING AT ME.) Someone's hackles got raised and then someone felt the need to ask someone whether there was a problem and then someone felt the need to swing their manparts around in someone else's face; I'm not entirely clear on the details. What I do know is that people were having to separate other people and next thing you know it's 10 minutes til 2 in the morning and I'm walking away from a chilled tequila shot because, according to Noah, "it's time for us to roll, kid."

I was frustrated, because it was my last night and I was already dreading going back to real life. Of course I guess you can't get mad at the zookeeper for trying to contain the animals when you were the one poking them in the first place. No matter, none of it changes the fact that I had an incredible trip, and it turns out I had no idea what frustration really felt like until the next day when my flight schedule became more flexible than a yoga instructor and I ended up getting my wish to spend a little more time in San Diego.

I finally made it home close to 11 that night, exhausted. And before I staggered into bed, I spent just a few quick minutes searching for music industry jobs in San Diego.

Sue me.

cheers,
elizabeth

san diego part five: i seen this on the travel channel y'all

2011-06-26T16:11:00.000-04:00

On Saturday we drove across a very long, very tall bridge to Coronado, which is not an island but sort of an island but everyone calls it an island anyway so who cares. There is a beautiful hotel there that -- if you're anything like me -- you might have seen on the Travel Channel. And if you saw that, you probably also saw Samantha Brown walking around all inside this monstrous, amazing place. And probably also the amazing views that every one of those lucky jerks has from their rooms.

What you probably did NOT see? Asians. And yet that Saturday they were just about all I could see, every single one of them attached to a camera and taking pictures of literally everything, of wall fixtures and pieces of sand and leaves on exotic plants. And every time you turn around you're accidentally walking through one of their photos, but it's okay, don't feel too terrible because they're just throwing up a peace sign in front of the staff entry doorway to a seafood restaurant or a handicapped parking sign.

As we navigated the veritable sea of milling Asians, Noah shared with me that there is perhaps no greater satisfaction for him than photo-bombing an Asian tourist snapshot. (If you're not familiar with the photo bomb, I refer you here for further information.) He also reiterated a theory he'd shared with me earlier in my trip about island people. (It's actually a theory that comes courtesy of his anthropologist college roommate.) The theory, in a nutshell, is that island folks is WEIRD. Because they're all trapped on that island, whatever island it might be, staring at each other and developing crazy habits that go unchecked for years and years because no one is there to tell them that they're ridiculous. Until, of course, the day they go roaming out into the world with their camera slung around their neck and their peace signs.

After Coronado, we headed for Balboa Park. It's a huge park smack in the middle of the city that's home to museums and lots of sprawling land and gardens and notably, the San Diego Zoo. We skipped the zoo, but did some roaming around the park and took in some great views from the bridge in the middle of the park. I was particularly excited about this destination because I'd actually seen the park from the plane. The night before my flight I got Christmas-Eve-level-bored and so to pass the time I Googled "Top 10 Things to do in San Diego." Balboa Park, sure enough, was one of them and just from the photos I saw online I recognized it immediately as we flew over. Please understand that "seeing something I recognize from a plane" is basically just one step down on the Ridiculous Things I Get Excited About List from "seeing something on television I've seen in real life."

After Balboa Park we made a quick stop in Fashion Valley so I could get a small H&M fix, and then set out for yet more fro-yo. The place had a flavor called "Tiger's Blood," which we both tried and sadly, found to be fairly disgusting. After I commented on the taste, I said, "But hey, tiger's blood. Topical! Good job."

The 17-year-old fro-yo girl just stared at me blankly. She blinked. THERE WAS NOTHING.

That night for dinner we were back at Karl Strauss, because that food is seriously delicious (not to mention the beer) and Noah gets a 50 percent discount. This is what is known in most circles as a Win-Win. (Winning? Wiiiinnning? Somewhere, the fro-yo girl is very confused.)

I had fish tacos, knocking a very important must-do item off of my San Diego list and just in the nick of time. And oh my GAH, y'all. Oh. My. GAH.

As we ate, Noah called over a few people who I hadn't yet met and some of the gang we'd been drinking with a few nights prior. Each one of them received a customized guilt trip from me on the half dozen or so very critical reasons why they needed to come have drinks with us after their shift. It was always funny meeting his friends, because with almost all of them there would be a moment where you'd see something change in their eyes, and they would start laughing and you could tell that they were having some sort of realization that they'd met a female version of Noah.

I did manage to guilt a good number of them into joining us, though not all of them. Notably I told Noah's friend Rashid that if he didn't come I would demand his phone number and send him alternating hateful and heartbroken text messages. His response? "I look forward to hearing from you."

That night we went to a bar called The Turf Club, where I spent no less than five American dollars of someone else's money on the juke box. And you'll get that story -- our final installment -- next time.

cheers,
elizabeth

san diego part four: here comes the sun

2011-06-25T11:11:00.001-04:00

After our shenanigans at Waterfront, it took us a little while to get going on Friday morning, but we made it out of the house for brunch around 11. And when I say "us," I of course mean just Noah, and when I say "we made it out of the house," I mean that I poked him and pestered him and talked endlessly about how I was absolutely starving and ~~maybe~~ ~~probably~~ definitely going to die until he was so annoyed that he probably got out of bed and went to the bathroom just to have a moment of peace from the sound of my voice.

We headed for Pacific Beach, mostly because I'd requested that we eat somewhere with a view of the water. In a sort of showdown with the universe, I'd also brought my bathing suit. Though it had been sunny and gorgeous away from the water since I'd arrived, it had yet to be sunny on the beach and I basically decided that morning to take matters into my own hands and goad Mother Nature into cooperating. The people of Pacific Beach needed to see my pasty inland-er skin!

And y'all, it worked.

When we sat down for brunch at The Green Flash -- where we both ordered mimosas that were mostly champagne and I had a seafood omelette -- I took this picture of our view.

And as we were enjoying our deliciousness and I was feeling thankful for the heat lamps they had going on the patio, all of the sudden I felt something else warming me. And I looked up. And the clouds were clearing!

Before we'd even finished brunch, I went into the ladies' room at the restaurant and changed into my swimsuit and cover-up, and as soon as we walked out onto the boardwalk I took this picture.

We ended up walking several miles down to Mission Beach (where I was able to purchase my souvenir-not-souvenir tee shirt from a board shop called Sun Diego), and then we walked back up along the bayside. This allowed for incredible views on both sides, of course, and also for me to dip my toes in both ocean water and bay water. And also for Noah and I to gawk at houses and peek in people's windows and plan about 27 hypothetical vacations. And also for me to get a weird sunburn only on the back of my left leg. You figure it out.

It's possible that we actually got a little too much sun that day, because when we headed back downtown to meet Noah's friend Jen for sushi that night we were both pretty beat. But we powered through and stuffed ourselves thoroughly with some seriously fantastic sushi and then headed for Shout House.

This had all the potential to be a seriously good time, because Shout House happens to be one of my favorite types of bars of all time: a piano bar. And had it not been packed to what I assume was the absolute legal limit, it might have been different. But there were people in every square inch of that place and no one was showing any signs of vacating their seats. I mean, the dude was playing "Smack That" by Akon on a GD baby grand. Can you blame them?

So we found the only tiny piece of standing room real estate that was left in the place and stationed ourselves there with our beers. But the more we stood and the more no one moved, the more I realized how much walking three or four miles on a beach in the sun can kind of make you want to JUST DIE a few hours later and also how very necessary it is, in a bar like this, to be communing with your fellow patrons and singing like idiots together. It's kind of difficult to really get into the zone when you're leaning on a railing in a parallel line with your compatriots while simultaneously death staring at every person in a 20-foot radius in hopes that they might decide it's time to check on the babysitter and get the eff out.

After a beer and a little while, we decided it might be time to figure out a Plan B. We'd heard some Journey and some Sublime and they'd sung at least three songs with crude references about the female anatomy while inviting women to come and dance on the stage, including a birthday homage to three particular ladies ranging in age from 21 to 50 that included a stirring rendition of "My Humps."

So we headed out, and after driving back toward Jen's apartment with the thought that we might gather up her and her fiance to come back to Noah's for beers, I realized that the intention was lovely but as soon as my body was in a comfy chair I was going to go straight narcoleptic in a matter of seconds. So we called it a night, and saved up our energy for my last full day in California.

cheers,
elizabeth

P.S.: If you'd like to see more photos from San Diego or any of my future travels, I'll be posting them all in albums on the Just A Girl Facebook fan page. Become a fan and click here to see more!

san diego part three: the waterfront, and why that whiskey shot is NEVER a good idea

2011-06-24T20:09:00.001-04:00

Now then. Where were we?

Noah and I (with friends Josh and Gut in tow) finished our enormous meal (complete with insane chocolaty dessert) and were headed for Waterfront, a bar that is apparently the after-hours location of choice for Karl Strauss employees and also possibly everyone else that ever lived, ever.

As we went our separate ways momentarily to take care of both ordering the first round of drinks and attending to the way-past-broken seal situation, Josh managed to snag us a table in the front corner of the bar, prime location for people watching with solid vantage points throughout the entire room, and onto the front patio. After spending a good few minutes watching Noah attempt a Rick Roll on the iPad that was posted on the wall next to our table (presumably placed there for menu surfing and not YouTube-ing Rick Astley videos), we were probably just cracking open drink two when I decided I needed to approach the DJ.

You and I both should’ve known this was an error, but I went boldly forward to a place that I can almost guarantee no one had tread before me: requesting a Tina Turner song from the Thursday night DJ at Waterfront. And you can just add that to the increasingly long list of times in my life when I’ve asked for a Tina song and been brutally rebuffed. And y’all, I had reason to believe the dream was achievable. He’d been playing soul classics, some 70s funk, a little James Brown, some MoTown. I did not think this request was impossible or crazy. But apparently it was, even after I basically promised lewd and lascivious acts to this guy if only he could come up with a little “Nutbush City Limits.”

A few drinks later, I was basically recovered from this musical devastation when Noah’s work buddies showed up to join us, so I wasted no time in recapping them thoroughly on the events of the evening thus far. First things first, I was able to detail for them the interactions of a fairly unattractive middle aged couple who were seated awkwardly on bar stools not near any table or the bar, just sort of floating in the middle of the walkway/impromptu dance floor. But their seating location choice was less of an issue than their decision to make out with PUH-LENTY of tongue aggressively and ad nauseum for at least 20 minutes. They definitely came up for air a few times, but luckily not long enough to notice that I was kneeling on my bar stool, leaning over our table (not five feet away) doing what I felt was a highly accurate real-time one-woman reenactment of exactly what was happening. Also with PUH-LENTY of tongue.

I then shared with them the woeful tale of the hippie girl and the Wall-Street-looking type who was trying to woo her. Or perhaps she was trying to woo him. They were sitting at the edge of the bar just across from our table, and they kept getting up to dance, which inevitably each time would turn into him doing something that resembled John Travolta and Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, while SHE was doing something that resembled some sort of hippie gypsy seduction snake dance. And once I’m pretty sure she almost lost her skirt. There’s a chance it was being held up by safety pins.

Finally, I had to give them the full scoop on the full-on-Monet curvaceous gal in what can only be described as a Beagle Boys jail-break dress who was basically giving lap dances to just about every willing guy in the bar. When she’d started her dancing, innocently enough, she had been in the open area next to our table. And crazy as she was (and you KNOW how I love crazy) I openly dared myself to dance with her. But when I tried I found that even actively attempting to rub myself on her did not seem to work, drunk as she absolutely was, because her rear end was magnetically attracted to whatever male crotch was in the most immediate vicinity. As I was telling them this story, I thought she’d actually left the bar since I hadn’t seen her anywhere in a while. But then? Out of the corner of my eye? Like another little gift from the universe, the punchline of my story was waiting right there at the far end of the bar, dropping it like it was luke warm at the VERY least on another semi-willing victim.

The rest of the evening gets a little muddy for me. I’m hoping I can hit the highlights for you. (The ones I can remember.)

Josh and I spent some time exploring the bar (and when I say “exploring the bar” I clearly mean getting the lay of the land and gawking at other bar patrons openly) and discovered in the process that there was an old fashioned popcorn machine in the back AND an erotic photo hunt game AND perhaps about a half-dozen guys playing pool with a single, solitary female, all of whom may have just dropped directly out of the expo hall of a comic book convention.

I later bonded with Noah’s friend Ashley over the fact that we both say HOLY BALLS, and actually my reaction to learning this fact was somewhere between “You have a long-lost half-sister” and “Oh em gee I have those EXACT SAME SHOES.” This might have been around the point in the evening that everything I had to say became way too important to sit on my bottom on that bar stool any longer. I was propped up on my knees, gesticulating wildly, PBR in one hand, in one of the few moments in my life when I have ever been able to tower over anyone. And then, all of a sudden, I was REAL drunk. That stuff just sneaks up on you, doesn’t it? It is possible that all those beers had something to do with it.

Not surprisingly, when Noah and I were back at Strauss a few days later and I was talking with one of the girls who’d been there that night, I mentioned something about what I do for a living and she said, “Yeah, you told me all about it, it sounds like so much fun!”

“I told you about my job?” I said. She laughed.

Because yes. Apparently I did. At length. Isn’t that sweet?

And even in that state of affairs, after 12 some-odd beers I still decided it would be a good idea to do a whiskey shot somewhere close to last call. And of course, it was Bulleit. You never miss, do you?

After I got home from vacation I found a note in my phone that was created at 1:07 a.m. that night. It said “Tom Hardy mixtape beats by 9^th Wonder.” I had no memory of creating the note. I had no memory of where the information in the note came from. But with that time stamp? I felt it was a direct order from tipsy, bar-stool propped, HOLY-BALLS-yelling me. Or also, the universe.

I downloaded it immediately.

cheers,

elizabeth

P.S.: Thanks to the wonders of the collective recalled memory that is often called Facebook, I learned that Josh had told me about Tom Hardy. And that mixtape? It’s the business.

san diego part two: watch out for loose seals

2011-06-23T19:00:00.001-04:00

We kicked off my second day in San Diego with breakfast at Harry's Diner in La Jolla. It was a kitsch little place, walls lined with framed photos of softball teams and newspaper articles from the late 80s, and we sat on the swively chairs at the counter to get the full experience.

Then again, the "full experience" probably actually happened on our way into the place, as we were stuck behind perhaps the oldest man I have ever seen in real life teetering on a walker with two other slightly less old people who may have been his children in some sort of diner foyer gridlock. It did give me plenty of time to admire the vast array of Harry's paraphernalia and random tchotchkes, though, so not a total loss.

After breakfast (eggs benedict for me, french toast for Noah), we headed to the beach. Where you can see these guys:

After I had thoroughly ogled the seals and picked out all of the ones I wanted to keep in my bathtub as pets, we bopped around La Jolla, poked in little shops, and I tried on a floppy hat that I did not purchase. Because they wanted my first-born child and also three non-essential extremities.

After La Jolla we headed north of the city for the San Diego County Fair, where (despite being in California) you can still purchase just about anything you can dream up that has been covered in batter and fried to an artery clogging crisp. Noah tried to talk me into a fried Oreo, he really did. A for effort on that one, but I stuck with the chocolate-dipped frozen banana.

This was, of course, after the exhaustive 30-minute search for the illusive fair treat of our childhood: the pineapple whip. Do you know what a pineapple whip is? Is that just a southern thing? I'm pretty sure it's just pineapple soft serve with pineapple chunks, but dear sweet mother of ALLAH it was the best damn thing that ever happened with a cone and a pineapple and a dairy product. Sadly the SD County Fair was devoid of the whip, so Noah settled for a pineapple milkshake. And then I insisted that we ride the, um, the big ride thing that went all over the park on those zip cords. Yes. That is the technical name of the ride, and yes, it WAS really awkward on the signage.

When we left the fair we took the scenic route back toward downtown San Diego to our dinner destination: Karl Strauss Brewery, where Noah works. (And gets a sweet fifty percent discount on food AND beer. I think you can see where this is going now.)

We started with two flights of beer so I could taste pretty much everything they had to offer, and by the time we were munching on our appetizers (calamari and ahi tuna poke) Noah's friends had arrived -- Josh (of the eighth-grade slow dance) and Steve, who everyone calls Gut (pronounced goot). I ordered what turned out to be the most incredible mac'n'cheese I've ever eaten (which I failed to take a picture of, because I was too busy NOMNOMing and also was sort of tipsy at this point) and we continued to go through a healthy amount of malted beverages.

Then I took this picture.

Then we ate dessert, and I was ostracized ruthlessly for how fast I was able to use the ladies' room. Who knew that the speed of one's own urination was of primary concern to other people who are in no way involved with said urination? And really, when should ANYONE EVER be involved with that urination?

Anywho. After our meal we made our way over to Waterfront and we were later joined by a few of Noah's co-workers. And you'll get that story next time.

cheers,
elizabeth

san diego part one: is that yours?

2011-06-22T19:56:00.004-04:00

Like any red-blooded American Southerner, I get inordinately excited about seeing/participating in/eating/experiencing things I have seen on television. (See also: excitement related to seeing things on television that I have seen/participated in/eaten/experienced in real life.)

So when I got off the plane on Wednesday at promptly 10 a.m. San Diego time and Noah suggested we head to Hash House for brunch, the AS SEEN ON TV neon lights were like stars in my eyes, and you would've thought the late Billy Mays himself were right there handing me a tub of Oxiclean to take care of that drool stain.

And then, the waitress brought me this.

If your reaction to this is HOLY BALLS, please know that this is totally normal.

After eating way more of that meal than I thought physically possible (it seems the laws of reality can often be defied by INCREDIMOUTH), we headed to Noah's house to drop off my stuff and let me change out of my sittin-on-a-plane clothes into my OHMIGAH-IT'S-THE-BEACH clothes. We then set out for Ocean Beach so that I could put my feet in the Pacific. I give you Exhibit A.

And also, Exhibit B, in which I got a little over-zealous and may have sung "The Hills Are Alive" while twirling madly.

We walked a good ways down the beach to the pier and then walked the length of it out into the water for some great views of the city, overcast as it was. (Incidentally I need you to know that everyone calls Ocean Beach "O.B." Why am I the only one who gets the giggles every time I hear that?) The views continued on the way home as we drove through Sunset Cliffs and headed up to a high point on a hill in a neighborhood where we could see the ocean view on one side and the beach on the other.

Fast forward a few hours. We've enjoyed a brief afternoon chair nap, we've eaten mass quantities of sushi and we've had a beer from Noah's very own kegerator. We rejoin our heroine in Pacific Beach, where the Caweins have met up with Noah's friend (and former roommate) Josh.

What I need to tell you next (digressions? me? NEVER) is that my brother (the other one, Ben) once shared with me this theory about how in any given city, Martin Luther King Blvd. is somewhere that you don't want to be. And y'all, that shit is true. Let's save ourselves the grief of getting into the political and uncomfortably racial implications of THAT whole scenario, because I only really bring it up to introduce you to a similar theory that I now have about bars. Certain bars exist in every town. And in San Diego, that particular bar even had the same name. The Lamplighter.

It was divey and they only took cash, but here the PBR was on draft and it was delicious. And at this Lamplighter? There was karaoke. When we got there it was mostly cry in your whiskey country songs, really awful pseudo-metal that you might hear playing in the background of some type of propaganda piece for one branch or another of the armed services and, of course, various and assorted boy band hits of the 80s and 90s.

So the clear choice for me was to open with Notorious B.I.G.'s "Big Poppa."

After I finished my song I resisted the (extremely overwhelming) urge to fulfill one of my five life's goals by mic dropping right then and there in front of half the cast of the Jersey Shore, a handful of lesbians, three middle-aged black women and a slew of gay men. A few minutes later, Noah and Josh were still pouring over the karaoke book trying to figure out what they were going to jam to (but probably suffering from the simultaneous realization that they could never be either a.) as actually amazing as I am or b.) as comically terrible as Dude Singing Kid Rock With Eyes Closed) when I inked my name on the list once again with one of my standards: "Nuthin But A G-Thang."

But as I made my way up to the stage to drop a little Compton on everyone's collective hindquarters, I was stopped short. By a hand. Groping me. On the side of my boob.

And I need to be more clear here: I definitely saw the rest of what was attached to that hand, because it was the tool bag who'd been serenading us against our will earlier in the evening with a Puddle of Mudd song and he resembled the California version of The Situation. He sort of lunged out into my path as I was heading up to sing, reached out and clawed me in the side-boob.

Y'all, I don't know how else to describe it, honestly. It was two fingers, three max, in a weird hook formation that suggested maybe The Sitch thought he was going to snare me by the mammaries and then reel me in over the side of the boat like some kind of human version of The Deadliest Catch. And then, out of nowhere, as I'm still processing what exactly has just occurred on and around my person, this girl leaps in front of me. "It's okay!" she says. "He's my boyfriend!"

You just let that sink right on in, because I can promise you that I have absolutely no explanation for why it is that this fact makes ANYTHING OKAY.

After I finished completely owning every second of "Nuthin But a G Thang," I came off stage and rejoined Noah and Josh at our table only to find that some interesting things had gone down there as well. Apparently a guy had come up to Noah while I was rapping and asked a very pointed question. Ahem.

IS THAT YOURS?

Noah looked at the guy. "Uh, that's my sister." He tried for a quick recovery. "Oh, she's really good at this. Has she ever done this before?" (Really, dude? REALLY?) Noah responded something to the effect of, "Nice save, idiot. Yeah. A few times."

Okay, I may have taken liberties with the idiot part. Sue me.

At this point we're beginning to wrap up the evening, finishing our beers and cheering on the last of the karaokers -- including a woman who sang "Proud Mary," which only encouraged me to yell various arrangements of "preach" and "girl preach" and "PREACH SISTER PREEEEEACH" throughout just about the entirety of the song -- when one of these monkeys gets up and starts singing "I'll Make Love to You" by Boyz II Men.

There's really only one thing you can do in that situation, and it's called the eighth grade slow dance. And slow dance, Josh and I did. (I would so love to show you photographic evidence of us leaving room for Jesus, arms awkwardly and robotically hyper-extended, ~~but it seems my brother does not respond to repeated text messages harassing him to send me the pictures on his phone and camera.~~ Update! Harassment works!)

But our evening couldn't end there. No, no. I had to take it one better. No sooner had the Boyz II Men faded out, here came the comforting, familiar sounds of the musical genius of NSYNC. And I glance up on stage and realize that -- and we must call this what it is, a gift directly from the universe to me -- the song is being sung by not one, not two, but a GAGGLE of short-haired lesbians in hoodies and camouflage cargo shorts. And in that moment, I did what felt like the natural thing to do. I approached the stage. I got on the stage. I turned around. And I booty danced right up on those lesbians with all the fervor and passion that seventh-grade me would've expected during a J.C. Chasez vocal riff. And y'all? (This next part is really just hearsay, because obviously I am sadly devoid of eyeballs in my bum region.) Apparently Camo Pants turned bright red and just FROZE. My backside was the only thing moving in her corner of the stage for a good 30 seconds. Who knew I could have the exact same effect on women as I do on men? Oh, science!

We left our friends (both willing and unwilling) at the Lamplighter and headed back to Josh's house to drop him off and make use of the facilities before we set out for Noah's to call it a night. And as I came out of the little girl's room, I walked into Josh's living room only to meet one of his roommates, who may have thought I was some sort of blonde preppy vision, because the string of conversation that happened next can only be described as follows:

Him: Blah blah something something hug me?

Me: BALL BUST

Ahh, my national pasttime: the perfect end to my first day in San Diego.

cheers,
elizabeth

sahn-di-ahhh-go

2011-06-20T20:45:00.005-04:00

I guess I know I've achieved full vacation success when I don't want to come home, not even a little bit, and then once I do, I spend a good 20 minutes staring at a blinking cursor and a blank screen trying to figure out how in the hell to even find five measly words or so to begin telling you about this trip.

Somehow, though, I pulled myself together and organized the entire shebang into a series of stories (containing a series of shenanigans) that you'll be treated to over the next few days. You will hear tales of karaoke, and dancing with NSYNC-crooning lesbians. You will learn of the continued adventures of Elizabeth The Ball Buster and also the wonders of the San Diego County State Fair, including the hunt for the legendary pineapple whip. You will find that I will take pictures of most anything I eat, even if I forget until I've almost completely ravaged the plate and have to rearrange items to make the food look mildly palatable. There will be whiskey shots and brunch and fro-yo and sushi (and fro-yo and sushi), beer and beaches (and beer and beaches) and just an absolutely unholy amount of other various and sundry varieties of TROUBLE.

Oh, y'all.

I think that's about all I got in me tonight. Just that. OH, Y'ALL.

cheers,
elizabeth

you stay classy

2011-06-13T20:00:00.000-04:00

Oh, hi there little once-upon-a-time-was-a-travel-blog!

Looks like I will be boarding a plane for the first time in this, the year of our lord 2011, at the crack of dawn Wednesday morning, bound for California. Every time I tell someone I'm going to California, without fail, they say: "What's in California?" Really? THE BEACH, ASSHAT.

But usually I'm able to contain that response to an inner monologue, and what comes out is "My brother lives in San Diego!" Which frankly is much more polite, and also completely accurate. At least until July 1. When he moves to San Francisco. (I know, I know. From one dump to another.)

Our tentative plans while I'm in town include beach-sitting, drinking, more beach-sitting, going to look at seals in La Jolla, eating, drinking and also sitting on beaches. My goal is to completely disconnect from work while I'm gone, which is no easy task and also means I've been in overdrive since about Thursday to make that dream possible. I'm determined to give myself a real break.

I'll be doing some Facebooking while I'm on the west coast, but you can look for recaps here after I return Sunday night. As long as I haven't fried to a complete lobster-like crisp and rendered myself unable to type, of course.

Perhaps I should invest in a floppy hat.

cheers,
elizabeth

choosing the wrong ending

2011-06-12T20:32:00.003-04:00

Little did I know when I named this guy Mr. Choose Your Own Adventure that I'd inadvertently pick the door that ends the entire book 20 pages early without even so much as a dark tunnel or a pit of snakes or a sub-dermal hematoma.

There was, unfortunately, yelling. But as I recall I don't think yelling was ever involved in those books, at least not this kind of yelling. Unless the "adventure" you were forced to think your way out of was being extremely uncomfortable.

What was really difficult about this particular yelling is that like most all yelling it contained some things in it that I didn't want to hear. And even after a night of drinking with my girlfriends to try to self-medicate (an idea so very fraught with irony since it almost always ends with self-medicating one's hangover), and then just a touch more yelling, I realized that some of those things were true.

It's not easy hearing someone point out things about yourself that you don't like. And in this case the specific thing feels like the worst kind of thing.

Selfish. The world revolves around you. You don't consider others.

It's perhaps especially hard to hear because all I could see for the two months or so that Mr. CYOA and I were dating were the things I gave up to spend time with him. The ways that I put him first. And while I don't necessarily want to absolve anyone of anything, I'm starting to see that all that time I thought I was the one who had everything figured out, I still had a hell of a lot to learn.

Still have a hell of a lot to learn.

So in the end all the yelling feels a lot like sound and fury, signifying nothing. Hindsight is ever the haughty bitch in all her 20-20 vision, but she's yet to invent me a flux capacitor and a souped-up DeLorean so right now all we got is a bucket of sour-tasting mixed emotions, with a solitary straw.

The strangest one of them all? I'm feeling embarrassed. Embarrassed that I said a lot of the things I did. But mostly, embarrassed -- completely mortified, actually -- that he was right.

I'm a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, and if the adventure with Mr. CYOA is meant to go on another 10 or 15 pages, then it will. Eventually, in good time, whenever it's supposed to happen. I'm also a believer that each relationship, each date, each successful interaction with a man is teaching me something that will at some point be the reason I'm able to make that one right relationship really work.

But all that good sturdy logical thought doesn't make it suck any less right at this exact moment.

cheers,
elizabeth

cancer of the mind, y'all

2011-06-04T21:56:00.002-04:00

If you were in my brain, amid the veritable minefield of thoughts about various and sundry first-world white girl problems, about once a week you would stumble across this gem, verbatim:

Facebook. You dirty little bitch.

I'm hip to your games, Zuckerberg. I know what you're up to. All you want to do is suck me into the vacuum. You want me to click on 17 different profiles and waste half my morning stalking people I haven't seen since elementary school and click through every single photo in some random college friend's album from a trip to Hawaii where at least 70 percent of the pictures are virtually indistinguishable from one another. You want me in your web. Because as long as I'm in your web, I'm looking at your ads. And as long as I'm doing that, you're cashing checks.

I get it.

Sometimes we rage over changes to Facebook's format, and sometimes we swoon. (Typically far more raging than swooning, to be fair.) We loved it when you eliminated the 60-photo limit for individual albums. Now I don't even have to be selective about which photos I upload and write pithy captions for! We thought. But it also turns out that when there are 350 photos in an album I'm probably going to click through all of them, and why would you want me to look at just 60 pages of ads when I could look at eleventy billion?

Every move is calculated. And while some of them can be pitched to us as alterations to make our user experience more satisfying, they're all really about one thing: the Benjamins. Or whatever president is on a zillion dollar bill.

And as Tupac said, I ain't mad at ya, Zuckerberg. You gotta pay the bills. You gotta keep your swimming pool full of dollar bills fresh and clean and ready for your backstroke. But do you have any idea, any tiny inkling in your imagination, of what all that ad revenue is doing to our collective emotional EFFED THE EFF UP levels?

Because for you, Zuck, the changes you just made to the messaging system simply took the vacuum to the next level. By showing me my entire message history with someone when I click to send them a new message, you knew you were going to suck me right up and that I'd probably get stuck in the vacuum bag and maybe forget to eat or drink and just waste away to nothing clicking on old messages while you were busy eating caviar with gold flakes and trying on $50,000 sneakers. But for me? And for most every woman I know? I didn't look at a one of your damn ads because I just spent the last half hour reevaluating my entire existence because of a three-line Facebook message I sent TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO.

Stefanie and I were discussing this last night over dinner, this incalculable impact that Facebook has had and will continue to have on our emotional IQs, on our interpersonal relationships, on our consciousness. And after I suggested that someone should do an academic study on what it really means for our EFFED THE EFF UP levels to click through pictures of your significant other's exes for hours on end or stalk your own exes' wedding photos or compare the size of your own ass to the size of an ex's fiancee's ass, I came up with what I feel is a very reasonable solution to this whole situation.

Why don't we just file a class action suit against Facebook for emotional damages? And frankly, I'm sure a large percentage of us could prove, if necessary, some type of physical bodily harm caused by Facebook, too. There are enough of us involved in this thing that we'll just do whatever it was that Erin Brockovich did with those people out in California. (They were being poisoned by chemicals in water, whereas we are being poisoned in our souls and our hearts and minds, as Stefanie so rightly pointed out.) I can't remember exactly what all the legal jargon was with all of that, but we'll just do an Erin Brockovich class action suit and gather everybody up at once and with all that potential emotional wreckage, proving that Facebook is cancerous to the mind and a dangerous vacuum of heinously old baggage should be a fairly open and shut case.

I will be collecting signatures for a petition effective immediately. Personally, I feel like we probably should get Erin Brockovich herself on this thing. Or at the very least, Julia Roberts.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go prepare the document for everyone's John Hancock. I just need to spend about 30 minutes reading subliminal messages into status updates first.

cheers,
elizabeth

and that's why you don't try to teach lessons

2011-06-02T13:08:00.004-04:00

Sunday night I went out for drinks with Lindsey, who I haven't seen in about 45 some odd years, and we began our evening at Celtic Crossing. (Or perhaps more familiarly known here as The Local.)

The service was heinous, which is honestly fairly shocking because a.) I've never really had bad service there before despite having spent a disturbing amount of cumulative hours of my life drinking pints in various locations on the premises, and b.) there was hardly a soul in the place. It took more than 10 minutes for us to even get our first round of drinks after we'd placed the order, and when we decided we were ready to finish up and head on, we were another hour getting out of the place. I wish, so very much, that I were exaggerating in the least.

And so, when we finally did get our checks, I did something that I absolutely never do. (Scout's honor!) We were trying to crash a house party and the one person we knew at said house party had probably left since it had been better than an hour since we said we were on our way and thus I was supremely peeved. Internet, y'all, please believe me when I say I NEVER do this, but -- I didn't leave a tip.

(I'm cringing. At myself. As I type this. I KNOW.)

But Lindsey wasn't as totally heartless as I was, so I felt less totally heartless about being, well, totally heartless.

After all that, of course, the house party was no dice. And on top of that it seemed that every bar in a five-mile radius was closed, despite the fact that it was very clearly a holiday weekend which very clearly makes Sunday a new weekend day that is called Saturday Too. OBVIOUSLY.

But then! A light! In the distance! And it was Sidestreet, open and inviting us to come and drink its deliciously cheap domestic beers. And so we did. And after about three beers when we decided it was time to head out, our checks were delivered to us with a quickness. Such expedient service!

But then, I opened my wallet. Where there was, in fact, nary a debit card. Because I'd left it. At Celtic Crossing.

Remember that place? That place where I left a big fat ZERO in the tip line?

Holy Allah Jeebus Buddah DAMMIT.

The good news is that our waiter, who was inexplicably enamored with me and quite possibly on ritalin, snatched the check out of my hand and took care of my tab without another word. Which was lovely.

But I guess the moral of the story for me, as I had to do the diner's walk of shame back into Celtic Crossing, imagining several sets of eyes burning into my flesh, knowing I am that breed of woman who doesn't tip, which has to be right up there with people who kick puppies or steal candy from babies, is that there is a god. And he has a sense of humor.

And he definitely used to wait tables.

cheers,

elizabeth

step away from the TV

2011-05-28T14:03:00.004-04:00

As you might be aware, every now and again I have been known to spend an hour (or three) lost in a marathon of TLC's Say Yes to the Dress. And while technically, yes, it is wedding-related programming, I'd say the appeal for me lies less in the impending nuptials side of things and more in the trifecta-like combination of sparkly pretty dresses, excessive spending and a sassy gay fashion director.

Pair that with a bottle of wine and/or a pint of Ben and Jerry's and you've got one serious single gal's Saturday night on your hands, y'all. Beyonce needs to write a song about THAT.

Recently, however, they've launched a Say Yes to the Dress spin-off. And just when you thought you were happily enjoying your Cherry Garcia or your glass of Merlot (or both), not a care in the world, all of a sudden you realize that you are alone on a Saturday night consuming thousands of empty calories while watching morbidly obese women try on wedding dresses because they are getting married.

THEY ARE GETTING MARRIED.

And somehow, in the cruel musical chairs game of life, you and your semi-normal-sized ass are busy establishing new butt grooves in the right-hand couch cushion and getting choked up at prescription drug commercials.

The show is called "Big Bliss," and it's dedicated entirely to plus-sized women trying on wedding gowns. Because they're getting married. Did I already mention that part?

I'm not really sure what's worse. Repeated episodes of Big Bliss or the single episode of TLC's other educational gem, Strange Sex, which featured a 600-lb. woman whose normal-sized, fairly handsome boyfriend was sexually aroused by feeding her and watching her gain weight. And apparently, according to their interviews and a disturbing series of dramatic reenactments, they were having more sex than an entire cast of The Real World.

I know what you're thinking. I could just stop watching these shows. I could. But then who would be there to warn all the single gals that it's no longer safe to turn on the television? Because it's not. So hide your eyes, ladies. Just go back to Web MD-ing yourself. It's probably less hazardous to your health.

cheers,
elizabeth

bits and bobs

2011-05-21T16:49:00.004-04:00

I had a few things I needed to tell you that don't really deserve an entire blog post, so I've combined them conveniently for you here, in tidy bulleted list form.

I've recently started contributing to a music blog called Loudersoft. I was going to say a "new" music blog, but it's only "new" in my world -- its editor and creator E.J. has been writing Loudersoft for several years and I'm excited to be working on a site with a solid reputation and a history of strong writing and good music. This might sound a bit over the top, but you wouldn't believe how fulfilling its been just to be dabbling in this stuff again. I'm only a few weeks and a few posts in, but I already feel more whole, more like myself. My goal right now is to write twice a week, and even that has pushed me to search out new music and heightened my consciousness.
In less than a month, I'll be on a plane bound for San Diego. My oldest brother Noah has lived in SD for several years now, and even though he's picking up and moving to San Francisco just two weeks after my visit -- and then I'll have to add THAT to the list, too -- I feel like I've missed out on this part of his life and I want to get out to San Diego while I have the chance. And I think we all know how I feel about maximizing free accommodation opportunities whenever possible. Incidentally I also realized the other day that it's been about five years since I've been to a beach (not including the English coast, of course), which is a disturbing length of time to go without sticking your toe in some foamy salt water. Plus, I need a vacation like Family Radio needs a rapture. REAL, real bad.
The other night I dreamed that a woman in a parking lot flicked cigarette ashes into my purse, and I popped her bra in retaliation. She later sued me in a civil case to try to get money for damages. From the bra popping, of course. Also in this dream I believe I canoed down the flooded Mississippi. I know that one isn't really a news item, per se, but all I said was that these were things I wanted you to know that didn't deserve an entire blog post. So there you go.

cheers,
elizabeth

it doesn't get more memphis than this

2011-05-19T09:30:00.001-04:00

Last weekend was the annual Memphis in May International Barbecue Cooking Contest, another of this city's storied traditions that I have somehow managed to go 26 years without experiencing. It was high time that streak was broken, but why just break a streak when you can obliterate it, crush it, blow it to smithereens and leave villagers shrieking in its wake?

I think it all started when I planned to go to BBQ Fest (as it is more colloquially known, you know, among the villagers) just on Thursday night, to see my friend Cameron perform with his team in the Miss Piggy Idol competition. (You can watch the second place winners in all their glory here.)

And I did go on Thursday night, it's true. But I did not leave after Miss Piggy Idol. I mean, it would've been rude. I needed to stay, and hang out at the tent. Have a beer. Eat some ribs. Wait for the finals and for the announcement of the winners. And to my credit, I did make it home at a reasonable hour that night. Reasonable enough to drag myself out of bed the next morning at 6 a.m. for my usual run.

But I guess that wasn't right with the world? Something needed to be corrected in the cosmic flow of the universe? Because I headed back the next night. For more beer. And more ribs. And then more beer, and maybe a shot of whiskey down an ice luge.

Well, definitely one shot of whiskey. I volunteered to take that one shot. Just the one. The other three, those are questionable. Mostly because I think there were actually four.

Let's not even factor in the champagne I drank while standing in line for the johnny-on-the-job.

Understanding all this, I don't quite know why I was so very surprised to find myself completely blissfully drunk by the end of the Grizzlies game -- that we watched out in the middle of Tiger Lane on a big screen TV -- when it was barely midnight and I decided to climb up on the bar for a little impromptu dance break.

I want you to know that getting on that bar was NOT my idea, if you can actually believe that, because it came up about to my chin and I wasn't sure how I could get onto it or off of it without near abouts ending my life right there at BBQ Fest in an incident that would definitely involve everyone in the tent seeing my underwear. But then someone pointed out that there was a cooler on the inside of the bar, conveniently placed like a little stepping stool. And after that point the power of suggestion was just too great and I was on the bar as fast as, well, as fast as a really drunk girl can really get on a bar.

I think I may have forgotten the earlier part in this story where I found myself attempting to chug beer (have I mentioned I'm completely incapable of chugging beer before? yeah, still true) out of an inappropriately shaped tube hanging from a bowl attached to the ceiling. (Yes, I know how ridiculous and made up every bit of that just sounded. But I SWEAR. It's true.)

Luckily at some point my partner in crime for the night and I realized that we had managed to get ourselves four-in-the-morning drunk at round about just past midnight and that it was probably time to walk ourselves back to Cooper Young. But before that happened, much earlier in the evening, actually, I did go for a few spins on the stripper pole.

Yes, their tent was fully equipped with a stripper pole (and a neon-light-up platform).

And while I did enjoy those few spins, I'm pretty happy with my current career path. And I think more than the actual dancing (and I do love to dance), my primary enjoyment came from the dozens of people I got to regale with the story, telling each of them without fail: "I was on the pole like Janis Fullilove."

cheers,
elizabeth

take me to the river, (please don't) drop me in the water

2011-05-18T15:44:00.000-04:00

I'm about to type the words you probably long to read on this blog more than any others.

(Well, with the possible exception of "Questionable Decision Story Time.")

I went on a first date.

I don't really want to tell you too much more, partly because there's not too much more to tell just now -- we haven't been on a second date yet, you see -- and because this was probably my favorite first date, well, ever, and I'm kind of trying this new thing out where I keep some of the best stuff to myself.

Don't worry, you'll still have full access to all the stuff where I make an ass of myself. Never fear, children. The world is still rotating on its axis.

The actual first date plans were a surprise, so when I showed up downtown and got directed to a location down by the river I was only five percent curious if the joke we'd been making about him burying me in the woods on our first date was about to come true. I KID. There would've been much easier ways to off me than that. I mean the rushing Mississippi river was right there, for example. And burying me in the woods would probably require actually killing me first. Think of the screaming!

Anywho.

He had a picnic set up in a clearing with an amazing view of the river, which was -- why can I find no words to describe this that don't feel cheesy and overdone? -- dramatic and stunning. It was the closest I'd been to it since the flood waters started rising and it was truly a sight to behold. We had barbecue and beer and watched the sunset, purple, orange and smoky, right on the water through the beams of the old bridge. And talked. And did nothing. And it was the perfect way to pass an evening.

The end? Hope not.

cheers,
elizabeth

P.S.: I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, what's his name? What do we call him? How will we know when this character appears again!? And the thing is, I spent a lot of time trying to come up with the perfect Mister moniker and nothing really seemed just right. Mostly all I could think about was how this first date was, legitimately, the most thoughtful first date I've ever been taken on. (Of course, when compared with winning ideas like the sit-down pizza restaurant first date or the "I forgot they only take cash here" first date or the ever-popular, oh-so-romantic, collegiate house party first date, it's maybe not so difficult to land on top.) The second part of our date that night was up to me -- I had to choose between door number one and door number two, essentially, to decide what we'd do for the rest of our evening. And for that reason, and a few others which shall remain a mystery, I will call him: Mr. Choose Your Own Adventure.

(Mr. CYOA for short, of course.)

putting the too in too much

2011-05-17T21:56:00.000-04:00

I know that there are crazy people everywhere. Like, logically, I know that. I am sure that there are, in all corners of the country, bat shit crazy individuals. But in the south? Our crazy people? Well, they're just better.

Case in point: Paul McLeod.

Paul is the owner and proprietor of Graceland Too, a friendly little establishment just down the road from Memphis in Holly Springs, Mississippi. And to be fair, Paul isn't crazy, per se. He's not going to trap you in his house and eat your brains with fava beans and a nice chianti. In fact, he's pretty much harmless. He just happens to be the world's most passionate, eccentric, sometimes questionable Elvis Presley savant.

He's covered his entire Holly Springs house in Elvis memorabilia, and parts of it in photos of all the people who've visited the little museum since he started it. (If you make the trek three times, you become a lifetime member. How the heck else is he supposed to remember what you look like?)

I have a decent level of personal shame that it took me until a few weeks ago to make my very first visit to one of the South's greatest tourist attractions. But I did it, and I'll be going back to claim my lifetime membership with basically any brave soul who visits me from now until the sad day when Paul is no longer with us. Because, y'all. Damn. The guy has an electric chair in his backyard for Christ's sake. (Clearly I sat in it.)

This reminds me of back when I was living in Yankeeland, and I used to write occasional blog posts called "Reasons to love New York." If I were to attempt a series on reasons to love the South, Graceland Too and its associated crazy person would be in the top ten. Or maybe the top twenty?

Because let's be honest. I'm pretty sure the top ten would solidly be food products.

cheers,
elizabeth

on making (even more) friends

2011-05-16T19:33:00.000-04:00

This time, honestly, I brought it on myself.

I was at the doctor's office last week for the official Second Opinion on the Big Toe appointment that took officially two and a half hours of my life that I'm confident I will never get back. While waiting on the table in the examination room, feet dangling off the edge, I actually fell asleep long enough to get indentations on the insides of my arms from where they were folded against my dress.

But before I was called back to see the doctor (and for the second set of x-rays that would prove, definitively, that my dumb ass toe is undeniably BROKE), I got to spend some time sitting in the waiting room just one chair away from Chatty McChattytown, Keeper of the Twenty Questions.

As you might recall, I shared with you a few weeks ago just how adept I've become in recent years at making friends. And in this situation, I have to confess to you: I brought it on myself. Why did I think I could answer a question? Why? Why did I think that it would be safe, for even one second, to engage a potential new friend with no awareness of when I might be saved, rescued by the nurse who would call me up to finish my paperwork or take my blood pressure? Why would I open my mouth when I knew I was stuck there indefinitely?

I don't really know why. But I did. After the second (or third, or fourth) question to float aimlessly about the waiting room regarding the status of downtown Memphis and whether or not it was completely underwater or only partly underwater or actually becoming the new Atlantis and totally ruled by mermen and talking fish, I couldn't take it anymore. As apparently the only native Memphian in the room (are there no orthopedic doctors in the rest of west Tennessee?) I felt compelled to respond. And that's all it took for Chatty McChattytown to latch onto me like a waiting room leech. And oh, GOD. Y'all. Did I try to flick her off. REPEATEDLY.

Even as I read a magazine and checked work e-mails on my phone simultaneously, she still attempted to engage me in conversation. And I couldn't just not say anything, she was sitting right there! I'd already spoken to her once, so she knew I was fully capable of hearing her AND speaking English. I was trapped.

To make matters worse, Chatty was an "mmhmm" lady. She "mmhmmed" every single sentiment that escaped my mouth, often before I'd even finished expressing them. Multiple times in a row. To things that absolutely did not require or even suggest the want for an "mmhmm." Not in the least.

But it gets worse still. Everything that Chatty said was apparently a question, even when what she said was a.) definitely not a question, and definitely a definitive statement; or b.) maybe a question, MAYBE, but spoken with absolutely no vocal inflection to indicate such, followed by an intent stare that I eventually realized was Chatty, waiting on me to answer her non-question. The first one in the seemingly never-ending series was: "You live downtown."

Luckily this first one was easy, because I don't live downtown. So I said, "No, I live in midtown." Of course, Chatty used to live in midtown so she had to tell me exactly where that was. Then she wanted to know if I'd braided my own hair. (Excuse me: "You did those braids yourself.") When I told her that I had, she said, "You're young, you're young." I didn't respond initially, other than a nod, and as I glanced back down toward the WebMD magazine article on healthy fats or something or other, I could feel Chatty's eyes BURNING into my flesh. She was clearly waiting, y'all. On an answer. To her question.

So I said, "Yes, yes. I'm 26." And then? Then came the best non-question of the morning: "You're just in med school, studying to be a doctor."

So according to Chatty, if you're young and you don't live downtown, you must be in medical school. Rock solid logic, I say.

Chatty then offered me a Jolly Rancher. I politely declined. Chatty "mmhmmed" my decision. "You had breakfast," she said.

Clearly this, too, was a question.

And then, y'all? Chatty wanted to know what I'd had to eat for breakfast. I have never wanted to be more engaged with an issue of WebMD Magazine in my entire life. I told her that I'd had cereal, but by then she was actually more interested in finding out where I bought my purse -- when I answered Macy's, she "mmhmmed" -- and telling me I shouldn't set it on the floor because you KNOW what they say THAT means. You'll never have any money.

Finally, FINALLY, Chatty's name was called and she told me to have a blessed day, and I spent the next 15 minutes staring at my dumb broken toe. Because at that point, even eye contact seemed risky.

No wonder I napped on the exam table. Interrogation is exhausting, y'all.

cheers,
elizabeth

this is memphis

2011-05-06T13:27:00.006-04:00

So my friend Michael is working on this really cool project called This is Memphis. He's looking to capture exactly what this city is made of -- interesting, unique, striking faces of the individuals and personalities who blend to give Memphis its character.

If you're interested in getting involved, please give me a shout and I'll connect you with Michael. You can view the full project (as it continues to grow and be a work in progress) by clicking here, and of course you can see my photo below, along with a few outtakes for your viewing pleasure. (The outtakes feature my friend and co-worker Cameron.)

cheers,
elizabeth

the ultimate turn-on: orthopedic footwear

2011-05-01T20:34:00.004-04:00

I don't remember being accident prone as a kid. I mean, sure. I'd come back to school each fall with my knees bloodied and scabbed, my legs looking like 40 miles of bad road from swimming in canals and jumping off rocks and running into trees in the woods and other fairly run-of-the-mill kid-type activities. But I never broke a bone. And in general, I just don't remember being quite the clutz that apparently I have so elegantly matured into.

At least since entering my 20s, I can chart a pattern of absolute idiocy that has resulted in both bodily harm and ruined property. An absolutely embarrassing amount of ruined property, actually. I've spilled the contents of countless beverage glasses or cups onto countless laptops, keyboards, couches, carpets, brand new dresses, bedspreads and other assorted surfaces. Most recently I spilled an entire 16-ounce glass of vodka tonic onto my crotch and an upholstered recliner at a friend's house literally seconds after fixing it and sitting down. I turned the whole glass right over, as if I suddenly thought I'd been called into an ill-timed and impromptu game of flip cup. And then I spent the rest of the evening with a cold, wet crotch. And, since I'd been sitting cross legged, soggy feet.

So last week, when I attempted to pull in the legs on a folding table in the office and found that this particular folding table weighed only a little less than ME just in time to watch it go crashing to the ground, and onto my right foot, I was not at all surprised. In a ridiculous amount of pain, yes. Screeching and jumping around, of course. But not surprised.

(As Stefanie said when I called to tell her about it, "Are you kidding me? You once flat ironed PLASTIC into your OWN HAIR. Of course I'm not surprised.")

After checking on the two most important issues I could think of immediately following the incident -- the state of my pedicure and the Nine West heels I was wearing at the time -- I realized that my toe was, in fact, turning black and purple and that this might be a little more serious than one of those say-a-few-swear-words-and-feel-better kind of accidents.

At the urging of my boss, I went to minor medical the next morning to get my toes x-rayed (after standing on them, in heels, all evening at an event) and sure enough, the damn big toe is broken. This is distressing in the first place because it breaks my stunning 26-year streak without a single broken bone. I was really hoping I could've made it to at least menopause.

But it's also distressing for two other very big reasons. The first is that I've recently gotten back into running, and probably for the last three or four weeks I've been running around three miles a day. It makes me feel like a million crisp one dollar bills and let me tell you, the stationary bike just doesn't cut it in comparison.

The second reason is a little more aesthetic. It's this boot, y'all. The orthopedic boot. Not only is it fairly unattractive all by its ownself, it severely limits my footwear options. Mostly it means: NO HEELS.

Y'all, this moratorium on tall pointy shoes is wreaking havoc on me in a way I never would've or could've imagined. I've got an appointment at the Campbell Clinic on Tuesday morning for a follow-up with an actual orthopedic doctor, and while I've got my secret hopes that they'll look at it and say, SURPRISE! It's not broken at all, crazy minor medical YAHOOS! I know that, really, that's probably not in the cards. And they'll probably tell me something horrifying like, you have to wear that boot for FOUR WEEKS. Or worse! I don't know that I won't cry over that news. I just can't make that kind of guarantee.

It's all kind of funny, though, in a way. Because if this same thing had happened to high school me -- or even college me, really -- I would've been pleased as punch and pie to wear flip flops for weeks and weeks on end with no variation whatsoever. I mean, I doubt I would've been thrilled at the broken toe part of the deal, but nonetheless the footwear side of the issue would not have been a major concern. I don't even know if I knew how to walk in heels back then.

But somewhere along the way, adult me became that girl who wears high heels. And fancy stockings. And dresses up every day for work and has more dresses than pairs of pants and plans ensembles around a pair of blue-suede four-inch heels. And now that this girl has to wear an orthopedic boot? She is kind of freaking out a little bit. Keeping it in perspective, of course, what with floods and wars and earthquakes and plagues and shit. But still. Freaking out just a little.

Maybe I'm just afraid that without my heels, everyone will finally realize that I actually AM a midget. But hey. At least the huge, ghastly purple bruise complements my toe nail color.

Priorities, people.

cheers,
elizabeth

all my exes are getting married (but not in texas)

2011-04-29T13:54:00.005-04:00

You know what's messed up?

Okay, a lot of things. I know. This list could go on and on, and also, ON. But do you know what's really messed up?

(Just stay with me.)

When your exes get married. And if you wanted to put messed up in a cage match with really messed up until they were both just bloodied and beaten and quite literally, messed up, well that would be the intersection of Crazy and Crazier that I arrived at last weekend when I found out that not one, but TWO of my exes are getting married. (Not to each other, of course.)

To be fair, I'd known one was engaged for a while. (You might remember this post from back when I learned the news initially.) But he hadn't set a date and no official planning had started. But now? Now, he has. And I never would've known had Holly not pointed me to the official wedding web site while we were discussing the engagement of another of my exes.

And let me just note that the worst time to find out your British ex-boyfriend is engaged is when there's a royal wedding coming up and every other commercial on television is pictures of the London skyline and wedding dresses and people in British accents talking about the nuptials of the century. I believe the kids would say: IN YO FACE.

It's such a weird thing, when this happens, because clearly those relationships ended for a reason. One much more amicably than another, but nonetheless both of them were not meant to be. We weren't compatible. C'est la vie. But for some intangible, inexplicable reason, it just gets you. And what makes it even sillier is that I'm perfectly fine (very happy, in fact) with not being married. I think it's something that's a decent stretch into my future. But it still feels like they beat me. Like they won or they figured something out before I did. They got the golden coin that I'm still looking for. AND the invisibility cloak. Bastards.

And then the inevitable question: what does this mean about ME? The realistic answer, of course, is that it means nothing. Nada. Because it has jack squat to do with me. It has to do with them, and the women they both met and their decision to make it a legal commitment. But somewhere inside the recesses of your crazy woman brain, it has EVERYTHING to do with you. And unfortunately, crazy is hard to silence. Especially when one of your soon-to-be-wed exes has the most ridiculous wedding web site in the history of web sites custom made for insanely specific occasions. If I were a person who barfed, well, there would have been multiple barfs. Instead I just made a face that looked like I SMELLED barf. Pretty much the entire time.

These things should just wash over me, I know they should, because these people are in my past and my future is bright and happy. But somehow it's not that easy. If you've got the secret, I want to know it.

cheers,

elizabeth

one step closer to mr. right

2011-04-18T14:12:00.003-04:00

I feel like, as women, we spend an inordinate amount of cumulative hours over the course of our lives contemplating every quality and trait and like and dislike and facial hair placement of the one, the only, Mr. Right.

(And maybe guys do this too, with Ms. Right? But since I am perhaps the least qualified person to pontificate on what goes on inside the male brain -- and also I don't think BOOBIES really requires all that much higher level thought -- I'm going to stick to what I know.)

We imagine what he'll look like, of course, but more importantly things like what his job will be and what kind of romantic things he'll do and how he'll propose and what his family will be like and what his hobbies will be and if he's a dog person or a cat person or a goldfish person. And then, of course, we imagine a whole other host of characteristics, a list that works in tandem with the first list: the Deal Breakers.

The Deal Breaker List has always been much easier for me to rattle off on command. But when it comes to those things I would like in a mate, I'm still kind of trying to sort the "must-have" traits from the "would-be-nice" traits. I tend to think the right person somewhere down the line will rather organically help me figure all that out. But the other day, I nailed one. A must-have.

As I was driving home from a run in the park, I saw a sign in front of this ridiculous building of condos that's situated right across the street from the University of Memphis that I've always thought looked ill-placed and overpriced. Wildly overpriced. And the sign said: Open house tours today. Park here!

I just about schphitzed. Do you have any idea how many times I've driven past that place and wondered what the inside looked like? Wondered what's going on inside a fancy mid-rise condo in a not-fancy location that makes it worth a bazillion dollars? I mean, do they have porcelain bidets and geese laying golden eggs in your sitting room? It's a valid question.

And as I continued driving down the street and resisted the overwhelming urge to stop (I had just finished a two-mile run and I'm sure I smelled like it, too), I instantly thought about that list. The Mr. Right list. I may not have a hell of a lot figured out about what I want, but I can tell you that my Mr. Right, whoever he is, would've been right there with me, making up fake names and back stories, pretending to be oil tycoons from Texas, introducing ourselves to the realtor and waltzing right in to ogle the goods. And then probably examining a marble fixture of some sort and asking, in all seriousness, if it would be possible to replace it with 24 karat gold. Or better yet, white gold. Actually, scratch that, can we just grind up some diamonds and dust the entire bathroom?

And then maybe asking where the butler's quarters were located.

Now, I'm sure that probably neatly files under "spontaneous" or "adventurous" or "completely ridiculous" or some simplified something like that. But whatever you call it, you can place it on my must-have list under "witty" and "smart" and "tall enough to reach my light bulbs."

cheers,

elizabeth

on making friends

2011-04-16T19:03:00.002-04:00

I'm fairly good at making friends. Pretty much always have been, really, mostly because from a young age I had no qualms with introducing myself to strangers, and in the occasional case seemed to see winning people over as some sort of spectator-less sport.

But it's only been in recent years that I've become quite adept at making friends when I wasn't even trying. Times when I'm just minding my own business, not trying to strike up a conversation with anyone, just off in my own head -- that's when I particularly shine. Maybe I have one of those faces that makes people feel comfortable sharing inappropriate personal anecdotes or portions of their life story. Maybe I'm sending out some kind of body language signals that say, please put your hand on my arm (and squeeeeeze!) while you're speaking to me even though we have never met before and I don't know you from a ham sandwich.

Whatever is to blame for this phenomenon, it has resulted in strange and awkward conversations and assorted nonverbal encounters with my countless new buddies on trains, in elevators, at bars, in bathrooms and most recently, at the juke box at the Young Avenue Deli.

I was at the Deli on Sunday night with some co-workers toasting to a successful weekend of working our asses off, and I'd been handed a crisp five dollar bill to play juke box DJ, which is arguably my favorite game of all time (besting even "how much fro-yo can I eat in one sitting" and also "how much can I nerd out about music before someone hits me with a blunt object"). So off I went to the juke box, where I spent probably the next ten minutes making my selections and, naturally, making a friend.

As I approached the juke box, I thought this guy was walking toward it, as well. Not trying to skip ahead in line, I kind of made eye contact with him to gauge if he was going in for the kill or giving me the right of way. But I guess he was just having trouble walking in a straight line, because he was in no way, shape or form headed for that juke box. And since he probably didn't realize I was heading that way either, I think we can safely assume he thought I was undressing him with my eyes. AWESOME.

About halfway through my selections, as I was bouncing from the Toadies down to Stone Temple Pilots and crafting a nice little 96X arc in my playlist, I feel something graze the small of my back. And as I glance over my shoulder to see if one of my cohorts has come over to assist, I realize that I had just been quasi-back-groped by my new best friend.

And I want to tell you that it ended there. That him caressing the small of my back was the weirdest thing that happened that night. But that would be a lie. And it would leave you sadly devoid of the visual of him, in his flannel shirt and long wavy hair, dancing, by himself, three feet from our table. All four major extremities in motion. And maybe spirit fingers.

There are a lot of things I want to say about that incident -- about half of which, admittedly, just lyrics from Tina Turner songs -- but I'm going to leave you with the comment of someone at our table when I came back to tell the juke-box-caress story.

"Oh, small of the back? RELATIONSHIP AREA."

Do you hear that, flannel friend? Relationship Area. You could at least give me a five for the juke box next time.

cheers,
elizabeth

toilet seats, and how them being up is probably the least of our worries

2011-04-13T17:37:00.002-04:00

When you're a female who lives alone, you tend to notice when you come home from work to find your toilet has been left seat-up.

And by notice, I mean spend about 30 seconds with your head cocked to one side staring at said toilet seat, followed by about five minutes of CSI-level sleuthery around the house and perhaps an additional one to two minutes of mild hysteria that the dude who took a tinkle and didn't do you the courtesy of returning the lid to its full, locked-down position is maybe actually STILL IN YOUR HOUSE.

And maybe right behind you.

But then, if you're me, you remember that about two weeks ago you asked your landlord to fix the overhead light and outlet in your living room that haven't worked since Christmas and that she had mentioned something about the electrician coming maybe some time this week, and that probably the electrician needed to relieve himself at some point and did so in this very location. (And then, if you're still me, you also get to be annoyed that your outlet and overhead light STILL ARE NOT WORKING. This from the landlord who managed to finally fix my heat right before the temperature spiked to 75 in the middle of March. PREESH.)

I'm assuming said electrician was in my house by his own self, mostly because a.) my landlord always leaves me a note, especially if what she came to fix is shockingly STILL BROKEN, and b.) she probably would've had the foresight to cover their tracks a little bit by lowering the seat for him on the way out.

I have to be honest, y'all. In my old age, I am consistenly surprised by the level of filth and disorder that men are not only oblivious to but perfectly happy with living in. (And before you lecture me on 26 hardly counting as 'old age,' just know that when I went into the new Urban Outfitters the other day I actually uttered something aloud having to do with not paying someone the equivalent of my first-born child for pants that already have a hole in the ass and also WHERE IS THE REST OF THAT DRESS.)

And let's be clear on one thing, I am by no means the world's foremost authority on cleanliness. I regularly allow conditions to develop in my home that I know my mother, for example, would not tolerate. The stack of newspapers waiting to be taken to the recycling center actually got as tall as me before the last time I made a trip. My garbage often begins to smell before I take it out and on occasion my refrigerator has been known to develop ghastly and unknown odors because I forgot about that half-pint of cream I bought for tea three and a half months ago.

But, that being said, I do have a certain standard of clean that has to be reached at least once a week in that place. And that means no rings in the bathtub. No dust bunnies in plain sight. Nothing growing anywhere that isn't a potted plant, if you catch my drift. I dust, I vacuum, I clean my bathroom, I wash my hand towels and my bath towels. I keep a good semblance of adulthood going on in there.

And for the love of God, I will always, ALWAYS, have toilet paper.

Because for every seemingly permanent ring around a toilet I've gazed at in awe and disgust at the home of a male friend, there has been an empty cardboard roll devoid of a single square of two-ply. And I get it, guys. I get it. You don't need it all the time. But me? And all of womankind? We do. Why is running out of toilet paper EVER an option? Especially if you ever, ever, ever intend to have a female in your direct vicinity?

Because then, there you are, handing a girl a stack of coffee filters before she walks into your bathroom. And expecting her to use one. As TOILET PAPER.

(For the record, she'll use it. Hypothetically speaking, of course.)

cheers,
elizabeth

mr. part time, and how i suck at ripping off band-aids

2011-04-03T20:26:00.011-04:00

Remember the time I told you about Mr. Part Time? And then after introducing him, never mentioned him ever again? Well, except that one time when he came over to borrow my iron and how interesting is that, really?

Well, let's talk about it.

This has been a weird and complicated thing, and one of those weird and complicated things that I haven't felt like I could really write about because the other half of the weird-and-complicated-thing reads this blog. And to say that I've tried to play my cards close to my chest with him would be an understatement. I never really knew what I'd say about things between us in this space because I didn't know how much I wanted to reveal or how much I wanted to open up the door to the inner-workings of my heart. And perhaps more frighteningly, my brain (under the influence of my heart).

Because, not shockingly, what had started as purely physical had become emotional and mental, too, and this really fantastic friendship had grown out of it all because, turns out, we're more compatible than I've ever been with any other guy I've known. When you start lusting after someone's brain, too, that's when things really get out of hand.

In the past month or so we seemed to get in this habit of getting drunk and having intense conversations about the state of whatever this was between us -- and please, let's leave the 'R' word out of it, because the one time I ever referred to what we had as an 'R' word I almost immediately wished I'd never spoken the sentiment out loud -- and this was mostly the result of the bomb Mr. Part Time dropped on me around the first of March that he was thinking about getting back together with his ex-girlfriend. Even though he felt like he owed it to me to tell me this, he also claimed (when I reacted fairly strongly) that he had no idea I felt the way I feel about him. It felt like bullshit at the time, and it still pretty much does, but I can't deny the fact that I spent a solid three or four months trying to convince him that I was the coolest broad that ever lived. I'm cool with no commitment! I'm cool with no expectations and no attachments! Because I'm cool! See? See how cool I am?

In the course of all these long conversations about the state of our non-R-word, we basically decided that we liked the way things were between us, neither one of us wanted an R (still), and that we wanted to keep it that way.

But once upon a time, before we got to that point, when he first dropped that bomb on me? I told him then that I just wasn't sure. I wasn't sure I could be his friend. Because I knew I needed to protect my heart. But for whatever reason, a few drunken conversations later, I was totally okay with our arrangement, and apparently no longer worried about my heart. Or, more likely, I was ready to ignore that nagging worry for what felt good at the time, and telling myself that whatever pain came later wouldn't be more than I could take.

So on we went. As we were. Until about a week and a half ago, when things seemed to change. I realized that he hadn't touched me -- and I don't mean sexually -- in what felt like ages. I felt starved for physical affection. For a hug. For a hand on my shoulder. For any gesture that demonstrates that someone cares about you, that warms your skin, that makes you feel loved. And forget romantic love -- just loved, the way a friend loves you. Human connection. It was so absent from our interactions and it sucked.

And so the other night, I told him just as much. And we managed to have another one of our State of the Non-R conversations that seemed to end in a place I was happy with. But what I didn't fully realize then was that Mr. Part Time and I have this amazing talent for talking and talking and TALKING and never actually communicating. And oh boy, do we think that we have! I'm certain that each of us felt we were on the same page at the end of that chat, when in fact not only were we not on the same page, the books themselves were about as disparate as if I were reading the Communist Manifesto and he were reading the latest selection from Oprah's Book Club.

Later in the evening, this snafu of understanding revealed itself when I'd had a little too much wine to drink and he offered to let me crash at his place. On his couch. And when I looked at him, confused, and said, "On the couch?" He said, "Or you can sleep in my bed, and I can take the couch."

And something just snapped inside me. I'd spent the last three months trying to be cool. Even as I became more and more attached, I thought that he was, too. So when he'd hurt me, I'd forgive, so quickly that I'd hardly had time to recognize the depth of the wound. And as I played my cards close to my chest, he would get drunk and say what he felt. He'd tell me he wanted to take me out on a real date, the way I deserved. Or talk about how special I am or tell me that he likes it best when it's just the two of us, and we can be completely ourselves with each other. Things that anyone wants to hear from someone they like, and things that, human as I absolutely am, created expectations in my mind for where things were headed. Expectations that were based in absolutely nothing real or true. He was careless with his words and subsequently, my heart.

And then I'd let him let me down. We'd make plans, and he'd bail. Or he'd invite me to a party and then stand me up. Or, worst of all, he'd keep talking about taking me out on that date and never follow through. And when I told him how it all made me feel, or that he'd created expectations in my mind about where things were going between us, he shut me down. He made me feel like everything I felt was invalid, or wrong, or completely unmerited. He made me feel tiny. And yet, I was crazy about him. Crazy about the way I felt when I was with him, when things were good. And so I kept letting myself go back for more.

But that night, in that moment, I snapped. I knew eventually, I would. Honestly? I was scared it would take a lot longer than it did. I left his house bawling. Wailing, open-mouthed crying. Hiccuping. Because I knew it was over. Everything, not just our Non-R. Our friendship. Because now, after all the abuse it's taken, I am ready to take care of my heart. To repair it, and to protect it. And as much as it sucks -- and y'all, it really, really sucks -- that requires a cold turkey quit.

And that idea of quitting feels so apropos. I had a toxic habit that I knew was bad for me, but that was addictive and felt good. Most of the time. And I know that quitting, eventually, will make me feel better. The way they talk about your lungs beginning to heal just hours after your last cigarette, I know my heart is already starting that process, too. This will be the right decision, the healthy decision. But right now? It hurts more than the pain of staying. There was a reason it was so hard for us to just be "friends with benefits" -- we had amazing chemistry, as people. As personalities. And for the last four months or so I have spent more time with him than anyone else in my life. I have a great group of friends who will let me lean as long as my heart requires, but unfortunately, there's not one that gets me in the very particular way that he does. And that makes for an addiction that will not be easy to shake.

That night, I was angry. The next day I felt resolve that I was doing the right thing. Then, I felt sad. Today, I still feel sad. I'm mourning the loss of something that was really important to me, and it takes just about every ounce of my mental energy to keep from giving in to that lingering urge to revive it, raise it from the dead because this time, things could be different. But what I know, with certainty, and what I remember in those moments of weakness is that I didn't like the person I'd become in the middle of all of this.

I'm ready to get back to the me I do like. Because she is one effing cool broad. And I dig her.

cheers,
elizabeth

SXSW: part three

2011-03-25T13:31:00.001-04:00

Though SXSW hasn't always been known for its hip-hop, in recent years the scene has grown and frankly -- for me -- it just couldn't be the perfect week of live music if my ears didn't catch at least a few rhymes.

And also if my booty didn't shake. Just a little bit.

As it happens, Wil is also someone with a high appreciation for all things sampled, scratched, slowed-down, sped-up and rhymed over -- from your Busta or your Bone Thugs to your Biggie Smalls or your Black Rob -- which meant not only that I had a buddy for all the hip-hop shows my booty could take, but also that I could sometimes avoid being blatantly groped, both in large crowds and in broad daylight in the middle of the street. Sometimes.

Other times, of course, a Ving Rhames looking body guard would probably have been the only thing that could've warded off potential gropers, and even then they might've hung around for a second just to see if he had a blind spot they could potentially slip past for a quick grab-ass.

I guess if you're even 15 to 20 percent CREEPER, huge crowds at live shows are a veritable playground of temptation. Boobies and butts just everywhere, ripe for the anonymous gropin'! And since the vast majority of the time we're all so squished up next to one another that some light, unintentional groping becomes entirely unavoidable, these blatant gropers are given free reign to get in a good, completely intentional squeeze, followed immediately by the fail-safe defense known as "Look in another direction and WHISTLE LOUDLY."

Sometime during the hour or so Wil and I were standing in the crowd waiting for the Wu-Tang Clan one night, a guy tried to push up from behind and weasel his way to a spot in front of us. He reached out to touch me the way you would touch someone's arm as you walked by in close quarters, to sort of guide them out of your way. Only, he did not touch my arm, y'all. He reached his hand right between my arm and my chest and went straight for BOOB.

Naturally I recoiled and called him out, stopping just short of slapping his hand as if he were going for the last cookie. But then. THEN. He turns around like he's going to keep shoving his way through the crowd and I swear to you on 17 stacks of bibles or whatever is most holy to you -- so 17 stacks of girl scout cookies it is -- that he started reaching his arm back directly behind him, his hand outstretched, directly toward my-- WAIT, WHAT!?

Yes. I may be good at telling stories, but I suck almost exclusively at making them up, so please believe me when I tell you that this guy tried to grope me in the vagina. Clearly I made a quick move to diffuse the situation, but I need to put two things out on the table here. First, I need you to know that in telling this story to the folks on one side of us -- who we'd made friends with, like you do -- a few minutes later, I apparently opened myself up to a second creeper who seemed to glean from the story that I was somehow interested in being groped, just maybe not by that one dude. He went for my bum. Maybe he just wanted to make sure all the bases were covered.

The second thing I need to point out here is that I just don't understand, logistically, the vagina grope. Do I WANT to be groped, anywhere? Certainly not. Let's not mince words. But do I at least understand, based on my understanding of the lowest common denominator of hormones and urges, why touching a boob might be enjoyable for a dude passing by a nice set of them in a crowd? I do, yes. What I most certainly do NOT understand, however, is how anyone, in any way, benefits from the vagina grope. How would that be enjoyable for you, sir? I mean, perhaps he's just into getting punched in the face? Because had he been more successful in his attempt that night, a good sock in the jaw likely would've been in his future.

You figure it out.

The groping attempts did, at some point, subside and we watched the never-ending Wu-Tang set, which we followed the next night with some homegrown hip-hop (Skewby) and our second time that week to see Das Racist. These guys released two free mixtapes last year that have been on pretty heavy rotation in our office and we were all looking forward to seeing them. And not only did we see their sets, we met them. On two separate occasions. John met them one afternoon and Wil and I met them the next day (or maybe later the same day? again, let's not split hairs on timing here). And much like my fateful meeting with Donald Glover, I ran up to where they were walking about 25 yards ahead of us, walked right alongside them and quoted a line from one of their songs.

And then proceeded to tell a lengthy story about how I like to bump their song "You Oughta Know" in my 1995 Mazda 626 and how its speakers are really not capable of supporting the volume levels that I require when listening to it. I may have even discussed that I take it to 50, and I may have referred to my car by its Christian name, The Green Bean.

It. Was. Beautiful.

And to cap the week off in true hip-hop style? A carful of people at a random Taco Bell in some teeny interstate town in eastern Texas saw our huge white van and assumed (naturally) that we might be in a band traveling back home after SXSW. So we did what anyone would do in that situation.

Of course, we said. We're a rap group.

cheers,
elizabeth

SXSW: part two

2011-03-23T13:30:00.006-04:00

Several times during the longest week of my life, also known as SXSW, we picked random shows by random bands we'd never heard of and were heartily rewarded by the universe with accidentally amazing music. Accidental on our part, of course, because nothing about a killer sound is in any way an accident, as you (hopefully) well know.

On one of these random nights Wil and I decided to go see a band called Babeshadow, because they were playing at a venue we'd been to earlier in the week that we'd liked, and because the track that was streaming on their SXSW profile page was fun and punchy and we wanted to hear more. And y'all, these guys were so good. (You need to check them out now.) They're based in east London, and turns out they're on the same label as Florence and the Machine. Wil walked up and introduced himself to the bass player after the set and we had a quick chat with him and then also a friend of the band's (their next-door neighbor back in London, to be precise) and then we headed on to the next show of the evening.

Now, what happened next in the story is that we ran into the guys from Babeshadow on Sixth Street. And I want to say that this happened later that night. But I need to be perfectly honest with you. It could've just as easily been an entirely different day because the concepts of the passage of time during that week are about as clear for me as advanced mathematical algorithms. Here's what I'm 80 percent certain of: the Babeshadow guys had on the same clothes. Actually, I'm about 90 percent certain of that, but only about 30 percent certain that them having on the same clothing means these events happened on the same day.

I digress.

So we run into them on the street, two of the four -- the bass player, whose name I believe was Adam, and the lead singer/guitarist whose name is Tom -- and we're chatting them up and inviting them to head down Sixth Street to a random band after-party with us when I was overcome with an uncontrollable urge to be THAT person.

You know the person. The person who has to ask you if, in a city of literally MILLIONS, you know the one person that they also know. Because you're from the same place, right? So maybe? Or maybe you know someone who went to the university that this person also went to, a university with maybe 20,000 students. So let's just throw a few names on the wall and see if something sticks. And 99.9 percent of the time, inevitably they don't know whoever it is you've mentioned, not even in passing, and then you just feel like the world's biggest jackass because basically what you've just done is say, "Oh, you live in Manhattan? So does my friend Susie! Do you know her!?"

No. No, I don't. Jackass.

But since it wouldn't be my first time making a jackass of myself in a public place in front of stupidly attractive English guys, I went for it. I said, "Are you familiar with EarMusic by any chance?"

(EarMusic being a music showcase/promotions company in London that my friend Sarah's lovely boyfriend Simba works for.)

And I guess we'll call this the .01 percent example, because they did. And they knew Simba, and Sarah, and in that moment I basically lost all my faculties right there in the middle of the street in Austin, Texas, and two things happened. The first is that I was so moved by the weird ways of the universe that I would meet someone in a city in Texas who knows one of my very favorite people on earth, my hands-down best friend in the UK, that I honestly got a little bit choked up and kind of blurbled incoherently for a minute.

And the second thing that happened, I'll probably never live down. Because y'all, in that moment, I was so overwhelmed with excitement that I kind of went a little British.

First, there were the shrieks of "You know Sarah? That's my best mate!" And then, there it was. My weird transatlantic quasi-British accent. And it would not go away. And even as I stood chattering excitedly with these guys, I could hear myself. And I knew. I knew that John and Wil, both having a good working set of ears, could also hear me. And I knew that I would never, ever live this down.

And I suppose in that moment I just accepted this fact, because all the way down Sixth Street on our way to a party that ended up being behind a Wendy's past the interstate bridge and inside of a big yellow school bus, I just kept on keepin' on. And even as I was Google mapping the location of a second party for Tom and Adam and giving them directions as to how to get back down to where they were headed, I was in rare anglophile form.

Wil and John's favorite word in my little ridiculous accent was "essentially." And trust me. I still hear it from them about once a day.

cheers,
elizabeth