santa maria. pinta. niña... titanic.

Usually I'm not thankful for anything. I'm pretty sure everything I receive is either well-deserved, completely warranted, or just figures.

But, it is Thanksgiving. Or near it, sort of. Even I, on the holiest of all holidays centered around over-eating, swallow my pride and bitterness to give thanks to those who've earned it.

To start off, I'd like to express my thankfulness for blankets. They are cozy, and warm, and they smell nice. I love blankets. I wish I could wear one at work... but alas, I work outside the home, and people would think me strange should I show up in the tasting room with a down comforter draped across my shoulders. One of my great regrets...

Thank you, world, for Washington state. I don't have much to compare it to, seeing as though I've lived in it my entire life (oh God, how lame?!), but it's beyond dece. It has lakes, rivers and oceans, cities and small towns, rain forests, regular forests, deserts and mountains, and Pullman. It is spectacular. And it's shaped cool, not like one of those Dakotas or Tennessee. W (clap, clap, clap) A (clap, clap, clap) S (clap) H (clap) I (clap, clap, clap).... ugh, you get the idea. Jebus, you know, that's a lot of claps. Well, I suppose it is the anthem of a college town... Ha.

What else, what else. Ahhh, DVR, how I love you so. Thank you for letting me watch my shows without having to sit through all those dumb ass Roni Deutch ads. When the day comes that I move into Megan's and have to give up the fast forward feature... I'm sure I'll die a little bit inside. Damn. DAMN!

Hmmm... Oh, thank you Mark Zuckerberg, for selling out majorly and making Facebook available to my GRANDMOTHER. Do you know how bad I feel denying my Grandma's friend request? I just let it sit there, along with my mother's and various aunts and uncles, leering at me. They leer. Let us be your friend, Elizabeth, they say. And let my debauched haven become some unfortunate version of familial show and tell? Fat chance! "And here, Grandma, is a photo of my 3rd beer bong of the night."

I'm not the same person to you all as I am to my Grandma. To her I'm somewhat intelligent, sincere, and an all-around decent human being. She calls me, "Lovey Dovey", for Christ's sake. It was bad enough senior year when I was crowned Prom princess (less 'crowned' and more 'lost-but-still-given-a-tiara-and-title-by-default') and had to explain to her why people were yelling "BOOZE!" at me on stage, and what it meant, exactly, when they asked me about a Dairy Queen spoon... Yeah, thank you very much.

Speaking of Facebook, thanks to whomever decided it was okay to say whatever the hell you want on your status updates. It's almost always some crazy girl bitching about the idiots who wade in her cesspool of dating. "So-and-so thinks guyz r the BIGGEST PEICES OF SHIT EVERR. All guys. All of them. Especialy u, Fred. I hate u. U RUINED MY LIFE. N u stole my car! N I kno it was u callin all those hookers n shit... I pay for ur phone! I hate all men. There scum! But not u, Daddy. I luv u." ... Ugh. These typo-riddled rants are usually followed by a slew of commenting supporters, their grammatical prowess paralleled in the original post. If we're really lucky, it's the guy in question answering back. "Bitch u don't know me!" Also, how hard is it to spell out the word 'you'? Really, people.

It's my personal belief that any guy who would date a girl with no observable social awareness deserves to be mistreated in cyberspace. And any girl who's so pathetic as to use Facebook to alleviate the stress of dating such a nutbag deserves him as well. Get a life. Or don't, because I seriously love reading how psychotic you are. ...Hmm. Maybe I'm the one who needs a life. (in the crazy girls' defense, it's been my experience that we don't start out that way... it's you boys who drive us to the edge of our sanity...)

While we're on the subject of people who make me feel better about myself--- a big thanks goes to reality TV and just about everyone in it, because without you all as such sparkling examples of humanity, I'd feel like a real ass most of the time. Thanks for keeping me in check and showing me how truly normal I am.

Thanks 12-year molars, for finally gracing me with your presence. You've been 11 years in the making. Wisdom teeth? I have none. Say what you will.

Thank you, thank you, Steve Jobs, for creating a whole heap of shiny, expensive products that I don't really need, and never really thought I wanted, until I saw you explaining their gloriousness in a keynote.

Thanks Bank of America, for sending me a Cougar debit card. It brightens my day every time I make a purchase. It's especially exciting when I get 20% cash back on Cougar gear, like red solo cups, ping pong balls, and Busch Light.

Ooo, I should also thank Wikipedia, for giving me endless (if not false) information at my fingertips. Though I won't be completely appreciative until I have my own Wikipedia entry, declaring me the smartest, funniest, and perhaps the best person in the world.

I'd like to give a shout out to Christian Louboutin for making such lust-worthy, completely amazing high heels. Oh, and Christian, while I've got you here, I would like to un-thank you for pricing them at $800 a pair. It's a bit steep for someone who majored in English, if you know what I mean...

Also, while I'm un-thanking people, I'd like to un-thank God for making me 5'11". I want to wear Louboutins at my wedding, God, but you've made this nearly impossible. Do you know how hard it is to find an intelligent, rich, gorgeous guy who's 6'5", who happens to be spectacularly witty and interesting and perhaps foreign, who also wants to put up with me for as long as we both shall live? Of course you know how hard it is... you only made one of them. And for some reason, he's not returning my calls (I'm talking to you, Alexander Skarsgard... Marry me.) But, jokes on you, God. My knees are double-jointed, so I'll just stand kind of weird and settle for 6'2". HaHA!

Muchas gracias, tequila, for being AWESOME. I love you. Probably a little too much.

Thank you, texting. Now I barely have to talk to anyone, and it's fabulous. Sans the occasional typo that misconstrues an entire message, you are great. You're concise, timely, and sort of discreet- except today when I literally walked into a Hanukkah display at Target whilst texting Justin a picture of a menorah. That was not discreet. It would've seemed hate crime-ish, had I not immediately stooped to stow the white and blue candles back on their shelf... Sorry, Moses.

I guess I should thank all whom I consider my friend. I seriously have no idea why most of you have stuck around. I think it's that by now, I know too much about you, and at our age it's hard to break in new friends, and even harder to find ones that will be accepting of the annoying qualities we all seem to possess. Love you guys.

And last, but certainly not least, thanks Mom and Dad... I thank you for a lot of things, but mostly for not putting me up for adoption once you realized how strange I actually am :)

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody!

Tequila shots Wednesday night? I'll text you.

oh, dear me...

I was shuffling through my iPod the other day when Brad Paisley's Letter to Me came on. I thought to myself, "Why the hell did I ever download this song?" and quickly pushed 'next', only for Baz Luhrman's Everybody's Free (to Wear Sunscreen) to blast into the air around me.

I glanced about, hoping that no one would overhear my awful picks. You see, I tend to listen to my music very loud, ergo anyone within a 30 foot radius can usually decipher the lyrics flowing through my earbuds. I judge people quite harshly by their musical choices, for instance, right now I'm sitting in a parking lot, penning this to the soulful rhythm of Purple Rain. Who in their right mind would diss Purple Rain? ... What, no love for Prince? Hark, what blasphemy! It's a fantastic song, and you know it... But I digress. The fact that I followed a so-so country jam with an even stranger non-song was unforgivable. What next, Nickelback? Hah, just kidding. I'd shoot myself. Seriously.

Anyways, for some reason I kept listening to the Sunscreen song. I've always liked the one line: "Don't worry about the future ... ... The real troubles in your life are apt to be the things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindsides you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday." Kind of morbid, I'll admit, but I love the imagery. I can see myself sitting in my car on an idle Tuesday, the clock striking 4 as a semi careens my way... and suddenly I'm HIT!!#@*&$... with the realization that I should probably be at work, or something.

It didn't take but a moment to understand how serendipitous it was that these two songs played back-to-back. Obviously, Jesus (or Steve Jobs, whatevs) wanted me to blog a little old 'letter to me'.

I decided to write this letter to a 5 year old me, because not only was I a gifted reader with one hell of a vocabulary at that age, but also, I'm pretty sure age 5 is right when I started to fuck everything up. So here we go...


Dear Liz,

First of all, your name is Elizabeth. I know, it's long, and your hasty 8 year old self will want to shorten it to something that can be scribbled in an instant... but you will rue the day (rue, I tell you!) that you choose to go by 'Liz'. It's obnoxious, and too short and it's a bit onomatopoeia-ish. And to be honest, everyone's going to call you Booze, anyway. It's a long story. I'll explain later.

Speaking of days you will 'rue', one blissful 5th grade afternoon, you'll be accosted by a boy named Jevon. He'll be the one throwing water at you. You'll forgive him this, almost immediately- because you'll think him kind of cute. This is all an act- a trick of the light, I say! RUN. Run away from him, and never look back. If you don't cut him out of your life right then and there, he'll torture you for long as you both shall live...

Just to further illustrate how imperative it is to your sanity that you avoid and ignore him, let us take a stroll down memory lane... At age 16, after you see the Texas Chainsaw Massacre with all of your friends, you'll go home, so glad that you're not one of those silly girls who gets scared by silly movies. Cue Jevon, who will be waiting outside your bedroom window, revving a circular saw. He's also the one who dresses as a clown not once, but twice, all for your 'benefit'. You're afraid of clowns, but, by now, you already know this. His shenanigans will only cement your stance. Senior year he'll tell your government teacher that you have a knife in your backpack, which by then will be quite an offense... but you'll be granted clemency due to the fact that his only proof was an AIM account he purported as yours with the moniker 'knifeinmypack', and a hand-drawn picture of a cleaver that he stuffed in your bag. Once you've enrolled at WSU, he'll already have told all his friends (he has, surprisingly, many) that you're a heroin addict (you are not) who's had 9 abortions (of which you've had none)... And one time, he'll push you and you'll trip and go flying into a wall, bounce off a fire extinguisher and land on your ass. He'll laugh at this.

Speaking of which, you're unbalanced. Not in like, a schizo way, but more in the way that you fall down a lot. Realize this, and move on. Don't go rollerblading, snowboarding, skateboarding, or walking down B Street. This will save you a dislocated shoulder, bruised hip, bruised ego, the knees of two different pairs of jeans, a pair of aviator sunglasses, your left ankle and your sanity.

Regardless of your vigilance, you will never use the words 'supper' or 'soda' in normal conversation, and you aren't really ambidextrous. Why must you try to be so strange? The oboe? Really?! Get over yourself, kid. You're going to be weird enough without going out of your way to do so. Also, you pronounce 'crayon' wrong. Seriously. It's not 'cran'- it's 'cray-on'. People will make fun of you for this. And while I'm clearing up some egregious errors in your thought processes and pronunciations, I might as well mention these: islands are not floating pieces of land, hearts aren't shaped like hearts, and the lyrics are, "Don't go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you used to", not, "Don't go Jason waterfalls, blistex to the rivers and the lakes that you used to"...

Enough with the overalls. After age two, they cease to be precious and turn into pathetic.

Sometime in early grade school (between 1st and 2nd grade, to be sort-of exact), a freckle will appear on your lip. It's not pen, regardless of how many misguided, nosy strangers (and Grandma!) try to tell you to wipe it off your face. Even after you assure them that it's not pen, that it's permanent, they'll still stare at you, an air of doubt in their gaze... Get used to this. It happens once a week.

Lots of girls are impetuous, unreasonable and a bit creepy- and you are one of them even though you consider yourself to be sooooo balanced and normal and cool. You're not. Sorry.

Try to write a book about vampires that's actually good before 2005- because after that they become sparkly, thus making the entire genre worthless. Also, invest in Apple or something. Oh, and Y2K? Total BS. I'll let you know about this 2012 nonsense... or maybe I won't :/

Really, little Elizabeth... how many Beanie Babies does one actually need?

There will be a time in your adolescence that you decide to throw a party at your parent's house. FYI, someone leaves a Smirnoff Ice in the microwave... Your friends are cool. And just so you know... your friend Nick's going to tell your cousin Chris about the party, who's going to tell your aunt Elinor who's going to tell your mom. You don't get into trouble though, so chill out. Have a drink, or eight... you were a real bitch that night.

On that same note... you keep thinking vodka is your friend. IT DOES NOT LIKE YOU.

Relax about the little things, because chances are, they don't really matter anyway. Pay attention in class, and quit scribbling all over your notebooks, you're wasting paper. Be nicer to people because as the years go by you'll feel bad that you weren't.

Unfortunate things will happen. People will disappoint you. And you're going to disappoint yourself, more times than I'd like to admit- but that's kind of what life's about. You try things out, you make mistakes, you (hopefully) learn from them, and you get up and do it all over again. Sooner or later you'll come to the realization that the past is the past, the future may or may not be completely fucked- but life goes on. Just live. Just breathe. Have fun and be sincere and most of all, be present. From what I can tell you'll have good days and bad, but they're two sides of the same coin, you can't have one without the other. And maybe the odds are stacked in your favor, because so far, life's been pretty damn good.

Just do your best, so you can look back with no regrets, proud of what you've accomplished and without all those obnoxious, nagging, "what if" scenarios.

You've got one shot at this.

Be good.

Sincerely,

Booze

my friend, lawrence

I have a friend named Lawrence, though generally I refer to him as 'Bitch'. I call him this mostly because he is one.

The first time I met Lauri B was at a little place called Cleo's. Actually- I don't think it was called Cleo's then, I'm just one of those old people who refers to everything as they once were... ie: "After I get my groceries at Buttrey's, I'm going to head over to the Bon Marche and pick up a casserole dish..."

My friends frequented Cleo's not because they were gambling fiends, but because of the $2.99 steak and eggs special. I don't trust discount anything, let alone bargain-priced casino meat, so naturally, I never partook. But everyone else did. And by everyone else I mean Jevon, who ate his weight (his college weight, of course, as he's quite petite now) in dime-store ribeye.

I was supposed to meet Jevon somewhere on the vast casino floor, already aware that with him was his friend, 'Lawrence, from WSU, he went to Richland High, he's pretty cool.' I was under the impression that I'd already met all the cool people that existed in Richland, ergo I was a bit skeptical.

They were congregated near the darts, so I came up behind them and just watched. Like a creep.. standing there, not making myself known. I do this a lot. At WSU I'd navigate the main mall, and literally go out of my way to avoid people I knew. If I was in the Bookie, I'd ignore them, and hope they wouldn't recognize me without a drink in my hand. Lawrence saw me lurking in the shadows of the casino that night, but didn't say anything. He later confessed that he figured I was just some freak girl who was standing a bit too close, watching a bit too carefully, and shrugged it off. This happens to Lawrence a lot, I've come to find.

Jevon finally turned, startled by me. "Oh! Scary, Booze. This is Lawrence." We exchanged hellos and they continued their game. I, of course, pulled out my phone and texted a few friends, "Jevon's friend Lawrence? Hot." Okay. I admit, here and now, when I first met Lawrence, I thought he was good looking. We all did. I have since gotten to know him, and his looks no longer dazzle me into incoherence. Instead, I'm now captivated by his sparkling personality... :/

Anyway, while texting the girls, I probably launched into the part of my personality that's overly sarcastic, a little bit mean and maybe/kind of funny--- AKA the person I pretend to be when I'm too nervous or 'dazzled'... If the aforementioned is the only part of me you've ever seen, it's either that I like you, or that you intimidate me into incessant cynicism. (Usually it's the latter... there are only about 20 people who don't make me nervous- Lawrence being one of them. He puts me at ease with his constant fumblings- be they words he doesn't quite understand or curbs he trips over...)

We all hung out over the next few days, eating cheesecake from a tupperware tub, and visiting a place called, "Cheapskates"- where soup was spelled 'supe'. We hung out at Shari's until our parents were rising for work and drank obnoxious amounts of Busch Light at any opportunity (Mike's Hard for the ladies... and Lawrence). Also, one time, we spiked 32 ounce sodas with the cheapest vodka ever, and then went to Kohl's. I still don't know why.

That summer he became one of us, he was always around. It's still weird to me when I realize he has real friends- ones before us, because when we found him it was as if he'd been raised by wolves---

There was the camping trip, where he threatened to jump on the tent, flattening it, if we didn't let him in. You can't lock a fucking tent, he was just too drunk to figure out the zipper. He then screamed, "Someone shit on my shoes. I see it, I know what it is! Someone shit on my shoes!"

That first camping trip. We should have known then.

For the record, no one did anything to his shoes, but that didn't stop him from bitching constantly throughout the rest of the night about the conspiracy against him and his footwear.

Then there was the time Lawrence and I visited Jevon, hard at work, at the Sports Authority. Jevon was wandering around the shoe department, hiding from customers and waiting for his next bathroom break- just another day on the job. As a man wearing a turban walked by, Jevon gave me a quick look. "Hey, Lawrence," he said, gesturing to the man. "Isn't that your dad?"

"I'm fucking Catholic, you asshole," Lawrence replied.

Ah, my friend Lawrence... he has a way with words. From his Xbox handle, 'Mussyjams' to his catchy signature phrases- ("Yeah bitch, I guess" and "nutbags" being two of my favorites), his every utterance delights me. When we were going through security at the airport on our way to the Vegas senior year, his eyes narrowed as I emptied my pockets, dropping my Bonnebell into the personal-items tray. "What the fuck, Booze, are you popping at altitude?" Translation: "Liz, why do you have lip gloss on your person? Are you going to apply it on the plane? Why would you do this, there is no need." He's also fluent in babeonics, something that I find disgusting and fascinating all at the same time.

Lawrence is always on the cutting edge of fashion, and he once told me that he has "eyelashes people lust for."- an undeniable fact. During that first summer, Lawrence decided (was forced?) to get in touch with his feminine side. We (Megan, Ashley, Kaylee, Erica and myself) were gathered around Ashley's kitchen table, when we overheard Lawrence in the kitchen, on the phone. "When are you coming here?" He demanded, sipping out of a princess cup. "I'm stuck here with all the dumbass girls!"

He loves us, he just pretends to be bitter and angry and violent- of this I'm sure. 
Also, check out the princess cup clutched in his grenade hand.

Our influence was all too great, I'm sad to admit, and I can only imagine what his friends thought as they saw pictures of him in a dress all over Facebook. Yes. You read me right. It was a lovely green and white striped frock, with spaghetti straps and a v-neckline. In all honesty it was a bit slutty. But, he looked smashing. What, you never saw the photo? Pity. I guess you could just look here, or here, if you so desire.

Dresses, I think, are just a natural thing for Lawrence, as wearing pants, for him, is entirely bothersome and difficult. Our friend Chester (Lawrence) has a tendency to 'chesterize' (flash his ass 'accidentally') all the God damn time. This photo is proof- as his tan line starts well below where it should. I always thought it was a recent thing, something that happened during college. Lawrence never seemed very gangster, but who was I to judge? Maybe low slung dungarees were some sort of style statement, some sort of 'message' to the man.

It wasn't until winter of 2008 that I got the truth. After a rousing game of beer pong, Lawrence slipped, or something, and ripped his underwear, leaving a gaping hole- or in his world, plenty of room to chesterize. His cousin, Paul (who is far and away one of the nicest guys I've ever met, so I don't hold his relation to Lawrence against him), hearing the phrase for the first time, said this, "Chesterizing? Is that what that's called? He's been doing it every Christmas since age seven!" After all the wondering, it finally dawned on me. He must be prone to buying ill-fitting pants.

Lauri B trips and falls and splits open his chin. He's baffled by the English language, even though he's been immersed in it for 22 years. He swears, he bitches, and he complains about every single drink he's ever ordered. He doesn't understand that when the guy tells him it's a chicken burrito, just chicken in a tortilla, that all he's going to get is chicken in a tortilla. He also doesn't understand that when this happens, it's not appropriate to throw a fit in the middle of a Kirkland restaurant, even if it is his 22nd birthday. He'll also want to bitch, bitch, bitch... all the way home.

If Lawrence had his own reality show, I imagine it would be a Lebanese-American version of the Jersey Shore. Having never seen the Jersey Shore (something Lawrence would undoubtedly find punishable by death, or by the act of forcing me to actually watch Snooki and the gang), I can only speculate as to how closely he resembles DJ Pauly D, but I mean, have you seen the amount of gel the guy uses? Twinsies...

He doesn't like puppies, or music, or fun. He hates things like politeness, and walking without falling. (Don't think I didn't see that misstep on the escalator last weekend, B. It was an escalator! It does the work for you! The hardest part is getting on and off without getting sucked into the mechanism... You were just standing there, and all of a sudden, as if by seizure, you nearly fell- taking us all with you. Unforgivable.)

If you're reading this, and you don't know Lawrence, you might at this moment be saying to yourself, "Thank God I'm not friends with that nutbag. He sounds clumsy and disagreeable and kind of rude." Yeah bitch, I guess.

Truth be told, all jokes aside and bitter commentary silenced, Lawrence is one of my favorite people, ever. I feel lucky to have met him, and fortunate that he hasn't gotten tired of my equally bitchy attitude.

Love you, B. Happy Birthday.

PS-

SEANY.

(Oh. He wanted to be mentioned, too.)

goodies.

So sorry to disappoint, Jevon, but this isn't that kind of blog entry...

Me. Age one. Ted Kaczynski ain't got nothin' on me, bitch.

I found a cardboard box yesterday in the breezeway of my parents house. I don't really know what a breezeway is, other than a way to connect the main house to the garage... most people use a thing called a 'door' for this, but due to poor planning, or other unfortunate incidences I'm unaware of, we utilize a little room, with four doors... One to the front yard (a collective, wtf, is in order), one to the back patio, one to the garage and one to the kitchen. All this trouble to get from the house to the garage. A garage that's a paint studio, with fans and florescents, no less.

Anyways. I found this box, which at first sight, seemed to be filled with a hodge podge of middle school and high school memorabilia. Books (of the Harry Potter variety), movies (Disney, of course), the Beatles anthology (which is now in my car), a secret notebook, notes written on God-ish stationary and much, much more were scattered about. And I was delighted.

It was a veritable treasure chest of memories. So, naturally, with you I'm going to share. Enjoy.

Well, here I am. I don't know how old I was in this particular photo- but judging by the sheen on my nearly-bald head, I'd say I'm around 9 or 10 months. Found this little gem of a picture taped onto a collage I no doubt made in honor of, well, me. Who else would I make a collage of?

The reason this photo speaks to me, is that it illustrates just how great my parents were- always letting me explore, allowing me to follow my artistic impulses and creative drive no matter where it took me...

What, you see a child eating dirt while her parents watch gleefully from behind a Nikon lens? Pshaw. I see an intrepid explorer, diving head first into what could be... grabbing for herself the very essence of life and then, eating it. Like candy. A really minerally, dirty, infested with SO MANY FUCKING GERMS kind of candy. A candy, like the kind that comes from a skeezy fellow dwelling in a windowless van. The kind that most parents steer their children from, rather than saying, "Here, Elizabeth, eat this dirt, we're out of Gerber at the moment. Now, spit out the roly poly, that's just icky."***

***(Author's note, when I showed my Mom this entry, she said, and I quote, "Oh for God's sake Elizabeth Moss, get over it. It was Badger Canyon dirt. Sacred.")

I played many an instrument in my youth. Violin, oboe... the latter of which forced my mom to encourage me not to practice. "You sound great, Elizabeth, but you're done practicing now. YOU'RE DONE." I probably sounded like a cross between a dying duck and evil.

Why in the sixth grade, when faced with a hoard of flutes, clarinets, trumpets and trombones I chose the oboe, I'll never know. It was between that and the french horn, both of which my music teacher told me I could get a scholarship with, to which I said, "Will they give me a scholarship for just having the ability to play... or will they expect me to be in band or something?"

I also have a piano and a guitar, and while when I bought them I had delusions of grandeur about my actual abilities at playing them, I still like to dabble every now and then. Pretty much, chopsticks is my bitch.

But how could I ever forget my short run in the ORFF Ensemble at Ridge View Elementary?

I think I played the glockenspiel, mostly because of the way it just rolls off the tongue. It's a glock, and a scpiel. What more could one want? We played one song, and one song only. I have no idea what it was called, but it was a three-part harmony, and had I some mallets and Jevon and Megan (who I'm sure still remember it as well), I'd dazzle you with my skills.

Sweet misspelling, too, eh? I've always been a gifted grammarian...

My OM hat. Odyssey of the Mind, which I believe I prefaced in my last blog entry, was a big part of my youth. While other kids were out playing soccer and gaining important skills in teamwork and... running, or something, I was inside, gluing my fingers together with industrial strength adhesive. Awesome.

What little girl doesn't love Barbies? Why is this doll so pristine, still wrapped in her cardboard and plastic? Oh. Wait. This monstrosity of a doll is NOT a Barbie, ergo why it was marked down to $1.89. WTF is a Pom Pom Pal? I think the makers of this doll, not wanting to encroach upon Mattel's turf, figured, "oh, fuck it, let's put a pom pom on her head and throw in a cassette for good measure. It's a doll, and we can put right on the box, 'Be A Cheerleader'!? What's not to love? Girls will fawn all over it. They're dumb and they love pink... Score." Maybe some girls... but not this one.

I'm nothing if not a brand whore.

It's like she's Barbie's peppy Alopecia-stricken cousin. Creepy as hell.

This VHS was the hardest thing to stumble upon. Was I, Elizabeth Christine Moss, ever so lame as to record the Grammys? Also, what's with the apostrophe?


Popping it into the VCR (yes, I have one of those), I was suddenly totally grossed out by the thought that "The Grammy's" might be something one would name a tape that they never intended for public viewing...

Choking back vomit, I breathed a sigh of relief as the screen cleared. It was D3: The Mighty Ducks.

Shit I loved Banksy. The hockey playing one, not the graffiti-ish one. And Benny 'the Jet' Rodriguez, though I'm pretty sure his name was Luis in the Duck world. But mostly I loved Banksy. Ah.....





Speaking of the lost art form of videotape...

The Little Mermaid VHS, a classic. CLASSIC! Especially with a penis on the cover. Fine family fun!

I was always a writer. My first line of prose, thought up when I was walking toward Young Street during my tenor as a crosswalk attendant in the fifth grade, went something like this, "The cold, bitter wind blew through her windbreaker, biting at her skin." I thought to myself, hey, I could be a writer.

And I know, the line was brilliant, no need to shower me with praise.

While this particular notebook was barred from prying eyes, as you can see by the "Touch & Die" inscription on the cover, it held nothing short of nothingness. Seriously. It had a few lists of songs I wanted to download, mostly Britney Spears, Hilary Duff, Simple Plan and host of other music I'm sad to say I liked.

Also in it, was a chart of different emoticons and their meaning. I actually wrote out,

" :) = smiley "

I was ridiculously cool.





Lastly, tucked away in the far recesses of the box, was another box. A Godly box, filled with notes and folders and 'affirmations' from my days with Jesus, AKA most Sundays throughout high school, as I spent the majority of them sitting sleepily at the COJ.


We must have had a tradition at church camps to write out what we liked about one another, as I found many a note that said, "You're so cool," or, "You're so nice." Obviously they didn't know me at all...

But I remember this note in particular. I don't know who it was from, but it gave me a laugh. It still does. "I hear that you are funny." Haha. Ha..... I've heard that, too.

We (Kaylee, Bonnie and I) didn't take church too seriously. Obviously. Jesus, or St. Peter, or whomever, will probably laugh at us when we reach the pearly gates...

In the pews we'd 'Bible Pick', thumbing through the Book and randomly plunking our fingers down to highlight a particularly strange passage. We tried to skip service by hiding in the playhouse in the sanctuary, and sometimes we just left and went to IHOP. But as you can see, in Kaylee's handwriting, we did praise the Lord... "LOL!".


Ah, memories.

(image courtesy of Bonnie's bedazzled 'affirmations'. Seriously, Bonnie? Glitter for Jesus?)

And for now, I'm going to return to my VHS copy of D3. BANKSY!

okaybyeeee.

my love letter - to hollywood

I was that kid that watched movies over and over, memorizing the lines and reciting them to my reflection. My old house had an entire mirrored wall, a dangerous installation for such a self-obsessed aspiring star... I'd spend hours in front of it, practicing looks of sadness, or fear, or surprise!, or terror, or glee, or... you get the picture.

Years later, while working in the drive thru at Starbucks, I said something witty (or entirely ridiculous) to a customer, and made some unfortunate smirk in his direction. He laughed and said, "You give good face." I still don't know what the hell that means, really, but I like to think he was trying to say that my expressions were fantastically original and thereby, glorious.

Drama club was something I tried briefly in middle school, and while I did actually enjoy it, I was also completely obsessed with what my friends thought--- and they did not think much of people in drama club. They (my friends, of course) were way too cool to be hanging out with me in the first place, so I figured joining my kindred spirits up on the stage would rock me right off the boat, and into a sea of self-loathing, stage make-up and ill-fitting wigs.

Even though I evaded plays through most of my youth, I still love Hollywood and the idea that these people, their voices and faces and even their mannerisms- will live on.

I love movies. I love actors. I love the words they say, and how they say them, the looks on their face and how some of them are so believable that for a second on screen, you're seeing the person they were always meant to be. It's like they could never be anyone else- until you see their next movie. I love how the right chord can convey sadness, or fear, or total elation. I love that weeks or months, or even years of writes and rewrites and shoots and editing goes into every two hour block of cinema I watch.

I also, kind of sort of, think that they (the people in Hollywood), would love me too. I really think I'd get along swimmingly with the Hollywood set. Not the Paris Hiltons, or anyone on a reality show (because they're not real Hollywood... being famous for being a douche bag isn't the kind of notoriety that I hope to achieve...), but the real celebs.

Whenever I buy a Cosmo (the magazine), one of the first things I read is the celebrity quiz, the one they write out longhand. I'd never thought much about Kristen Bell, but after reading her quiz, I couldn't help but like her - and her ALL CAPS penmanship. I think we'd be friends, should I relocate Los Angeles and bump into her (stalk her) on Robertson Boulevard.

I feel this way about a lot of celebrities. Like Sandra Bullock. If I ever actually knew Sandy, (which is what I'd call her, because, you know, I'd be allowed to, because we'd be BFF and all...) she'd love me. I figure I'd be just about the perfect addition to any celebrity's inner circle. I'm insightful, and quirky- in a cute way. I easily break tension with a joke or amusing quip. I would never sell them out to TMZ or the Enquirer, and I'd always have a pen they could borrow, or gum if they were so inclined.

I'd never falter if they needed me to swallow a balloon full of heroin, and I'm unnaturally gifted at coming up with alibis.

I, essentially, would be the best friend they'd ever have. I'd be everything they needed, and more. I think this way about my celebrity crushes as well. Another break-up, Jake Gyllenhaal? I'll ease your pain. I'm the one you've been waiting for. That Reese, yeah, well, she seems like a nice girl... but really. Do you want riches, personality and gorgeousness? Of course not. You need me.

It seems though, that every time I find a new celebrity to fantasize about, he gets hit with those pesky gay rumors. Wentworth Miller? Dining at Nobu with his main squeeze, Ryan. James Franco? Not confirmed... but all the signs point to gay...

Anderson Cooper? Bought a firehouse to renovate with his boyfriend of a year. Well, great, now I'll never be his wife. I get all depressed, thinking, "What the hell, he's gay?! Damnit! There goes my shot at getting out of this God forsaken town..." As if sexual preference is the one thing that's keeping me from dating, loving and living with Anderson Cooper. Never mind that I've never met (and will probably never meet) the man. Forget that he's almost the same age as my mom. Let's not even think about the fact that he is way out of my league, not to mention an actual Vanderbilt.

When I was younger, I had paper dolls that were made in his family's likeness that my grandparents bought when they visited the Biltmore House. There I was, at the ripe age of six, dressing Anderson's family in frilly frocks and dapper suits. At that time he was in his late twenties, probably out saving orphans in Somalia or being unnaturally wonderful, as usual.

Imagine the stories we could have told our kids! How serendipitous our union would have been, me with my paper dolls and him with his Yale degree and actual intelligence...

But alas, he's gay. Of course he won't love me. He can't.

Such is life.

Hollywood, I've learned, is full of heartbreak. That town will build you up to chew you up to tear you down to lift you back up again, all the while betting on how long until your next coke binge. Just look at Lindsay Lohan.

I've known fame, and I've also felt the cruelty of celebrity lost. Once upon a time, when I was in 5th grade, I was in a little thing called 'OM'. Odyssey of the Mind.

I don't really remember the specifics, because it was a looooong time ago, and I kind of have this problem where I don't actually pay attention to my surroundings- but the gist is this: we built a 15 gram balsa-wood structure, it held 700 pounds, we did a little play, and they sent us to Florida.

I try to be modest about it, but, just to let you know, I was the star of the aforementioned play. At least, I think I was. Again, I could be lying-- but I'm pretty sure I had most of the speaking parts. My character's name was "Madam Quinzo", and I was peddling things, namely balsa wood structures, on an HSN-like channel.

While we usually did our little act in front of a panel of judges, once we found out we were going to Florida, we were invited to perform in front of our school, Ridge View Elementary. After we finished and begged everyone for money, I was wandering the halls, props in hand. I don't know why I wasn't in class, though knowing me, it's not so unusual.

"Hi." A first grader with his arms folded across his chest said to me, darting out of his classroom. "Can I have your autograph?"

I smiled hugely, looking around the hall for witnesses. Curses. There were none. "Sure," I said, walking into the wet area to sign a piece of construction paper. "Who should I make this out to?..."

"Huh?" He asked.

"What's your name?" I shook my head. First graders. Total idiots.

"Colin," he answered, wide eyed. I wrote his name, and then signed mine as messy as I could, turning my nine-letter first name into little more than a squiggle. Lovely, I thought, I was born to be a star- this is the perfect signature. I stared at the paper, wondering what else an autograph should consist of? 'Best of luck' I scribbled on the top, handing the paper back to him.

He shoved it in his pocket and walked back to class without another word to me.

Whilst in Florida for OM, I bought myself an autograph book, procuring the signatures of Chip, Dale and Goofy. Mickey and Minnie were rather elusive, as were all the Disney princesses, so on the airplane ride home I filled out the rest of the pages with my own name, over and over again. I figured practice makes perfect, and I didn't want my hand to cramp up once I was bombarded by all the third grade autograph hounds.

My practice was in vain, as Colin was the last person to ever request my autograph.

Fame is fickle. This I know.

I still practice my signature, just in case. Also, I'm a notary, so I'll charge you $10 and sign loan documents, or adoption papers, or, you know, whatever.

bang it!

I think I'm bitter. You've probably considered this as well, as most of my blog entries consist of constant (yet totally delightful) bitching about everything from drunkenness to Baconnaise. And being white. Ugh.

To know me in real life--- which I'm sure all of you do, or else why would you be reading this?--- is to hopefully know that I'm not the belittling shrew my words make me out to be. Well, I am... a little bit, I guess. In order to write these things, one would assume I must also think them, at least on some level...

But in real real life, I'm optimistic to a practically delusional state. I'm just a glass half full kind of gal. I assume the best in people, regardless of past precedent, even if they've disappointed me time and time again. I'm pretty sure that somewhere along the line, I'm going to win the lottery. I believe in karma and fate, and I like to think that there's a reason for our existence.

I am sarcastic, I'll admit that, and maybe I seem like a cynic... but I always hold out hope. I don't know why. Things go wrong, bad things happen- but there's a lot of good out there, too. There's beauty, and greatness, and plastic bags dancing in the wind.

Case in point- I love Disney movies... See? Happy. Sure, they usually kill off some lady character in the beginning, but hey- such is life. You roll with the punches. You might lose your wife after she's hatched all your kids, and your one remaining kid might be a bit of a cripple, but then you meet Dori, and visit 42 Wallaby Way, and life is swell again- as it should be.

I like happy. That being said, I seem to, especially in print, venture to the dark side more often than not. I've thought long and hard about why this is, and keeping in mind the whiteness I mentioned last time, I can think of only one other disappointment in life that my disdainful attitude stems from.

It's because I could never have proper bangs.

You read it right. This dark side of me, the angry, bitter one... she was fueled by lifeless, insipid hair.

You see, I have two cowlicks, these little swirly bits at the front of my hairline, that keep me from having a trendy coif.

Bangs that lie flat against the forehead? Never gonna happen. My cowlicks spin my hair so that a nice layer of fringe above my eyes will never be achieved. Ridiculously awesome puffy bangs circa Brittany Jones in the nineties? Nope. I would've killed for those bangs in sixth grade, but it just wasn't in the stars. I've tried blow dryers, curling irons, and so much hairspray that I was a fire hazard- to no avail.

Bangs and I will never live in harmony. It's something that I've come to accept, I think. I still make an attempt every once in a while, and sometimes they border on decent, but mostly, I look like a bang-loving, cowlick-having fool.

I've found myself discouraging my able haired friends from wearing bangs. I tell them, "They're just not in style." or, "I just like it so much better when you do the side-swept thing, it's way cuter. I've heard people say it about you. No bangs. Don't do the bangs. They're icky." I couldn't actually care less about my friend's hairstyles, I like them for their money, not their looks. But the jealousy bubbles every time I see someone shake the hair out of their eye-line.

Bitches.

Banglessness is just one more thing I have to come to terms with in order to be all the way happy... and haven't. The list is actually getting quite long...

-I can't have bangs.
-I'm too white.
-I can't ride a bike with no-hands.
-Tomatoes make me gag, regardless of how good they look, or how much I think I could like them.
-I'm pretty sure I'm going to die at age 27.
-I'm a bit clumsy, what with the falling out of beds and tripping over air.
-In addition to lacking bangs, I keep finding gray hairs. I just turned 23 last month. I hit puberty like, yesterday, and I'm already on the decline.
-I'm easily distracted, like today, when I saw said gray hair in the mirror and almost ran off the road (nearly taking a Toyota Tundra with me).
-Oh, also, I am not a competent driver.
-When I write, I make a lot of gestures and movements, and facial expressions. As in, I look like I'm fighting with the air- and it's winning.
-Anderson Cooper is gay, and will never love me. More on that later.
-I blush easily. When I'm embarrassed, or hot, or angry, or sad, or laughing, or... anything. It's probably some super sketchy disorder. It's probably what I'm going to die from, at age 27.
-I like my shows more than most of my friends... So anti-social...
-I think I have a bit of a lisp.

I'm sure there are more, but I'm growing weary.

I guess I'll part with one final thing I must come to terms with. I'm hopelessly in love with a craft that might never pay off. But I guess I duped you into reading this- so that's a start :)

tan like me

I’m constantly on a quest to be edgy and cool, mostly because I'm neither of those things, and yet I think I should be in order to live happily. It was while navigating the cruel waters that are middle school that I first realized I needed outside help in order to gain acceptance and notoriety. Naturally, being the nifty kid that I was, I purchased a book titled, “How To Be Popular In The 6th Grade”, to do so.

It should be mentioned that I bought it from one of those Scholastic book orders. The day it arrived in my Language Arts class, I scrambled to the teachers desk, hoping to God I'd get to it before some one else, having figured out a bit too late that buying an instructional guide to aid in the search for popularity did not a 'cool kid' make...

Evidently I was not only a loser, but a slow one at that. The prettiest (and by default) most popular girl in the gifted program snickered as she read the cover, handing over the pink and white paperback with a condescending smile, “Good luck.”

Looking back, I don’t have to think hard as to why my efforts to be adored in middle school were in vain. It wasn’t my penchant for overalls, or my overbite. It wasn’t my obnoxious, know-it-all, only child demeanor. Nope. I'm sure it was my whiteness.

It’s because I’m pasty, and pale, and generally just not attractive- and we all know that’s the first step in being cool. Sure, you can have a dazzling personality that draws people in, or a substantial expendable income, but those take work. Good looks, including skin tone, are genetic.

Except, that is, when you tan. Screw mother nature! To hell with lackluster melanin levels! In high school I discovered that I could be cool, and popular, and most of all- not white.

Not that I have something against my heritage, or anything that legitimately unfortunate. I’m fine with the whole, ‘My family’s from Wales and Germany, and I’m distantly related to William the Conqueror’- blah, blah, blah nonsense. I mean, it’s whatever.

What does bother me, though, is my porcelain exterior. Now I know, again, perhaps this isn't the most ‘PC’ way to think. I’ve heard the Glamour/Cosmo/Oprah/Barney mantras, be happy with who you are, love what you’ve got, tanning will give you cancer, etc. But how am I to be happy with this glow in the dark shell? How am I to be happy when in every picture, I look blotchy, and sick- when I am in perfect (maybe drunk) health? Grayscale and sepia look artsy for two to three Facebook albums at best.

And, to be perfectly honest, while there is a part of me that thinks I'd rather be tan now than live past my 30's melanoma-free, there's a bigger part of me that's convinced that I will most definitely get skin cancer should I continue to bake myself in well-lit, plexiglass booths.

It was this fear of eminent death that drove me to Island Sun Tanning two days before my 21st birthday. Well, the fear, and my jeep. What was supposed to be a 20 minute pit stop turned into an hours worth of agony and self degradation at the hands of a swarthy Mystic Tan.

Oh, the shame.

I couldn’t figure out the damn booth. I stood inside, disrobed, my hands and feet covered in some sort of petroleum jelly excrement, waving my arms frantically in front of the sensors I thought were supposed to sense my presence, but they didn’t realize I was there. I looked around, a sitting duck inside a drafty, blue-hued, clothing-optional phone booth.

I refused to even consider wiping off the slime, dressing myself- complete with socks and shoes, only to miserably trudge out to the counter girl, a look of embarrassment upon my face. Especially after I’d already told her I was perfectly capable of ‘figuring it out’. I was college educated, for Christ’s sake. If an orange 16 year old with peroxide seeping through her skull could man the booth, I was surely competent.

Except, evidently, I wasn’t.

I pushed open the Mystic Tan door, thoroughly disgusted with the entire process, not to mention myself. I stood for a moment, thinking that if I spent enough time in the room, she’d come to me, wondering what the hold up was. How many hours could that take? I thought. She seemed rather distracted by the new issue of Cosmo, which I’d received in the mail weeks before.

Considering A Big Ash and I were to meet her roommates at Chili’s in a half an hour, I decided Jessica’s SSR would have to wait. I wiped off my feet and hands, dreading the walk of ignorance I was about to embark upon. I shook out the jeans that I’d haphazardly tossed aside in my hurry to be bronzed. How brazen I’d been to think the next time I wore them I’d be as sun kissed as a non-white person...

Glaring at the booth one more time, I threw my denim back to the floor. Out smarted by a tanning booth?! Not I!

I marched, or rather- stepped, as it was just a foot away, back into the booth. Waving my hand in front of the sensor, the air shifted.

A beeping started. A light flashed. I vaguely remembered that after the first spray, I was supposed to turn, as to not end up like Ross in that one episode of F.R.I.E.N.D.S.- with four 2’s on the front and nothing on the back. I didn’t want to look like a Jamaican coming and like a Norseman from behind. Not to infer that I look like a man from the back, but rather, I was trying to get across that I didn’t want to be really dark on my front half and white as snow (my natural coloring) on my back. My back looks girlish enough. I think...

I held my breath, only to realize that I didn’t have any air to sustain me for however long the toxins were spewing. Then I thought, toxins!? What? Is that allowed? Are they, the tanning particles, toxic? When can I breathe?

It was then that I started to freak out. If in fact, the tan was dangerous, then people who overused it- ie: the leathery women I saw on the way in- would be impaired, no? Near hyperventilation, I couldn’t think of one plane of existence in which they weren’t impaired. Skin color? Hair color? Sickening I-just-went-tanning stench? Sweet Jesus.

My face scrunched up in despair as the bitterly cold liquid misted over me. I then relaxed my face as best I could, as I didn’t fancy myself looking good with a wrinkly tan. I turned cautiously, exceedingly careful not to slip on the excess glow pooling at my feet.

My feet! Oh, God, I’d wiped the goo off! And my hands!?! Did that matter? Would they suggest it if it had no purpose? Knowing the way they pushed those $85 tan accelerators, I kind of thought they would. On the verge of what I could only assume would be streaky-orange tears, the misting finally subsided. My head cleared. I looked down at myself, relieved to see no orange what-so-ever.

My used, already lived-in outfit clung to my sticky, tanned limbs as I attempted to get dressed. I felt like a dirty shacker, taking a shower the next morning but without a clean change of clothes. I don’t make a habit of wearing soiled garb, but it happens. And it never feels quite right.

Through out dinner, the hand coming to feed my face became slightly darker with every bite. By the time my white chocolate molten lava cake (riddled with raspberries, which I hate, and did not realize from the picture that the dessert included them, or else I wouldn’t have ordered it…) arrived, I was fairly certain I could pass for someone who originally hailed from Nairobi.

When we made our way back to A Big Ash's apartment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was totally born the wrong skin color, I thought. I looked damn good. Sure, it was a little streaky, and yeah, it stained my white shirt a bit… I could have been a cast member on Jersey Shore… and I kind of looked unwashed. I was unwashed, so it wasn’t so surprising. But I looked tan.

Which, of course, made me cool.

And that's all that matters, anyway.

deficient.

It seems that I, at least according to my blog entries, am either incompetent- or drunk, all of the time.

Sadly, this is another sparkling example that backs up that very assumption.

This afternoon, I got off work around 4, and, being the completely lovely person that I am, I offered to go to the store for my mother. She had five things on her list; coffee, milk, paper towels, and orange juice. Okay, four things.

She sent me with $50. I should mention that in my house, we generally purchase paper towels weaved with spun gold thread...

Anyway, almost two hours later, I returned, $90 poorer, yet enlightened.

I am not cut out of the housewife cloth. I will be a terrible wife. And mother. Just now I was trying to think of an area in which I excel, but, I can't even think of one.

Cooking? Pshaw. I can bake one kind of cookie, and I lifted the recipe straight off the back of the Reese's Peanut Butter chip bag. I fail miserably at almost everything else. Even my cereal is so-so at best.

General house cleanliness? Oh, God, the horror. I never put things back, or away in the first place. When I buy new things, I take what is needed immediately out of the bag, and then toss the rest on the ground. Months later, I'll stumble upon the sack, a pack of gum, a few point-of-sale DVD's and a wrinkled $5 bill sprinkled with change still inside.

The other day when I slipped and fell (I'm also not so good with balance), my crash landing was cushioned by various outfits that I'd tried on, decided not to wear, and subsequently left on the floor.

When I'm sick, I literally lie in bed until someone comes to save me. My mother, the only one who seems to care enough to search me out during my absence, then forces me to 'drink water' and 'take medicine', two medieval tricks that must have been passed down through the generations.

If it's cold in the house, I'll sit, freezing. Sometimes I'll get a blanket. When someone questions my choices, wondering why I didn't just 'turn up the thermostat', I stare at them blankely. Thermostat? That box-like contraption strapped to the wall? Witchcraft. I'll wait for the sun to warm me.

My plight is a combination of apathy, incompetence, and I think, most of all, laziness.

I'm in a pseudo-teenage purgatory, in which I look like an adult, and have shining moments of clarity and capability, but largely, I'm worthless.

Upon entering Yoke's Fresh Market, I was pleased, as I noticed the cart had cup holders, and I was currently utilizing only one arm because of my chai tea. I nestled the drink into the designated area, and begun my 90 minute shopping-trip-from-hell.

"We were doomed from the start, as starters are, why am I doing this?" Oh Brand New, you are so wise. Why had I agreed to go to the store? I always get lost in the stupid aisles, and I manage to consistently forget half the things on the list. I italicize list because if there is written record of the necessity of 'milk', then, you'd think I'd be able to read the damn thing and deduce that I do, in fact, need to purchase milk.

But alas, I always forget the milk. Milk has it out for me, this much I know.

I grabbed two bags of salad, and while you'll probably notice that 'salad' was not requested by my mother, it was something that I felt our house was lacking at the present juncture.

Making my way into the wine area, I was mesmerized for at least 25 minutes. I had decided that we were to have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, so I figured a Malbec would go nicely. For those of you who don't know my drinking habits, I think Malbec goes nicely with everything. Spaghetti, pizza, chocolate, breathing... etc.

There were Cabernets and Merlots and way too many Syrahs, and right now, to be honest, I'm wondering if varietals are capitalized at all? For this, let's just say they are. So yeah, I found a few $40 Malbecs, one of which I very nearly purchased (it was the first one I ever tried, back when I started drinking wine legally, AKA, last year.), but decided against it, because, really? $40? This is Yoke's, not Chateau la Brignon (I'm pretty sure that I made that up).

After agonizing over my options, I walked away with two bottles, one of which, an 'old-vine' Malbec from Argentina. For those of you who don't get paid to pore over the origins of various wines, Argentinian Malbecs are insanely popular. FYI, the Malbec sucked. It smelled like alcohol, something that, ironically, isn't really a good thing in wine.

Happy with my long awaited decision, I toddled down the aisles, searching for the things my mother had requested.

As you may know, I am easily distracted, which is part of the reason why this should-have-been-a-jaunt to the store turned into an all out marathon.

Rounding around a freezer case, this caught my eye:



Mmm, mmm, mmm. Beef pasties and pork fritters. WTF? What, exactly, is a beef pasty? I'd Google, but I have to admit I'm rather afraid of what results I'd obtain. And a pork fritter? Is that anything like an apple fritter? I sincerely hope not.

Severely disturbed, I continued on to the milk, a safe white liquid that's squeezed from a cow. Ugh. As I was about to reach for the dairy case door, I balked.


If you can't make out the lettering, let me break it down for you. For only $3.99 a pound, you could go home with a whole rabbit.

"Mom, what's for dinner?"
"Rabbit stew, Jimmy."
"Rabbit stew? Again? It better be a WHOLE rabbit, none of that half-rabbit shit from last week. That was gross."

This is how I imagine a rabbit eating conversation. I also figure they'd have no front teeth, thick southern accents and missing adjectives and pronouns through out their dialogue, as I'd always assumed people in the Ozarks were the only ones who ate rabbits.

I hate rabbits. They're weird, and I'm just not sure why they're allowed. Easter is a terrible time for me. Big rabbits that lurk around, hiding brightly colored eggs? If they hid brightly colored wallets, with green money inside, I might be more copacetic to their existence. But they do not. Their eggs contain jellybeans, at best.

When I was about 7, my cousin lived in West Richland. Back then, there weren't too many houses in their area, and their development was brand new, situated amongst the sage brush.

He was 8, and quite the outdoorsman. I generally stayed inside, with his mom, and made crafts. Already, I was living a very thrilling life. I'd venture outside with Chris every once in a while, but he liked hiking and running and searching for things, whereas I'd rather play in the yard. Where there was less dirt and more grass. And it was also in close proximity to the house, where I'd rather be.

One day, my aunt came home to find Chris and his friend holed up in the garage.

"Mom, we're starting a business. You gotta see this," Chris said, ushering her into his workspace. I wasn't there, but knowing her, and knowing what she was about to see, I imagine she let out a blood curdling scream.

There, nailed up on a large piece of plywood, were two, rather poorly skinned, jack rabbits. Bits of fur and flesh clung to their carcasses, their chests protruding out in their final pose.

Not understanding her complete shock and terror, Chris tried his best to soothe her crumbling exterior. "Mom! You paid $12 for my rabbit pelt. Think of how many we can make! And rabbits feet? We'll just cut them right off!"

"My son's a serial killer!" She told my mom, probably having seen too many Jeffrey Dahmer documentaries. "This is how it starts!"

FYI, Chris isn't a serial killer, but rather an upstanding citizen and sailor in the Navy. He has yet to kill anyone or anything, other than those rabbits. And, his business ventures since have been way less hare-brained. HA, I love a good pun.

Anyway, these were the thoughts bouncing around my head as I saw the rabbit sign. Easter, serial killers, jellybeans... all terrible things. I hopped (ugh) on the back of the cart and rolled on, into the salad dressing aisle.

I've never done too well with a lot of choices. I don't really belong in a democratic society. After only seconds perusing the Italians, Zesty Italians, Roasted Red Pepper Italians, and Creamy Italians, I was ready for a white russian.

Knocking one into my cart, I pressed on, until I saw this:


Baconnaise, the ultimate bacon flavored spread. I think it sounds quite disgusting, but when I got home, Chris was here. I mentioned the bacon infused atrocity, and he smiled, saying, "I don't know, it sounds kind of good."

He might be a serial killer yet.

I traipsed through the noodle aisle, wondering if thin spaghetti was the same as angel hair, and
what the difference between vermicelli and capellini was. Not having the interest or patience to do an all out investigation, I grabbed the angel hair and a jar of sauce on my way to bigger and better things.

I chuckled at the discounted Tiger Gatorade, gliding to a stop somewhere near the juice fridge. Orange juice, my mom wrote. Not calcium enriched, not pulp free, not extra pulp. She didn't clarify the brand, or if she wanted it in concentrated form. Knowing her daughter, and the road that lay ahead, she shouldn't have been so vague. I only use orange juice for two things, mimosas and screwdrivers, so I'm rather inept when it comes to choosing someones healthy breakfast beverage.

It was practically cruel to leave out such crucial clues, I thought.

I settled on the original variety of Simply Orange because I like their Simply Apple juice, and I feel that everyone should like what I like. She ended up mixing it with her vodka once I got home. What can I say. Apples and trees, my friends, apples and trees...

I nearly ran into the same 3 people on 7 separate occasions, which made me think that I wasn't the only hopeless one, wandering around the store looking for milk.

MILK! Damn it. I'd forgotten it in the rabbit-melee.

I spent the rest of my trip bumbling from corner to corner of Yokes, searching high and low for things like bread, and meatballs, the latter nestled next to the whole rabbits, wouldn't you know.

Naturally, I succumbed to a few impulse buys, like red x-factor Gatorade and vanilla pudding. I don't really know how the total crept up as far as it did, but, what can you do.

As I stood in the check-out lane I looked around at all the other people, perfectly capable, responsible adults, all of whom came to the store, and left, most likely without incidence.

It'd taken me an hour and a half, but they didn't know that. To them, I perhaps looked like an actual adult, myself. This pleased me, and I did not flinch when the cashier asked me for $90. I wheeled my newly obtained possessions to my car, briefly worried by the woman behind me who was wailing in a high pitched manner.

I turned to look at her, and she stopped. I'd also come across a 60 year old man with mullet and shirt that read, "PARTY OVER HERE". Grocery shopping was a weird, weird occasion.

Digging for my keys, I felt satisfied with my effort. Maybe I wasn't completely 'able', but I was well on my way. I jiggled my purse around, sure that I heard my keys bumping around the bottom. I thought, maybe, with a little practice, I'd become a pro at shopping. Maybe I'd even learn to keep up with my laundry, and vacuum properly. And cooking a meal? I'd figure that out in no time.

Searching my pockets for the second time, I peered through my passenger side window. Where the hell were my keys? I shook my purse again, the panic setting in.

Keys, purses, wallets, phones, shoes, earrings... anything you can imagine, I've probably lost. And I lose them frequently. Once a day. You'd think that I would rectify this, by, I don't know, paying better attention to where I leave things? But nope. I don't. I'm that stupid.

I dialed my mom, still fumbling through my bag. I pushed aside paycheck stubs, and pens, and a McDonalds toy. Lip glosses and quarters littered the bottom, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where else the keys would be? Shaking the bag frantically, I heard the tell tale sound of hope. Hidden in the lining where I keep my pints (not...), were my keys.

My mom answered, to which I said, "Nope, just kidding!"

"Where are you?" She asked.
"The store."
"Still?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you in a second," I said, finally gaining entry into my automobile.

So yeah, I was feeling that this adult-responsibility thing wasn't far off, and then......

Oh who am I kidding. The day when I go to the store and don't gravitate towards the Trix and Reese's Puffs is the day that I finally can say, "Yes, I am an adult."

Until then, I'll be getting the Happy Meal, and most likely, looking for my phone for the 8th time that day.

stupid is as stupid does.

Well, I officially hate my life. I've been hemming and hawing over it for a while, mulling around the notion that my existence isn't quite up to par... but now, I'm certain.

I've just spent the last 20 minutes, cleaning my bed. Sheets? Soaked. Pillows? Sopping. Mattress?... fuck, don't even get me started.

You're probably wondering if I wet the bed? I wish. I wish an inconsistent bladder was the worst of my issues.

No, I did not wet the bed. I haven't done that in at least two years. I, being the RIDICULOUSLY intelligent person that I am, spilled chocolate milk in my bed.

Yep. I set a glass down, on the mattress, and for some reason, it tipped over (shocking, right?). I could kick myself for not investing in one of those Tempur-Pedic numbers, you know, the ones where the girl is jumping up and down, and her glass of merlot doesn't-even-move!! ? Yeah, well, my 'merlot' moved all right. Moved all out of the cup. Moved all through my sheets. Moved, probably, I'm just guessing here..., all the way to the fucking box-spring.

If I could go back in time, I'd make sure to invest in a Tempur-Pedic. Oh, hell, if I went back in time, I wouldn't set down the fucking cup of chocolate milk on anything other than a sturdy, non-porous surface.

Well, actually, if I were to go back in time, I'd travel to my infancy, and somehow convince my parents to invest in several companies, like Starbucks, and Apple. Then, at least, I'd be a rich idiot- which is the best kind...

But, alas, I cannot go back in time. I'm stuck. I'm stuck as a completely worthless, milk-spilling asshole. Ughhhhhhh.

Before you go and think that I'm being too doom and gloom about my lackluster life, realize this:

This is not the first unfortunately stupid mistake I've made in the past month, let alone my entire awkward existence. To be honest, it's not even my first mishap with milk, or beds.

Last year, while standing in the kitchen, I glanced at my wrist to see what time it was. Looking back, I can count two problems with this: one, I had a mug of milk in my hand, and twisting to see the time caused me to dump the contents down my front. Two, I haven't worn a Goddamn watch since year 2000, ergo it was moot.

Last month, I had a bad dream and sprained my wrist whilst (or after?) falling out of my bed. Who does that? I told people I slipped on the ice. I did not. I, like 4 year olds all across the nation, rolled out of my bed, injuring myself in the process. Thank God it wasn't a bunk bed.

I'm just, unfortunate. That's the only word that fully encompasses my inadequacies and faults, all the while seeming a bit endearing (or pitiable, whatever).

There are innumerable occasions in which I was that girl. You know. That one, the weird one. The one you laugh at, because, if you cried for her, she'd probably feel a whole hell of a lot worse.

In the 6th grade, I was walking home with my friend J. I tripped, (probably over nothing) and then sat on the ground crying and carrying on like a crazy person for probably at least 8 minutes. Granted, I was like, 11, or something... but screaming out, "I HATE THESE SHOES!" (Doc Marten sandals, if you must know) repeatedly isn't justifiable.

It was also in 6th grade when I was walking into the DHMS girl's locker room, followed by a boy. "Boys aren't allowed in here," I said. She was not amused, to say the least.

In eighth grade, I was dragged to a Mormon mutual (probably by A Big Ash)... a Wednesday night gathering in which we probably made cookies or something down at the LDS chapel. We listened quietly as a boy recited a lovely poem, which he himself penned. I was very impressed by him, as I didn't have the guts to stand in front of hundreds and do anything, let alone speak. As he finished, I clapped. I think I may have even stood.

Mormons, evidently, do not clap for poems. They just stare blankly, like they did at me, until I sat my non-denominational ass back down. Silence. A Big Ash's family still tells the story.

In kindergarten, I was climbing in one of those spider web dome things, you know what I'm talking about? Anyway, I was hanging from the top, when I guess I figured, "What the hell!?", and let go. It did not feel good.

The second grade brought on greater responsibilities, and what I can only deduce as increased stupidity. As I recall, on this particular occasion, I was writing a report on the octopus. Being the savvy seven-year-old that I was, I was less than stellar at distinguishing similar words when accosted by them all at once... ie: when using a spell check.

So when I spell-checked my document, instead of sifting through the 8 very-similar examples, I just hit, 'Correct', over and over again.

Cut to my teacher, pulling me aside. Her name was Mrs. Oberding. Mrs. Oberding said to me, "Elizabeth, I think you made a mistake. You see, here, you put that an octopus has eight testicles."

She waited for my 'Oh, shit, my bad,' response... which never came. Not knowing what the hell she was talking about, I probably just blinked. She looked at me, probably with hidden amusement, and continued.

"Do you know what testicles are?" She asked.
"No," I said, having no reason to know such a thing, as I did not have testicles of my own...
"They're little boys' balls!" She said. I remember her laughing, and so I laughed too. Why would an octopus have balls?! They didn't play sports!! How silly.

She saw my mom a few years ago, more than a decade after the incident. Upon recognizing each other, Mrs. Oberding, laughing again, said, "Octopus balls!!" My legend, it seems, will never fade.

Ughhhh. While I've come to terms with most of my painfully awkward tendencies, this milk thing really pisses me off. Why? Why did I set it on my bed? Why did I even have a glass of chocolate milk? What am I, 8?

And, how does one go about cleaning that properly?

It's times like these in which I am immensely grateful that I have no children, or dependents, or... fish. Or anything that I could accidentally kill by being my careless, impaired-to-the-point-of-practical-retardation, self.

I trip, I fall, I say the wrong things. I slip in the doorway to Mike's, pop the lenses out of my aviators during my escape, and then wear the frames as I run home down B-street.

I'm that girl who gets dragged to the bar in SLIPPERS, because her friends are evil and told her that they were perfectly content with watching a movie that night, thereby tricking her into attendance.

I'm the girl, who with her brand new purse and wallet, and camera and iPhone and various other accouterments, buys a double vodka and soda. And when someone asks to see my new wallet, I'm not the type of girl to set her drink down, oh no. I'm the type of girl who bites the side of the cup, holding it with her clenched jaw, to better dig through her purse. And when they ask me where I got my wallet, I answer them. And drop the fucking drink INTO my purse, camera, phone, accouterments and all...

I'm that one who asks you how your grandma is, only to find out she died three weeks ago.

Oooooo, I hate myself.

No wonder I drink so much.

Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?

I got an email from Facebook tonight, saying that my friend S. Minnich, tagged me in a photo.

Oh, by the way. I have Facebook again. What can I say... I'm no quitter. But I digress.

So I got this email, saying that I was in a photo...

That's weird, I thought. I don't remember her taking a picture of me in recent times...? What could this picture be? Maybe it's old. Maybe it's from a high school album. Or, maybe it's something that reminded her of me, and she tagged me so that I'd look at it. As you can see, I was thinking tons of completely logical things.

Then I saw the photo in question. It was last week, at the bar. I'm jumping up in the background, acting a fool, grinning like the idiot I probably was at that (inebriated) juncture.

And I don't remember it at all.

This hasn't happened to me in a while, as I am now lame (as this blog has established time and time again), and no longer rely on the use of alcohol in order to be an agreeable, affable, amusing person. I now use it solely to drown myself into a slurred stupor, so that I can't fully recognize how boring my life has become. Just kidding... But seriously.

This got me thinking about the good ol' days, the days before we had jobs, the days when all we did was drink, and then go to class hoping the gin wasn't seeping through our pores, (Scott). So for my friends benefit, and because I haven't done anything to warrant a blog entry in recent times, I'm going to relive some of our best (albeit worst) nights.

Enjoy at your own peril.


"Oh no, not the senis again!" - Visiting Brother Bear's at Gonzaga was always an interesting experience. From my first visit freshman year, in which we were detained by the police, one member of our party giving him his library card, then debit card in lieu of an underage ID... to the last visit senior year... when we were forced to play an evil game called Web (it'll getcha).

But this story, stems from a certain finding in their attic. Or somewhere, I don't recall it exactly. For some reason, that is still unbeknownst to me, we found, and threatened each other, with a plastic penis. It was quite small, and I don't remember whether or not it had a battery compartment, but still. You didn't want to be slapped in the face with it.

After a rousing game of 'don't get touched with the penis', someone put the little bundle of fun away, much to everyone's disappointment, I'm sure. But, just as they always do, the penis popped up again, and I was heard saying, "Oh, no! Not the penis again?!?"

My ex-roommate, Kevy, always with a keen ear for funny Facebook album titles, texted me my exclamation, to better remember it, of course. On the ride home the next day, while going through my inbox, I looked at her, confused.

"Why did you text me, oh no not the senis again?"
"What?"
"This, you texted me, 'oh no not the senis again.'" I repeated. "What is a senis?"

Evidently drunks aren't the best typists. Which segways nicely into this...

"Progress report." Oh, boy.

On the lovely Red's 22nd birthday, naturally we had a nice, quiet little gathering, and then took a refreshing walk. To the bars.

And then, we lost Red. When her boyfriend (now fiance) texted me, asking me where she was, I replied, "Wht the rich ubdkt een know what's you f in. I aNt a pits?"

Uh, okay.

I still don't know what it means. But, I think I must have been either in, or outside, or thinking about... Pita Pit. Speaking of the Pit...


"We need some cheese!" - Pita Pit, the kitchen of debauchery, sees a lot of really ridiculous happenings. Like the time in which a certain friend of mine ventured out of his comfort zone and ordered the special. When he bit into his "quesa-pita", he was disappointed. So disappointed in fact, that he started yelling. Yelling so much in fact, that they called the police, and escorted him out. That's just what goes down when you're open until 3 am and situated next to the biggest bar on campus.

One time, on a Wednesday afternoon... oh, um, by the way, I wasn't drunk, at this time. I know, it shouldn't be on the list, then, but wait. Someone was most definitely drunk, ergo it totally counts.

So anyways, I'm standing there, with my roommates, waiting for our pitas, when in runs fratty frat boy and his super cool sister in tow... (please ignore the disdainful wording, I honestly have nothing against Greeks. Or Romans...)

They looked around frantically, before appealing to the cashier with a shriek. "We need some cheese!"

The cashier glared at them, unamused. He'd probably seen it all. But I'm betting he didn't see this coming...

Fratty Fred yelled about cheese again, and then, pulled a mouse out of his pocket. Seriously. He literally had a mouse in his pocket, a live one, and he pulled it out. He held it up, slurring in his letter-wearing euphoria, "We rescued him, from a snake's cage. WE NEED SOME CHEESE! I'll pay! I'll pay for it!"

I looked to my roommates, wondering aloud if mice even ate cheese before commenting on how totally against health codes the entire situation was.

"Dude," the cashier said, handing him a little styrofoam bowl of shredded cheese. "Just go. You can't have that thing in here. We're serving food."

Food, indeed. The best money could buy. Except, not everyone thinks that payment is necessary.

On another occasion, I remember standing outside Pita Pit, chatting with friends, probably trying to find lost ones, or something. The bars were closed, and we were making our way home, when from Pita Pit, out shuffles Kevy, her eyes angry and arms crossed.

Our conversation went a little something like this:

"They just kicked me out."
"Why?"
"I don't know. We were talking about taking some cookies, and the guy was like, 'You need to leave.' And he made us get out."
"Taking cookies?"
"Yeah."
"As in stealing them?"
"Well, they're just sitting there."
"To entice people into purchasing..."
"Yeah."
"Did he maybe hear your plan to steal the cookies?"
"I don't know. He could have."

"You're too cool for me, Carl!"

For those of you who aren't familiar with the above mentioned quote, let me break it down for you.

On the 21st birthday of a boy we'll refer to as J, his friends threw him a (quite large) birthday party in Pullman. I was in attendance, as was just about anyone I've ever been good friends with. We laughed, and drank, and watched as J progressively got drunker than all of us. But it was his birthday! Obviously, he needed to be the most inebriated person in a 100 mile radius... And seeing as though most of us were underage, we said our farewells at 12, and made our way back to his apartment. At around 1:30, he came bursting in, tilting forward at a 45 degree angle as he stumbled down the hall.

He wanted a hot pocket. So we made him one. He lay on the couch, as we peppered him with questions about the bars and the drinks, but all he wanted was a hot pocket. More people drained in, and were excited to see that he was still awake, although he didn't seem very... coherent. But still, it was his birthday! Hoorah!!!

Cut to Carl, walking in, wanting to wish J a Happy Birthday. He said, "Happy Birthday, J! How about we take a shot?!"

It was then, that J started to cry. Between his sobs, he choked out, "You're too cool for me, Carl."

This was the first in a long line of instances in which blacked out J cried and made up crazy stories. Like the time we were walking home from Mike's, and he tried to convince everyone that I pushed him down. I did not. He then texted our friends, "Booze bit me, and I'm bleeding." Yeah, right. "She pinched me!!!" Again... total and complete blasphemy.

Or the time we were in Vegas, and he told everyone, "Nana slammed my arm in the door!"

I wish I would have.

"Stubby's... and Wiley's... and CAC love...


Wiley night. Ohhhhhh Wileys. It's still a wonder as to why they shut that place down... not. My heart goes out to all those who were too young to experience the greatness that was Pete's, and the shit show that was Wiley Night. Tuesdays will never be the same.

My first Wileys experience is, hazy, to say the least. I mostly remember waking up the next day with a trashcan under my covers, then later coming to find that my house key was bent in half. I still don't know how I made it through the front door. Shoddy craftsmanship, I suppose.

I believe that was also the night in which I had to close one eye, because if I had two open, I was "seeing too many things."... I may or may not have accidentally burst in the boys bathroom, as well.

Wiley night was consistently known for making asses out of relatively normal people. A certain roommate of mine, who shall remain nameless, was found sprawled on the ground outside of our apartment, laughing, as gaining entry was too difficult in her Wiley-ed state.

It was on a Wiley night in which my friend, fondly referred to as A Big Ash, brought home a bum. Not really a bum, more like a guy we used to all think was hot, but then turned granola-hippy chic. He invaded our apartment (A Big Ash didn't even live there, but invited back randos none-the-less), called us all 'beautiful people' at least 18 times, and then asked if we wanted to go 'dance barefoot in the rain'.

After a particularly great Poprocks Wiley (I never did venture outside the Flat on Your Wiley variety... a pity), my friend J was found Wednesday morning in G303, sprawled face up on the couch, with 905 blasting. On the kitchen floor was a jug of orange juice, an open gallon of milk, his socks, and a blackened pizza in the oven. Which had, evidently, been cooking all night.

And unfortunately, that wasn't the first time.


"Look what I did..."


Early our senior year, a select few of us woke up to the smell of burnt pizza. We didn't know where it was coming from, or why is smelled so strongly at 10 in the morning. We only wondered for a moment though, before O, aka "My Man", came ambling upstairs.

The night before, we'd returned home from the bars, and were watching a movie, or a show or staring numbly as the boys played Halo, and My Man had burst in the room.

"You guys want pizza? I'm making some pizza. You guys want? I'm making some... Stay awake for the pizza!"

Evidently, My Man should have heeded his own advice, as he did not stay awake for the pizza. He slept through the timer, the smoke and the stench.

It took weeks to air out the place.


"ROAAARRRRRRR!"


So, there's this guy I know. We'll call him "Chester the Molester", or, I guess, Chest for short. Anyways, this Chest, character, he's a bit younger than us. He didn't get to visit the bars until Halloween-time, senior year.

After a particularly great Saturday, I made my way to the PC, walked up to the third floor, and meandered out to the balcony, where Chest was yelling. He was yelling at passersby, and neighbors, probably telling them they were all 'mussies', and assuring them that the PC could out drink them, anywhere, anytime.

Then, he roared (literally), and ripped off his shirt. He threw it down to the grass below, probably yelled "Mussy!" and "Bitches!!!" a few more times, and then promptly passed out.

He's probably one of my favorite people, ever.


"Grr grr beats woof woof."


Oh, the west side. We only made a few treks, but they were all so interesting.

There was the singing of the WSU fight song whilst stomping down UW's greek row.

There was the frolicking in Earl's, where J found a 'straw' on the floor, that looked suspiciously similar to a joint... and then put it in his mouth.

There was Finn's. Where we sang karaoke. And by we, I mean J. And we heard crickets.

There was the time Maci stole a snowboard from a frat house, called the owner Tony Hawk, and then told him that "grr grr beats woof woof." Which, I think, means cougars beat huskies...



I miss those days. I regret to say that I couldn't think of a story involving several friends, including Peege. Well, except for the time he went around biting everyone... but that was 5-30-03, and therefore, ineligible as a college shenanigan.

But, I hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane. And if you don't know any of these people... sorry. You're missing out. Also, reading this blog was probably a huge waste of time, as, generally, they're 'had-to-be-there' moments, a.k.a. not funny to anyone who didn't witness them first hand.

Liz, out.