the boulevard is not that bad...

In recent years, my friends have scattered themselves across the globe. I have my Ree on the Westside (along with several other nameless fools), ABA in Hawaii, Mrs. Red in Pullman (represent!), Mac and Kev holding it down in the Tri, while the boys have posted up in various time zones: Mountain, Central, Eastern, and whatever zone Seoul’s in…

Pretty much we’re all over the place. Me less than others, as I’m practically chained to the Tri… but whatever. These days there are only a few things that bring us together- deaths, weddings, and Jesus.

Thankfully this last reunion was credited to Jesus, and not the former (though weddings have been known to happen, even to us). So, uh, Jesus… thanks man, for being born and whatnot. You did all of us a solid, for serious.

Since there was a handful of us in the Tri for Christmas and beyond, I was a bit excited for New Years. A ‘bit’ might be an understatement. I was dancing instead of walking, singing instead of talking, and barely able to sleep my full 9.5 hours a night. The possibilities were endless! We could go to a concert, a bar (but not for midnight, no, definitely not for midnight… that would be sad), we could have dinner, or a party... Who would be here? Would we dress up? Can I make sangria? Did I need to get a new outfit? Will I have enough pictures to make an entire Facebook album? . . .WILL THERE BE SEQUINS?!?!

As you may have guessed, I tend to get carried away with just about anything. I'm a very excitable person. Lately I've been trying to keep my insanely unreasonable hopes in check, because looking back, high expectations have led me to nothing but a world of disappointment- for instance:

-Did I get a car when I turned 16? No.
-Have I ever stumbled upon the fact that I’m actually royalty? Not in so many words…
-Have I published any brilliant novels or sold any screenplays? Negative.
-Did my parents ever get me one of those Barbie birthday cakes, where her ball gown is in fact made out of cake? No, though I believe I once had a mud-pie.
-Have I won the lottery... or a sweepstakes... or a radio call in contest? No, no I have not. (I’m not being completely fair… I once received the grand prize for a delightfully rendered coloring of a scarecrow, circa 1995…)
-Does my hair EVER do what I want it to? Never. Never, ever, ever.

This constant disappointment was starting to get depressing until I figured out the reason. It's not that I'm inadequate (entirely...). It's that I expect too much. I’m delusional when it comes to my own aptitude, ability, and the laws of physics in general. Some things are just not possible. I’d say impossible but people are really touchy about that word. Cool it, folks, it’s not like I dropped the ‘moist’ bomb. Ugh. I don’t even like typing it.

Well, okay, anyways… I’ve started to readjust my expectations, beginning with the ones I have about other people. I can't control my friends, or their actions, or their plans (or the weather…) on New Year's Eve... so I spent a few moments talking myself down from sending out engraved invitations to a party that might never happen.

By 8 PM, 12/31/10, Maci’s snack trays were nestled atop the counter, vodka was added to the Sangria and I’d finally settled into my third outfit of the night. Kev and Scott flitted about the apartment, eating and drinking as Maci walked into the living room. “When are our friends supposed to get here?”

“30 minutes ago…” Kev and I said. We do this a lot, the ‘speaking in unison’ thing. It’s creepy and endearing all at the same…

Maci nodded, walking back to her room as the front door popped open to reveal ABA and a handful of Monkey Bread, John, complete with crockpot, and Jevon, empty handed. Naturally.

You know, come to think of it, I think he had a chain of pain around his neck. Oh, wait… all of them did. When questioned, they mumbled something about ‘tradition’ and ‘Goldschlager’ and ‘drunkenness’- though their explanations fell upon deaf ears as by then I was much too excited to do anything other than imbibe. My friends showed up! It was New Years! The party had started!!!

What? Oh, you’re sitting there thinking, “Ehem, excuse me, Liz… I’ve reread that past little bit, counted twice and, to be honest, seven people does not a fun party make…” (and it was at least 7.5 people, because Paul was there for like, 20 minutes)

Well, I don’t know what to tell you, because it’s obvious you haven’t tooled around with my friends with picnic baskets and limos and liquor and cardio... and freezing temperatures with no coat... It was super fun. I’ll show you. Here’s what happened…

After an hour or two of stocking photos with extras (you know, limbs and bottles and whatnot to make the party seem a bit more legit), 3 chains of pain and a bit too much sangria, we decided we needed to get the fuck out of dodge. Once we determined that no one could drive us to our ultimate destination (a party with more than 7 people), we decided to get a cab.

Or, not.

“Hi, right,” Jevon said into his phone, eyes closed and speakerphone detonated, “do you have any limos available for tonight?” Since Jevon’s move to DFW, he’s become a bit… classier. His progress has been slow, as he is the same boy who would bring his McDonalds to Red Robin, unwrapping his double cheeseburgers whilst we were in the midst of our clucks and fries… but still, he’s maturing. Especially when it comes to his choice of transportation.

“He says he can take us for 40 minutes…” We looked at each other, pondering the thought. “For $100.”

The crowd (or rather, the other 6) threw up their hands in protest. “40 minutes for 100 bucks!? No way! What a rip off!”

Three minutes later we gathered in the kitchen to pool our resources. “I’ve got $40,” I held out two crisp 20s I’d earmarked for drinks aplenty, watching as Jevon opened his billfold. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He shrugged, handing over the contents of his wallet. Six-dollar bills. “It’s all I have.”

I hate that guy.

Once in the limo, we snapped photos like it was our job, or rather, like we just acquired a Nikon and suddenly became ‘photographers’. Check out the shots on my new blog liztakespictures.blogspot.com ….  No. I’m kidding. I’m just one of those bitter people with a blog who thinks I’m a writer… pshaw. I know. Sooo lame.

So yeah, we’re in the limo, and I’m making these awkward facial expressions that seemed cute at the time but now, looking back, were less cute and more… drunk. John rummaged around the picnic basket (yeah we brought one) for something to prop my camera up on the backseat for a few group photos of the night. They were entirely ugly so I will not be posting them here. After what seemed like mere minutes (because it was), we pulled up to the party, hopped out of the limo and badgered the driver to take one more picture. This time, though, with the cameras on our phones.

“I can’t really see if I’m taking it…” he said, shrugging as he handed ABA her otterboxed phone. She got it a few days prior and decided to invest in a protective, yet stylish, waterproof/smashproof/A-Big-Ashproof shell. It was hot pink and precious, and she had yet to drop it- an impressing feat.

“We still need you to drive us home,” I told him, “about how much time are we allotted?” (Yes, unfortunately I really do talk like that…)

“Eh, 6 minutes,” he answered, “what with the traffic.”

Traffic? This is the Tri. There’s only traffic if you’re within a 20-foot radius of a brand new chain restaurant, and last I checked, Bob’s Burgers and Brews was in an entirely different zip code.

“I’ll set a timer!” Maci offered, following the boys to the party. We wandered the parking lot(s), confused as to where, exactly, we were? After seeing a familiar number and figuring, “Oh hell, this must be it,” we walked into a generic condo and prepared ourselves to be dazzled.

There were HEY’s and HI’s, and other exchanges of handshakes and hugs, though I merely smiled, my eyes darting about the premises. You see, I have a bit of a problem... I don’t really like to be the first to acknowledge another’s existence. I like to ignore people until they come to me. Sometimes I ignore them even after they say hello, or even when they yell my name and wave- even if I live with them.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, because it’s all a ruse. A little game I like to play. I remember everyone. If I've met you, ever, I remember you. I will notice if you've gotten a haircut, too, and if you're wearing the same outfit I saw you in last time. I'll remember your name and what we discussed because I'm like freaking Rain Man when it comes to social contacts.

But I won't compliment your coif, or ask you how your classes or job is going... instead I'll pretend you don't exist in my world. I'll let you say hi to me, and maybe even reintroduce yourself. I'll say, "Oh, yeah... I think I remember that..." or I might even say, "Nice to meet you!"--- but this is all an act. For some reason I have this sick need for people to say 'Hi' to me first. They have to acknowledge me, let me know that they vaguely remember me at all before I'm receptive to their conversation. This is one of my resolutions… to say ‘HI!’ first. Also to stop filling every pause in conversation with an unfortunate tale or anecdote because I’m too afraid of the quiet…

So after a few hello’s were launched in my direction, I mingled, chatted, and then said my goodbyes. Somehow I ended up on the second floor, and by the time I returned to the main level, my peeps (that’s what I like to call them now) were gone. They’d left without me! They were probably already on the interstate, taking more pictures, none of which I’d be in, because I wasn’t there and all…

It was then, seconds later, that I saw A Big Ash, fraternizing with randos in the kitchen. “Ashley, we have to go, it’s been past 6 minutes.” She brushed me off, evidently content with staying at a party with more than 7 people, so I dragged her out of the house, baiting her with the promise of champagne once we got home. We ran to the waiting limo (do you know how long I’ve wanted to use that phrase?!) and jumped inside, just in time for more pictures.

   “You guys…” A Big Ash said, looking into her purse. “I think I have Beth’s phone.”
   She held up her hot pink otterboxed iPhone, the one she just got, and I shook my head. “No you don’t.”
   “Yeah huh.”
   “Ashley that’s your phone. You just got it. Remember? You bought it.”
   “No this is, I think this is Beth’s phone. This is hers.”
   I rolled my eyes. “It’s your phone.”
   “But then why is Beth on it?” She held it up, Beth’s picture shining brightly. I grabbed at it, sort of thinking that ABA might have just snapped a photo of Beth and saved it as her background… it seemed like something she’d do… until she pulled another phone from her purse, identical to the one in my hand. “Yeah.” She nodded her head. “That’s Beth’s phone.”

Sweet Jesus. We yelled for the driver to stop (“Stop the limo!” – being another thing I’ve always wanted to sneak into regular conversation) so that Maci could hop out and deliver the phone to its actual owner. We would have sent ABA to right herself, but she would have been distracted by, I don’t know, breathing?, and we would have had to walk home.

30 pictures later we arrived at Bonefish Grill, the parking lot nearly empty. I saw one of my coworkers on the way in (who was, by the way, delighted that she knew someone getting out of a stretch Hummer limo…) but one trip round the circular doors and we were on our way out again.

“I can’t find my wallet.” Maci said, digging through the picnic basket that Jevon had already hidden in the bushes for the duration of our Bonefish stay only to have to uncover it once the wallet was out on Amber Alert.

“I think I used it to prop up the camera for the group pictures…” John said, shrugging. “We’ll just call him and he’ll come right back.” Maci glared, still digging through the pic-a-nic basket. I could see it in her eyes... "Hobo's are not for propping..."

I probably laughed or something, and went inside to huddle by the hostess station. Four different people asked if we needed anything, but I’m sure by then we looked far beyond help. The limo reappeared, with Maci’s wallet, and when ABA returned from chatting with the driver, a dejected look upon her face, I knew what was happening.

“We have to walk home, don’t we?”

Oh how the mighty have fallen… Riding high in the limo for all of 40 minutes, thinking we were something special… This must’ve been how MC Hammer felt...

Halfway home and paused on Gage to take a few pulls of whatever we had left in the picnic basket (Malbec and whipped cream vodka…), Jevon smiled. “Can you believe it was 11 years ago that Journey’s released their Millenium sticker?”

“Wow,” I nodded, the depth of his comment washing over me. Not. “I can’t believe that. Crazy.”

“Right?”

By the time we got home, everybody was already lounging about, waiting for the year to change. We forgot about the champagne and Goldschlager, mostly because ABA had passed out and neglected to remind us, and were instead content to shout 10-9-8… etc, cheering as we made it to 2011.

I didn’t have high hopes for the evening, in fact I tried really hard not to have any hopes… but I ended up being ‘dazzled’ just the same. My friends came through, like they always have, and I capped off one more year hanging out with the people that I love (or, tolerate). Plus, this time, we rang out the New Year in style. Did I mention we had a limo!?

Happy (late) New Year everybody.

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.)