and i will always love you, vegas

I got an e-mail today. I get e-mails all the time. Most are deleted without being read because I have no need for male enhancement pills or help refinancing my yacht... but some of them do give me pause. Like last week, when my Mom forwarded me a picture of my Grandpa in a "WSU Grandma" sweatshirt. A few things you should know about my Grandpa. One, he is not a woman, ergo he should not be wearing a woman's sweater. Two, he is not a slight man... he's 6'6", and any blouse from my Grandma's closet should fit him like a crop top. And three, he is a die-hard Husky. Which pretty much settles it. All those who root for the purple and gold are cross-dressing illiterates.

Anyway, I digress. As stated before, I got an e-mail from the New York, New York hotel in Las Vegas.  Two years ago I was a guest there, celebrating St. Patrick's Day in style- and now they want me back.

It's natural for The Vegas to miss me, I suppose. We have an intense, mutual love. We, (The Vegas and I) are soulmates.

While I've only been twice, and both times swore never to return whilst downing Dramamine at a McCarran terminal... I will most definitely make another trip to the high desert. This is because my word pretty much means nothing, and also because I LOVE THE VEGAS. It's arid and bright, glitzy and trashy at the same time, and no one looks down on you if you have a Tequila Sunrise at sunrise. Except for that bitch at the Coffee Bean. Who was she to judge me? I was on vacation! I told her that, too.

Vegas is Disneyland for non-churchgoing adults. Even homeless people are more friendly in The Vegas. One man told me I was a rose amongst thorns. I was walking with Jevon and Seany so he must have been one of those prophetic poor people, or else, how would he have known? Like a modern day Nostradamus...

When I'm in Vegas, I'm a different person. A better person, I daresay. I wake when I feel like it, I sleep when the drinks run out (which is never!) and I throw hundreds of dollars away in cute little noisy trashcans shaped like slot machines. I'm very nearly fun... most of the time.

Since I'm a seasoned Vegas visitor, I never make any of the beginner faux-paus I succumbed to during my first jaunt. Gone are the high heels that I regret as soon as I reach the hotel lobby. Well, they're not gone, but I put flats in my purse. Speaking of purses, I don't even bother taking an obnoxious little one that doesn't actually hold anything... where will I put my shoes and extra liquor? And a winter coat? Banished from my sight!- this is Vegas, not Pullman. Checked luggage? Pshaw. A carry-on will suffice.

We have a routine in Vegas. We check into the hotel and then dabble in the complimentary cocktails on our way to the room. If you've never had any complimentary cocktails when you've stayed with me, I might have consumed them without your knowledge (my apologies go out to Bonnie and Lawrence, in particular). Also, I may have had a drink on the plane, and maybe one at that Florentina's place at the Pasco airport. I'm a very uneasy flyer...

Once settled into the room, we break out the Kamchatka. I don't know if it's that we thought Vegas wouldn't have enough cheap liquor or that maybe we were worried they didn't carry our Pullman select brand... but on our inaugural trip we were packing. So now, it's tradition. Shots, shots, shots.

We then wander to the strip in wide-eyed wonder. I like to make an investment in one of those obnoxious yard-stick drinks right away, as I feel they pay for themselves almost immediately. Would I like a shot of Everclear for an extra dollar? Need you even ask...

During our last trip I opted for a football shaped drink, as it had a handle and I'm a bit dropsy. This was a good effort, but at the end of the night I spiked it to the ground, shattering the bottom. I don't remember why this happened.

In Vegas there are no liquor laws. I'm sure they have them, but I have yet to come across any. You can drink anywhere; sidewalks, streets, casinos, rooms, restaurants, pools... the possibilities are endless. There's no closing time. They actually sell Everclear. And, last but certainly not least, ladies drink for free almost everywhere. In Washington state the only way to get a free drink is if it's your birthday, or to make up for a service error. In The Vegas, so long as you don't have a penis, you're good. Even if you're not a lady, make friends with one. I grabbed more than one rum and coke for my Y-chromosome addled companions and I'm not even that nice of a person.

Typically our first night in Vegas is spent "drankin' forties on tha strip" and smoking cigarettes because, well, we're allowed to. You know, it seems I wrote "our" when I really meant, Jevon. Jevon's first night in Vegas is spent swilling 40 oz. malt liquor up and down the sidewalks all the while chain-smoking cigarettes and collecting those weird porn cards. It's as if he wants to play an adult-only version of Go Fish.

"Do you have any Tiffanie's?"
"Tiffany with a 'y', or Tiffani with an 'i'?"
"With an 'ie'."
"Nope. Go fish. For sluts."

Last time we stayed, Jevon woke up to discover his cigarettes missing. "Lawrence!" he said, astonished by their smoking prowess, "we smoked the whole pack last night!"

Lawrence shook his head. "No, you smoked the whole pack. You were lighting one with the end of another, bitch ass." I added that 'bitch ass' in, because for some reason I don't remember Lawrence's reply having any curse words in it... and we all know how unreasonable that is.

This kind of chatter is one of my favorite things about Vegas, or any vacation, really. I call it the 'morning recap'. Most hotels are equipped with nifty blackout curtains, and I relish every time I get to throw them open and greet the day.  I love it so much that I go into the rooms of everyone I know and open their curtains for them. They don't seem to like when I do this, but, I don't care. Sun pours in, stomachs churn, and thoughts like, "Oh shit..." stumble around the minds of my loved ones. They usually complain, or yell... but deep down I know they're just as delighted as I. I force them to congregate in one room as we piece together the shitshow that was the night before. Questions like, "How did I get this large bruise on my hip?" turn into answers like, "Somewhere between The Flamingo and Paris you decided you could fly, and by the time we got to Planet Hollywood, you jumped off the steps and landed face-first on the sidewalk. I'm sorry for laughing and letting that porn-card flicker be the one to help you up..." (still sorry, Bon...)

The next day, or two, or three (our first Vegas experience was four nights... also known as twice as long as any person should be in Nevada) are spent poolside, or shopping, or gambling; all of which are coupled with, you guessed it: drinking. We make a point to visit Diablo's Cantina at least once, and also make time for a couple Washington Apple's prepared by a swarthy blackjack table waitress named Darla... Or Sheila... Or Ruth...

And, as traditions go... the night before we leave is usually when I go crazy.

The first time was at about 3:30 AM, 12 hours before we were set to board the plane back home. I was abandoned by the girls, who were smart enough to be asleep, and had taken refuge at a Mexican karaoke bar with Jevon, Lawrence and Omar. I was watching some guy do a magic trick in which he was turning fuzzy little balls into... other things while Omar was trying to wheel some girl by singing her Garth Brooks... or Enrique Iglesias... or Boyz II Men...

After the magic show commenced and our yardsticks were empty, the five of us (me, the boys, and some chick in a pink dress) headed home. Except, there was one problem... I couldn't figure out how to put my shoes on. Why I had them off, is also a mystery, but in the grand scheme of things neither here nor there. They were strappy sandals, and the clasp was, at that moment in time, beyond my comprehension and patience. I ended up looping the strap around my ankle and letting them flap all over the place as we made our way down the strip.

Nearing the crosswalk in front of our hotel, I noticed something. "The street's closed!" I yelled, starting to hyperventilate. "Why the fuck is the street closed!?!?" It was then, that I started to cry. Seriously.

Jevon and Lawrence, surprisingly serving as the voices of reason, encouraged me to follow them. "They're cleaning the street, we'll just go to MGM and walk across the skywalk."

"The skywalk?!?!" I wailed, continuing to bitch, bitch, bitch until we reached MGM. "Why are they cleaning the streets?" I asked. "Why can't we just walk across, to get to the hotel we paid for?" I grumbled. "Why are my shoes broken?" I sobbed.

At the skywalk entrance, Omar looked back at Jevon and Lawrence with a laugh. "Have fun with Booze..." he said, continuing on to his pink lady's hotel. Which, I believe, was the Tropicana... :/

Jevon asked if I wanted pizza. "No!" I spat. "I want to go home and never come back here!" I meant it, too. The next morning, when I was scheduled to finally ride the NY roller coaster, I couldn't... because of the bottle flu. I'd been waiting the whole trip for the roller coaster, and now I couldn't bear the thought of standing awkwardly, let alone careening gleefully. It was icing on the pissed off cake. On the flight home I swore up and down that I would never again vacation in the land of "the debauched and stupid."

6 months later, this time after a three night stay, I had that similar feeling of fear and loathing in Las Vegas. My companions were different, and the construction on Aria/Cosmo/whatever else had made considerable progress... but like clockwork, the night before our return home I was about ready to kill someone.

I didn't cry this time, instead deciding to sneer at anyone and everything. I was in bed and tucked in by the time Fred Armisen uttered, "And live, from New York, it's Saturday Night!" Seriously. It was when Ryan Reynolds hosted.

The next day, while waiting for our broken down plane, I got a text from Jevon. "I just took my jacket out of my suitcase to go outside and wait for my shuttle and like 15 of those naked girl cards fell out on the floor haha." I wrote back a few hours later with this,  "Everytime I leave I'm like, "oh thank god i can't handle this anymore" and then I reflect and am like, "shit, i love that town!" I'll need 6 months to recup, but I'm excited as hell to go back."

Vegas is a hate it or love it kind of town, and I'm one of those people that simultaneously hates and loves things, ergo we are a match made in Heaven. I miss you Vegas. I love you. And I am sure I will see you again.

allllll you sucka MCs ain't got nothin' on me....

I think I'm wise. The fact that I think this probably negates the thought in the first place, but whatevs. I practically radiate wisdom. But, I'm not so egotistical to think that I was born this way. Many things and people have contributed to my special brand of ingeniousness, though there is one thing that has impacted me above all else.

Rap music.

You may be sitting there, scratching your head, saying to yourself, "Bitch be crazy." But you're wrong. I'm not crazy, at least in the conventional sense. Rather, I am so open-minded that I can gather smarts from even the strangest of sources. Don't let my Wonder Bread upbringing fool you. Rap is my life.

I rap in my car, in the shower, and anywhere else people can't hear me. Rhymes flow through my head all the time, and the 21st most played song on my iPod is, in fact, rap. The song's by a white guy, though, so I'm not really sure it counts. And the other rap in my top 25 is by Koreans... Oh boy...

But anyway, I'm as urban as they come. I am entirely thuggish. Once I even walked into an Urban Outfitters, ready and willing to get my groove on. I think I must have ended up in the wrong place though, because when I got there it was just a lot of plaid and folksy-looking shit, with a ton of fake Ray Bans strewn about... I didn't see one single pair of Timberlands.

My years spent as an adolescent were difficult, but, I made it through those tough times because of my love and understanding of hip-hop. Above all else, I remember the 5 rules-to-live-by that hip hop has instilled into the core of my being.

These rules are as follows:


#1 - Learned from the classic ballad, BITCHES AIN'T SHIT, by Dr. Dre.

When I was in junior high, I walked to school everyday. And by 'everyday' I mean any day that I couldn't convince my parents or someone else's parents to take pity on me and drive me the half mile to Desert Hills.

On one such jaunt, while cutting through some random ass park on my way to campus, I saw something glittering in the grass. Inspecting further, I came to find a CD. A compact disc! Yahoo! I thought, flipping it over to see what great music I stumbled upon. Britney Spears, perhaps? Maybe it was the new N*SYNC album... or even a throwback like Hanson or Spice Girls.

My face fell. Alas, it was not Britney, Christina or Jessica-, and it was most certainly not made by a band of boys...

I looked at it, wondering what kind of music could be on a cd that had a big green leaf emblazoned on the front? I'd seen the leaf before, scribbled on the binders and forearms of bad kids. Putting the disc in my backpack, I marched on, stutter-stepping for 10 yards. Was having this disc on my person, illegal? Could I get into trouble? Would I be expelled for bringing marijuana contraband to school?!? I ran back to the yellow and blue garbage can that sat near the slide everyone peed on, and shoved Dr. Dre's masterpiece in the trash. I was all set to forget about Dre.

If only I'd kept the CD, and listened to it secretly in my room, quietly enough so that my parents couldn't hear the dull roar of FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-RACIAL SLUR-BITCH-HOE-FUCK.

I would have learned earlier, the golden rule: bitches ain't shit.

The good doctor puts it a bit more delicately than I, but, let me break it down for you. Friends are gonna turn on you. Tricks and hoes aren't the greatest of people. They're going to lie, cheat and steal-- and you might be the victim. But that's okay, because they ain't shit. Don't worry about it. Turn the other cheek, walk away, and be a better person for it. Through out the album, Dre, Snoop and the gang repeatedly mention poppin' caps in asses and passin' glocks... but I'm pretty sure they're painting a picture of violence as a deterrent- they don't want you to actually commit heinous acts of murder. They're saying, "Hey, yeah, you're gonna be pissed, that's for sure... but don't shoot anyone, even if they deserve it. Because jail is not a good time. You won't like it. Listen to the words that we tell ya..."

I did listen to the words that they told me. And I'm better for it. Up next-

#2 - Learned from the motivational magnum opus, JUICY by Biggie Smalls, or whatever his name is...

The life of an unpublished, unrespected, unknown writer is not as glamorous as one might assume. There are many a day when I don't hear a single line I've written escape a fan's mouth. I never get recognized in the mall... and I've yet to receive a residual check. Or any checks, really.

According to the Notorious BIG, the life I live is a bit of a negative, but not for long. If I reach for the stars, and don't let anyone hold me down... it will soon be all good, baby, baby.

While my struggles aren't necessarily the same as his... I have no daughters and have yet to hustle below their bedroom window for Hamburger Helper funds, I find myself identifying with every bit of the song. Well, every bit except for the parts after the intro that chronicle his rich, fabulous, Super-Nintendo-Sega-Genesis filled life... I've yet to hit the big time and splurge for any gaming systems, let alone two obsolete ones.

But Biggie inspires me, and all those who listen to him when he talks of 'Welch's grape' and of all the other fun things he can do now that he's successful... like turn on the heat. Who doesn't want that!?


I can not WAIT until the day that I'm sipping champagne when I'm thirsty. This water I've been downing is bland and for poor people. Speaking of poor people...


#3 - A seminar in upward mobility called, BRENDA'S GOT A BABY by Tupac/2pac.

I would think the life lessons from this song are entirely obvious, but, sometimes people are dense about poetry, and thus, I will explain.

The picture Tupac paints is grim, and rightly so. Some say this song is about urban poverty, ghetto life, and children's belief that they can't rise above the struggle to prosperity because of the terms and conditions they've been handed by their parents and most of all, society.

This is all well and good, but, rather far-reaching. You don't have to look so hard into Brenda to see the big picture. In my opinion, Tupac is simply saying that incest is bad, and so is being poor.

Just like in the song, if you're poor, you'll be forced to marry your cousin. I think this is maybe because then your collective family only has to pay for one wedding. Once you marry your cousin, you'll get pregnant by him and you'll have your three-armed baby in a bathroom, because poor people like giving birth in Wendy's restrooms. It's where they feel at home. Your baby will be quite gross, so naturally you'll want to get rid of it, and where's a better place than a dumpster for baby-tossing?

Being the totally decent/misunderstood young chippy that you are, you'll take pity on the poor, misshapen creature and bring it home. You'll start selling drugs for Kindercare funds, but you'll get robbed of your crack. Soooo typical. This usually happens because crack-heads are not so polite to their dealers, especially when their dealers are poor girls who had a baby by their cousin... Even crackheads judge incest... After the crack's gone, you'll turn tricks to pay for special shirts for the little three-armed nugget, and you'll end up getting killed. This is because hookers get killed like, all the time. Hazard of the job, I guess.

So, your life will pretty much suck, because of the aforementioned suckery, and also, because you're under the age of 50 with a name like Brenda.

Now that I think about it, Tupac's lesson is three-fold. Don't be poor, don't be incestuous, and don't be a matronly-named hooker.

You can curb at least one of these inevitabilities (the being poor one) by heeding the following advice:

# 4 - Economics 101 with Ludacris and his 2001 hit, AREA CODES.

This song, in its core, is about diversification. And who doesn't need a lesson in that?!

In 'Area Codes', Ludacris, in his catchy, smoothly rhymed way, tells us of a number of different conquests. In his mind, though, it isn't enough to be a whore. You must be a well-traveled one. If you're going to have 38 girlfriends, you best put them in as many area codes. You don't want them running in to each other, causing a ruckus and setting fire to your car.

This wisdom can carry over into many things. Would you buy 38 houses in the same zipcode? No, not so long as your name isn't Warren Jeffs. Normal non-polygamists would post those houses all over the globe, so they had a place to stay regardless of their location. If you had 38 million dollars, would you invest all of it in one place? I don't know. Maybe? I've never been good with money.

Luda's scripture, at the core, echoes with the same sentiment as a well-known proverb of yore: "Don't put all of your eggs in one basket." Or all your booty calls in one town. What if that town was struck by a natural disaster?! Where would you be then!?!? Sex-less, alone, and probably dodging calls from the Red Cross about donations for disaster relief, which is the worst place to be.

Finally, we've reached the most important lesson:

#5 Thoughts on... something, I guess, as taught by a whole mess of people in the song, GHETTO COWBOY.

The lesson in this song, I'll admit, is somewhat meandering. It's a historical epic, set in the old West, where evidently black people were running the town, robbing banks and chasing 'damn indians'. And we whites always get blamed for that... how unfair.

Krayzie 'Big Bad Ass' Bone, who is wanted up North for all the gold that he stole, meets a few friends during his quest to Tucson, Arizona. He's headed there because there's like, a couple banks in town that ain't been held up, yet... or something. They're rustlin' up cattle, robbing banks, and being rootin' tootin' shootin' damn fools... AKA, by definition, ghetto cowboys. Now, where is the lesson in this?

I'm glad you asked. The lesson hides in the chorus, with the oft sung line, "You better count yo' money." Aha! Brilliant! On so many levels!

Counting your money not only lets you know how much you have, but also keeps your math skills in check. At least, useful math skills, like addition. All that other shit they said we'd use, like Trigonometry and other -ometrys?? Worthless. Especially when you're on the run from the law, a la Krayzie Bone.

Knowing how wealthy you are also helps in determining whether or not you're going to end up like Brenda, in rule number 3, or like Biggie, in rule number 2. Will you die a sad hooker death because of the lack of money you counted, or spend days at a time playing Super Mario because of the abundance you've accumulated? The possibilities are endless.

Rap is, in my eyes, a catchy way of imparting knowledge to the minds of our idiotic youth. Sure, they can't remember their times tables and have no idea who the 16th president was, but they all know the words to Eminem's latest album, and if Lil Wayne rapped the Gettysburg Address, you bet your sweet ass they'd be singing along in their sleep.

Who needs parents when you have rap?

And... I know I said I only had five rap rules to live by... but I think I lied.

#6  A lesson in womanly empowerment, as told in I DON'T NEED U, by Trina.

Rap, like all areas of life other than childbirth and incessant nagging, is dominated by men. Think of the great rappers: Snoop, Easy E, Q-Tip, Jay-Z, and Vanilla Ice. What do they have in common? Almost all of them can rap.

As an impressionable young girl who had Britney Spears and other young ingenues constantly thrust upon her, it was distressing to turn to rap for a role model and come up empty handed. That is, until I heard Trina's shrill voice come over the radio. Or, actually, not the radio, as her songs are so completely innappropriate that no broadcasting station would dare play them... I think I probably downloaded them illegally on Kazaa.

I Don't Need U is just that... an anthem telling girls that they don't need anyone! The song is derogatory, discriminating and disgusting, among other things. I clearly remember driving down the road with my friends, yelling the horrifying lyrics at the top of my lungs, uncaring of the passersby that I was offending- which would have been anyone with ears.

Trina had a number of hits, all filled with advice for young girls like don't rely on men, make sure people respect you and always remember to charge for your services. Her prose, along with all the other poets mentioned, molded me into the self-sufficient, albeit warped person that I am today.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pour bleach in my ears.

the one and only

I was born an only child. My brother would disagree with this, but, for all intents and purposes... let's just go with it. 

'Only children' have a certain stigma surrounding them. We're bossy, obnoxious, perfectionists, thoroughly disagreeable when things aren't going our way, selfish... the list goes on and on. They've done studies on this 'only child' syndrome. Supposedly we have trouble in social situations and have a tendency to mature faster... Awkward and precocious? Me? Never.

While growing up I was entirely aware that I was all by myself. My dad had two brothers, my mom had a sister and two brothers... even my brother had two brothers! I had two dogs, and they would always steal my hats.

Once I was old enough to be in school and have actual human companions, I quickly noticed all my friends had siblings... which was something I'd never really experienced. Dinner time at their houses was practically like a party! There were so many people gathered around the table! And all of them had to sit, and eat, silently, while they listened to me prater on incessantly... about myself.

When friends would come to my house, I'd always come up with some 'fun' little game for us to play. Usually we'd pretend to be the Spice Girls, or duct tape nickels to railroad tracks. One time we hurled ourselves face first down a sandy hill near the freeway, and for weeks afterward my dad called me Scarface. *Yes, I played near railroad tracks and freeways, unattended. My parents were busy raising their other children... oh, wait...

We did anything, pretty much... anything that I wanted to do, that is. I was the boss. They came to my crib, they played by my rules. I visited their humble abode, they also played by my rules, because uh, hello?... I was the guest.

It wasn't until middle school that I started to clue into the fact that being 'bossy' was not a good thing. I figured out that my friends and relatives did not like being told what to do, especially by me. All of a sudden I didn't want to be the one in charge anymore. I didn't want to be the one freaking out every time someone decided to not conform to my will- I wanted to be calm, cool and collected... three things that I've never been and even to my best efforts will probably never, ever be...

Mostly I didn't want to be an only child anymore, and when my parents wouldn't help me out in that area, I decided to take matters into my own hands. After a few years practice, my calm, cool, collected projections turned me into a different, indifferent person. I allowed people to borrow things, and pretended that I didn't care when they gave them back or in what condition they returned in- "You want to borrow some DVD's? Sure, here, go ahead. Take them. Take them all. Here, why don't you have my left arm, too. And my heart. TAKE IT, YOU SAVAGE."

When asked where I wanted to go to dinner, I'd usually shrug and say, "Oh I don't care, wherever." But I did care. "Liz, you want to go to Maggie Moos with us?" Sure, I'd say, silently screaming. I hated that fucking place, and I'm glad it's out of business... All those creepy cow drawings and bright colors... And the ice cream tasted like butter. Ugh.

Anyway. I tried to be an always-agreeable person. I'd go wherever, do whatever (within reason...) and I'd shrug it off. One time, at a RHS/KaHS soccer game, I clearly remember getting laid out on the field by a certain friend of mine. There I was, with an astronomically blue comforter wrapped around me, toddling toward the exit, when someone (DAN) tackled me. To the ground. I saw stars... but that could have been because of my blanket. Bossy Elizabeth would have popped back up, screaming at anyone who was within hearing distance. The new Elizabeth, the cool, non-only child one, laughed it off. To be honest it probably was kind of funny.

It wasn't long before my supposed coolness turned into actual apathy and laziness. By the time college rolled around, I honestly didn't care about most things. Sure, there were a few instances that sent me into a flying rage, like when Jevon and Jurass broke my couch... bitches. Or when I put myself in charge of directing, editing and writing an Office-like version of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. Turning a hodge-podge crew of English major awkwardos into veritable thespians? Not an easy task, my friends. But I did it. And I only made them re-shoot their scenes like 7 times.

Directing and property damage aside, I was noncommittal and uncaring about all aspects of life. If my friends wanted to hang out, they could call me. If I didn't return their voicemails and texts, they should probably come over. If I didn't answer the door, they could try knocking on the window. Or just give up because obviously I didn't like them enough to acknowledge their existence...

If my professors wanted me in class, they needed to explicitly say so... as in, "Elizabeth, you need to be in class on Wednesday." Then they would need to point at me, so I knew I was the Elizabeth they were referring to. And sending an email never hurt anybody...

It was about a year ago when I started to notice that nonchalant-ness was becoming a problem. Really it was the culmination of a lot of little things, but, there was one issue that was a bit more pressing than others. I was allowing people to call me by a name other than my own.

And no, I'm not talking about Booze, the-nickname-that-won't-die.

It all started as, "Hey, Grace, how are you today?" Grace is not my name. Not even close. I smiled and answered that I was doing well, thanks, how are you?... but inside I was trying to figure out how to clue him in that my name was, in fact, Liz.

This happens to me more than I'd like to admit, but usually it's over the phone and probably stems from my apparent speech impediment that occurs when I'm stating my given name. It's always, "Oh, hi Lynn." or "Hey, Lisa." or my favorite, "Lid? L-I-D?" I've briefly flirted with the idea of returning to Elizabeth... but it's just so cumbersome... and common.

This 'Grace' mishap was different. It was not a mispronunciation. He, a frequent customer at my place of employment, thought Grace was really my name. There are numerous instances that could have planted this Grace seed in his head, but every time I was confronted with it, I was unable to correct him.

My apathy had morphed into something I can only assume was a shy, cloying meekness that was to such a point that I was letting people's mistakes stay unnoticed and uncorrected. 

They'd use improper grammar, ("They was just looking at me, like I was stupefied.") and I'd bite my tongue and look the other way. They'd make obscure incorrect pop-culture references, ("You know, Tom Cruise, from Forrest Gump?!") and I'd nod along as if they were right... which they were so not. My neurotic, real-self was dying on the inside... but I would not allow my casual facade to show the cracks of know-it-all-ness. I was unflappable. Unfazed. I could let people be stupid... even if it killed me.

They'd make assumptions about me, and I'd just nod, instead of steering them into a truthful direction. Like one time before P.E. when a boy looked at me and said, "Who'd you borrow that sweatshirt from?" and I looked down at my sweatshirt, and said, "Huh?" He then pulled at the sleeve, which was hiding my hands because it was too long, and said, "It's too big, whose is it?"

I shrugged, thinking it was an utterly strange question. Then I answered with something that I'm still trying to wrap my head around. I opened my mouth, falsities tumbling out: "Oh, yeah, it was my older brother's."

It was not. I lied, to further perpetuate my normalcy and the notion that maybe in some alternate universe I could have a brother that I stole Kamiakin sweatshirts from...

My best friends might laugh at this, as I never fail to correct them... but this is for their own good. It's how I show my love for them. It's not like I can let them go around, speaking erroneously and sounding idiotic. What would that make me, their peer... their equal... if they- for example, asked, "What, exactly, is a teriyaki? No, I know it's a sauce, but, is it a bird? Kind of like a chicken?"  There are some things that even I, a really calm, blasé person, can't let slide.
 

"Grace! How are you?"... Oh, I'm fine, I said, not returning the question. It got to the point where I was kind of rude because I didn't want to give him another opportunity to call me by the wrong name. After this particular exchange my boss looked at me strangely, "Does Larry think your name is Grace?"

"Yes," I said.

"Why don't you correct him?"

I shrugged. "It's been going on like, three months. I feel I'm past the point where I can go, 'Oh, no, actually my name is Liz.'... Grace isn't a bad name. I could be named Grace. And it's not like he's calling me Gladys." I shrugged again, which is my favorite thing to do. "I thought about wearing a name tag... but, we don't wear those, so it would be weird."

The next day Larry called me Liz, and I can only imagine why.

For the most part I've returned to my unsavory, only-child ways, but that doesn't mean my years pretending to be laid-back were all in vain. When I first started at the winery, one of my coworkers asked me about my brothers and sisters. "I don't have any," I shrugged (see? I love shrugging). She looked at me, shocked. "You don't seem like an only child," she said, "my daughter's one, too. I hope she ends up like that."

I smiled, and nodded. VINDICATED!

PS- That teriyaki thing totally happened. 

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.

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.)