liz in la

back when i used to wear terry cloth

It's 1980.

I'm sweet, chubby Lizzie, innocent and adorable in my pink terry cloth running shorts and velcro sneakers. (This was before I became a misanthropic, homicidal shrew with a tendency towards violent outbursts and the liberal use of invectives. Also, I no longer wear terry cloth.) I'm in class, reading a fascinating tome about an insipid, one dimensional character named Jack, who had an equally mundane sister named Jill. They engaged in banal adventures whose only purpose was to instruct me on the spelling and reading of three to four letter words. I sat by a sweaty little boy named Shawn who enjoyed picking his nose and then flicking the boogers across the room at his friends. Out of nowhere, Shawn leaned over and kissed me.

It should be noted that this was not a sweet peck on the cheek. He'd been watching HBO or Cinemax or Snow White and the Seven Sailors. He grabbed me and laid one on me. I shrieked. I mean I really let fly.

That shriek was closely followed by Mrs. Orr, my teacher, yelling at me. I explained that this was because I had been KISSED.

BY A BOY.

GROSS.

She reprimanded me for tattling.

That is the story of the first time I was kissed by a boy. 27 years later, I feel that it may well have been an omen. And Sue Orr, you are a bitch.

what I did during my earthquake

Typically, I don't end up cowering under my desk until around 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Not so today!

seconds 1-2
Felt some shaking, felt certain a very large truck was driving by. My desk is 12 feet from a major intersection.

second 3
Considered the possibility that it was perhaps, maybe an earthquake.

second 4
Mulled it over. Weighed the evidence. Conclusion reached.

second 5
Yelled EARTHQUAKE! And dove under my desk.

second 6-14
Cowered under my desk, the ground ROLLING beneath me while discussing with my office mate if we should go stand in the doorway.

seconds 15-18
Relocated from cowering under my desk to cowering in the doorframe.

And that was it. Nothing fell down. Or over. Or exploded. It wasn't all that scary, but I was on the ground floor. The epicenter was about thirty miles away from my location in Beverly Hills. Even though it wasn't a catastrophic occurrence, everyone in LA felt the need to pick up their cell phones and call someone, so cell service was pretty much down for half an hour. Also, it gave every radio station in town the permission they needed to play ACDC You Shook Me All Night Long on a continuous loop.

I ran home to check on the gay showcat during lunch. He was not happy and told me all about it, very loudly. On and on and on with the mreowwwwwww. I was like Dude! It was a twenty second quake. Pull yourself together.

I loved this photo they had on the cnn homepage. It's very: APOCOLYPSE IN GOTHAM

the case of the mysterious poopies in the hallway

I mentioned previously my awesome new litter box. The totally self-sufficient litter box, save for once a month maintenance. It's been going very well. My big stupid gay showcat Bartleby loves it and there has been nary an accident. Not even an incident. Until last week.

I found a little round turd in the hallway. And by found, I mean I stepped on it. Disgusting, but these things happen. Sometimes the poo just won't come out. Usually because he has swallowed one of my hairs, leaving the turd dangling from his butt and bouncing off his hind legs. I think I've mentioned that Bartleby doesn't have thumbs. Becoming frightened by the malicious poo that won't let go, Bartleby runs away from it. RUNS FROM THE POO, RUNS FROM HIS OWN BUTT resulting in laps around the apartment, nearing the sound barrier until the sheer force of velocity dislodges the tenacious poo. It could happen anywhere on the apartment circuit--when he ricochets off the side of the frigidaire, as he vaults over the coffee table, when he catches air before landing on the hallway rug and sliding three feet sideways before continuing on to destroy the dust bunny colony under my bed.

A few days later, a turd in the middle of the kitchen floor. This has become a high incidence rate and warrants some looking into.

Somewhat hungover, and by that I mean still drunk at 10AM, I stumbled into the kitchen to drink directly from the faucet, such was my intense dehydration. It was then that I noticed Bartleby standing in the litter box, flipping poo out of the box and onto the floor. To say I lost of all of my mind would begin to explain my state, but just.

WHY? Why would he do this? He has never before played with his own poo.

Because the litter box waits fifteen minutes and then disappears the poo. This must be a source of much worry and perplexity for Bartleby. He leaves the poo and when he comes back it has disappeared. What if he needed that poo? SOMEONE WAS STEALING THE POO. Because Bartleby is not bright and an only cat and is illiterate and has no balls, he has a lot of time on his hands. Time to realize that if he doesn't get the poo out of the litterbox immediately, it could be GONE FOREVER.

So he rescues his poo by flipping it out of the box and batting it around my apartment.

DEAR SWEET CHRIST. WHY?!

Her Highness, Queen of the Driveway

When I was visiting my sister in Omaha I became schooled in the art of driveway derby. Driveway derby requires an office chair and a driveway with a slope, and also a trusted accomplice.

Driveway derby is best undertaken while inebriated and with a recommended 10 - 15 friends, also inebriated. Night is the best time of day, because the street traffic is relatively light, and it is the best time of day to drink. Your trusty accomplice positions the rider in the office chair at the top of the driveway and on your signal gives you a running shove, thus propelling the black leather rolling chair down the driveway at a speed that the manufacturer of the chair likely never tested in their durability trials. Once out of the driveway and onto the street, the rider must using all their weight lean as far to the right as possible without tipping the chair over in order to steer the chair towards the driveway at the opposite side of the street. At this point all your inebriated friends yell in unison, LEAN! LEAN! If proper leaning technique is not employed both chair and rider smack into the curb and topple in a hilarious fashion. At which point your inebriated friends laugh in unison. And someone takes a picture.

I was one of the few female contenders. Not because of my inherent daredevil nature, but because UV cherry vodka mixed with Diet Sprite is extraordinarily tasty, much like a Shirley Temple, but with vodka.

I not only navigated the tricky veer onto the across the street driveway, but I coasted all the way to the sidewalk. The farthest distance of anyone, thus making me:

LIZ: QUEEN OF THE DRIVEWAY

There was a bit of grumbling from the male contestants who are inherently sore losers. They cited my weight as an unfair advantage. Suck it tubby. I kicked your ass.

can I decorate my butt?

mooning, free
fines for public indecency, range from $250 - $2000 + jail time

Two words: Moon Amtrak

NPR has a Sunday quiz show called Wait Wait Don't Tell Me. Which is where I found out about the Moon Amtrak event. And some say educational programming is pretentious and high brow.

Moon Amtrak Event Frequently Asked Questions:

• Q I'm overweight, in fact very obese, is it O.K. if I moon?
• A Yes yes, please "moon" with us. We need people like you for the extra high intensity mooning you can provide.
• Q Can I decorate my butt?
• A Yes, that's O.K.

This is their website: http://moonamtrak.org/

The view from the train can be seen here. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5HVDXaZVhSY&NR=1

far better than dieting

being four years old, priceless

Conversation from my tour of the midwest:

Macy was getting dressed. I was crashed out on the bed with her four year old daughter Ali.

"You're skinnier than my mommy," Ali announced.

Brief pause while I died a little bit.

"Are you married?" Was her follow-up question.

I replied, "No Ali, I'm a spinster."

"What's a spinster?"

"Someone who isn't married and is OLD."

She thought about that for a minute. "You're not old. You're skinny!"

And then I said, "I'm pretty sure I can fit you in my suitcase. How do you feel about California?"

shagging balls and protecting the pale

golf lessons, $50

I am taking golf lessons this weekend with Em. I am excited about this for three reasons.

1. drinks are served at golf courses
2. this is an excuse to buy a golf skort
3. this is "exercise"

Oh, just thought of another one
4. I will have an excuse to say "I just shagged balls", without the embarrassing walk of shame that generally follows

Additionally, I would like to inform all of you about the crisis in Tanzania with the albinos. So for my blonde readers, you may want to reschedule your summer vacation if you were planning on visiting the diamond mines or shopping for a child. Witch doctors are randomly killing albinos for their magical body parts. Yeah. But the best part of the BBC article was the caption under the photograph, depicting three African women. The caption helpfully pointed out that the second one from the left was the albino. Thanks BBC.

Also, I always thought of witch doctors as sorta of wacky, hippies who procured and distributed local hallucinogens and lacked fashion sense along with a desire to maintain appropriate hygiene levels. Prior to this article, if I had to rate witch doctors on a scale of likability it would have been high. Somewhere between Richard Nixon and Yanni. No more witch doctors, You've been downgraded for picking on pale people.

there is no joy in hooville

Thus concludes my tour of the Midwest. I'm home. Barely alive.

A lesbian bought me a drink on the plane. God Bless lesbians.

And now I have to go practice some apologies. One down, three to go.

p.s. Clarity has been achieved. Satan. 

apologies Omaha food service workers

The Cabot sisters ride again. I just got home from visiting my sisters in Omaha.

In honor of our founding fathers and their sacrifices we drank and then went to Target tipsy and then afterward, drank. And danced. Drank. Had some vodka. Danced. And then drank more. Which made the next morning super fun.

It was the first time we'd all been in the same place in six years and luckily, this time, we focused our collective aggressions outward. Omaha really should have been warned.

When you are dealing with the hungry and hungover, it is best to bring the fried, covered in melted cheese food stuffs as expediently as possible. I thought this was obvious. Not so at Granite City. Forty minutes later our hapless waitress made the critical error of telling us that the food was ready, but she could not bring it to us for reasons that were perhaps explained but could not be discerned over our collective cursing and growling. Then Kiersten shooed the manager away from our table after I cited that my fried, covered in cheese food stuffs were not very warm and she offered to replace them. She actually reached for my plate. Thank God Kiersten shooed, because if she would have tried to take those fries away she would have only retracted a bloody stump. 

cold french fries covered in melted cheese, $0

We were comped. The managed could not withstand the collective laser glares of three hungover, angry Cabot women. She was afraid.

i must escape all this nerveracking happiness

I get restless and sometimes self-destructive. Previous to this current time of age-mellowed wisdom I might have done something (theoretically) like get my nose pierced, dye my hair blue, get a tattoo, experiment with homosexuality, try a new illegal drug or go on a roadtrip in a VW Van with a roadie named String.

But now I am ever so much more mature. Hence...

distraction by bangs, $70

The last time I had bangs I was a virgin.

Here's the life update: I am seeing someone. He may be awesome or he may be Satan. I cannot tell the difference. So I got bangs and am escaping to Omaha this weekend to party with my Sista. In Nebraska. Next weekend, Missouri.

It's a tour of the midwest. There will be corn, ballet and my 90 year old grandfather. Who has begun to lose his mind and the only topic of any interest to him is my ex. Who cheated on me.

Grandpa: How's beau?

Me: Dead to me.

Grandpa: He died?!

Me: No, it's an expression. He's dead to me. I don't talk to him anymore.

Grandpa: What happened? I always liked him.

Me: I did, too. Until he cheated on me.

Grandpa: Well the weather here has been real dry.

I'm not sure bangs and a tour of the midwest are an improvement over my old ways of dealing.

I miss acid.