liz in la

suck it, Barbie

So today is Barbie's 50th birthday. I'm just going to go ahead and throw this out there, that bitch has had work done.

I was much more of a crazy feminist in college. I was decidedly anti-Barbie, her drastically contorted, sexualized figure, her tiny feet reminiscent of foot binding, made for four inch stilettos, her abnormally huge eyes and freakishly long limbs were in my mind just as damaging as anorexic super models, furthering the objectification of my gender. My anti-Barbie stance caused some uncomfortable moments with my Auntie and my best friend, BOTH of which are Barbie collectors. Seriously, my Aunt drives 40 miles to the nearest Target on the FIRST day they release that year's holiday Barbie. Do not get between my Aunt and the Barbie display. YOU WILL LOSE AN ARM.

I don't have such a hard line against Barbie anymore. I've either mellowed in my old age, or more likely, I've redirected my anger at more important things, like sea monkeys. Yet, I still have a little bitterness towards the old girl. When I was 12 I stripped Barbie down and did a side-by-side naked comparison in the mirror. My self-image suffered, as my breast nubs were about as pronounced as my rib cage, leading me to believe that I was going to have not two, but four tits. It was a great source of anxiety.

Also, based on very linear logic skills, it was apparent that when you grew breasts your nipples disappeared. Barbie didn't have nipples, hence, I waited about three years for my nipples to go away. I checked them obsessively, and at one point convinced myself that they were fading. I doubt any boy has ever been as intensely obsessed with boobs as I was at that time.

And then there were the hips and the huge gap between her legs. Try as I might, no amount of posturing, flexing or contortion would create space between my pudgy prepubescent thighs. I think that's when I developed my intense love of sweatpants.

Many years and several therapy sessions later, I've learned to love my body. And through some awesome anatomical changes, have also developed a sliver of space between my thighs. However, if I ever breed a female child, I will not buy her a Barbie.

My Aunt will.

Today is stupid

You know what's stupid? Sea monkeys. And pigeons. In that order.

Also, spaghetti, my landlord and people who don't fucking swear correctly.

Examples
God bless America
Oh fudge
God bless it
Cheese and rice
Dang
Darn it
Heck

Grow a pair or just don't bother getting angry in the first place.

Stupid.

popsicles, DSL, naked spa day and Oscar

It was my full intention to hibernate, buckle down and do tons of nothing this weekend. Instead, life intervened and I ended up having a lot of fun.

Dylan dropped by unexpectedly Friday night and we had a four hour guitar lesson and ate popsicles. I love that guy. And he's genius with a guitar. Bartleby, however, is not a music lover. He spent several hours pacing, screeching and finally settled on the arm of the couch where he fixed the guitar with a malevolent glare, paired with flattened ears and the occasional tail flick. He a TV cat. What can I say?

Saturday was naked spa day.  I went back to the Korean spa with Velma and an unnamed accomplice. I soaked in a vat of mugwort tea, lounged in the oxygen room and paid to have the top layer of my epidermis scrubbed off. I am not soft, again, I am THE soft. There is no experience in my life that comes close to the humility and ecstasy of laying face down on a table, naked and having a lingerie clad woman at turns scrub and then fling buckets of hot water on me. It's a cross between feeling like a beached whale and an infant. Then we all lounged around on the heated jade floor and gossiped for an hour. It's like heaven for girls.

During our lounging, a poor woman collapsed, face first to the floor. The paramedics were called, but then she came around and made a full recovery. I informed Velma that if the paramedics were cute I was taking off my robe. Sadly, they never showed up.

Unfortunately all that hard earned relaxation was somewhat destroyed today by my call to Verizon's service line. I despise despise hate hatred anger fury dislike intensely the new phone trees that ask you to speak your answer. I ended up yelling, nay screaming, and I quote, "DSL, DSL DSL!!! DSL YOU MOTHERFUCKING PHONE BOT, DSL!!!" I'm guessing that they record these things, thus in all likelihood that little soundbite is some Verizon tech's new cell phone ring.

To shake off the temper tantrum, I went for a run. Then I did Oscar night with Trilby. We got take-out from Sur on Robertson. WOW. I shall endeavor to have a suitor take me to Sur. It is amazing inside. Dimly lit, candles everywhere, cozy and exotic and the food is pretty tasty. Tonight marked our 7th Oscars together, officially making Trilby my most stable long-term relationship.

no more birds or some lessons drive themselves home

I was egregiously, dangerously cut off tonight on the freeway, by a mini van.

I'm not going to sugar coat it. I was pissed. There was muttering, teeth grinding, expletives. I then drove much closer to his bumper than is safe or legal. A few exits down the road he made the choice to return to his original lane, probably due in no small part to my tailgating. Once back in the lane from which he'd launched his asshat maneuver in the first place, he rolled down the window and flipped me off.

YES HE DID.

And I laughed. I chuckled. I may have even whistled. I could not have been happier. That flying of the bird was acknowledgment that I had made him uncomfortable, and angry, very angry. Turns out, I just needed the satisfaction of know that he too felt inconvenienced. Which is why I shall never flip anyone off ever again. What if it makes them happy, acknowledges their anger or satisfies them in anyway? Uh uh.

I am SO glad that idiot flipped me off. Fabulous validation.

taking stock

I attended a woman's workshop last week. Sitting in a room surrounded by 140 women, we were all challenged to take stock of our lives and then, gasp, share. One would not think that I would have trouble sharing, this blog being evidence exhibit A. However, I am a true midwestern girl. We are a stoic people. Sharing of anything besides food, while not expressly forbidden, is not in my genetic make-up. So, in keeping with the use of my humor as my shield, I made everyone laugh with the surface level sharing I was comfortable with. Everyone laughed, or nearly, those that had shared something deeply personal were not impressed by me. I did not make light of my flaws or the sharing exercise to make them look like an asshole, not at all. However, in retrospect, I can see their cause for anger.

After my six turned seven month celibacy jag I was at a loss as to the purpose of this blog. Still am, as I rarely write about my rampant consumerism as the title of my blog may suggest. At this workshop, it became clear to me that I do this because I like entertaining people. I think it is a gift and the blogs that I read daily are a source of happiness. Not only do they amuse and entertain me, but they do so on days when I really need a little amusement. When they write about things they've overcome, I find it inspiring. I've received a few letters over the past year and then some, letters from women who went through a devastating break-up and found comfort in my pain and misadventure. And that's not nothing. Believe me, I am aware I'm not curing AIDS or restructuring the failed banking system. But there is value in sharing your life, even anonymously, even with people you don't know.

Which leads me to the sharing I should have done in the estrogen chamber last week. I have the great fortune to be very good at my job, to have a great job, to have an amazing and supportive group of friends and I am blessed with a great family (yes, even those asshole Cabbots). Last year I reconnected with Darla after a big girl time out, sister sabbatical. I think sometimes time apart is what you need, but six years was ridiculous. My life is so much fuller and happier with her in it. She brings a value and a perspective that I truly lament the lack of. If you have a sister you haven't spoken to in six years, by the way, stop being a stubborn asshole and pick up the phone. Yes, it takes time to rebuild, but those are six years of her life that I won't get back.

The taking stock exercise covered the big four: career, friends, family & relationships. I feel like a rockstar at the first three. I am an utter failure at relationships. There, I said it. I am difficult, petty, militant and hypocritical. The way I treat men, is not a way that I would treat even the most casual of acquaintances. The mercy, dignity and equanimity I display in the other areas of my life do not make an appearance when I begin to fall in love. Trust issues, those are the ugliest shoes of all.

That's where I need work. So, I'm working on it. I'm going to try out things like mercy & dignity next time someone fucking pisses me off. I retrained myself to stop flipping people off in the car (I'm down to about once a year) so I'm hopeful I can train myself to stop being a psychotic bitch the moment I start to have feelings for someone. Wish me luck!

Christ with the pissing and moaning

John McCain is whining about how Obama isn't playing things "bipartisan". Sour grapes old man, sour grapes.

While the Republicans are licking their wounds trying to figure out how they suddenly became the nonathletic fat kid who smells like cheese, Rush Limbaugh's self-satisfied chuckling is polluting the very air we breathe. This guy had no career while Republicans were in office. He had to resort to prescription drug abuse, and as he survived, clearly he doesn't even know how to do that properly. Obama's in office less than a week and Limbaugh's on every channel saying about Obama, "I hope he fails." I sincerely hope he doesn't. And if Rush Limbaugh had even one patriotic bone in his perversely gelatinous body, he wouldn't say shit like that. I guess this is what happens when you haven't been laid since the 80's.

Sore losers. Why don't you guys go find some hookers or have illicit homosexual affairs in public restrooms? No one's looking now, you'll probably get away with it.

a lupercalia day recap

Once upon a time, I rather harshly gave it to Shane for being thirty minutes late picking me up. So, when I showed up half an hour late on Valentine's Day I was expecting to really get it. He met me at the door with flowers, then commenced ribbing me about my tardiness. On and on about how much shit I'd given him. Blah Blah Blah. So, I capitulated. What could I do? It was a hypocritical move on my part. I own that.

So, I shouted. OK OK! YOU'RE RIGHT. CONGRATULATIONS. You are now in possession of the high ground. I have lost all moral superiority. I AM AN ASSHOLE. I was wrong. I was hypocritical. I am no longer the holder of the high ground. I surrender! It's all yours! Build a fort. Install some buttresses. Oil your cannons. Paint the fucking walls!! High ground, take it, it's all yours!

To which he responded with a shrug, "I really don't care that you were late."

And I DIDN'T MURDER HIM. Even though I think we can all see that he deserved a good murdering.

having established that I am not good at this...

I think faithful readers have identified that I am not good in relationships. I'm an expert at break ups, but relationships I know nothing about. Allow me to recap just a few awesome gaffes.

2 years ago:
When your ex-fiancee shows up at your house at 10:30 at night, you should not cheat on your current boyfriend with him (the current at the time was a guy I've referenced as Captain Perfect in previous posts). No, you should not. Because, well it's not classy, it's not nice and it's just not hygienic. Furthermore, if you happen to find yourself on the expedited karmic retribution list as I do, bad things happen. I engage in an indiscretion, two days later, it rains in my bedroom. This can all be explained by a burst pipe in the upstairs neighbors apartment. But I cannot help but feel that when it rains in your bedroom, it's God's way of saying you've got some cleaning up to do. Even at the time, while very annoying, inconvenient and messy -- still hilarious. If I'd known that was going to happen, we would have fucked in the bathtub. (I broke up with Captain Perfect two days later, and never told him what I'd done. It would have been too cruel.)

6 months ago:
iPhones are dangerous things. You should not operate them inebriated or distracted. If you do, you could text your boyfriend - "meet at Canal Club at 8?"  Your boyfriend who is in Boston for the week. It really wasn't like that, but I think we can all see that it doesn't look good on paper.

2 months ago:
If you must break off a relationship, it is best to have the patience to do it in person or at the very least over the phone, not voice mail, real time. Just before Christmas I left a Dear John voice mail to a suitor. A suitor who called two days later, explaining that he'd just received the message, because he'd been hospitalized for three days with food poisoning. Yep. I'm the girl who broke up via voice mail with a guy who was in the hospital.

Present day:
This story has to be prefaced by the knowledge that I carry full on conversations in my sleep. I'm a talker. I wake up the next morning with either no idea or just the dimmest, faintest remembrance of having said something. I'm bad-ass stealthy, but this is the chink in my armor. I talk mostly nonsense, however, this oddity of my programming keeps me honest, lest I divulge something scandalous during a sleep interrogation.

This may or may not have happened, which is maddening considering it was four days ago and I WAS THERE. Just after drifting off to sleep in Shane's arms, I remember saying, "Are you trying to lock me down?" I think, think... he was talking to me about "relationship" stuff. I really have no recollection of what he said, if he said anything. I think he was talking... And Christ on the cross, I hope he was saying something, otherwise I'm the creepy asleep girl who muttered, "Are you trying to lock me down?"

I was retelling this to Darla when she interrupted, shrieking, "You fell asleep during the DTR talk?!"

The DT what?

DTR, as I now know, stands for Define The Relationship. And in my defense, if it happened at all, I fell asleep BEFORE the DTR talk. It's not my fault. I was cozy, he was warm, he had his arms wrapped around me. What?!

At any rate, I'm not sure what I missed. For all I know, I'm in a locked-down, monogamous, I think I may want your babies relationship. OR... I'm the creepy girl who mutters about relationships in her sleep.

happy Lupercalia!

The Catholic Church, in their decades old quest to quell everything fun and slightly sexual, struck again with the invention of Valentine's Day. Originally, February 13-15 was Lupercalia, the Roman festival of Lupercus or better known, the Greek equivalent of Pan.

What I'm saying here people, is that instead of running the streets naked, getting drunk and watch vestal virgins sacrifice goats, we observe an anemic old saint who was staked. To add to this travesty, Hallmark got ahold of it and now it's all about chocolate and who gets the biggest bouquet of flowers delivered to the office.

Why, POPE? WHY?

I like Pan. We have much in common. He liked to consume of the unholy quantities of alcohol, me too! He enjoyed being naked. I concur.

St. Valentine? Ughh. I didn't know him personally, but I have serious doubts that he was ever invited to a party.

About the only tradition that survived is that the observant do end up naked on February 14th.

Ha POPE! IN YOUR FACE!

relationship etiquette for the shameless tell-all blogger

Conundrum.  I feel the bony grip of an impending relationship.  (We'll discuss my commitment issues later, shall we?)

The whole point of this blog was to live loud, live honest and then write about it. Which I've done. I've bared it all, beginning with my heartbreaking tale of woe (fine, mostly rage) at being cheated on, my seven months without sex (NOT WORTH IT), up through all the false starts and stops with new loves, peppered with tales of hilarity, near death experiences, weekly alcohol induced adventures, frequent cat photography and the occasional West LA monkey sighting.

It's a lot of information. Yo.

Which brings me here, at the brink, trying to figure out how, when, if to tell a man who carries a gun about my secret hobby. I have two basic options before divulging - light cleaning, involving the erasure of any references to sex in the past three months along with any posts that indicate a serious predilection to mental illness/psychosis/bat shit craziness. Or option 2, which is somewhat akin to a hysterectomy. I am really not keen on people that I know (i.e. share party hats and give each other cookies) having free access to my mental breakdown following the dramatic dissolution of my 10 year relationship. It was not pretty, it was not attractive, it was not very sane. Also, while I'm not overtly detailed in the retelling of my love life, one can most definitely piece together a road map. It's here if you're looking.

He will look. He's a trained investigator. Damn my bad luck.

Leading me to option 3. I'm a pretty good keeper of secrets. Truly, I'm bad ass stealthy.

He's also trained to know when people are lying. Fuck. Thoughts?