do you believe in planets?

phlegmatic? whatevs.

I took some stupid quiz (yes, on Facebook--so?) and apparently "phlegmatic" is the one word that best describes "me." Pbbbbbbt. Apparently Mr. Facebook Quiz has never seen me come hilariously close to a nervous breakdown over an awkward conversation at the bar. Apparently he doesn't know I actually experience physical pain upon remembering particularly humiliating/painful/wonderful moments from the past. Both examples being, in the wise words of Ally McBeal, "just the tip of the neurotic iceberg." Oh, Ally. You silly, skinny little lady you. Could I get away with more crazy shit if I just stopped eating? And would I have my very own Larry to pet and water and keep locked up in my bedroom?

Which reminds me, Mr. Facebook Quiz has never seen how bitchy I get when I don't feed myself regularly. Stoic my ass!

Mr. Facebook Quiz has also never seen me curl into a ball and clutch my abdomen as the fourth cup of coffee decides to dissolve the lining of my stomach. That's another issue entirely, though. Oh, the pain!

Back on topic: Mr. Facebook Quiz also doesn't even know that I secretly watch Grey's Anatomy and root against Meredith because she sucks.

Mr. Facebook Quiz doesn't even, like, know, like, the real meeeee. Mr. Facebook Quiz will try to put you in a box. Look out for Mr. Facebook Quiz!

WhatEVERRRR, Mr. Facebook Quiz. I don't know why I decided to gender you. Probably because I felt like you were trying to push me around and tell me who I am. Typical man.

blog post #number

Sorry I not be postin'. Been comin' down with a moderate case of the crazies lately. I'll explain later.

Not really.

In the meantime, feast your eyes. Can we all agree right off the bat to thank Elton John for this, in spite of all? Look, I know, just turn the volume off:

Right around 2:45 or 2:46, imagine me falling clean out of my chair. Then at 3:36, when he looks all mad and shit, and I'm all "yeah, Yeah, HIT ME!!!" Golden.

Lol.

weekend planz; lolcat

For the first time since Spring Break, I'm takin' these old bones across state lines. That's right friends, foes, and acquaintances with whom I maintain tepid-to-lukewarm relations--I'm going away for the weekend!

Sarah and I, along with Dave and Adrienne, depart for Madison tomorrow evening. I hope to lay both eyes and paws (with any luck, some other parts as well...!!!) upon many sorely missed friendlies; however, Rah and Ebeff are renting a room at the Day's Inn (classay!!!) out by the beltline, which will make a late night drink-a-thon highly unlikely. This is just as well, because we need to hit the road up to Baraboo on Saturday where our rental cabin awaits us.

Did I say "cabin"? Yeeeees.

Is it going to be cold and rainy this weekend? Yeeeees.

Will we allow that to ruin our "weekend away"? Haille no! I was raised to weather weather, kids. And who knows, perhaps I will earn a colorful badge that my mom will have to sew onto my sash. THEN who'll be the sucker!??

On a totally related note, for reasons I can't explain, this made me laugh until I cried. Then I stopped laughing. Then it made me laugh until I cried again.

And you thought I was over LOLcats.

FOOLS!

Quick list of exactly ONE: issue for the day.

1. Nicknames.

Okay, I confess--I use nicknames probably too liberally, and at times, quite thoughtlessly.

Full-ish disclosure: Bud didn't like "Buck"; I, though, couldn't let it go, and merely switched to "Buckles." I never call Brogan "Logan" anymore. Some Portland friends still call Matt "Sweet Baby"; more than likely a scattered few still think he's Jamey. I throw "Princess" around with great enthusiasm, disregarding gender. "_______-face" is a popular one with me, too; it began with Frostface, but "face" would eventually attach itself to a wide selection of names (Krausy-Face, Lisa-Face, etc.) and descriptors (pretty-face, etc.) ... until in Reese's case, I finally detached the "Reesey" from the Face altogether, and "Face" alone it was. (It's kind of like calling a tall girl "Legs," but less sleazy. Right?) Mm, and lately I've been very into the botanicals: "Peachtree," "Peaches," "Raspberry bush," "Watermelon." Yes, Watermelon. And, of course, I also enjoy the usual terms of address/endearment: darling, dearie, sweetheart, dollface, beautiful (are you gagging yet?), light of my life, fire of my loins. And so forth.

THERE. I CONFESSED. I AM GUILTY.

HOWEVER! In return, I have been more than accepting of the many nicknames thrown back in my direction. Pick a variation of my name--I've rolled widdit. Chewy (yes, as in Return of the Jedi Chewy), Sasquatch, "The Camel"--I have learned to deal with, even to like, these less-than-flattering labels. "Peachtree" comes back to me occasionally. References to my towering height (which really isn't SO towering) work their way in there. Jesus, one of my highschool friends called me "Clarence" for years. The same guy who called me "Horny Cream." I rolled widdit. It's coo'.

HOWEVER! I have realized, after many years of tolerance, after every effort to claim the label as my own, that I am simply not okay with "Ice Queen." As a nickname, it's inaccurate, it's fucking mean, and, strangely, it usually comes from the people toward whom I feel most warmly. And really, couldn't we imagine how calling anyone "Ice Queen" might occupy a gray area between "coining a nickname" and merely "calling someone names"?

For my part, I hereby vow to stop calling myself Ice Queen (of which I have been often guilty, usually to either self-deprecate or to beat others to the punch--neither should be necessary, and I'm sure it irritates others as much as it does myself). And with that vow, I hereby claim my right to be pissed off if you call me Ice Queen.

So it's official. If you refer to me as such, whether followed by, "Oh, I'm just teasing!" or not, expect to be either: a) freezed out indeed, b) covered with whatever was left in my glass, or c) verbally skewered. The choice among these options is mine and depends solely upon my mood.

Love,
Chewy ThElizabeth: The only nickname that counts.

too much.

Too much work to do; too much non-work executed over the weekend in the form of drinking, drinking, and drinking, interspersed with drunken karaoke-ing (well, observing karaoke and even applauding enthusiastically), drunken CTA-ing, drunken psychoanalyzing, drunken myself-stuck-in-inane-conversations-getting, and drunken on-lorna's-hideabed-crashing. Finally on Saturday night, I indulged in some sober pretend-working.

The reality check is this: Monday = tomorrow. Bleh.

So...when's the next party?

lame. me. I'm.

So I really, really, want this jacket. And at $75, that's a steal-and-a-half.

Reality check:

1. I am no motorcycle chick.

2. It's cropped rather short. I am rather large.

3. I am broke.

4. It's a motorcycle jacket.

5. Hello. My name is ThElizabeff. I'm a gawky nerd. I do not wear leather jackets, ever.

However,

How badass would that be over a girly floral dress, some nude fishnets, and some big stompy boots? Can I pull this off/own this look/justify this ridiculous purchase?

I'm torn. Like whats-er name Ambruglia. That hot aussie chick with the big eyes and bad voice.

ooh! some good news!

Okay, so it has nothing to do with anything, but whatevs: I'll take it.
Okay, so:

Eddie Vedder concert = blaarrgggg! blech! eeeinck!

However,

Onstage dedication = awwwwwww!

P.S. Remember when we used to all blog? And how we'd have stimulating conversations in the comments threads? My 1.5 daily readers, I am thoroughly disappointed in us. Do I need to hold a contest and pretend there's a real-live prize awaiting the winner? Draw up some blanks? Assign list-making? MGIMOTMOG is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. At least here I'm still tap-dancing half-heartedly through the gestures of occasional blogging.

DO/DO NOT WANT

It threatens to warm up; I threaten to resume paying attention to my appearance after many long months of neglect. Don't tempt me, weather gods! My bank-account can't compete wiff my deezyres!

DO WANT: black sequined skirt. miniskirt. stretchy. dunno, just do.
DO NOT WANT: sailor-dress. ever.

DO WANT: endless supply of tights and leggings, of various textures and colors, but the steadiest supply of black opaque tights on one hand, and neutral fishnets on the other.
DO NOT WANT: open-toed boots. for eff's sake. makes even LESS sense than shorts and tights.

DO WANT: more flannel.
DO NOT WANT: to continue loving lace. what is up with that? can't. stop.

DO WANT: Chanel handbag.
DO NOT WANT: to pay for it.

DO WANT: both the trend of a) long tunic-length tops, AND b) that of true-waist-cinching to continue, although they are separate from each other and not compatible.
DO NOT WANT: a) the trend of tunic-length "makes me look preggers" tops, plus the trend of b) butterfly beltbuckles on gigantic belts cinching at the waist--to continue.

DO WANT: black riding-style boots. with a little heel, though. and some brown slouchy ones. could also use a red pair. electric blue? maybe. also want some t-strap heels. and some black mary janes. more funnel-heels. non-patent everything, please.
DO NOT WANT: any of the shoes in my closet. Except my chacos. I'll never give those ugly-ass things up.

two promises; two predictions

I PROMISE...

...that Kate Bosworth is a fucking idiot. I not only promise, I swear it. And you can ask Conan.*

I FURTHER PROMISE...

...never to that I will allow you to kill me if I ever wear tights under shorts. And I DOUBLE promise not to wear tights under shorts CAPPED OFF WITH SANDALS OR OPEN-TOED FOOTWEAR OF ANY KIND. This includes strappy anything and kitten-heeled what-have-you.**

~~Intermission~~

I PREDICT...

...that I will STILL forget to purchase adhesive bandages tomorrow, despite the fact that I gouged myself open tonight and--get this--fixed a cotton-round to my finger with dental floss to stop myself from bleeding all over my belongings as I continued to unpack.

I FURTHER PREDICT...

...that my exercise schedule that was entirely effed by my vacation this week will continue to be effed this weekend and next week, as a) I have weekend guests from P-land, and b) classes begin anew on Monday.

ME PORTLAND!

spring also means slugs
Originally uploaded by thelizabeth.

Hello, Portland things!

Yes, even you, little guy. Hey there!