do you believe in planets?

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.

open letter bitches

Dear Creepy Old Men,

We don't want to talk to you.

Love,
Women Everywhere

P.S. Not even to be polite.
P.P.S. Not on the train.
P.P.P.S. Not in line to get coffee.
P.P.P.P.S. Nowhere.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Ever.

it is not quite 8 AM, and already several strange things have happened to or near me...

1. Some dude is unwinding and balling his girlfriend's skeins (sp?) of yarn for her while she knits. I can't decide whether a) I want to steal him away from her, or b) he's the last pansy-ass on earth I'd let lay a whipped-as-hell paw on me.

2. In a relatively empty cafe, someone just chose to sit directly--like, I CAN FEEL HER BREATHING DIRECTLY--next to me. Yes, there's a decent chance she is reading this right now.

3. Some 50-odd year-old gentleman at the front of the cafe who is sitting with a group of about eight people (too large a group for the size of the cafe, really) just turned around a full 180 degrees, pointed to me, and exclaimed loudly, "THAT girl, sitting back there." I have never seen him before in my life. Baffled much?

Apparently, the first day of the term has offered up a generous portion of "WHAT THE FUCK" for breakfast. ONLY ITEM ON THE MENU BITCHES

why I'm not bloggin'.

'Cause yer dyin' to know.

1. Finals. They was busy.

2. Hoidays. They was busy.

3. Post-Holidays. It be busy.

Do I still find time to watch football? Verbally abuse my friends via text message? Drink in Jennifer's sweatpants? Yes, yes, and yes. So maybe the blog famine has to do with #4. Without further ado,

4. Small talk. Between family, boyfriend's family, friends, long lost friends, new friends, friends of friends, friends of long lost friends, partners of friends, friends of boyfriend, partners of friends of boyfriend, and so forth, I am SO out of breath. Seriously, I have never made so much small talk in my life. It was like two weeks of a wedding reception where I only knew one half of the couple. If I never have to explain what I'm doing in school EVER, again, I'll be happer.

And unrelatedly, if no one ever, EVER says to me again, "So when you get your degree you aren't going to call yourself 'Doctor,' are you? Because I HATE people who aren't REAL doctors who go around calling themselves 'DOCTOR,'" that's one fewer skull I have to crack.

And FYI: Screw you, moron. Take Latin and get back to me.

Which reminds me:

5. I'm cranky as freakin' hell.

here and gone

Jamey
Originally uploaded by thelizabeth.

Guess what I had for three whole days?!?

A boyfriend!

After two months away, our weekend activities left me sore in places I didn't know you could be sore in.

You're probably reeling back in horror. I did that on purpose, see. The weekend activities I'm referring to are TENNIS activities, sillies.

Seriously, my abs, my ABS! And my right wrist! I didn't realize how quickly you could fall out of shape. My clothes have realized it though, as none of them fit over my GIGANTIC ASS anymore.

Jamey pretended not to notice. He's a good "partner" that way. Get it?

things I'll miss when I go.

And so it begins. Now that I've ceased freaking out--I'm all freak and all out--and consider my maRble-sack entirely empty, I can admit to being a...how'd that go?...oh yeah, a "sloshing sack of emotions" for the time being. Before I turn my feelings off again, allow me to be sentimental for the sake of a couple lists:

I call this one "For All the Girls I've Loved Before." In no particular order:

Joy -- though she lives in Seattle, she's my sea star.
Kirsten -- though she's tirelessly critical of my hair, she's so much like me it's weeeiiiird.
Tara -- though I've hardly seen her all summer, she loves hard.
Jenny -- though I've hardly seen her at all sober, she entertains.
Mary -- though she often gets me wrong, she laughs with me like no one laughs with me.
Lisa -- though she's widely misunderstood, she lets it go.
Taya -- though she seems intimidating, she doesn't mean it.

You'll notice that's a short list. I don't know too many women. Or maybe I just don't like too many women. Whatevs.

I call this next one "Just Call Me Angel of the Morning." Breakfast is my favorite meal, after all:

Genie's--the new coffee bar is rad.
Paradox--vegans are lame, but this place has sentimental value.
Cup & Saucer--cranky staff!
Juniors--one block away.
Zell's--just plain rad.
Tiny's--around the corner: coffee that your spoon stands up in, terrible, terribly loud music, and overpriced sandwiches. Why do I love thee? Repeat question mark.

That's all for now.

slow blog, broken heart

I know, I know, my 1.5 readers--blog activity has been silly and shallow, scattered and intermittent at best these past few weeks. For anyone still reading, who still cares, I have my excuses all lined up. And by excuses I mean excuse. And by excuse I mean tale of overwhelming woe and heartbreak.

It happened a while ago, but I couldn't bring myself to filter out the noise of my blinding (deafening?) rage and examine the actual repercussions until there came a sizeable a cushion of time between the event and the present. Now I've realized that things will never really be the same, never, ever again. And it paralyzes me. Maybe you understand why this came between me and my blogging, maybe not.

What you do understand is that blogs are a tad on the impersonal side--e.g., see dancing robot version of yours truly below--thus I hesitated to expose my troubles in this format. However, not talking about it seemed almost false, like I really was that dancing robot. I've realized that if I can't discuss what happened with perfect strangers, acquaintances, and dear friends who live far way, how can I share it with those closest to my heart, to my actual person? So I'm just gonna have out with it, and maybe you'll think I've said too much, but I can't keep it to myself anymore.

Without further ado...

[here are some soothing images to keep us both calm while I muster the courage to type this...]

...Jon Stewart said "irregardless" on The Daily Show.

I HEARD IT WITH MY OWN EARS.

It's the truth, and I will swear by it. He clearly enunciated every syllable, without a trace of his trademark irony. This was an earnest usage of "irregardless" when "regardless" would have worked just fine and would NOT HAVE BROKEN MY HEART.

My love, just look what you've gone and done. My heart is in shambles, and nothing will ever be the same between us. I hope you're happy with yourself.

I--I---I gotta go.

my days are numbered. your attention spans are limited. let's compromise.

[Poor little blog readers, I have a feeling that in the upcoming months I'll "treat” you to a lot of these travel-log style posts that are really just my desperate, sentimental attempts to record my last few months in my second favorite U.S. city. These posts have little to do with you, but I don’t want to exclude you. Here's an idea: you can skim them, then show some insincere but polite participatory spirit by posting generic comments like "wish I were there!" or "sounds like fun" or "what the hell are you babbling about?!". It will work for both of us--I can feel loved, and you can feel charitable.]

falls
Originally uploaded by thinklab.

This weekend:

Matt and Joy visited from Seattle.

Friday night agenda: dinner at the swanky-yet-Wisconsin-themed (they even have a "Genna's Cosmo," !!!!!) Savvoy, film festival at Clinton Street Theater. One of Matt's short films was in the festival, and it was fun to listen to a very engaged crowd react to it. Unfortunately, most of the other films were so terrible we left shortly after intermission. Too tired to brave the bar scene, we ventured home where we enjoyed soy-dream rootbeer floats like wholesome tots.

[Tear-jerking moment: to get to the Clinton Street neighborhood from my apartment, we cut through Ladd's Addition. Took the cute little alley down to Ladd's Circle (feels all European--which makes sense considering its a Parisian inspired neighborhood) then wandered up to Divison, and voila! Clinton Street neighborhood! Ladd's Addition is entirely too lovely, especially on a warm spring night when everything smells like flowers. Curses! I almost cried.]

Saturday:

Chilled at my apartment in the AM, ate bagels and drank coffee while watching the women's semifinal showdown between Jelena Jankovic and Venus WIlliams at the Family Circle Cup. Good times. Then we got lunch at Tiny's, hit some art stores on the east side, and hit I-84. Our first stop was Multnomah Falls (gigantic waterfall featured in the photo you see there), then we drove another half hour to Hood River, the kite-boarding capital of the world. After a great dinner at a little cafe where the waitress totally screwed up and charged us like $20 too little for our bill (hey now, we DID bring it up to her so she could correct it, and she returned it to us--even MORE wrongerer), we went down to watch kite-boarders leap about on the Columbia River.

[Tear-jerking moment: Driving up I-84. When you first leave Portland, you might think “oh bore, another stupid interstate,” but somewhere between the airport and Troutdale up pops Mount Hood in front of you, and Mt. St. Helens to the north, and then suddenly you’re in the Columbia River gorge and dramatic cliffs pop up to your right, complete with more and less dramatic waterfalls, and the gorge itself? Colorful, vast, with gigantic locks and dams and bridges. Even caught a few glimpses of the Bridge of the Gods, which I’ve only driven across once, but which I enjoy knowing is nearby. It dawned on me that unless I go camping or hiking in southern Washinton this summer, the next time I take that drive that far east might be--gulp--when I move. Boo-hoooo!]

When we got back to Portland, Jamey was home from work, and he made us his special-recipe Irish coffees (mmmmmmmmmmmmm) and we half-ass tried to play Outburst but kept giving each other clues, so it wasn't exactly hyper-competitive. Then I watched in envy as they all curled up and tucked in to watch a movie, while I had to put on makeup and heels and a skirt and get ready to go out. On a normal night, wild horses couldn't have torn me away from Irish coffee, a good movie, and a night at home with good friends, but it was my wonderful friend Kirsten's birthday, and her boyfriend, my pal Greg, is on tour with his band, so I thought it very important that her friends show up for her birthday party. Did you follow that?

Anyhoo, while I was getting ready Greg called and begged me to buy her some flowers from him and bring them to the bar and give them to her. I was all "GAAAAAWD Greg, FINE, but you OWE me," then had to clomp around Fred Meyer in 3-inch heels trying to find decent flowers at 10:30 at night, couldn't find any nice tulips, so paid a ton for a huge bouquet of Oriental lilies. Wrestled the lovely suckers into the car, wrestled them into the vase I had the forethought to bring, wrestled them out of the car, into the bar (is this starting to sound like Dr. Seuss to anyone else), and into Kirsten’s hands. She smiled. Then I said, “These are from Greg,” and she grinned, huge, and got all teary and shy and buried her face in them for a spell. It was totally worth it to see her that happy, especially knowing how much she misses Greg. Aw.

The birfday party was fun and I was glad I went. Saw lots of friends, met a few new ones, and never even went up to the bar, so I didn’t spend any money.

[Tear-jerking moment: Reese showing up, sitting across from me, grabbing my hands all “I don’t want you to goooooo! Four months is so short! It will be, like, tomorrow, that you’re leaving, in no tiiiiime!” God DAMN it people, do you WANT to make me burst into hysterical tears? GAWD!!!!]

Sunday: Bagels and coffee again, women’s final, art show in basement of Doug Fir, brunch at Doug Fir, Joy and I shopped for a wedding dress in the Pearl district ( for her, for HER for the love of god), I bought some jewelry I couldn’t afford, then Matt and Joy left and Jamey and I relaxed for the rest of the night.

Nice. Weekend.

The. End.

i am really, actually, in fact, moving to Chicago.

For reals, for serious, for certain this time.

I know it's been Milwaukee this, Milwaukee that, for quite a spell, and I had even sent in my acceptance of UW-M's admission and funding package. I was all ready to root for the Brewers and shit.

But then at the last second, N0rthwestern offered me admission and a 5-year fellowship. I don't I even have to teach my first year. SWEET!

So plans have changed, and I'm off to the midwest in September. Am I excited? Hells yes. Am I terrified? Hells yes. Do I start to cry every time I look at my cat, who will not be coming with me? Yes. Did my boyfriend walk into the apartment yesterday and find me clutching a mug of cold coffee, staring into space, and crying silenlty? Yes, yes he did. He understands, though--he's not coming with me either.

I remember when Jamey moved up to Portland from SoCal three and a half years ago. I was already living in NE Portland with Luke and Matt (Baby), and Jamey's visit was unexpected, his stay supposedly temporary--hell, we were supposedly broken up--but I knew better. Especially when he pulled up with a U-Haul trailer attached to his truck, I just had a feeling he was gonna stick around this time. And he did.

I also remember remarking to myself, in a half-panic, "Good LORD. If this whole deal works out, I might never get to live alone again. I might never have my own space again. EEEEEeeek!" Why the panic? Well, I have a thing about my own space. And by "a thing," I mean I really, really value and enjoy it. [Who's inarticulate today? Geezuz.]

Well, 3.5 years later, my then-panic seems now-unfounded, because--lo and behold--I'm gonna live all alone, entirely, 100%, alone, for a long, long time. Like as long as five years long (assuming some rich young stud doesn't invite me to live in his mansion on Sheridan Drive--unlikely, to say the least). And, no surprise, my feelings about it add up to something like ambivalence.

The prospect of not sharing my apartment with 20+ pairs of skis plus a random assortment of snowboards, skateboards, and surfboards ain't half bad. My bedroom not smelling like boy? Awesome.

The last time I lived alone, I absolutely loved it--but was I really alone? I lived in the heart of downtown Madison (a warm and fuzzy place), blocks from several residences of close friends, and Jamey practically moved in for three months before trotting away across the country like a good little mirage. What is more, was that "I" really me? I remember her, but she was younger, more exciting, more excitable, but also more stoic--thick-shelled, flinching only in the innards, glossier, faker, safer, tougher. I'm healthier now, but a little more real--meaning, more likely to suffer bouts of nostalgia and loneliness. It scares me a bit.

Luckily I will have something to do: accomplish what I've wanted since I was about seven years old. Some things really don't change, I guess. I might play the shrinking violent, but I can also be a hawk.

times like these I wonder whether I am truly human.

There is a girl whom I don't know sobbing hysterically, uncontrollably, outside my office door. She has been doing so for the last ten minutes, nonstop. It's breaking my heart.

I don't know if I should go out there (and offer her what? a stranger's bony-ass shoulder?) or let her be. If *I* were crying in a hallway and didn't know that a stranger in a nearby office could hear me, I would a) be mortified, and b) want to be left alone. Still, I feel like a robot sitting here grading papers while she cries and cries and cries.

What have we learned?

That ThElizabeff:
a) doesn't relate well to others.
b) has difficulty empathizing.
c) tends to waffle rather than take decisive action.
d) shouldn't wonder why the tag "ice queen" followed her across the country.
e) all of the above.

Also, please notice how ThElizabeff has managed to make this poor girl's sadness all about ThElizabeff.