My name is Liz. I need direction. I overuse commas. My house is a mess, my hair needs a trim, and I wish I had a dog: It's fun here, you'll see!
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It's no secret that I think my brother is tops. It's why he's my number one choice for logo design (he drew the fellow up at the top of the page). But, nepotism aside, I would have picked him anyway, just because of his incredible portfolio.
Check out his insane artwork here !
Yesterday, I was in aisle 13 of the Vons, scrutinizing the price of canned crab meat, when my cell phone rang. The caller ID told me it was one (if not both) of my parents, so I picked up with a cheerful, “Yo! Whaddup?” It was my mom. “Hey giiiiiiirl!” she cried. As my mom is not in a sorority at the University of Texas, I knew not to take her greeting seriously. “Hi mama.”
“I have an assignment for you!” she said. “What is it?” I asked. “Do you get the Logo network?” I knew this was going to be good.
And it was. The reason for her call was to tell me that I absolutely needed to watch the new season of RuPaul’s Drag Race. It didn’t take much convincing to get me to agree, if we’re being honest. I told her I would and then call her about it the next day. We hung up, bidding one another a hearty, “Later, homeslice!” I returned home (without crab meat) and set the DVR to record the show.
When I woke up this morning, there it was, waiting for me. So, after I took care of a few things, I sat down to check it out (it was, after all, an assignment from my mom, whom I always obey). Allow me to offer you my reaction:
Ho. Ly. Crap.
Drag queens are tremendously entertaining. The padding of chests, the tucking of batches. The high heels! The freaking wigs! Also, they use words like “Country-ass” and “raggedy” and “bitch.” By the way, I don’t know if you know this, but the word “bitch” is quite versatile. Officially, it’s a word for “female dog,” but it can also mean “to complain.” Obviously, it can be used as an insult, but it is often used as a friendly term, as in “You bitches look fiiiiiine!” And the women on this show tend to use the world a lot. At one point, two of the contestants got into a very loud fight. The one known as Mystique, having warned the one called Morgan to “step off,” shouted “Bitch, I am from CHICAGO!” Now, I’ve never visited the Windy City, so I’m no expert, but, is that a threat?
It’s no surprise, that there would be fighting. First, it’s a reality show. That’s what they’re about- cat fights, drama and crying. Second, these women refer to themselves as “divas,” thereby upping the likelihood of an ego clash significantly. And finally, these women, lest we forget, are actually MEN, so there’s plenty of testosterone bouncing around in that room, which will inevitably lead to a few clashes. I look forward to the episode where there’s some wig-pulling, high heel-throwing drag queen cage match.
Another thing I learned: Drag queens have sensational skin! Is there some drag queen law that neglecting to exfoliate is punishable by death? And the best skin of all of them belongs to RuPaul herself. I was going to try and make a food analogy, but I didn’t really want to go there. Oh and by the way, my friends, RuPaul is hilarious. The glint in her eyes when she says “The time has come… for you to lip sync FOR YOUR LIFE!” indicates that she’s aware of how over-the-top and dramatic she’s being. I think I’d like to spend the day with her. She could take me to get my nails done and have false eye lashes put on. Then I could give her a taste of my life by taking her out for a really messy burger and then to the CVS to buy some chap stick. Or maybe we’d just go to the Disney Hall to hear the LA Philharmonic.
Bottom line is: Mom, you win. I now watch RuPaul’s Drag Race. Let’s watch it together some time, bitch! (Said in the most respectful and loving way, of course.)
Just wanted to let you all know that I did Yoga in my living room this morning. I found a DVD that was available to watch instantly on Netflix, so I threw down a towel, took off my shoes, and hit play. Here’s the thing about me and yoga- I don’t know how to do it. In fact, so minimal is my knowledge of Yoga that I’m not sure whether or not I should capitalize it.
I quickly learned, however, that yoga is for people with more flexibility, more patience, and a lower BMI than I have. Each time the chipper Yogini told me to roll into “Downward Facing Dog,” I felt a little ashamed, and very heavy. Upon lunging, twisting and reaching my way into “Warrior I,” I promptly fell over sideways. That was just the beginning.
“Exhale up into Bridge Pose, locking your hands underneath you and walking your shoulder blades together until you feel heat in your core,” said the teacher.
“What the crap?” I asked her.
“Place your right leg under your body and reach your left leg all the way out the side and exhale, bringing your hand up and over, and inhaling, opening your chest,” said the teacher.
“Ouch,” I replied.
Each time I came out of a pose, and into some kind of a lying down position, I plunked to the ground with a delicate “Uungh!” My neck cracked, my spine popped, and my hip made a very unsettling squishing sound.
“And now we’re really going to feel the burn with our Ab Blaster Yoga!” the Yogini announced.
“I’m going to eat some Nutella and have a nap!” I told her.
The other day, I logged into my email and found this email waiting for me:
From: Lacy McDowell
Subject: I’ve already contacted you concerning the online job. Please respond.
I’m not sure what part of me felt compelled to open it up. Probably the unemployed part of me. Or the part of me that was worried I’d done something wrong. (The subject line made it seem like Lacy might be pissed.) Here is what the email said:
Good day, elizabeth cole.
me is Mary.
I’m looking for a business colleague .
The writer went on to pitch some crazy Ebay-based money-making scheme to me. She signed it thusly:
feel free for questions: claudinehowarth@——-.com
Regards
Mary W
I know you may find this hard to believe, but right off the bat I could tell it was spam. Yeah, I’m pretty good. When your name’s not capitalized in a business email, it’s a good sign this person is cutting and pasting. Another clue was the line “me is Mary.” Maybe your work acquaintances talk like cave people, but mine tend to use proper grammar.
However, the biggest, most glaring indicator that this wasn’t a legit email was that it came from Lacy, was signed by Mary, and all replies were to go through Claudine. Spam People, seriously, get it together. Pick one fake lady and stick with her.
Yesterday, I wrote about the “river” at my parents’ house, and the storm drain I almost got arrested in. Here, courtesy of my mother and father, are photos of what I was talking about:
When it rains the way it has been lately, it tends to alter my judgment. Why, just yesterday I decided that it would be a good idea to ruin my running shoes by slogging through the neighborhood as water dumped from the heavens. Well, not ruin. More like render them unusable for several days. A few days ago, I would have just plunked them in the dryer. Unfortunately, however, last time I did laundry, I found a spider the size of a wall clock hiding in the warm dryer and had to wait for Paul to return home and retrieve the clothes for me. (In the meantime I froze the thing to death with an upside-down can of compressed air. I’m a brutal murderer, I won’t deny it.) Anyway, the point I am trying to make is that when it rains, I get a little batty.
As a child, I was no different. My parents’ street is basically a hill that ends in a cul-de-sac containing a large storm drain. That’s a good thing, because during heavy rainfall the side of the street becomes a small, rushing river, which sends down a lot of debris. At the first sign of the “river,” I’d be running around the house, putting on a coat and my rain boots, so I could go outside and send things floating down to the storm drain. We’d build dams, have “boat” races and sometimes, we’d just stand in the middle of the water, like idiots, smiling and yelling.
On occasion, we’d make it all the way down to the end of the cul-de-sac where, if things were really going well precipitation-wise, the street became almost a lake. It was pretty exciting, what with all the mud and collected sticks and branches and old Doritos bags and unidentifiable crap strewn around everywhere. And, oh yeah, also the storm drain.
The storm drain was well secured. The first line of defense was a chain link fence. After that, the drain itself was covered with a grate designed to keep out huge tree branches and stunned dogs. Here is where my judgment becomes water-logged and altered: Because of these built-in safety precautions, my brother Louis and I thought it would be a good idea to crawl under the chain link and stand around in the swirling water. Mud, leaves, sticks and other flotsam bonked us in the shins. Brown water poured into our boots. There was a lot of clinging to the fence and screaming about what a horrible typhoon we were caught in and how we’d probably be drowned soon.
We were just pretending to be afraid that we’d drown. The cops that showed up actually wer afraid that we’d drown.
In retrospect I understand that whichever nervous neighbor called the fuzz was just trying to protect us, but hoooooooo boy were we miffed. There was a GRATE. The water wasn’t even that strong. We were FINE! We could both swim! You could grab the FENCE even! … And other heartfelt, pathetic-sounding protests.
Kids, the lesson here is that if you’re going to play in the storm drain at the end of a flooding cul-de-sac during an El Niño year, make sure you do it on a moonless night under cover of darkness.
As I’m sure you know, my brother is a talented artist (see this page’s banner for evidence). I’m less talented, but still pretty amazing. I recently unearthed these two fine drawings that we did using Claris Works on my old, gray, rectangle of a Macintosh laptop. I say that “we” did them, because I cannot remember who is responsible for what. Ready to be wowed? I give you drawing #1- “Car Dude.”
Where we got the “car” part from will forever remain a mystery. As will the question of what the eff is happening with that man’s (?) hands. Are they knives? Or merely deformed, yet soft, fleshy growths? His legs look to be functional, as do his eyes and perpetually screaming hexagonal mouth. “But the man has no nose!” you are crying. “Doesn’t that make it difficult to breathe?” Good question! It would make it difficult to breathe, but the fact is the man has no body and therefore no lungs with which to breathe. Don’t cry for him- look at his luxuriant head of hair! He’s fine.
And now for Drawing #2- “Ninja Kitty.”
This was either drawn by Salvador Dali or my brother. The face makes an excellent argument for Dali, as this horrible creature appears to be melting, AND has a clock for an eye. I also like the square mouth that opens into a Tron-like world. Although, the Kitty’s single whisker is an argument for Louie’s work. The other reason I believe it may have been my brother (and not a surrealist painter who died in 1989) is the presence of a prominent butt. Yes, folks, I’m afraid those two circles are the Ninja Kitty’s buttocks. … Alright, this is definitely Louie’s creation. We’ll have him committed right away.
Please donate to help the Haiti earthquake relief efforts. There are many places you can donate online. Times are tough for all of us (heck, I’m unemployed!), but even $10 will help.
Hey folks! Have you vomited recently? If your answer was no, I may have a solution. You see, long before there was ipecac, there was…
The presentation alone seems to dare even the most iron-stomached diners to keep this meal down. But it’s the ingredients themselves that really present a challenge: warmed (not boiled) sour cream, enveloped lovingly by browned beef liver and crispy bacon, and nestled on a fluffy bed of steamed white rice. That’s a hefty 495 calories a serving- if your digestive system can keep it together long enough to actually glean any nutrients from this dreary, brown nauseant.
For advanced vomiters, who prefer a more colorful gastric display, the authors of this recipe have suggested the dish be served with Fresh Spinach Salad and Sweet and Sour Beets, and be followed by Orange Sherbet for dessert. Nearly all the colors of the rainbow will be represented in your emesis!
So by all means, dig in. Sear yourself some liver, and start clearing out the ol’ gut. It’s the perfect way to start to the New Year!
Tonight, I am making a ham. A giant, heavy ham. In my cast iron pot from my mom. I will either wind up stuffed full of pig meat and happy, or stuffed full of pig meat and hospitalized with Trichinosis. Either way, you, the reader, will win.
I’ve just placed The Beast into the oven. Now I wait. And while I wait, I must go for a swim, to prepare for the Face Stuffing that’s sure to come in a few hours. Plus, it might be the last time I fit into a bathing suit. (It’s a big ham.)
