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Archive for September, 2011

Freshman year of college some friends and I were pre-gaming a frat party (naturally), when one of the girls took a call from her mom. As they talked, the rest of us continued to drink, and I, trying to be thoughtful, kept an eye on Jules. I figured she wouldn’t want her mom to know she’d been drinking, and I didn’t want her to give herself away.

Everything was going swimmingly when all of a sudden I heard Jules say, “Happy New Year!” and I snapped to attention.

No one else noticed.

Crap! I thought. Her mom’s totally going to know! It’s only September – not even close to the new year! Seriously, how drunk is she?

As soon as she got off the phone I asked her about it, wondering if her mom was upset.

Elizabeth,” she said, “it’s okay. You know I’m Jewish, right? And that Rosh Hashanah starts tonight? As in…the Jewish New Year?

No, no, and yes.

Color me embarrassed.

But, since that night, I’ve paid much closer attention to all religious holidays – out of both genuine interest and a desire to not get caught off guard.

So, in that spirit, learn from my past ignorance and don’t be confused if you hear wishes of a happy new year today and tomorrow.

Trust me: no one’s that drunk.

L’shanah tovah!

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At the Teeter, looking at the flowers:

BNF: You know, those roses I got you are holding up really well.

Me: I know! I’m surprised they’ve lasted so long.

BNF: Um…you know I’ve been changing the water, right?

Me: Oh! No, I had no idea. I was just really impressed that they still look so good!

BNF: Yeah, I know how women in your family take care of plants. As in…they don’t. They kill them.

That is unfortunately accurate.

Sorry, Mama. With the exception of the spider plant, you know he’s right.

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My dearest Phillies,

You know I love you, right? And you should know how proud I am of you for a) clinching the National League East, b) clinching the National League record, and c) currently having the best record in all of baseball. These are not small feats, and I understand that. But you’ve set the bar high for me these past few years, and now I need you to live up to it.

There is no question that 98 wins is an accomplishment, but think how awesome 100 would be! And even better than that? 102. I know you can eclipse the current franchise record. I know you can.

Honestly, I thought you’d at least be at 100 by now. No one counted on you getting swept by the Nationals. And I’m not happy about that, but maybe you just needed to get it out of your system. I’d rather it happen now than later.

There are six games left for you to show the Mets and the Braves why you’re going to the postseason and they’re not. (Well, at least one isn’t. But it’ll be two if St. Louis has anything to say about it.)

The point is this: please win. Please play like the team that I know you are. Play like the team that clinched its postseason spot before anyone else and has the best pitching rotation in the game. Play like the best team in the league.

I promise that I’ll love you no matter what.

You should know, though, that not living up to your full potential could earn you a spot on my shit list. Kendrick, you know what that’s like.

But I will still love you.

Your biggest fan,

Elizabeth

P.S. The next time you pop champagne in the clubhouse, can I please come? I’m really good at celebrations.

Just think about it.

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But life is full of surprises.

Yesterday, my closet revolted. Maybe it was angry from all the recent purging. Maybe it was offended by my fashion sense. It’s hard to tell.

I had opted for a black pencil skirt that morning. Classic choice, right? I pulled it on, fastened the hook and eye without issue, and proceeded to zip up.

But the zipper went on strike about three inches shy of the top of the skirt.

At first, I was optimistic. I’d hit snags before. I zipped down and up, trying to catch the snag unawares and break on through.

Then the nasty little thing threw me a curve ball. All of a sudden, the zipper wasn’t moving anywhere. It was camped out in no man’s land (where it remains today), still at that same three-inches-shy mark.

And so I was stuck. With very minimal wiggle room. And, naturally, I was running late. Because these sorts of things never happen when you have loads of time on your hands.

I made one last ditch effort to yank the zipper up and down, hoping to get at least another inch of space so that I could pull the skirt off. And the zipper responded by attacking me.

Talk about not fighting fair.

The way I figured, I had a few options:

  1. Safety pin the top three inches and go about my day.
  2. Wake up BNF and ask for his help in ripping the zipper down.
  3. Take the skirt off over my head.

Now you can see where the post title comes from.

I had tried sliding the skirt off the same way I put it on. But the combination of it being zipped most of the way up and my ample butt made that impossible. So over the head seemed the best course of action. Except for that little obstacle known as boobs.

I don’t want to admit how long it took me to get out of that skirt. Suffice it to say that it was a lot longer than it took to get in it. There was a lot of wriggling, a lot of grunting, probably a pulled muscle or two, and way more cursing than I’m usually prone to before 8am.

In the end? I really think the skirt won.

The zipper is still holding strong in no man’s land; it left my finger with a boo-boo; and the only “wounds” it has are some little white streaks.

I really hope it doesn’t inspire the rest of my closet.

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I’ll be honest. I love finding mistakes. I look for them in just about anything I read.

But there’s an extra thrill in finding one like this in a declassified memo to the president. It actually made me read the rest of the memos in the batch a little more carefully.

And yes, I found more mistakes. The dork in me was thrilled.

Maybe if this conflict resolution degree doesn’t work out there’ll be an editing job for me in the White House.

It’s worth a shot.

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I had ignored it for a while. Not out of principle or anything, but just because I didn’t need yet another site taking up my time.

Then I remembered Berrak telling me that it was a good place to gather all your wedding ideas and share them with your bridesmaids. And I thought, okay, that sounds reasonable. And maybe, while I’m at it, I could use it to show BNF what I want on the registry, or for the apartment, etc.

I think you can see where this is going.

I signed up. Before I’d even pinned anything to my boards (look at me! it’s like I know what I’m talking about!) I had followers, thanks to Facebook. And that? That stressed me out.

What if my lack of activity made me a loser? What if I pinned something that everyone else thought was stupid? What if, what if?

Then I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I’m an adult. Usually.

And while that reminder may stop Pinterest from being a source of stress, it’s still a complete time suck.

I spent the better part of this morning poring over wedding websites and pinning left and right. Yesterday, I was all over Williams Sonoma. I’m sure later today it’ll be something else.

Hopefully, at some point, this will become productive. For now, though…

***

***

…well, let’s just say this post would have been up a while ago, except that I got distracted by someone else’s pins.

So much for productivity.

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…that I’m perfectly okay with:

  • ending sentences with prepositions, clearly
  • saying “all intensive purposes,” instead of “all intents and purposes” (makes sense to me!)
  • pronouncing “indictment” exactly the way it looks (usually just in my head)
  • not washing my fruit before I eat it
  • in the same vein, eating food off the floor if it drops (added bonus: it completely grosses out BNF)
  • not counting the tax when I tell someone about a deal I got (e.g. “The dress was on sale for less than $100 (not including tax)!”)

I’m sure there are (plenty) more, but for someone who likes to be right all the time even a short list like this is like a little bit of therapy – even if none of these “wrongs” have lasting impacts.

Except the fruit thing. I’m totally building up my immune system.

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