Case of the badly drawn woman

Here are the things I know about myself:

• I'm kind of uptight.

• I like to feel safe and in control 100 percent of the time.

• I'm not a risk taker.

Here are the things I know about Chuck:

• He was born in the back of a clown car in McIdiotstown.

Surprisingly, these two sets of personality types mesh well — although not always at first. Sometimes it's a battle for us to get to the meshing, but in the end, there's always meshing. Like last night, for instance ...

During our weekly date night, we did our usual routine, which is (in summary) drive to Savannah; talk smack about people for the first 10 minutes of the drive until one of us says, "Ugh. Enough negativity. Let's only say positive things for the rest of the ride."; continue rest of the ride in silence; make gun-fingers and go "pow pow pow" at the billboard of a giant tropical fish on U.S. 17; arrive in Savannah; turn at Whittaker Street, where I say "Watch the curb." and Chuck says, "I know to watch the curb! You don't have to say 'watch the curb' every time!" (aside: yes, I do); park the car (preferably at a meter that already has money in it); fill the meter to its limit; take a cell-phone camera shot of the filled meter because I don't trust Savannah's meter-maids; order two double cappuccinos at The Gallery Espresso; read and write for an hour; order a single cappuccino and a cup of surprise tea (which Chuck chooses for me); read and write for one more hour; head to happy hour at Mellow Mushroom; say "yes" when the bartender asks us if we want the usual; say "yes" a few more times; sit for two hours and talk; maybe go to Moon River afterward.

It was during this walk to Moon River that things got silly last night.

We were standing in front of a pet boutique called Whisker Avenue (or something like that) talking about Christmas gift possibilities, and just as Chuck was pointing out something to me, a man walked up from behind us and said that he was the artist. Immediately I was on edge. The artist of what? Who is this guy? What does he want from us?

We had our backs turned to him, and Chuck was carrying a camera (as he always does) so I'm sure we looked like the perfect tourist targets. I quickly applied my super skills in Stranger Danger and assessed that the man was carrying a crutch, was probably homeless and most likely a little crazy. I promptly walked away.

It wasn't until mid-square that I realized I was making this escape alone. But, let's face it, I was not at all surprised.

Chuck and I have vastly different philosophies on how to deal with shady people who are only approaching us because they want something.

My philosophy: Keep walking. No eye contact. Leave me alone.

Chuck's philosophy: This is a good time to practice my stand-up routine.

Believers in my philosophy live longer, happier lives. Believers in Chuck's philosophy get yelled at by their wives (or by the homeless person who becomes offended at his jokes about dinner).

So I was standing at the opposite end of the square, watching Chuck and the homeless dude from afar. I started to get really angry. Like Kate Gosselin-in-Toys-R-Us angry.

Here are some of the thoughts I had: "Why does he ALWAYS have to do this? Why is he such a CHILD?" "I know he's going to say something stupid and that man is going to hit him with his crutch." "Should I call the police? What would I even say?" "Oh God, what if Chuck asks the homeless guy for money just to throw him off his game and then the guy gets confused and then Chuck says, 'I was just messing with you brother. I already have plenty of money!' " "Wait a minute, what the ... Oh what the hell is this now?"

From a block away I could see there was something messed up going on but I wasn't sure what. My adrenaline kicked in, so I did the only thing I knew to do at that moment: I called Chuck on his cell phone.

Did he answer? Of course not. And, let me just say this, it's one thing to suspect that your husband might be ignoring your calls, it's quite another to watch this play out in front of your very eyes.

At that, my rage shot up to Level 4. Not only was Chuck still interacting with the homeless guy, something weird was going on AND he was apparently too busy to take my call.

Or was he being instructed not to answer his phone? Oh God.

So I called again. And again. And again. And again. I'm a girl. I went to high school. I know how this is done, OK? I called again. And again. And again. Finally he answered with an "Oh, hey ..." kind of greeting. Like "How's it going?" or "Hey you, I didn't see you there calling me hundreds of times."

My rage was now at a firm and steady Level 12. I was like, "What are you doing? Are you kidding me? This guy is after money. I swear to God I'm two seconds away from calling the police."

Chuck said something like, "Don't call the police! I'm with David. I'll be right there. We're just finishing up." All of this in a cheerful voice like, oh, of course ... finishing up.

This is where my brain short-circuited. FINISHING UP WHAT?

Thirty seconds later, Chuck ran toward me in a goofy "Ahhhhhhh!" Last of the Mohicans sort of way. In one hand he had his camera. In the other, he had a large, white poster board.

OF THIS ...

The only thing I could say was "Oh my God."

Chuck was all excited, "You like it? It's me!"

"Uh, no. This is Corey Feldman. You made me wait while that lunatic drew a picture of GOONIES?? I'm seriously going to lose my mind."

"He was my friend ..."

"What?"

"David."

"That homeless guy was not your friend. He wanted money from you. How much did you pay for this?"

"Nothing. Can you believe it? It was free!"

"David could've shot you and left you for dead."

"He told me I was funny."

Chuck and I continued our fight for the next hour and a half. His position: The guy was just being nice and asked to draw a portrait of him. He wasn't looking for money, there was no danger whatsoever in this and I need to relax. My position: He was looking for money. And furthermore, when wives are worried, husbands are supposed to take control of the situation ... or, at the very least, refrain from getting a caricature done of themselves.

After I had worn myself out by going round after round with him, I felt confident that my closing arguments won the fight. I asked him what advice he'd give his son in that situation: Stay and chat with a shady man in Savannah, a town known for stranger-on-stranger homicides, or walk away? He said he'd tell his son to walk away. I smiled in victory and said, "YES! That means I'm right!!! Now tear up that ugly picture."

But, of course, nothing is ever that simple. During our lingering argument, two different women approached Chuck to be like, "Is that you? Cool picture!" I mean, it was crazy. Who walks up to a guy at a bar to talk about a hastily drawn pencil sketch of one of the Coreys? It was as if he paid them to do that, all so he could turn to me and say "See? David really captured me."

On our way back to the car, we stopped at Starbucks, where Chuck took this picture (under the word "YOU," naturally):

To my delight, he almost left the stupid drawing (which, at that point, he was referring to as his "painting" and "portrait") in Starbucks, but he remembered it just before we walked out the door. So close!

And to further annoy me, Chuck held up his drawing in front of him as we walked. Every once and again he'd yell, "David! It's me, Chuck! Where are you? You need to finish the picture because people are saying the streetlights look like yield signs!"

I'm sad to say that our point-counterpoint argument lasted until we got home, and I was still annoyed this morning. That is, until I read this e-mail from Chuck:

From: "Charles G. Witt"
Date: November 18, 2009 9:38:35 AM EST
To: Liz Farrell

911: is this an emergency?
liz: yes, my husband is being accosted by a big man and he's drawing a weapon
911: what is the description of the suspect?
liz: about 4 foot, 98 pounds, small framed
911: what weapon did he draw?
liz: well, he didn't really draw a weapon, he's drawing my husband
911: what is the location?
liz: some dark square downtown
911: i need a more specific location
liz: they are in front of a well lit store front
911: i thought you said this was in a dark square?
liz: actually, i'm the one in the dark square watching them
911: what is happening now
liz: they are laughing and my husband just shook his hand, wait, my husband is heading my way. here he is.
911: ma'am what is the crime?
liz: an unrealistic portrait of him for free!
911: 'click'

So here's what I know about myself now:

• I'm kind of uptight.

• I like to feel safe and in control 100 percent of the time.

• I'm not a risk taker.

And:

• I really do need to take a chill pill because not all shady people are after money.

UPDATE: Chuck just read this blog entry and admitted to me that he gave the guy $10. The guy insinuated he wanted $20. Fight is back on. I DON'T need a chill pill. I was right ... I was sooooooo right ...

Man vs. Cat ... A Toy Story

This is Dignan. I love him so much.

Chuck, suffice to say, SO does not.

For two years, Chuck and Dignan have struggled to coexist peacefully in their volatile, jealousy-filled relationship that is best summarized in Chuck's daily declaration, "I hate that cat. I could easily get rid of it today." To which I usually reply, "He's a 'him' not an 'it.' "

(Many times I've seen Chuck come dangerously close to issuing the "it's me or the cat" ultimatum — luckily, he stops himself right before saying it because I think he and I both know the answer to any such statement would involve suitcases, good-bye letters and a tiny three-piece cat suit for Dignan to wear when he accompanies me to divorce court to gloat in Chuck's face.)

By the way, Chuck's love for our other cat, Ollie, is almost obscene. In some cultures they would be described as "special friends." In this one, people would just assume that Chuck still lives with his mother.

Anyway, this past Thursday, Chuck announced to both cats (and, I'm assuming, to me) that it was Cat Toy Reduction Day. He then dumped their toy basket on the floor and told them they could each pick out one toy to keep, but that the rest were to be donated because, and I quote, "you're spoiled little rich cats who take your toys for granted."

Ollie, familiar with Chuck's absurdities, didn't move. Dignan, however, came over to check out the pile and, I guess, start choosing toys. As is typical, though, Dignan got immediately bored and collapsed on the floor next to the toys ... which is when Chuck grabbed his camera — because people who hate something tend to take lots of photos of it, right?

At some point, Chuck started piling the toys on top of Dignan. First a stuffed animal of a dolphin, next a small stuffed dog, next a chicken hat, then it got crazy and somehow ALL the toys ended up on top of the cat. Behold:

In the end, Diggy's patience so impressed Chuck that he granted both cats the right to keep all their toys ... which officially makes this the second Cat Toy Reduction Day wherein nothing was reduced other than, once again, our dignity.

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Chuck's On-Going Obsession with My Cans

Every day, in millions of marriages all across the land, men are biting their tongues and choosing to say nothing rather than nag their wives over and over and over (and over and over and over) about ridiculous things that are so trivial it's a blessed shame.

I've heard about these men. They sound divine.

See, the man I married has never subscribed to such nonsense as that. Not tell your wife you're yet again annoyed at her? What? As a matter of fact, he has turned every day into Nag Liz About Her Half-Empty Can of Sparkling Water Then Nag Her Again When I Don't Think She's Listening Hard Enough and Then Nag Her Later as if the First Two Times Were a Figment of My Imagination Day.

Sometimes I find the nagging annoying, but mostly it just amuses me and allows me to say things like, "You're not the boss of me, Chuck!" and "You can't tell me, a grown-up, what to do!" Although, occasionally I do get mixed up and yell "You're not my real father!" and then it gets a tiny bit awkward.

I am truly not exaggerating when I say a significant part of my day is devoted to avoiding getting caught with an unfinished beverage. Sometimes I find myself muffling the stream of liquid against the side of the sink and looking over my shoulder into his office as I pour out cans from the night before. Other times I try to fake it and say things like, "Yeah. I'm totally going to finish that 24-hour-old cup of Starbucks with the curdling cream in it. Bring it on over here." A couple of times our eyes have actually landed on one of my half-empty cups at the same time and my face immediately goes into Little Rascals "Oh crap, he caught me" mode. ... And when that happens, the only answer is surrender.

But here's the thing, Chuck KNEW when he asked me to marry him that I don't finish my beverages. I did not hide that part of me when we were dating. I didn't pretend to be Cool Liz who empties her glass every time she has a drink so that he'd propose. I didn't nod vigorously and stare at him with rapture when he detailed how important drink-finishers are to healthy unions and society at large. And I certainly never acted like I was anything other than a person who gets bored by her beverage and then leaves some of it in the cup ... 95 percent of the time. I put all of this out there on the table for him 10 years ago and yet he still chose to get with it.

So why then does he spend every spare moment he has inspecting my cans of La Croix, my Starbucks cups, my mugs, my bottles, my flasks, my canteens, my straws and the lids on my mouthwash? I swear it's some bizarre form of OCD or maybe he was molested by a half-empty can of Schweppes as a kid. I don't know. I'm at a loss and I don't even think he can explain the obsession at this point.

It wasn't until yesterday morning, though, that all of this came to a head, so to speak. After emptying out two of my cans in the sink, Chuck announced there was going to be a new rule in the house.

"Oh goody," I said. "I can't wait for this one."

"Every drink you don't finish? I'm going to pour it on your head."

"Excuse me?"

"Before you go to bed, you need to decide if what you leave in the can is what you want to have poured on your head in the morning."

"What if it's not water?," I asked.

"I don't care. All of it."

"Ginger ale?"

"Yes."

"You can't pour red Gatorade on my head."

"Yes I can."

"Nooooo!"

"I will."

"You won't."

"Yes I will."

"Can't you just pretend the sink is my head?"

Naturally, I didn't even make an effort to empty out my La Croix can last night because one, give me a break, and two, I totally forgot about the "new rule" — sorry, I mean New Rule™.

This morning, of course, Chuck went right for my can and was like, "OK, folks. Let's see if Liz finished her drink last night!"

I stopped what I was doing and watched him. He did his usual lift test and then looked kind of sad.

"What?"

"A third of this can would've been dumped on your poor head!"

Ha ha! I knew he didn't have the balls.

I've come to the conclusion that Chuck will never accept that this is who I am, but you know what? I ACCEPT THAT. I accept that the No. 1 thing he says to me every day will fluctuate between "I love you" and "Finish your drink." I accept that this is one of his faults. Moreover, I am choosing not to nag HIM about nagging ME ... except for the part where I just wrote a blog about it and posted it all over the place. Oopsy.

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Things I Hate No. 3: Myself ... sometimes

I'm not a full-blown sociopath — I know this because I just panicked and Googled "full-blown sociopath" to make sure — but I think I might be like a junior sociopath or a Bluebird sociopath or, and sadly this is what I'm hoping for, maybe just a little more of a misanthropic Republican than I'd ever want to admit.

It's not that I want to see people suffer — I truly, truly don't — but I also don't really want to help anyone because I don't trust most people ... and that kind of worries me. If I had to pick one of the sociopaths right there on the cover of "The Sociopath Next Door," I'd say I most resemble the psycho on the bottom — she seems like she's mostly nice, just suspicious of people and onto their games.

Here are some of the more offensive quasi-sociopathic things I've done:

• Last month I out-and-out refused to give a homeless man my leftovers. Not only did I guffaw and say "No way! Leave me alone," when he asked for them, I automatically flashed him the official facial expression for Selfish Elitism™.

I can't decide if I feel bad about this, though. On the one hand, I certainly didn't need my leftovers, and I know that it's nice to give food to people — particularly to those who are hungry. On the other hand, did YOU have to put up with the crap I've had to put up with so far in this life to earn the money that paid for this meal, sir? No. You chose not to wake up when that alarm clock went off, eh? (See ... oh my God ... so Republican).

When the man approached me, all these little montages appeared in my head and in every single one of them this man had done something to disappoint someone in his life — his parents, his wife, his children, his former boss, the girlfriend who believed he could change, the person who trusted him but later found he was stealing from him — and as life progressed he became more and more ill and incapable because of the damage done by alcohol. And now this guy wants my sandwich?

There is a very narrow part of me that just can't understand why a grown man can't get over himself, get it together and do right by himself and others no matter how difficult it might be and no matter the obstacle ... and this is where I return to the opinion that I should have just given him my freaking sandwich.

Ultimately, this man did not get my sandwich because he seemed to expect me to say, "Sure. Here it is," and that expectation made me angry. I do feel guilty about that.

• In another shining moment for my humanity, I was driving on a back road near Sun City in the late fall of 2003 when an old woman who looked like the witch from "Hansel and Gretel" tried to flag me down by waving her cane in the air. There was no car around her, no clue as to how she might have arrived at this not-walkable-to spot AND she was wearing a kerchief over her head AND an apron. I am so not making this up.

I slowed down out of confusion (not concern); then this feeling came over me like maybe she IS the witch from "Hansel and Gretel," so I sped off with tire squeal and all, leaving her in a cloud of dust. Most people would've employed Roadside Assistance for Strangers Option 2 at that point, but I didn't have my cell phone with me and couldn't be bothered to call anyone when I got back to my office. However, in telling this story later, I led people to believe that I sure did call for help — alas, I did not.

I still think about this day with a mixture of relief and guilt — sometimes I pat myself on the back for avoiding getting dragged to her gingerbread house and then boiled in a kettle on her sugar cookie porch, other times I feel like I was her last hope and she's probably dead because of me.

(P.S. Just to get all the cards on the table, both the homeless dude and the Hansel and Gretel witch were white. Not that it matters ... I just don't want anyone thinking there's subtext to this.)

• Finally, at Starbucks today, the barista asked me if I wanted to donate a half-pound of coffee to help a farm for abused animals. Without thinking, I scrunched up my nose in response to her request but quickly realized that it was offensive and abnormal to look grossed out by this, so I asked a lame question about the farm's nonprofit status to distract her from my initial reaction and lack of affirmative response. Donate to an animal farm? What? I'M HERE FOR COFFEE. PLEASE GIVE ME MY COFFEE, LADY.

Later, another barista came over and gave me a free mocha frappuccino because someone's order got messed up. While I was drinking it, I felt like I didn't really deserve it even though it was delicious and hit the spot.

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I am INSANE in bed — and I'm not just bragging

Somewhere around 28, right after we got married, I started to get the question: So, are you guys going to have kids now? Giggle. Giggle. Since then it's been at least once a week that I face some form of question or comment or undue and unrelenting pressure regarding my kid situation. Whether it be my doctor lecturing me about my age and intentions or my manicurist saying "Oh, I soooo sorry!" upon finding out that I am a childless wonder — it truly seems to be a topic that people other than me find fascinating and important to talk about.

As such, I have already vowed that I am not leaving the house next Mother's Day because this past one was nothing but an exercise in overly cheerful assumption. For the first time in my life I actually understood what it might feel like to be a Jew on Christmas. At first it's like, "OK, that's their holiday. No big. Let them have a good time or whatever and openly display their decorations all over the Earth if that's what they need to do. I'll just go to the movies or go pick up some ice cream at the store. Mind my own business." Then by the 223rd "Merry Christmas!" you're suddenly like "All right, look. Not everyone believes in Jesus, OK, pal? OK? Some of us have other ideas on the mind that don't involve trees and Macy's and a fat dude breaking into the house."

By the end of this past Mother's Day, I was seriously ready to punch the next clown who wished me a good one, while screaming "This one's for your mom! For ALL YOUR MOMS."

People don't mean to be rude when they ask me questions about having kids, and I know I'm just being too sensitive, but sometimes I have to restrain myself from answering these inquiries in an Oprah-guest muffled cry, "We can't. I don't have a bread basket." or "No. DSS took my last six kids and after the state-mandated fixin', it just doesn't seem to be in the cards."

The fact remains, I don't know the answer to the kid question, but unofficially it is an emphatic NO. And here's the biggest reason: I cannot go without sleep. I can't. Not ever. I need it. I fantasize about it. I think wonderful thoughts about it during the day. I often smile and blush when recalling the sleep from the night before. I absolutely, positively need at least 7 hours of sleep in an uninterrupted row. End of story.

When I don't get my 7 hours, awful things happen that usually end with me making butterscotch pudding and begging for forgiveness, "Please talk to me, Chuck! Please! I'm so sorry. I don't even remember saying that. And you certainly don't have 'butcher breath' right now."

You see, achieving sleep is not always easy for me. It can take almost two torturous hours for me to make it happen sometimes. And I am totally against sleeping pills and Benadryl and Tylenol PM (but not gin and tonics), so instead I do things like blackmail myself, "If you don't fall asleep in the next 15 minutes, you have to get up and wash the kitchen floor." This usually works ... to the detriment of my kitchen floor.

Chuck, on the other hand, can fall asleep whenever and wherever the mood strikes him, which is why I LOSE MY MIND when he wakes me up for no reason. And I'm not talking about "wakes me up for no reason" in the sense that it's morning and it's time to get up. I can handle waking up in the morning. It's the midnight blanket pulling, pillow stealing, leg-draping-over-me-and-causing-a-toenail-to-scratch-my-skin incidents that send me into a surprisingly coherent and detailed rant that hovers just below a full wake-up so as not to break my "sleeping seal" and therefore lose my sleep-momentum.

To date, our biggest fights have been over blanket technique, pillow fairness, bedroom temperature and proper application of cuddling. The meanest things I've ever done have been prompted by interruptions to my sleep (such as two nights ago when Chuck's iPod-alarm clock thing that he can't seem to figure out — because it's from Walgreens and who buys iPod accessories at Walgreens — suddenly blasted the score from "E.T." in the middle of a very pleasant sleep for me. This resulted in a verbal loss of temper and a violent cord-yanking from the wall ... Chuck didn't wake up through any of it, which was counter to my intention, so I picked up my cat and put him on Chuck's shoulder, hoping he'd springboard off and cause a confused and maybe even mildly painful awakening on Chuck's part ... instead the cat gently stepped off of Chuck and quietly hopped off the bed ... Chuck remained in a peaceful slumber).

As I tried to fall back asleep after that incident, it occurred to me that this is who I am. I do things like this when it comes to my bedtime. I react without thinking and immediately want to spread the pain of being torn from the comforting swaddle of my dreams. So could I really handle having a baby?

From what I understand, babies rob women of sleep and then children cause parents to lose sleep and I'm 34 so by the time my child is out of the house, I'll be too scared to sleep because one never knows when one won't wake up at that age. So maybe my "kid decision" is actually more of a "sleep decision" at this point. Yes! And maybe this is what I'll tell my manicurist next time, "No kids, but I did have the most AMAZING 9 hours of sleep last night. And the night before that. And before that. And before that. And before that." (Or maybe I'll just continue to say nothing because, my God, even I know how pathetic that sounds.)

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Just like with Jon and Kate, there's a big, old chill in our marriage

Welcome to the Deep South, where my husband likes to pretend he's some sort of super-breed of human because he enjoys the type of heat that would burn the eyebrows off all three Jonas Brothers.

Not only does he think 110 degree weather is pleasing to the skin and not only does he have to talk about his heat-tolerating superiority all the ever-living time ("This weather is perfect!" "I love the humidity!" "I wish my job could be to lie in the sun and nap on a hammock."), he goes through this period every year where he tortures me by not letting me have the air conditioner on because it makes him "too cold."

Some people might ask, "Why would you allow this to happen? How can you put up with that?" The only answer I have for this is, I think I might be oblivious or stupid or all the other things you could say about a woman whose husband prefers to live in an oven to the detriment of his wife's sanity and happiness.

Worse than that, last August our air conditioner became clogged and caused a minor flood in our garage. Most normal people would have been like, "A clog in our air conditioner! Oh my! Let's read up on how to fix it or hire a trained professional to make it better!"

Not us.

We shut that puppy down. And, like all other household problems, we tried ignoring it and then pretended like it might fix itself or one day just be OK again (... for future inhabitants who would never tolerate such deficiencies, perhaps).

Then sometime in late April, I started my 2009 Campaign to End This Madness. The annual Campaign to End This Madness usually starts 2-3 weeks after our house has reached the mid- to high-80s. It involves me saying things like, "I think I'm going to die." and "Seriously. At this point I'm seeing two of you and only one is mildly handsome." And then it culminates in a fireworks display that coincides directly with the first moment I catch a glimpse of what I look like in a tank top, ponytail and sweat streaks.

This year, I allowed him to ignore my panting right up until last week, when the monster that is South Carolina's summer returned in full force to breathe its fiery fire on both of us and all our worldly goods. It literally wasn't until the word "mold" was mentioned that he finally gave in and let me get the darn thing fixed and running again.

And oh my god, it's so wonderful.

Sooooo .... let me be the first to acknowledge and celebrate this chill in my marriage. I'm cheating on my husband with a thermostat and I just. don't. care.

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It's fun to list ultra-specific pet peeves, so I'm gonna ...

Here are some very pointed things that bother me when they happen:

— When men talk about music and then recite the lyrics to a song. The out-of-context recitation, paired with the repetition of words and phrases that were never meant to be spoken just totally skeeves me out and makes me feel bad for the guy.

— When "oops" gets spelled "opps" ... 

— When tiny men wear tiny shorts that are also cuffed at the hem.

— When I'm at the veterinarian's office and people talk to their pets about my pets. "Do you see the kitties, Rexie? Yes ... that's a nice kitty, isn't it Rexie?" I mean, c'mon. 

— When I order a "double cappuccino for here" and the person at the counter then asks me if I want a single or a double and whether I want my cappuccino to go or for here. 

— When New Yorkers say, "I've been doing this since I'm 12." Unless you are currently 12, this makes no sense. 

— When we walk into a locally owned art store in Savannah and don't get acknowledged by the person working there ... ever. Not once. I mean, a non-eye-contact, meaningless "hi" is enough to do the job. Just say it.

Things I Hate No 2: Flies and old people at my Starbucks

There are two things right now that are keeping me from concentrating on my task at hand:

1. The ever-present flies at my Starbucks. They flit around, with a cocky look in their fly eyes, landing on my coffee cup, buzzing in my ear, hover-crafting in front of me and mouthing "Eff you, B," because they know AIN'T NOTHING GONNA STOP THEM. Why? Because Starbucks does absolutely zero to fix the problem. In fact, they seem to welcome the flies as if they were paying customers with Starbucks gold cards — which explains why that one fly had a foam mustache and a mini-espresso brownie in its antennae.

Back in the day there were fly strips here. Ugly, but very effective fly strips. Rumor has it that Starbucks' corporate folks thought the fly strips were way too unsightly, and thusly made the baristas take them down. It's been Fly City since then. Which brings me to my rant on corporate morons: I hate you all, you drive-by decision-making jack-offs. YOU are the reason for this economy.

2. Old people. My Starbucks is not a gathering spot for trendy Blufftonians. It is, however, a HOTBED of leisurely, non-working, loud-talking, jolly, friendly, smiley, library-book reading, knitting, all-day-sitting-here OLD PEOPLE.  

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate the elderly — although I can smell their Medicare from a distance — but my sweet Lord, these ones are so hopped up on caffeine that all they do is talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk as if their doctors prescribed lattes and TALKING as the only known cures for painful gas and arthritis. 

And I don't know who told these oldsters about Starbucks in the first place (I thought we had all agreed to scare them off with the $4 price tags and the threat of being waited on by a domestic-partnered barista). Somebody at Maxwell House or Juan Valdez seriously needs to open a senior citizen-friendly coffee depot and get these chatty Cathies the dilly out of here. Similarly, Starbucks should consider a senior discount for duct tape.

Oh dear. I'm crabby now.

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Signs That Motherhood Might Not Be for Me (per se) No. 1

My actual internal conversation upon seeing a cute child:

— Ohhhhh .... I want a baby. 

— No I don't.

— Yes I do.

— No I don't.

— Yes I do.

— Yes I don't.

— No I do ... eff.

Today Chuck told me that I'd be a "disaster" as a mother. A disaster.

Proof that he might be right: In response to his assessment, I laughed and tossed my hair ... because I love it when people talk about me. 

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It Puts the Ice Cream in the Basket

I've been involved in a lifelong battle of economical prudence vs. my very low IQ inside voice, which lately keeps telling me I need an ice-cream-making machine. 

So ... needless to say, two things are about to happen: 1. We're going to be a family that eats homemade ice cream and 2. It's about to get all kinds of stupid in my kitchen. (I predict liquid glop, loss of temper and finger-pointing.)

When Chuck asked me why I bought this thing, I literally had no answer. (Mainly because I didn't like his tone ... "why" is one syllable ... he made it three-syllables ... and we all know what three-syllable "whys" mean.)

He's right, though. It's not like I need a machine to relieve me of the many hours I spend hand-churning ice cream. It's not as if there aren't enough varieties of regular already-made ice cream to satisfy my palate. It's not as though I have any big plans for this thing (though bacon ice cream is certainly a goal at some point ... if only for the novelty of it ... OK, and also the taste). 

The issue here is really just to say that I'm pretty excited to find out what my very low IQ inside voice is going to make me spend money on next. Please let it be some common sense ...

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The Cats Ate My Wallet

The reason I have cats and not dogs or babies is because:

1. They're as uninterested in me as I am in them ... except when we need attention or validation from each other.

2. We have the same hopes and dreams. 

3. They are wonderfully predictable. Right now they are sleeping in the exact spots they were sleeping in yesterday and the day before and the day before that. At some point, they will wake up, stretch and head over to their food and water. Then they will go drop it like it's hot in their litter boxes. 

All of this is done without drama. All of this is done without involving me in the matter.

4. When you kiss a cat on the lips, they do not try to French you back or drool on you in any way.

5. When I sniff my hand after petting them, it smells like neutral cat air and not dog-esque turd carcass.

6. They are never gassy (or they at least have the courtesy to leave the room to fart in private).

7. They do not cost a lot of money ... Yes, yes. It's so awesome. 

Ugh, no it's not awesome. They cost A LOT of money. The last 5 weeks have cost me more than $500 in vet bills and super-special low-allergen cat food from Hill's Prescription Diet. 

Ollie has a food allergy that I've known about for the last four years. That's four years of constant and, I'm sure, uncomfortable itching, mild fur-chewing and getting called Scabby McGee behind his back by me and Chuck. But every time I thought about maybe doing something to remedy the matter, a rude voice inside me would say, "Meh. He's a cat."

It wasn't until recently that my free-radical maternal hormones started kicking in; and, in some last-ditch effort at survival, they're making me see things in my life in a whole new, softer way. I suddenly have a conscience that came out of nowhere. I suddenly want to make things around me better. I suddenly stopped thinking of myself first. 

So it is that I am now able to look at my cat and go, "Oh, that's not right, honey. Let mama take care of that for you." 

I took both cats to the vet to get all the shots I'd neglected to get for them over the last two years and to get felt up by the vet (them not me) in a way that determines they're not dying of cancer, which is good because I worry about that sometimes. 

While there, I said, "About this allergy thing ... I'm ready to deal with it." So now I'm a card-carrying member of the Hill's Prescription Diet club. My cats went from eating whatever horsemeat paté was on sale at Kroger to eating what I can only guess from the price is rare diamond dust and made-to-order pan-fried foie gras. 

But that's not the end of it: Ollie had another outbreak two weeks ago (this fancy food takes 12 weeks to truly work apparently) so it was back to the vet, where he had a nice $116 inspection and anti-histamine shot. 

I keep looking at them for signs of happiness, appreciation and fulfillment because of the caring actions of me and my wallet. But something tells me they just don't care ... and I guess that's exactly how I like them.

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What to do when creamy, processed pasta isn't enough?

Order one of these fat-boys from Domino's:

As much as I like naughty food, this is just too obscene — like the donkey show of junk food. Way too far. I feel dirty for even looking at it.

Is there a carb contest going on that I don't know about? Because I have some ideas ...

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Good Things I Like No. 7: My weird-looking cell phone

I'm dying for an iPhone — because that's what society tells me I must have — but I can't bear to part with my G'Zone V Type cell, which I got two years ago after several unfortunate incidents involving our cell phones and water (and occasionally cement).

I've been made fun of up and down the street for this military-styled, large, heavy, boy cell phone —and sometimes people ask me to say hi to Zack Morris and Screech when I'm on the phone with 1992 — but this is the perfect phone for careless people like Chuck and me. (We both have one ... mine has a picture of Dignan on it, his has a picture of a coffee cup, it's how we tell them apart).

I got fed up with the expense of constantly replacing our cell phones (always accompanied by the judgy looks from Verizon Wireless technicians as they checked the secret "humidity" strip to see if I'd exposed it to mist or mild oxygen). So one day I went into Verizon and said, "Give me the closest thing you have to My First Cell Phone for babies except with numbers on it instead of shapes."

Here's what you can do with this phone: Drop it. Throw it. Chew on it (if you're a baby). Talk on it for hours without feeling like you're getting antenna cancer. Hear people. Bring it to the hot tub. Drop it in the ocean. Wash it off with soap. Use the built-in flashlight (yes, a real flashlight) to check your front walkway for alligators at night. Pretend to talk on it so people don't bother you at Starbucks. Avoid calls. Set it to "silent." Leave it at home. Leave it in the car. Put it in the freezer. Take it out of the freezer. Call someone who cares.

Can an iPhone do any of this?

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James Brown and the one-handed clap

Chuck and I went to the Sentient Bean on Wednesday night to see the "holy grail" of James Brown concerts: A grainy film of a raucous show he gave in Paris in 1971. 

It was one of those "lost footage" and "rumored to exist" situations — a screening that serious James Brown fans would truly appreciate (ie., not us — two people who just wanted something different to do for the night and thought, "Yeah. OK. They have cappuccinos there, yes?"). 

The guy who arranged the screening was beside himself over the fact that we were about to watch this HISTORICAL concert, however he seemed more than disappointed that Chuck and I were the only ones who came for the second showing (a phenomenon, by the way, known as "The Liz and Chuck Show," which seems to happen to us at every restaurant, bar, party, event that we go to. We'll look around and suddenly realize it's just us and some angry waiter who would've been able to go home early were it not for the inconvenience of us). 

So the man decided to delay the show to see if maybe others would show up. It was starting to feel a little sad because the guy was in shock and disbelief, "I really thought we'd be packed for both shows." Luckily a handful of people finally came. And some of them even took to chanting "JB! JB!," which I think made things much less disappointing for him. 

As a matter of fact, for so few people, it was surprising to me that the audience was SO INTO it. Whooping it up. Saying, "You go, James!" Applauding as if they were really in Paris right there in the moment. Meanwhile, Chuck and I slurped down cappuccinos and lazily used one hand each to clap every time James did the robot or dropped to his knees. Pathetic. Midway through our one-handed claps (which is akin to repeatedly high-fiving each other or repeatedly high-fiving our own thighs) it occurred to me that this might be the laziest and most disrespectful thing we've ever done. Here we were, watching the Godfather of Soul sweat his bubble butt off in front of a sea of pale smoky French people ... the hardest working man in show business giving it his all ... changing outfits ... risking hip dislocation ... and we could only manage a lethargic one-handed clap for the performance. 

I thought about putting down my cappuccino so that I could commit both hands to the moment but then I got caught up in thinking: This one-handed clap thing is a metaphor for my life, isn't it? I'm one-handed clapping my way through everything. EVERYTHING. 

I don't even know how to begin to think about fixing this.

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"Don't Hit Me! Because I Have a Flag! See! A Flag!"

Chuck forwarded this ridiculous link from the Gettysburg Times today: "Safety Feature" 

SAFETY FEATURE — New Oxford’s pedestrian flag program has gone into service, providing hand-held flags, stored in containers at each pedestrian crosswalk (inset photo), to persons crossing the streets. Anne Zero, co-chair of the New Oxford Borough Council's Community Revitalization Committee, is pictured demonstrating how the program works Monday morning. After picking up a flag on one side of the street, the pedestrian simply places the flag in the container on the other side, ready to be used again when needed.

Talk about regression. I'm pretty sure this is the idea that led to the idea that led to the idea that led to the invention of the crossing signal. Somebody needs to tap New Oxford on the shoulder and tell them about the wonders of progress and traffic lights. 

Also I'd love to know what happens when all the flags are on the other side of the road and you need to cross ... is that like getting caught in the outhouse without any newspaper squares to wipe with?

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Good Things I Like No. 6: La Croix Sparkling Water in a Can

I'm not a soda drinker (though I do like a cold ginger ale every once and again, and sometimes when I'm stressed and feel the need to regress, I might throw back an orange Fanta or two whilst pretending to be at my 10th birthday party — when life was easy and my biggest worry involved not splitting the sleeves of my new Madonna 45s).

I'm also not one of those people who has to come up with creative ways to fake myself into upping my water intake. I love water. As a matter of fact, I can do water shots all night long and STILL be OK to drive home. Try that.

More than water, though, I love La Croix sparkling water in a can. I fell in love with it about 3 years ago and haven't stopped drinking it since. My refrigerator is almost always filled with a case of either pamplemousse- or lemon-flavored sparkling water. I once even wrote an e-mail to the manager at Publix because I felt very strongly that his store should carry pamplemousse La Croix so I wouldn't have to go to poopy Kroger all the time. No answer. I later ran into him at the store and asked him for an update on the La Croix situation and he said, "Oh. You."

Who can blame me for being annoying about it, though? I certainly don't. This stuff is amazing. No calories. No artificial ANYTHING. It's everything I've ever wanted in a refreshing beverage. Highly recommend.

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The Case of the Orange Feet

Chuck and I went to the beach this evening to drink coffee and read until sunset. While there, I noticed the bottoms of my feet were iodine orange. Both of them. Like straight-up, serious, dark orange — as though I'd stepped in self-tanning lotion or orange hair dye. Trouble is, I have no memory of stepping in anything whatsoever.

So I immediately flipped out, thinking there are only a few possible explanations for this:

1. I am radioactive and nuclear toxins are seeping out through my feet.

2. I stepped in some sort of rust puddle at home, which would no doubt be my fault, and then unknowingly tracked it all over our brand new white carpeting. 

3. I am having a delayed allergic reaction to a pedicure I had two weekends ago at a place that illegally razored my feet — which at the time was something I was thrilled about. 

Or, 4. — and the only explanation Chuck offered up — our cats are really black and I accidentally stepped in their secret stash of orange makeup. 

The weirdest thing about all of this is that Chuck has three or four small splashes of orange on the bottom of his left foot only. 

WHAT HAPPENED TO US? 

There is literally no explanation. A house-wide check has shown up no orange. More than that, I hadn't been anywhere today until the beach (where I was shoed until I stepped onto the sand, which is not orange).

Worse than all of this, a rigorous scrubbing and soaking in the tub has done no good. The bottoms of my feet are permanently stained — which is just hideous. 

I will be obsessing about this for at least the next 72 hours.

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The Day the Salad Died

Last night as I was making dinner Chuck told me a little story about his lunch:

Chuck: "I took that leftover salad from the other day for lunch."

Me: "Oh good."

Chuck: "It was so good."

Me: "That's great. I'm glad."

(Silence)

Chuck: "Except there was one thing ..."

Me: "Yeah?"

Chuck: "I was almost done with it and I saw a beetle in it."

Me: "What?"

Chuck: "Yeah. And then I looked closer and there was another one in there ... dead."

Me: "Are you kidding?"

Chuck: "I saved them both. They're in a baggie ... just in case anything happens to me."

Me: "What? Nothing's going to happen to you-"

Chuck: "Did you wash that salad?"

Me: "Yes! That's why it was in that colander. I can't believe there were bugs in it ... but I guess that happens sometimes- "

Chuck: "I want you to look at the bugs."

Me: "No."

Chuck: "Yes."

Me: "No."

Chuck: "Yes."

Me: "Do not show me those bugs! I never want to know what they look like unless you die from them."

(10 minutes later. Chuck is doing pre-dinner shots from a whipped cream container.)

Me: "Stop! You're not going to want to eat dinner if you keep eating whipped cream."

Chuck (after 4 more shots): "You don't understand what it was like ..."

Me: "What what was like?"

Chuck: "Finding bugs in a salad I was eating."

Me: "Oh."

Chuck: "He had salad dressing all over him and was trying to wipe it off his little hands."

Me: "Who?!?"

Chuck: "The beetle."

Me: "Just ... can we never talk about this again?"

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Things I Hate No 1: Shows about cakes

I will never understand people's fascination with cakes made from fondant. Every time I turn on the Food Network, there's another person shopping at Home Depot for cake-decorating tools — you know, things like PVC piping, drill bits and garbage bags — and then stressing out because their chainsaw breaks during competition. 

That is not food. That is shop class with a built-in snack afterward.

Is it really that important we spend tons of money on what are essentially rancid Play-Doh sculptures with previously frozen cake product inside that have been touched and rubbed on and patted down in excess so we can all stand around and ooh and ahh and go, "Wow. That's a cake?" I say no. Call me old-fashioned, but when it comes to cakes, I want homemade, sticky, sloppy frosting on my lips and fresh crumbs in my napkin. That is all.

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Good Things I Like No. 5: Publix brand Citrus Berry Sherbet

I've never been one for generics for two reasons: one, packaging and grandiose claims matter to me, and two, I don't like strangers thinking I can't afford things. (Sad but true.)

Publix, however, has cured me of my shallow grocery store paranoia. Their generics are perfect. Clean packaging. Good prices. Decent quality. I don't feel the least bit ashamed of my generics-filled cart when I'm shopping there. And I'm particularly not ashamed when I'm buying their $1.97 quart of Citrus Berry Sherbet. 

I'm excited just thinking about it. There are three distinct flavors: tangerine, cranberry and green grape. Yes! Cranberry and green grape! It's tart, sweet and subtle all at once. I love it! Sometimes I pretend it's frozen wine. I mean ... I have a friend who does that ... 

There are eight servings per quart ... and by "eight" I think they must mean "4 visits to the freezer with my spoon."   

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Good Things I Like No. 4: Double cappuccinos at Gallery Espresso in Savannah

At least twice a month, Chuck and I head to Savannah for the best cappuccinos we've ever had the pleasure of tasting.

For whatever reason, The Gallery Espresso cafe on Bull Street seems to have it down to a science. The espresso tastes exactly the way good coffee smells, and the foam is smooth and creamy (no tasteless bubbles in it). And this doesn't seem to vary by employee either; they all seem like they're able to pull it off (so maybe it's the machine they use?).

There's a good mix of Southern yupsters and tortured art students in the cafe, so our suburban indifference never seems to interfere with the vibe. The art rotates and is usually interesting and thought-provoking (though one time we went there with Chuck's relatives, and there was crazy fetish art on the walls. ... Try sitting across from a painting of a chubby woman wearing nothing but see-through granny panties with her head thrown back in self-induced ecstasy and you'll find yourself with very little to say).

Usually we hang out at the coffee shop for about 2-3 hours on a Monday (aka "the length of two cappuccinos and a piece of raspberry almond cake each").

Chuck's dad puts us down for driving 20 minutes for coffee and he thinks it's insane that we sit in a coffee shop and read for hours at a time. Then again he doesn't understand this thing some people have called "enjoyment."

Anyway, if you're ever in Savannah and like cappuccinos, check it out.

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Good Things I Like No. 3: BBQ Chicken Salad from Amigo's

If you're ever in Bluffton, stop by Amigo's at Belfair and get a BBQ Chicken Salad. Unbelievably delicious. So good, in fact, that I now make it at home a couple times a month. Here's how:

1. Cut up about a pound of boneless, skinless chicken breast (I go for a cube-y type cut). Season it. Add it to a hot pan with a tiny bit of cooking oil. I make this in a small Calphalon wok (my favorite pan because I like the high sides and the small surface area on the bottom of the pan). Cook until done (I try to brown it up just a little because Chuck likes his chicken slightly overcooked ... sometimes that is just gross ... this time, it's OK).

2. Add your favorite barbecue sauce (mine is Sweet Baby Ray's) until the chicken is completely coated and somewhat saturated. Turn the heat to low for just a few minutes to heat up the barbecue sauce a little.

3. In a salad bowl, throw in some Romaine (I cut mine into strips using kitchen scissors), some drained black beans, a bunch of corn kernels, cherry tomatoes that have been quartered and some shredded pepper jack (or whatever). Add some buttermilk ranch dressing (ew to the other types) ... don't add a lot ... it's just for taste. Toss to coat.

4. Put the chicken on top. Serve with lime wedges (this is the secret to happiness) and some plantain chips on the side.

While I love a good tortilla bowl, I really don't need to be eating my dishware so it's actually better to make this at home.

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Tales of a Cake-School Nothing: Homework FAIL

It's a new year, but I'm the same old me, for sure.

A few weeks ago, my friend Hannah asked me if I wanted to take a cake-decorating class with her. To which I answered, "Yeah, that sounds cool."

Then she finished, "... at Michaels." To which I answered with a much less polite variant of "Heck, no."

If I were to list all the reasons I hate Michaels, it would expose me as the judgy, close-minded person I really am — but it must be said, that store makes me want to puffy paint my own eyes shut and lob Jordan Almonds at every person in the silk flower aisle. [Forgive me. I'm being a total craftophobe. I know there's nothing wrong with being a crafter. I have many friends who are crafters and I fully understand it's something you're born with and don't choose to "be" or whatever. And this is 2009, I don't want to persecute anyone based on their extracurricular activities. But still, the thought of two crafters making out ... it's something I wasn't really exposed to growing up, you know?]

At any rate, Hannah asked me again a few days later. And, in the grand tradition of me not sticking to my guns, I said, "Sure. OK. Fine. I'll do it."

I put my feelings about Michaels aside and suddenly had this "new me" notion about the class: I'll get out of the house for once (breaking my borderline autistic circuit of home-Starbucks-work-Publix-home). I'll do something Chuck-free and girly and with an actual friend! I'll become a cake-decorator and wow friends and family with superb creations that belong on the cover of Cake Decorator Monthly. I'll be the star in the class who brings the instructor to tears with my frosting technique. I'll put smiles on children's faces. I'll decorate my way to the White House. I'll be on the Food Network. I'll decorate in the park. I'll decorate on people's heads. I'll speed decorate and put videos of me doing it on YouTube.

This grand delusion lasted until yesterday when I created that little jobby there at the top. That cake is supposed to look like this, but SOMEHOW after spending $150 on Wilton professional cake decorating CRAP, the only thing I've mastered is the Art of Being Myself. I am ham-fisted, imprecise and sloppy when it comes to things that require patience and staying within the lines. [And I'm not saying that to make myself sound quirky, like some "Real World" idiot who talks about herself in third person: "Liz is the kind of person who won't be held back by anyone's cake rules! Did I mention I'm a Mormon virgin?"] I know my faults all too well.

As you can see, this cake broke before I even had a chance to frost or decorate it. It happened during the "cutting and filling phase" wherein I was to use a "cake cutter" (ie. crazy twine contraption conveniently sold at Michaels) and slice the cake in two and then fill it with frosting. I spazzed and it ended up being cut into several jagged pieces that I mistakenly thought could be plastered together with the blue frosting. Total misconception.

Anyway, this cake currently resides in my trash can (along with my dreams of ever going to the White House). However, I'm not going to give up. This cake thing is NOT going to be my undoing, so help me God, because this is NOT rocket science: Millions of stupid people make and frost cakes daily. So, that said, I will continue going to Michaels, with its suffocating stench of basket, and I will continue making batches of foul, fake-butter-flavored Crisco-based frosting until I have at least one fully decorated, non-broken cake to call my own.

And if I end up decorating on YouTube and wowing the masses? Well, that would please Liz so.

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I am old. I am sober. I am watching Rockin' New Year's Eve with Ryan Seacrest.

Just what I needed to end this silly year: more feelings of disconnection and disgust. I can't even muster the enthusiasm to crack open my champagne or change the channel to something that is not Ryan Seacrest. 

Things that need to happen for 2009 to have a chance:

— Kellie Pickler needs to go. I haven't been this annoyed with another human being since seeing Judy Tenuta play the accordion. (Also, thank you, Kellie, for explaining why people won't be able to wear 2010 party glasses next year: "Cuz you ain't gonna be able to see with a one on yer eye" [points to wrong eye]) 

— It's time to submit to Britney's dad. Newspapers need to hire Jamie Spears to make it all better because this past year was all about head-shaving and umbrella-wielding for us, too, and I swear I'm about to go do stuff with Federline just to feel alive again. 

— I need a minute in NYC. The Lowcountry is making me comatose.

— Add Fergie to the Pickler list. 

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Good Things I Like No. 2: Butterscotch Pudding

Whenever Chuck and I get into a fight (particularly one that ends with him not talking to me), I cook some butterscotch pudding and, without fail, my sins are forgiven.

It's almost Pavlovian at this point. He sees the box come out and suddenly the fact that I called him a "German clown" or a "mentally retarded ding dong" no longer matters.

I'm not sure why this works or how the tradition got started, but it's cheaper than marriage counseling and a lot easier than self-evaluation. (There's also a lot to be said about seeing my future fights laid out for me in a neat stack of small Jell-O boxes in the pantry.)

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