tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89122605376833821742011-12-17T07:59:13.256-05:00Liz Farrell + Chuck Witt = HollaLiz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.comBlogger341100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-14825695967459654072009-11-18T10:37:00.020-05:002009-11-18T14:49:57.323-05:00Here are the things I know about myself:<div><br /></div><div>• I'm kind of uptight.</div><div>• I like to feel safe and in control 100 percent of the time.</div><div>• I'm not a risk taker. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here are the things I know about Chuck:</div><div><br /></div><div>• He was born in the back of a clown car in McIdiotstown.</div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>always</i> meshing. Like last night, for instance ...</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was during this walk to Moon River that things got silly last night.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. <i>The artist of what? Who is this guy? What does he want from us? </i></div><div><br /></div><div><i></i>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Chuck and I have vastly different philosophies on how to deal with shady people who are only approaching us because they want something.</div><div><br /></div><div>My philosophy: Keep walking. No eye contact. Leave me alone. </div><div><br /></div><div>Chuck's philosophy: This is a good time to practice my stand-up routine. </div><div><br /></div><div>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).</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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?"</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or was he being instructed not to answer his phone? Oh God.</div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>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." </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is where my brain short-circuited. FINISHING UP WHAT?</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>OF THIS ...</div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SwQy4ZHN-8I/AAAAAAAADaw/3xVncMlJLyo/s1600/DSC_0122.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 420px; height: 307px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SwQy4ZHN-8I/AAAAAAAADaw/3xVncMlJLyo/s320/DSC_0122.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405501397146663874" /></a><br />The only thing I could say was "Oh my God."</div><div><br /></div><div>Chuck was all excited, "You like it? It's me!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"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."</div><div><br /></div><div>"He was my friend ..."</div><div><br /></div><div>"What?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"David."</div><div><br /></div><div>"That homeless guy was not your friend. He wanted money from you. How much did you pay for this?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nothing. Can you believe it? It was free!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"David could've shot you and left you for dead."</div><div><br /></div><div>"He told me I was funny."</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>On our way back to the car, we stopped at Starbucks, where Chuck took this picture (under the word "YOU," naturally):</div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SwQ7dMqYHOI/AAAAAAAADbA/D6EEGLe6doA/s1600/DSC_0105.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SwQ7dMqYHOI/AAAAAAAADbA/D6EEGLe6doA/s320/DSC_0105.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405510825552649442" /></a><br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!"<br /><br />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:<br /><br />From: "Charles G. Witt" <buzzardbin@hargray.com><br />Date: November 18, 2009 9:38:35 AM EST<br />To: Liz Farrell <lizfarrell@hargray.com><br /><br />911: is this an emergency?<br />liz: yes, my husband is being accosted by a big man and he's drawing a weapon<br />911: what is the description of the suspect?<br />liz: about 4 foot, 98 pounds, small framed<br />911: what weapon did he draw?<br />liz: well, he didn't really draw a weapon, he's drawing my husband<br />911: what is the location?<br />liz: some dark square downtown<br />911: i need a more specific location<br />liz: they are in front of a well lit store front<br />911: i thought you said this was in a dark square?<br />liz: actually, i'm the one in the dark square watching them<br />911: what is happening now<br />liz: they are laughing and my husband just shook his hand, wait, my husband is heading my way. here he is.<br />911: ma'am what is the crime?<br />liz: an unrealistic portrait of him for free!<br />911: 'click'<br /><br />So here's what I know about myself now:<br /><br /><div>• I'm kind of uptight.</div><div>• I like to feel safe and in control 100 percent of the time.</div><div>• I'm not a risk taker.</div><div><br /></div><div>And:</div><div><br /></div><div>• I really do need to take a chill pill because not all shady people are after money. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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 ... </div></lizfarrell@hargray.com></buzzardbin@hargray.com></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-1482569596745965407?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-19748272966484666972009-08-15T00:55:00.025-04:002009-08-16T11:45:27.834-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SoY_6H25-pI/AAAAAAAADZA/1K04SXTdBdM/s1600-h/DSC_0066.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SoY_6H25-pI/AAAAAAAADZA/1K04SXTdBdM/s400/DSC_0066.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370049873460198034" border="0" /></a><br />This is Dignan. I love him so much. <div><br /></div><div>Chuck, suffice to say, SO does not. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.' "</div><div><br /></div><div>(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.) </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>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?<br /><br />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:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SoeSJ8BqwUI/AAAAAAAADZI/PtYnqHZIEwI/s1600-h/DSC_0063.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SoeSJ8BqwUI/AAAAAAAADZI/PtYnqHZIEwI/s400/DSC_0063.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370421780092207426" /></a><br /><div>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.</div></div></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-1974827296648466697?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-23392015376706280062009-08-04T20:43:00.014-04:002009-08-11T11:18:04.394-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SnjXI61XToI/AAAAAAAADYw/8jSVa6z6oek/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 175px; height: 232px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SnjXI61XToI/AAAAAAAADYw/8jSVa6z6oek/s320/Picture+3.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366275504243953282" /></a>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.<div><br /></div><div>I've heard about these men. They sound divine.<div><br /></div><div>See, the man I married has never subscribed to such nonsense as that. <i>Not tell your wife you're yet again annoyed at her? What?</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div><div>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,<i> a grown-up</i>, 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.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div></div></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh goody," I said. "I can't wait for this one."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Every drink you don't finish? I'm going to pour it on your head." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Excuse me?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"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."</div><div><br /></div><div>"What if it's not water?," I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I don't care. All of it."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Ginger ale?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes."</div><div><br /></div><div>"You can't pour red Gatorade on my head."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes I can."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nooooo!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I will."</div><div><br /></div><div>"You won't."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes I will."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Can't you just pretend the sink is my head?"</div><div><br /></div><div>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™. </div><div><br /></div><div>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!" </div><div><br /></div><div>I stopped what I was doing and watched him. He did his usual lift test and then looked kind of sad.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"A third of this can would've been dumped on your poor head!"</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Ha ha! I knew he didn't have the balls.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>his</i> 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.</div><div><div><div><br /></div></div></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-2339201537670628006?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-78666907243851382722009-07-11T12:31:00.020-04:002009-07-12T02:25:02.850-04:00<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sociopath-Next-Door-Martha-Stout/dp/076791581X"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 204px; height: 270px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SljZMI8gWOI/AAAAAAAADYQ/vMH7yIZsFr4/s200/Picture+5+03-25-48.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357270559340124386" border="0" /></a>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. <div><br /></div><div>It's not that I want to see people suffer — I truly, truly don't — but I also don't really want to <span>help</span> 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.<div><div><br /></div><div><div>Here are some of the more offensive quasi-sociopathic things I've done:</div><div><br /></div><div>• 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™.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">paid</span> for this meal, sir? No. You <span style="font-style: italic;">chose</span> not to wake up when that alarm clock went off, eh? (See ... oh my God ... so Republican).<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>• 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />(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.)<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>• 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.<br /><br />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.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-7866690724385138272?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-90034050709628686672009-07-04T10:57:00.010-04:002011-12-17T07:59:13.260-05:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hAEDUPdTIWY/TuySFIA6UUI/AAAAAAAADgw/ghW4O5MmCIA/s1600/pillow2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 139px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hAEDUPdTIWY/TuySFIA6UUI/AAAAAAAADgw/ghW4O5MmCIA/s200/pillow2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687081046210400578" /></a><a href="http://www.sunraycleaners.com/specialty/images/pillow.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Somewhere around 28, right after we got married, I started to get the question: <i>So, are you guys going to have kids now? Giggle. Giggle</i>. 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 <i>soooo</i> 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. <div><br /></div><div>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." </div><div><br /></div><div>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." </div><div><br /><div>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." </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 — <i>because it's from Walgreens and who buys iPod accessories at Walgreens </i>— 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). </div><div><br /></div><div>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? </div><div><br /></div><div>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 o<span><span></span></span>ut 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.)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript>&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://blogcounter.com/"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;=st=img&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;showme=y" /&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-9003405070962868667?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-26365654897998907672009-06-15T23:19:00.019-04:002009-06-27T16:10:14.764-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.rd.com/images/tfhimport/2001/May01_Air_Conditioner_Clean/20010501_Air_Conditioner_Clean_page002img001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 390px; height: 390px;" src="http://www.rd.com/images/tfhimport/2001/May01_Air_Conditioner_Clean/20010501_Air_Conditioner_Clean_page002img001.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>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. <div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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!" </div><div><br /></div><div>Not us.</div><div><br /></div><div>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). </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>And oh my god, it's so wonderful. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-2636565489799890767?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-52292359676392807652009-06-10T12:31:00.005-04:002009-06-11T18:16:56.319-04:00<div>Here are some very pointed things that bother me when they happen:</div><div><br /></div>— 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.<div><br /></div><div>— When "oops" gets spelled "opps" ... </div><div><br /></div><div>— When tiny men wear tiny shorts that are also cuffed at the hem.</div><div><br /></div><div>— 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>— 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>— When New Yorkers say, "I've been doing this since I'm 12." Unless you are currently 12, this makes no sense. </div><div><br /></div><div>— 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.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-5229235967639280765?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-72311281028635894012009-06-09T11:56:00.007-04:002009-06-11T15:09:40.735-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.rescue.com/photos/Bug_photos/Fly.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 310px;" src="http://www.rescue.com/photos/Bug_photos/Fly.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>There are two things right now that are keeping me from concentrating on my task at hand:<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">1. The ever-present flies at my Starbucks. </span>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">2. Old people.</span> 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.  </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh dear. I'm crabby now.</div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-7231128102863589401?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-60228080494309155522009-05-25T13:15:00.006-04:002009-05-26T11:13:47.286-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://paintedinteriors.com/products/baby_mirror_frame-med.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 296px;" src="https://paintedinteriors.com/products/baby_mirror_frame-med.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />My actual internal conversation upon seeing a cute child:<div><br /></div><div>— Ohhhhh .... I want a baby. </div><div>— No I don't.</div><div>— Yes I do.</div><div>— No I don't.<br /></div><div>— Yes I do.</div><div>— Yes I don't.</div><div>— No I do ... eff.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today Chuck told me that I'd be a "disaster" as a mother. A <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">disaster</span>.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-6022808049430915552?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-90245096266546111752009-05-25T00:08:00.007-04:002009-05-25T01:10:37.297-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/418XVCXQ2CL._SL500_AA280_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 280px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/418XVCXQ2CL._SL500_AA280_.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>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. <div><br /></div><div>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.)<div><br /></div><div>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.)</div><div><br /></div><div>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). </div><div><br /></div><div>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 ...</div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-9024509626654611175?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-31174069206197799022009-05-16T13:49:00.003-04:002009-05-16T15:12:22.931-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.petplanet.co.uk/shop_dev/assets/new_product_images/hills/50503.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://www.petplanet.co.uk/shop_dev/assets/new_product_images/hills/50503.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>The reason I have cats and not dogs or babies is because:<br /><br />1. They're as uninterested in me as I am in them ... except when we need attention or validation from each other.<br /><br />2. We have the same hopes and dreams. <div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>All of this is done without drama. All of this is done without involving me in the matter.<div><br />4. When you kiss a cat on the lips, they do not try to French you back or drool on you in any way.</div><div><br /></div><div>5. When I sniff my hand after petting them, it smells like neutral cat air and not dog-esque turd carcass.</div><div><br /></div><div>6. They are never gassy (or they at least have the courtesy to leave the room to fart in private).<br /><br />7. They do not cost a lot of money ... Yes, yes. It's so awesome. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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." </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-3117406920619779902?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-67712459661706794272009-05-13T12:28:00.006-04:002009-05-13T14:15:47.092-04:00Order one of these fat-boys from Domino's:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SgsLDkr1g-I/AAAAAAAADYA/5tkZnVp5QBk/s1600-h/Picture+5.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 251px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SgsLDkr1g-I/AAAAAAAADYA/5tkZnVp5QBk/s400/Picture+5.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335370339565536226" /></a><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Is there a carb contest going on that I don't know about? Because I have some ideas ...</div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-6771245966170679427?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-9113907016302765592009-05-12T18:06:00.005-04:002009-05-17T00:13:15.953-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://z.hubpages.com/u/143692_f260.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://z.hubpages.com/u/143692_f260.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>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 <a href="http://www.wired.com/gadgetlab/2007/01/casio_gzone_typ/">G'Zone V Type cell,</a> which I got two years ago after several unfortunate incidents involving our cell phones and water (and occasionally cement). <div><br /></div><div>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). </div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Can an iPhone do any of this?</div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-911390701630276559?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-48210260076691509732009-05-07T08:28:00.004-04:002009-05-12T10:51:02.238-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.designboom.com/tools/WPro/images/08-november4/applause01.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://www.designboom.com/tools/WPro/images/08-november4/applause01.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Chuck and I went to the <a href="http://www.sentientbean.com/">Sentient Bean</a> on Wednesday night to see the "holy grail" of <a href="http://www.pitchengine.com/allwalksoflifeinc/rare-james-brown-concert-screening-wednesday-may-6th-/9569/">James Brown concerts</a>: A grainy film of a raucous show he gave in Paris in 1971. <div><br /></div><div>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?"). </div><div><br /></div><div>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). </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't even know how to begin to think about fixing this.</div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-4821026007669150973?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-84060835300248202392009-05-05T22:45:00.014-04:002009-05-06T07:36:55.556-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.gettysburgtimes.com/content/articles/2009/05/05/top_stories/doc4a00221674ed0277723485.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 420px; height: 325px;" src="http://www.gettysburgtimes.com/content/articles/2009/05/05/top_stories/doc4a00221674ed0277723485.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Chuck forwarded this ridiculous link from the Gettysburg Times today: <a href="http://www.gettysburgtimes.com/articles/2009/05/05/top_stories/doc4a00221674ed0277723485.txt">"Safety Feature"</a> <div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Verdana;font-size:12px;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">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.</span></span></span></div><div><div><blockquote></blockquote></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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?</div><div><br /></div></div><br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-8406083530024820239?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-64401105573998570322009-05-04T16:19:00.005-04:002009-05-04T16:56:47.112-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/Sf9O-ysUQ2I/AAAAAAAADXY/vhur4KfqK_c/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/Sf9O-ysUQ2I/AAAAAAAADXY/vhur4KfqK_c/s320/Picture+3.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332067324496462690" /></a><br />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 <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">might</span> 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).<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-6440110557399857032?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-86112752106025511692009-05-03T22:36:00.006-04:002009-05-04T16:56:17.140-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/Sf5VXI7k12I/AAAAAAAADXQ/dD5_pidayDw/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 185px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/Sf5VXI7k12I/AAAAAAAADXQ/dD5_pidayDw/s320/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331792864875960162" /></a>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.<div><br /></div><div>So I immediately flipped out, thinking there are only a few possible explanations for this:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. I am radioactive and nuclear toxins are seeping out through my feet.</div><div>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. </div><div>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. </div><div>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. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>WHAT HAPPENED TO US? </div><div><br /></div><div>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).</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>I will be obsessing about this for at least the next 72 hours.</div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-8611275210602551169?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-76059804627077651062009-05-02T10:06:00.006-04:002009-05-02T11:51:18.372-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.marlerblog.com/romaine_select.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 295px;" src="http://www.marlerblog.com/romaine_select.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Last night as I was making dinner Chuck told me a little story about his lunch:<div><br /></div><div>Chuck: "I took that leftover salad from the other day for lunch."</div><div>Me: "Oh good."</div><div>Chuck: "It was so good."</div><div>Me: "That's great. I'm glad."</div><div><br /></div><div>(Silence)</div><div><br /></div><div>Chuck: "Except there was one thing ..."</div><div>Me: "Yeah?"</div><div>Chuck: "I was almost done with it and I saw a beetle in it."</div><div>Me: "What?"</div><div>Chuck: "Yeah. And then I looked closer and there was another one in there ... dead."</div><div>Me: "Are you kidding?"</div><div>Chuck: "I saved them both. They're in a baggie ... just in case anything happens to me."</div><div>Me: "What? Nothing's going to happen to you-"</div><div>Chuck: "Did you wash that salad?"</div><div>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- "</div><div>Chuck: "I want you to look at the bugs."</div><div>Me: "No."</div><div>Chuck: "Yes."</div><div>Me: "No."</div><div>Chuck: "Yes."</div><div>Me: "Do not show me those bugs! I never want to know what they look like unless you die from them."</div><div><br /></div><div>(10 minutes later. Chuck is doing pre-dinner shots from a whipped cream container.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: "Stop! You're not going to want to eat dinner if you keep eating whipped cream."</div><div>Chuck (after 4 more shots): "You don't understand what it was like ..."</div><div>Me: "What what was like?"</div><div>Chuck: "Finding bugs in a salad I was eating."</div><div>Me: "Oh."</div><div>Chuck: "He had salad dressing all over him and was trying to wipe it off his little hands."</div><div>Me: "Who?!?"</div><div>Chuck: "The beetle."</div><div>Me: "Just ... can we never talk about this again?"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-7605980462707765106?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-90218291002905221182009-04-29T19:59:00.003-04:002009-05-02T11:14:39.611-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://mywoodenspoon.com/wp-content/uploads/mywoodenspoon/2009/03/elisa-strauss-3.jpg"><img style="float:center; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 500px; height: 332px;" src="http://mywoodenspoon.com/wp-content/uploads/mywoodenspoon/2009/03/elisa-strauss-3.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>That is not food. That is shop class with a built-in snack afterward.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-9021829100290522118?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-63423163590956266012009-03-14T12:33:00.003-04:002009-03-14T13:07:09.041-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SbvfGg1h80I/AAAAAAAADXI/lJDZ8Nq5YgM/s1600-h/Publix+logo.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SbvfGg1h80I/AAAAAAAADXI/lJDZ8Nq5YgM/s320/Publix+logo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313085488400298818" /></a>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.)<div><br /></div><div>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. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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 ... </div><div><br /></div><div>There are eight servings per quart ... and by "eight" I think they must mean "4 visits to the freezer with my spoon."   </div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-6342316359095626601?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-51636913928003881112009-02-16T11:18:00.008-05:002009-02-16T12:31:02.256-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SZmZxTYRfUI/AAAAAAAADWs/kdctVxb5RhE/s1600-h/Picture+2.png"><img style="float:center; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 193px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SZmZxTYRfUI/AAAAAAAADWs/kdctVxb5RhE/s320/Picture+2.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303439108500192578" /></a><br />At least twice a month, Chuck and I head to Savannah for the best cappuccinos we've ever had the pleasure of tasting. <br /><br />For whatever reason, <a href="http://www.galleryespresso.com/">The Gallery Espresso cafe on Bull Street</a> 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?). <br /><br />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). <br /><br />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"). <br /><br />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." <br /><br />Anyway, if you're ever in Savannah and like cappuccinos, check it out. <br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-5163691392800388111?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-43675075776427263422009-02-02T11:28:00.004-05:002009-02-02T12:07:24.688-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SYcmyn1-nNI/AAAAAAAADWk/YJunxjCYTN8/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 318px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SYcmyn1-nNI/AAAAAAAADWk/YJunxjCYTN8/s320/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298246137755376850" /></a><br />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:<br /><br />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). <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />4. Put the chicken on top. Serve with lime wedges (this is the secret to happiness) and some plantain chips on the side.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-4367507577642726342?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-27294294265968129952009-01-12T19:34:00.005-05:002009-01-12T19:44:34.378-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SWvf9rVJeHI/AAAAAAAADWc/8CyBKyZodL8/s1600-h/DSC_0186.JPG"><img style="float:center; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SWvf9rVJeHI/AAAAAAAADWc/8CyBKyZodL8/s320/DSC_0186.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290568437973219442" /></a><br />It's a new year, but I'm the same old me, for sure.<br /><br />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." <br /><br />Then she finished, "... at Michaels." To which I answered with a much less polite variant of "Heck, no." <br /><br />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?]<br /><br />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." <br /><br />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 <span style="font-style:italic;">and with an actual friend</span>! 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 <span style="font-style:italic;">speed</span> decorate and put videos of me doing it on YouTube.<br /><br />This grand delusion lasted until yesterday when I created that little jobby there at the top. That cake is supposed to look like <a href="http://madebymel.files.wordpress.com/2008/03/img_1260.jpg">this</a>, 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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />And if I end up decorating on YouTube and wowing the masses? Well, that would please Liz so.<br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-2729429426596812995?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-36606050377926899142008-12-31T22:43:00.005-05:002009-01-01T00:21:53.249-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SVxSS5k8vmI/AAAAAAAADWU/EUheHmBVehc/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 128px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SVxSS5k8vmI/AAAAAAAADWU/EUheHmBVehc/s200/Picture+3.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286190547273039458" /></a>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. <div><br /></div><div>Things that need to happen for 2009 to have a chance:</div><div><br /></div><div>— 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]) </div><div><br /></div><div>— 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>— I need a minute in NYC. The Lowcountry is making me comatose.</div><div><br /></div><div>— Add Fergie to the Pickler list. </div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-3660605037792689914?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-51460040612158200162008-11-19T22:27:00.009-05:002008-11-22T15:36:18.497-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SSTaBqhlMRI/AAAAAAAAChM/TiSvm_qB0u0/s1600-h/Picture+5.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 165px; height: 159px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SSTaBqhlMRI/AAAAAAAAChM/TiSvm_qB0u0/s200/Picture+5.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270577186060185874" border="0" /></a>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. <div><br /></div><div>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.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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.) </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><div><div><br /></div></div></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-5146004061215820016?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-37714182798203734102008-11-15T14:01:00.012-05:002008-11-22T12:13:47.459-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SR8dJptD-HI/AAAAAAAACgs/t-uc20RV5XE/s1600-h/Picture+3.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 163px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SR8dJptD-HI/AAAAAAAACgs/t-uc20RV5XE/s200/Picture+3.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268962140697655410" /></a>I know that, under the hood, Starbucks is just a McDonald's for the faux fancy and suburban self-indulged, but without my daily Americano, something very awful would happen. <div><br /></div><div>I'm not sure what exactly, but I think it would involve angry villagers running after me, torches aflame, yelling "How dare you say that to us!" <div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-3771418279820373410?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-37354572728794916582008-11-10T16:31:00.021-05:002008-11-15T13:41:46.693-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SRjS6_unHLI/AAAAAAAACgk/iiw1gQFf3jc/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 195px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SRjS6_unHLI/AAAAAAAACgk/iiw1gQFf3jc/s200/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267191675190975666" border="0" /></a>Something very strange happened to me this weekend: I developed a conscience.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Mon dieu! A conscience! You didn't already have one of those?</span><div><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br />Sadly, I don't think I did.<div><br /></div><div>It's not that I don't feel governed by some greater, internal Goody Two Shoes. I do. But the truth of it is, it's more the fear of getting in trouble that keeps me from robbing banks and shoving old ladies out of the way than it is a traditional adherence to right vs. wrong. Yes, I cry at injustice (and also when I think about Johnny Cash songs) and I feel bad when I forget people's birthdays or send Christmas gifts in April and, generally, I don't really want to be the cause of people's sadness or pain. But, a conscience goes deeper than all this. It's silent. It's powerful. It's pesky. And it will rob you of all the joy you want to experience in any given moment and slap the smile off your face with a quick snap of a righteous whip that, shockingly, is held by your own hand. <div><br /></div><div>It all started Thursday night. Our friends Robin and Chuck L. were in town for a few days, and we were excited to show them a video we had recently unearthed from our archives. This video was something we found about eight years ago at a really classy video-CD-porn-car stereo equipment store in York, Pa., called Megatronix. It was $2, and we weren't quite sure what it was until we took it home and settled in for what would end up being one of the most laugh-gasmic nights of my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>What Chuck and I had discovered that night so long ago was that we were now the proud owners of something so precious and rare ... a fine wine, really, made from the grapes of hilarity, grown during the days when "reality" was still raw and unedited. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was "VideoMate: The first home video dating service, featuring 60 of Southern California's finest single men" ... from 1987. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, we were as jubilant as archaeologists happening upon Christ's receipt from the Last Supper: "My Lord! My heaven! This treasure ... why, it's 60-second videos of men from the late 1980s telling us why they think we should go out on a date with them! (wipe tear) This moment will live in infamy!"<br /><div><br /></div><div>As we watched the video that night, I remember having one distinct thought: There will never be anything this funny again. </div><div><br /></div><div>It turns out I was right.</div><div><br /></div><div>The video got lost in the shuffle for years. We spoke of it as though it were the Holy Grail or a mere figment of our imaginations. "That was real, right? We actually HAD that dating video in our home and watched it, right? ... I miss it so." </div><div><br /></div><div>Occasionally I'd hum the theme song from the video: "Hell-o ... Are you look-ing for some-one?" Other times I'd fantasize about one day finding this video and throwing a huge party with the sole purpose of gathering around the television and laughing at maybe, I don't know, the man who thought it would be winsome to show up for his dating interview wearing a full-on, dead serious viking outfit, explaining that he likes to attend get-togethers and, as a matter of fact, just came from one. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or David, the "handsome" guy who wears gloves with the fingers cut off and carries a rose that he proceeds to talk into: "I thought I told you never to call me here." (Smiles at the camera) "I'm looking for the goddess. Are you the goddess? Who's the goddess?" (Points at camera using rose. Laughs in psycho way.) He later tells us that he plans to give his rose to you, if you are the special lady he's looking for (and then spends a good 15 seconds explaining how you wouldn't be getting <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that</span> rose exactly "because <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">this</span> rose would be rotten by the time you respond" ... man, he had no idea). </div><div><br /></div><div>The piece de resistance is an overweight pasty, doughy mama's boy named Mike, who has one of those scary, disorganized mustaches that looks like it spawned from the hairs growing out of his flared nostrils. His giant double-bar glasses and skinny red tie are perfect matches for the two-tone, synthetic-fabric cardigan jacket he's wearing. He starts out: "If you're sitting there, watching this, smoking a cigarette, then fast forward because I don't want a smoker. You must be athletic, slender and love animals because I'm tired of hearing, 'Gee, you're a great guy, Mike, but you have animals and I'm allergic to them.' " ... Mike then runs out of things to say, so he fills the time with a diatribe about how we can choose to laugh at things in life or cry at them and that he chooses to laugh and that he knows when he looks back on this day he will laugh. I have no doubt. P.S. Mike, it's not the animals ...</div><div><br /></div><div>My favorite was Carlos, a sweet 23-year-old surfer who summed up the cruelty of the dating world in 60 simple seconds: "Yeah, I don't know, like a girl with long hair would be good, athletic, not petite, though. I want to wrestle with her so she can't be all about her makeup or just looking pretty. I don't know. Oh, no overgrown monsters who are only thinking about food and what's on the menu and who embarrass you by ordering too much. No fatties." </div><div><br /></div><div>So many memories to chuckle at. From "Hi, I'm Dick" to picking out the men with child molester lips and rest area eyes, the nostalgia wore on me. When we finally found the video, we were so psyched to be able to show it to our next guests. I knew for sure it would blow their minds.</div><div><br /></div><div>So last Thursday, after "The Office," we popped in the video. The anticipation had me practically clapping along to the clown music in my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>"This is going to be GOOD! This is going to be GOOOOOOD!!!!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Except it wasn't. Not really.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sure, I laughed, giggled and, occasionally, involuntarily hooted. But it wasn't the same. Suddenly these guys were human to me. And many were younger than I am now. Their loneliness started to infect me — I could literally feel it in my shoulders. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Some of these losers are probably dead. Some of them probably killed themselves. What if that one has cancer now? Bo! Bo, you're so old there! You're probably dead now. You deserved happiness. I hope someone loved you. And Phil! My gosh, you're pale. Do you really like to windsurf or are you just saying it to impress the chicas? That saddens me, Phil. You're probably a good person. Oh no! Steve's an assistant copy desk chief! NOT THE COPY DESK CHIEFS! Oh the pain! The pain!</span></div><div><br /></div><div>At first I was confused by what was happening to me. I heard a voice telling me not to laugh so hard or so willingly at these poor souls; it told me not to think the thoughts I had just had about that guy's weak chin or that other guy's vast forehead and slightly misshapen head. The voice told me I'm lucky for my health (and general symmetricality). For a second, I thought it was God's voice. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Oh here we go. This is how it's going to end. He's about to give me an aneurysm or some sort of tragic stroke now for all the laughs I've had at other people's expense and misfortunes.</span> Then it sounded a little like my mother's voice, "Now, Elizabeth. Be nice." <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Mom? I ... wait a minute. You'd be laughing at this too! I know you would! </span>Then I listened closer. It was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">my</span> voice. I was TELLING MYSELF not to laugh. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">What is going on here? Noooooooo! </span>I pleaded with God for a second, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Please don't take my laughter! Please! I'll write a fan letter to Sarah Palin! I won't give Jesus a middle name anymore! I'll ... I'll only gossip every fourth time I hear something good! Please! </span></div><div><br /></div><div>Then a feeling of peace washed over me. My inside voice nodded. I knew I was powerless. I've matured. I now care.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I decided to just go with the conscience thing and be thankful the voice isn't telling me to take hostages or start a cult or wear Uggs. Who cares if I don't get to make fun of 1987 bachelors as much as I used to, right? ... I still have the memories ... </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-3735457272879491658?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-56375350239463703542008-10-25T13:31:00.011-04:002008-10-26T15:12:02.074-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SQNj5SErb2I/AAAAAAAACf0/RT7kYjCvAW8/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 184px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SQNj5SErb2I/AAAAAAAACf0/RT7kYjCvAW8/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261158625454026594" border="0" /></a><br />I know marriage vows are supposed to be important, but I didn't listen to mine. I was too busy trying to control the embarrassing tears that appeared out of nowhere while silently asking myself if drinking nearly a bottle of champagne prior to the ceremony was really the best idea available at the moment. <div><br /></div><div>When it came time to recite my half of the vows, I distinctly remember stopping midway through and asking the ship's captain, "Wait. What?," and then giggling nervously, knowing that at least two people in the audience were either making fun of me right then or saving it for later (got to love sisters). </div><div><br /></div><div>It's not that I don't believe in vows ... OK, maybe I don't believe in vows. I make small promises every day that I don't keep — this doesn't speak well of me, I know, but it's the truth. My intentions are so, so good, I swear. I want to do things right. I want to follow up on what I say I'm going to do. But when it comes time for the action, I lose myself in the quagmire of whatever is happening in that moment: whether it be entertaining paranoid concerns about work, taking a walk around the neighborhood with Chuck, searching for someone with a yard worse than ours or staring into space while I mindlessly tell my cats how handsome they are. It wasn't until recently that I decided to limit the promises full-stop and work on keeping the few that I allowed past the gates of commitment. I'm now very much aware of any "I will be" phrases in my personal sentences. It's helped a lot. Also, I decided to be honest with myself about who I really am: and that, sadly, is a self-centered person who is largely inconsiderate of others. It's true. That's who I am. I'm OK with it (and, naturally, I would be because, again, I am self-centered). </div><div><br /></div><div>Phew. Anyway, that said, I don't totally understand being married. Yes, the second we tied the knot, it immediately felt different and somehow more important than our duality had felt up to that point. But the wedding was just a party (a nice one with great cake, but still just a party). And the vows were just a part of that show. For me, anyway. </div><div><br /></div><div>The things that are most important to me in our lives have nothing to do with what we said that day (and granted, yes, I don't remember specifically what I promised to do or not do ... I have a vague notion of what might have been said in the same way that I feel confident I could read a suspect his Miranda rights nearly word for word thanks to years of watching TV crime dramas). </div><div><br /></div><div>Every day, though, our "vows" are unspoken but very much alive — they are present in our routines, in our bickering, in our "Us Against Them" approach to all situations that annoy us, in our coded language and our abundant laughter. They are especially present in the subconscious appreciation and relief that comes with knowing that at the end of every day there is at least one person who likes me and one person who likes him. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, why the sudden reflectiveness on my relationship? Well ... I bought a laptop for myself even though Chuck told me I couldn't. My first mistake was asking him for permission to buy the thing — as though I'm anything other than someone who makes sure she gets what she wants. I even ended the conversation with a sigh and an admission: "You know I'm going to do it anyway, right?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Despite my brazen behavior, I did feel bad. I hid the purchase and told everyone but him. I even withheld protest when the entertainment editor at the paper outed me in print because I was hoping Chuck would find out while reading the paper at work. Oh how easy that would have been! Of course, that would be the week he didn't have time to read the section ...</div><div><br /></div><div>My own shadiness was killing me. I started to wonder if marriage was for me. Am I the type of person who doesn't want the hassle of having to file purchase orders before buying something for myself? Am I meant to be in the type of partnership where, theoretically, you're supposed to discuss major purchases and forge ahead together? Am I just a bad wife? What about my vows? And then I remembered ... what vows? Did they really matter that day? Many people break those alleged sacred promises up and down, every single day. What is it that keeps me in line? The vows or the reality that at some point I'm going to have to tell him that I let him down and suffer as he judges me?</div><div><br /></div><div>When the laptop finally arrived (if you buy one, get the overnight shipping ... the wait will kill you), I swung by the office (where I had it shipped .... because that's what shady people do) and then I went straight to Best Buy to get a laptop sleeve. I was so excited, but couldn't completely enjoy my new toy, knowing that I had skipped a very key element — I couldn't share my happiness with Chuck because Chuck didn't know. Nope. He was innocently doing yardwork at home while I was hopping around town with my new MacBook. So what did I do? I took the guilty route. I bought him a Cotton Candy Blizzard from Dairy Queen and then said yes to everything he asked me to do. Will you get me a water? Yes. Will you bring me those garbage bags from the car? Yes. How many, your highness? </div><div><br /></div><div>I went all day without telling him. In the end, I just allowed him to walk in on me using it ... much like I probably would have done were there a poolboy in my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I seriously have permanent creases from my cringe. I was going for a cross between "Don't throw things at me" and "Aren't my nose wrinkles cute when I'm caught in the act?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Did he yell at me? Did he storm out and tell me I'm a bad wife? No. He made a joke about the economy and made fun of me for being such a jerk. THAT's how a marriage works, if I do say so myself. And, my God, am I lucky ... </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8px">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y"/></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-5637535023946370354?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-82598768032483216672008-08-30T09:57:00.014-04:002008-10-26T15:15:42.714-04:00<div><br /></div>Here's another idea that seemed really swell at the time ... <div><br /></div><div>Our friend Ellen was in town recently, and one night we nonchalantly suggested that we, you know, loosen up with some drinks ... relax ... kick back ... and have a little fun. <div><br /></div><div>Right away, Ellen — like most of the guests we put in this "situation" — was not having it. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I get that. What we were suggesting is not for everyone. However, usually when this happens we try to gently persuade the guest to expand her horizons, overcome her shyness and try new things: </div><div><br /></div><div>"Don't judge it yet. Just give it a chance."<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, just rid yourself of inhibitions. You might like it. Three people makes it more A LOT MORE fun." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Definitely. It'll mean a lot to us, too ..." </div><div><br /></div><div>"... and you could really learn something about yourself."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Or, you know, you can call the Hampton Inn Bluffton and see what <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">those</span> guys have going on tonight ... are those your suitcases?"</div><div><br /></div><div>See, the thing is, it's not easy owning something as awesome as the New Yorker Cartoon Caption Game. It requires 3 or more players, and we are but 2 during most days of our lives. </div><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.gamedaze.com/Board-Games/Party-Games/63597570606-The-New-Yorker-Caption-Game.jpg" alt="" border="0" /><div><br /></div><div>Sure, we could just entertain ourselves by writing captions and trying them out on each other, but that's so old school. As a matter of fact, I kind of feel like Chuck invented this game. Back before a machine was created to delete the captions off cartoons, he was using his <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">finger</span> to cover them up and then competing with me for funny rewrites. (Whoever got the biggest laugh won). We totally should be getting royalties ... psychiatrists don't pay for themselves, you know.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Now, because we like Ellen, we decided to change it up a little. Make it easier. Less intimidating. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Instead of playing by the rules, Chuck and I were just going to pull cards, write captions and make Ellen judge them ... no pressure ... just pick the funnier person is all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Turns out Ellen apparently misunderstood the rules. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because she picked Chuck. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seven times. </div><div><br /></div><div>What, I ask you, is so funny about "Me Tarzan. You all fired."? Or "Just call me the 'Guido in the Speedo'"?<br /><br />Nothing. (Especially not to jungle-dwelling CEOs or Italian mobsters considering a new look). </div><div><br /></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8px">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y"/></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-8259876803248321667?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-69756086104383893512008-08-23T11:15:00.040-04:002008-10-26T15:15:57.140-04:00<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SLAqMzO-9ZI/AAAAAAAACcQ/emNRmU1-ugY/s1600-h/DSC_0121.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SLAqMzO-9ZI/AAAAAAAACcQ/emNRmU1-ugY/s320/DSC_0121.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237732766031738258" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Meet the main reason Chuck and I do not own a dog. </div><div><br /></div><div>As you can see in this picture, the canine — whom we'll call, I don't know, "Fiber One" — practically has a folded newspaper tucked under its paw and a look of relief and satisfaction on its smug face. Why? Because Ms. One has just taken her morning you-know-what in our yard.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>[I know the photo is a little blurry so you'll have to trust me on the "smug face" part — this picture was taken through our screen door in a rush of "Grab the camera!!! She's back!!!" and "Stop screaming at me! Where's the camera?" and "This is the wrong lens. This is the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">wrong</span> lens!!!" and, finally, "JUST TAKE THE PICTURE, CHUCK!!!! You missed the shot!!! You ruin EVERYTHING!!"]<br /><br />As you might have guessed, Fiber One is no stranger to us. She regularly uses our front- and backyards as her own personal dumping grounds. You can just about hear the swirling flush when she leaves. For the past 4 years now, our yard has been the equivalent of a Dog Port-a-John, and I swear squirrels, rabbits and deer line up behind her for a chance to add their contributions to the piles. It's awful.<br /><br />Now, I realize a lot of people would not have a problem with this. "What a cute pup!! Oh, it's just dog doo. It's natural! Just pick it up! What's the big deal?" But I have a HUGE problem with it — for many, many reasons, primary of which is, why should I, the person who decided not to burden herself with the bowel movements of a creature that, by all logic, should be wearing a colostomy bag, be forced to hop around my yard like French land mines are about to blow my legs off, all because my neighbors are too busy enjoying their own pristine lawn to watch over their "pet"? Why should I be the one in a constant state of worry that one day the edge of my flip-flops will catch on a rogue turd and launch the thing into my face? Why must I have no choice but to smell what I can only guess is the remnants of Dog Chow and half a salami sandwich marinated in medical waste? Furthermore, why should I have to go around and pick up <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SLC1dMHz13I/AAAAAAAACcY/qsWAA35xxKY/s1600-h/DSC_0014.jpg" target="_blank">THIS</a>* so that I can enjoy a gin and tonic on a hot summer night without wafts of evil entering my nostrils? (*Seriously, do NOT click on that link if you generally have problems viewing clear plastic bags filled to the brim with ass cookies.)<br /><br />For the past 4 years, Chuck and I have tried many solutions — man-to-man confrontations, man-to-dog confrontations, letters, filing complaints with the property owners association, yelling vulgar insults at the dog, starting a blog with the express purpose of venting about the dog and its poop, leaving bags of the collected caca on our neighbors' patio, flinging the poo back in their yard, relocating the piles to their driveway — and nothing has worked thus far. Ms. One continues to defiantly frequent her potty (ie., my lawn) for at least half of her five-a-day dirt drops.<br /><br />The whole thing seemed like a lost cause. But then the other day Chuck came up with this brilliant plan (it's SO exciting): We ... I can barely get it out ... are going to make 3-foot-tall signs, using the picture above with the words "I POOPED HERE, Signed, the Dog at XX Stockton Lane." And every time Fiber One poops, we will stick a sign in the ground, marking that site. Diabolically genius, right?<br /><br />As God is my witness, we will publicly shame our neighbors into keeping their dumb dog in their own backyard.<br /><br />Or else it's shotgun and alibi time.<br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8px">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y"/></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-6975608610438389351?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-42060726379640200742008-08-10T07:17:00.011-04:002009-05-17T09:32:49.728-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.vrsgmi.com/img_prod/13574951v10_350x350_front.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 350px;" src="http://www.vrsgmi.com/img_prod/13574951v10_350x350_front.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />After nine years of not watching television, we got cable. Yes, I know. It's wonderful. My sub-intellectual horizons are being expanded daily, and I feel like I can finally participate in the millennium. Actually, it's like I'm a sassy Amish girl on her <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumspringa" target="_blank">rumspringa</a> — giddy from experiencing modernity in all its naughty glory (of course, my rumspringa involves less catch-up hair removal and no watching in amazement as the toilet flushes).<br /><br />Here are my millennial observations of the "modern world" so far:<br /><p></p><p>1. Who is Ryan Seacrest?</p>2. Why does Paula Deen make me feel like I just ate off her spoon? While I appreciate that there's another kitchen pig out there (someone who takes a personal utensil to a tray of undercooked brownies, for instance) I can't help but judge her for being such a glutton; nor can I believe how vomitously full I feel after watching her indulge in her own butter treats for 30 minutes. Watching her make a meatloaf causes my appetite to disappear. Maybe I've finally found the cure to overeating?<div><br />3. Kim Kardashian walks like a normal person! With her face forward and her rear end behind her and everything! <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Sooo</span> interesting. Judging from all the pictures of her over the years — the ones that look like <a href="http://i166.photobucket.com/albums/u103/chicasymas/kim-kardashian-05.jpg" target="_blank">THIS</a> — I was convinced she thought her ass was just so awesome that she had Dr. 90210 switch it to her front for maximum exposure.<br /><p>4. "Jon and Kate Plus 8" is out to disprove my general opinion that "Liz and Chuck Plus 2" is the hardest thing anyone could ever do in life. Observe: Every day I have to wake up after only 10 hours of sleep. THEN I have wait for my coffee to be made for me. THEN I have to get stared at and judged by two hungry cats whose litterboxes stink. THEN I <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">feed</span> them hard food AND soft food and THEN perform a <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">smell</span> test to determine how dire the box situation is. Do Jon and Kate have to do <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">any</span> of that? How dare Jon and Kate act like they're so awesome for raising twins and sextuplets. They should see what a day out at Six Flags is like with <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">my</span> cats and then we can talk. </p><p>5. The men on "To Catch a Predator" all aspire to be mentors to 14-year-old girls. How sweet! We need more men of substance monitoring the Hannah Montana chat rooms to make sure no girl gets in over her head talking about things like BFFs and which Jonas brother is the hottest. Wait ... what? These 40-year-olds aren't coming over late at night to be role models for young ladies? I ... that can't be ... they said ... Oh dear. </p><p>P.S. I love it when the chat room transcript is read back to them and it's always like, "Are you sure you're not the po-po? 15 could get me 20. Tee-hee." Did they all watch the same episode of "Miami Vice"? Do they think this is the "loophole" that will keep them from getting arrested? One guy wrote a letter about how he planned only to "mentor" the girl inside the house. He left it in his car "just in case" there were any misunderstandings. Ridiculous.</p><p>6. "Sex and the City" is NOT good on cable. Now I understand why Miley Cyrus thinks it's OK to watch it at such a young age. They should've changed the name to "And the City" just to make it clear that that's all you're going to get on this here TBS.</p><p>7. I can watch shows about how hoses are made! (SPOILER ALERT: With rubber and glue).</p><p>8. TV journalists are silly and do no research. When will the Internet kill them off?</p><p>9. I can lie on my side for up to 12 hours without getting a crick in my neck. </p><p>10. MTV is a lost cause ... until Monday's return of "The Hills," that is. I can finally watch it on a screen bigger than that 3 inch by 3 inch MTV.com window! <br /><br />Oh mutter and pater, take care of my buggy and tell Samuel I'll miss him! I may never come home now!</p><p></p></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8px;">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y" /></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-4206072637964020074?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-86487691145432291472008-07-30T09:05:00.002-04:002008-10-26T15:16:47.571-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SKIvMEMTJWI/AAAAAAAACcE/0NpqdilI4ao/s1600-h/DSC_0172.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SKIvMEMTJWI/AAAAAAAACcE/0NpqdilI4ao/s400/DSC_0172.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233797601288201570" /></a><br />My husband took this photo and e-mailed it to me at work on Sunday, with the caption: <div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Caught on traffic cameras: Police are looking for brothers Dignan "Dumb-nan" Witt and Ollie "Dumb-ollie" Witt, who were seen leaving the scene of an accident in a stolen firetruck and vehicle. One dolphin pedestrian was killed.</span><div><br /></div><div>Some might think it's strange for a grown man to create and photograph a fake accident involving one frightened live cat, two stuffed animals (including one he took the time to dress in a miniature Red Sox cap) and a couple of antique pedal cars. </div><div><br /></div><div>I, however, am not one of those people.<br /><div><br /></div></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8px">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y"/></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-8648769114543229147?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-65773701291844073222008-07-27T13:01:00.002-04:002008-10-26T15:17:07.306-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SIzanGkeLOI/AAAAAAAACbU/T8SDR8SVyGc/s1600-h/ketchup-500.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SIzanGkeLOI/AAAAAAAACbU/T8SDR8SVyGc/s320/ketchup-500.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227793632783641826" border="0" /></a><br />After 33 years of life on this earth it has finally (hallelujah!) occurred to me that I do Some Very Stupid Things about 51 percent of the time. This means that about 17 years of my life have been spent doing things that are less than intelligent. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Seventeen</span> years. It's like I have a mentally disabled teenager living inside me.<div><br /></div><div>Of course, I never realize how stupid the thing is until way, way after. Observe: </div><div><br /></div><div>• "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to drink from that elderly homeless man's whisky bottle back in 1997. Another cold sore! Ugh!" </div><div><br /></div><div>• "Why did I ever work at Eddie Bauer? I HATE their clothes (and p.s. I ain't looking for no lady friend, neither)." </div><div><br /></div><div>• "What are all these 'learn to dance like a Latin temptress' DVDs in my DVD closet? What's this 'Irish-Stepdancing for Beginners'? When did I spend $200 on dance DVDs ... oh .... right. My 'lose weight while dancing' phase. This one still has the wrapper on it." </div><div><br /></div><div>• "I should really make some homemade ketchup and have a taste test and then blog about it. That would be SO cool!"</div><div><br /></div><div>This last lapse in intelligence happened two nights ago. My sister, Angela, was in town and I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to indulge my recent desire to have a ketchup taste test. </div><div><br /></div><div>A ketchup taste test, people.<br /><br />What regular person cares about ketchup so much that they'd have a taste test? No one. Not even me. (And I'm guessing not even that poor d-bag dressed as a ketchup bottle above). However, I read somewhere that Gordon Ramsay makes homemade ketchup for his perfect wife and children — so this means homemade ketchup is now the equivalent of the body and blood of Christ in my book.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>For weeks I've been on the lookout for a red ketchup squeeze bottle — like the ones you see at fry huts and at picnics (and on that poor, poor d-bag). Finding this would be a major sign that this taste test is something I'm destined to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Friday, I settled for a clear condiment bottle for $1.99 at Bed, Bath &amp; Beyond. Why wait for a sign?</div><div><br /></div><div>I used this recipe: <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/HOMEMADE-KETCHUP-109037" target="_blank">Homemade Ketchup at Epicurious.com</a>. I bought the ingredients. I was ready to go.<br /><br />On Friday night we planned to eat Gordon Ramsay burgers on the grill, and I was going to up the ante and make homemade French fries (also on the grill). THEN I was going to take my homemade ketchup, Heinz ketchup, and my favorite Publix Organic Ketchup and have Angela and Chuck try each one to tell me which was their favorite (expected response? "Why this ketchup is pure heaven! Why, it's yours! Your ketchup is better than them all! Throw out these bottles! You have saved our family $1.59 in monthly ketchup bills!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Two thoughts occurred to me at the time: </div><div><br /></div><div>1.) It's really late. I need 3 hours to make this ketchup. I only have an hour till Chuck is home. .... Hmmm .... !!! .... I can put it in the freezer to cool!</div><div><br /></div><div>2.) Is there such a thing as French fries on the grill? Maybe I should Google that.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's how it all went down:</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">7 p.m.:</span> Start combining ingredients in saucepan as Angela makes homemade coleslaw and the Gordon burgers.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">7:03 p.m.:</span> Silently congratulate self for being "just like Martha." Imagine self in ketchup-making contest. Imagine shooting blasé comments at friends and acquaintances, "Oh, yes. I make my own ketchup. SO much better for you. SO tasty too." </div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">7:20 p.m.:</span> Re-read the chapter on ketchup in "The Man Who Ate Everything" while waiting for ingredients to reduce.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">7:21 p.m.:</span> Imagine my face on a ketchup label. "Liz's Ketchup" ... or maybe it should be more quaint like "Elizabeth's Catsup" ... or ... oh! ... I could put my cats' faces on the label and call it "Cats-up" ... oh, Liz, you are way too awesome.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:15 p.m.:</span> Lower head over saucepan to take in homemade scents of heaven. </div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:15 p.m.:</span> Pull head back in utter revulsion. Concoction smells of dirty feet and sugar.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:15 p.m.:</span> Start to worry. "Is this supposed to be orange?"</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:16 p.m.:</span> It's rustic. It's just rustic.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:20 p.m.:</span> Pour reduced mixture into blender. Hit puree. Watch helplessly as boiling hot tomato crap splashes all over my kitchen wall, counter, and my very sensitive hands.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:20 p.m.:</span> "Angela!"</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:21 p.m.:</span> Try to calm myself by silently singing the theme song to "The F-Word" while I watch my sister clean up the area (and my hands). </div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:21 p.m.-8:45 p.m.: </span>Mutter.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:45 p.m.:</span> Chuck comes home.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:46 p.m.:</span> Sister explains what happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:50 p.m.:</span> Stupid orange, stinky ketchup goes in the stupid clear container and into the stupid fridge.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">8:51 p.m.: </span>I decide I will never taste it.</div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">9:30 p.m.:</span> Chuck lavishes praise on Angela's Gordon burger and gluttonously devours her coleslaw from serving bowl. </div><div><br /></div><div>• <span style="font-weight: bold;">Present time:</span> "Ketchup" remains in fridge, where it will continue to sit until I notice mold growing on it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and don't ask about the "fries on the grill" ... actually, let me just sum it up real quick: Couldn't find a recipe so instead coated Idaho potato wedges in olive oil, salt, pepper and fresh flat-leaf parsley. Made cute aluminum foil envelopes for the potatoes. Put potatoes on the grill. Cute envelope tore. Grease fire from too much olive oil. More panic. Fries get transferred from the on-fire Weber and thrown in the oven in a half-hearted attempt to redeem myself. "Fries" (ie., glossy potato wedges with pieces of parsley stuck to them) taste amazingly OK but, of course, they really needed some ketchup.</div><div><br /></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8px">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y"/></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-6577370129184407322?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8912260537683382174.post-9378079144260710302008-06-20T22:57:00.002-04:002008-10-26T15:17:27.986-04:00<div><blockquote></blockquote></div><div>We started to realize we were doomed sometime around 1999 — a very trying year for everyone, no doubt. <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Between the stress of stockpiling canned goods, jugs of water and cash in small denominations (not to mention the toil of sanding our bedside billy clubs) and the confusion caused by that omnipresent and optimistic message from Prince and the Revolution — where we were supposed to be partying as though we were excited for the impending apocalypse of Y2K — we were a befuddled mess. </div><div><br /></div><div>We spent weeks thinking about getting ready for the night when planes were supposed to drop from the sky and frothing maniacs were to demand Green Giant peas from us — all because some computer geeks didn't have the self-confidence to believe their inventions would ever reach the millennium, p.s. </div><div><br /></div><div>In reality, of course, we only managed to put some cash in a lunchbox, hide it on top of the fridge, and replenish our supply of canned Guinness so that it would carry us through the inevitable arrival of the National Guard (or the re-energized Russians).  </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div><div><div>Since that night (ie., after we emerged from under the bed on Jan. 1, 2000 ... I'm kidding, by the way) short-sightedness and panic have emerged as the Two Great Themes in our lives — but to be fair to us, it's pretty much the theme of everyone's lives (particularly those who watch the news and worry about dying too young). </div><div><br /></div><div>Actually there's one other big theme in our lives, one that I only recently recognized: We live in the moment far too much. Our lives have rushed by us in one big, messy blur — each day, week, month and year filled with good intentions, dashes of happiness and missed opportunities. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dec. 31, 1999, seems like yesterday. Worse than that, I can take a to-do list from that night and match it up exactly to one I made the other day. What this means I'm not exactly sure. I'm thinking it means I'm stunted. I don't want to be stunted. </div><div><br /></div><div>So it's time to come out from under the bed again ... this time for real.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_gkgDA7_uogk/SIIOdMTDOWI/AAAAAAAACac/ooe-8dd14Cc/s320/DSC_0668.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224754412383320418" /></div><div><br /></div><div>To sum up the past nine years of our lives:</div><div><br /></div><div>• In 1999, I moved from Philly to Frederick, Md., and into a very crappy storefront apartment with Chuck. There were mice. We were mortified. </div><div><br /></div><div>• The next year we moved out of that slum apartment (where the hookers wore flannel, and bums slept on our doorstep) to an overpriced townhouse in what we later realized was the "iffy" part of town. We couldn't win.</div><div><br /></div><div>• When we first arrived in Frederick, I didn't work for about five months. Instead I helped Chuck sell collectibles on eBay. Finally, I got a part-time job as a proofreader at The Gettysburg Times in good, old, reliable Gettysburg. It paid $7 an hour, but I was thrilled. I worked nights and had a ball. Within the year, I had moved on to the Frederick News-Post as a copy editor. </div><div><br /></div><div>• Working at the News-Post was a ridiculously good time (with high-jinks, drama and lots of yelling). The newsroom was always exciting to me, and it immediately felt like home. As a matter of fact, on Sept. 11, 2001, the only thing I wanted to do (after checking on my family and hysterically crying, of course) was to be in that newsroom and at that paper. As soon as I was able to wrap my mind around what had just happened, I headed there knowing that every moment of that day was going to be forever etched on my being. I remember every single second of that day. (It's all the others I have problems with).</div><div><br /></div><div>Sidenote: Right after Chuck woke me up to tell me a plane just hit one of the World Trade Center towers, I remember knowing exactly what was wrong. I knew it wasn't an accident. I even knew it was Osama bin Laden. I have no explanation for either of those things. </div><div><br /></div><div>After jumping out of bed and spending the next hour watching the world fall apart on a very small and snowy television, I decided I needed to see what was outside. I threw open the front door to our townhouse, half-expecting to see tanks and soldiers marching on the street. Instead there was nothing, except for a Hispanic woman across the way. Her front door was open. Music was blasting. And she was vacuuming her living room as if the Twin Towers were still standing and the Pentagon hadn't just been hit. It occurred to me that she didn't know what had happened or why suddenly the air around us was filled with the penetrating hum of fighter jets — a sound that was to be a part of our days and nights for the next two years. </div><div><br /></div><div>I thought about telling her, but I realized that a.) I didn't know how to say "Run for the hills" in Spanish and b.) I didn't care if she knew or not. </div><div><br /></div><div>The vision of her cleaning still freaks me out. </div><div><br /></div><div>• After Sept. 11, I spent the next two years trying to make up for time not spent in J-school. I went to every conference the News-Post would send me to. I immersed myself in reading prize-winning stories and learning AP style. I wrote restaurant reviews and a single story about the demise of circus freak shows (which resulted in my first piece of fan mail ... my editor was convinced I sent it myself).</div><div><br /></div><div>I loved every second of editing stories ... and Frederick was not short on good ones. We had a prostitution scandal involving good ol' boy politicians, shady law enforcement and a black book that allegedly contained the names of some very high-profile clients. One day we came to work and found that the "Frederick madam" had taken pictures of herself outside our building, in broad daylight, wiping her bare bottom with that day's newspaper. And, as she was a classy broad, the photos were then posted on her Web site. [You don't know work until you're huddled around a computer with your bosses, logged on to a porn site just to catch a glimpse of a hooker wiping her butt with a page you so lovingly designed the night before.]</div><div><br /></div><div>There was anthrax and Camp David. And yes, I walked in a zig-zag pattern to my car when the DC snipers were lurking around town (before you laugh, they were ultimately caught about 7 miles from our townhouse ... I told you it was an iffy area). </div><div><br /></div><div>One night we were monitoring a hostage situation, and the newsroom was silent as everyone listened and took notes from the scanner. A reporter and photographer were sent to the scene. In the meantime, I decided to do a few searches on the computer and quickly found the phone number at the house where a woman was being held at gunpoint. Just as an FYI, I handed it to one of the reporters, who turned right around and freaking called it. The worst part is, the hostage answered. Right then my cheeks flamed up and I got the chills because not only was it way too close for comfort to be talking to the victim of a crime in progress, I KNEW how much trouble we were going to be in ... this woman could die.</div><div><br /></div><div>The reporter talked to the hostage (with the opening line, "I'm from the Frederick News-Post. Are you being held hostage? Tell me your story." ... right out of a movie). Everyone stopped and listened to the reporter. It was one of the most insane and surreal moments. The hostage ended up being released later that night and all turned out well ... except we did get in trouble. The police chief was ANGRY. I totally didn't blame him.</div><div><br /></div><div>• Friends got married and had babies. I traveled to Ireland, Seattle and San Francisco (look how worldly I am).</div><div><br /></div><div>• In 2003, I accepted a job as copy desk chief at The Island Packet in Bluffton, S.C. I remember telling Ashling that I wanted to apply for the job but didn't think I was qualified — I also wasn't convinced that living in the Deep South was something I was supposed to do. She told me to shut up and apply. Good thing I listened.</div><div><br /></div><div>• Within weeks of moving to beautiful, beautiful South Carolina, Chuck and I headed back up north to get married in Boston. In an act of what seemed like insanity, we were married on a yacht in the middle of the harbor on a night when a big Nor'easter blew into town. I had never seen such lovely snow before that (and obviously not since then either). Also, the heater in our car broke on the way back ... it remains broken.</div><div><br /></div><div>• The next year we bought a house at 11 Stockton Lane. Chuck stopped selling collectibles on eBay and took a job with the Transportation Security Administration to pay for said house. It's on the little cul-de-sac that juts out into a man-made "lake" at the very bottom of the picture below.</div><div><br /><br /><iframe width="425" height="350" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" src="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&amp;hl=en&amp;geocode=&amp;q=11+stockton+lane+okatie+s.c.&amp;sll=37.0625,-95.677068&amp;sspn=101.274448,95.976563&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;ll=32.304255,-80.89036&amp;spn=0.028623,0.023432&amp;t=h&amp;z=14&amp;output=embed&amp;s=AARTsJr0lnb9yFnx88mzvyk462Rc4m_Ndg"></iframe><br /><small><a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&amp;hl=en&amp;geocode=&amp;q=11+stockton+lane+okatie+s.c.&amp;sll=37.0625,-95.677068&amp;sspn=101.274448,95.976563&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;ll=32.304255,-80.89036&amp;spn=0.028623,0.023432&amp;t=h&amp;z=14&amp;source=embed" style="color:#0000FF;text-align:left">View Larger Map</a></small><br /><br /><br /></div><div>And that's it. The past nine years have flown by. Every day feels the same (sometimes in a good way, sometimes in a bad way). It always seems we're about 50 steps behind the rest of the organized adults in the world (you know, the ones who remember birthdays and who never run out of toilet paper). And there's no reason for any of this. I refuse to accept that this is "just life." In other words, I want my to-do lists to look at least a little different in five years.</div><div><br /></div></div></div></div><br /><br /><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/" id="bclink" title="Blog counter"><span id="bccount" style="font-size:8px">Free Blog Counter</span></a></p><script type="text/javascript" src="http://blogcounter.com/js.php?user=elizfarrell&amp;style=4"></script><noscript><p><a href="http://blogcounter.com/"><img style="border: 0px;" alt="Blog counter" src="http://blogcounter.com/log.php?id=elizfarrell&amp;=st=img&amp;showme=y"/></a></p></noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8912260537683382174-937807914426071030?l=chizluck.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Liz Farrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12686503659076088593noreply@blogger.com0