Liz Verbatim

Snooki Got Nothin’ On This

Hello World.

I would like to address an issue which those of us with instant messenger can all CERTAINLY relate to. That issue being, of course, that infuriating little pencil icon that shows up when your correspondent is typing. Or, more accurately, the means by which it becomes infuriating: when it stops, and you spot that little notification that reads *”Lily Allen has entered text”. DAMN IT, LILY! SEND! SEND ALREADY! 

Seriously though. How rude to keep me in suspense like that. What if you’re about to say something really, really witty that I’ll laugh so hard that I can’t breathe and my sides hurt and then tomorrow I’ll use it with my friends and it will be fresh material that I secretly stole and everyone will be amazed at how clever I am? Hit SEND for the love of God!

The second thought I’m being inspired by tonight involves Reality TV, and how I briefly considered making a YouTube Channel to mock them by filming my “reality”. Then it occurred to me that being on camera would considerably hinder my habitual tendencies, such as my amazing talent of not wearing pants while indoors, or my playing certain music videos, such as, say, Lady Gaga’s Marry the Night, over and over on loop while creating excessively embarrassing dance routines that I am mentally performing in front of screaming fans. I imagined all of my feminine mystique leaking all over YouTube as riveted subscribers watched my extensive beauty routine, which, let’s be brutally honest, does absolutely nothing for me. It also occurred to me that YouTube has no interest in watching my utter fascination with mystery hidden object games for children under the age of thirteen, for even one minute - much less the three hours I will inevitably spend finishing the game. Then I remembered that the “reality” I wanted to present was a mockery anyway, and that my life fit the bill. Unfortunately, I still refuse to wear pants indoors. So I’m sorry YouTubers, you are all to be deprived.

TTFN.

*DISCLAIMER Lily Allen is not in my Gmail address book, but I’m absolutely open to correspondence if she ever happens to read this and discovers my stalker-worthy devotion.

Pity Party

Hello World.

It’s that time of year again. Yes, the time of year that comes waltzing in, sporting those cursed jewelry commercials that have handsome young men giving beautiful bejeweled baubles to dazzle-eyed women, commercials that always culminate in a look of absolute adoration and a movie-perfect kiss. 

DAMN YOU, JEWELRY STORES, FOR REMINDING ME OF WHAT I DON”T HAVE. And I’m not talking about sparkly shiny things. Even as I tear up longingly I mentally shake my fist and grimace at these stupid glimpses of romantic bliss. Then begins the silent litany of all the reasons I don’t NEED any of that in my life. Obviously. Who needs an intimate moment in front of the tree or the fireplace at the most poignantly romantic time of year? ME ME ME ME NOT I! I am independent! I am disdainful of such things! I am fooling absolutely no one with this bravado! 

I’m going to go sniffle quietly in the corner now, and feel sorry for myself. No, not really, but my subconscious will. 

TTFN

Comatose

Hello World.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving, which means I have not completely recovered from the soporific effects of that bird so hailed as a Thanksgiving feast. It occurs to me that there are only two (maybe three) days a year we willingly allow comas to be induced - Thanksgiving, obviously, with the honorary mention going to New Year’s Eve and St. Patrick’s Day, tying for second. However the method of attaining insensibility is differently defined, therefore I can safely say that Thanksgiving, while also the most gluttonous holiday we celebrate, is also the only one who makes me comatose due to my stomach and even chest cavity being filled with so much food I can feel my seams pulling. 

I am experiencing a block - no, not constipation - entitled Writer’s. Even with the much-disdained prompt, the words aren’t flowing properly and I get annoyed and trash it. Once the words aren’t flowing, I start noticing how horribly like chicken scratch my handwriting is, and fill several pages full of one or two words or random sentences to practice. Then I sit back and chortle at how like a fifth-grader’s my new, “improved” handwriting is. 

Oh, I’m in a foul mood!

Blank

I think about a lot when there’s nothing to think about. Right now I’m flying above Mount Whitney, and my mind gave a hop, skip and a jump over the multiple ways I could describe it. A lone sentry. An enormous spice cake, with a generous allowance of powdered sugar. The state of California’s largest pimple. Then I see the skyline; the horizon is a blurry line, the clarity muddied by cloud cover. Is this the eyelid of the Milky Way, expertly smudging her eyeliner to create that coveted smokey look to complement her green-blue eye of Earth? Flying low to the ground, we sweep over wheat fields: the dying sunlight reflects off the metal hide of this humming machine I’m in and the wheat shimmers like gold threads in a quilt made of abundance. Amber waves of grain, just like the song.

I have a momentary niggling feeling, something vaguely suggesting my cell phone needs my attention – it fades as I inspect the wriggling irrigation canals between the fields. Green and blue serpents, the kind ancients made gods of. Then a sheet of downy cloud cover obscures my vision and I think of peaky meringue, an ocean of foam taking a breath before withdrawing to again rush the beach in waves. In the distance a single cloud formation reminds me of the output of steam engines, like the Barnum and Bailey train I saw as a child – it was almost dreamlike, to see the heads of the giraffes serenely watching the scenery as it chugged along. I wonder if it seemed to them that the land was moving past them, and not vice versa – I always thought so, before I learned the consequences of imbalance and inertia.

Thousands of feet below us a smaller aircraft is aflame – a beacon reflecting the sunset. The plane I’m in tilts and there’s a sudden burst of fire as the wing-tip catches the orange light, and abruptly, it vanishes: the sun has retired for the evening.

Yes, there’s an awful lot to think about when there’s nothing to think about.

A Squirrel Died Today.

Hello World.

Today was an eventful one. 

It began with Grandma complaining about a less-than-pleasant smell, and wondering aloud if it was the dog. She sent me to find the Febreze, but made the mistake of not giving me express instructions as to what I should do with it. So, I Febrezed the dog.

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with the hilarious website known as PeopleofWalmart, but today, while returning some things, I spotted my first Walcreature. To my disappointment, my surreptitious photo was ruined by a normal person who walked into the shot - meaning you will have to go to the attic and bust your imagination out of moth balls, and create your own mental picture of the Walcreature I saw.

First of all, she was … large. Her chin length hair was unwashed, and bright, watermelon Kool-Aid red. She was wearing a “fitted” purple tank top that had, as evidenced by the holes providing fresh air to her breast (nope, no bra in sight) and muffin top, been through a few rounds in the bottom of the Goodwill two-dollar bin before being used as a rag to mop up the bathroom floor and discarded. Her pants, while thankfully devoid of unfortunately positioned holes, were the color of a Crayola finger paint called “Granny Smith Goes Raving”. If they had been present, the “Fashion Police” would have had simultaneous aneurysms, and we would have been spared the inanity of that show forever more.

I would have run after her to take a picture, but I had been waiting in that line for ten minutes and I’d be damned before I let the nine other people behind me step one foot closer to freedom from the bored customer service representative calmly ignoring the irate elderly woman trying to return a hairdryer that she claimed was sparking and could have started a fire. 

Also at Wal Mart I witnessed the pinnacle of fashion for those of you who proudly remind the waiter that you will receive a discount on the bill at Denny’s: a man wearing an ornate carved bone belt buckle, and a matching watch.

Other than that, all I did today was accidentally run over a squirrel.

TTFN.