Why I will never keep a food diary.

1. A can of Dr. Pepper.

2. St. Louis Bread Co.'s You Pick Two - I picked the Fuji Apple Chicken Salad and Chicken Noodle Soup, with a sourdough roll and a Dr. Pepper.

3. A Butterfinger and a 20 oz. bottle of Dr. Pepper.

4. Two cold pieces of the Colonel's Original Recipe Kentucky Fried Chicken, left over from yesterday's dinner.

Only 35 calories per serving.

5. A can of Del Monte Stewed Tomatoes. Straight from the can, to a bowl, to my mouth.

6. Two Marshmallow Peeps. (Moderation is key here, folks.)

They only come around this time of year.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

On the upside, the Vending Machine Challenge returns tomorrow, live from the WULAW Commons.

I don't need your stinkin' nickel.

I can run out to my car, in the cold and rain, and get my own, thankyouverymuch.

The stuff ephiphanies are made of.

Thus began my epiphany, Sunday afternoon, at this 7-Eleven:

Where an epiphany is free with your Dr. Pepper Big Gulp.

I stopped there on my way to Reagan's to watch Mizzou lose. (Not hating on the Tigers, I had on my Mizzou shirt. But they lost anyway.) Anyway, back to my epiphany. Whenever I run in somewhere to get a Dr. Pepper from a fountain, I bring in the following: five quarters, two dimes, one nickel and four pennies. (Sometimes I bring in a dollar bill and only one quarter.) So I can pay in exact change* and not collect more pennies. Well, today, I thought I had five quarters but I only had four. My extra-large Dr. Pepper rung up at $1.34. Once I realized I was short, I said, "Oh, hold on! I have to get more change from my car." To which the completely unoffensive, non-lecherous, rather mundane-looking man next to me responded, "How much are you short? I have tons of change." Which he did. But I for some reason thought it necessary to dash for the door, calling over my shoulder, "Oh, it's fine, I have tons of change in my car!" Which I did. However, I thought it more reasonable to run outside to my car (did I mention it was cold and rainy?) to get a nickel, forcing the aforementioned man to wait while I did so before he could be rung up, just so that I would not have to accept assistance.

Of course, I realized how unreasonable I was as I left 7-Eleven. Why couldn't I take five cents from a stranger? It was not offered in a manner that made me think the man questioned whether I actually had five more cents or whether I was dashing out in embarassment, never to return for my soda. He had a handful of change, so it wasn't like I was worried that the man couldn't spare me a nickel. It was a simple case of one person being nice to another. AND I COULDN'T LET HIM BE NICE TO ME. He wasn't lecherous. Pretty sure he didn't expect anything in return for his nickel. He wasn't dirty or smelly or anything that would inspire repugnance and he seemed to have all his teeth. I just couldn't let someone help me.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I couldn't help but wonder how the hell I became so eaten up with maintaining independence that I couldn't bring myself to accept five fucking cents from someone. It's not like I think I don't deserve it. I leave pennies in the Take-a-Penny-Leave-a-Penny bowls. Sometimes I even leave dimes. I have totally given someone near me in line change to make up for what they are short, so it's not like I have anything against random acts of kindness toward strangers!

I mean, let's face it, at the moment my income consists solely of student loans and the occasional handout from the folks, and while I did have a real full-time job for two years, I have never considered myself "financially independent." Yet I pride myself on being "independent."

Then I started thinking of all the other unreasonable things I do to assert my so-called independence:

• I refuse to let anyone help me carry out my 40-pound bag of dog food at PetSmart, nor do I use a cart, even if I also round out my trip with several other treats and toys.
  
• I refused to let my mom have a plumber come fix my toilet, which ran constantly for at least two months until the water bill got so high that I started turning the water to the toilet off after every flush which was a pain when my mom, my sister and my two nieces spent a week visiting last summer. (In my defense, after they left I went and bought the $20 part and fixed it myself, which probably saved at least $100 that a plumber would have charged for labor. Plus I kind of felt like a bad-ass because it required more than just replacing the stopper ball, which is what I had been telling everyone all summer but no one believed me, not even the man at Lowe's. Normally I like Lowe's, but this man clearly thought I was a dumb little girl and I ended up arguing with him over what my toilet pump looked like until I finally got frustrated, went home, took a picture of the inside of my toilet tank and went to Home Depot where the man knew what I was talking about without my even having to show him the picture.)
  
• I spent an entire weekend raking and filling 80 bags of leaves last fall rather than just paying the neighbor kid to keep up with it over the course of the two preceding months. I could hardly move on Monday morning.

I am sure I could think of more, but I am starting to see a pattern. An anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better kind of pattern. Mostly it seems I refuse the help of men, or maybe when anything that is stereotypically something a man would take care of is involved. Perhaps I would have taken the nickel from a woman? Or perhaps a woman would have been more insistent that I take it, or would have just handed it to me or the clerk, thereby removing my chance to refuse? Is it the fact of the help being offered in and of itself or is it from whence the help cometh?

Come to think of it, the last time I can remember asking** a man for help, I was about three. (And I don't so much remember this as my parents have pictures proving it happened.) I asked my dad to help me put ALL of my little Goody barrettes in my hair. I had a big mason jar full of them, so there was a lot of barrette happening on my head. We're talking crayons and sheep and hearts and ducks and probably Christmas trees, just to name a few. Did I mention they came in pairs? Like I said, a lot was happening. And for the record, I looked sooo pretty when we were done.***

What I have learned:

1. I should pare down my neuroticism and just grab a random handful of change. Better yet, just put it on a card.


2. When a person offers assistance and I find myself about to refuse, I should pause and ask myself whether accepting proffered assistance will indebt me such that that sexual favors, drugs, or my services as a housewife or an assassin (personally, these are equally to be avoided) are expected in return. If not, seriously consider accepting.


3. It's probably okay to accept a nickel from a stranger at 7-Eleven.


4. Goody barrettes rock my face off.


5. I like the word "epiphany."
   

*This clearly only works for anything $1.54 or less. Do the math in your head. And yes, I do realize that I am likely obsessive compulsive with neurotic tendencies, and I'm fine with that.

**However, as my dear friend explains so well, while it is true that I may not always accept help, I feel perfectly justified in getting all sorts of pissed off when it's not offered at all.

***I will post a picture of the results next time I am home. You'll see. My 3-year-old fabulousness will overwhelm you.

I can't abide a whiny man.

I know this is belated, but since he has decided to remain on Reality TV Radar via Dancing with the Stars, I'm fine with airing my grievances now. Jake the Bachelor is a whiny bitch. I only watched the first episode and a half of this season, but between that and his time on the last season of The Bachelorette, I say he is a whiny bitch with full confidence. First of all, look at him. Also, any man who confesses (often, as Jake was prone to do) that women always tell him they are breaking up with him because he's just "too perfect" and who has the "good guys finish last" chip on his shoulder needs to check to make sure he still has balls. (Although in Jake's case it may have worked out for him, as I have been convinced since she stepped out of the limo that Vienna was a tranny. Hopefully a pre-op tranny so they have a full set between the two of them. )

A message to whiny men everywhere: Get ahold of yourselves. I mean, I get it, it's the twenty-first century and all, which means:
- Little boys can play with dolls and little girls can play with trucks.
- Men can be nurses and women can be doctors.
- Daddy can stay at home with the kids while Mommy goes off to work (looking fab in her power suit and mankiller heels) every morning.
- Men can emote and be sensitive and commit and women are free to, as Carrie Bradshaw put it, "have sex like a man."

But come on men, have a little pride. Good for y'all for being "in touch" with your emotions and for being comfortable talking about relationships and blah blah blah. But seriously, enough is enough. No one besides your mommy is happy to listen to your pity party. It's not that we don't care. Well, that's not entirely true because, often I for one don't care at all. Sometimes we want a man to be a man.

I will give him the benefit of the doubt and allow that perhaps poor Jake is a product of the times. He tries so hard to be the perfect man. He has a sexy job, a sexy smile and a sexy ass. He comes across as a gentleman and seems to genuinely want to find the perfect woman, settle down and start a family. (Of course, the fact that he went on a show where he knew he would likely develop more than one incredibly contrived relationships with women he only knows in a controlled environment calls his judgment into question, but a rant about the ignorance of Bachelor/Bachelorette participants is for another day…)

Back to Jake and his quest for the perfect woman and why he won't find her. These days, the perfect woman isn't necessarily going to be wearing an apron and pearls, greeting her man at the door, martini in hand, saying, "Wash up dear, dinner's on the table." Hopefully, she's the woman who knows what she wants and goes after it, and she may just want a man to greet her at the door with a martini. The point is, unfortunately for Jake, she most likely doesn't want to shack up with a whiny bitch unless the sex is really just that fabulous. If she happens to be a house-wifey type she probably wants a man's man. And if she's a woman in a man's world, she doesn't have time to nurture his "mama's boy" tendencies. Either way, she would almost certainly prefer not to have the pressure of matching his perfection added to her already busy day.

Also, to clear something up once and for all for all the Jakes in the world - you're not "too perfect." If a woman tells you that , she doesn't actually think you're perfect. Why on earth would I dump a guy if I thought he was perfect? I may be moody, manipulative and easily excitable, but I'm not stupid. When a woman says that, what she really means is that you might genuinely be a "good guy" and have none of the character flaws we women are taught to watch out for (e.g. a wandering eye, a controlling nature, a hot temper, a tendency to burp and fart in polite company) you are also overly aware of your good qualities that you cultivate martyrdom, and nobody wants to bang a saint. Basically, you've just grown annoying, but we're too nice to tell you that so we stroke your ego by telling you it's not you because you're perfect, it's us. (Trust me, it's usually you.)

Besides, all you Jakes, perfect is fake. Just what are you hiding under that façade? Six toes? A penchant for porn featuring women who look like men (with six toes)? Even if you are pretty near perfect, women are by nature suspicious and we will keep waiting for the AHA! moment where our worst fears are confirmed and our pristine image of you crumbles before our eyes. Do yourself a favor and develop some harmless little idiosyncrasy, like wearing brown socks with black shoes so we'll stop overanalyzing every aspect of your personality.

So guys, stop the whining because no woman worth her salt will put up with it for long. Nut up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Also, don't fall for the tranny - her balls are almost certainly bigger than yours.

Cheer up Jake. Vienna's got a used set of balls you can have.

Stop the car, I want out.

One of my favorite cards from Ashley has a quote from Grey's Anatomy, "We're adults. When did that happen? And how do we make it stop?" I want it to stop. Right now actually.

I now know just how profound my parents were when they said (repeatedly) something to the effect of, "Don't be in a hurry to grow up. Enjoy this time, because one day you'll look back and realize how great it was and how easy you had it." And man, I had it easy. Good friends across the street and down the block. Lunch money, movie money, gas money. Harmless crushes that left you giddy and giggly with friends. Breaking up accomplished simply by not returning a boy's calls. The feeling that we could be anyone, do anything and end up anywhere in the world because we were that fabulous and our opportunities were that plentiful. Confidence that all would work itself out in time if we just sat back and enjoyed the ride, preferably in a hot little coupe.

My dream car, just for funsies.

Then someone started tapping the brakes. Now friends are in difference states, the Bank of Mom and Dad is drying up, crushes equal complications, break-ups involve deciding who gets the house and who gets the kids and being anyone, doing anything and going anywhere actually requires quite a bit of cooperation from the rest of the world. Sometimes momentum is the only thing that propels us forward.

How much does the car need to slow down before we get out? Am I the one driving? If I am and I jump out, where does that leave anyone who might be riding along with me? But then again, shouldn't we all be driving ourselves around by now? Would I even want anyone in the passenger seat? I mean, sometimes I like to pretend I'm a rock star when I'm driving and I don't know if I want anyone pointing out my obvious lack of rock star talent.

Ironically, I have traded in my real-life coupe for an SUV, which should have more room for any potential passengers who want to tag along wherever it is I might be going. But I kinda like having all the extra room and I'm not sure how crowded I'm willing to let it get in there. I also don't know if there's anyone who could put up with my complete lack of a sense of direction without wanting to take over at the wheel, and my control-freak self actually enjoys driving. I also hate asking for directions.

I guess I should listen to my inner compass, because even when it leads me down an unfamiliar highway, I always find something that makes the detour worth it. Then again, maybe that's why God created GPS. Or maybe I need to trade in my Escape for a gondola...

New Year, New Non-Resolutions.

So I'm usually not that into New Year's resolutions. They're really hard to keep. At least one always involves losing weight/getting into better shape, which just isn't fun. Last year I did P90X for a month, and just for the record, if I ever see Tony Horton in person I will probably kick him in the nuts and try to stuff a cheeseburger in his mouth.

But back to resolutions. They are, by and large, about bettering oneself. This in and of itself isn't a bad thing, I think we should all try and be a better person every chance we get. The problem with resolutions is that they are rarely carried out, which then sort of makes the resolution-maker feel worse for failing. So this year, instead of resolutions, I am setting goals. (And if you're questioning what the difference is, it's probably non-existent. "Goal" just doesn't carry with it the same sense of impending failure as "resolution.") So here are my goals for this year, in no particular order:

1. Learn how to do 3 new things. I don't know exactly what yet, although I do want to get my motorcycle license this summer, so even though technically I can sort of already ride, I may count that as one. I do want them to be fun things, so if anyone has anything they want to teach me, I might be up for anything!

2. Stay in touch. I love my friends, but I'm not the best at staying in touch. Facebook and email are my primary forms of communication, mostly because I pretty much hate talking on the phone. I feel like I have lost touch with many great people from my high school and college days. Come May I will be parting ways with many amazing people I have had the privilege of befriending over the past few years and I plan to make sincere efforts to stay in touch with them, as well as get caught up with friends from the past. My days of screening calls and letting my voicemail box get full are over.

3. Stop planning. As I grow older I realize that I am neurotic in many ways. One of my biggest neuroses is my need to plan things. I'm not talking about little things, like what's for dinner or what I'm going to wear tomorrow because when it comes to the mundane details of life, I'm pretty laid back, even indecisive at times. I'm talking about the big picture. While I don't so much care what I'm doing tomorrow, I would really enjoy knowing where I'll be and what I'll be doing this time next year, as well as five years from now. Maybe I'm a a control freak. Maybe I'd appreciate it if God would give me a roadmap so I could at least make sure I'm on the right track. I know, I know, it's the unknown that makes life worth living, blah blah blah. But every once in a while, a hint would be awesome, or if God's already been handing out hints, maybe he could make the ones intended for me a little more obvious. At any rate, perhaps my goal is to be more open to changes in the plans I make for myself rather than to stop planning altogether.

4. Take better care of myself. This is, admittedly, where the whole working-out-and-eating-better comes into play. This year it's a combination of cardio and Nautilus machines at the community center and my Wii Fit, just to make things fun. And only having class three days a week will hopefully make it a little easier to fit my new fitness goals into my schedule. Coupled with my own fitness goal is my goal for Doc. The vet says he needs to lose about ten pounds, so we will be venturing out into the neighborhood on a more regular basis.

5. Figure out what I want to do when I grow up. Not necessarily what I want to do for the rest of my life, just maybe what to do for the next ten years or so. Maybe I'll put my education to good use. Maybe I'll try out for a reality TV show (see previous post for more info!). Maybe Sarah and I will rent out a strip mall and open the bevy of businesses we keep adding to every month, which up to this point includes Sarah's baby boutique and card store and my shoe/gift boutique and cafe. Ooh, maybe I'll just start designing shoes and Christian Louboutin will want to hire me! Or maybe I'll come up with a gimmick to make my blog more interesting and marketable and sit home in my pj's all day and watch the cash roll in.

There it is. My plan for self-improvement in 2010. Maybe my blog gimmick should be tracking my progress...

Love and Marriage...and Divorce?

In less than 24 hours I have found out that two sets of friends are getting a divorce. My best guy friend from high school and his wife (who got married two weeks after Scott and I) and one of my dearest friends from college (one of my bridesmaids, actually) and her husband (who were married a couple of years before Scott and I), are splitsville. I have yet to get the scoop on the demise of their respective relationships, which I will certainly do over the next couple of weeks, but for now I am somewhat traumatized, and left to my imagination's rampant speculation, leading me to question just exactly what would push a couple so close to the edge of the precipice that the only way to survive is dive off alone.

Now we all know that every couple has its problems. Even those couples that seem perfect in polite company have their (often times unimaginably big) fights behind closed doors. Others have their fights in front of open windows, or better yet, their front yard for the benefit of the whole neighborhood. The point is, no relationship is perfect. There are days when I am overwhelmed with love for Scott and there are other days where I want to kick him in the balls. And he usually knows when those days are, because our conversation goes a little something like this:

Scott: [Says something that he knows will piss me off.]
Liz: What do you mean by that?
Scott: I just mean [something that doesn't get me un-pissed at all.]
Liz: Why the hell would you say that? What do you think you're gonna accomplish?
Scott: I don't know, I was just thinking...
Liz: Well, you had to f*$&ing know that would piss me off. Was it really necessary to say?
Scott: No.
Liz: Then why the f%&$ would you say it?
Scott: I don't know.
Liz: I mean, did you know before you said it I'd get pissed?
Scott: Yeah.
Liz: And yet you said it anyway?
Scott: (Starting to laugh.) Yeah.
Liz: You're a f#*!ing asshole. Don't f*%&ing talk to me right now.
Scott: Babe, I didn't mean anything. I mean, I knew you'd get mad, but I don't know why you have to take things so personally.
Liz: Um, I take things personally because I'm a f&#*ing person. How else am I supposed to take things? Like a couch? Or a tree? If you don't mean it personally then don't say it at all. Or, if you know it's gonna piss me off, make sure it's worth saying.
Scott: You just shouldn't take things so personally. Geez, I can't say anything to you. From now on I just won't even joke around with you.
Liz: Oh, that was supposed to be funny? You say you knew I'd get pissed off before you said it, but now it was meant to be funny? You're a f*%&ing c*%#-sucking asshole of a jerk. Don't talk to me right now.
Scott: I was just joking. Don't take things personally. Geez, I can't even talk to you.
Liz: Seriously, don't talk to me for ten minutes. If you f*%&ing talk to me in the next ten minutes I'm going to punch you in the balls. Give me ten and I'll be fine.
Scott: (Laughing more.) Fine, I won't talk to you for ten minutes.

We get over most of our fights pretty quickly because they're about stupid things. Others we don't get over quite so quickly, but most of those we can look back at now and laugh. (Like the one when I accidentally scraped Scott's truck down the side of our friend's house. To be fair, I expected him to be mad. I just didn't expect him to be quite as mad as he was. I mean, it was a really narrow driveway and his truck is huge. Turns out most of my friend's family has run into that corner of the house. Luckily his mom reminded him of the time he ran into the Mazzio's building while delivering pizzas back in the day...) All that being said, there are fights that I don't think we ever really finished; instead, I think we just both got tired of talking. Then we both got tired of not talking and things gradually went back to normal.

Now we're faced with at least one year apart, maybe more, and we have been forced to really think about what we want with our careers, our relationship and our future family. It seems as though we're at the top of a mountain, looking out at the lives we want and the path we have to take to get there. Sometimes I fear that we're looking off into the distance facing opposite directions, and that we'll be lucky to cross paths on our journey. Other times I think our paths may have diverged a bit but that ultimately they'll meet up again.

I guess it comes down to the deal breakers. Everyone must have at least one thing they won't put up with, no matter how much they love the person. Personally, I know if Scott ever insists I suck his toes, it's over. Feet are gross. Seriously though, I guess it's good we haven't discovered our deal breakers. I thought we might be close a couple of times, but those were the fights that gradually faded into the abyss. Maybe once you realize what you absolutely won't stand for, it's just too late.

Or maybe I'm wrong and there really isn't any one thing that pushed most couples over the edge. Maybe it's all the little things - he doesn't wipe the floor around the toilet (come on guys, you know you have bad aim sometimes) or she leaves hairballs in the shower. He doesn't thank her for dinner, even if it is just Hamburger Helper. She doesn't thank him for making sure she has an ice scraper and good tires for winter. He resents her shoe obsession and she resents his five fantasy football teams.

I guess if it's the little things that make a relationship fabulous, they can also be the things that make it unbearable. Whatever it is, big or little, I honestly hope I never find out.

In my next life...

I'm going to be an MTV reality star. I think I'll start with the Real World, then accept all invitations for the Real World/Road Rules Challenges. I mean, I highly doubt these people have real jobs, yet they seem to live fairly comfortably lives. And several times a year, MTV provides all the alcohol, sex and drama a person could ask for.





Here's the plan:
1. Grow up in a fairly normal suburban family.
2. Concoct some story about "struggles" in my life that will serve as an excuse for any immature/absurd/asinine behavior.
3. Go to college for a year or two where I develop an uncanny ability to make a drunken ass of myself with the help of all the beer and liquor I can drink at the friendly neighborhood frat.
4. Send in a video of my amazing self simply being amazing to MTV. Get cast on the Real World.
5. Hook up, pass out, fight with housemates, cry in the confessional, suddenly realize the error of my drunken ways and become everyone's bff.
6. Compete in challenge walking the fine line between loyal teammate and backstabbing bitch in order to come away with the cash.
7. Make random appearances at Spring Break and New Year's Eve bashes.
8. Repeat steps 5 through 7 as necessary to pay the bills (at least the ones that mom and dad don't still pay).
Judging by the stellar cast of characters that has been around since I was in jr. high, I can milk this for 10-15 years.

Hopefully, by then I will have suckered some dumbass into being my sugardaddy, which will make for a perfect segue to my second career as a cougar on "Real Housewives of Somewhere." Shopping, drinking (the expensive stuff this time around!), catfights with other Real Housewives, design my own fashion line and put on a "fashion show" where all my high-society frenemies realize what a poser I am...what more could a washed-up G-lister ask for? (That's right folks, by that time I will have sunk far past Kathy Griffith on the D List.)

Why didn't I think of this sooner?