File this one under "mildly offensive (but nonetheless true) things my boyfriend says"

This morning:

"Hon, if you were to run for public office, your platform would be 'chaos'."

Note to self

1. The mailman comes every day.
2. There is a finite amount of space in a mail box.

Therefore, if you do not pick up the mail for more than 3 weeks, you are likely to run out of mailbox space, making it difficult for the mailman to put more junk mail into the now-full mailbox.

In that case, it is likely he will leave you a nasty note for making his job harder, steal all your mail, and stuff it somewhere else, like possibly the post office, where you'll have to go pick it up.

On an unrelated note, post office lines are long.

We're moving!

That's right, Legwarmers is moving! Nothing is going to change besides the name and the URL, which is to say I'll continue telling bad pee-pee jokes and sharing every mortifying and grisly detail of my life there, so you can look forward to that.

But I thought it was time for a little refresher. Legwarmers has run its course. I, your humble contributor, am evolving, and therefore so is Legwarmers.

We're stepping out, in heels.

About the name: The "...backwards, and in high heels" quote above is one I've always loved -- it sort of captures, cheekily, my general perspective. It has been incorrectly attributed to a former Texas politician and to Ginger Rogers herself, but it was, in ironic fact, first written by a male comic strip writer -- Bob Thaves -- in a comic strip aptly titled "Frank and Earnest" in 1982, when I was barely a year old. The original strip is below.



I'm not exactly sure when this move is going to finally commence, as I am attempting to transfer all Legwarmers content to the new URL while also maintaining the integrity (heh. "integrity".) of this site, but in the meantime, you can enjoy a new look and a new name.

I'll post a note with the new URL when we make the official leap.

Owie.

Ouch.

It is 1:30 in the aftrnoon on a gorgeous Sunday in the greater Seattle area. I should be outside soaking up the sun, or barbequeing, or jogging, or driving with my windows down and occasionally yelling "HEY, THAT'S MY BIKE!!!" out the window at small groups of alarmed adolescents cruising their huffies down the sidewalk.

But instead I'm sitting here in a pair of well-loved boxers and a hoodie, with whacked-out hair, eating pizza (vegetarian, extra sauce and pineapple, easy on the cheese), making a feeble attempt to hydrate (Diet Pepsi count?) while flipping through the photo evidence of the debauchery that was last night.

In short, I am hung over. Thanks to one of the best bachelorette parties possibly of all time.

There was nothing particularly spectacular from the outside about this party, really. We had the huge limo, of course, and the gazillion bottles of champagne. And the dresses. And the bride had the obnoxious flashing gag veil with little light-up penises all over it.

But what we had that most bachelorette parties don't was a desire to CRUSH every bar we entered. We wanted to drink everything, talk to everyone, and generally monopolize every venue exclusively for our benefit, other patrons be damned.

Highlights include:

1. The maid of honor taking swigs off a Souza tequila bottle (yes, that is essentially the worst tequila made -- let's be clear on the fact that this maid of honor is not messing around)on the way to the restaraunt and booty dancing her way up and down the limo -- on the freeway.

2. Ordering a round of Scooby Snack shots for the girls, taking them, then deciding they were too "fattening" and asking the bartender to try them with red bull instead of half and half. The result? Pure heaven, an addition to the shot menu, and my first drink named after me: the Lizzie Snack. (Let me just say that these things were a HUGE hit, and are fairly advanced for a "girly" shot. The combination of booze, sugar and caffeine in these puppies result in a very happy buzz -- and could be fatal if overdone.)

3. Taking the limo back from the piano bar to "downtown" Snohomish (think: cow town). No, that's the highlight. A limo in Snohomish. I think it's actually the first time that's ever happened.

4. Hitting three more bars, two of which had live bands and both of which I managed to convince to let the bride to be up on stage to sing a song. I accomplished this using my finely-tuned powers of persuasion (eyelash batting, a well-delivered joke, a little sweet talk and a deftly slipped $20). The songs? Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll" and "Sweet Caroline". The entire patronage of both places ended up joining in by the end of the songs -- I'm surprised we didn't have a roof or two collapse. I should have been a hype-man when I grew up. I'm that good.

5. Being danced with and then gently hit on by a very, very tall man who was in town as best man in a wedding. I, of course, politely declined his advances and made my way back to the table. A few minutes later, in front of the whole table of my girls, one of his buddies came up to me and said something like: "Hey baby, did you know he plays for the L.A. Clippers? He makes a ton of money and he thinks you're beautiful. I mean, he makes a TON of money."

Taken aback, I dismissed him. He continued to push, on and on about this "money", which I gathered was supposed to impress me. I continued to wave him off. Finally, as he was not getting it, I unleashed a torrent of shit on the pathetic little man. Something to the effect of "Listen, you arrogant little prick, I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but I make my own money. I strongly recommend that you go back to wherever hole you came from and work on your little sidekick schtick. If that's the best you can do for your buddy over there, I think he needs to find a new wingman. Oh, and by the way, you're short and you smell like cheese."


It was a memorable night to say the least. Now it's back to the horizontal position for me. Happy weekend!

I don't believe I've met you...

"Jeeeez! Look at all this little personalized Mariners' paraphernalia," I marveled.

Jim and I were at a very swanky party thrown by the president of the Mariners. You know, the terrible baseball team based in Seattle? It was held at SafeCo field (where aforementioned baseball team loses most of its games) for two friends who are getting married this summer. The groom grew up with the President of the Mariners' kid, and therefore el Presidente’s family decided to host an over the top party at the President's suite at the ballpark.

So here we are at this swanky party with unlimited food and booze, where we knew nobody except the bride and groom... and there is customized paraphernalia everywhere, which is clearly impressing me.

Think: Little baseball player cookies with little frosting jerseys with the bride and groom’s name on them, real Mariner’s jerseys with the bride and groom’s name on them, hats, water bottles… just swag up the kazoo.

And I, trying to make friends as I make my way across the suite to the restroom, am exclaiming to strangers in the room, enthusiastically, about how cool all this stuff was.

“Oh look at those cookies…” I cooed. “They’re so cute!” This elicited murmers of agreement from a stranger or two, who I then introduced myself to and made nice with before moving on to the next weird personalized memento.

So picture me doing this while making my way across the room, proudly leaving a bunch of not-strangers-anymore in my enthusiastic wake. I was quite pleased with my impact, and as I sauntered nearly out of the room, I passed one last item: A very oversized leather mitt with a wedding band on its ring finger, in the center of which was a softball-sized baseball with the bride and groom’s name embroidered on it.

“Oh my gosh, would you look at that??” I shrieked in my girlish delight. “It has their names stitched right into the ball!”

To punctuate this exclamation as new strangers turned towards me to respond (and because I have pretty terrible vision and couldn’t see the items well enough), I reached for the ball. I planned to pick it up, turn it over, and look at it up close and personal, as I had with the other items, while making friends.

Except the ball wouldn’t lift.

It was either the world’s heaviest softball-sized baseball, or it was stuck to the mitt.

I tugged at it again with my hand. Nothing. Just as I was about to engage my other hand for a good old fashioned two-handed pull, it hit me.

It. Was. A. Cake. (And for the record, it looked a helluva lot more realistic than this picture of a similar cake. It looked honest to God real.)

A fondant-covered, larger-than-life, baseball mit with baseball in it CAKE.

And I had my grubby little strange hand all over the crowning jewel, huffing and puffing and jerking at it like an I was an over-served middle-aged man and it was a stripper with negligible moral code.

“Oh my gosh, it’s a cake! It’s a cake! I didn’t know it was a cake!”

Yep, that's what I said. I know, I know. Brilliant.

My voice was high pitched. My face was bright red. I clutched my “bad” hand with my “good” hand and glared at it like it was some sort of naughty pet that had temporarily escaped my control. And then I looked around.

Some people off to my left were giggling and nodding knowingly. They had caught me. And they were not impressed. But no matter – I was not going to my left, I was going to my right. To the bathroom. Hell, to FREEDOM. To a place to hide forever and never come out. Because I had touched, aggressively, the cake.

I spun around to my right, just feet from the door, just seconds from the bathroom and sweet escape, and bumped directly into – with my “bad” hand – wait for it...

The president of the Mariners' wife. You know, the HOSTESS of the EFFING SWANKY PARTY at which I knew nobody (now including Jim, who saw the debacle and wisely denied having any idea who I was).

Oh.

FUCK.

Intelligently, I said (still holding up my hand:

“I didn’t know it was a cake! It’s… uh… amazing!!!”

She looked at me – this woman who had certainly come up with the idea for the cake, absolutely ordered it and without a doubt paid ridiculous sums of money for it – with a look of such disdain I can’t even describe it. It was like Cruella DeVille had suddenly appeared before me, and I’d accidentally vomited on her coat holding a sign that said "SAVE THE PUPPIES".

And then she spoke in a slow, disapproving drawl the words that will forever be burned into my mortified memory of this moment while looking me up and down and shaking her head:

“I don’t believe I’ve met you.”

...

I no longer watch the food network's cake show -- the one where cakes are made to look like kittens or buildings or small children or golf equipment.

Why? Because fuck them, that's why. Making food look like something else is just MEAN.

I do. Times seven. Minus hundreds of dollars.

This summer I have seven weddings to attend. That’s right… SEVEN weddings in less than 4 months. This does not count bachelorette parties, bridal showers and other wedding-themed events. This means three things:

1. The countdown to me feeling like an old maid has begun.

To be clear, I do not currently feel like an old maid. I am quite happy not to be married at this particular moment, and am reveling instead in the joys of living in sin.

But ask me about this topic sometime in the not-so-distant future, and I sadly suspect I will have joined ranks with the droves of late-twenties women who are suddenly struck by an insatiable desire to throw a big party and wear a white dress and whatnot. I’d like to say this will never happen because I’m not influenced by things like peer pressure and social expectation, but the fact is I’m not, contrary to popular belief, completely impervious to these pressures. Evidence lies in the fact that I have just planted my first garden (and things are growing!!!), I’m meal-planning and doing my boyfriend’s laundry regularly, and I spend about 4 hours online weekly shopping for either puppies or houses – or both.

Which is so funny, considering that the Liz of a few years ago would have been completely aghast at these newfound preoccupations, preferring instead to picture herself as an unmarried bespectacled 40-something in a flat somewhere in New York with her dogs and cats and fantastic wardrobe and nightlife and single (preferably gay) male friends and an awesomely stimulating and high-powered job.

It could be that the right lovely tall smart sweet cooking cleaning fishing complementing complementary capable man has appeared in my life. (Or maybe it’s just cuz all my friends are doing it.) :)

2. I will be spending a grand total of, well, my entire savings account attending and participating in these wedding festivities.

I actually calculated, and assuming I spend X on each gift and X on each bridal shower and X on each bachelorette party (which, by the way, are RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE these days, even without strippers!) I’ll be looking at a four-month expense of something like what it costs to attend a large state university for a semester when you’re not good at sports OR academics and are not either a veteran or a native American. Which is to say a lot.

3. I will have even more opportunities than usual to embarrass myself.

Yes, there is a story here. And yes, I will tell it. In my next post.

Until then, be good. I’m off to Vegas this Thursday through Sunday, where the weather will be 100 degrees and I will be happy as a well-fed, well-watered, baked clam.

Baked as in tan, not high. Just to be clear.

Talk soon!