Monday Dare: Are we just friends because of my money?

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you'd like to see the full list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Win the lottery.

I don't want to dump a shitload of shocking information on you during the holidays, but I think we know each other well enough for me to divulge difficult things from time to time.

I've never won the lottery.

Hold me.

For several years as a kid, I forced my parents to order magazines from the Publishers Clearing House. I just knew I was going to be one of the lucky few featured on those commercials. You know the one: flashy van, big cardboard check, cheap helium balloons, and lots of screaming. Since I wasn't yet the legal age to win, I asked my mom to be the frontman for the operation, and in return, I would cut her in on 15% of the winnings.

"It's always a good idea to get in on the ground floor," I told her repeatedly. Her English was shaky at best, so she didn't really understand me. If we're being honest, I didn't really understand what I was saying either, but it sounded good. Besides, who the fuck cared if I made any sense? I was going to be rich.

Each year, my mom ordered one or two magazine subscriptions. I had a system; I never ordered the popular magazines. Only the especially obscure ones would do. I felt that it gave me a certain edge over the sad fools who ordered their Sports Illustrated or Good Housekeeping.

I just knew that my orders for Africa Birds & Birding and KitPlanes would catch the eye of the right person at the Clearing House, and they would think, "Yes, this person here really deserves a million dollars a year for the rest of her life. Let's go and change her world."

They say the best revenge is living well. Personally, I think the best revenge is living well and knowing the inner workings of homebuilt aviation, courtesy of my two-year subscription to KitPlanes. Oh hell yes, you want a piece of this??

I entered the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes today. I find out on February 29th if I'm a winner. My thinking is that yes, I have this one in the bag. Just to be safe, I will also purchase a lottery ticket from the corner market. AND, I will also give Cal additional homework to do during winter break. That way, if nothing pans out, she has a fighting chance at securing a good job. I will just mooch off of her hard work for the rest of my life.

I plan to use my winnings wisely. I asked Harv to track down the complete set of Garbage Pail Kids trading cards as a Christmas gift. Guess what wasn't under the tree yesterday?

What would you buy if you won the lottery today?
image via blueq.com

Tweet

Monday Dare: Do not disturb. Busy doing nothing.

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you'd like to see the full list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Do jack shit. 

Sometimes, I like to wake up in the morning and treat myself to this thought: How can I get through this day doing as little work as possible? 

For at least three solid minutes, I just lie in bed, imagining what it would be like to not get out of bed except to open the door for the buffalo wings delivery man. I would eat the whole order in bed with a gallon of Coke and those frosted animal cookies with the little round sprinkles.

I would spend the day watching a marathon of Locked Up Abroad, picking stray round sprinkles from my pajamas and popping them in my mouth. People would call and ask what I was doing. Everyone would get the same answer: "Oh, you know, just working, working, working." I would ding a little bell I keep handy next to my bed and say, "That's the darn laundry machine. I have to go put the load in the dryer now," hang up, and go back to doing nothing.

Then, when I hear footsteps outside the bedroom, I would close my eyes and start snoring (softly, I think it's more realistic that way). If Cal or Harv call out, "Hello, hello, are you awake?" I would stir just a little and make a slight grimace. They would feel bad for disturbing my much-needed break and walk away, a little dejected and a little guilt-ridden.

Since I'm super clumsy, I might knock over my gallon of Coke and drench my super festive Target pajamas. After staring at it for a long second, I'd shout, "FUCK. SHIT. DAMN." Instead of getting out of bed, I would most likely just strip off my pillow cover and stuff it under by shirt and pants- kind of like a baby bib, but better because it would be underneath my clothes and not stupid-looking like all those baby ones that have sayings like "I only cry when ugly people hold me" and "If you think I'm cute, you should see my uncle!"

This has never happened. Yet.

The holidays always leave me frazzled. So instead of buying myself something really fabulous this year, wrapping it up, and putting it under the tree with a tag that reads "From a secret admirer," I'm going to give myself the gift of Doing Jack Shit. If I could package and sell it, I bet I would be a megajillionaire.

Happy Holidays to me.

What are you folks doing for the holidays? If you had a day to do whatever you wanted, what would you do?

You. Me. Facebook. Let's make it happen.
Subscribe to Flourish in Progress to get new posts in your feed reader or by email.
image via pinterest

Tweet

Go Shorty, it's your birthday.

This is my daughter, Cal.

She turns 12 years old today.

She has been with me forever. First in my heart, then in my belly, and now by my side.


Dear Shorty,

Of all my many blessings, you are the best.

When you were a baby, I used to stare at the bottoms of your feet- how lineless they were, how marvelously smooth...waiting for your life history to etch in the lines, one small stroke at a time. I hope each line forms as you run to the ones you love, to joy and happiness, and to a deep and still peace. I hope you live in rooms full of light.

You da bomb.

Love,
Mom


Cal knows about this blog, and sometimes, she asks to read it. I'm going to let her read this post. If you'd like to leave a note for her, I bet it would thrill her to bits. I'll be sure to let her know as each new note comes in.

image courtesy of Bonnie Tsang

Tweet

Monday Dare: I'm a rapper. Best believe.

 (like this image? I created it using Someecards's

Create Your Own Card feature.)

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you'd like to see the full list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Be happy. Keep it real. Fuck the fuckers.

Sometimes, when you're listening to your favorite sixteen or seventeen rap songs while driving, and you feel amazing because you know every fifth word, and for the places you don't know a word you just substitute "buh buh buh nuh nuh," and it pretty much sounds like the lyrics, and people point and laugh when you're stopped at a light; do you assume they're laughing because you look like a fool?

THEN YOU'D BE WRONG. They're laughing because they're jealous.

What about the times you get really good, and you know at least every third word, so you record yourself using the microphone feature of your phone, and it sounds something like:

Go Shorty, it's your birthday, nuh nuh party like it's your birthday, nuh nuh sip Bacardi buh buh your birthday. Nuh Nuh we don't give a fuck nuh nuh your birthday!

And then you play it back and think, "DAMN, I sound good," and you play it for your husband who doesn't clap or crack a smile? Jealousy I say.

Lately, I've made an effort not to flinch when I can't be what others want me to be. For the first time in....well, forever, I'm making an effort to play by the Rules of Elizabeth. I only have three:

• Be happy.
• Keep it real. 
• Fuck the fuckers.

Many, many times, I've feigned a headache or general malaise to bow out of a party or a lunch invitation. Truth be told, I didn't want to just stand around feeling all kinds of awkward. I have almost no social grace or skill. Sometimes, when I get really nervous, I drool. I shit you not.

I'm not going to do that anymore. I'm just going to show up. I'm going to own my awkwardness. Be happy. Keep it real. Fuck the fuckers.

And if things ever get out of control, I'll just remember these words from David Sedaris: "Just say 'fuck it,' and eat yourself some motherfucking candy." I'm going to start carrying around some Gobstoppers in my pocket.

Do you have any personal rules you live by? By the way, I think you're fabulous.

Interested in my burgeoning rap career? Then Subscribe to Flourish in Progress to get new posts in your feed reader or by email.

Tweet

Yes, it's good news. No, I'm not having a baby.

When friends tell me their awesome news, I make it a point to let them know I am FUCKING EXCITED. I widen my eyes, open my mouth into an "O," and put my hands up. It probably looks like I'm about to be hit by a train, but that's my Congratulations Face.

It's nearly impossible for me to be excited for myself. I feel self-conscious and selfish when I sneak into the bathroom and give myself the same Congratulations Face in the mirror I give to everyone else.

Plus, it's hard to fist bump yourself. I know because I tested it out once. It makes you cross-eyed.

A year ago, I submitted an essay to Smith Magazine about the moment that changed my life for their upcoming book, The Moment: Wild, Poignant, Life-Changing Stories from 125 Writers and Artists Famous and Obscure (Harper Perennial).

Why am I even doing this? They've received thousands and thousands and thousands of submissions. I'm not even a real writer!

A month passed. Six months passed. I didn't hear back from them. I forgot about it. And then a month ago, Smith Magazine dropped me a line, "You're in the book, bitch!" Well, they didn't say "bitch" but I added that in my head because I think it makes the news sound more official.

It hits booksellers January 3rd. My moment is titled "Liner Notes," page 164.

I'm excited. And I just gave myself a fist bump. Fuck being cross-eyed.

UPDATE: To celebrate this good news, I have purchased the following items today: ChapStick Flava Craze Lip Balm, heavy-duty adjustable 3-hole punch, a dozen retractable gel roller pens, and a bag of Funyuns. I feel pretty gangsta right now. Thank you for letting me share.

A shout out to my friend Carolyn for sending me this picture.

Tweet

Monday Dare: I should probably just stop talking

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you'd like to see the full list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: Parenting skills. Get some. 

Most of the time, I try to put my best foot forward when I'm getting to know someone new. I bet some of those people walk away thinking, "Oh, that Elizabeth. She's such a fucking lady."

I'm more relaxed with kids because, let's face it, kids are dumb. I can just be any ol' way around them and let my *real* self come out because they don't know the difference.

On Saturday, I spent most of the day with Cal and seven of her friends. I think it's pretty great when a kid hangs out with her parents at an amusement park because it probably means she's too busy to do other activities like huff gasoline or enter beauty pageants.

Eight hours in, things were looking pretty good. Everyone still had all of their limbs. They were all speaking to each other. Harv only gave ONE lecture about manners. I put on a shameface while he was talking to me, and I promised not to step out of line again. The kids pretended not to notice when I was getting a scolding, but I could sense relief that they weren't the ones getting reprimanded. I'd like to think that I was taking one for the team.

If the team consists of one adult who can't act straight.

Why the lecture?

I sat in front of a rowdy group of boys during a show. Kick Kick Kick. A few seconds of peace. Then Kick Kick Kick. After a few minutes, I turned around and said something like "JESUS, WHO DO YOU KIDS BELONG TO?"

I'm not proud. I mean, what if these boys had never heard Jesus' name before? What if they didn't *have* any parents? Maybe they were there out of the goodness of some charity that sent orphans who didn't know Jesus to amusement parks.

Well, at least they weren't out huffing gasoline or strutting their stuff in beauty pageants. I choose to focus on the positive.

Ever said anything out of frustration to young peeps?
image via Married to the Sea. com

Tweet