Perpetual Smile

The only resolution I set for myself for 2009, as far as I know, was to set up a feed reader. Does that make me a nerd?

This year, I have a few resolutions:

1. Save more money. I’ve fallen out of the habit of saving money every week. My savings account has never seen more than $1,000, and the one time it saw that amount was about five years ago, for maybe twenty-four hours. I get paid biweekly and don’t make too much with my regular day job, but with the work I do on the side with my business, I make a hell of a lot more. I need to start saving 50% of each paycheck of what I make with the business, and $50 out of each regular paycheck from my steady job.
2. Play more video games. I know this sounds really childish, but hear me out. I work. A lot. More than is normal, I think. I need to take more time to just chill and have fun. I used to play video games all the time. I miss them. Mike and I are each buying a Nintendo DS after the holidays. I plan on making full use of it to de-stress.
3. Pay off my student loans. Now that my wisdom teeth surgery is paid off, and since I’ve officially dropped out of school and decided I don’t need to go back until I am absolutely positive that it’s what I want to do AND until I have resolved my health issues, I should probably pay back the loans I took out. You know, before Chase comes after me and takes my mansion, yacht, unborn children, etc. I need to make that phone call and let them know I officially won’t be returning in the spring, and need to make a payment plan arrangement.
4. Get an apartment with Mike. Hi, we’ve been together for over three years. We are more than ready to go to the next level of our relationship. We KNOW we are going to get married and that we want a life together. We’ve already discussed a plan of saving money, obtaining sufficient stable income, and picking up little things we’ll need here and there before getting the apartment (such as a toaster, utensils, plates, a vacuum, etc).
5. Finish Secondhand Mom, then go on and revise it again and again until it’s done. I may have lost my momentum because of the holidays and because of work, but I will finish it, dammit. I will resolve all issues I have with my plot and characters, and I will submit it to agents.

I’ll continue with my Monthly Goals, and work on each of these goals for the year during each month.

I only saw a few movies this year. Honestly, I thought most of 2009′s new movies were garbage and didn’t bother. There were a few I wanted to see but just didn’t get there, so I’ll probably rent those at some point. I really want to go see The Princess and the Frog, and will probably be going sometime this week with my mom and sister.

Unfortunately, Hollywood no longer thrills me. All of the supposedly “scary” movies look like they were filmed to frighten three-year-olds, and all of the supposedly “funny” movies look like the same stupid shit that’s already been done. Maybe I am a movie snob. I didn’t know I was a movie snob, but here we are. I’m a huge horror freak, so I take my horror movies very seriously. (I’m looking at YOU, lame ass 3D My Bloody Valentine. Your trailers made me giggle.)

I did see a few movies this year that absolutely blew my fucking mind… and a few that kind of just, well, didn’t do any blowing. They just sucked. (Hi, X-Men Origins: Wolverine. Yes, I know I watched a rough mid-production version, but still. You bored me to tears!) The Hangover was pretty fucking predictable and only made me actually laugh maybe three times.

BUT.

Taken, Watchmen, and Inglourious Basterds absolutely thrilled me. I sat in the theater, completely and totally emotionally tied to everything that happened in those movies. For the two or so hours they ran, I was a PART of those movies. If you don’t know the feeling I’m describing, I’m sad for you. It’s the feeling that says, “The cast and crew more than did their job right with this one and are completely sweeping me away!”

They were fucking EPIC in a way that Lord of the Rings can’t even begin to be. I would say that they are my absolute three favorite movies of this year, and that they all go under “Favorite Movies of All Time,” right under The Crow.

(I saw maybe ten movies this year, which qualifies me to judge.)

Up and the latest Harry Potter were also good. Disney/Pixar always makes a good team, and the HP movies just keep getting better and better. (Unlike some other teen oriented movies, TWILIGHT. Sorry, but you suck and I won’t ever see New Moon or the other two. My hatred for annoying Twilight fans and all of the horrible ways the cast and crew fucked up the first movie will forever scar my love of the books. And for all of you supposed fans who have only seen the movies, do yourself a favor and read the books. Please.)

Ahem. Um, where was I? Oh yes, shitting on Twilight and praising Pixar. Or was it Harry Potter?

Whatever.

Anyway, if I ever get a little more time besides the time it takes to pick my nose, I’d also like to see: The Taking of Pelham 123, Zombieland, The Princess and the Frog, and District 9.

So. Now I’m done babbling. What were YOUR favorite movies this year? Leave a comment and tell me! And if you’re a Twilight fan, let’s take it to the parking lot! (;

What is a name?

A name is what you go by. It’s a way for people to identify you, and for you to identify yourself. Names can have positive and negative connotations. The name Liza Minnelli reminds me of my 5th grade teacher, Miss Crane. She called me Liza Minnelli and encouraged me to keep writing. Sometimes she drove me crazy with her red penned edits on the stories and essays that I handed in to her, but I will always love her.

The last name Liuzzo fills me with fear and dread, and the last name Purcell fills me with a weird mix of sadness and disgust.

Somewhere between 6th and 7th grade, I got sick of there being at least three other girls who called themselves Liz. I wanted to separate myself from those Lizs, somehow. I decided it would be cool of me to change the spelling of my nickname from L-I-Z to L-I-S.

I know. I know. L-I-S does not spell Liz. It pretty much spells Liss, as if I were named Alyssa. It also spells LAME.

But in my twelve-year-old mind, it was cool as the other side of my pillow. Forcing an S to sound like a Z was so cool, in fact, that I decided to make everyone I knew spell my name that way, or else they received a lot of whining. (What I should have been working on instead was weaning everyone in my family completely off of calling me Beth. FUCK that nickname is stupid. I’d then managed to get mostly everyone to stop with the Beth, but even today there is one person who still stubbornly slips now and then. And I’ll tell you, if you are ever feeling like dying in a painful, “Let me get my head chopped off” kind of way, just call me Beth.)

Unfortunately, just like any nickname, the stupid S stuck. Liz because Lis, and people started to actually go with it. (Looking back, I should have spent my energy on convincing people to do something more beneficial for me, like buy me my own condo on the beach or something. My power of persuasion is apparently good, though it takes a lot of time.) Even now, a lot of people still spell Liz with an S when giving me gifts or writing me notes.

And suddenly, it just looked really fucking stupid to me.

“That says Liss, not Liz,” I said to myself one day. “Oh man, that’s dumb.”

But how can you kill your own Frankenstein? Especially when the Beth Frankenstein lumbers right next to it?

“Oh man,” I said. “I have way fucked up.”

To make matters worse, my little cousin Katarina took it upon herself to make Elizabeth — or ‘Lizabeth, as she sometimes calls me — sound like the coolest name in the world. It took a long time for my full name to grow on me, but Kat made me LOVE it.

“I can’t make people call me Elizabeth now. It’ll confuse the hell out of them, and they might even question my sanity. Like, really, who changes their mind about their name every five years?” I mulled this over day after day, until seeing L-I-S literally made me want to scream. (Though not nearly as loud as B-E-T-H makes me want to scream. And puke. And kill people.)

So one day, I said casually to the people next to me, “Spelling my name with an S is dumb.” And I stopped doing it. And I told them to stop doing it.

And people still do it anyway. I think they’re all so confused, they don’t know what the hell to call me anymore or how to spell it. I have, indeed, created a monster. The Lizlisbethenstein is coming to eat us all. Hopefully it eats Bethenstein first.

This time last year, I was stressed out. I thought I wasn’t graduating because of my advisor’s bad advising. Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, they did a 360 and got better.

When Michael came over for dinner on Christmas Eve and gave me my promise ring, they got even better. I closed the year with a great dinner at Outback and with a positive note.

This year, I don’t know what’s coming or how the story is going to end. Much like last year, I’m scared. But last year’s worries pale in comparison. I’d go back and not graduate, if that meant making this year better.

I’d like to hope that things will turn out okay, just like they did last year. But this year it isn’t as simple as meeting with a Dean of Academic Affairs and reviewing paperwork. This year, a better car won’t make my problems go away. A promise ring won’t fill my heart with warmth. Instead, my heart is heavy and full of dread.

I know I should be more positive, because — as last year proves — things can work out. They can turn around and be BETTER again, in the blink of an eye.

I guess I’ll have to wait and see what Santa brings me.

« The Last Laugh: Chapter 1

“Hello, dear,” she said, tendrils of red hair curling around her chin, shoulders, breasts, and waist. “Come to have some of my tea?” Leaves curled around the hair, forming a strange snaking nest of hair and plant.

Harley shook her head. “No thanks, Ivy.” She smoothed the red mini dress she wore and tightened the laces on her leather knee high boots. The clothes sucked. They had come from a donation bin, rather than a real store. The dress was a size too small and the boots were a little big. She wiggled her toes inside them. “Actually, I came for a favor.”

The former Dr. Isley shook her head and laughed. “Oh, Harley, darling, I’m not feeling very charitable today,” she said, eying Harley’s outfit. “And it looks like you’ve had enough charity for one year. Where did you get that dress? Gotham Good Will?”

Harley swatted a shoot of ivy away from her head, her eyebrows furrowing. Her blond waves, loose and cascading to her mid back, shook as she seethed. “You’re normally a lot friendlier,” she said.

Ivy shrugged. “I’ve been out of Arkham for months now, toots. I don’t need to be friendly anymore. I have the only friends I’ll ever need, right here.” She cupped a rose and grinned at it. Harley rose an eyebrow but said nothing. “Please, take your favor solicitations somewhere else. Did Mister J refuse to have sex with you again? Might one of my love potions help?”

Harley opened her mouth to tell Ivy that she wouldn’t ever let Mister J touch her again, then paused. “Love potion? Ivy, that’s exactly what I need!” She moved forward to hug the pea tinted woman. Ivy drew back as if burnt.

“I’m sure,” she said, once again casting an eye at the boots. She did not see the bruises on her old companion’s neck carefully camouflaged by Covergirl. “What are you going to give me for it?” She stroked the rose with a silky finger. The rose nuzzled the pads of her finger and seemed to sigh in content.

“I don’t have any money, Ivy.” The blond spread her hands out, palms facing the greenhouse ceiling.

“Obviously.” Ivy gently nudged the rose away and turned her attention to a dragon tree in need of watering. “Is the Joker holding out on you, in more than one way?”

Harley spat.

“Watch the ferns! Christ, Harley!” Ivy threw Harley a venomous look and gently stroked the spit drenched ferns. Using a spray bottle, she misted the spit off of them. “My babies. All better,” she cooed and smiled at the palm tree sized fern leaves.

“I have nothing to give you, Ivy. I’m just asking for a favor. As a friend.” Harley gave her a smile, her best smile, her lips spreading so wide that she felt her face might crack.

“Convincing,” Ivy said. “Like I said, I don’t do friendly anymore. I don’t need people.”

Harley rolled her eyes. “Is this because He Who Shall Not Be Named went back to the Asylum? Jeez, Ive, get a grip. He’s just a dumb guy!”

“Croc — I mean, he is not just a dumb guy.” Her brows jutted down again. “Not that he matters. I meant that I have my babies to take care of, and I care for nothing else. I don’t care about your problems and I certainly don’t care about him.” She sniffed. “And you should talk! Clinging to that freakshow for how long now? Even though all he ever does is talk down to you and boss you around! I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he beat the snot out of you. You’d deserve it, you know. Anyone who puts up with any kind of abuse deserves it.” Ivy turned away from Harley to attend to a sprout poking its head out of the dark brown earth.

Fat tears pooled in Harley’s eyes. “I did not deserve it,” she said softly.

“But let’s see, what can you do for me?” Ivy bent down and nuzzled the sprout with her cheek. “Grow, my little dear,” she said to the sprout. “There isn’t a plant on this Earth that I don’t have already,” she continued, turning back to Harley, who wiped away her tears. “And I don’t care about people or men, nor do I care about money. The City of Gotham gives me what energy I need to keep this greenhouse running, in return for my care of the city’s landscaping. I’m afraid there is nothing I need,” she said.

“Ivy, please! Having your kiss potion is as important as having oxygen to breathe! I need it!”

“For what? In a few days, Mister J will welcome you back to his bed, after he’s done brooding about whatever bank he didn’t get to properly rob or whatever Batman killing plan he fucked up.”

“That! Batman! I’m going to kill Batman. For J. And Ivy, this would benefit you, too!” Harley squealed as her plan bloomed before her eyes. Ivy couldn’t say no to getting rid of the Batman. He had locked her up in Arkham countless times. It was mostly his fault that Croc was back in Arkham.

Ivy waved a hand in front of Harley’s face. “Hello? Harley? What do I care whether Batman lives or dies?”

“Because,” Harley said. “If Batman is dead, then we can break Croc out. He’d never get locked up again! It’s brilliant, Ive!”

The redhead laughed. “You are going to kiss the Batman? For that delusion of grandeur, I’ll give you my potion. I finally found a way to brew my kisses so that anyone who drinks it can kiss with the same effect. One kiss, and the Joker will be smitten!”

“I’m not using it on him, Ivy,” she sneered.

“Sure, sure.” Ivy waved a hand dismissively. “If you really do use this on Batman, I’ll let you have it for free. Otherwise, I’ll expect a full payment when you and Joker get back to robbing banks again.” She rubbed her chin. “Although, as I said, I really don’t need money…”

Harley snatched the potion bottle from her hand before she could change her mind. “Thanks, Ive. I’ll bring you the Batman when I’m done with him.” She hurried out of the greenhouse, closing the door tightly behind her for fear of one of Ivy’s ivy plants grabbing her ankles and dragging her back in.

The green gardener watched her go. “Imagine if she really did it,” she said to the flora around her. She snorted. “I’d better not waste my time.”

Please leave me some feedback in the comments below! I want to post a polished version on FanFiction.net soon. Also, any predictions? What do you think Harley is up to?

I wish the holidays were over already. Aside from being super stressed out about projects for clients, and worrying like crazy about Popi, I’m now barely going to see Mike on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

In years past, Toys R Us closed at like 6 on Christmas Eve and wasn’t open at all on Christmas Day. This year, they’re still closed on Christmas Day, but they’re open until 8 on Christmas Eve. Scratch that, as of today; Corporate sent an email at the last possible fucking minute and told everyone that they’d be open until 9.

What. The. Fuck.

Why does this matter?

Let me back up. Initially, Mike was scheduled until 8. He was trying to find someone to switch with so he could come over my house and have dinner with Noni, Popi, Biz Noni, Mom, Dad, Lauren, Aunt Wendy, Uncle Lonny, and I, but couldn’t, so he was going to see if he could just leave early because they will probably be dead. Now that they’re going to be open until 9, his boss asked him to stay until they close.

And he agreed.

Trust me when I say he already knows how pissed I am about this.

I understand why he’s doing it. Right now, he’s on great terms with his boss and the district manager, and he really wants to keep those relationships positive in case any higher positions open up. I get that. But still, I had a perfect picture of how Christmas would go, and now it’s just not going to be like that. I can’t help but be selfish and want to have things go my way. So much has not gone my way these last couple of years: my own health, my grandfather’s health, my living situation… I know I should just shut the fuck up and be grateful for what I’ve got. I know that. So many other people have it worse. It just feels like I’ve had a shitty line of luck lately and I guess I was depending on the holidays to be perfect so it could all be better.

To make things worse, I have a huge project deadline for the end of the month that can bleed into the first week of January because of some crazy server issues, but the deadline is making me nauseous because with all of the holiday shit going on, I have barely had time to work on it. Add a whole lot of lack of motivation, and I’m pretty fucked. Fuck you, depression. You’re such a greedy asshole.

So it’s no wonder that I’ve (sort of) picked up smoking again. I made sure not to buy myself a lighter tonight when I picked up a pack of Marlboro Lights. I’ve only had one so far. I don’t feel like I need one now, which is good, I guess. Right now, it’s either smoke or kill someone. Or run away to Florida.

It’s hard to get in the holiday spirit when so much shit is all fucked up. I miss being a little kid, and having only one worry this time of year: Santa not knowing that I really want a Gigapet, or whatever toy. (One year, I asked him every night before bed during this season to bring me a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup. No lie. My love of Reeses started early.)

This year, Santa, all I want is to feel better. Actually, scratch that. I just want everything to go back to the way it was in mid November, when everything was better. When Daddy didn’t lash out every five seconds because he is hurting so badly inside. When I would go to the Barnes and Noble Cafe every afternoon to write with a Pumpkin Spice Latte at my side. When we looked forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas, not a care in the world. When I thought Popi might just have arthritis or a sciatic nerve problem, or something FIXABLE, dammit.

Right now, it feels like nothing in my life is fixable. I feel like I have no friends. I feel like I can’t rant too much to Mike because he is already stressed out enough and I know that by whining that he has to work late tomorrow night, I’m only making it worse. I feel like I have to walk on eggshells around my whole family, because I don’t want to say out loud that shit, I don’t believe in god so I have no fucking clue where my grandfather is going to go when he dies.

Fuck.

There it is, guys. There it fucking is.

You might have guessed by now that I am virtually religionless. For the most part, it doesn’t bother me. During the holidays, I celebrate the time I get to spend with my family and loved ones. I look at the Christmas season (that’s what my family celebrates, so that’s what I call it) as a time for sharing the love with your family and showing appreciation for them. Some people might be bothered by this, but whatever. It’s the way I feel and it doesn’t hurt anyone. (I even hold hands while the rest of the family says grace. It’s not a big deal for me.)

I was baptized Protestant and raised with a looser version of the religion my Mom was raised with. Dad’s family is Catholic and pretty much sticks to a looser, more relaxed version of Catholic tradition: no meat on Christmas Eve, but they don’t walk around swatting people on the head with Bibles, nor do they go to church. (Not to say that Catholics swat people with books. Or maybe some of them do. I know my 8th grade substitute teacher was always close!) My mom’s side of the family is even more relaxed. They’re Protestant, I guess, though now I think my mom’s sister, my Aunt Rikki, is more Catholic because her husband is Catholic and I’m pretty sure they baptized Katarina Catholic. (And I’m pretty sure my other aunt, Aunt Elyne, and her daughter Kate don’t celebrate any religion, either. But anyway.)

You’d think, surrounded by all of this religion, as relaxed as it is, that I would be more religious. I honestly have just never “felt” it. I experimented a little, as a kid. I looked into different religions and tried to find my niche, but nothing ever fit. I just don’t feel the presence that so many people say they feel. And that’s okay. It’s okay for you to feel it and it’s okay for me not to, as long as neither of us tries to force our beliefs on the other.

So during the holiday season, I wrap gifts for the people I love putting that love as my sole focus. I am like a kid waiting for Santa, I’m so excited to give people their gifts. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited about the gifts I’ll get, too, but it’s more important for me to give. And boy do I give. Every year I try to budget and every year I end up going over. Whoops. Even though my checkbook is not thrilled, I am thrilled to see the looks on everyone’s faces when they open their gifts this year, the gifts that I handpicked to show my appreciation. To say, I love you.

And don’t mistake me for putting it all into a material perspective; I’d be fine without giving or receiving gifts. I just look at it as a time of year to share love.

That’s what my holiday season is all about.

I am not doing too well.

I’ve spent the last two weeks in a fog, kind of just moving through the days. I’ve been a little better today but I can’t shake the feeling that this is only the eye of the storm.

In high school, the best parts of my days in shop (I went to a technical high school and spent my four years in Culinary Arts) were the mornings and afternoons. First thing in the morning, I would come in and fill a little bowl with chocolate chip cookie dough as it was being made by Chef I. He got so used to me snitching cookie dough that at one point he started having a bowl ready for me. (And then Chef Z and later Chef M tried to shut me down, but that’s another post for another day.)

After a day of cooking, we would eat together. If you worked on Faculty Range, in Bake Shop, or in the Dining Room, you got to eat the good stuff (as opposed to being on Cafeteria side, where you made lunch for the whole student body). My favorite thing to eat for lunch was a few slices of bread with butter and a big bowl of sauce. (And to think I stayed a size 3-5 throughout my high school career!)

I haven’t had homemade bread since.

This afternoon, while wandering around on Lifehacker at work, I found a post on making fresh-baked bread quickly and easily. I scribbled down the recipe — 6 cups of water, 3 tablespoons of salt, 3 tablespoons of yeast, and 13 cups of flour — on a Post-It and stuck it in my purse.

As soon as I got home, I set to it.

I split the recipe in half, since the Lifehacker post is for a one- to two-week supply of bread that you ideally bake a loaf every day. I dissolved 1 1/2 tbsp of yeast and 1 1/2 tbsp of salt in 3 cups of hot water (I remembered from Culinary that the hot water makes the difference).

Then I stirred in 6 1/2 cups of flour.

After the dough started to come together, I stripped off my rings and kneaded the dough with my hands. The scent of it was intoxicating.

When it reached the right consistency, I patted it into a neat little ball, scraped dough off of my fingers, and went to the sink to wash my hands. I didn’t get far before the urge to try some of the dough came over me. I pulled a little glob off of my left hand and popped it into my mouth. I knew instantly that I hadn’t fucked up the recipe; it had the perfect bread dough taste, with just the right amount of salt. I scraped as much dough off of my hands as I could and ate it before washing them, it was that good.

Then I put a towel over the bowl the way Noni always did when I watched her make dough and set it to rise.

If all goes well, I’ll have a nice hot slice of homemade bread with butter tomorrow morning before work with Noni, Popi, and Biz Noni. I might even put some grape jelly on it. My mouth just waters thinking about it, and my heart warms just a little bit.

That gaping hole is still there, but with little things like hot fresh bread and cards from my good friends online and off, it is a little less raw.

In my high school class, I was the token goth chick, complete with black beeswaxed hair, black lipstick, fishnet, and awesome knee high (platform) boots. Dir en grey (during their super crazy goth days) were my inspiration:

(By the way, “Hotarubi” is my all-time favorite Dir en grey song. I loved them until I met them after a concert and they completely ignored me. Douchebags.)

My favorite outfit involved straight-jacket pants — you know, the ones with tons of belts and buckles preventing you from running if, say, a crazed serial killer or rapist (or your high school science teacher) came after you. And a trenchcoat. Oh yeah, I couldn’t survive without the trenchcoat. (I still have lots of this wardrobe in storage. It’s going to be fun whenever I get to look at it all again.)

Anyway, most people were either afraid of me, talked a lot of shit about me, or were morbidly curious and talked to me on occasion. Mostly, they just couldn’t figure me out. Back then, that bugged me. Now I think it’s pretty cool. However, if they had known my biggest secret, they might not have been so scared.

At 15, I still played with Barbies.

Whoops, there goes my street cred.

My sister and I always played elaborate, daytime Emmy worthy games with our Barbies that would last weeks if we were careful. We both had great imaginations, and since there weren’t any kids in our neighborhood to play with we spent a lot of time inside together. We had a few cars, a plane, a limousine, and two campers, and TONS of dolls. There were the two hot twin Kens, my New Kids On the Block Ken, my hispanic Barbie, my African-American Barbie with the super cool short and veryvery curly hair, the hot blond Barbie who still smelled like the perfume she’d been sprayed with in the factory over ten years before, and a whole bunch more that I don’t really remember.

That was the last year that I really played with them, but I’ll always remember the good times Lauren and I had, spending the days of our childhood actually playing out the lives of the people we’d made up rather than just dressing and undressing our dolls.

Now I’m older and it’s not kosher to play with Barbies anymore, but I totally want to buy a Barbie and make my own Barbie of the Undead. Seriously. Click it. You know you want to.

What was your favorite toy as a kid? What are your best childhood memories of that toy? Share in the comments below!

(Full size on Flickr)