You. Whoever you are. Again.

Well I came out of hiding over on Brianna's blog sometime last week. She asked her readers about their names, and since my name is not only cool and unique, but has a nice little (okay, really looong) story behind it, I decided to share.

And as of today, two hundred, eighty-nine of you have at least pit stopped here in the pursuit of something (ah-HA see what I did there?).

I have triple digit visitors!!! Woot-woot (little dance).

God I'm lame.

No I'm not. I'm excited! Now, no one's bothered to say anything, but that's okay. Nothing I say really warrants response, as in "Please, please, please, PLEASE do NOT respond to anything I have to say about David, puh-leeeeeeeeeze?" Unless, you know, I ask.

And to those of you lurking around, searching for the meaning of the "J," you won't find it here. My anonymity allows me to talk about my life without having to answer for it. So I've purposefully eliminated as much identifying material as possibly from this little corner of the web. I do promise to post an explanatory blog identifying the nicknames I employ. But there's no answer to the J question here.

If you really, really, really must know, like it's-killing-me must know, shoot me any email. I'll tell. There's little in this world I won't share about myself with others. You just have to ask.

My priorities.

So much happened last week (history, my 25th birthday, really deep moving thoughts about my relationship to my stillborn brother and my mother's acknowledgement of said brother, or lack thereof) and yet the ONLY thing I talked about for TWO weeks is my freaking idiot roommate and his unreciprocated (probably not a word) crush on me.

I hate that. I'm not a romance reader, and I vary rarely watch soap operas. As a matter of fact, I only go out of my way to watch one and it's been cancelled since 1989. AND the only reason I watch it is because it starred Kate Mulgrew for the first five years and I'm a humongous effing nerd.

And yet, somehow, my life is a teenage drama mongers dreamland. Double You. Tea. Eff.


My excuse for not catching up this week: sheer laziness. That's it. I only worked a few days this week, and spent the rest of my time devouring Dr. Who series 4 and Torchwood series 2 (awesome, FYI).

So my goal for this week, well next week because this week is over, is to blog about all the things I meant to blog about for the past two weeks.

And I promise, scouts' honor here, not to discuss Charlie Browne. Unless he does something blog worthy, but only the ONCE, I swear!

How gross I feel.

I feel sick and achy. Is it the food I ate or the sheer volume of DRAMA in my life right now?

Or is it the flu?

I don't have the time, money, nor inclination to have the flu right now.

Demons, come OUT!
(I'm sooo joking)

A reminder for Myself

Note to Self:

No matter how randy you may be, do not, under any circumstances, try to get snuggly with Charlie Browne, especially Drunk Charlie Browne. This is not only rude, but kinda bitchy. And you don't want to be that kind of tease.

AND there's always the possibility that Al Bundy could decided to leave his room and find Charlie Browne's hands up your back while you straddle his thigh on the edge of Charlie Browne's bed. This looks bad, regardless how many layers of clothing your each have on.

Note noted.

The name I've given Myself.

As seen in Brianna's comments section:

I'm named for my grandmother. I come from a large, Southern, French, Catholic family. Repeating names is a hobby we have. I was the four grandchild born and the fourth girl. According to my mother, my name was Melissa until the day I was born. Then, my dad had this brilliant idea to name me after my grandmother "because no one's done it yet." So, I left the hospital with this beautiful, difficult French name, off to live my life in equally beautiful Acadian Louisiana.

Until the age of three months, at which point my parents relocated to Houston, TX, the least "French" place on Earth. I spent the next eighteen-ish years educated the general population on the proper pronunciation of both my first and last names. I gave up in college and just went with Elizabeth, my middle and only remotely pronounceable moniker.

Now people have to ask what the J stands for, and honestly I like it. It make me even more intriguing (or maybe that's just the ego talking).

How to write a new post

Because MR. Peck wanted to learn how.

Tah-DAH.

Taking the initiative

Without going into too much detail (because it's 2 o'freaking clock in the morning), Charlie Browne just kissed me. A lame kiss, flat on the lips, like Dad insists on kissing me, or DW. All this after me drilling him to just "take the initiative."

I don't mind being the dude's life coach. I just don't want to tell him how to catch me! I shouldn't have to, I don't want to. That's like having a fish just jump into the boat once you're clear of the launch. No fun for you or the fish. He's too nice, and I know men are tired of hearing that. But yes, there is such a thing as too nice. Eh, maybe he's not too nice. Maybe he's too inhibited. No, he's definitely too inhibited, too afraid of rejection, too afraid of screwing it up.

(And, odd though it sounds, I want to march into his room right now and show him how to kiss a girl. Of course this present a whole new set of problems.)

Look at me. I said I wasn't going into too much detail, and low and behold...

Urgh.

Really I just wanted to get the thoughts down so I could expound upon them later.

I know, I know, I've got a lot of expounding to do.

(tee-hee.. oh shut up, it's funny.)

Oh, and he's obsessed with finding my blog! I told him if he could find it, he could read it. But there aren't many giveaways here, so good luck with that.

Good night... or good morning. Whatever. You're imaginary.

Freaking ex-boyfriends

I hate that they are happy and in relationships and content with their lives, and I'm not!

F.Y.I: Never friend an ex on Myspace. It will only piss you off (whoever your are).

The closest I have is a really sweet roommate who has a TOTAL crush on me.

Grrrrrrrrr. Aggression. Ill will. Feelings of utter stupidity.


(in another post, at another time, I'll expound on a.) how I have only myself to blame, and b.) how those boys weren't right for me anyway and we ALL effing know it.)

BLARGH!

You. Whoever you are.

My counter says 41 people have visited my blog since I put up said counter. I'm obsessive, but only about ten of those people are me.

So, who are you, Numbers 1-31? I know you're out there. I've been tracking you. Show yourself.

Please? With a cherry on top?

I know I rarely say anything meaningful, but I'm begging here. Yes, I'll beg. Often. Totally shameless, that's me.

Not that, you know, I have room to talk. I lurk all over the place. Hell, I think I've left a total of four comments, combined, on those blogs I follow on the list to the right, and that list is a drop in the pot compared to what I follow anonymously.

Alright, so I have lurkers. That's better than me talking to myself on cyberspace.

Score!

My sick need to check the social networking sites of friends

I was going to leave it as just "My sick need," but you can see how that would lead to problems, right?

(I just decided, for the thousandth time, that I hate my writing style. I should be more eloquent. Oh shut up and just type.)

I must be secretly masochistic. I surf the social networking (read: Myspace, Facebook) pages of friends and relatives, and become insanely jealous that I was not invited to be a part of the reverie, whatever it may be.

I could get into the psychiatrics of this, but I suddenly don't care anymore.

Maybe I'll expound the next time I'm feeling genuinely shitty about my life.

Blah.

My resolutions

Shape up (why should this year be different from every other year of my adult life?).

Fix my problem with "da Benjamins."

Blog at least once a week.

Meet Him. (No, not that Him. I'm not ready for Him. I mean Mr. Right.)

Become something meaningful.

Do something substantial.

Love myself a little better (So that He can love me at all).

Not break a heart.

Find patience.

Find happiness.

Not roll my eyes when someone (anyone) reads this and mentions my relationship with that Him.

Hone my wordsmithing skills. (Not a word, I know.)

All of my eggs

Every single last one?

Check.

One small, flimsy, not-up-to-the-challenge basket?

Check.

Miniature unicycle on fishing line suspended one hundred feet above solid concrete?

Check.

Inner ear infection and slight vertigo?

Check.


Awesome.

A Bonus little gem

Driving to Dallas to deposit Pooh at her newly detailed and repaired car, Ms. Hannigan desperately needed a fix. So we asked The Lady (read: Hannigan's new GPS toy) to find the nearest Starbucks (our familial drug of choice). The Lady obliged, sending us to Fairfield, fifty-ish miles up the road.

Twenty-five miles and countless "-ville"s and "-field"s later, Bonus asks, "What ville are we looking for again?"

Hilarity ensued.

WONK!

There. I said it. It's out of my system.

Moving on...

My list of things to never do again

Beer batter and deep fry onions and/or chicken at home.