Christmas came early.

Because I know you've all been waiting with bated breath, my gift from the Something Store arrived today, and was every bit as magical as I'd hoped for.

In case you're wondering what this is, it's a beautiful bracelet by "Expressively Yours". Really, it should be called "Exclusively Yours" because it's quality is unsurpassed and has a very special message: "Love Grandmother Forever". And if that wasn't enough, it comes with a verse card that reads, "Everything a Grandmother does is always special and filled with love. The hand she holds, the tears she wipes endears her forever."

And all for the bargain price of just. ten. dollars.

Unbelievable, I know.

All about my mother.

This past weekend, my mother took me to a spa for a mother/daughter weekend. I mentioned my weekend plan to one of my friends on Friday and she jokingly (and deservedly) called me a spoiled brat. And I would normally agree with her except she doesn't know my mother.

Despite the fact I fully intend to make a fortune off stories about my mom one day, I realize my blog has been noticeably void of such tales. Mainly because, despite my mother's insistence that, "If you're gonna make fun of me, at least make some damn money off it so that you can prop me up in the lifestyle in which I plan to become accustomed," she both loves and hates the mockery I regularly heap upon her and out of respect for the hatred part of that equation, I've thus far left her alone.

Until now.

But before I get into this weekend, here's a quick tale that should provide some insight into the character that is my mother. Last year, I went to visit my cousin in Houston. When I arrived, he had a friend over who upon being introduced to me, asked my cousin, "Wait, is this Snatch's kid?"

I was still trying to get my head wrapped around this question when to my great surprise, my cousin replied, "Yup."

Not surprisingly, I had questions. Apparently my cousin had gone home to visit our family in Paris, TX, where my mother also lives. He'd taken his friend Natalie with him, and for reasons known only to God, she decided to get a bikini wax while there. I've received two bikini waxes in Paris, and I will only say that one almost required surgical intervention and both resulted in me being comped the initial wax in addition to receiving gift certificates to the salons where they were performed. It turns out Natalie's experience was pretty similar to my own, and afterward, she relayed her tales of pain and horror to my cousin who (in what had to have been the nastiest game of "telephone" ever) then shared them with his mother, who in turn shared them with my mom.

Later that night, my cousins and Natalie went to my mother's house for dinner. Upon meeting Natalie, my mom stuck out her hand and said, "Hi, you must be Natalie. How's your snatch?"

With that in mind and an additional side note that Mom just returned from getting a tummy tuck in Albuquerque, I'd like to share a few quotes from the weekend:

"This place smells like a giant fart." - My mother's comment upon entering the lobby of the resort.

"Would you like me to get you lipo for your 30th birthday? Actually, I should probably just give that to you regardless because it's my fault you have the fat cells you do. You know, when you were a baby they thought switching to cereal early was a good thing. But now they know it just makes you a fat grown-up." - She gives and she gives...

"Well, I mean you still look tall, if that's what you're asking." - This was her response following my horror at her suggestion of lipo for my birthday, and asking (via shrieking) if she really thought I needed it. It's also a reference to a comment she made my junior year of college that was met with an equal amount of horror, specifically, "Baby doll, you don't even look tall anymore."

"Dragon butt." - An exclamation that came out of nowhere while we were watching television in our hotel room. After asking what the hell she was talking about, she explained she wanted to clarify her "giant fart" sentiment from several hours earlier. The hotel did not, in fact, smell like a giant fart, but rather "dragon butt".

(pointing at the bra-style hooks in the crotch of her compression garment) "THIS is how you know a man designed this thing. Gettin' this thing unhooked to pee is a nightmare because he put all these little hooky things back by your butt. A woman would have known to stick 'em up by your twat." - Proof my mother's range of epithets for the female anatomy knows no boundary.

"Si." -Her response to a question asked of her in English by a man visiting from France.

Once back from the spa, our weekend concluded with a shopping trip to Costco, during which my mother raised an enormous box of tampons over her head like John Cusack in Say Anything and shouted, "Liz, are these yours???" as I had wandered off to look at the flat screens. And I might normally have been horrified by this, except by that point, she could have run the perimeter of the store shouting "Cooter! Cooter! Cooter!!!" at the top of her lungs and I wouldn't have been the slightest bit fazed.

A word to the wise.

Never Ped-Egg your feet while drunk. Just trust me on this.

What $10 won't get you.

This weekend, I found a curious website called somethingstore.com. For $10, they send you something in the mail. Could be anything. But, they are very clear on what it won't be, giving a detailed list of things they absolutely, under no circumstances - not even acts of God, won't send you. Below is just a sampling of things I won't be receiving from the Something Store:

Alcohol
This is a bit of a shame because I'm a lover of most all alcohol, but wine especially. Speaking of which, I found out yesterday that Wal-Mart is selling bottles of decently-rated wine for under $5!!! Save money, drink better.

Body Parts
Well there's a pisser. Oh wait, no it's not. Because according to the website, "body parts" also includes body fluids (as well as stem cells and embryos). So no severed feet or placentas for me. *sigh*

Drugs and drug paraphernalia
Lame, but okay.

Drug test circumvention aids
Okay, jesus, we get it. Just say no.

Endangered or regulated species
This should provide my roommate with at least some temporary relief, as I've been begging her to let me bring an Asiatic Cheetah home. This might have delayed me, but I shan't be deterred. *shakes fist at sky*

Gaming/Gambling
Note: Magic eight balls were not listed in this section. Which means there's still hope, kids.

Miracle cures
No worries. I've got a spiritual healer for that.

Precious materials
Um. I sent you $10. I'm not expecting diamonds, bitches.

Prescription drugs or pharmacies
As someone that shares a name with one of the greatest prescription drug addicts of all time, this one hurt a bit.

Regulated goods
This includes: "Air bags; batteries containing mercury; Freon or similar substances/refrigerants; chemical/industrial solvents; government uniforms; car titles; license plates; police badges and law enforcement equipment; lock-picking devices; medical devices; pesticides; postage meters; recalled items; slot machines; goods regulated by government or other agency specifications; explosives; hazardous materials; personal data protected under applicable data protection laws"

Ha! Postage meters!! Funny.

The rest of the "won't send" list was pretty lame. No cigarettes, radar detectors, brass knuckles, etc. But I appreciate them managing my expectations, nonetheless. Because $10 can buy a lot in this economy. A banana. A gallon of gas. Oh, and two bottles of Wal-Mart wine.

Andrew's Angels

Yesterday, I went to my second appointment with my new spiritual healer, Andrew*. (This is where the hippie part of "Debutante Hippie" comes into play.) Anyway, I've suffered from migraines all my life, and for those of you unfamiliar with this type of existence, you'd pretty much be willing to smear bird shit on your face if it would mean you'd never have another migraine. So when I heard about this guy, I figured it was worth a shot.

The first appointment had been pretty uneventful. I didn't really say all that much, mainly because I was curious and a little on edge. (Despite my obsession with the Lifetime program Lisa Williams: Life Among the Dead, I'm not really all that into supernatural shit.) But as I'd gone to my first appointment with a headache in progress and left ten minutes later without an ounce of pain, my curiosity had been piqued and I had some questions for ol' Andy.

Andrew the Healer is originally from Scotland and sounds like Mrs. Doubtfire. He even uses the word "wee" from time to time. He's very big on the energy in his meeting area being one of serenity and thus everything is set up to be calming. Sitar music, candles, soft lighting, etc. When you arrive there are usually several people strewn about in the waiting room with their eyes closed in deep meditation.

Which only makes the idea of me being in this type of environment all the more ridiculous, because I'm easily one of the most frantic people I know. I'm usually a whirlwind of insanity, rushing around, making even the dumbest things as complex as possible. I'm the world's worst meditator, as I immediately start thinking about stupid shit like errands I need to run, boys I like, or my frustration with owning a cat that has both allergies and acne. (Seriously, how I got stuck with the feline equivalent of a nerdy eighth grader is beyond me.)

On my first trip, I felt sort of guilty for disrupting his energy field. Yesterday, I didn't give a damn.

"Hello lovely Elizabeth, how are you today?"

"Tired and stressed," (I figured I'd be honest) "...and you?"

"I'm filled with bliss."

"Of course you are."

"Yes. But, you know, I'm always filled with bliss. Ever since the day I quit working from m'heed and started working from m' heart."

"Yes, well, it's probably very easy to be filled with bliss and work from your heart when you're not in advertising."

"Not really."

The fact my eyes were shut didn't keep me from rolling them. We talked a few seconds more about bliss when he put my hands on my head.

"Um, so how exactly did you get into all this healing stuff?" I asked.

"I was born with the ability."

"Yeah, but I mean, did you do any sort of training or whatnot for this?"

"I had a fifteen year apprenticeship with angels."

...

Ask a stupid (and arguably insulting) question, get a stupid (and arguably hilarious) answer.

I kept waiting for him to follow this comment up with some sort of clarification, but he didn't. So with his hands on my head and my feet on the floor (to keep me "grounded" during the healing), I pressed him.

"So how was that for you? The apprenticeship, that is."

"Oh, it was lovely."

"It never got annoying having a bunch...or a flock, maybe? are they called a flock?...anyway, a whatever of angels looking over your shoulder, pointing out where you're screwing up?"

"No no, they just guide me. Tell me how a person is suffering and what to do about it."

"Okaaay. So what do they tell you about me?"

"That you think too much with your heed and not enough with your heart, but that you're extremely pure of heart." I was trying very hard not to laugh at this, when Andrew actually broke into a fit of Scottish giggles. "They've...hee...just corrected me that...hee...you think a LOT with your heed and not with your heart."

And here's where my neurosis kicked in. My first thought was not, "Okay, this is officially a load of shit," but rather, "Wait, angels are mocking me? Seriously? What the hell did I ever do to them? But maybe they have a point? Shit, are they right? Shit. SHIT!!!"

"Oh, and they tell me you're having trouble with your female bits."

WHAT????

"Um, my female bits? What's wrong with my female bits??? Are they telling you?!!" It was in this moment of frenzy I realized I'd completely lost my mind.

"No, but no worries. We'll get you all sorted out today."

Oh, really, Andrew? I'm probably dying of cancer-of-the-everything-down-there and my cervix will no doubt fall out as I'm leaving this appointment today, but you're going to get me sorted out with your hands on m'heed???

"There. All done. May God bless you, lovely Elizabeth."

And because I'm that vain, when he called me "lovely" all was forgiven - the angelic mockery, the prophecy of cervical doom - and I left with a smile on my face...

...only after making an appointment for next week.

*Names have been changed to protect the holy.

Mike the Eagle

I feel it's worth mentioning that whenever I see Michael Chertoff on TV, I pretend he's Sam the Eagle from the Muppets. It's both entertaining, and the only way I've found to make Chertoff tolerable.

Similarly, it's immensely entertaining to read the Wikipedia article on Sam the Eagle, and pretend they're actually talking about Michael Chertoff.

"[He] acts as a censor and comments on his being under-appreciated. He often gives important lectures in which he complains about some liberal idea only to find himself forced to stop in embarrassment at risk of sounding like a hypocrite. On one occasion he gives a lecture about conservationism in which he reads a list of endangered animal species that he feels are the focus of misguided conservation efforts, only to sheepishly withdraw his statement when he realizes that his own species is included."

Rushing through judgment.

Overall, I'm an okay friend. But there are times when I'm an AMAZING friend and last night was one of those times.

My friend Cat asked me to sign-up for speed dating with her a couple of weeks ago. "Oh, come on, it'll be fun. It's at a wine bar! You love wine!" While I do love wine, the idea of drinking pinot seated across to the Andy Stitzers of the world wasn't the slightest bit appealing. But after several minutes of pleading, I gave in.

Which is how I found myself seated across a tiny man, in camo-print shirt wearing a nametag that announced him as "El Capitan".

"El Capitan? Seriously?" I asked as he sat down across from me following the chime of the bell. They'd given us a list of "starter questions" to ask our dates, but given he'd taken the time to scribble out his actual name and write "El Capitan" over it, "So what do you do?" didn't seem like the place to start.

"Yes," he answered and leaned in, "I am. El Capitan."

Oh yeah, well, I am "Senorita What-the-fuck-am-I-doing-here-and-did-you-really-wear-camo-for-this-and-is-that-a-full-liter-of-hair-gel-you've-got-there-holding-your-comb-over-in-place-or-could-it-possibly-be-a-gallon?"

I then asked him what he did and (I should have seen this coming) he replied, "I'm a male dancer."

Right.

I eventually learned he's in "hardware sales", though wouldn't share who he worked for. (Translation: He works at Home Depot.) Mercifully, I only had to speak to him for six minutes or I would have bought a buzz saw off him to kill myself with.

*ding*

Next up was Drunk John. Despite having only been there for 45 minutes or so, John had somehow managed to down four drinks prior to getting to my table. "Hi. I'm John. So when was the last time you were drunk? Like, really shitfaced..."

Impressive lead-in, John. I told him a story about being so drunk I threw a bowl of ramen noodles in my purse after my roommate had lovingly prepared them for me, citing, "I'm too drunk to eat ramen," as my excuse for doing so. "Ramen. Cool. So when was the last time you puked from drinking?...Really, you can't remember? Man, that's impressive. I puked just a couple of weeks ago."

*ding*

"Liz. Hi. I'm Brad, and you're tall. I like that." He was the best-looking guy there by a long shot, and I'd had high hopes for him when we first got there. But after he opened his mouth, I imagined that commercial from a couple years back where a guy pulls up in a Corvette and the license plate says "The Brad". He had an inherently icky quality to him. Very used car salesman. "Listen, Liz, I'd like to see you again. I'm at Whole Foods all the time. Maybe we can get coffee there next week."

"Uh...well, yeah, I guess we fill out a little form and then say whether or not we want to see each other again? Or something like that?"

"You know, we don't have to follow the rules here. You could just give me your number right now."

Um, how about instead I give you a bogus e-mail address??? Done and done.

*ding*

"BUT I WANTED TO HEAR ABOUT THAT HAMMOCK!"

That's how my "date" with Bill started. With him talk-shouting (Bill has volume issues) at his last date.

First, a sidebar: I have a freakish memory when it comes to names and faces. If I was standing in line behind you at the grocery store in 1985, chances are good that I remember you, what you were wearing that day, and that you thumbed through the National Enquirer, but didn't buy it. While many are often envious of this gift, many others are freaked out by it...particularly people that have no recollection of meeting me, when I remember multiple details about them. Thus, over the years, I've learned to fake it. For example if I meet a girl at a party, and she says, "Hi, I'm Jennifer. Nice to meet you," I respond with, "Nice to meet you, too," and NOT, "I know. Your last name is Johnson, you have an older sister named Molly, you were in my second grade home room, had a locker four down from mine, ate more boogers than anyone I'd ever seen, and had weekly meetings with the school counselor to discuss your parents divorce."

Which brings me back to Bill. I met Bill at a Christmas party two and a half years ago. I remember him specifically, because he spent the evening hitting on me and by the end of the night I was genuinely concerned I might have ruptured an eardrum. He was also the first black guy I'd ever met that could be classified as "smarmy", and that threw me a bit. Case in point, as he was sitting down, I said, "Hammock?"

"HA...YEAH, THE LAST GIRL I WAS TALKING TO WAS ABOUT TO TELL ME ABOUT A HAMMOCK SHE JUST BOUGHT, BUT THEN THE BELL RANG, SO I DIDN'T GET TO HEAR ABOUT IT. BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME, LET'S TALK ABOUT MEEEEEEE."

And so that we didn't have to talk about hiiiim, I decided to be completely creepy just to make sure I never had to risk shattering an eardrum again.

"Actually, I've met you before, Bill. At the Grinch Gala a couple of years ago. The one that was held at the bar that's now the Mohawk? You're an attorney, right? And like cigars. I remember that because there was a guy at that party rolling cigars, and we had a conversation about how my favorite cigars are cognac-dipped, and your favorite cigar is a Macanudo Vingage number 5."

Operation: Creep Out was a smashing success. And the irony of the situation was that Bill ended up hitting it off with this alcoholic that was one of only 100 girls in my high school graduating class. At the end of the night, she stumbled up to me and slurred, "Hi, I'm Cindy, nice tur meet you. A few orf us are gurring to dinner...wanna come?" And as I declined, I pretended I had no idea who she was.

Gross.

Um, so I just got back from a trip to the restroom. While I was in there, a girl in another stall was talking on the phone to a boy. She was giggling, saying "I love you....well, I love you more...nope, more than that...", etc.

WHO DOES THIS???

Seriously? I mean, okay, maaaaybe at home. Fine. But in the public toilet at work?

As I was walking back to my desk, I joined up in the hall with my friend Steve. I asked him if he's ever experienced anything like this in the men's room. According to him, this happens even more frequently in the men's room. AND, apparently the guys in our office are prone to taking reading materials in there and then just leaving them.

Am I the crazy one here? Am I insane for just wanting to go to the restroom, then wanting to leave right after? Are there a multitude of educational and social opportunities I'm missing out on because I don't enjoy hanging out in the restroom any longer than I have to?

Maybe next time I go, I'll play the kazoo while I pee. I'm not exactly sure what that will accomplish, but for some reason it sounds amusing.

Bless his drunken buttons.

One of the reasons I love being in advertising is you hear great tales like this:

A sound engineer we work with in LA apparently came into the studio one day and there was a bum passed out on the doorstep of the studio, sitting in his own vomit and piss. The engineer tried to wake up the bum, who groggily said he was supposed to be there. The engineer told him that he needed leave, and the bum argued that no, he was supposed to be there. After hearing him a second time, the engineer suddenly realized that the bum was in fact, Kelsey Grammer.

In not surprising news, Kelsey suffered a heart attack today.

Ick to the nth degree.

David Foster (pianist and producer extraordinaire) has confirmed that his 50 year-old sister, Jaymes, is pregnant with Clay Aiken's baby. Sources say Jaymes plans to name the baby Barry Manilow.

"Sex and the City": A synopsis.

For those of you that didn't make it to Sex and the City this weekend, here's what you missed. (Spoiler alert!!!)