Archives for February 2011

Fake-iversary: part two


Did you miss Monday’s Fake-iversary Part One? This might make more sense if you catch up over there first. Trust me, you don’t want to miss that hot mess. I talk about awkward teenage love and stalking. 
There’s something about talking on the telephone with a friend you haven’t seen in twelve years.

It’s called confusion.

You’re confused because you have a tenuous grasp on what this person looks like now, but your mind only has a picture, sent via email, to process. What does this man look like when he isn’t turned at a 23 degree angle to the camera? More importantly, does his backside still look good after all these years?

Over a few long phone calls, we bridged old adolescent love to a new adult spark.

He asked to come visit.

(Hmmm…. just a few weeks ago, you admitted that you looked me up multiple times over a twelve-year span and now you want to fly all the way from Miami to Los Angeles to visit. I’d better be careful and guard my heart like the responsible, levelheaded adult I am.)

“Sure, I’m free a week from next Tuesday. Come on over.”

(Just because he’s here to visit does not mean I have to spend all of my time with him. He has other friends here in Los Angeles. We can keep it casual and fun. I will play hard-to-get. I have an interesting and full life. I am a busy woman.)

We spent every day over the next week together.

A week after he arrived, I had already gotten ready for bed when he came over and we stayed up late, talking and revealing things that two people who like each other, but hardly know each other, tend to reveal. During a lull in the conversation, he took my hand and smiled. I smiled back. He obviously took that as a good sign, because he asked me to marry him.

(NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Not in my Tweety Bird nightgown. Press the pause button. Let me change into something beautiful and give me a chance to throw on some lip gloss.)

I said “yes.” His impeccable timing and forethought won me over.

Just a week and a half later, we said our “I Do’s” in Las Vegas with Elvis crooning next door. I left the chapel with a shiny new husband and a ceremony video, skillfully shot so that fully three of the fourteen minutes showed me primping and checking my teeth in the back room mirror before I walked down the aisle.

Has this ever happened to you?

Me: (elated) I can’t believe I’m married!

Friend: ………..

Me: Hello?

Friend: …… I wasn’t aware that you were dating anybody.

Imagine that conversation again, but this time, replace the friend with your own mother, and in this make-believe scenario, make sure she doesn’t have a firm hold on the English language. And pretend that she misunderstood “married” for some girlfriend “Mary” who was visiting you, and didn’t think anything until you showed up at her doorstep… with your husband… whom you married in Vegas… after an eighteen-day courtship.

Continue to imagine the fodder this gives your mother, who is still coming to grips with your teen pregnancy seven years earlier.

You’d agree to have another wedding, just to appease this make-believe mother, wouldn’t you?

I thought so.

It worked out. Now, I get two wedding anniversaries. The “real” one in September and the “fake-iversary” in October. I still expect gifts for both.
photo via

Monday Dare: Fake-iversary: part one

Every Monday, I’m picking from the List of Things to Do, Places to Go, Possible Acts that Help and Possible Fun to Have. It’s a list I made before The Project started and I’m still adding to it. If you have suggestions, please feel free to throw them my way. I’m calling the list my Monday Dares, as I get overwhelmed just looking at the words “challenge” or “goal.”

This week: Celebrate a love a story. (p.s. originally posted a long-ass time ago, I took it down afterwards but wanted to share it again because it’s Valentine’s Day, and I totally buy into this commercial holiday like the true sucker that I am. Hey, at least I’m self-aware.)
Every summer during high school, I went to sleepaway debate camp for weeks at a time and I enjoyed it immensely. Like, I waited with bated breath all year long and counted the days ’til I could board the bus, car or plane that would take me to my magical wonderland.

Trips to Paris with the French Club? Hell to the no! Not when I could spend my summers in stuffy libraries in Waco, Texas or Iowa City, Iowa. And, let’s not forget Lawton, Oklahoma.

That’s where I met Harv, at a debate camp in Lawton, Oklahoma. I was 14; he was 17.

Tall, skinny and sporting a slightly cooler version of a bowl cut, he made my little debater heart skip a beat every time he offered me a fresh legal pad or a gel-rolling pen. I had never met anyone that could pull off the black high-top sneaker and black sock combo in the middle of a scorching summer like he could.

It’s a shame our young love couldn’t survive the barriers of 1995. Long distance calling from a land line cost 35 cents a minute and we lived hundreds of miles apart. We exchanged a few letters and then we lost touch.

Fast forward to 2007.

God bless Myspace. That and Harv’s persistence. He claims that he casually looked three other times during the 12 years we lost touch before he stumbled onto my Myspace profile. A repeat search doesn’t sound that casual to me. Either you’re a stalker or I’m incredibly amazing and unforgettable. I choose to believe the latter, because it’s true.

I opened a message in my inbox to find this:

I found your profile randomly, 
and you look eerily similar to a Liz I knew way back during the high school days. 
If debate camp rings a bell, write me back and I’d love to catch up.

To this, I simply replied:


I like to play hard-to-get. It’s the lady in me.

We exchanged current pictures. He sent a shot taken during a celebratory dinner right after business school graduation. I sent a picture that a friend snapped while I was dancing at a club in a short black dress with my hands in the air.

I enjoyed all the little quirky things about him: He had never been in trouble with the law. He could read AND write. He knew how to pronounce quiche (don’t ask). He didn’t live with his parents.

In other words, he seemed decent and that made me suspicious.

Part 2 coming later this week. In the meantime, want to tell me about the quirky places you met your current (or former) Valentine?

photo via Blue Q