Archive for the ‘Random Stories’ Category

Shocking Evidence Proves Liz is Not a Mutant

Sunday, March 6th, 2011

Energetic. Electrifying. A highly charged bundle of positive energy. I suppose you could say I am all of those things. But most of all, I’m shocking.

I’m not shocking in a “Hey, Father Flanigan, did you hear the one about the lesbian, the prostitute and the pedophile?” sort of way. Well, okay, so I have been known to tell an off-color joke or two in the presence of clergy. But, in my defense, nuns hardly ever wear habits anymore! How was I supposed to know Sister Malone was a nun? I mean, I thought ‘Sister’ was an odd first name, but hey, if some Egyptian guy can name his kid ‘Facebook,’ who’s to say someone couldn’t name a child ‘Sister’ or ‘Brother’? And besides, Sister Malone was three sheets to the wind, shouting “Beer bong! Beer bong!” as she danced on top of the bar. So, I’m totally, almost 90%, at least 50% sure I won’t be going to hell for telling a dirty joke to a drunken nun.

But that’s straying off topic, and we really should get back to me and why I am so energetic, electrifying, overflowing with positive energy and above all else, shocking! How is it that I’m so shocking? You wonder. Okay, well, maybe you’re not actually wondering that. In fact, I’m fairly certain that you’re wondering why I think you might think this particular blog entry is of any interest whatsoever to you. You are probably in the midst of a deeply stretched yawn as you read this, and pondering what you should do about dinner. ‘Hmmm…Should I make hamburgers or meatballs?’ you wonder.

More than likely, if you’ve managed to read this far, your mind is reeling with questions such as, ‘What the hell is wrong with Liz? Why is she always writing about herself? Energetic, electrifying? Sheesh! Who the hell does she think she is, anyway? It’s always all about Liz. Liz, Liz, Liz, Liz, Liz … Oh, sure, occasionally, she’ll spice things up with a story about a bank-robbing grandma, or going on a date with a transsexual, or something kooky like that… But, really! What is all this crap about her being so shocking? And why should I care? And, how the hell does she know what I’m thinking right now, anyway? Damn, I forgot to buy pickles. Oh, well, I guess I’m making meatballs tonight. How does Liz know I forgot to buy pickles? She’s a friggin’ freak! That’s how she knows! Aw, heck, I probably shouldn’t be so judgmental. I mean, after all, it IS Liz’s blog I’m reading. And isn’t a blog short for web-log, which by nature should be all about the person who’s blogging, and not about streaming stories from other blogs about Charlie Sheen? Come to think of it, Charlie Sheen is a much bigger freak than Liz could ever be. At least Liz isn’t claiming to have a 10,000-year-old brain and the boogers of a 7-year-old, like Charlie Sheen did on that Piers Morgan show. So, I suppose I should just continue reading to find out why Liz thinks she is so shocking, even if she is a little weird, but much less weird than Charlie Sheen. Do I have any parmesan cheese for my meatballs?’


Playing With Dough

Monday, March 29th, 2010

My friend Joel and I recently had lunch in New York’s Chinatown. We dined at a Malaysian restaurant on Grand Street called Nyonya. I should say that this location may actually be considered Little Italy. But only because I love the clumsy way the words ‘Little Italy’ roll off the tongue. Attempt to say them quickly, three times, and you’ve got me laughing — littleittle-eee-littleittle-eee-littleittle-eee. Okay, so, I’m often amused by the simplest of thoughts. I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad trait, but I’m almost always playing some little mental game, if just to make the ordinary, mundane aspects of life just a tad bit more interesting for myself.

Joel had been wanting to try this particular place, but the restaurant is usually so crowded, it’s practically impossible to get seated without actually skipping a meal. This time, we had good luck, and scored a table directly in front of the main window. Joel ordered the fish head soup (dining on odd animal appendages represents just a smidgeon of Joel’s overall charm), while I ordered some spicy noodles with chicken. Joel raved about his floating fish heads, and I was quite content with my chicken, especially thankful when it arrived without eyeballs.


Caroling Advice: Stick With Silent Night

Wednesday, December 9th, 2009

by Liz von Achen

Tis the season to deck the halls and be jolly, bake cookies, buy presents, don gay apparel and party. It’s also the season for giving. Not just to those we know and love, but to those in the community who may be in need of some uplifting holiday cheer.

Since parting with my ‘diverse’ community chorus in Florida, I’ve been jonesing to perform. It’s the holiday season when we would sing at local festivals, nursing homes, etc., that I miss most. There’s nothing quite like seeing your audience joyfully singing and clapping along to give you a warm, winter-fuzzy feeling. Music is magical. It’s a simple gift, but when you share it with others who truly appreciate it, and smile and applaud in return, well; it becomes a very beautiful thing. It’s why we sing.

So, when I got the 411 that my sister’s church in Ohio was planning their annual Christmas caroling outreach, I jumped right on that bandwagon. My niece Veronica carols with the church every year, and I thought it would be really nice to share this experience with her. (more…)


I Eat My Words, Nebraska

Thursday, November 12th, 2009
Lincoln's Historic Haymarket

Lincoln's Historic Haymarket District

by Liz von Achen

Previously, I mentioned that the state of Nebraska smells like manure. In truth, much of the state DOES smell like cow dung, especially at rural rest stops on the I-80 corridor. But after taking a day trip into the city of Lincoln, I developed a whole new appreciation for Nebraska’s fertile aroma.

Lincoln, Nebraska is a great big little city, with some damn good tasting beef. Following easy, idiot-proof signs to ‘tourist information,’ I found the Lincoln Visitors Center in the old railroad station at the Historic Haymarket. This is a section of Lincoln that was the original town market-square, where in the 1860′s, wagons, equipment, hay and whatever else people needed (I don’t know; pies? petticoats?) were bought and sold.

I was a bit surprised at how many tourism brochures the center had. ‘You mean Nebraska actually has something to offer besides corn fields and smelly cows?’ I wondered. As a matter of fact there’s a lot more to Nebraska than meets the nose. And Lincoln was the perfect city to prove it to me.

A friend had mentioned that Nebraska was famous for its bar-b-que and its beef. Omaha Steak, anyone? So, duh-uh… as long as I was in this neck of the plains, I figured I should try some of its beef. Not in the mood to bite into a whole cow, I set my sights on a burger, and on a burger-quest I went.


The 3-Way

Monday, August 17th, 2009

by Liz von Achen

Last week, I went to fetch my mail at the UPS store. I got out of my car, and walked towards the store. A young man was standing in front. As I approached, he was looking right at me, checking me-out. As I neared, I saw he was now looking right into my eyes. My “runner” mentality tells me that when someone looks into your eyes, you should acknowledge them, and nod or say hello. Those who avert eye contact just want to be left alone. So, in this case, I met his gaze, smiled, and said hello as I got closer. We were still engaged in direct eye contact when he asked, “So, do you want to do a 3-way transition with me?”

I was like; “Huh?” A slew of thoughts ran through my mind, such as; “Did this guy just ask me to do a 3-some? Is a ’3-way transition’ some new sex term I don’t know about? Does it involve my body being somehow hoisted or contorted in an unnatural position?”

I only had a split second to react, and in hindsight, I wish I could have come up with something clever such as, “Can we have a few drinks first to see if we click?” But, the best response I could come up with on such short notice was;


He then pointed to a little piece of plastic attached to his left ear and said; “I’m on the phone.”

© 2009 Liz von achen All rights reserved.


Elton John Or Bust(ed)

Sunday, June 14th, 2009

by Liz von Achen

When I was a teenager, I LOVED Elton John. I kept close track of his record release dates, and I just couldn’t wait to run down to the music store to spend my baby-sitting money on his latest album. As much as I loved Elton John, I never had the opportunity to actually see him live in concert until I was in my mid-thirties.

It was a Saturday morning. I was supposed to get up early. Knowing that I lived in a completely different time zone than the rest of the universe, my friend Nancy thought it best if she came up with a plan. And the plan was: Nancy and I would promptly meet at the ticket outlet to strategically place ourselves in good “lottery” positions. If one of us could be among the first 10 in line, and the other among the next 10, odds would be fair that we’d get good tickets for the upcoming Elton John concert.

It was a simple enough plan. And I should have been on my 2nd cup of coffee and ready for battle by 8 a.m. Instead, a late night out at a Fort Lauderdale Blues club left me comatose, oblivious to the blare of my alarm clock, which incidentally is loud enough to be heard (I am told), from a little tiki hut somewhere on the coast of New Guinea.

At 8:45 a.m., I leaned over to push the snooze just one more time before remembering the plan. Curse words loud enough to send my dog seeking cover ensued. “The plan! Oh, my God, the plan! Nancy’s gonna hate me!”

Frantic, I threw on the same pair of jeans I wore the night before – they were heaped near my bed. No time to journey into the closet. I grabbed a big old guy’s denim shirt (that I normally reserved for yard work) and buttoned it while sliding my feet into sandals. I caught a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror as I ran out the door. I looked like crap. My entire body needed ironing. But, this was no time to be concerned about a trivial matter like personal hygiene. There were more important things at stake.

I jumped into my car and started heading east. They were supposed to be dispensing the lottery numbers at 9 a.m. That left me precisely 9 minutes to make the otherwise 20 minute trip.

I’m amazed that I even attempted this feat. And, I can’t say that I’m proud of it. In my own defense, all I can say is that people are prone to bizarre behavior when they venture into public without the benefits of a good morning shower.

I was making great time on the interstate, nearing my exit with a whole 3 minutes to spare. ‘Candle In The Wind’ was playing on the radio. I was feeling pretty good, singing along, not noticing the speedometer. Not noticing the state trooper’s car tailing me. Not noticing the red flashing light. Finally, noticing that ear splitting siren.

‘Aw, nuts!’ For a brief moment, I considered making him chase me to the ticket line. ‘Err, officer, could you be so kind as to arrest me after I snag these tickets?’ I thought about my sister’s famous tactic of playing dumb and lost, and bursting into tears. Once, it actually got her a police escort to a job interview!

Instead, I figured it would be wisest to just play it cool. I stopped.

“Please step out of the vehicle, with your license, registration, and proof of insurance,” he ordered over his loud speaker. I complied, walking back to his car with my paperwork. He briefly looked at my license, and then asked in a very police-like, authoritative voice, “Well, Miss van Arch-en, what seems to be the hurry today?”

I couldn’t think! Not having had even the tiniest sip of coffee, I simply wasn’t awake enough to conjure up an excuse that was even the slightest bit plausible. I heard myself saying that I was late for a “meeting,” and I immediately regretted it.

I winced as he eyed my grungy clothes and knotty hair. Looking extremely doubtful as to whether or not he was dealing with an escapee from the local loony bin, he asked, “What kind of meeting?”

I tried to imagine what kind of a meeting might require me to dress like a bag lady, but I simply couldn’t do it. So, I figured I might as well just tell him the truth.

“I’m supposed to mumble-mumble my mumble-mumble-mumble,” I answered.

“What!?” he demanded.

At that point, I completely caved. I could no longer withstand the intense interrogation. “Okay! I confess! I’m supposed to meet my friend to buy some concert tickets!” I cried out.

Oh, he was just soooo smug, that cop. “Well, young lady,” he said, “I think you ought to tell yer friend that you already got yer ticket!”

I just shook my head and smiled. ‘Touche, officer,’ I thought, ‘I set myself up for that one. Now, just gimme my friggin’ ticket and let me get the heck out of here, because in case you haven’t noticed, I’M IN A HURRY!’

He scribbled some stuff down on his little ticket pad, tore off a copy and handed it to me.

“Thank you very much!” I said in the most sarcastic voice I could manage.

Then I stormed back to my car, got in, and before starting the engine, I looked at the ticket. It said I was going 85 mph in a 55 mph zone. “85 miles per hour!” I screamed. “No way! Is he nuts?!”

I was livid. ‘Concert tickets, or no concert tickets, this is tyranny! A gross abuse of power! A travesty of justice, (and every other courtroom cliché I could think of)! And I’m not gonna take it! I’m gonna stand up for my rights! I’m not gonna let this guy bully me!’

I marched right back to his car and demanded to know what evidence he had to support his claim that I was going 85 miles per hour.

“I mean, look at my car,” I reasoned, pointing to the rusted heap of metal I owned at the time. “That old thing would fall apart if I went above 80! There’s no way I could’ve been going 85!”

“Oh, you were going more than 85,” he insisted.

“No way!” I argued.

“Yes, way,” he countered. “See this side mirror on my car, here? Well, while I was trying to keep up with you, this side mirror was shaking off its hinges! That’s how fast you were going!”

“Oh! Well then! That proves it! ” I was on a mad sarcastic roll. “That proves it! Your mirror was shaking, so that proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was going 85!” Johnny Cochran would’ve been proud.

I realized at that point, that the trooper wasn’t budging. So, I left him, saying, “Well, I guess I just have to accept this. But, it just isn’t fair!”

I kicked up a few good pieces of gravel on the way back to my car.

Then he got back onto his loud speaker, FOR THE ENTIRE WORLD TO HEAR, and shouted, “Young lady!! If you look closely at that slip of paper in your hand, you’ll notice that it’s only a WARNING citation! It’s not a REAL ticket! It won’t cost you a cent! But, if you really want to argue about it, how about I arrest you for disorderly conduct, and we can go and duke it out in court!!”

I sunk my head as deeply as possible into my shoulders, and did the backwards shuffle to my car, thanking him with a sheepish smile and a demure little wave. I drove 30 mph for the rest of the day, convinced that he would have every law enforcement official in the county on the look-out for me.

I missed the lottery. But Nancy managed to luck into a number four spot. And we did get the tickets.

Several weeks later on concert day, Nancy came up with another one of her “plans.” We were to leave from her house at 5:00 p.m. This would give us plenty of time to leisurely make the half hour drive, deal with the traffic, even do a little tail-gate-partying, and still guarantee we wouldn’t be late for the 8:30 show.

It was a really great concert, and we had a lot of fun. I know we’ll both treasure the memory for many years to come… I just can’t understand why Nancy’s still ticked off about missing the first three songs.

© 2009 Liz von Achen All rights reserved.


An Eye For An Eye

Sunday, April 19th, 2009

by Liz von Achen

OK, I’m supposed to be moving today. So, why am I blogging instead?

Well, it’s because I’m stuck indoors like a troll, with a severe allergy-attack (or perhaps an eye infection). Exposure to sunlight is out of the question, as it brings on excruciating pain to my right eye. Both nasal passages are dripping like a leaky faucet, and my right eye is bloodshot, swollen, and almost completely closed by a thread of dried up pus. Pus. Pus. It’s such a funny little word that somehow seems so vulgar when you hear or say it. According to Wikipedia, “Pus” is whitish-yellow, yellow or yellow-brown substance produced during inflammatory pyogenic bacterial infections.

So I guess that’s essentially what I’m suffering from today; an inflammatory pyogenic bacterial infection… thank you very much, Wikipedia. Now, what the #*@# does that mean? What is causing this inflammatory pyogenic bacterial infection? Is it a certain flower that may be blooming? If so, then why is only my right eye affected?

Is it due to a scratch on my cornea? If so, then why is my nose running? Is it because I’ve thriftily been wearing the same pair of contact lenses since the day John Lennon was shot? If so, then why is the right side of my mouth all puffy and sore?

Could it be a toothache? I have been in the midst of major dental work with Dr. Fink, my dentist, for years now. I NEVER seem to be done with dental, and frankly, I think Dr. Fink just can’t stand the thought of parting with me. I’m his perfect pet project. I’m his dental Eliza Doolittle.

Dr. Fink proudly shows-off the ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots he took of me on his cell phone to friends and colleagues. I’m not kidding. He told me ALL about the great compliments he was getting. Dr. Fink considers himself a “mouth maestro,” and I am his masterpiece. Unimpressed with his gloating, I just said, “Yeah, yeah… good for YOU. When can I eat solid foods again, doc? And, you better not post my ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots on the internet, or I’ll sue ya!”

No, I don’t think it could be a toothache, because then, (and now we’re back to square one) why does my right eye feel like somebody’s sticking tiny little pins into it?

Hmmmm… tiny little pins… I got it! It’s because of the “Haitian Voodoo” curse. Yes, that makes the most logical sense to me. You see, I am moving from an apartment complex that had once been inhabited by mostly Haitian immigrant families. The complex, which is located in “downtown” Fort Lauderdale (if there actually even is such a thing), was purchased by a new owner, and was “redeveloped” to appeal to people like me; people who insist upon living within walking distance to at least one museum and a good cup of cappuccino. All the Haitian families were forced-out by outrageous rent increases, and they were apparently not happy about it. I don’t blame them for being pissed. If I had known of the reality of this building’s sordid past, I would have considered moving elsewhere.

Before moving into the apartment, I did a Feng Shui cleansing with rose petals and holy water sprinkled on all the bare floors. My sister-in-law insisted that it was necessary to cleanse any negative energy that may be stuck there, and to ensure a happy and loving home. Apparently, the Feng Shui didn’t work. My unit has been plagued with one problem after another, ever since I moved in. It wasn’t until October of 2005, during the after-effects of Hurricane Wilma, that I learned why.

Hurricane Wilma blew into Fort Lauderdale like a freight train, and did some severe damage. It blew my bedroom window out, while I crouched in the “safe-spot” beneath the sofa cushions, which I had moved to the center of the apartment. When I ran to grab a Hefty bag and some duct tape to keep the incoming rain from soaking my bed, I saw (and heard) my wooden patio fence rip away from its posts and go rolling away down the street. It looked like a giant clunky tumbleweed. A pvc pipe that leads to the sprinkler system was also torn in two by the crushing wind. Water was gushing all over my patio from the main sprinkler line. It was, I must say, a terrifying and yet remarkably memorable moment.

I watched out my window as a brave but really, really dumb neighbor of mine ran out to try and stop the gushing flow of the sprinkler system by taping a plastic Publix shopping bag to the break in the line. Of course the bag just immediately filled with water and flew right off. ‘Nice going, genius.’, I thought… ‘You just risked your life in the midst of a deadly hurricane to make a friggin’ water balloon!’ Eventually, when the storm was reduced to a safe light rain, I went out and simply turned the sprinkler spigot to its “off” position. DUH!!!

After Wilma fully passed, we all cautiously exited our apartments to meet in the courtyard and assess the damages. Oddly, other than having a lack of power, none of the other units in my building were affected. My unit was the only one with a blown window and a disappearing fence. We were all without power and water. Well actually, we weren’t without water for very long. When word spread that I had the broken sprinkler line on my patio, and that we could turn it on and off at will, I quickly became the most popular gal in town. EVERYONE was stopping by to fill buckets of water so they could wash themselves and flush their toilets.

We were without power for weeks – I think it was 3 weeks, but it felt like months. During the first night of eerily quiet darkness, we brought chairs and a patio table to the front of the building, and we all joined together to share our candles, canned foods and the contents of our wine racks. While I had known all the other residents by name, our relationships were, in the past, relegated to a simple “hello, how are you?” in passing. This was the first time that I had actually gotten to hang-out with my neighbors and while the circumstances sucked, I found myself thoroughly enjoying the ‘adventure’ of it all.

James upstairs and I sort of became the ‘survival gurus’ of the bunch, and have since remained great friends. We were each remarkably well prepared for this emergency. James had a generator, and I had a charcoal grill, and my brother Tom — heading south to rescue us all, with a truck load of beer, wine, ice, and potato chips.

Yes, those were memorable evenings – sitting together in front of the grill, like scouts around a camp fire. It was then that I learned the lore of the “Haitian Voodoo” people… Apparently, while planting a garden, the couple in 102 discovered several curious little voodoo dolls buried in the ground behind their unit. While I thought it was a fascinating tale, I assumed Francisca in 102 was just yanking everyone’s chain, and playing the ole “Let’s put a flashlight under our chin and tell scary campfire stories” game. I really didn’t think there could be little voodoo dolls buried behind our units. And how silly to think they would actually mean anything!

But, now, it all makes perfect sense… it does. It’s just all WAY TOO coincidental to mean anything else — I’m moving out, and the “Voodoo People” are pissed that they won’t have me around to abuse anymore. So they are sticking pins into the eye of a voodoo doll that has reddish brown hair, pointed ears, a mole on her left butt cheek and a nice, cosmetically engineered smile. The “Voodoo People” are trying to interrupt my efforts to move!

Well, listen up, “Voodoo People!” I am loved by “Jesus,” I am surrounded by “White-Light,” and I am protected by the rule of “THREE” — what it is you do or wish for me, will return to thee — (with love, of course) times THREE!!! So, put THAT in your goat tail curry! I still have another full 10 days to move, and you WILL NOT stop me!!!

Hmmmmmm… hmmmmmmm… You know, I was just trying to pinpoint the exact moment that this allergic attack began, and I believe it was yesterday, immediately after I visited with my friend Joel, the right wing, gun-toting gas station attendant / poet who works at the nearby Shell. (Yes, he’s a gun-toting conservative who writes poetry in between ringing-up lottery tickets!) Apparently, writing poetry is a popular trend for people who work in gas station/convenience stores. Go figure.

Joel has been serving my needs for fuel and late-night essentials (such as wine or Haagan Daz) for years. He is my friend. While I declined his offer to take me for a ride on his vintage Harley to the Renaissance Fair, Joel never held it against me, and he actually used one of the tickets I gave him, to come see my singing group’s last show.

Throughout the years, I have witnessed Joel treating some customers (whom most convenience store clerks would quickly chase-away), with the utmost respect, and an incredible sense of kindness. I’ll never forget the time when I was standing at the counter, chatting with Joel about the idea of starting a ‘Gas Station Attendant Poetry’ web site. We were gonna call it ‘The Gas Station Guild.’

It was about 1 am, when a man walked in to buy a package of diapers. He plopped a hand-full of change on the counter, and when Joel spoke to him, it was obvious; the man didn’t know much English. I quickly moved to a distant part of the store and occupied myself by reading the ingredients of a bag of Fritos, because … well, because I’m actually a nice person, after all, and this man didn’t need me hovering by while he painstakingly tried to count loose change to buy his kid some diapers!

Joel kindly took control of the counting, and I could hear the final count. It was nowhere near the mark. The man was short by almost a dollar. Then I heard Joel say, “It’s OK… it’s OK… this is enough.” After the man left, and I returned to the counter to resume our chat, I saw Joel take money from his own pocket and put it into the register.

On my way to clear stuff from my old place, I noticed Joel’s truck parked at the Shell, so I popped in to buy a Coke, and bid him adieu — with promises to visit often.

I happened to be wearing my raggy “Philosopher Garden” t-shirt, which says on the front; “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. — (a quote by) Ghandi” When Joel saw it, he said, “Who said that? Ghandi? Bullshit. I don’t agree with THAT at all!” Oh, Joel, Joel, Joel… such a “closet-case-humanitarian!”

So… there I was, wearing a T-shirt that said “an eye for an eye…” saying goodbye to a guy who, under usual circumstances, I never would have come to know and regard as a friend. I was saying goodbye to a man who, for the past 5 or 6 years, I have seen and casually interacted with more frequently than ANY of my friends or family. I knew full well that unless I happened to be back in town for a special event, or a court appearance, I probably wouldn’t see him very often again, if at all.

It was when I got into my truck to drive away — THAT was the precise moment when my eye started to hurt.

I should’ve worn my “Hard Rock” T-shirt.

© 2009 Liz von achen All rights reserved.


Looking For Love In All The Wrong Myspaces

Friday, August 15th, 2008

by Liz von Achen

We were supposed to meet for the very first time at 7 pm, in front of the Hard Rock Restaurant at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino. I had an inkling that this guy may be a no-show, which is why I suggested this particular venue. I had my weekly $5 free play to drop in a machine, and 500 free player points added to my players account just for showing up. So I figured if I got stood-up, no big deal. I’d still have some other reason to be there, and something fun to do, which was a much better scenario than standing alone outside a Cheesecake Factory.

It was 6:45, and I was just entering the Hard Rock parking garage when I received his hastily composed text message. “cant mak it sorry.” I just laughed. “Coward,” I thought. “Couldn’t even phone.” Anyway, I went into the casino as planned, threw my free play in a lousy dollar machine, got my free points, and left.

When I got back home, I noticed the guy’s profile had completely disappeared from myspace. Poof. Gone. All the cutesy little comments he left on my page were completely gone, as well. Very strange. I tried phoning him, no answer. So strange. What the hell happened to him?

Of course, a series of vignettes begin to play in my mind. Maybe he was Baker-acted, carted off in a straight jacket, and his profile was deleted by order of court. Maybe he lied on his profile, and he’s actually 11 inches shorter than the 5′ 7″ he claimed, which, if I were in heels, would then put his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of my belly button. Yes, that’s it! He’s too intimidated to show-up and admit he lied about his height. Or, maybe he’s an international spy, called to suddenly go deep undercover in Prague to infiltrate a dangerous cell of terrorists… midget terrorists!

OR, maybe he’s actually married. Hmmmm. Yes, that seems the most feasible explanation for this bizarre behavior. He’s married, and his wife clues-in to his little plot to stray (or comes close to it). Uh-huh, I can see it now, wife comes home early, catches him wearing a clean shirt and reeking of the Brut cologne she gave him for Christmas. “Going somewhere?” she asks. He’s trapped. “Errrr, ugh, errrr…. ” He stutters for a while while racking his brain for a quick save. “Ummm… yeah, I’m going bowling with the guys.” (Hint: If he says “with the guys,” he means exactly the opposite.) Wife still has some doubts. She’s confused about the cologne. He explains, “Oh, errrr, ugh, errrr …. I just didn’t want to bother taking a shower, and I stunk pretty bad, so I just put some cologne on.” Knowing what a slob her husband is, she completely accepts this explanation.

‘Heh, heh… smooooooth… very smooooooooth. I’m the MASTER,’ he thinks to himself. Wife then calls out from the other room… “Honey, if it’s okay with you, while you’re bowling, I think I’ll go down to the Hard Rock Casino to play some slots.”

‘CRAP!!!’ He frantically sends a text message my way, then runs to make a quick deletion of his myspace profile, and all traces of his account. Yup. I am CERTAIN that must be EXACTLY what happened. I’m thinking now he probably didn’t even use his real name in his profile. Hmmmm. Yes, now that I really think about it, I’m sure his name probably isn’t actually “Mr. Wiggly.”

© 2009 Liz von achen All rights reserved.


Russian Bath House Butt Massage

Sunday, June 15th, 2008

by Liz von Achen

I mentioned the Russian Bath House in a previous post. My friend Charmaine had first introduced me to this Manhattan experience on one of my visits to NY last year. I was grateful for Charmaine’s hospitality, and I insisted on treating us both to a “special treatment.”

The Russian Bath House web site copy mentions something about having a Russian strong man “pound” you on the massage table. I thought, hmmmmmm… do I want to get “pounded” by some big, sweaty, hairy guy named Boris? The web site also states that it’s standard practice for them to work on the inner thigh, tochis, and chest area. They said if you feel shy about that, to let them know. Well, because of a great gig I once had with a resort on Bonaire, I have gotten many a massage treatment, and I am not shy about THAT, so I was really looking forward to some ass-cell rejuvenation.

I chose the Sea Salt Scrub, and Cha-cha chose the mud treatment. Lucky for us, we got a nice young, therapist with a sexy mediterranean accent, and long rock star hair. His name was Jordan (pronounced Shor-dannnnnn). Shor-dan worked us both in side-by-side treatment rooms, going back and forth in between phases. I could hear Charmaine ooooing, and ahhhhing, and practically having an orgasm, and I was a bit envious because Shor-dan just wasn’t making the magic happen for me.

At the end of our treatments, Charmaine had red hearts flying out of her head. “I LOVE him…. ” she cooed. “Wasn’t that great when he touched your butt?” she asked. I was shocked. “He massaged your butt?! He didn’t do mine! And, he touched your boobies, too? What the hell?”

Charmaine said, “Well, you know Liz, I really can’t blame him for assuming you might get upset if he touched your butt. Honestly, you just look more like someone who would be shy. You just don’t throw off good ‘massage-my-butt’ vibes.”
In other words, I look more like a woman who somehow got separated from her midwestern tour bus, and would get all uptight about a butt massage?

Anyway, at the end, after he realized that I was the one who was paying, and tipping, I guarantee you, next time, Shor-dan will be paying extra special attention to my “tochis.” Plus, just to be safe, I am going to get a tattoo near the tip of my spine. A big arrow pointing down to my ass, with the words: “Rub here for good luck.”

© 2009 Liz von achen All rights reserved.


Liz and Louise At The Pump

Friday, May 16th, 2008

by Liz von Achen

It was Mother’s Day eve. I stopped at the RaceTrac station to fill my tank with gas. I popped my credit card into the pump and purchased $38 worth of fuel.

I printed the receipt, and was just about to get back into my vehicle when someone from inside the RaceTrac store got on the speaker, and said “Uhhh, Mam? Would you please come inside?” I looked around to see if there were any other “Mams” present, and concluded that the young woman on the loud speaker had to be talking to me. Still, I pointed to myself, in an inquiring gesture, just to be certain.

“Yes, you.” The young woman said rather solemnly. “Please come inside the store.”

I was still holding my credit card and receipt in hand as I walked towards the building. ‘What could she possibly want?’ I wondered. ‘Is it possible that somehow my credit card failed after the fact, and I’m over the limit, and have to pay cash?’ Lately, this would not be an unheard of scenario for me (and more than half the people I know!)

I then realized that I didn’t have $38 in cash on me, and if indeed my credit card had been declined, I would have no way to pay!

I briefly considered making a mad dash back to my car for a clean getaway. My mind was then filled with images of a high speed chase, with 3 or four police cars in pursuit and news choppers circling overhead. “Desperate woman in Fort Lauderdale pumps and runs. Film at 11.”

I then considered that $38 worth of gas these days probably wouldn’t get me further than ten or twelve miles, and my Thelma and Louise moment would be a very short-lived adventure, and just not worth going to jail for! Albeit, the international airport was literally just a few blocks away, but my passport had expired, and besides, if my credit card had failed, how the hell would I pay for a flight to asylum?

I decided that fleeing the scene was simply not a practical option. I needed to do the brave and honorable thing and confront the situation directly. Maybe the RaceTrac had some dirty dishes or toilets in the back I could scrub to pay my debt.

I entered the store. A young man was standing beside the young woman. They both looked to be in their early 20′s, very fit and strong. I was certainly no physical match for either of them.

‘Great.’ I thought. ‘They’ve probably already called the credit card police, and now they’re going to tag-team to try to stall me.’ I held my receipt and card out to the young woman.

“It says it went through fine,” I said with pleading eyes.

“Okaaaaaaay, I’m sure it did…” she said quizzically as she handed me a pink plastic travel mug with the word Mom written in script on the front side.

“I just wanted to give you this present and wish you a Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Oh, thank GOD!” I sighed, my eyes filling with tears as I clutched the precious mug to my chest. “You have NO idea how much this means to me!”

Both youngsters were now smiling broadly, and I was so relieved and touched, I just didn’t have the heart to tell them I wasn’t a mother!

© 2009 Liz von achen All rights reserved.