Me, moron.

I would tell you all about the pizza debacle last night, but Jaimie beat me to it. And her version of the story has the added benefit of being posted last night, while the story was still fresh and she was still buzzed. I love it when she doesn't use the backspace key.

Instead, I will immortalize my flakiness here on the 'net. If any of you didn't already know this (and if you don't, I'd have to question the sincerity of our relationship), flakiness is a natural element of my genetic make-up. I think my FQ (flakiness quota) test ranked me just above the level required for reasonable functionality in society. But with lots of dedication and lots of therapy, I can manage to lead a pretty normal life.

I'm using a bit of comically intentioned hyperbole here, of course, but seriously, there is an epic battle of Nature versus Nurture going on in my brain every day as I strive to be the kind of person who remembers appointments, birthdays, promises, obligations, and garbage day.

My memory seems the obvious culprit, but that's not quite accurate. I hardly ever forget these things. I just don't recall the information at the proper time.

I carry a calendar, I write things on my hands and arms, I start my day by scribbling notes and to-do lists. But every now and then (read: once a week at least), something falls through the cracks. Yesterday, it was the fact that I was supposed to be on the worship team at church. I had known this since the week before. I wrote it down in my calendar, which I neglected to check. Kristie sent me a reminder e-mail, to an address I check pretty frequently but did not check on Friday or Saturday.

I got a voice message at 10:05 a.m (pre-service practice started at 9:15). It was Kristie in her sweet, sweet, non-judgmental voice saying, "Hey Liz, we're at the church. Just wondering if you forgot about playing this morning or decided not to."

The string of curses that began violently spewing from my mouth at that moment would make a sailor blush. I think it really did make Chris blush. Somewhere in the back of my head, my subconscious was chuckling at the fact that here I was, grabbing my guitar and my purse, cursing like you'd need a tape recorder to believe, on my way to church. To lead worship. Yeah. Irony? I don't know. But damn funny.

So I fly to church, taking out my frustrations on the steering wheel and driver's side door. And I run inside and drop everything and prostrate myself before Zach screaming, "I'm sorry I'm retarded!" And he laughs and laughs. And everyone is in such a good mood and all is forgiven and Zach, sometimes I wonder if you ask me to do things like this because you find it so damn funny. YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO LAUGH AT HANDICAPPED PEOPLE! DIDN'T ANYONE EVER TEACH YOU THAT?!?

I kid. I'm glad there was laughing. I'm glad I didn't massacre the mood. I'm glad we all had an awesome time up there and that my tardiness seemed to fit with the overall theme of the service. In fact, absenteeism and flying-by-the-seat-of-the-pants was the theme of the whole day.

Maybe someday, when I'm feeling like sharing with you just how insanely flaky I am, I'll tell you the story about the time I kidnapped the stage.