Hmmm...

Just reading my past posts (because I don't have the balls/energy/creative juices-powers-wherewithal... ahh, who cares, fuck it) to come up with something new and I'm remembering my theory of "men" and first date movies....

First date movie with current GOI was Inglorious Bastards. (Which rocked, btw.)

Holy Fuck.

I'm. In. Trouble.

Love it, love it, love it.

Tee-hee. ;)

Serendipitous

Things come when you need them. Not necessarily when you want/crave/yearn/drool/beg for them, but when you truly need them. And lately, I've been in dire need of this:

"Keep writing Erin...I have enjoyed reading you since day 1...It is time for you to be the person you dream to be...it is not a dream...you are real."

Unbeknownst to me, someone has been reading me since day one. Really? Me? Sweet.

I know what I want to be "when I grow up." I know what I want to accomplish, what I want to see, do, touch and feel. I dream of the places I want to experience and the people I want to influence me and mark my life journey. I know there is so much out there, so much beyond the day-to-day minutia I get lost in and the fear that cages me.

Thank you, you know who, for sending me perhaps the best email of my life yesterday. You sparked an inner joy and ambition that has been idling. Your words brought me more happiness and encouragement than you can possibly know. You are right - this is not a dream, this is for real.

I am playing for keeps.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Sadness. My blogging world is crumpling around my feet. Just discovered last night that my favorite blogger of all time has deleted his blog, two of the wittiest people EVER haven't posted since May and I realized today that I now know nothing about a fabulous gal's life that I used to peep into every day via her delicious posts. I truly feel like I've graduated and all of the K.I.Ts that were scribbled into my online yearbook were all in vein. Sigh. Sadness.

And as for me, it seems like the only blogging I do lately is to discuss my lack of doing so... So, on to something else...

My life, apart from the empty blogosphere, is on the cusp. I smell change in the air, I feel it in my bones. Maybe it's the autumnal, back-to-school, must-sport-argyle-and-read-something-literary feel that I have every September, but I don't think so. I know I'm ready for something big, I'm prepared to take on new challenges, and I truly feel that something great is coming...at least I hope so.

It was Heraclitus that said "Nothing endures but change." I actually remember sitting in the library at CSUN "studying" and staring at a poster on the wall with that quote plastered across it. Honestly, homeboy knew what he was talking about. Life is perpetually moving, evolving. It saddens me that there are certain moments I can never touch again, certain places I will most likely never revisit, homes that are no longer homes, blogs I can no longer read, lives I can no longer peep into...But then again...who knows what's waiting around the bend.

Nothing endures but change.

Blogging Babble

Blogging. It's been weighing heavily on my mind lately. The weight got heavier after seeing Amy Adam's blogging success in Julie & Julia and after reading Mike's post this morning. Big question is - why don't I anymore?

I once felt a part of this cool little world. I would check in daily to find out the trials, joys and loves of other bloggers and then proceed to share my own. Now I feel so removed. Like a whole other life is continuing to go on without me. And I hate it.

Mike hit on a key issue - self-censorship. And that's totally what I'm questioning. While I want people to read my thoughts, I don't want people to read my thoughts. How much do I/don't I share? Because honestly, if I can't be me, then what the hell is this thing good for? If I can't be genuine and complete, why be? Buuuut, on the flip side, if I am completely honest with every whim, loathing, whine and fancy - will people "like" me? Will I like me? Does like even matter? I mean, after 8th grade?

It's not as if I'm considering deleting CF & C. I couldn't. But I also can't visit it only once a month. The infrequency of my visits is only nagging at me daily of the many things in my life that I begin with such vigor only to soon leave with a whimper. Okay, I'm being slightly dramatic, but you get the jest.

So, I think my goal for now is not to try to solve the heavy issue of what/what not to share in my little life - but rather just to write. A few times a week. Doesn't have to be lengthy, doesn't have to be witty, doesn't have to be majorly insightful - just has to be. Reminding me that while I may not have a firm grasp on much else, this I own. This is mine. Not a fleeting phase, but like me, a work in progress. Confident and quick at times, slow and slumping at others.

A few times a week.

Me, keyboard, publish.

Some Days you Just Wanna Drink

I'm annoyed. Why is it the same people always have the same problems, the same grievances, the same annoying fucking quirks? Whereas in a former life I would fall into nice gal mode and listen quietly nodding my head, now I turn you off. I have mastered the turn off switch. I delete your emails, I hold the phone away when you speak, I brush you away from the crevices of my mind. I am strong and you are not. So there.

I am a rotten bitch. I am going to drink wonderful quantities of lush cocktails this beautiful Friday summer evening and none of you can stop me. So all of you lousy people who choose to stay in the situations you're in, who choose to revel in the idiotic ways you live your life, who exist daily on delusions of grandeur - y'all can just can it. I'll drink to your merry little ways and then I shall drink some more to remind myself that I'm not like you.

Either I'm really PMSing, or like I said, I'm a rotten bitch.

Plodding Along. Barely.

Ah, over a month. I suck.

I was just cleaning out my personal email... more than 250 forwarded pieces of crap. And the only reason I was doing that was because I had to pay my effing student loan online, a site that I can somehow ONLY seem to access through a link found inside a "reminder, reminder: you suck and your payment is late" email that my loansharks sent to me forever ago. And before this, I was rifling through bills, trying to figure out who gets paid first and who will just have to keep trying.

I can't stay organized, I DEFINITELY can't seem to get ahead, clothes are everywhere, the floor needs vacuuming, I continually make bad decisions, my hair looks as if it hasn't seen the inside of a salon since 1997, I'm halfway through a gazillion books and can't seem to finish any of them and it's already almost July and I am nowhere near any better of a person or closer to my life plan than I was six months ago. I can't even seem to get it together long enough to write a fucking blog post once in awhile, even though that's one of the only things that makes me truly feel like I won't explode.

Bottom line, I'm one big messy mess and I don't know why. I see mothers and friends and caretakers and kindred spirits swirling around me, managing to both save the world and get their oil changed on time. Meanwhile, I'm barely making it to the gas station on fumes.

WTF??? I have no reason, no excuse. When do I become the Grown Up Woman who has it all together and can also make a mean homemade lasagna to boot? The lady who sparkles and shines and cleans and cooks and excels at her job and always looks fab. Because all I really want to do right now is sit on one of those huge red rubber balls with the handles and bounce my way through Toys R' Us.

Adulthood be damned.

Kick Me in the Ass. Please.

I should be writing a book review right now. I should have had the review written about two weeks ago. I NEED to write the review NOW. But. I. Can't. Stop. Procrastinating.

I've read the book. I even took notes. But now that's it's time to write the review, I suddenly can't recall squat or form a complete sentence.

What the hell? My life would be a whole hell of a lot better if I just fucking sat my ass down and did things when they needed to get done. But I don't. I lollygag until the cows come home. I find things to eat, drink, fold. I clean the lint out of the dryer, out of my belly button. I brush the cat, pluck my eyebrows, browse the Internet. I crack my knuckles, pace the floor, lose sleep at night. Doing anything but what needs to be done. Pushing the envelope to the very last minute until I have to start, complete and submit something that I'm never proud of. What. The. Fuck. It's moments like these I hate me.

This is how I've lived my entire life. High school, undergrad, grad school. Even with relationships. I wait until there is absolutely no more time left and then, and only then, I realize I need to produce. Make something happen to save what needs to be saved. But I'm never proud of what I make happen. And I always say that next time I will be better. But I never am. I suck.

So, that said, I must write. Right now. Not another minute to waste. As soon as I publish this post I will start my review....

Right after I catch up on all my blog reading.

Going Back to Cali...

Yeah, yeah, The title for my post is trite, old, lame. Whatever. I don't care.

I'll be in L.A. tomorrow...

Drinks
Sun
Friends
Drinks
Laughter
Boys
Family
Karaoke
Drinks
Road Trips
Red Rock
Drinks
Boys
Flip Flops
Ocean
Sleep
Geek-free
Comfort
No work clothes
Boys
Drinks
No email
Trouble
Hooligans
Laughter
Drinks
Boys
Sushi
Pure Joy

...see you on the 18th. ;)

"Most Men Lead Lives..."

Why do I continually believe that a change in circumstance will suddenly change my life for the better?

Wherever I go, there I am.

Joe says it's all about the little things. Gratitude. It's not that I'm not thankful for the little things, I just want more of them. A lot more. A shitload of little things that pile together to make one big great thing. But in wanting this, I'm afraid I'm wanting my life away.

Must I make room for compromise and contentment? Do I have to? Isn't that giving in? Isn't that becoming - GASP - dare I say it - my parents??!! I squirm.

So until that "one big great thing" arrives, some gratitude. A shout out for the little things, which when combined, most likely create that one huge thing I'm searching for...

eating the best pear ever today
laughing with two of the funniest people alive
drinking a glass of wine with my fabulous dinner
realizing it's one day closer to L.A.
speaking to who quite possibly may be The One
knowing I don't have the Swine flu
hearing "Ditty" by Paperboy on the radio
feeling endorphins kick in after I ran
reading The Last Lecture
having a job
writing a blog post - as effing boring and lame as it was - I did it
making an effort
Refusing to go to the grave with my song still in me.

Brown Paper Packages Tied up with String...

I will never get used to the whole East Coast package store thing. It is absolutely the most absurd way to buy booze that I have ever heard of. It's like New England's fucked up little way to reinstall Catholic guilt and make you scream to your quaint townsfolk, "Yup, I'm drinking again. I'm the one without a life and without a clue and, yes, I am indeed buying the same cheapo cab I bought last time."

Like, WTF?? I never used to think twice about buying wine and now when I go to buy it I freak out. I question when the last time I frequented the package store was and I wonder if the damn clerk will think less of me for being back so soon. WHY DO I CARE???

There are two package stores within a five mile radius of my house. The rest, I actually have to get on a freeway, er, I mean "highway" to get to. In LA, you walk 5 steps in any given direction and you can buy what you want, when you want, no questions asked. You can mix your wine in with your bread and milk at the grocery store. You can mix up your stops, so as not to establish a relationship with your local gin clerk. HERE, however, I get harassed anytime I want to indulge in an old, comfortable friend. LEAVE ME ALONE.

I know I've ranted about this before. I know it's getting old. Either shut the hell up, or move, Erin. (Oooo, third person. I must be off-kilter.) But, seriously. I'm sick of people knowing what crap I drink. I'm sick of running into colleagues at package stores who are buying their own hooch and having to smile sheepishly and act like I'm having a really hard time picking out a bottle of wine to go with Easter dinner because there are just so many different kinds and I'm so overwhelmed. I'm sick of having to plan out if I even want to drink, because liquor lights are out at 9 p.m. And I'm sick of calling them package stores. In my mind, that conjures two images -- the fun little packages that the UPS man brings me and, you know, the UPS man himself.

Maybe New Englanders have it right. Maybe this whole system prevents people from going crazy and drinking too much. Or maybe it drives them to drink even more. Who knows. Who cares. Oh well. And I obviously have no clever way to end this post, so I'll leave now. Cheers.