Cat Food & Cabernet

Hello to New

2009-12-30T15:47:00.013-05:00

What a year it's been.

Along with most, I've spent the last couple days in a reflective fog, recalling all that I have -- and haven't -- accomplished this past year. But after reading this Dear John written 364 days ago, I can wholeheartedly say that '09 severely trumped '08.

I've experienced wondrous new things this year that I thought only existed in fairy tales -- fried pickles, rock star encounters, true love -- and I've touched upon sadder moments that have quietly broken my heart -- more and more gray hair, untruths, fading friendships. But as I sing Auld Lang Syne to another year, I do so with excitement and faith and unbelievable hope for the next. Though 2009 was pretty damn wondrous, I know that only magic awaits me in 2010.

And the absolutely marvelous thing is that for the first time in my adult life, I've realized that all of the magical dreams that thrash about in my mind can indeed become my magical reality. I have the choice to make me and my life what I dream it to be. It's taken me 32 years and a lot of wine to realize that life isn't something you let happen -- it's something you do. You live. I guess my last two years of change and reflection have paid off. I moved to Connecticut with the nebulous dreams of finding new... I didn't know what that new was then, but I do now.

I know I sound so effing cliche. I know that if anyone ever reads my blog anymore he/she is rolling his/her eyes like mad. But I can't help my Pollyanna-filled/Thoreau-induced/self-help-book-materialized optimism. I'm filled with joy and the urge to make it all happen,
and I will.

What a year it will be.

~

(Slight disclaimer: I'm in a really good mood today. I tend to enter into really, really bad moods on other days. When that happens, 'cause sadly I know it will, I will probably curse this blog post to hell. Please hold me accountable when I do - I'm sick of wasting life on bad moods....Holy shit, I think I'm growing up.)

Sweet Blessings O' Mine

2009-12-11T15:18:00.012-05:00

My life is filled with blessings; my cup (okay, wine glass) truly does runneth over. Yet, I mope. I mourn. I gripe. Why haven't I figured out my passion? Why aren't I further along than I am? Why does my life at times seem to be, well, mediocre at best?

I'm both the ultimate procrastinator and the ultimate dreamer, and sadly, that toxic combination is ultimate tragic. It's also a recipe for mad depression.

Must. Get. Out. Of. Funk. Now.

My timing is not God's timing, and I will stand in faith even if that means I'm standing silly solo for the rest of my life.

I am healthy, young(ish), smart and hopefully vibrant. I have a job, car that works, clothing, glorious food, warm shelter, witty friends, family I'm crazy about and family that's just crazy, adoring cats, shiny memories, lush nights, creative juices, five insanely adept senses (six if you count my annoyingly foolproof intuition), unread books stacked around me and the anticipation of Christmas and then spring. And, I have found love.

I am truly blessed. And it will all be okay.

Hmmm...

2009-09-24T20:53:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-03T17:08:00.006-04:00

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

2009-08-31T16:23:00.010-04:00

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

2009-08-09T11:23:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-10T12:31:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-06-29T21:35:00.005-04:00

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.

2009-05-26T21:01:00.005-04:00

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...

2009-05-07T21:34:00.005-04:00

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..."

2009-04-28T21:29:00.008-04:00

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...

2009-04-09T18:03:00.012-04:00

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.

Full Disclosure?

2009-04-03T13:40:00.007-04:00

So here's the thing.

I made the mistake of telling current Guy of Interest that I have a blog. I normally tell these silly little boys that I blog, but no one ever really cares. It's in one ear and out the other; they could care less how I waste away my free time (or maybe I should say, how I used to waste away my free time).

HOWEVER.

Current GOI won't let the matter drop. Not that he's hounding me in an annoying way or anything, but he does make it clear from time to time that he would like to be able to read it. To get to know Erin again (last time we saw each other was high school graduation), since he's currently 3,000 miles away. Hmmmm. I mean, I can make myself sound attractive on the phone and through properly formatted emails, but attractive in my blog? Ouch.

Then he might realize that I drink, swear, eat way too many cheese biscuits, have commitment issues and engage in textual indecencies every now and then. I mean, he might see that I'm human.

What to do? I like having this little thing all to myself (well, all to myself, plus you fabulous five or six who have joined me for the ride), but there's also a part of me that perhaps, just maybe, wants to bravely expose this side of myself to see if he's man enough to stick with my crazy ass...

No, the more I think about it, this is a bad, bad, bad idea. Bad idea. I mean, if I let him read this, I can't talk shit about him and call him names when it's over in a week.

I just solved my own problem. That was easy.

Juggling

2009-03-25T20:31:00.010-04:00

You know it's been awhile when you've forgotten your password to log in to Blogger. And also when your personal life has done a complete 180 since your last post.

Suddenly I've found myself trying to save the Geek from himself. It's gone way past the point of romance and delved into the unhealthy, unbalanced Maternal Savior Zone. Except I'm trying to save someone who refuses to be saved.

Suddenly I'm completely honest with men. Fuck it. I just told, er, excuse me, texted, Mr. Seattle the truth. I didn't flub and fudge and make excuses and apologies. I was honest: it developed into a friendship for me. Time and distance weren't kind, and I hope we can be friends. After the agonizing 20 minute wait, he conceded. I mean, I'm sorry. But, no, I'm not. I refuse to be sorry for not liking you. I pray we can be friends, even though men consider that phrase the kiss of death sometimes. But please, please, be my friend. You are my go-to football fanatic, beer drinking, kindred spirit of a man and I need that in my life. Please. And it doesn't hurt to know someone in the Emerald City either. Sorry, that sounded bad. Oh wait, I'm not going to be sorry anymore. Right?

Suddenly I've learned that my health isn't invincible.

Suddenly two men from my past are at the center of my life. One from high school whom I haven't talked to in 15 years. He reminded me today about our first date, our first kiss, our shared morals, childhood, future dreams. Sigh. The other is from college -- and we weren't exactly friends in college -- and now, daily, he reminds me of the unknown, of new ideas, diverse beliefs, differing opinions and the big, great world. Double sigh.

Suddenly I've struggled and grasped for the right words to say in the moment of death. Suddenly I've realized that there's nothing I can say. I've learned to be still. And just listen.

Suddenly I've found some of the most amazing, strong, funny women by my side. I am filled with respect, joy, gratitude. Thank you. You make it all worthwhile.

~

"I hate to see you cry,
lying there in that position.
There's things you need to hear,
so turn off your tears and listen.
Pain throws your heart to the ground,
love turns the whole thing around.
Know it won't all go the way it should,
but I know the heart of life is good."

Because it's March 9th and I Haven't Blogged since Feb. 27th

2009-03-09T15:49:00.009-04:00

Once upon a time there was a blogger named Erin. I'm not quite sure what happened to her.

Since I don't have much I'm willing to divulge at this time, I'll post a copout blog/video. It's from Juno, yet another pop culture fave that I stumbled upon after the fact. After I finished drooling over Cat Power's amazing cover of "Sea of Love," crushing on Ellen Page and her sparkling wit and finding myself stunned that the kid from The Hogan Family is old enough to be a dad, I fell in love with this scene:

No need for my commentary, the baby's grandaddy says it perfectly.

If you haven't seen this film, treat yourself. Don't stay cooped up in your house for a whole weekend and watch it over and over and over like the absolute loser that I am, but definitely check it out. Life, love, loss, laughter, thoughtful screenplay, cool folksy soundtrack and great performances all rolled neatly into 96 minutes. Definitely worth the 45-minute debate I had with myself in Target Saturday morning about whether or not to take a risk and buy the unknown. Yes, I really do rationalize life that much in my head. It's quite scary.

A Sweet Tweet

2009-02-27T16:24:00.009-05:00

Social media will be the death of me.

Apart from this blog and Facebook, at work I'm knee-deep in another blog, another Facebook account and a Twitter account. There is no more face-to-face interaction in marketing anymore, ladies and gents. It's all conducted through your latest post, update or tweet.

My colleague Anna throws out fabulous tweets Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. I'm on deck Thursday and Friday. I thought mine were semi-okay, a blend of pleasantries mixed with subtle yet strategic marketing, until another colleague stopped me today and said:

"Yeah, I just got our tweet. I had to wait 23 hours since the last one."

"Um, yeah. Sorry about that."

"And did you notice, everytime you tweet you talk about something and then you always have to mention that 'the sun is shining' ?"

"Uh, really? Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do do that. [Beat] I guess I'm affected by the sun and when it's shining it makes me happy and blah, blah, blah, blah. I'll try not to tweet about that. [Another beat] But it's a hell of a lot better than tweeting that the "rain is pouring and we're having a miserable day here at..."

We both laugh and I went back to my desk. But then I started laughing like crazy, thinking about all of the fabulously demented tweets a disgruntled employee could throw out.

"Vomiting & diarrhea goin down in the bathroom. Woot, woot!" or "Give us your $ & leave!" or "Lice, malaria and flies - waiting 4 U here!" and on and on and on and on....

Total SNL sketch waiting to happen.

Low-Hanging Fruit

2009-02-24T20:37:00.008-05:00

Yeah, I know. If any of you lucky folks that I work with just read the above expression you're currently choking on your tasty little midnight snack. I, too, spat out my morning coffee with disgust when GMA's Chris Cuomo uttered it this morning. I wanted to scream at him, "NO, NO, you cute little anchor, you!!! You can't use that wretched expression because I hear it in nearly every meeting I have with my VP. That phrase is FOREVER ruined and tainted and horrible and makes my skin crawl."

The power of association. Movies, smells, words, names - they can all take you instantly to that moment, that one defining moment that remains forever. Whether they exalt or defile, associations suddenly flood you with waves of ecstasy, pangs of numbing depression or the bittersweetness of nostalgia in the flash of a second. I guess in the end though, life is pretty much just one big rubber band ball of associations, bouncing our 90-year-old pickled minds from one memory to the next. That said, I will forever associate...

...the smell of Old Spice with my dad.

...Appetite for Destruction with 7th grade, my best friend and endless summer nights.

...the name Mark with heartache.

...The Price is Right with being sick.

...little bags of Famous Amos cookies with 12th grade and Friday night football games.

...Crown Royale and The Killers with F.U.N. and nights with open endings.

...the name Jessica with shadiness.

...algebra with pain.

...peach, seafoam green, Guess jeans, Westwood and Aahs! with the 80s.

...Disneyland with childhood and happiness.

...New Orleans, beef jerky, marijuana, hockey, teak wood, MxPx and skater shoes with my ex-husband.

...the word dollop and tapioca with Stephanie.

...Cannery Row with my Uncle.

...Urban Cowboy with a wild night and a boy named Anthony. ;)

..."Leather and Lace" with karaoke bars.

... deconstruction with grad school and torture.

...Arieses with spontaneity.

...Cheap Trick's "Surrender" with my mother.

...food poisoning with Israel.

...Peter pan collars with Catholic school.

...Sideways with the night my cat almost died.

...Leos with narcissism and trouble.

...Chocolate Malted Krunch with long, hot walks to Thrifty's in the summertime.

...the expression TGIF with TV's Friday night lineup when I was a kid.

...the expression TGIF with drunken debauchery in my 20s.

...the expression TGIF with relief in my 30s... Hmmm... Maybe associations can be modified, after all. Maybe I should start looking for the third Mark to cross my path.

I could go on and on and on, but I already know mine. What are some of yours?

Insanity is...

2009-02-21T19:45:00.009-05:00

...Facebook. I finally joined the cool crowd yesterday. And let me just say, it has been pure mayhem ever since. People I haven't spoken to in 15-some-odd years are suddenly my BFFs again. I'm finding high school pictures of myself replete with scrunchies and a hideously dated Wilson's brown suede jacket in other people's albums. Why didn't anyone ever tell me I was a retard???? And why are my friends posting these travesties online now??

FB is in one word: addicting. Not only do friends come rushing back, so do memories. And along with the Book, comes a whole new set of rules. Who do I friend? Who don't I friend? When someone's IMing me, how do I casually say, "Ok, I'm done talking with you now?" And most importantly, which boys do I grant my FB page access to? One subtle "Babe, what are we doing tonight?" posted on my Wall could totally fuck up my "game."

...the fact that I seriously could be on the Gipsy Kings' tour bus right now. Granted, I'm not sure that I would want to be on it, hanging out with 50-year-old sweaty men, but the fact that I'm sure I could be is kinda cool. Thanks to bossman's fabulous front-row seats, Mr. Andre and I were batting eyelashes at each other all night. I flashed the pearly whites, nice and bright, and he bowed his precious little head and deepened those dimples ever so. All of a sudden, I was entranced by this slightly-overweight Ricky Ricardo lookalike with the most beautiful brown eyes and most fabulous guitar-playing skills ever. (Please disregard hairy apeman knuckles and bright fuscia shirt below - they do nothing to help my sad little story.)

And, what's more, my gut says that homeskillet thought I'd be his little Lucy for the night. Especially when their roadie/bodyguard/buffer in the black suit with the earpiece came right up to us girls and asked us how we were doing. Of course, we didn't chomp at the bit (whaddya take me for?) and instead of knockin' some Spanish boots for the next 10 hours straight, I ended up dancing the night away at Shrine amidst a sea of trashy casino hookers.

Eh. He didn't speak a lick of English anyhow. Wait. That would actually be pretty damn near perfect. Just throw out a few "muy bonitas" and I'd be a happy lady.

. ...that I spent $125 to get my hair done today and my guy didn't deliver. I think that "only two inches were taken off" is a complete and utter lie and I also know that the color totally is not the same perfect shade of auburn he used last time. ARGH. And now he's gonna blow that $20 tip on drinks tonight while I'm in an imperfectly-coiffed tizzy. Double ARGH.

...mud in Connecticut. It's everywhere. Well no, let me rephrase, it's mostly all over my car. I obviously need an off-road vehicle to get out of my driveway. And wearing cute shoes? Yeah, right.

...that I'm wasting time blogging right now because I don't want to hang with The Geek tonight. Would much rather sit here with a bottle of wine and not have to talk to anyone.

Sigh.

Because I've had Wine and am Spilling the Beans

2009-02-18T21:58:00.014-05:00

The Geek is back. Back in all of his pocket-protected glory.

Why? Why you ask? Because a) I'm a dating fool, b) I'm a dating fool, c) I'm a dating fool.

A thought came to me today as I observed a clip-on Geek Squad tie tossed ever so casually across my backseat. A nagging voice inside my head cried, "Gee, this sure ain't the love life you should be having at 32." Effing voices.

(And btw, I WAS NOT getting busy with said Geek in the Integra. I was simply helping him transport all of his Geekwear from his Geekmobile to his casa. Because, you know, that's a normal thing for a grown woman to do.)

Anyhow, meat and potatoes is absolutely no longer. Sushi and fine wine is too, too far away. And the Geek, well, he's growing on me. Turns out, he acted like a douche bag last summer because he was still in a relationship and was "not about to cheat on the girl, but didn't want to lose me either." Yada, yada, yada.... words, words, words. Spare me. I don't care. But now, now that the little lady is gone and the full court press is on, I have to say, me likey.

In all seriousness, he's fucking smart. He has no children or crazy ex wife. A typical moment in his house is spent watching him decipher computer programs on one of his many laptops while he watches college basketball on ESPN and simultaneously installs a water heater. Oh yeah, and finding time to give the best geeky kisses ever. Who woulda thunk it? And did I mention, he's fucking smart?

But the thing that stands out and grabs me most - he is anything but predictable. From one moment to the next, I'm unsure what will be said, what will happen, what will be felt. Maybe I am indeed crusin' for a bruisin' as Gram always told me growing up, but whether I'm crazy or not, this sporadic behavior is very appealing to me. Whether you're my mailman, best friend, or a Geek, if you keep me guessing and my mind racing, I'm yours.

Enough with the mush. I'm calling it now - this Geekation won't last. I already know this. Frankly, Love and I aren't friends. And that's okay. But for now, ladies and gents, I have a stomach full of fluttery, brilliant, dweeby Bill Gates-wannabe butterflies. And it feels great.

With Love and Thanks

2009-02-12T17:45:00.012-05:00

Faded mauve gown, knee-high argyle socks and a fake smile. That was me at 9 a.m.

But let's forget about that scary sight and instead extol virtuous thanks upon the doc that had to finish up her morning coffee with a few dozen pap smears. Like, who chooses this for a profession? I mean, think of all the absolutely horrific sights that probably go hand-in-hand with this job, thus not only spoiling morning coffee forever, but also, *gasp* perhaps spoiling the mysteries of a woman's femininity for many studly male ob-gyns. You know for every gem there's bound to be at least 10 bruisers. I'm just sayin'...

At least I'm always kind enough to schedule The Date with Dread first thing in the morning. Think of those poor docs who finish up their day of coochies by examining one final cooch, a cooch that has been on the go for 10 hours straight. I shudder to think.

And while I'm at it, I want to give a shout out to all of those other crappy, albeit necessary, professions...

Thank you dry cleaners for sweating over my grey angora sweater that I so sloppily spilled red wine all over on New Years Eve.
Much love to the men in the trucks who pick up my trash every Thursday bright and early when it's absolutely freezing outside.
To the guy who's spends hours over the potholes on the side of the road in an effort to save my vehicle -- much love to you, my friend.
To the acne-faced child who bags my groceries - thank you for occasionally not throwing all of the cans into one bag.
To the gal at Starbucks who waits patiently while I give my ten-word order, you're amazing. Thank you for not tossing a loogy into my coffee (I think).
To the dentist who ignores the streams of saliva that hang from my Novocain-induced chin -- God Bless.
To the very few mail people I've ever had who faithfully deliver my Vanity Fairs without the covers all torn and wrinkled - Rock On.
To IT - for saving my life on a pretty regular basis - who's better than you????

In the spirit of good ol' Saint Valentine, I'm throwing a little extra love out this week to all of you wonderful do-gooders that deal with my ick, grime and mess on a daily basis. I am able to live a safe, clean, grody and hassle-free existence because of each and every one of you.

Cheers

2009-02-05T16:37:00.006-05:00

Why you must find yourself a British doctor (for medicinal purposes, not to date. Well hell, maybe to date, too):

"So, Doc. Tell me the truth. I've heard mixed opinions on whether or not it's okay to drink a glass of wine while taking antibiotics."

After a slight British chuckle and spoken with the crispest, sexiest British accent, "No, you can have a glass of wine. Were you planning on getting mildly drunk or crawling on the floors drunk?"

I had to stop and think about this. "Well, just mildly drunk, I guess."

"Then you're fine. It's those buggers who drink five scotches and go crawling out of the pubs that have to worry."

Made. My. Undertheweather. Day.

Love Story

2009-01-31T17:11:00.015-05:00

He made made models for Leer Jet in Michigan. She worked as a secretary. Their first date was December 3, 1950. She was driving to dinner after an hour of ice skating (very excited that he let her drive his big car) and the icy driving conditions caused the Super Buick to skid and crash, knocking the gas tank and both passengers right out of the car. He flew head first into a mailbox and fell crumpled into the snow. She was thrown out onto the icy, dark street. Both of her shoes remained under the car pedals.

The sheriff took them to the hospital where they spent the night. He received stitches in his head and she was scratched, scraped and bruised. But they were okay. They had bacon and eggs at Harold's Square on Division and Eighth.

The second night they were going steady. The third night, he proposed.

They were married January 20, 1951. And stayed married until he passed away January 17, 1998.
~
"But how did you know after only a month?"

"He had his head on straight. He was older, energetic, a real classy hunk. He was sure of himself and he knew what he wanted. It was amazing -- we clicked right then and there."

"But didn't you think he was crazy proposing so soon?"

"Noooo. He was sharp. He was older, he had sense. I always wanted an older fella and when he came along, I said, 'That's him.' "

"That's insane."

"And I was proposed to by two other guys -- had about eight guys that wanted to marry me."

"Are you serious??!!"

"That's right, honey. But I knew instantly when I found the right one. We just clicked with everything. Well, everything but religion. He was Catholic and I was Baptist -- so we thought we'd go Lutheran."

"How did your parents feel about that?"

"I think my dad liked him, but thought it was terrible that he was Catholic. Dad and mom were terribly upset, they thought I'd lose my salvation."

"WHAT??!! Why?"

"I don't know, honey."
~
Due to their differing religious beliefs, and perhaps, due to their no-frills generation, they were married by the Justice of the Peace. Completely devoid of taffeta, bridezillas and honeymoons in Paris. Just a small reception at the Chicken Country House. Well that, and a lifetime of love.

It wasn't Romeo and Juliet. It wasn't champagne and diamonds and caviar. It sure as hell wasn't a lifetime without huge amounts of pain. But it was solid; it was strong; it was true.
~
I spend so much time wondering. Could it be he really is the one and I just don't realize it yet? Maybe this will change, maybe that will change. Maybe a lightening bolt will hit me and clue me in. Or maybe a Mac Truck will knock some sense into me, maybe that's the ticket. Maybe my unfailing intuition is indeed wrong this time. Or maybe, it's Just. Not. Right.

Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa.

Thank you for showing me what right should look like.

I Want to Know...

2009-01-28T19:24:00.016-05:00

...how in the hell January can almost be over and I have done NOTHING I had planned on doing early in 2009 in order to get me to where I need to be by year's end. Instead, I am wasting all of my free time and energy on people that I know are not The One, thus turning me into a frustrated, exhausted mess. I'm treading water in a holding pattern and I want out.

...why I just decided to use the word "thus" in a sentence.

...if there really is such a thing as The One.

...when is the next time I can drink massive amounts of alcohol with someone who can outdrink me and we can get get silly, wicked drunk together.

...why it's so hard for people on the West Coast to comprehend a three-hour time difference and and why they persist in calling me at 1 a.m.

...how to play both chess and golf and why they are so addicting. I mean, seriously. What makes them addicting?

...why Malcolm Gladwell couldn't have published his freaking masterpiece oh, say about 25 years ago, so that I could have been a successful World Dominator by now.

...what in the hell happened to Jessica Simpson.

...if Tony Romo is wondering the same thing.

...when Joaquin Phoenix decided he was going to morph into the Scary Caveman from the Geico commercials.

...if the Scary Caveman is wondering the same thing.

...why I suddenly have a massive crush on NBC's Peter Alexander.

...if that cheerleader from high school really is living happily ever after.

...when I will be warm again.

...how Obama's stimulus package is going to affect our economy.

...when is the right time to use the word "affect" and when is the right time to use the word "effect." Three college degrees and I still don't know.

...why healthy peanut butter makers haven't figured out a way to sell their damn peanut butter with the oil already mixed in, thus saving peanut butter lovers everywhere the annoying, oil-dribbling experience of trying to stir the shit together.

...why I just used "thus" again. What the hell is wrong with me?

...why all I want to do is shove cheese biscuit after cheese biscuit down my throat and proceed to wash them down with a liter of wine.

...how I'm ever going to pay off my student loans.

...if there is any living woman more beautiful than Frieda Pinto.

...why I had a dream the other night about My Undying Crush and my close friend, both of whom seem to be spending an awfully lot of time together of late.

...what my IQ is. After reading Outliers I'm dying to know. And if it's up there, and Mensa begs me to join their little club, I want to know what smartypants things we'll do when we hang out while we're wearing our cool Mensa shirts and drinking out of our special Mensa mugs.

...what foie gras tastes like. Is it really that tasty? And what restaurant can I order it in?

...why I have to be at a meeting at 7:45 a.m. tomorrow. Ugh. Why couldn't they have made it at 8? Only 15 minutes later, but sounds sooo much nicer.

...if anyone can answer any of these questions for me.

The Interview

2009-01-24T11:52:00.011-05:00

So, after reading Sara's fabulous responses to her Interview questions, I too, asked to take part in this revealing game. And the ever thoughtful and fabulous friend that she is, followed through by giving me some real doozies, which you'll read below.

If you too want to be interviewed,

1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions, which I get to pick.
3. You'll update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You'll include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you'll ask them five questions.

And now, drumroll please....

1) What would be the soundtrack to the movie of your life?

This question drove me nuts. Several CDs popped into my head instantly, but then I had to stop and ask myself, "Do I just love this band/CD, or would this honestly be the illustration of my life?" That said, there was only one soundtrack that kept coming to mind as the perfect choice, and in all honesty, it's more of a mixed tape than an actual soundtrack. But hey, this is my life and these are my questions to answer.

Right before I left L.A., a wonderful man/friend/possible One That Got Away, gave me a beautiful CD that he had put together. In his card, Jim wrote, "Remember this quote from Heraclitus, 'It is change that gives us purpose.'" And with that quote, he encapsulated my whole mantra about life. And so does pretty much every song that he chose to put on that CD. There is a feeling of constant motion, progression to this soundtrack - and that is the same noise that plays in my head - day in, and day out. Moments of sadness and hope simultaneously play side by side on this CD, mirroring my life, and most likely, yours.

The remaining songs speak to other aspects of who I am -- my Irish heritage, my constant yearning for betterment, my love of English literature, my love of California, etc...

That CD was perhaps one of the most amazing, thoughtful gifts I have ever received. When I begin to feel off course, or question my circumstances, I listen to it and am reminded that this is my life and I can create it however I see fit. Here's the playlist:

1. Passenger Seat - Death Cab for Cutie
2. I Wish You Well - Bill Withers
3. Ooh Child - Beth Orton
4. California Stars - Wilco
5. Sweetheart Like You - Bob Dylan
6. Mrs. Potter's Lullaby - Counting Crows
7. Fairy Tale of New York - The Pogues
8. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John
9. Closer to Fine - Indigo Girls
10. 1973- Rachel Yamagata
11. Try Again - Keane
12. This is the Sea - The Waterboys
13. Be Thou My Vision - Van Morrison
14. Don't Stop Believin' - Journey
15. Sylvia Plath - Ryan Adams
16. Valentine's Day - Bruce Springsteen
~
2.) What was your dream job when you were 11? Why did or didn't you pursue it?

When I was a kid I wanted to be an actress. My dad was in the entertainment industry so I spent summer vacations and most of my childhood on movie/TV sets. The atmosphere, camaraderie, crazy hours were like second nature to me. I honestly just assumed that I too would become a part of this "cool" world. I did the drama thing in high school and junior college, and I did honestly love it, but I realized soon after junior college you need a hell of a lot more than just love if you want to make it. You need endurance, resilience and passion -- qualities that I honestly didn't have a handle on in those years. Shit, I'm still working on trying to obtain them today.

I don't regret not trying to pursue acting further, I know that it's not in my bones. But I am so thankful for the performances that I was a part of - they gave me memories for a lifetime.
~
3.) What is something your readers know about you that your friends or family may not?

Jeez. I would have to say that my readers (all five of them) see an introspective side of me that I often hide from everyone else - even those that are closest to me. I truly feel that I can escape through the written word; I can easily express my thoughts on life, myself and absurdity in general. But when talking to others, I definitely hold back, don't open up that part of myself that holds these feelings. Not sure why..... a thought to ponder.
~
4.) If you could go back and re-live a day of your life, what would it be?

This question took major thought. Certain parties, celebrations, graduations, weddings? Finally I realized I would re-live a day that I don't even remember. Just a plain, any-old-day with my maternal grandpa, grandma, uncle, aunt and mom, up in their beloved home in the Canyon.

Reason why? My parents divorced when I was two - I grew up with my dad and stepmom. Love them to death, yet this really has caused me to feel in life like I'm somewhat removed from my maternal family - not "quite" a Kelly like they are. I've grown up hearing stories of funny events and moments of love that happened within this family, but I never remember experiencing them. And my grandpa - who I know was an amazing man - passed away from cancer when I was a kid, and even though I stare at pictures, I don't remember him.

After he passed, everything it seems, fell apart. Grandma's MS progressed, Aunt moved away, Mom moved away, Grandma soon passed, Uncle soon passed. No other kids were had - just me.

I have never felt like I belonged to them, was a part of them. I don't remember us as a unit. So my dream day would be all of us, just laughing, eating, hearing family stories, feeling love in that beloved old home in the hills that is now sold and gone.
~
5.) Do you believe in second chances?

No, I don't. I believe you can definitely finish/mend what you may have started and discarded years ago (i.e. college, a dream job, a broken relationship), but I don't believe it will have the purity and the ecstasy of fulfillment it would have had if you did it right the first time around. I believe you may feel blessed when given a second chance, but in the end, I also feel it's impossible to not look at that second chance with jaded eyes, like, "If this feels great now, I wonder how it would have felt the first time." But that's just the glass-half-empty side of me shining through, I guess.

Anyhow, there I am. Exposed, naked and shivering for all the world to see. Any other takers in this interviewing expose...? ;)

"The Older the Fiddler, the Sweeter the Tune."

2009-01-16T12:45:00.016-05:00

So I get a call this morning telling me not to leave the house, someone will be on my doorstep in about five minutes. Initially, this enrages me. Totally killed my perfect birthday morning of flannel-pant wearing, bed-head sporting, blurry-eyed TV watching. Advance warning is better than showing up unannounced though (don't EVER do this to me -- unless you want to be disowned) and it got even better when I received these....

Simply lovely. And receiving them circa 1940's style in a long, white box with tissue paper and a bow is pretty much as good as it gets.

Or so I thought.

Until I received these...

Ladies and gentlemen, Door A and Door B.

Night and Day.

Simple. Classic. Meat, potatoes, picket fence, Sunday dinners and a dog named Rufus.
.

Cultured. Mysterious. Sushi, fine wine, experience, ready to travel the world hand in hand.

What, oh what, is a girl to do?

Sigh.

Anyhow. Today has been filled with absolute love. Cards, texts, phone calls. And even a crazy card from Grandma with a PT Cruiser and leaping cat on the front. Huh? One Hallmark employee that should be shot.

I am truly blessed with amazing friends, family and sweetness. Perhaps though, my best gift was an early morning serenade from Joe, who while guzzling coffee and cursing LA traffic asks me, "What are you, like, 30?" Thank you, my dear. Happy birthday to me.

Caterpillars

2009-01-12T11:51:00.010-05:00

I need to be honest. I really am a judgmental bitch when it comes to dating. If someone doesn't have my same credentials or better, I wonder what the hell is wrong with them. I should be wondering, what the hell is wrong with me.

Morality, success, education, wit. I need this in a partner. Yet I always end up with men that are not so much. They hold the secret hopes and desires to be "that" man, but whether it be laziness, insecurity or just a rotten lot in life, they haven't drawn it out of themselves. So I suddenly make this my job -- to make the magic happen. Force the "complete" man that I know he is to suddenly emerge. But after some time has passed and the inspiration I have filled him with has worn off and the results I'm looking for just aren't there - I'm gone. Due to no fault of his own. I'm finally realizing that the fault is mine - I just can't let them be.

The thing is, though I may be a complete judgmental snot when it comes to evaluating them on paper, my heart and soul aches to help and love the underdog. I KNOW what this person is capable of, I KNOW what a gem they are. But if they don't shine as quickly and brightly as I want them to, I reach my breaking point. Frustration boils inside me and I leave. Leave a broken, confused mess. And I hate myself for this.

I need to figure out why I always go down this path. Especially now, when I fear I'm beginning to go down the same exact crappy detour I took nine years ago. Behind Door A: successful man, solid education, no children or ex-wife, great family, beautiful home on the beach. Perfection. Right? Door B: youngster from the streets, child, shady past, no education, no plan for his life, less-than-stellar family. Take a wild guess which dark room I entered.

And now, almost a decade later, shouldn't I be at least a wee bit wiser? Yet Night and Day are simultaneously playing themselves out on either side of me and I'm still having trouble distinguishing the dark from the light.

So personal, but so true. And though I've spent a lifetime analyzing every other aspect of my life, I've always refused to even glance at my motivations when it comes to love. But at this point in my life, me thinks it's about time I do.

Anyhow, this post is probably like Christmas morning for a shrink. Then again, Freud did say that "the Irish are the only race who cannot be helped by psychoanalysis," so who knows...

Cheers to Capricorns

2009-01-07T17:26:00.014-05:00

After just reading this blog post from my fabulous Birthday Twin, I'm now inspired to post my own memorable/catastrophic Birthday celebrations. This is a total and complete rip-off of said blogger's blog. And for that, I apologize.

1. I believe it was my second birthday - although it could have been my third or fourth. All of those early years are a blur to me, to tell you the truth. My mom brings in a spectacular cake with Ernie's face plastered on the front (the homosexual Muppet that also happens to bear the very nickname my mother insists on calling me to this day.) Anyhow, I loved Ernie. I loved Burt. They could do no wrong. Candles are lit, birthday anthem is sung, Erin smiles with glee, cake is taken into the kitchen. Ernie soon emerges from the kitchen all cut up into perfect, portion-size wedges and little Erin doesn't understand what the hell happened to Ernie. I proceeded to cry all day and ask, "Where's Ernie?" My mom still loves to tell this story.

2. January 16, 1991 - Exact same experience as B-day Twin. Whole celebration totally lost in the onset of Operation Desert Storm.

3. January 16, 1994 - Had lame b-day dinner/wannabe party at El Torrito and the stupid server "forgot" to bring out the cake my stepmom had dropped off earlier in the day. I know those rat bastard waiters were feasting on my yummy goodness after their shift. Anyhow, girls proceed to go back to my house for gossip, boy-talk, facial masks, whathaveyou. At 4:30 a.m. on January 17, the 6.7 Northridge earthquake rocked Southern California. Born and raised in SoCal, we all knew what to do - run for the doorway. Except Noelle, one of the sweetest girls you'll ever meet, runs straight into the wall, HARD. Classic.

School was then closed for a few days after the earthquake for repairs, helping to further my celebration.

4. January 16, 1998 - I turn 21. Fabulous celebration at Bobby McGees in Burbank. Dinner, then on to dancing in the "club" part of the now-extinct restaurant. It was the perfect blend of high school friends, new friends, persons of interest. Lisa proceeds to yell at me as she's driving me home because my drunk ass opens up a bottle of champagne and starts to chug it in the front seat. She still has to remind me of this to this day.

The next day my grandfather passed away.

5. My 27th birthday - Went to a piano bar with ex-husband and friends. Some hooker waitress proceeds to get a little too close to ex and gives him a jello shot after I've already had a few. Looking back now, I realize she was just trying to make an extra buck or two. But at the time, close to the demise of my marriage and after massive amounts of tequila, things weren't quite so clear. I proceeded to waste my entire birthday by being an ass and fighting with whomever crossed my path. I think that was the first time in my life that my friends were actually scared of me.

Anyhow, this year will rock. Not sure what I'm doing, but I've taken the day off and will enjoy it to the fullest - no earthquakes, deaths or brawls. Just pure drunkenness and debauchery. ;)

Goodbye to You

2008-12-31T13:39:00.008-05:00

Dear Mr. 2008,

We had a fair run. You were quite the charming suitor in the beginning, dangling the promise of excitement before my very eyes with a new job, a master's degree and a trip home to L.A. You then proceeded to introduce me to new friends, take me to new places, teach me how to sail and showed me how to survive snow, humidity and crazy east coast drivers. If it wasn't for you, I would still think that Joe Frogger is simply a poor soul with an unfortunate name. For all that you have given me, I thank you.

For many months, you and I were on the up and up; we were unstoppable. You really made me believe our future together was shiny and bright. But then, my sweetheart, you became dull.

As the months waned on, I eventually lost interest in us. What was once attractive became common, new grew old, spicy turned sour, promises fell flat. More and more wine was consumed to distract me from your boring presence. I don't mean to sound like a selfish bitch, but maybe if you had spent less time cultivating your negative relationships with your buddies (Mr. Bad Economy, Mr. Numerous Layoffs and Mr. Detroit Lions) you would have had more quality time to invest in my needs.

Mr. 2008, I have discovered that the passion I once held for you has fizzled into indifference. And honestly, what is life without passion?

So sadly, today is the day I bid farewell. Thank you for the ups, the downs, the goarounds. I know that one day I will look back at us and smile. And finally, thank you for being kind enough to introduce me to your older (and hopefully much more adventurous, romantic, wealthy, successful and happy) brother. May he treat me a hell of a lot better in the months to come.

Godspeed ol' chap,
Erin

You Can Quote Me

2008-12-28T13:19:00.004-05:00

"You can be mad as a mad dog about the way things went,
you can curse the fates.
But when it comes to the end, you have to let go."

Even though Badmouth argues that this is the crap that keeps bumper stickers in business (and to an extent, I agree) there's something to this statement. In fact, I think there's a lot to it. And I thought so last night when I was scrambling to find a pen in the dark movie theater.

Badmouth continues to argue that The Curious Case of Benjamin Button "lets you down because when the lights come up, you’re expecting to feel moved, and enlightened, and you’re just not." Umm, excuse me Mr. Badmouth. Get down from your jaded throne. I was both moved and enlightened. Maybe I'm a simple person and all you need to do to inspire me is throw a handful of Hallmarky axioms my way. So what. The film reminded me what I continually need to be reminded: that no matter what lot you receive in life, it can be a beautiful life. And it's never too late -- or too early -- to chart your course.

Brad Pitt's character proceeds to leave a note for his daughter in the latter half of the very long film which states, "I hope you live a life you are proud of, and if you realize one day that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start anew." I mean, call me a wistful sap, but statements like this truly make me want to eat my Wheaties and be a better person.

I admit I'm a quote whore. I hear statements that speak to me and I scribble them down on torn off pieces of paper, in notebooks, on Post It notes. Flip through every book, textbook or magazine that I've ever read and statements are underlined throughout and my comments are furiously scribbled in the margins. I surround myself with other people's wise thoughts and declarations in the hopes, I guess, that they will make me lead a better and purpose-filled life. And lucky for me, I live in a culture that is inundated with magnets, calendars, stickers which are emblazoned with such proverbs (literati capitalism that would most probably both entice and infuriate Horkheimer and Adorno), allowing me to plaster my life with inspiration. Maybe this is sad. Maybe I should be aspiring to coin my own wise phrases to illuminate and influence others. But I can't help it. I'm drawn to the statements made by those who have gone through the same or worse crap that I have/am going through, and have emerged from it with a few wise things to say. Maybe I've found my calling in life. Is anybody hiring an Almighty Quote Collector?

Okay, just realized I'm rambling about my quote obsession. Must be a slow blogging day. Anyhow, if you love a beautifully made and acted film, go see this movie. I will admit that I am one of the most jaded people out there when it comes to fantastical tales about True Love, but I couldn't help but be swept into this one. If not for the quotes alone.

"Have yourself...

2008-12-24T12:09:00.024-05:00

a merry little Christmas." Or as my history shows, a zany one.

This is perhaps my favorite Christmas carol of all time, especially when Judy Garland sings it in Meet Me in St. Louis. It reminds me that it's the little moments that make Christmas special, and even if this year does kinda suck, there's always hope for the next. It also reminds me that even though Christmases in my life have not been picture perfect; Norman Rockwell; tons of friends, family and kids seated around a table beaming with golden brown turkey and eggnog in crystal stemware kind of holidays, they've still left me with memories of a lifetime. Even if they are a tad wacky....

Who the hell was the lucky one getting the toilet paper?

Ah, yes. It was the decade of The Muppet Show and I received The Diva herself...

...only why someone decided to stick a tree branch up Miss Piggy's ass, I'll never know. As you can see, I could care less because it was the same year I got the most rockin' gift ever - The Barbie Van.

The year I gave Gramps the sexy zebra-striped speedo underwear.

And Grandma was all about it.

And finally, two years ago, sick of receiving tons of Christmas cards plastered with snapshots of weddings/babies/overall happiness, I took matters into my own hands (and probably lost certain friends and future dates along the way - ptooey on them). Seems my cats don't share my same affinity for crazy hats.

~
So, there you have it. Not quite "normal" Christmases, but definitely good for a big laugh. And I'll take that over normal any day.

Merry Christmas, to you and yours.

Morning Text

2008-12-22T16:07:00.007-05:00

Well, I'm off the market. Seems my textationship has reached new heights. I don't know what you were doing at 8 a.m., but I was engaged in a little foreplay...

Him: Nice, I like to pull your leg" [referring to something I won't mention here].

Me: "Be gentle" [knowing full well where this is gonna take us.... I can't help it, this is just too much fun].

"Of course I'm gentle."

"I bet you are ;) ." [I've noticed that nearly every other text I send to him is finished off with a winky face. I NEVER wink in real life (who really does?), but shove a keyboard in my hands and the vixen emerges.]

"So is that mean you prefer gentle then? [Remember, spelling, grammar, etc... - not his forte.]

"Depends on my mood." [I know, MUCH more than you all need or care to know - but doesn't it depend on mood? Be honest. Like, who likes it all one way all the time?]

"Explain." [BAM. Just like that. Subtle, he isn't. I think not you dirty, dirty boy.]

"Nope." [Beg for it, beg for it...]

"Oh come on we're adult here. [Adults who are pathetic and refuse to lead normal dating lives.]

"Are we having morning text?"

"Your funny but no i'm fine. [SO many problems here. First, you just labelled us as "adults." If we're adults, how can you still be mixing up "your" and "you're"? Serious pet peeve. Second, whaddaya mean you're fine? Are you fine cause you just had the real thing? Are you fine because you could do with or without my textual love? Lose, lose buddy.]

So I respond, being the ever overanalytic that I am: "What do you mean you're fine? You don't enjoy morning text?" [Am I starting our first fight?]

"I do enjoy morning text especially when it is with you." [Especially when it is with me, or only when it is with me???]

"Why it better be with me. I better be your textually one and only." [I'm actually getting angry, I think. Someone else is thumbing around with my texter?? Hells, no.]

"You and no one else." [Cue sappy soundtrack...]

";)" [The beauty of texting. In an actual oral conversation I would have had to come up with a response to this cheesy albeit touching line, but in Erin's little la la textland, a vampy wink suffices.]

The End.

~
So, I guess I'm going steady now. Thing is, I could actually turn this into something real. Homeboy wanted to come visit for Thanksgiving, has offered to fly me out there for New Year's and continually is bugging me to move back to the West Coast. He's smart, we share the same interests, he puts a smile on my face daily and most importantly, he texts me play by plays every Thursday night because he knows I don't have the NFL channel (I even forgot once that I didn't have the channel and texted him that I was so excited about that night's game and he kindly replied, "Babe, you don't have the channel.")

In short, the guy is a winner. WIN-NER. What is my deal? Perhaps it's the noncommittal mystery that envelops this textationship which is what keeps me intrigued. Perhaps it's the fact that I can strategically craft my moods/words/witty repertoire via texts, in turn creating "the perfect woman." Perhaps I love having him in this capacity so that the little red light on my BlackBerry incessantly flashes, making me truly believe that I am oh-so-popular and loved. Perhaps I'm a moron. Who knows.

Perhaps I'll go send a text while I try to figure it out.

Snowed In + Intoxication = Fun

2008-12-21T13:42:00.001-05:00

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Crazy White

2008-12-20T12:19:00.012-05:00

Wow. So I guess I'm a true New Englander now as I realize the pictures I posted of snow about a week ago were actually pictures of nothing. Fairy dust. Angel loogies. Snow for pansies.

This here is some damn snow...

Pretty peek through the stained glass...

While it's beautiful to look at, I hate the debilitating feeling it gives me. I can't drive like a bat out of hell through the streets of Connecticut like I was planning on doing today. No wearing those cute flip flops I had been saving especially for December 20th's outfit. And alas, my plans for a raging BBQ have been cancelled.

Guess it's all about the solo indoor wineathon this weekend.

Oh, Shucks.

Dirtylicious

2008-12-18T14:43:00.010-05:00

You can take the guy out of the trailer, but ...

You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Erin will forever be attracted to dirty little boys.

I'm not a perv, by little I mean ages 21-25. Okay, 26 tops. And by dirty I mean it looks as if they just whooped someone's ass in a rumble, are ready to play a mean game of pool with two sleeved arms, a cigarette hanging out of their mouth, a pair of baggy pants hanging off of their ass and hair that hasn't been combed in a week.

WHAT IS MY PROBLEM??? Isn't this type of rebellious I-don't-want-to-participate-in-adult-dating behavior supposed to end at 30???

Is it that I fear rejection from an actual Man? Am I reliving some freaky Freudian desire of wanting to copulate with the bratty little brother I never had? Do I, dare I say it, simply want to revamp this tasty piece of boyish trash into the man I know he will one day become? Am I noble enough to say that "it's really what's on the inside that counts" and we "should never judge a book by its cover?" Who am I kidding. I always judge books by their covers, that's part of the fun.

Regardless, last night such dirtyliciousness crossed my path and I was all a flutter. Perhaps it was the 3 cosmos, 2 beers and 2 vodka tonics that reminded my how nice a little dirty can be. Yum, yum. Yet another one I can't take home to mom and dad. And I love it.

Keifer is my Hero

2008-12-16T13:05:00.005-05:00

Yes, DUIs are bad, I know. But I don't care - if you are a drunken one-eyed pirate that jumps head first into a lit Christmas tree - I want to be your friend. Hee-larious. How in the hell did I miss this video last year? Thank you, J, for cluing me in.

Take a break from your work day. Sit back and have a chuckle or two on Keifer's drunken ass. Donald must be one proud papa.

Please don't Taste the Rainbow

2008-12-14T12:24:00.013-05:00

Apparently Skittles and The Nutcracker go hand-in-hand. Or at least the 50 kids that sat around me during yesterday's performance thought so. Nothing like watching the graceful Sugar Plum Fairy tippitoe her way across the stage while simultaneously listening to Junior pull out 20 Skittles from their ever-so-crinkly bag with his grubby paws and then proceed to toss his head back and throw them down his throat. Harder I say, throw them harder. Maybe one will actually lodge itself in there.

Here is the wreckage that followed Junior's feast. Seems while tossing back hundreds at a time, he missed a few and the colorful bite size candies either rolled their way down to the orchestra or got smashed into the ground. When did Tchaikovsky add a little "ting-ting-ting-ting" to his Grand Pas de Deux piece? Oh wait, it's a motherfucking skittle.

(The paper booklet at the top of the pic is Junior's Nutcracker program that he casually tossed to the ground. Classy.)

I know, I know. I'm a horrible single woman and I just don't understand children and because I'm trashing Junior so much I will never be blessed with a little monster of my own. But, seriously? Is it that hard for us Americans to sit through a two-hour performance without shoving massive quantities of calories down our throats? Frankly, I think Junior should have used those two hours NOT shoving anything down his throat because by the looks of him, that's what he'll spend the remaining 22 hours in his day doing. Not judging here, o.k., yes I am judging. But I'm judging Junior's parents, not him. Maybe I should have leaned over and suggested to Junior's dad that he throw a couple of carrot sticks into the mix. Oh wait, I couldn't do that because pops was too busy making cat calls and whistling a little too aggressively at Ms. Sugar Plum Fairy at quite inappropriate moments. Ummm, what again am I watching? Indy 500, WWF mud wrestling or Tchaikovsky's finest piece? Not so sure.

Anyhow, crazy candy mayhem aside, the ballet was beautiful. I highly suggest to anyone else like me -- a grinch who is very much out of the holiday spirit this year -- grab yourself a ticket. Spend two hours reliving the Christmases of your childhood. Kinda puts all the other daily adult crap into perspective.

One final thing. Why do ballerinas always have the prettiest, coolest, ballerina-type names? Some of the program's highlights: Phoebe, Gabriella, Jillian, Clara, Acacia, Sophia and of course, the ever beautiful and oh-so-popular Russian names, Nadia and Alexander. It's like when they were born their parents knew they were destined for Nutcracker greatness. "No, Tom, you're crazy. Our little dew drop will never have a shot at dancing the Waltz of the Flowers with a common moniker like Jane. We must name her Simone."

Still

2008-12-08T10:50:00.018-05:00

And this is what I woke up to yesterday....

The little snowballs on top of the fence posts crack me up.

A year later, it still amazes me that I live in such a beautiful place.

~

One of the main reasons I moved to the east coast was to slow down and to really start thinking about my life, where it's headed. I had lived a life of going through the motions, engaging in the hustle and the bustle, the parties and the fervor. I am supremely confident that I could have continued existing that way forever. But something inside said there was more.

I don't think I've found that more yet, but I think I have stumbled upon hidden parts of myself, parts that were blanketed with all of the noise of a previous life. It really is quite eye-opening to actually sit and listen to what those parts say. Eye-opening, and honestly, downright scary. My first instinct is to run from what I hear, but maybe, just a guess here, that's the problem. Maybe I need to sit and just be. Figure out, strategically, what path to take next. Not running from what scares me, but figuring out why it scares me and understanding, yes, I have the power within myself to change it. Good or bad, ready or not, here I am.

WOW. So much for a Monday. Am I going through a mid-life crisis at the meager age of 31? Perhaps. But that's where I'm at right now.

Frosty the Ho Man

2008-11-21T14:06:00.017-05:00

Baby, it's cold outside. And I want to snuggle, dammit. But there's not one damn soul that I want to share my soft, warm blankie with. C'est dommage.

I've been thinking a lot about this lately -- I'm pretty sure every single soul dwells on their singledome this time of year. We wonder if once again we're gonna be alone under that mistletoe, alone under the New Year's Eve disco ball, alone under the bar stool. Since my collective dating history pretty much reads like a who's who of human crap, I'm pretty wary of sharing any of the aforementioned special holiday moments with anyone. What I am willing to share is another horrible dating story...(I know you like that segue).

Last fall I had just moved to Connecticut and was working part time at retail hell (Borders) while I searched for a "real job." The only good thing about the book store (besides the fabulous discount that I blew my entire paychecks on - I tell you, Borders knows what they're doing. Very sneaky handing out those discounts) was people watching. I saw some fabulously WEIRD folks come in and out of that store. But also some normal ones. And, some very cute ones. Long story short, one such cute boy came in one day and needed help "finding a book." Of course I helped. We flirted amongst the shelves, he left, I knew he'd be back. Sure enough, day or so later, he came back and we exchanged numbers.

We had wonderful phone conversations (back when I actually used the phone for speaking). He was cute, great job, we had the same interests, no kids or ex-wife. Score. Or so I thought.

Our first date was right after Thanksgiving at this absolutely beautiful picturesque restaurant. Fabulous meal, drinks, little white Christmas lights everywhere, great conversation, fire roaring in the fireplace (not exaggerating, you couldn't have asked for a more perfect setting). Walking back to the car, snow is softly falling, lights are twinkling off the water, he pulls a beanie out of his jacket pocket and puts it on (coming from Southern California this is VERY charming to me). I was like HOLY SHIT. This is what east coast life is like??? Full of snow, sexy men, happiness? Topped off with visions of sugarplums dancing in my head? Why in the hell didn't I move years ago?

Fast forward to second date. We're at his gorgeous house and I meet his gorgeous roommate. Fuck. Don't you hate that, ladies? You see his friends and you're attracted to them more than him? Oh well, I remind myself that I like this guy and I stick with it. His roommate leaves, he tells me to pick out a bottle of wine (he had one of my absolute favorites, double points) and we snuggle on the couch by the beautiful Christmas tree and watch the holiday classic, Elf.

Film is almost over, he glances over at the tree and says, "hey do you see that empty spot on the tree?"

"Huh?"

"That empty spot, right there?"

"Um, yeah." (No idea why he's thinking about his damn tree at this moment, but I go with it.)

"Hold on." He leaves, returns a few minutes later with his hand obviously holding something and tells me to hold out my hand.

I play along. Hold out my hand, but starting to get a very weird feeling. I know it's either a bug or a diamond and I don't want either. Next thing I know I'm staring down at one of those wooden snowman ornaments from Hallmark. Frosty is holding a scroll with Erin elaborately calligraphied across the front. You know the kind. You still get one every Christmas from your Grandma.

My immediate reaction was to laugh. Out loud. Very hard. Like, serious? Seriously? Are you seriously giving me a snowman Christmas ornament on our second date and expecting me to think it's normal and neat? But then I tell that jaded part of myself to shut the hell up because maybe this is what normal boys do and this is how normal relationships start. In normal relationships you don't share a 12 pack, you share a moment. And maybe that is what this is. Maybe this is the story we'll be telling our friends and family as we sit around the Thanksgiving feast a year from now sharing love, memories and warmth. So I go with it.

I coo and cuddle and ooh and ahh and hug and kiss. I find the perfect spot and lovingly hang my ornament with care. Like it's normal.

Next thing you know, homeboy has me in his bedroom, lights off and wants to play a little Elf game of his own. No joke - time span between cheesy ornament giving and finding myself on top of his Calvin Klein down comforter (which really impressed me, I have to say) -- 5 minutes flat. Ummmm. I'm getting the feeling that Frosty was supposed to seal the deal here.

Not that I wasn't attracted and not that I didn't envision it in our future, but I didn't envision it right now. Like, I just saw you as the gayest clown ever when you gave me the wooden snowman and now you want to get it on? Pass.

So I make my way out of there. We talk once after that. We never speak again.

What. The. Fuck. First of all, any boy that has a wooden snowman as part of his game plan needs serious help. (Who know, maybe it works. Maybe he has a box of them under his bed. Little Rudolph with Jessica engraved on the front, a pretty angel with Stephanie scrolled across it...) And maybe he hosts festive Easter egg hunts in the springtime and all the little girls go wild. Maybe I'm a cynic.

But here's the thing. I was the one who thought he was the cheeseball. I was the one who wanted to run out of his house laughing my ass off after he gave me his little bauble. But I didn't. I acted mature, took the gift and went with it. And then he's the one that decides it's done? Simply because I don't want to get freaky with Frosty? Yeah, right.

To steal a Mikeism, you can't make this shit up.

Cleveland Rocks

2008-11-18T13:39:00.008-05:00

Well, maybe Cleveland barely squeezes by. But in any case, they won last night thanks to my boy Quinn. And probably because I was wearing my bright green "Brady for Heisman" tee shirt. I will never let the dream die.

I was stoked that I was finally able to see him start a game. (Missed last week's against the Broncos because I don't have the effing NFL channel.) Stoked that I could see a Quinn-Edwards rematch (J and I went to the ND-Stanford game in 2005 - SPECTACULAR.)Yet, the oddest thing happened. After Edwards threw his THIRD interception of the first half I started to flip flop. The bleeding heart that I am, I started to root for the underdog that was making me -- along with all of Orchard Park -- grimace with pain and embarrassment.
.

I quickly snapped out of it.

Happy to see my baby lead the Browns to a victory. Looks like our little boy is all growns up.

Another Reason to Shop

2008-11-16T10:53:00.009-05:00

I'm a sucker for nostalgia. I've always felt I was born in the wrong era - gypped out of the days when women flaunted red lipstick and spectators and men sported fedoras and vests (I'm talking the first time around, not the resurgence brought on by Rock-a-Billy culture). Perhaps that's why I'm in love with Macy's "Believe" campaign:

Macy's has a smart, beautiful and heart-warming 150th anniversary/Merry Christmas/spend-your-hard-earned-money-at-our-store-and-help-resuscitate-the-economy ad campaign out right now. But the department store giant is also giving back this holiday season -- children across the country are invited to drop off their letters – stamped and addressed to Santa At The North Pole – at any Macy’s store in the Santa Mail letterbox. For each letter received, Macy’s will donate $1 to the Make-A-Wish Foundation, up to $1 million to grant the wishes of children with life-threatening medical conditions.

So c'mon, all you with youngsters, get them going on their 50-page wish lists now and drop them off at Macy's. While you're there you might even see me on Santa's knee, begging for a life.

The Kiss

2008-11-13T15:31:00.007-05:00

No, not Gustav Klimt's overproduced print. Not the sparkling concoction of vodka and champagne either. I'm talking my own personal From Here to Eternity moment that takes the cake. The one that will remain in my back pocket and unfortunately be used to gauge all future moments of passion. The Kiss of all time.

I was reminded of it the other morning when I awoke from a dream that had me reunited with the other half of this fantastical lip lock. The dream was weird, a bit off (aren't they all?) but the essence was the same. Pure passion.

It wasn't my first kiss -- although that one rocked. It wasn't the kiss that immediately followed "I now pronounce you man and wife" either (no, not just because that exercise in commitment crashed and burned, but more likely because that whole day is just a blurred and foggy memory). And it doesn't blend into all the other amazing smooches I've had in between.

I was 21. I was in a dress and strappy heels on Sunset Boulevard. It was a summer night; Hollywood was full of light, commotion, drunken youth. Our group of 10 or so had walked ahead, sick of waiting for us, moved on to the next spot. The combination of Jager, youth and chemistry thus produced a kiss for the record books. Moon shining, wind blowing my dress, hair all over, cars whizzing by honking and egging us on. All of the elements were perfectly aligned and nothing else existed. I was the star of my own movie.

The Kiss later resulted into an on and off again, oh, hmmm...what shall I call it...tryst, perhaps? We both eventually moved on -- doesn't everyone? -- but never fell out of touch. I texted him the morning after my dream (because texting seems to be the only way I know how to communicate anymore) and filled him in, knowing full well it would take him back to that exact moment, pushing his memories adrift (cue PM Dawn). What has always made The Kiss even better is that we have both always felt the same way: no other one has ever come close.

He reminded me Wednesday morning that the door is always open; I just need to come home. Granted, he has three kids now, we're both 10 years older and life has gotten a hell of a lot messier. Would it still be the same? Doubt it. And I don't think I'd ever risk tarnishing the perfect memory. Sometimes, they're better than the real thing.

Textual Healing

2008-11-08T16:12:00.017-05:00

I'm having an illicit affair. Via texts.

While in Seattle I met a nice guy who a) is actually older than me, b) has a respectable career and c) single. Three qualities I've never simultaneously experienced in a man. Problem is, soooo not attracted to him. I can see how other ladies might be, but me however, pass. And I'm sorry, if I'm not attracted, there's no hope. Call me shallow. Hell, I'll call myself shallow.

But we exchanged numbers and have been in constant contact ever since. Completely through text messaging.

I know everything about the guy. All the many personal and wonderful things you discover after five dates, I know. Sure, there's been no wining and dining, but there's been no annoying I'm-so-not-attracted-to-you-and-must-find-a-way-to-break-this-off awkwardness either. Throw me your witty comments, make me momentarily smile and let me go about my day.

I used to complain about how texting has conquered actual conversations. When the geek was all about the texts it infuriated me. But I've discovered that I've since gotten over that and am now 100% addicted to the sport. The other day when Seattle guy shot out, "I'm gonna call you in a bit," I instantly balked. Call??? Don't call me. How dare you, you inconsiderate bastard. I don't want to hear your frickin voice and have to worry about having a complete conversation. Just shoot me a complete sentence every now and then and I'm all giggles.

Anyhow, back to the guy. Last night, seems his texting fingers got a little frisky. I knew I was drinking wine, what he was drinking, not so sure (yet another great thing about texting, it's completely devoid of drunken jabber). We were having our normal textation, and before you know it homeboy busts out with:

"Wish you were here so i can kiss you if you let me." (all quotes are exact; poor grammar, spelling and lack of punctuation are part of his charm.)

"Muah!" (I provide the obligatory, we've been "dating" for a couple weeks now kiss.)

"That wasn't on my cheech right?" (Ummm, well, it sure as hell wasn't on your chong.)

"Wherever you want it to be." (Holy shit. Is this text sex? Am I participating in text sex? Is phone sex passe? Holy Shit! Before I know it he'll be feeling me up and I'm soooooo not attracted to him. Where are my standards??? Where are my morals??? How desperate have I become???)

"Don't tempt me because i could be thinking some place south." (Yep. It's text sex. Yucky, dirty text sex that so doesn't turn me on but makes me laugh out loud thinking how pathetic we are. Why go out and get the real thing? That would require effort and getting out of flannel pants. So, we'll just engage in textual copulation instead.)

At this point I'm laughing so hard and I decide not to respond and make him sweat. Make him realize I wasn't ready for third base. Shit, he didn't even text me a boob grab yet.

Few minutes later homeboy shoots out, "I hope i didn't offend you?"

Made him sweat a little more, finally told him no, he responds "cool" and we call it a night. Left his hot and bothered texting ass to his own devices.

We haven't spoken, er, texted today, and I kinda miss the twerp. Miss my modern-day Cyrano de Bergerac wooing me across thousands of miles. Maybe tonight I'll throw him a bone and get his texting thumbs all in a jumble. Will probably be the most action either of us has for quite some time. And it won't involve mess, disease and babies either. Hey, I may be on to something here.

Fragility

2008-11-04T09:04:00.009-05:00

Running errands this past weekend, I was driving home on a two-lane freeway during a beautiful autumn day. No traffic, no rain, life was good. Cars suddenly slowed way down and those of us in the left lane had to merge into the right, not knowing why. I began to merge, looked straight ahead of me and saw an older vehicle -- what I thought was a 1970s Volvo but later found out to be a 1986 BMW -- flipped around on the freeway, steaming. Wreckage was everywhere. I then immediately looked to my left and saw the body. I knew instantly, intuitively, that he was dead.

I can't describe the color of his skin - a shade of purplish gray I've never seen before. Blood was streaming from his head and his body was in a scrunched position, his neck pushed up and his head violently pushed back. I pulled to the right-hand shoulder. There were people already standing by him, on their phones, calling 911. One young woman was on her knees, pulling on latex gloves, must have been an off duty EMT. Small miracles.

I sat there. In my car. For what seemed like forever but was probably the total of 3-4 minutes. I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed the man in the car behind me was doing the same thing. Both of us, trying to figure out what to do. What to do when there is dead humanity 40 feet away. Even if other people, obviously much stronger people, are cleaning up the mess. Do you drive away? Do you sit in shock? Do you offer to help, knowing you won't be of any help at all but rather a crumpled mess?

I finally drove away. It felt blasphemous - even though I knew help was on the way -- driving away in my comfortable vehicle while someone was dying on the cold asphalt.

I was glued to the news that night and found out my intuition was correct - the 56-year-old man was dead. A one car accident that is still "under investigation."

Was he swerving to avoid a small animal? Was his car faulty? Did he have a heart attack? I'll never know.

The images have haunted my mind ever since. They will haunt my mind forever, even though they will lose prominence over time. My heart vacillates. Breaking for him because his life ended in such a violent and horrific manner; breaking for his family, who believed he was out running errands on a beautiful Saturday, would soon be home and then to find out that he would never be home again; and selfishly and horribly, breaking for me, realizing that this can happen to any one of us -- including me-- at any instantaneous moment.

I'm not scared of death. I believe that what awaits me after this life will be so much better than this crap we deal with on earth. But I am scared of the pain that most often accompanies death. I'm scared of not fulfilling all of my passions, dreams and desires before life is stolen from me. I'm scared of not loving truly, madly, deeply before I go. So much in this great world I want to grab, and what if I never get the chance? This is what scares me.

Maybe this makes me a selfish person. I don't know. Just in grappling with this experience, I keep coming back to this fact. Every last experience I know in my heart is mine for the taking, I want to take. Leaving nothing untouched that I should have touched. I want to live it, feel it, breathe it. Knowing that when I go, I have made the most of this life.

The Great Pumpkin

2008-10-31T15:26:00.008-04:00

My attempt at jack-o'-lantern mastery.

The intention was to create a scary skull and crossbones that exuded spook and death. The result was a retarded pirate cyclops with what appears to be four penises surrounding it. Arrrrrgh.

I poked out the wrong pieces from my carefully traced and carved stencil and thus had to modify. Guess the cyclops isn't the only retarded one.

Oh well. Happy Halloween anyhow. Don't worry, I'll leave the turkey carving to someone else.

Sign o' the Times

2008-10-28T10:34:00.007-04:00

I copied and pasted the blurb below from today's dose of what's supposedly hip.

October 28, 2008Spot OnInSpot STD Alert E-cards

From what we read (we’re not speaking from experience here, people), herpes is taking over the whole world.

And it’s friggin’ scary. What’s more frightening is that many are so worried about being ousted by society that they keep the bumpy (sorry, couldn’t refrain) news to themselves.

Thank heavens for new site InSpot, which serves not only as a wealth of knowledge about STDs but also makes it possible for you to alert past partners anonymously via e-cards that they could potentially be infected with your cooties. Recipients can then head to the site to find out where they can get screened and treated if necessary.

Sure, it’s a bit cowardly, but it beats not telling at all. That’d make them sore.

One E-card I'd rather not get. I guess they really do make a card for every occasion.

Tragedy

2008-10-27T19:50:00.005-04:00

I knew exactly what I wanted to blog about this evening. Made me giggle thinking about it. Then, while eating my Marie Calendar's chicken pot pie with cranberry sauce for dinner while watching the news, (I know, I know. I'm an old lady - I can't help it. I love them and all the warmth and comfort they embody.) I literally became nauseous. Literally.

Suddenly lost my appetite for my fave fall dinner. Also lost the ability to even think about my former blog.

The FBI confirmed that the 7-year-old body found dead in an SUV in Chicago is the nephew of Jennifer Hudson.

A 7-year-old boy fallen victim to the insanity of another human being. Victim to the heinous result of domestic violence. A beautiful child with a beautiful smile, dead.

A woman who has had to identify the bodies of her mother, brother and nephew within a week. Within a week. I can't even imagine.

I do believe in God. And the older I get, the more and more I have come to realize that yes, everything does happen for a reason.

But this.

My wheels are spinning and my stomach churns. Such good in this world. Such wonderful, beautiful good. And also such pure evil.

My prayers are with you, Ms. Hudson. I can't even imagine.

"Oh, the Places You'll Go..."

2008-10-21T21:12:00.030-04:00

"You'll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange [and wonderful] birds as you go."

Where to begin. I feel as if I've been gone forever, that I've seen so much. The sites, sounds and smells were amazing. All the senses happily fulfilled. I have enough pictures of Oregon, Washington and Vancouver I even get bored looking at them. Trees, rivers, sunsets, more trees. America really is, beautiful.

Yet, beauty aside, what I'm walking away with is a bit of heartbreak. A worthwhile heartbreak, but nonetheless, heartbreak. When I stumble upon places and people I truly like -- places and people that open my eyes, causing me to suddenly view life a tad bit clearer -- I never want to let go. Sadly though, that's what travel is all about. Whether it was for five minutes, or for a couple of hours, I fell in love with many different people over the past 10 days. And I thank each and every one of them.

To the hot marine on his way home to Oklahoma for a 30-day leave, thank you for sharing a beer (or two) with me at the Denver airport. What a fucking fantastic way to start a trip.

To my beautiful, caring Aunt - thank you for letting me get to know you as an adult. Thank you for having a heart that overflows with generosity and for sharing that warmth with all of us lucky enough to know you. Thank you for teaching me that life isn't about our wants, but rather, about others' needs. Helping you feed those less fortunate than ourselves is a memory and a life lesson that I'll treasure forever.

Thank you Ron for the meal of a lifetime.

Thank you Uncle Chuck for letting me try on the Russian hat. It's never a vacation without a funky hat.

Special thanks to beautiful mountaineer Travis. Without you, J and I would still be trying to find that damn Mount St. Helens.

Thank you lighthouse guy for letting J and I stay at one of the most spectacular, picturesque places on Puget Sound for free. Makes up for you looking like Ron Jeremy. Kinda.

Thank you bartender guy with the hoop earring (argh) for recommending the hot wings at your place in Poulsbo. You're right, they were the best I've ever had. Your sound advice excuses your accessory faux pas.

Thank you funny old man for taking J and I's Titanic shot on the way to Seattle. You really did make me feel like it was ok to walk away and leave my digital camera in the hands of a complete stranger.

Thank you Josh for reminding me how immature you really are. Bless your heart and good luck in Seattle.

Thank you Purple for your tower of wine. Faaabulous.

Thank you Zach, Christian and What'syourname for the drinks and the great night at the best sports bar I've been to yet. True gentlemen.

Thank you Canadian men for being very, very hot. Especially my blond, blue eyed, rugby-playing bartender, eh.

Thank you bartender at JFK for serving me a much-needed beer after a long day - even though you were closed. So helped soothe the headache caused by a flight of screaming children.

Thank you Mary for being the best person I could ever possible hope to sit next to on a flight and for showing me that there are restless people on the east coast just like me. Can't wait to hang out.

And, lastly, thank you to me Bestest and my partner in crime for cruising and laughing around this great world with me. Can't wait for Europe. In the words of the great Maurice Sendak, "Let the wild rumpus begin!"

So much more, but I'm tired. Incidents will slowly leak out over time and hopefully, if I'm lucky, my path will cross with one - or all - of these amazing people again.

Majestic

2008-10-10T20:58:00.015-04:00

After living on the east coast for one year and four days, I realized that there is this thing called autumn. It's absolutely splendiferous.

Burnt oranges, greys, browns and tweed. Argyle, houndstooth, knee-highs and boots. Pumpkin lattes, apple cider, muffins and chowder. Mums, rusty falling leaves, crisp air, scorching sunsets. Football (esp. Notre Dame!), new books and anticipation. Scarfs, cardigans, down comforters, cozy nights. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

Oh, Golden Season, don't ever leave me! I'm finally in my full-fledged New England, J Crew-preppy glory and I never want it to end!

Alas, I'm leaving for the west coast tomorrow. Oregon, Puget Sound, Seattle, road trip with The Bestest - yay! Very excited, true. But also a little sad... I don't want to miss even one of your golden drops.

Seriously?

2008-10-08T20:49:00.011-04:00

So I just got off the phone with Grandma. Who's getting a divorce. At 81.

Turns out, after 6 or so years of happily wedded bliss, Grams realized she was "being taken advantage of." Being used for her insurance. We have to worry about being used for sex, Grams has to worry about being used for health insurance. It's all relative, I guess.

Like, why in the hell are you getting divorced now? To make sure those last couple of years are wild? To grab a hold of new "dusty, lanky, lowriding old man balls" as Joe so aptly put it? My poor grandpa is rolling in his grave now.

My dad proceeds to call me at work today and give me the whole rundown before I even speak to Grandma tonight. I guess stepgrandpa has indeed been taking advantage of her and there's another man Gram's interested in dating. Not kidding.

Why in God's name am I blogging about this and how is it normal that my grandma dates more than I do?

Problem is, about 10 minutes after hanging up with Gram, while I was still sitting submerged in my weird, shock bubble, stepmom calls and proceeds to tell me, "It's o.k. honey. I love you. I don't think you're weird."

Um. What?

Turns out pops and grandma, the crazy little shedevil that she is, and the committed little catholic son that he is, find it awfully weird that I'm not dating like mad and full of crazy-ass drama like Grams is. So, I guess that makes me weird.

HOW DID THIS GET FLIPPED ON ME?

Up until now I was o.k. with my single status. Honestly. But now hearing that my Grandma is getting more play than I am, I truly do feel weird. And what in the hell is with my stepmom bringing this weirdness to my attention anyway???

Well as Joe kindly put it, "Stepmoms are like mother-in-laws, they never really like you. There's always a 'fuck you' buried in there." Thank you, my friend. I can always count on you for the dirty truth.

Anyhow. Now I'm dwelling on the lack of love in my life. Thanks dad. Thanks stepmom. Thanks grandma. I respect you and cherish you, but gee, thanks. Thanks for taking your generation x drama and covertly flipping it so that I'm the weird one.

And ironically, the song lyric that's been running through my head all day, "It's your God forsaken right to be loved, loved, loved..."

Another One Bites the Dust

2008-10-04T12:04:00.005-04:00

Scarlett Johanssen is the luckiest bitch in the world.

And somewhere quietly, Alanis is kicking herself like crazy while furiously scribbling down lyrics for more angry tunes.

The Green Monster

2008-10-01T18:20:00.008-04:00

Standing loud, bright and strong. Unfortunately not in Fenway, but deep within my being. And of the seven deadliest, its affliction is the one I continually battle.

Is there any pain as crushing as watching someone else own your dreams? Someone else living the life you thought was reserved for you? Of course there's the crushing pain of lost love, lost health, lost finances. I guess it's all centered around loss. But maybe the difference is that dreams are those wispy, intangible things that always offer the tiny light on the other side. When all of those aforementioned realities fall by the wayside, you can always rely on the secret life -- the life that just hasn't happened yet. But when you realize that yes, that life did happen, only not to you, what are you supposed to do with the shattered pieces? Brush them away and move on? Not so easy. At least not for me.

I know, I know. I'm a blessed person. And I really do know this. But my heart won't listen to this truth. It wants what it wants when it wants it. And for a long time now, it never seems to get it.

Yo Ho, Yo Ho...

2008-09-30T22:01:00.027-04:00

No, you're not a ho. Either am I (be kind with your comments). And I wouldn't quite identify myself as a pirate either. But a sailor? Maybe. Or at least I tried to be for the past few days.

I just survived my first sailing experience. And I mean actually sailing. No mai tais with umbrellas. No cute cabana boys with tans. No string bikinis, shuffleboard or deck chairs.

Raising sails, tacking, trying to figure out what a halyard and winch is and what the hell I'm supposed to do with them.

A lot of work and definitely well worth it. I think the weirdest part for me was all of the down time in between the tacking and other crap. Sitting on the deck, staring out at the ocean and thinking about all the things I could be getting done instead of sailing somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. I really had to stop and remind myself to live in the moment. Once I did that, I realized what an absolutely beautiful life experience it was.

Me and Chelle

Beautiful

My favorite picture from Greenport, Long Island (where we docked)

Some beautiful lighthouse with mucho seagulls in the ocean

Wind in the sails

Not sure what Captain is doing, but he's doing it well

GPS

Oh Captain, my Captain (well, not really my Captain, but I couldn't resist the literary nod)

So the boat wasn't moving when I posed on the bow sprit. So what.

High seas

A Brilliant Trip.

Legend

2008-09-27T11:40:00.009-04:00

Not only on the silver screen, but in philanthropy, life and love.

I remember when I was working at Borders and I helped a nice, elderly lady with piercing blue eyes find a book once. She looked familiar but I couldn't place it, until she handed me her credit card. Ms. Joanne Woodward. Talk about a Wow moment.

I have always respected the love that these two shared, remaining bound together while every other Hollywood couple tore apart.

And, just like the rest of the world, I have always ranked Paul Newman as one of Hollywood's greatest legends. Montgomery Clift, Marlon Brando, Paul Newman. The ultimate in cool. We'll never have another breed like you.

Here's to the original Hustler. Thank you for everything you gave us. You will be forever missed.

Wineing

2008-09-25T17:03:00.008-04:00

I am a creature of habit. Schedules, routines, wine. I stick with what I know. Which apparently, isn't acceptable to some.

Seems the clerk at the local package store finds it insulting that I always purchase the same bottle of red wine. Every once in awhile, I'll mix it up with something different. But for the most part, I stick with my fave. It's tasty, reasonably priced and I know what I'm getting. There's nothing worse than buying a new wine, getting home and realizing it's crap. You've wasted money and have nothing to drink. The worst possible situation.

Problem is, bully-wine-clerk-man now makes me feel like I have to try a different bottle of wine every time I go to the package store. I no longer rejoice in supporting my local gin joint. Now I slink into the store, look around apprehensively to see if he's working and if not, I'm safe. But that rarely happens.

This evening, there he was. Waiting. Smirking. Damn sommelier anticipating my cheap wine faux pas. My plan of attack: To outsmart the wine rat bastard. I walk over to a display of aged red wines and pick up a bottle with an especially beautiful label (because like books, and sometimes people, I tend to unfortunately judge items by their covers) and pretend that I'm fully versed in all vintages.

"That's a great cab," bully-wine-man jabbers over my shoulder.

"Oh, I know," I purr back, lying.

I saunter up to the register to pay for the beautifully-labeled wine that will probably taste like crap, realizing I'm taking a huge risk spending this much on something I don't know.

As I'm walking out, I watch a nice, young lady saunter into the store. My age, my stature. Just got off work like I did. Walks over ever so confidently, picks up her favorite cheapo bottle of chardonnay and marches to the register. Head held high the whole way.

I'm waiting. I'm waiting. I'm waiting.

Say something to her too, bully-wine-man. Say something now.

"That will be $9."

MAKE HER FEEL LIKE LOUSY CRAP NOW.

She pays for her ten-dollar-bottle and walks out the door. Smiling.

Not a damn word.

I, meanwhile, walk to my car, grumbling and cursing, clutching my overpriced cab that I already know will taste like overpriced crap.

That jerk not only made me leave my comfort zone, he also made me spend way too much while doing it. Which, now that I think of it, takes talent. That scoundrel is wasting his time. He should be selling Land Rovers to people who work at McDonalds.

What I Learned Today

2008-09-24T12:55:00.011-04:00

I went to the bank at lunch, something I never do since I have direct deposit. Seems times have changed since I've been there last.

I'm standing by the atm, confused, looking around like crazy for a deposit slip and an envelope. None to be found. I ring the "teller" button (god, I'm so happy I don't have to run to a little window when someone rings a little button) and explain my confusion to the teller. She informs me that deposit slips and envelopes are no longer needed; you simply insert the cash and checks into the atm to make a deposit, and voila, transaction complete.

What? No envelopes? No deposit slips? This can't be. I swear I asked the poor teller five times, "Are you sure I don't have to include a slip?" "Are you positive?" "So, my money will end up in my account, right?" "Even the cash that isn't signed on the back?"

Teller finally gives me that pitying look I receive all too often and hands me a nice little slip "to take home with me" detailing:

(This is now folded neatly inside my wallet for future reference.)

Now, if this type of banking was par for the course 10 years ago, I would have flowed with it and accepted it. But I don't seem to accept things so easily anymore. I want to put my money in a nice, safe envelope to protect it from that thieving boogieman that camps out in atms, dammit.

The Evolution of Zack Morris

2008-09-22T20:24:00.014-04:00

What the hell is up with Mark-Paul Gosselaar's hair? I mean, he was never all that hot in Saved by the Bell, (I was personally a Slater fan - pegged jeans, muscle tanks, curly mullet and all) but he was a cute kid with a cocky attitude and a semi-decent, early-90's do.

Then NYPD Blue rolled around, and I was like, "Hellllo Mr. Sexy, Handcuff-Me-if-You-so-Desire Zack Morris."

And now...

I mean, really? Can we say Letdown? It's not that I don't think a man can't sport a longer 'do. If your locks are long, thick and luscious, bring it on. But stringy, mousy and wavy? Not so much.

I feel kinda bad, he actually is a nice guy. He used to come into the restaurant I worked in all the time with his beautiful wife. They were totally quiet, unpretentious customers that left great tips. They didn't expect special service or a big to-do, which is a far cry from a lot of the Hollywood clientele I used to wait on.

Wow. Now I feel really bad for ragging on his hair misfortune.

But while I'm at it...one more quick thing. Why hasn't he taken the cue from Tiffani-Amber and dropped the middle name already? Do we really need the third name? Are there really that many Mark Gosselaars running around rampant out there in TV Land that he has to throw the Paul in there so we don't get confused? Does this bother anyone else besides me?

I Love a Clever Tagline

2008-09-20T11:23:00.010-04:00

Svedka vodka has a brilliant marketing campaign out. After seeing one of their glossy ads while getting my fill of weekly trash in Us magazine, the lightening bolt hit. Why in the hell do I rack my brain daily trying to think of clever ways to drive a museum's gate, when I could be wiling away my life promoting what I actually know about? Someone gets paid to think of this...

...and I think that someone should be me.

Hip, Hip Hooray...

2008-09-19T14:06:00.010-04:00

...it's F.A.'s birthday!

Hope

All

Peachy,

Perfect,

Yummy,

Beautiful,

Illustrious,
Rapturous,

Twinkly,

Hilarious,

Dazzling,

And amorous

Years

Follow you today

And always.

I love you! Can't wait to see you next month...we'll have a drink (or two, or three, or...) to celebrate. xo xo xo

Dirty Little Secret

2008-09-17T13:11:00.010-04:00

After emphatically agreeing with Sara's fabulous blog today, I realized there is one more thing that I would add to her list (elaborating upon her #5): Coming Out. When is it time to come out of the blogging closet?

I mean, I couldn't even comment on her blog today, because certain bloggers that read her blog would wonder why I know anything about blogging since "I don't have a blog."

I'm not talking about coming out to the bloggers who live thousands of miles away. Who cares if they think I'm a dweeb. But letting the people I interact with in daily life know that I'm a dweeb? Do I really want them knowing that I may drink one too many glasses of wine, that I can't hold a relationship and that I am truly that crazy cat lady that everyone talks about? Do I really want these people to know these details?

Making it even worse - my co-workers are fanatical bloggers. They read and comment on each others and talk about it every morning while I sit quietly in the corner, being the red-headed stepchild that I am. Just when I think I'm ready to Come Out, my paranoia reels me back in. Do I really want these people to have access to my manic/crazed/jaded/frustrated/sometimes-happy/witty mind? ARRGHH!

But the cracks are slowly beginning. I've been telling one friend here. One friend there.

This may explain why my phone hasn't been ringing of late.

Just making a mountain out of a molehill. I'm here all day.

Because I'm Hot

2008-09-15T19:21:00.009-04:00

This is the thing. I want to know how couples workout together. I mean, do the chicks really exercise? Like cardio and everything? After running/walking/surviving on the treadmill I am a weak, wet mess. Not glistening. Not glowing. Not emitting cute, little droplets of dew across the bridge of my nose. Picture pure, unbridled sweat pooling around my ankles. That's me. Mmmm, attractive.

Personally, I love the sweat. You feel absolutely fabulous afterwards and not so guilty about the 1,500 calories from that bottle of cab. But sharing that sweat with The One? Outside of the bedroom? Pass.

Yet deep down, in that dark, quiet spot where I secretly believe that everyone else's life/relationship rocks, I've always dreamt of being "that" person. Being the barely glistening half of "that" couple. You know the one. The workout goddess that saunters out of the gym with her man after sharing a great workout and, you know, casually stops by Starbucks and relaxes in one of their maroon, velour chairs while sipping an iced chai. Every pore repressed, every hair in place. Calmly discussing politics and the weather and perhaps, oh, you know, which restaurant to grab a bite to eat at on the way home. Umm...HUH? HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN? Who are these women and why were they born without glands?? I would be restless as all getout in that damn chair (ruining the velour with my back sweat) praying to get home as quickly as possible so I could put myself back together.

I know you're thinking, "Well, Erin, these women probably take showers at the gym and then go about their day." Well, preytell, then why in the hell are they still in their tight black workout pants and midriff baring tops? Is it all a facade? Have they rushed into the bathroom, quickly showered, sprayed and powdered, and then thrown their Underarmour and Nikes back on to give the appearance that they are far superior, unsweaty human beings? Fake bitches.

And then the next thing you're thinking, "Well, Erin, if you are truly in love, the man will overlook the sweat." Really? I mean, really? Will he really overlook the pit marks and the dripping locks of hair? Hmmm, doubt it.

Don't know why I'm obsessing about this. Haven't fallen into a relationship overnight and need to suddenly worry about tomorrow morning at the gym with my honey. This is just one of those weird paradoxes in life that I've always wondered about. Running, spinning, climbing, stepping, lifting, biking, and even dancing for that matter. All without one tiny, little bead of sweat. How in the hell do they do it?

These must be the same women who never dye, pluck, wax or tan.

The Good Life

2008-09-14T16:34:00.023-04:00

I spent the weekend in the beautiful sleepy seaside town of Rockport, located on the northern shore in Cape Ann, MA. And, yes, it's official. I could definitely make a life out of combing the beach for sea glass, eating crisp apples from farm stands, watching hot scuba divers emerge from the surf, devouring fabulous sushi and lobster rolls, shopping, waking up to homemade blueberry scones, lounging in the sun, sipping wine and being completely happy.

I really must find an old, wealthy New Englander with a bad cough.

Aaaand.....the drive home.

Perfect segue into Monday morning.

Erin's Email Etiquette

2008-09-11T20:15:00.012-04:00

Since my whole day seems to revolve around email, it goes without saying that there are a million aspects to the sport that drive me nuts. Why we no longer communicate via telephono, not sure. But if you must contact me through email, I beg you, please refrain from:

Lousy spelling (it's not "thru", it's "through"), poor punctuation, excessive exclamation points (has that cheerleader I hated in high school resurfaced?), pink comic sans 18-point font (what are you? five?), cc'ing everyone you freakin' work with (you need validation you're doing your job?), bcc'ing anyone (you shady mother f*cker, you), telling me more than I possibly need to know or care to know, an elaborate email signature that has to give your 10-word-long title (there goes that validation thing again), insisting on only signing your emails with your first initial (what are you? prince?), not responding with a simple "thanks" if you've received my oh-so-important document - leading me to think my initial email is resting quietly in your spam folder, and finally, last but not least, the creme de la creme, ALL CAPPING ME. You passive-aggressive lousy bastard f*ck. You wouldn't dare do this to me in a normal conversation. Quit hiding behind your screen and fight like a man.

And, while I'm on the rant, I think it's sad that I am forced to show my emotion through a f*cking colon and parenthesis. Ooooh, I'm happy! :) Ooooh, I'm melancholy. :( Ooooh, I'm frisky! ; ) Seriously? It's come to this? My mental state is revealed in 2008 by which way my parentheses curve? Pleeease.

It's not that I'm not a symbol user, too. But everything in moderation. Please.

And finally, not that you want to hear more of my crazy diatribe, but nonetheless, kids today need to take a damn email class. I mean, my generation took penmanship classes (which I eagerly awaited and excelled at! I am such the nerd and this explains why I'm single!! Look at me with the exclamation points!!!) The dos and don'ts of cyberspace dialogue. How to make friends and influence people. Appropriately dignified and without using a damn exclamation point.

!!!!

So there.

Golden Day

2008-09-09T19:11:00.008-04:00

I'm sitting at my computer looking out at this...

While listening to this...

(I was at this very concert! only about a million rows up...)

And I'm smiling. Thinking of the healthy baby boy my best friend of 20 years, my sister for life, brought into the world today.

It truly is a beautiful world.

Post Secret Sunday

2008-09-07T13:30:00.003-04:00

This one stuck with me the most this morning. The heartbreak speaks for itself.

TV Land is Calling your Name

2008-09-06T20:03:00.021-04:00

Seriously? You're still on the air? People are still getting paid to script this show?

I'm sick of seeing commercials advertising ER's last season. Are TV viewers seriously supposed to get faclemped and reminiscent about this antiquated doc drama?

Didn't ER begin like a million years ago? And people kept watching it after Clooney left? I would've thought that all former ER addicts had moved on to Grey's Anatomy. And speaking of, that crap show should be over, too. McDreamy, McSteamy, McMeany. I'm sick of hearing it.

But I digress.

Since the time ER first aired, I've lived in five different apartments, two different states, been engaged, married, divorced, earned an AA, BA, MA, paid off two cars, been mom to two cats, watched one cat almost die, watched two presidents rule our country and will see a third take office, been a waitress, bookseller and frustrated publicist, drunken waaay too much, lost loved ones, fell in lust time and time again, had my heart broken time and time again, made the transition from boot leg to flared and back to boot leg, lost myself, found myself, lost myself again, drunken waaay too much, watched friends marry, watched friends bear children, watched friends divorce, watched friends fade away.

I've lived all of my turbulent 20s and the beginning of my boring 30s...and this freakin' show is still on the air.

DIE ALREADY. Be gone. You've extended your welcome and it's time to go to rerun heaven.

Why I care about this so much, I don't know. Guess it bothers me when people/pop culture don't know when to make a respectful, appropriate exit. Make me want more. Don't nauseate me by your enduring presence.

Page Turners

2008-09-04T18:34:00.008-04:00

I've heard that blogging rolls in phases. Sometimes you're knee-deep into it, sometimes you slack. I, have been choosing the latter of late.

It's not that I don't have plenty to say. God knows I always have plenty to say. I've just been so damn lazy. Lazy, lazy, lazy. I have actually been catching up on a lot of reading. Here are some of my new faves...

Sellevision by Augusten Burroughs. A deliciously dark and witty satire about QVC, the Home Shopping Network and all of those other shows that sell crap. This book is a MUST READ for anyone else like me who is captivated by those glossy women with perfectly manicured nails painted the color of linen white. For all of you who can't get enough of Gem Week -- you know who you are -- run to the book store now and pick this up. Do not be scared by the tawdry debauchery. It will leave you laughing your ass off.

A Man of No Moon by Jenny McPhee. Whoever said "don't judge a book by its cover" never met me. I always judge books by their covers, and sometimes people, too. (Bad, bad Erin.) Apart from its beautiful cover, the novel depicts the tragic love triangle of Italian poet Dante Omero and two American B-movie actresses, Gladys and Prudence Godfrey. Dante, the virile Italian male that he is, realizes that his one perfect woman is actually the combination of both sisters. The classic madonna/whore complex (Guess who's the madonna figure? Seems McPhee kinda thought her readers were dumb and needed to help them out a little with her character's names). A somewhat trite tale, yet set in 1948 Rome, how can you go wrong?

Waiter Rant by The Waiter. Another MUST READ - for anyone who has ever served a table a day in his or her life. This novel is the exact book every waiter/bartender dreams of writing while they are going through waiter hell. I still kick myself for not jotting down the thousands upon thousands of shocking, mortifying, hilarious and downright unbelievable experiences that I experienced as a server. Here I was thinking crazy things only happened in my restaurant. Turns out the same shit goes down everywhere.

Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates. I am now officially in love with Richard Yates (too bad he's dead) and believe that he is one of the most gifted authors of the past century. The back cover sums up this novel perfectly, "From the moment of its publication in 1961, Revolutionary Road was hailed as a masterpiece of realistic fiction and as the most evocative portrayal of the opulent desolation of the American suburbs."

With the most beautiful voice, Yates basically breaks down what happens to most of us: without knowing when or why, we've suddenly fallen into the same uniform footsteps as our 9 to 5 parents, walking down the same boring, suburban path as everyone else. Though only 3/4 of the way through, I know this one will remain on my bookshelf for a lifetime.

Anyway, there you have it. What I've been doing. Laying on my big, boring, lazy butt enjoying some good summer reads. Well that, and watching the conventions. But that's a whole 'nother blog...

Post Secret Sunday

2008-08-31T11:26:00.009-04:00

Three really stood out to me this morning...

This crosses my mind continually. Not that my ex is fighting for our country in Iraq, but who knows, maybe he is. That's the thing, the way it ended, anything could happen to him and I would never know. I read my hometown newspaper online occasionally, seeing if I'll ever catch word of him. (This is not improbable, as this is how I found out when he went to jail awhile back.) It's weird, you can share so much with a person, your life, your heart, your every thought... and then in a few year's time, you don't even know if they exist. I often wonder how, when or if I'll ever hear what's become of him. I don't know if I would be better off knowing his whereabouts or not. I don't know if I'll ever stop wondering.

I love how some things are just universal. Like making a wish when all the digits are the same. Screw the bigger, weightier issues like politics, religion and education. It's these silly little things that connect us as a human race.

I've always had a fear of dark water, too. Drowning at sea is right up there with being burned or buried alive for me. (Ahh, such pleasant topics for a Sunday morning.) It probably stems from being at the beach as a young kid with my neighbor friend and her parents. Christina and I were out in the water and the tide was so strong it kept pulling me back farther and farther into the ocean. I distinctly remember the horrific feeling of utter helplessness. I don't remember who it was that swam out and got me, I just remember the embarrassment of not being able to save myself. Ever since, I haven't been a fan of the deep. Pretty to look at, not so much to be in. Kind of like love itself at times.

I love this analogy of dark water/falling in love. The fear of losing control resounds so deeply within each.

Track Marks

2008-08-26T19:39:00.008-04:00

Do you ever feel like you've lost the best you? The person you were before life slapped you in the face?

Whomever I meet now, whether it be male or female, I wish I could start the conversation with, "Oh, you should've seen me before I had this ugly-ass mosquito bite scar on my ankle." Or, "Yeah, I haven't always had thighs that jiggle when I set them down a little too hard, there was a time when these sneaky little grey hairs didn't pop up over night, and I promise you, these lines around my eyes haven't always been here." I'd continue with "My tummy didn't always have this tiny pooch, and way back when, I swear, my face never broke out (eww-gross)." My voice escalating with snapshots of the past, I'd scream out, "Believe it or not, there was a time when I was athletic, and fresh, and bouncy, shiny and taught - the epitome of springtime itself!"

I'd finish up the conversation with my emotional regressions, pleading, "Once upon a time I really did believe that everyone found their happily ever after," and "I swear I'm not a retarded idiot because I take so long to answer your question, it's just that my mind has been so annihilated by life that it takes me a good three minutes to figure out what your real motivation is when you converse with me."

Maybe it's best that I can't have conversations like this with strangers. They would probably back away slowly, thinking I'm either a narcissistic fool or a pathetic woman who simply can't rejoice in the evolution of life. (Or just plain crazy.)

It's not all bad. I haven't let myself go down the tubes or anything. And I know that with age comes wisdom, maturity, yada, yada, yada. But sometimes you just want the people who know you now, to know how you were then. Before life sank in.

I guess I'm tired of being a grown up today.

Humdrum

2008-08-21T19:21:00.005-04:00

You know you need to shake things up a bit when:

1. You pass a Geekmobile on the street and you look twice.

2. In a conversation with a friend, he asks what you're doing, you say you're putting on pajamas, he proceeds to say, "Wow, at 9:00" and you proceed to think he's indicating how late it is - not how early.

3. You're leafing through the fall issue of L.L. Bean and you have nearly every page dog-eared. (No offense to anyone who sports L.L. Bean, I just always associated the catalog with my mother's generation.)

4. When making plans for the weekend you have to stop and think if any of them will interfere with your regularly scheduled programming.

5. You feel oh so naughty when you have a couple of cocktails on a school night.

Help. Please. I need action.

(And Sara, by no means do I mean to encroach upon your brilliantly creative blog format, it's just that lists always have to be made in quantities of five in my neurotic world, and I didn't have enough material to reach 10. THANK GOD.)

Silence

2008-08-20T18:57:00.008-04:00

I was eating my chicken salad sandwich and drinking my diet coke at lunch today, half working, half browsing the Internet. I decided to check out the news/gossip on MSN and was instantly shocked when I discovered that LeRoi Moore, the AMAZINGLY talented saxophonist from Dave Matthews Band passed away today. He was only 46.

Ever since the first moment I heard a DMB song, I've been hooked. In fact, I remember the exact moment I heard that first song - it was "Crash" (of course) -- I was at Sadie's house with a group of kids I served tables with at Outback. I sat at her dining room table as the music blared out of her stereo above the fireplace and I remember thinking distinctly, I HAVE TO HAVE this CD. After I bought it, I pulled out the liner notes and read every single line of poetry, word for word - the first time I had ever done that. I fell in love immediately. The lyrics, the rhythm, the beauty. I had never been a crazy music freak, the kid that lived for music and music alone. But when I heard Dave, I suddenly became that person.

Throughout my 20s, I saw the band religiously. Every summer, I would catch one, two, three shows while they were in SoCal. My roommate Michelle and I used to see them in L.A., get on the road and see them the next night in Irvine, the next night in Upland and so on and so on and so on. It turns out DMB has a ton of these types of fans - we would run into people in different venues who were just like us, following the band all summer long on their musical trail.

Somehow, I moved on from that love affair. Over time, and after sharing DMB's poetry with different friends and lovers, I slowly lost track of the group. The last concert I ever saw was with my ex-husband at Dodger Stadium and I think, sadly, that kind of finished it for me. To this day though, certain DMB songs will take me back to an exact moment, an exact feeling, an exact piece of my youth.

I am saddened by LeRoi's death. Somehow you think, if the band that got me through the best and worst of times is still around, still producing, then everything will be ok. If they're still doing the same thing, then I can always fall back into that comfortable, familiar place if need be. I was reminded today that there is no going back. There's just a memory of how it once was.

Sunday Funnies

2008-08-17T12:55:00.002-04:00

Oh, so clever...love the wit.

The Pirate

2008-08-15T19:16:00.019-04:00

So, I could've gone on a date this week. Yes, me! A date! He was single, of age and had a great job. Only one problem. The hoop.

I mean, seriously. Really? Is this really still an issue in 2008? What's with the guy who won't let go of the single hoop in the left ear? Maybe it's still 1992 and I didn't get the memo.

I admit that I already have issues with guys who wear jewelry. But still, I do allow for some wiggle room. Wedding ring - wonderful. Simple watch on a tan wrist - love it. Crucifix your Italian grandma gave you - fine. Hoop in the left ear - are ya kiddin' me?

I tried to overlook it once. In fact, I think it was actually one of the last guys I dated in California. He was intelligent, athletic, ambitious, witty - yet, he couldn't let go of the freaking hoop. I tried to justify it - telling myself appearances aren't everything, it gives him confidence, it's just a little adornment in the big scheme of things, yada, yada, yada. But try as I might, I could not get over it. Every time I looked at him, there it was. Gleaming, shining, taunting. It drove me mad. I was disgusted with myself for letting this bother me, and jointly disgusted with myself for going out with someone who could commit such a dated and horrific crime. As superficial as this sounds, I'm just being honest. There are some things in life that I can't overlook. And a bright, shiny, look-at-me hoop is one of them.

Maybe I'm shallow. Maybe this is why I'm still single. If so, I really don't care. I mean, c'mon. Do I really want to be with someone who took the time and effort to think "Hey, this out-of-style earring will really make me look cool."? NO.

I want the guy that rolls out of bed, looks for the cleanest shirt closest to him and throws it on. The guy who may have five-day old stubble, dirty sneakers and torn jeans, but has the purest and kindest heart. The guy who wears jewelry for sentimental reasons, not for a bygone trend. The man who never even considers doing anything to make himself "cooler," confidently knowing that he's absolutely perfect just the way he is, sans accessories.

I do not want the guy who forces me to wait while he gets his hoop out of the jewelry cleaning solution, rinses it off and pops it in.

I would rather die alone. Sue me.

Golden Boy

2008-08-14T19:07:00.006-04:00

So, I kind of want Ryan Lochte to take the 200 individual medley tonight. No, not kind of. I do. I really, really do. Yes, I know that will end Captain America's golden streak (As Mary Buckheit so greatly coined Mr. Olympian) and it's not that I don't like Phelps. I do. But does he have to win them all? I mean, really. I think 11 gold medals can suffice. Throw someone else a bone. What about all the other little guys? I'm all about the little guy. The one quietly waiting in the shadows for his moment to arrive.

And...oh, all right. I admit it. I'm a sucker for this mug.

I'll Revisit

2008-08-11T19:34:00.012-04:00

Absolutely stunning.

Wardrobe? Exquisite. Acting? Superb. Scenery? Gorgeous. Heartbreaking? Devastatingly.

What the Brits can't create in the kitchen, they sure as bloody hell make up for in the theater. After seeing this film yesterday, I rushed home and picked up Waugh's classic that's been resting quietly on my shelf for years, never once cracked opened. Silly, silly girl. The NY Times didn't seem to care for Brideshead Revisited; I pray that after I finish the novel my love affair with this sweet cinematic confection isn't tainted. But I honestly don't see how that could happen. Even if Julian Jarrold's vision did detour from the 1945 literary classic, his picture is a beautiful, sumptuous feast for the eyes and heart. The type of film that haunts you for days to come.

And lead actor Matthew Goode? I'll say goode. Mmm, mmm goode.

Dee-lish.

Summer Night

2008-08-10T11:08:00.013-04:00

Last Night I visited Bill's Seafood in Westbrook, an eatery which I guess is pretty well known on the Connecticut shore. Well, it's obviously very well known because cars were lined up in the street trying to pull into the parking lot.

Once inside, the place was packed. Too tan Jersey tourists, locals, tweens, old-timers, fresh faced 21-year-olds. My friend and I finally grabbed a seat and feasted on fried shrimp, Tanqueray and tonics, cheesecake and Sambuca. Perhaps the best live jazz I've ever heard was in my left ear, the glory of the Olympics emanating from the LCD screen in my right. The lack of air conditioning suited the ambiance, as the hot night swelled in the evening's energy.

The 1917 New Orleans Jazz Band was absolutely amazing, with the singer/sax player nailing classic standards like "Jelly Roll Blues." Though I was thrilled that I happened to stumble upon such great talent, it also made me a little sad. This quintet belonged in smoky, famous jazz clubs, or on Letterman's stage. Not in the corner of a clam shack playing their hearts out while the smell of freshly battered cod wafted through the air. But every diner in that restaurant did love every minute of it, clapping, dancing and swaying along. The musicians fed off this, prompting them to play each song with more vigor and sweat than the last. And maybe, that's what it's all about. Maybe it's not all fine wine, fancy restaurants and fame. Maybe sometimes it's as simple as fried fish, hot jazz and a sultry summer night.

The Spectacle

2008-08-09T13:07:00.011-04:00

The 2008 Summer Olympics have officially begun after MUCH fanfare last night in Beijing. Of course I watched the opening ceremonies, jaw dropped and amazed at the glittering celebration that was unfolding on the screen. Beautiful people flying through the air on cables, smiling acrobats walking across a huge, spinning globe, 2,008 drummers tapping their instruments at precisely the exact moment to create an exact roar.

More than 90,000 people took in the sights and sounds last night at Beijing's newly refurbished and highly upgraded National Stadium, an architectural sublimity.

Yes, it was majestic. Yes, the Olympics happen only once every four years so the celebration should be golden. But all I could think last night was of the $40 billion that was invested in this celebration and two-week athletic event. All of the people that could have been fed, the homes that could have been built, the animals that could have been rescued with that money.

I'm no philanthropist by any means, and I don't know, maybe China is planning on making all of this money back and then some with the influx in tourism they're bound to have. But I still can't justify the need for such an extravaganza. Does everything in the twenty-first century have to be the ultimate, pumped up on steroids, in order for us to enjoy it anymore?

Honking Protocol

2008-08-08T12:14:00.004-04:00

So, this is my question. When boys/men honk their car horn and throw their hands out the window to catch your attention, are you, as a woman, supposed to acknowledge this?

I mean, if you do turn your head, you're that girl. The girl that revels in attention from the opposite sex, and proceeds to blush and giggle in order to fulfill her subordinate role in life. Or, perhaps, you're just a friendly gal saying hi back.

But if you don't turn your head, you're that girl. The girl that "knows" she's hot, is tired of boys/men honking their horns at her and simply doesn't have time for this amateurish flirtation. Or, perhaps, you don't believe that the honk could actually be for you.

I've been told that I analyze things a little bit too much -- this is probably a prime example.

I'll end by saying I'm just stoked it happened today. Not that I stopped traffic by any means, but I do believe that the little toot-toot I heard was directed my way. Maybe I'm not quite over-the-hill after all.

Post Secret Sunday

2008-08-03T11:01:00.008-04:00

This secret stood out the most today. Isn't it true how when we look back, it's the little random moments that make us smile the most?

Pretty Damn Annoying

2008-08-02T15:34:00.005-04:00

So, I thought it was time to upgrade from my ever-so-youthful, nearly-on-its-deathbed hot pink Razor phone to a sleek, svelte metallic gray BlackBerry Pearl. A PDA that supposedly does everything but walk the dog. GPS, email, Internet, phone calls, MP3 player, liver transplants, yada, yada, yada. Nice and compact, ready to rock.

I should be sooo happy right now that I've made yet another step towards maturity and organization. Instead all I'm feeling is pure frustration because I've spent the last hour trying to figure out how to work the damn thing. Transferring music from your computer to your phone IS NOT "simple." It's rocket science. WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE SO DIFFICULT??? And, to worsen the matter, all I can think about is my abandoned, scratched-up old little phone curled up in a fetal position on the floor. Why did I upgrade, why? What was my reasoning again? Who cares if the battery was kaput. There is no instant gratification here. None. Just pure headaches. And the nagging thought that maybe I should've gotten the iPhone, or the LG shine, or a Samsung, or...

God forbid if I ever have to make an actual major, life or death purchase. I have absolutely no decision making skills, and once I finally do choose something I continue to "what if" all the other candidates to death.

Pearl, my ass. This gem has 30 days to cooperate or I'm 86ing berries from my diet.

I Remember it Well

2008-07-30T17:53:00.005-04:00

Love, love, love the Olympics. Love, love, love this commercial.

Chills. Everytime.

O' Laughter

2008-07-29T17:26:00.005-04:00

I am so lucky that my boss makes me laugh pretty much on a daily basis. How sucky would that be to work for someone with no sense of humor? Although I refrain from writing about work in this here blog, I simply have to share three absolutely perfect comments I heard him say during a phone conversation today.

While discussing the ultra hot hair band of the '80s, Poison, Mr. Bossman comments that Poison concerts are a "people watching extravaganza" and that the best ones to watch are the women "as they walk around in their prom dresses or the concert tee they bought back in '86." He then proceeds to remark that his "affection for boots all began at a Poison concert."

Soooo freaking hysterical.

My Baby Girl

2008-07-28T17:45:00.025-04:00

I feel the need to post some pictures of my first born. Maestra (pronounced "Mystra" - I always had wanted to name an animal Maestro, but she was a girl, so I modified) always seems to get pushed into the shadows by her much more popular and charismatic younger brother, Paxton. I truly think she plots daily how she can get rid of both me and him. She should have definitely been the cat of a one-cat family; she was much more happier when it was just her, my ex and myself. Once Paxton came around my sweet, little furball turned into this crazed, demonic creature -- capable of flipping from a purring, angelic lover into a hissing, irate monster on the flip of a dime. Trying to get her into a cat carrier is a sight to behold as I give myself a pep talk, clothe myself in long sleeves, gloves and bravado, and then throw a towel around her and shove her in full-force as she howls, fights and holds on to the sides of the carrier the whole way through.

But, she does have her moments, and I love her so.

Recently, she's been having some issues. She just got off antibiotics for a uti -- poor thing -- and then she had to be taken in to the vets once again to get her annual lion's cut for the hot summer months. (I can't merely take her to a groomer's - she has to be knocked out by the vet in order for anyone to touch her. No joke.) As much as she tries to maintain her coat she simply can't manage it. Let's just say, she's quite rotund and can't seem to reach all of those hard to reach places. Or, to be blunt, I can word it as the cable guy recently did, "Man, that's the BIGGEST cat I've ever seen."

So, that said, here is my beautiful, "little" soon to be eight-year-old:

Beauty Shot

All Woman

Simply mahvelous, Dahlin'

Might be time to get the next size up in carriers.

If I shut my eyes it will all go away.

I don't see you getting your fat ass on the scale, Mom.

The shock, the horror!

Aerial shot of the new 'do.

I feel so violated.

Not only do you steal my beauty, now you steal my pride, too???

I'm off to see what couch I can destroy.

Post Secret Sunday

2008-07-27T12:11:00.003-04:00

Someone else shares my secret!!!

Friday Night and Oh So Bored...

2008-07-25T23:33:00.011-04:00

In honor of Ms. Sara without an h, I'm doing a top five. In this case, the top five hot spots I would rather be right now if I wasn't in butt f*!k Egy.., I mean, Connecticut...

5. Mojitos enjoying the cold drinks and watching the tango dancers with way too much envy.

4. Key Club rocking with Metal Skool. That's right, skool with a "k."

3. Mulligans seeing someone special rock karaoke.

2. The Wiltern. Any band will do - it's The Wiltern.

1. Red Rock. Nowhere else I'd rather be. Me, Jeanna, boys, drinks, Sunset. Yay!

The Little Laptop that Could

2008-07-22T21:09:00.005-04:00

The second Geek came to my house today to fix my oh-so-broken laptop. Only this Geek was the cute, tan one with dimples whose beautiful hair curled around his ears and who leaned over to pet my cats the moment he walked in the door. After petting the cats, he proceeded to stand up straight, all 6"4 of him (double yum) and tell me, while smiling ever so coyly, that he has two cats of his own.

WHERE WERE YOU WHEN THE OTHER FREAK OF NATURE CRAWLED OUT FROM UNDER THE ROCK??? Must I always pick the wrong Geek in life???

So, that, paired with the fact that my hard drive is kaput, irked me but good. I actually thought I lost all of my documents (did I back up? no, why would I do a smart thing like that? I felt exactly how Carrie felt in that episode of SATC.) but then Geek Jr. put in a disk that actually resuscitated my antiquated (it's so sad how 2003 is ancient in computer lingo) Dell. I immediately saved all of my documents and photos on a flash drive - thank you God for Your tender mercies.

Now however, I'm petrified to breathe on, move or turn off the little stinker. It makes me sad to think this could be last time I type on old faithful, the little guy that was by my side all throughout graduate school. Even though he's missing his backspace key (I got REALLY angry typing a paper last minute, racing the clock to make it to class on time), he still chugs along.I really don't want to buy a new one. Sigh.

Couch Potato

2008-07-21T17:01:00.011-04:00

I'm officially hooked. I took full advantage of the Mad Men season one marathon that ruled AMC yesterday, getting up only to eat and pee. Having not seen one episode during it's original airing, I made up for that all day Sunday after I spent oh, about 12 hours in front of the TV. Had to actually force myself to turn off the mind-numbing device at midnight, missing out on the last and final episode that aired until 1 a.m. Drats! You call this lazy, I call it committed.

Usually I can care less for things that are totally hyped up, as the hype always drowns out the actual product, yet I knew this show would probably be an exception. And I was right. Why? Seeing as I firmly believe that I was born in the wrong era (I would have been divine in the 1940s!), I'm thus a total sucker for any and all period films, television shows, books, etc...

Mad Men glorifies/demonizes the advertising industry of New York in the early 1960s right before Kennedy's election. It is beautifully costumed, acted and written, and thoroughly, deliciously entertaining. I turned off the set and proceeded to dream of ice cold vodka martinis, oysters Rockefeller, smartly contoured dresses finished with perfectly applied red lipstick and men wearing suits, hats and devilish grins. Sex, cocktails at noon, horn-rimmed glasses and the click clacking of typewriters were the common sights and sounds during an average day on Madison Avenue - oh where, oh where is my time machine??!!

Season two starts this Sunday at 10 p.m. No phone calls please!

Best Email I've Received in Awhile

2008-07-19T15:55:00.002-04:00

The World's Shortest Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl "Will you marry me?" The girl said "NO!" And the girl lived happily ever-after and went shopping, dancing, camping, drank martinis, always had a clean house, never had to cook, did whatever the hell she wanted, never argued, didn't get fat, traveled more, had many lovers, didn't save money, and had all the hot water to herself. She went to the theater, never watched sports, never wore friggin' lacy lingerie that went up her ass, had high self esteem, never cried or yelled, felt and looked fabulous in sweat pants and was pleasant all the time. The End

Holy Craps

2008-07-18T13:00:00.020-04:00

So, the Geek Squad came to my house a couple of weeks ago to fix my o-so-broken laptop. Five hours after his arrival, the Geek left. No, my computer wasn't o-that-broken; the Geek's delay was caused by (what I thought) was our interesting, mutual attraction. Won't go into details; seeing as I'm no longer into him, I'm no longer into the details either.

Fast forward to this past Wednesday night when the Geek and I go out on our first "date." Now, the top ten reasons why this "date" was in all reality just a dark, horrible figment of my imagination:

1. He did not offer to pick me up. (I know, I know, just call me old fashioned.)

2. His idea of romance was meeting at a casino.

3. To further that romance, he brought along his friend, Mikey. Huh?

4. His 28-year-old body was clothed in skater shorts, shoes and a tee (what, no hoodie?), complete with his flash drive around his neck on a lanyard. Not kidding. I guess one never knows when a casino is going to have a re-booting emergency.

5. His insistence on walking to every table to talk to every dealer LOUDLY because he knows them all due to the fact that he worked there for 5 years, prior Geekville.

6. While walking through casino to said dealers' tables, a weird clapping would result from his hands, LOUDLY. Why? I don't know. To inform others that we're walking? Excitement that complete strangers were winning money? The smell of cold, hard cash stimulates his palms?

7. The gleam and thrill in his eye when he sat down at a table to gamble. My first clue that this Geek had a gambling problem should've been when he texted me to arrange our first date and he proceeded to type, "Let's go to Mohegan Sun so that I can play craps." Don't even ask why I continued to pursue this. Pure desperation.

8. His refusal to try to get to know me or to ask me anything of a personal nature. Why again was I on this "date"?

9. His climax of the evening (pun intended) was making me roll the dice at craps, but impotence soon followed when he decided that I don't roll dice hard enough. I'm sorry, I spent my early 20s at college, not in Vegas. Problem with this was, I was suddenly disappointed in myself because I disappointed the Geek and the rest of the odd crackheads around the craps table. In whose mind but mine is this mode of thinking even acceptable?????

10. And lastly, when I decide enough is enough, time to go home, his idea of "walking me out" was indeed, walking me to the elevator so that I could walk alone through an underground parking garage at midnight giving free reign to bums, rapists or any other Geeks who would like to crap on my evening.

I proceeded to drive home in utter shock and disbelief, wondering how and when my life got to this point. After much unnecessary rehashing with Joe, he proceeds to ask me, "What rock did you lift to find this one?" Truer words were never spoken.

Oh yeah, and my laptop still isn't fixed.

Catchy Little Diddy

2008-07-15T20:19:00.006-04:00

Where's my hoody and clubbin' clothes? Where's my cocktails and my stilettos and bling? Where's my dance floor and booty-shakin' homegirls? I need you because I CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF THIS SONG! I absolutely love it!

You should have seen me when I first discovered it on the Today show a few weeks ago. Chris Brown was out there rocking the plaza and I was mesmerized, stopped dead in my tracks, delaying my already late trip to work. Who is this kid and what is this great song? I was like an 80-year-old trying to figure out this newfangled thing called pop music.

But now I'm in the know. And I'm "bumpin" this song in my car all summer long. Holla!

To Blog or Not to Blog

2008-07-12T17:11:00.006-04:00

My goodness, I just realized it's been a week since I blogged last. Whatever are all my adoring fans doing without their daily dose of my opinions? And by adoring fans, I mean you, FA.

Well, I've actually bit the bullet and am attempting to write that book of essays I've always dreamt of putting together. With the distant hopes of maybe, just maybe, one day entering into the literary mecca of such gods as Anne Lamott, David Sedaris and the ultimate and supreme being, Mr. Augusten Burroughs. My snippets of life don't encompass anything close to their sarcastic and wittily dry genius, but at least I've begun to put my dream into action.

Anyhow, that means that all of my material is finding a new home, jammed into the depths of my computer and completely devoid of the instantaneous satisfaction I receive after "publishing" on a blog. Argh. I love instantaneous satisfaction. But that, unfortunately, won't get my book published. That's gonna take work and effort. Dang it.

So, that's where I've been as of late. I promise not to stay away too long in the future, because as I mentioned earlier, I'm a sucker for instant gratification.

My Current Favorite Nugget of Wisdon

2008-07-05T18:06:00.003-04:00

"We must give to life at least as much as we receive from it. Every moment one lives is different from the next. The good, the bad, the hardship, the joy, the tragedy, love and happiness are all interwoven into one single indescribable whole that is called life. You cannot separate the good from the bad. And, perhaps there is no need to do so either."

~Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis

One Lucky Gal

2008-07-04T15:51:00.010-04:00

I absolutely love going to baseball games and had forgotten how much fun minor league ones are. The players are closer, the feeling is cozier and the competition is a tad more playful.

Last night I went to a Connecticut Defenders game and had a great time. Yet, after the game during the fireworks show, instantly that all too familiar, feeling-ever-so-sorry for myself negativity started to wash over me. This occurred as I realized I was surrounded by couples and loving families, and I, once again, was the odd gal out. Will I sit solo under the fireworks forever? Will I die alone? Yada, yada, yada.

But I have to say, I am proud of myself for forcing my mind to quickly snap out of it. How dare I feel such unjustified pity? How dare I focus on this, and forget all the goodness around me? Yes, maybe I am still single. Yes, maybe I am not surrounded by children and giggles. But, I do have this moment. And I can choose to realize its beauty.

Friends, a gorgeous summer evening, a dazzling display of fireworks, a cold beer and cotton candy and the perfect American pastime. Not to mention, freedom, health and the wondrous excitement of what's awaiting me around the next corner.

It's cheesy and cliche to say, but I am proud to be an American. It is still the land of freedom and opportunity, something I tend to forget way too often. How blessed I am.

And the Hits Just Keep on Comin'

2008-07-02T18:16:00.006-04:00

So, I walk into a package store after work, (yeah, that's right Californians, a freaking package store. Didn't you hear that I moved to the 19th century?) to buy a nice, cold bottle after a crazy, hot day.

What's the first thing I hear when I walk up to pay? No, not "hello." Not, "boy, it was a hot one today, wasn't it?" Not even the familiar, "how the hell are you?"

"So, you're switching to white?"

Yep. That's what I got.

Obviously this ignorant little package store worker doesn't know my past history with employees who sell me my nasty little vices. Obviously he doesn't realize his job is to sell, not to provide my life with commentary. Obviously he doesn't know THAT IS WHAT MY DAMN BLOG IS FOR.

For once and for all, I narrate my measly existence -not all you other little fools.

One Bright Summer Day

2008-06-30T18:41:00.017-04:00

"I'd give all the wealth the years have piled,
the slow result of life's decay -
to be once more a little child,
for one bright summer day."

~Lewis Carroll, "Solitude"

Well, summer's officially here. The sweat dripping down my back is a dead giveaway. In ode to the lazy season, a few of my favorite childhood summer memories...

1. Walking to Thrifty's and getting a double scoop - Chocolate Malted Krunch (Yes, that's crunch with a "k") and rainbow sherbet. The dilemma always was - chocolate on top or bottom? Do you want to finish your palate with chocolatey goodness or with refreshment?

2. Going to Seal Beach. Being dropped off at Jack-in-the-Box (Oh, how I miss you so!) by Noelle's mom and not getting picked up until the end of the day. However, Noelle was always able to get golden brown whereas I fried. Totally pissed me off.

3. Bonfires at Seal and Huntington Beach. Will Kurt Cuellar let me wear his sweatshirt, oh will he????, I would frantically ask the gods.

4. Fourth of July. Getting a ton of fireworks at the stand, Picolo Petes, Sparklers, Groundflowers and the mack-daddies of all, the big rocket ones. Going out into the street where all the families were setting them off, laughing and sharing - no fear of fire or a crappy economy.

5. Flip flops, tank tops, bikini tops.

6. Staying up late during hot summer nights. Nothing to do, nowhere to be in the morning. Bliss.

7. The summer Olympics. I especially remember the '92 Olympics, staying up every night on the couch, hair still wet from a cold shower, watching the late-night coverage from Barcelona and dreaming that maybe I too, would someday stand on a platform wearing a gold medal and waving a bouquet of flowers after receiving all 10s on my fantastic floor routine. Granted, I dropped out of Gymnastics after two days. Damn balance beam scared the shit out of me.

8. Going to the Supersaver Cinema in Rossmore- the mecca of all movie theaters for kids in SoCal in the late 80s/early 90s - and spending $1.50 to see a movie. Wondering who was going to be in the lobby on the way out. Will the cute boy be there? Will he?

9. Skate Depot. You all should be fully aware by now that I was/am a roller skating fanatic. This is when it all began.

10. Summer birthdays. The cake was sweeter, the laughs were stronger. I was always pissed that I was a winter baby. Not as festive and having a pool party was never an option.

Well, there are probably many more, but those were the first 10 that came to mind and I can't end a list on an odd number. I'll add more as the summer slowly creeps by. Anyone else, feel free to share yours...

The Three Lovesick Js

2008-06-29T11:19:00.026-04:00

Yes, yes, I'm addicted to The Bachelorette. I'm invested in these people; I'm hoping for their perfect fairy tale ending. I find myself sitting in front of the TV with a huge silly grin on my face when they're happy; and my heart quietly breaks along with theirs when they're not. Who knows why I am this way - it's probably a combination of always feeling empathetic for the underdog and living an emotional vicarious life without ever having to actually offer up any of my own real affections, for fear of them being squashed.

Anyhow, we're down to the final three - Jason, Jesse and Jeremy. Two of which (Jason and Jeremy) I predicted from the very beginning would last until the end.

Jason, 31, the sweet and most stable of the three and also the father of Ty, he would give his whole heart, life and eternity to DeAnna. He is absolutely head-over-heels in love with the Greek goddess and I'm a little bit scared that she has the power to annihilate him. I can tell DeAnna is into the idea of him (he's a fabulous father, just the type she wants for her own children one day), yet there is no mystery with Jason. It's all out there on the table - DeAnna know exactly how stable and predictable her life will be if she chooses him. Just like in the episode when they were all riding their motorbikes, DeAnna noted that Jason "rode his straight and steady." And that 's how their life would be together. Not that there's anything wrong with this - but all of us gals like a little upheaval every now and then. Scarred and raw, still recovering from his baby's momma who left him, I'm scared this one's going to take a looooong time to recover when she doesn't choose him. He reminds me of that fragile baby bird in Dr. Seuss's book, looking everywhere frantically, calling out heartbreakingly, "Are you my mother?"

Jesse, 26, the edgy, cute snowboarder who wears crazy clothes and hails from Colorado. I have to say, this kid grows on me with each new episode. I NEVER predicted he would be in the final three - but now I'm glad he is. However, his age and "alternative" profession are going to kill it for DeAnna. As much as she likes Jesse, and even though they have established a great friendship, it won't go further than that. She's thinking future and poor Jesse just simply isn't old enough to begin his happily ever after - and she knows it. They're gonna remain friends long after this thing is over though. They'll attend each other's weddings and reminisce about old times while they drink a six pack.

And that leaves Jeremy, the 30-year-old HOT attorney from Texas (they say everything is bigger down there :) who shares the same tragic past as DeAnna - both of his parents have passed away, just like DeAnna's own mom passed away when she was small. All of us viewers are very aware that DeAnna is momless because she mentions it IN EVERY EPISODE. (I mean, I feel for her, I really do, and, if I knew her in real life, I would really want to be her friend - but sheesh, enough already. We all have tragedy in our life - we don't need to mention it every waking moment.) Anyhow, I digress. Jeremy is stable, yet rides a motorcycle. Has streaks of brooding mystery and exudes a fine capacity for passion. Will make an excellent father and husband, and is ready to give that a try with Deanna. He's got the perfect house, dog, profession and mug - she's gonna pick him - as I think she should. We'll find out if I'm right -- if my ultimate profession should be matchmaker-- on July 7.

Why I chose to blog about this on Sunday morning when I should be in the Lord's house praying for forgiveness and praising His majesty, I simply don't know.

I really need to get my priorities straight.

And I Wonder Why I'm Single

2008-06-24T20:28:00.014-04:00

So, I have this thing. When I'm listening to conversations, watching TV shows or just talking with friends, I sometimes silently think of the most inappropriate thing that could be said at that particular moment and it makes me laugh hysterically inside. Stephanie, you know what I'm talking about. The baby shower game we devised? :)

Anyhow, this makes me sound like a weird and creepy loner with a perverse, sinister sense of humor. That's not entirely true. In all actuality, I think these moments I have in my mind are perfect SNL sketches. It's kinda like a modern twist on Bakhtin's carnivalesque - inverting what is deemed appropriate by society in order to produce enjoyment and laughter. Anyhow, I digress. What makes me write about this today? Well, we have a TV in the house which will randomly display captioning at the bottom of the screen. No one turns this function on - it just simply appears and then goes away when it wants to. When the closed captioning appears on the screen, I'm suddenly sucked in and I start reading my shows instead of watching and listening to them. I can't divert my eyes from the running script on the bottom of the telly. I'm obsessed with the performance of the typist, completely ignoring the performance of the actor. I know which shifts the good transcribers work, and which shifts the lousy ones bumble their way through. The crappy typists seem to give up halfway through the program, obviously so far behind nothing short of a miracle could save them. They just throw in the towel at this point and start misspelling everything, leaving out key plot words, probably chuckling the whole time(for instance, tonight's transcriber threw in the word "ass" in the middle of Jeopardy. Huh?) Real hearing impaired viewers, not faux ones like myself, are probably thrown for one hell of a crazy loop during these moments, I'm sure.

Anyhow, MY POINT. While observing some horrific transcribing this evening, I suddenly was overcome with laughter, absolute gut-wrenching hysterics, thinking of some pissed off TV transcriber who decides to go postal on the job. The lousy jerk is probably so fed up with white collar TV execs, ready to walk out of his menial, minimum wage paying job, but alas, he decides to stick it to the man one last time. Decides to go out with one hell of a bang.

Think of all the horrific, foul, obscene, adulterous, incestuous, sadistic and downright insane plots/conversations/natural disasters/world-coming-to-an-end scenarios that this fed-up transcriber could create on the screen. The possibilities are endless. The poor deaf people wouldn't know what hit 'em.

OMG. Is it just me? Is my imagination jilted, or is this funny shit?

Movies and Love, Part Deux

2008-06-19T21:14:00.007-04:00

So, in a brief follow-up, I asked my mom what the first movie her and my stepdad saw together - turns out it was Airplane. She summed it up by saying, "We laughed all the way through." And now, 20-something years later, they're still laughing.

I'm telling you Lauren, I've got something here.

Stephanie - quit holding out. What was your and Mark's first flick? I'm dying to know.

FA - your turn. Don't be shy. Register on Blogger and let me know yours, too.

I Bring the Heat

2008-06-16T19:03:00.005-04:00

So, I am quietly amused at the fact that since I've been on the east coast, the Red Sox have won the World Series, the Giants surprisingly won the Super Bowl and the Celtics are about to take the Finals. I pompously proclaimed this at work the other day (like I've had anything at all to do with this phenomenon,) saying that only "New England teams" have been winning since I arrived - and bossman was quick to give me the worst stink eye I've received in quite sometime. (I guess New York is not considered a part of New England by east coasters - who knew?)

Anyhow, my point. I'm a Lakers and Dodgers fan -- always have been, always will be -- but a little part inside of me is giggling these days. Tee-heeing at all the freakin' morons I dated in L.A. who I know have been beside themselves this past sports season. 2007 and early '08 hasn't held up so well, now has it boys? Your silly little idea that west coast is best (really mature, I know) isn't quite true now is it?

Ahhh... the little things.

Men and Movies

2008-06-15T15:42:00.009-04:00

So, I've always known that my mom and dad's first date was a midnight showing of The Godfather. What a wonderful omen of what was to come in that marriage, huh? But as quick as I am to judge their demise, it took me a solid nine years to put two and two together regarding mine and junior's first date - Toy Story 2.

I am pausing for appropriate laughter.

I am now a firm believer in carefully planning that first cinematic selection. It represents and determines a hell of a lot more than we know.

A little of this, a little of that

2008-06-13T20:03:00.006-04:00

So, my laptop for some reason won't connect to my mom's Internet provider, alas leaving me to not only mooch for shelter, love and warmth - but also to leech upon her computer and DSL as well. Does it get any worse? Do I have anything to call my own anymore? Anyhow, seems as though my stepdad would like to use the computer too, as he just came into the room and informed me to give "a shout out" when I'm finished.

Hmm.

Is that verbiage allowed after the age of, oh, I don't know, 20?

And, totally unrelated but I have to say, I'm in love with Coldplay's new song (don't know the name) and also, I can't get enough of their song "Violet Hill" either. I've always liked the group, but yet held a quiet hatred for them too... for reasons I shall keep quiet.

But now, all of a sudden, I can't get enough of Coldplay. Hmmm... Am I suddenly releasing the past? Thought to ponder.

Anyhow, better skedaddle so my stepdad can get a hold of his peeps.